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Updated: June 6, 2025
"'All right, sez Aun' Nancy, 'I'll fetch you sump'n mo' nex' time. "'You bettah, sez Aun' Peggy, 'er e'se dey'll be trouble. Wat dis yer little pickaninny needs is ter see his mammy. You leabe 'im heah 'tel ebenin' en I'll show 'im his mammy. "So w'en Aun' Nancy had gone 'way, Aun' Peggy tuk 'n wukked her roots, en tu'nt little Mose ter a hummin'-bird, en sont 'im off fer ter fin' his mammy.
And I'm no hummin'-bird when it comes to perchin', either." She had received the telegram which Frances sent and had come from Interlaken post haste. "And I don't know," she declared, "which part of that telegram upset me most what there was in it or the name signed at the bottom of it. HER name! I couldn't believe my eyes. I didn't stop to believe 'em long. I just came.
"I know more 'n that; I know where to find yellow lady's-slippers 'n' the yewberries 'n' hummin'-bird nests." She looked at him joyfully; he was turning out more and more to her liking. "Could ye be showing them to me, lad?" she asked. The tinker eyed her bashfully. "Would you care, then?"
And it wuz here that I see the very queerest thing that I ever did see in my life; it wuz in their collection of strange stuffed birds, and animals which wuz large, and complete, and rangin' from the Emu down to a pure white hummin'-bird.
En w'en he flewed away 'long late in de ebenin', des 'fo' sundown, Sis' Becky felt mo' better 'n she had sence she had heared dat hummin'-bird a week er so pas'. En dat night she dremp 'bout ole times ag'in, des lack she did befo'.
"Talkin' 'bout Injuns," said Bill, "all I don't know 'bout 'em you c'd write on a hummin'-bird's finger-nail." "Hummin'-birds don't have no finger-nails," corrected Shorty Palmer. "Sure they don't," allowed Bill. "But you c'd write it on one if they did." "They has claws," persisted Shorty. "B'sides, no hummin'-bird ain't goin' t' stay still long enough for you to write on his claw."
Because, you know, some people say that if he is a good grasshopper for a long time, then when he dies his little soul will go into a better body perhaps a butterfly's body next time." Eleanor caught the thought instantly. "And if he's a good butterfly, then what'll he be? A hummin'-bird? Let's kill him quick, and see him turn into a butterfly." "Oh, no, Eleanor, you can't force the situation.
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