"Go 'long wid yer capers, ye Limb!" said Zoë to her, late one afternoon, as she entered with the half of a rabbit she had caught, and, having deposited it, went through the intricacies of her most elaborate figure in breathless listening to an unheard tune. "Ef I had dem sticks o' legs, dey'd do berrer work nor twirlin' me like I was a factotum."
At this, Flor suddenly spun about on the tip of one toe for the space of three minutes, with a buzzing noise like that of a top in hot motion, pausing at last to inquire, "Well, Maum Zoë, an' w'at's dat?" and be off again in another whirl.
"I'd red Mas'r Henry ob sich a wurfless nigger."
"Wurfless?" inquired Flor, still spinning.
"Wuss 'n wurfless."
"How 'd y' do it?"
"I'd jus' foller dat ar Sarp," said Zoë, turning over the rabbit, and considering whether a pepper-corn and a little onion out of her own patch wouldn't improve the broth she meant to make of it.
"Into de swamps?" said Flor, in a high key. "Sarp's a fool. I heerd Mas'r Henry say so. Dey'll gib him a blue-pill, for sartain."
"Humph!" said Aunt Zoë, as if she could say a great deal more.
"Tell ye w'at, Maum Zoë," replied Flor, shaking her sidelong head at every syllable, and accentuating her remarks with her forefinger and both her little sparkling eyes, "I'll 'form on ye for 'ticin' Mas'r Henry's niggers run away."