Yer see, Milly, my mammy was er 'riginal Guinea nigger, an' she
knowed 'bout de wushin'-stone herse'f, an' she told me one Wednesday
night on de full er de moon, an' w'at I'm gwine ter tell yer is de
truff."
Having thus authenticated her story beyond a doubt, Mammy hugged Tot a
little closer and began:
"Once 'pon er time dar wuz a beautiful gyarden wid all kind er nice
blossoms, an' trees, an' brooks, an' things, whar all de little
chil'en usen ter go and play, an' in dis gyarden de grass wuz allers
green, de blossoms allers bright, and de streams allers clar, caze hit
b'longed to er little Fraid, named Cheery."
"A 'little Fraid,'" interrupted Diddie, contemptuously. "Why, Mammy,
there's no such a thing as a 'Fraid.'"
"Lord, Miss Diddie, 'deed dey is," said Dilsey, with her round eyes
stretched to their utmost; "I done seed 'em myse'f, an' our Clubfoot
Bill he was er gwine 'long one time--"
"Look er hyear, yer kinky-head nigger, whar's yer manners?" asked
Mammy, "'ruptin' uv eld'ly pussons. I'm de one w'at's 'struck'n dese
chil'en, done struck dey mother fuss; I'll tell 'em w'at's becomin'
fur 'em ter know; I don't want 'em ter hyear nuf'n 'bout sich low
cornfiel' niggers ez Club-foot Bill.
"Yes, Miss Diddie, honey," said Mammy, resuming her story, "dar sholy
is Fraids; Mammy ain't gwine tell yer nuf'n', honey, w'at she dun know
fur er fack; so as I wuz er sayin', dis little Fraid wuz name Cheery,
an' she'd go all 'roun' eb'y mornin' an' tech up de grass an' blossoms
an' keep 'em fresh, fur she loved ter see chil'en happy, an' w'en dey
rolled ober on de grass, an' strung de blossoms, an' waded up an' down
de streams, an' peeped roun' de trees, Cheery'd clap 'er han's an'
laugh, an' dance roun' an' roun'; an' sometimes dar'd be little po'
white chil'en, an' little misfortnit niggers would go dar; an' w'en
she'd see de bright look in dey tired eyes, she'd fix things
prettier'n eber.
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