“No I didn’t—I didn’t no such thing, now,” ses Miss Mary, and her face blushed red all over.
“Oh, you needn’t deny it,” ses Miss Kesiah, “you ’long to Joseph now, jest as sure as ther’s any charm in chicken-bones.”
I knowd that was a first-rate chance to say something, but the dear little creater looked so sorry and kep’ blushin’ so, I couldn’t say nothin’ zactly to the pint, so I tuck a chair and reached up and tuck down the bone and put it in my pocket.
“What are you gwine to do with that old bone now, Majer?” ses Miss Mary.
“I’m gwine to keep it as long as I live,” ses I, “as a Crismus present from the handsomest gall in Georgia.”
When I sed that, she blushed worse and worse.
“Ain’t you shamed, Majer?” ses she.
“Now you ought to give her a Crismus gift, Joseph, to keep all her life,” sed Miss Carline.
“Ah,” ses old Miss Stallins, “when I was a gall we used to hang up our stockins—”
“Why, mother!” ses all of ’em, “to say stockins rite afore—”