“Skootin’ to de devil,” repeated Margie.
“Well,” said Mammy, “de debil gib him de dollar in two halves so’s de nigger could chink ’em; an’ de nigger went ’long, chinkin’ ’em, laughin’ at how smart he were ter steal de coal fum de po’ widder ’oman, an’ it nebber cost him nuffin—when his lef’ arm itch him, an’ he feel dat hit were sproutin’ hair, an’ he fin’ dat he were sproutin’ hair all ober, an’ he git skeered an’ run, but de hair keep er sproutin’ an’ er sproutin’, an’ he keep er changin’, an’ er changin’ so bimeby he des couldn’t talk, an’, bress goodness, honey! ’fore dat nigger git half-way home, he was er walkin’ half on his han’s an’ half on his feet, an’ wa’n’t nuffin but er plum Afika monkey!”
Both blue eyes and brown were wide and shining. “What did they do with him?” asked Fred. “Go on! go on!” urged Margie. “Dar kim yo’ Maw, chillen! dar she kim!” cried Mammy, clapping her hands—“Run, go see what she fotch yo’!”
THE BLACK CAT
Daddy Mose had been counsellor, soothsayer, and leading exhorter to the whole of the dusky population of Piney ever since the close of the war. It was said that in emergencies the white people themselves could not do without him; for the year that the worms were so bad in the bolls even Colonel Preston had sent for Daddy Mose and had a private consultation with him, and the result was that the Colonel’s was the only cotton in the Bend that was worth picking in the fall. Then, on another occasion, the old cherry-tree in the Colonel’s orchard, that had never even blossomed before, had to be propped to keep it from breaking with the fruit, the spring after Daddy Mose drove five rusty nails into its heart and buried something tied up in a rag at its roots.
But it was the rising generation, in his own country and in his own house, that troubled Daddy Mose, and he leaned on his hoe and looked with evident dissatisfaction at the little black figure pirouetting defiantly before him.
“Don’ yo’ do hit, Solly—don’ yo’ do hit!”
“But Misser Lingum say he gimme er quarter, Daddy!”
“What good dat pitiful little quarter gwine do yo’ if yo’ kills er black cat?” There was a withering contempt in the tone which made the little imp squirm and twist uneasily.
“Er black cat es wuth es much es ernuther cat, if hit’s good fur er quarter, Daddy!” grunted the imp, plucking up courage and making, a circle in the dust with his great toe.