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Updated: October 21, 2026
Hit'll go mighty hard wid me ter part fum all dat money, caze I ben years pun top er years er layin' uv it up, an' hit's er mighty, cumfut ter me er countin' an' er jinglin' uv it; but hit ain't doin' nobody no good er buried in de groun', an' I don't special need it myse'f, caze you gives me my cloes, an' my shoes, an' my eatin's, an' my backer, an' my wisky, an' I ain't got no cazhun fur ter spen' it; an' let erlone dat, I can't stay hyear fureber, er countin' an' er jinglin' dat money, wen de angel soun' dat horn, de ole nigger he's got ter go; he's boun' fur ter be dar! de money can't hol' 'im!
"Cr'r !" ejaculated W. Keyse, below his breath. His face was radiant as he read. Her spelling was a bit off, it was impossible to deny. But Cripps! to be called a brave man by the owner of the maddening blue eyes, and that great thick golden pigtail. The letter went on: "Dear mr. Keyse yu will be Plese to Kno Jane is Sutch a Cumfut to me in Trubel.
"An' wen de Robin seed dat, she wuz mighty 'stressed; an' she tuck his head an' helt it gins her breas' fur ter try an' cumfut him, an' de blood got all ober her breas', an' hit's red plum tell yit.