“No; but I tank de Lord, I is got some manners ’bout me. But, den, I couldn’t speck no more fum you, fer I knowed you afore de war; you was one of dem cheap niggers, clodhopper, never taste a bit of white bread till after de war, an’ den didn’t know ’twas bread.”
“Well, den, ef you make so much fuss ’bout de street, I’ll go out of it; it’s nothin’ but a second-handed street, no how,” said the “tater” man, and drove off, crying, “taters, sweet taters, Irish taters, an’ squash.”
Passing into a street where the colored people are largely represented, I met another head peddler. This man had a tub on his head and with a musical voice was singing:—
“Here’s yer chitlins, fresh an’ sweet,
Who’ll jine de Union?
Young hog’s chitlins hard to beat,
Who’ll jine de Union?
Methodist chitlins, jest been biled,
Who’ll jine de Union?
Right fresh chitlins, dey ain’t spiled,
Who’ll jine de Union?
Baptist chitlins by de pound,
Who’ll jine de Union?
As nice chitlins as ever was found,
Who’ll jine de Union?
“Here’s yer chitlins, out of good fat hog; jess as sweet chitlins as ever yer see. Dees chitlins will make yer mouf water jess to look at ’em. Come an’ see ’em.”
At this juncture the man took the tub from his head, sat it down, to answer a woman who had challenged his right to call them “Baptist chitlins.”
“Duz you mean to say dat dem is Baptiss chitlins?”
“Yes, mum, I means to say dat dey is real Baptist chitlins, an’ nuffin’ else.”
“Did dey come out of a Baptiss hog?” inquired the woman.
“Yes, mum, dem chitlins come out of a Baptist hog.”