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"I've brought mamma's keys," said Lucy; "come along with us to the store-room, Aunt Viney, and I'll deal out the sugar, spices, and whatever else you want." "Yes, Miss Lucy; but 'deed I don't need no help. You's berry kind, but ole Viney kin do it all, an' she'll have eberything fus'-rate fo' de young gemmen an' ladies." "But that isn't the thing, auntie; you don't seem to understand.
Yer's 'hin' the poo'es' gal in the fiel'." "I never pick no cotton 'fo' yistiddy, an' its tolerbul unhandy. Rickon I kin do better when I gits my han' in. I use ter could wuck fus'-rate in tobaccy." "Tobaccy won't save yer. We hain't got no use for niggers ef they can't come up ter the scratch on cotton.
Fus'-rate throw, 'n' no mistake, Han' us the props for another shake; Know I'll try, 'n' guess I'll win; Here sh' goes for hit 'm ag'in! Here I thought it necessary to interpose. Professor, I said, you are inebriated. The style of what you call your "Prelude" shows that it was written under cerebral excitement. Your articulation is confused.
"Aun' Peggy look' at de head-hankercher, en run her han' ober it, en sez she: "'Yas, dat'll do fus'-rate.
Fus'-rate throw, 'n' no mistake, Han' us the props for another shake; Know I'll try, 'n' guess I'll win; Here sh' goes for hit 'm ag'in! Here I thought it necessary to interpose. Professor, I said, you are inebriated. The style of what you call your "Prelude" shows that it was written under cerebral excitement. Your articulation is confused.
"P.S. Mistis says her can't spaw me, so 'tain't no use waitin' no longer fer me. 'Sides, I got 'gaged ter git morred: I wus morred Sundy 'fo' las' at quat'ly meetin'. Brudder Mad'son Mason puffawmed the solemn cer'mony, an' preached a beautiful discou'se. Me an' my secon' husbun' gits 'long fus'-rate. I fawgot ter tell yer who I got morred to. I got morred to Thomas Jeff'son Hollan'."
If I've got a negro that needs floggin' ev'ry night, I'll sell him or give 'im away, or turn 'im out to grass to shif' for himself. I'll be out there soon, an' 'ten' to things. If anybody needs a floggin', tell Buck to send 'im to me. Tell the folks to work like clever Christians, an' they shall have a fus'-rate Christmas a heap of Christmas-gifts." "Yes, moster."
Fus'-rate throw, 'n' no mistake, Han' us the props for another shake; Know I'll try, 'n' guess I'll win; Here sh' goes for hit 'm ag'in! Here I thought it necessary to interpose. Professor, I said, you are inebriated. The style of what you call your "Prelude" shows that it was written under cerebral excitement. Your articulation is confused.
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