SEARCH
0-9 A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Prev | Current Page 145 | Next

Pyrnelle, Louise Clarke, 1850-1907

"Diddie, Dumps, and Tot : Or, Plantation Child-Life"

"Maybe
'possums keeps it same as peoples,"
"Now, maybe dey duz," said Dilsey, who was glad to have some excuse
for her profitless 'possum-hunting; and the children, being fairly
tired out, started back to the creek bank, when they came upon Uncle
Snake-bit Bob, wandering through the woods, and looking intently on
the ground.
"What are you looking for, Uncle Bob?" asked Diddie.
"Des er few buckeyes, honey," answered the old man.
"What you goin' ter du with 'em?" asked Dumps, as the little girls
joined him in his search.
"Well, I don't want ter die no drunkard, myse'f," said Uncle Bob,
whose besetting sin was love of whiskey.
"Does buckeyes keep folks from dying drunkards?" asked Dumps.
"Dat's wat dey sez; an' I 'lowed I'd lay me in er few caze I've allers
hyearn dat dem folks wat totes a buckeye in dey lef' britches pocket,
an' den ernudder in de righthan' coat pocket, dat dey ain't gwine die
no drunkards."
"But if they would stop drinkin' whiskey they wouldn't die drunkards
anyhow, would they, Uncle Bob?"
"Well, I dunno, honey; yer pinnin' de ole nigger mighty close; de
whiskey mout hab sump'n ter do wid it; I ain't 'sputin' dat-- but wat
I stan's on is dis: dem folks wat I seed die drunk, dey nuber had no
buckeyes in dey pockets; caze I 'members dat oberseer wat Marse
Brunson had, he died wid delirums treums, an' he runned, he did, fur
ter git 'way fum de things wat he seed atter him; an' he jumped into
de riber, an' got drownded; an' I wuz dar wen dey pulled 'im out; an'
I sez ter Brer John Small, who wuz er standin' dar, sez I, now I lay
yer he ain't got no buckeyes in his pockets; and wid dat me'n Brer
John we tuck'n turnt his pockets wrong side outerds; an' bless yer
soul, chile, hit wuz jes like I say; DAR WAN'T NO BUCKEYES DAR! Well,
I'd b'lieved in de ole sayin' befo', but dat jes kin'ter sot me on it
fas'er 'n eber; an' I don't cyar wat de wedder is, nor wat de hurry
is; hit may rain an' hit may shine, an' de time may be er pressin',
but ole Rob he don't stir out'n his house mornin's 'cep'n he's got
buckeyes in his pockets.


Pages:
133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157