Moriah\'s Mourning and Other Half Hour Sketches
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Ruth McEnery Stuart >> Moriah\'s Mourning and Other Half Hour Sketches
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Hyah! Dar, now, we done turned de joke on all you yaller-creamers--ain't
we, Lady?
Lordy! I wonder fo' gracious ef Lady nod her head to me accidental!
Is you 'spondin' ter me, Lady? Tell de trufe, I spec's Lady ter twis' up
'er tongue an' talk some day--she work 'er mouf so knowin'!
Dis heah cotton-seed ought ter be tooken out'n her trough, by rights. Ef
I could feed her on bran an' good warm slops a while, de churn would
purty soon 'spute her rights wid de tukkeys!
A high-toned cow, proud as Lady is, ought ter reach white-folk's table
somehow-ma-ruther. But you gits dar all the same, don't yer Lady? You
gits dar in tukkey-meat _ef dey don't reco'nize yer_!
Well! I'm done mixin' now an' I turns my back on de trough--an' advance
ter de bars. Lordy, how purty dem cows does look--wid dat low sun
'g'ins' dey backs! So patient an' yit so onpatient.
Back, now, till I teck out dese rails!
Soh, now! Easy, Spot! Easy, Lady! I does love ter let down dese bars wid
de sun in my eyes. I loves it mos' as good as I loves ter milk.
Down she goes!
Step up quick, now, Brindle, an' git yo' place.
Lord have mussy! Des look how Brindle meck way fur Lady! I know'd Lady'd
git dar fust! I know'd it!
An' dat's huccome I mixed dat feed so purtic'lar.
I does love Lady!
A PULPIT ORATOR
Old Reub' Tyler, pastor of Mount Zion Chapel, Sugar Hollow Plantation,
was a pulpit orator of no mean parts. Though his education, acquired
during his fifty-ninth, sixtieth, and sixty-first summers, had not
carried him beyond the First Reader class in the local district school,
it had given him a pretty thorough knowledge of the sounds of simple
letter combinations. This, supplemented by a quick intuition and a
correct musical ear, had aided him to really remarkable powers of
interpretation, and there was now, ten years later, no chapter in the
entire Bible which he hesitated to read aloud, such as contained long
strings of impossible names hung upon a chain of "begats" being his
favorite achievements.
A common tribute paid Reub's pulpit eloquence by reverential listeners
among his flock was, "Brer Tyler is got a black face, but his speech
sho' is white." The truth was that in his humble way Reub' was something
of a philologist. A new word was to him a treasure, so much stock in
trade, and the longer and more formidable the acquisition, the dearer
its possession.
Reub's unusual vocabulary was largely the result of his intimate
relations with his master, Judge Marshall, whose body-servant he had
been for a number of years. The judge had long been dead now, and the
plantation had descended to his son, the present incumbent.
Reub' was entirely devoted to the family of his former owners, and
almost any summer evening now he might be seen sitting on the lowest of
the five steps which led to the broad front veranda of the great house
where Mr. John Marshall sat smoking his meerschaum. If Marshall felt
amiably disposed he would often hand the old man a light, or even his
own tobacco-bag, from which Reub' would fill his corn-cob pipe, and the
two would sit and smoke by the hour, talking of the crops, the weather,
politics, religion, anything--as the old man led the way; for these
evening communings were his affairs rather than his "Marse John's." On a
recent occasion, while they sat talking in this way, Marshall was
congratulating him upon his unprecedented success in conducting a
certain revival then in progress, when the old man said:
"Yassir, de Lord sho' is gimme a rich harves'. But you know some'h'n',
Marse John? All de power o' language th'ough an' by which I am enable
ter seize on de sperit is come to me th'ough ole marster. I done tooken
my pattern f'om him f'om de beginnin,' an' des de way I done heerd him
argify de cases in de co't-house, dat's de way I lay out ter state my
case befo' de Lord.
"I nuver is preached wid power yit on'y but 'cep' when I sees de sinner
standin' 'fo' de bar o' de Lord, an' de witnesses on de stan', an' de
speckletators pressin' for'ard to heah, an' de jury listenin', an
_me--I'm de prosecutin' 'torney_!
"An' when I gits dat whole co't-room 'ranged 'fo' my eyes in my min',
an' de pris'ner standin' in de box, I des reg'lar _lay 'im out_! You
see, I knows all de law words ter do it _wid_! I des open fire on 'im,
an' prove 'im a crim'nal, a law-breaker, a vagabone, a murderer in ev'y
degree dey is--fus', secon', _an_' third--a reperbate, an' a blot on de
face o' de yearth, tell dey ain't a chance lef' fur 'im but ter fall on
'is knees an' plead guilty!
"An' when I got 'im down, _I got 'im whar I want 'im_, an' de work's
half did. Den I shif's roun' an' ac' _pris'ner's 'torney_, an' preach
grace tell I gits 'im shoutin'--des de same as ole marster use ter
do--clair a man whe'r or no, guilty or no guilty, step by step, nuver
stop tell he'd have de last juryman blowin' 'is nose an' snifflin'--an'
he'd do it wid swellin' dic'sh'nary words, too!
"Dat's de way I works it--fus' argify fur de State, den plead fur de
pris'ner.
"I tell yer, Marse John," he resumed, after a thoughtful pause, "dey's
one word o' ole marster's--I don'no' huccome it slipped my min', but hit
was a long glorified word, an' I often wishes hit'd come back ter me. Ef
I could ricollec' dat word, hit'd holp me powerful in my preachin'.
"Wonder ef you wouldn't call out a few dic'sh'nary words fur me, please,
sir? Maybe you mought strike it."
Without a moment's reflection, Marshall, seizing at random upon the
first word that presented itself, said, "How about _ratiocination_?"
The old man started as if he were shot. "Dat's hit!" he exclaimed.
"Yassir, dat's hit! How in de kingdom come is you struck it de fust pop?
Rasheoshinatiom! I 'clare! Dat's de ve'y word, sho's you born! Dat's
what I calls a high-tone word; ain't it, now, Marse John?"
"Yes, Uncle Reub'; ratiocination is a good word in its place." Marshall
was much amused. "I suppose you know what it means?"
"Nemmine 'bout dat," Reub' protested, grinning all over--"nemmine
'bout dat. I des gwine fetch it in when I needs a thunder-bolt!
Rasheoshinatiom! Dat's a bomb-shell fur de prosecutiom! But I can't git
it off now; I'm too cool. Wait tell I'm standin' in de pulpit on
tip-toes, wid de sweat a-po'in' down de spine o' my back, an' fin'
myse'f _des one argimint short_! Den look out fur de locomotive!
"Won't yer," he added, after a pause--"won't yer, please, sir, spell dat
word out fur me slow tell I writes it down 'fo' I forgits it?"
[Illustration: "'WON'T YER, PLEASE, SIR, SPELL DAT WORD OUT FUR ME
SLOW?'"]
Reaching deep into his trousers pocket, he brought forth a folded scrap
of tobacco-stained paper and a bit of lead-pencil.
Notwithstanding his fondness for the old man, there was a twinkle in
Marshall's eye as he began to spell for him, letter by letter, the
coveted word of power.
"R," he began, glancing over the writer's shoulder.
"R," repeated Reub', laboriously writing.
"A," continued Marshall.
"R-a," repeated Reub'.
"T," said the tutor.
"R-a-t," drawled the old man, when, suddenly catching the sound of the
combination, he glanced first at the letters and then with quick
suspicion up into Marshall's face. The suppressed smile he detected
there did its work. He felt himself betrayed.
Springing tremulously from his seat, the very embodiment of abused
confidence and wrath, he exclaimed:
"Well! Hit's come ter dis, is it? One o' ole marster's chillen settin'
up makin' spote o' me ter my face! I didn't spect it of yer, Marse
John--I did not. It's bad enough when some o' deze heah low-down
po'-white-trash town-boys hollers 'rats' at me--let alone my own white
chillen what I done toted in my arms! Lemme go home an' try ter forgit
dis insult ole marster's chile insulted me wid!"
It was a moment before Marshall saw where the offence lay, and then,
overcome with the ludicrousness of the situation, he roared with
laughter in spite of himself.
This removed him beyond the pale of forgiveness, and as Reub' hobbled
off, talking to himself, Marshall felt that present protest was useless.
It was perhaps an hour later when, having deposited a bag of his best
tobacco in his coat pocket, and tucked a dictionary under his arm,
Marshall made his way to the old man's cabin, where, after many
affectionate protestations and much insistence, he finally induced him
to put on his glasses and spell the word from the printed page.
He was not easily convinced. However, under the force of Marshall's
kindly assurances and the testimony of his own eyes, he finally melted,
and as he set back the candle and removed his glasses, he remarked, in a
tone of the utmost humility,
"Well--dat's what comes o' nigger educatiom! Des let a nigger git fur
enough along ter spell out c-a-t, cat, an' r-a-t, rat, an' a few Fus'
Reader varmints, an' he's ready ter conterdic' de whole dic'sh'nary.
"Des gimme dat word a few times _in my ear_ good, please, sir. I
wouldn't dare ter teck it in thoo my eye, 'caze don' keer what you say,
when a word sets out wid r-a-t, I gwine see a open-eyed rat settin'
right at de head of it blinkin' at me ev'y time I looks at it."
AN EASTER SYMBOL
A MONOLOGUE OF THE PLANTATION
_Speaker_: A Black Girl.
_Time_: Easter Morning.
"'Scuse me knockin' at yo' do' so early, Miss Bettie, but I'se in
trouble. Don't set up in bed. Jes' lay still an' lemme talk to yer.
"I come to ax yer to please ma'am loand me a pair o' wings, mistus.
No'm, I ain't crazy. I mean what I say.
"You see, to-day's Easter Sunday, Miss Bettie, an' we havin' a high time
in our chu'ch. An' I'se gwine sing de special Easter carol, wid Freckled
Frances an' Lame Jane jinin' in de chorus in our choir. Hit's one o'
deze heah visible choirs sot up nex' to de pulpit in front o' de
congergation.
"Of co'se, me singin' de high solo makes me de principlest figgur, so we
'ranged fur me to stan' in de middle, wid Frances an' Jake on my right
an' lef' sides, an' I got a bran new white tarlton frock wid spangles on
it, an' a Easter lily wreath all ready. Of co'se, me bein' de fust
singer, dat entitles me to wear de highest plumage, an' Frances, she
knows dat, an' she 'lowed to me she was gwine wear dat white nainsook
lawn you gi'n 'er, an' des a plain secondary hat, an' at de p'inted time
we all three got to rise an' courtesy to de congergation, an' den bu'st
into song. Lame Jake gwine wear dat white duck suit o' Marse John's an'
a Easter lily in his button-hole.
"Well, hit was all fixed dat-a-way, peaceable an' proper, but you know
de trouble is Freckled Frances is jealous-hearted, an' she ain't got no
principle. I tell you, Miss Bettie, when niggers gits white enough to
freckle, you look out for 'em! Dey jes advanced fur enough along to show
white ambition an' nigger principle! An' dat's a dange'ous mixture!
"An' Frances--? She ain't got no mo' principle 'n a suck-aig dorg! Ever
sence we 'ranged dat Easter programme, she been studyin' up some
owdacious way to outdo me to-day in de face of eve'ybody.
"But I'm jes one too many fur any yaller freckled-faced nigger. I'm
black--but dey's a heap o' trouble come out o' ink bottles befo' to-day!
"I done had my eye on Frances! An' fur de las' endurin' week I taken
notice ev'ry time we had a choir practisin', Frances, she'd fetch in
some talk about butterflies bein' a Easter sign o' de resurrection o' de
dead, an' all sech as dat. Well, I know Frances don't keer no mo' 'bout
de resurrection o' de dead 'n nothin'. Frances is too tuck up wid dis
life fur dat! So I watched her. An' las' night I ketched up wid 'er.
"You know dat grea' big silk paper butterfly dat you had on yo'
_pi_anner lamp, Miss Bettie? She's got it pyerched up on a wire on
top o' dat secondary hat, an' she's a-fixin' it to wear it to church
to-day. But she don't know I know it. You see, she knows I kin sing all
over her, an' dat's huccome she's a-projectin' to ketch de eyes o' de
congergation!
"But ef you'll he'p me out, Miss Bettie, we'll fix 'er. You know dem
yaller gauzy wings you wo'e in de tableaux? Ef you'll loand 'em to me
an' help me on wid 'em terreckly when I'm dressed, I'll _be_ a _whole
live butterfly_, an' I bet yer when I flutters into dat choir, Freckled
Frances'll feel like snatchin' dat lamp shade off her hat, sho's you
born! An' fur once-t I'm proud I'm so black complected, caze black an'
yaller, dey goes together fur butterflies!
"Frances 'lowed to kill me out to-day, but I lay when she sets eyes on
de yaller-winged butterfly she'll 'preciate de resurrection o' de dead
ef she never done it befo' in her life."
CHRISTMAS AT THE TRIMBLES'
* * * *
Part I
_Time_: Daylight, the day before Christmas.
_Place_: Rowton's store, Simpkinsville.
_First Monologue, by Mr. Trimble_:
"Whoa-a-a, there, ck, ck, ck! Back, now, Jinny! Hello, Rowton! Here we
come, Jinny an' me--six miles in the slush up to the hub, an' Jinny with
a unweaned colt at home. Whoa-a-a, there!
"It's good Christmas don't come but once-t a year--ain't it, Jinny?
"Well, Rowton, you're what I call a pro-gressive business man, that's
what you are. Blest ef he ain't hired a whole row o' little niggers to
stand out in front of 'is sto'e an' hold horses--while he takes his
customers inside to fleece 'em.
"Come here, Pop-Eyes, you third feller, an' ketch aholt o' Jinny's
bridle. I always did like pop-eyed niggers. They look so God-forsaken
an' ugly. A feller thet's afflicted with yo' style o' beauty ought to
have favors showed him, an' that's why I intend for you to make the
first extry to-day. The boy thet holds my horse of a Christmus Eve
always earns a dollar. Don't try to open yo' eyes no wider--I mean what
I say. How did Rowton manage to git you fellers up so early, I wonder.
Give out thet he'd hire the first ten that come, did he? An' gives each
feller his dinner an' a hat.
"I was half afeered you wouldn't be open yet, Rowton--but I was
determined to git ahead o' the Christmus crowd, an' I started by
starlight. I ca'culate to meet 'em all a-goin' back.
"Well, I vow, ef yo' sto'e don't look purty. Wish _she_ could see it.
She'd have some idee of New York. But, of co'se, I couldn't fetch her
to-day, an' me a-comin' specially to pick out her Christmus gif'. She's
jest like a child. Ef she s'picions befo' hand what she's a-goin' to
git, why, she don't want it.
"I notice when I set on these soap-boxes, my pockets is jest about even
with yo' cash-drawer, Rowton. Well, that's what we're here for. Fetch
out all yo' purties, now, an' lay 'em along on the counter. You know
_her_, an' she ain't to be fooled in quality. Reckon I _will_ walk
around a little an' see what you've got. I 'ain't got a idee on earth
what to buy, from a broach to a barouche. Let's look over some o' yo'
silver things, Rowton. Josh Porter showed me a butter-dish you sold him
with a silver cow on the led of it, an' I was a-wonderin' ef, maybe,
you didn't have another.
"That's it. That's a mighty fine idee, a statue like that is. It sort o'
designates a thing. D'rec'ly a person saw the cow, now, he'd s'picion
the butter inside the dish. Of co'se, he'd know they wouldn't hardly be
hay in it--no, ez you say, 'nor a calf.' No doubt wife'll be a-wantin'
one o' these cow-topped ones quick ez she sees Josh's wife's. She'll see
the p'int in a minute--of the cow, I mean. But, of co'se, I wouldn't
think o' gittin' her the same thing Josh's got for Helen, noways. We're
too near neighbors for that. Th' ain't no fun in borryin' duplicates
over a stile when company drops in sudden, without a minute's warnin'.
"No, you needn't call my attention to that tiltin' ice-pitcher. I seen
it soon ez I approached the case. Didn't you take notice to me a-liftin'
my hat? That was what I was a-bowin' to, that pitcher was. No, that's
the thing wife hankers after, an' I know it, an' it's the one thing I'll
never buy her. Not thet I'd begrudge it to her--but to tell the truth
it'd pleg me to have to live with the thing. I wouldn't mind it on
Sundays or when they was company in the house, but I like to take off my
coat, hot days, an' set around in my shirt-sleeves, an' I doubt ef I'd
have the cheek to do it in the face of sech a thing as that.
"Fact is, when I come into a room where one of 'em is, I sort o' look
for it to tilt over of its own accord an' bow to me an' ask me to 'be
seated.'
"You needn't to laugh. Of co'se, they's a reason for it--but it's so.
I'm jest that big of a ninny. Ricollec' Jedge Robinson, he used to have
one of 'em--jest about the size o' this one--two goblets an' a
bowl--an' when I'd go up to the house on a errand for pa, time pa was
distric' coroner, the jedge's mother-in-law, ol' Mis' Meredy, she'd be
settin' in the back room a-sewin,' an' when the black gal would let me
in the front door she'd sort o' whisper: 'Invite him to walk into the
parlor and be seated.' I'd overhear her say it, an' I'd turn into the
parlor, an' first thing I'd see'd be that ice-pitcher. I don't think
anybody can _set down_ good, noways, when they're ast to 'be seated,'
an' when, in addition to that, I'd meet the swingin' ice-pitcher half
way to the patent rocker, I didn't have no mo' consciousness where I
was a-settin' than nothin'. An' like ez not the rocker'd squawk first
strain I put on it. She wasn't no mo'n a sort o' swingin' ice-pitcher
herself, ol' Mis' Meredy wasn't--walkin' round the house weekdays
dressed in black silk, with a lace cap on her head, an' half insultin'
his company thet he'd knowed all his life. I did threaten once-t to
tell her, 'No, thank you, ma'am, I don't keer to be seated--but I'll
_set down_ ef it's agreeable,' but when the time would come I'd turn
round an' there'd be the ice-pitcher. An' after that I couldn't be
expected to do nothin' but back into the parlor over the Brussels
carpet an' chaw my hat-brim. But, of co'se, I was young then.
"Reckon you've heerd the tale they tell on Aleck Turnbull the day he
went there in the old lady's time. She had him ast into the cushioned
sanctuary--an' Aleck hadn't seen much them days--an' what did he do but
gawk around an' plump hisself down into that gilt-backed rocker with a
tune-playin' seat in it, an', of co'se, quick ez his weight struck it,
it started up a jig tune, an' they say Aleck shot out o' that door like
ez ef he'd been fired out of a cannon. An' he never did go back to say
what he come after. I doubt ef he ever knew.
"How much did you say for the ice-pitcher, Rowton? Thirty dollars--an'
you'll let me have it for--hush, now, don't say that. I don't see how
you could stand so close to it an' offer to split dollars. Of co'se
I ain't a-buyin' it, but ef I was I wouldn't want no reduction on it,
I'd feel like ez ef it would always know it an' have a sort of contemp'
for me. They's suitableness in all things. Besides, I never want no
reduction on anything I buy for _her_, someways. You can charge me
reg'lar prices an' make it up on the Christmas gif' she buys for
me--that is, ef she buys it from you. Of co'se it'll be charged.
That's a mighty purty coral broach, that grape-bunch one, but she's
so pink-complected, I don't know ez she'd become it. I like this
fish-scale set, myself, but she might be prejerdyced ag'in' the idee
of it. You say she admired that hand-merror, an' this pair o'
side-combs--an' she 'lowed she'd git 'em fur my Christmus gif' ef she
dared? But, of co'se, she was jokin' about that. Poor little thing, she
ain't never got over the way folks run her about that side-saddle she
give me last Christmus, though I never did see anything out o' the way
in it. She knew thet the greatest pleasure o' my life was in makin' her
happy, and she was jest simple-hearted enough to do it--that's all--an'
I can truly say thet I ain't never had mo' pleasure out of a Christmus
gif' in my life than I've had out o' that side-saddle. She's been so
consistent about it--never used it in her life without a-borryin' it of
me, an' she does it so cunnin'. Of co'se I don't never loand it to her
without a kiss. They ain't a cunnin'er play-actor on earth 'n she is,
though she ain't never been to a theatre--an' wouldn't go, bein' too
well raised.
"You say this pitcher wasn't there when she was here--no, for ef it had
'a' been, I know she'd 'a' took on over it. Th' ain't never been one
for sale in Simpkinsville before. They've been several of 'em brought
here by families besides the one old Mis' Meredy presided over--though
that was one o' the first. But wife is forever a-pickin' out purty
patterns of 'em in the catalogues. Ef that one hadn't 'a' give me such
a setback in my early youth I'd git her this, jest to please her. Ef I
was to buy this one, it an' the plush album would set each other off
lovely. She's a-buyin' _it_ on instalments from the same man thet
enlarged her photograph to a' ile-painted po'trait, an' it's a dandy!
She's got me a-settin' up on the front page, took with my first wife,
which it looks to me thet if she'd do that much to please me, why, I
might buy almost anything to please her, don't it? Of co'se I don't
take no partic'lar pleasure in that photograph--but she seems to think
I might, an' no doubt she's put it there to show thet she ain't
small-minded. You ricollec' Mary Jane was plain-featured, but Kitty
don't seem to mind that ez much ez I do, now thet she's gone an' her
good deeds ain't in sight. I never did see no use in throwin' a
plain-featured woman's looks up to her _post mortem_.
"This is a mighty purty pitcher, in my judgment, but to tell the truth
I've made so much fun o' the few swingin' pitchers thet's been in this
town that I'd be ashamed to buy it, even ef I could git over my own
obnoxion to it. But of co'se, ez you say, everybody'd know thet I done
it jest to please her--an' I don't know thet they's a more worthy object
in a married man's life than that.
"I s'pose I'll haf to git it for her. An' I want a bold, outspoke
dedication on it, Rowton. I ain't a-goin' about it shamefaced. Here,
gimme that pencil. Now, I want this inscription on it, word for word.
I've got to stop over at Paul's to git him to regulate my watch, an'
I'll tell him to hurry an' mark it for me, soon ez you send it over.
"Well, so long. Happy Christmus to you an' yo' folks.
"Say, Rowton, wrap up that little merror an' them side-combs an' send
'em along, too, please. So long!"
Part II
_Time_: Same morning.
_Plate_: Store in Washington.
_Second Monologue, by Mrs. Trimble_:
"Why, howdy, Mis' Blakes--howdy, Mis' Phemie--howdy, all. Good-mornin',
Mr. Lawson. I see yo' sto'e is fillin' up early. Great minds run in the
same channel, partic'larly on Christmus Eve.
"My old man started off this mornin' befo' day, an' soon ez he got out
o' sight down the Simpkinsville road, I struck out for Washin'ton, an'
here I am. He thinks I'm home seedin' raisins. He was out by starlight
this mornin' with the big wagon, an', of co'se, I know what that means.
He's gone for my Christmus gif', an' I'm put to it to know what
tremenjus thing he's a-layin' out to fetch me--thet takes a cotton-wagon
to haul it. Of co'se I imagine everything, from a guyaskutus down. I
always did like to git things too big to go in my stockin'. What you
say, Mis' Blakes? Do I hang up my stockin'? Well, I reckon. I hadn't
quit when I got married, an' I think that's a poor time to stop, don't
you? Partic'larly when you marry a man twice-t yo' age, an' can't
convince him thet you're grown, noways. Yas, indeedy, that stockin' goes
up to-night--not mine, neither, but one I borry from Aunt Jane Peters. I
don't wonder y' all laugh. Aunt Jane's foot is a yard long ef it's a'
inch, but I'll find it stuffed to-morrer mornin', even ef the guyaskutus
has to be chained to the mantel. An' it'll take me a good hour to empty
it, for he always puts a lot o' devilment in it, an' I give him a
beatin' over the head every nonsensical thing I find in it. We have a
heap o' fun over it, though.
"He don't seem to know I'm grown, an' I know I don't know he's old.
"Listen to me runnin' on, an' you all nearly done yo' shoppin'. Which do
you think would be the nicest to give him, Mr. Lawson--this silver
card-basket, or that Cupid vase, or--?
"Y' all needn't to wink. I seen you, Mis' Blakes. Ef I was to pick out a
half dozen socks for him like them you're a-buyin' for Mr. Blakes, how
much fun do you suppose we'd have out of it? Not much. I'd jest ez lief
'twasn't Christmus--an' so would he--though they do say his first wife
give him a bolt o' domestic once-t for Christmus, an' made it up into
night-shirts an' things for him du'in' the year. Think of it. No, I'm
a-goin' to git him somethin' thet's got some git-up to it, an'--an'
it'll be either--that--Cupid vase--or--lordy, Mr. Lawson, don't fetch
out that swingin' ice-pitcher. I glimpsed it quick ez I come in the
door, an', says I, 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' an' turned my back on it
immejiate.
"But of co'se I ca'culated to git you to fetch it out jest for me to
look at, after I'd selected his present. Ain't it a beauty? Seems to me
they couldn't be a more suitable present for a man--ef he didn't hate
'em so. No, Mis' Blakes, it ain't only thet he don't never drink
ice-water. I wouldn't mind a little thing like that.
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