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"I want you to tell me," he said to Mornin, "what she needs. I suppose she needs something or other." "She needs mos' ev'rything, Mars Tom," was the answer; "seems like she hain't bin pervided fer 't all, no more 'n ef she was a-gwine ter be a youn' tukky dat de Lord hisself hed fitted out at de start."
"Nuffin' oh! nuffin' but but when massa axes you who you is, an' what you bin up to, an' whar you're a-gwine to, an' what wages you want, jist you answer 'im in a sorter permiscuous way, an' don't be too partikler." "Wages! man, what d'ye mean?"
The first thing Ishmael did when he found himself again settled at Woodside, and had got over the anguish of his parting with Claudia and the excitement of his removal from Tanglewood, was to walk over to Rushy Shore and inquire of Overseer Brown whether a master had yet been heard of for the little school. "No, nor aint a-gwine to be!
An immediate private consultation was the consequence, and the result was that the head groom came to Pitapat, told her that he was sorry, but that Miss Black's pony had fallen lame. The little maid went back with the answer. When she was gone the head groom, calling to his fellows, said: "That young gal ain't a-gwine to be fooled either by ole marse or we.
I declar', ef 't wa'n't fer that fool newspaper a-comin' out ter-night, I'd go home ter-day. Yer a-gwine acrost, hain't yer, Havens?" Havens laughed in response. Samuel glowered at him. "I want home comforts back," he vowed sullenly. "The Beach hain't what it used ter be.
"Yes, Bre'er Nimbus, but who's a-gwine ter s'port 'em while we's waitin' fer de white folks ter back down, I wants ter know?" "I will," said Nimbus, proudly. "I hain't no manner ob doubt," said the other, "dat Bre'er Nimbus'll do de berry bes' dat he can in sech a case, but he must 'member dat he's only one and we's a great many.
Thar be young 'uns an' young 'uns," he elucidated, "but they be tartars! Yew'd be in yer grave afore the fust frost; an' who's a-gwine ter bury yer the taown?" His tone became gentle and broken: "No, no, Angy. Yew be a good gal, an' dew jest as we calc'lated on. Yew jine the Old Ladies'; yew've got friends over thar, yew'll git erlong splendid. An' I'll git erlong tew.
That's whar you a-gwine down to Gullettsville to school." "I shan't, an' I won't I won't, I won't, I won't!" exclaimed Sis, clenching her hands and stamping her feet. "I'll die first." Teague had never seen her so excited, "Why, what's the matter, Sis?" he asked with unfeigned concern. Sis gave him a withering look.
"No," went on the old woman, sternly, "you've brought about a pile o' misery in yore life, John Westerfelt, an' you hain't a-gwine to throw it off like a ol' coat, an' dance an' make merry. You may try that game; but yore day is over; you already bear the mark of it in yore face an' sunk cheeks. You've got another gal on yore string by this time, too." "You are mistaken, Mrs. Dawson."
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