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Updated: May 23, 2025
An' dem chillen o' his'n, which ain't nuver is had no proper mo'nin' fur dey mammy no mo' 'n what color Gord give 'em in dey skins I gwine put 'em in special secon' mo'nin', 'cordin' to de time dey ought ter been wearin' it; an' when we walks up de island o' de chu'ch, dey got ter foller, two by two, keepin' time ter de fun'al march.
If Misery sees him 'e can pretend to be goin' to the shop for some hoil. This was done. Bert went to the gate and returned almost immediately: the bike was gone. As the good news spread through the house a chorus of thanksgiving burst forth. 'Thank Gord! said one. 'Hope the b r falls orf and breaks 'is bloody neck, said another.
You know, Sis' Sophy-Sophia she was a devil for fun. She would have her joke. An' some say Gord A'mighty punished her an' turned eve'y bone in 'er body into funny-bones, jes to show her dat eve'y funny thing ain't to be laughed at. An' ef you ever got a sudden whack on de funny-bone in yo' elbow, missy, you know how she suffered when she was teched. An' she ain't at rest yit. She done proved dat.
A determined rattling of pots and pans sounded from the kitchen. "How much is in her, Gord?" Sim asked. Gordon Makimmon investigated the jug. "She's near three quarters full," he announced. An expression of profound content settled upon Simeon Caley. The jug went round and round.
"Blast yer, Bill... Carn't yer give a bit of elber room? Gord almighty, 'ow d'yer think I can get in there?" Women came out into the yard, their white caps touched by the light of their lanterns, and women's voices spoke quietly. "Have you got many this time?" "We can hardly find an inch of room." "It's awful having to use stretchers for beds." "There were six deaths this afternoon."
A combined whistle rose from the onlookers; comments of mock amazement crowded one upon another. "Jin ... go! He's got the wrong book that's rag carpet. Don't look at it too long, Gord, it'll cross your eyes. That ain't a suit, it's a game." A gaunt hand solemnly shook out imaginary dice upon the counter, "It's my move and I can jump you."
"Come right along, Gord; there's some draining you ought to see to. It's a nice drive, anyways." Gordon took the reins, slapping them on the rough, sturdy back of the horse, and they started up the precarious track to the road. General Jackson's head hung panting, wild-eyed, from the side of the vehicle. It was late when they returned from the farm. Gordon left the buggy at the Courthouse.
"You say he gwine turn Ole 'Stracted out, too?" inquired his wife, breaking the spell. The chicken was done now, and her mind reverted to the all-engrossing subject. "Yes; say he tired o' ole 'stracted nigger livin' on he place an' payin' no rent." "Good Gord A'mighty! Pay rent for dat ole pile o' logs! Ain't he been mendin' he shoes an' harness for rent all dese years?"
As the horse quickened his pace, Kettle dropped the reins, and grasping Corporal around the neck, hung on desperately as the horse sped around the great ellipse. At a word from Sergeant Briggs, the horse stopped and walked sedately to the middle of the hall. Kettle slipped off and staggered to his feet. "Good Gord A'mighty," he groaned, to Sergeant Briggs, "I k'yarn' ride that air hoss, Mr.
While he was doing this the sound of Crass's whistle shrilled through the house. 'Thank Gord! exclaimed Philpot fervently as he laid his brushes on the top of his pot and joined in the general rush to the kitchen. The scene here is already familiar to the reader.
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