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Updated: May 5, 2025
Where have you been all this time?" "In d' woods," he whispered, "hidin' in d' swamps, an' skulkin' long aftah night. Could n' nevah sleep, Mas' Tom. When I went t' sleep, seemed laike d' dogs was right aftah me." His head fell back again, and a rush of blood in his throat almost choked him. "Wish I'd stayed at d' plantation, Mas' Tom," he whispered.
"Buford is my name an' I came in to see if I could be of any assistance to you, a-fixin' up yo' mattahs er seein' to anything for you." "Hit's mighty kind o' you to come, dough I don' 'low I'll need much fixin' fu' now." "Oh, we hope you'll soon be better, Sistah Callender." "Nevah no mo', suh, 'til I reach the Kingdom."
Now her voice, striving hard to be condescending and sweet, but growing harsh with anger, floated up from below: "Oh, nevah min', lady, I ain't anxious to see 'em. I jest called out o' pity, but I reckon dey 'shamed to see me 'cause de ol' man 's in penitentiary an' dey was run out o' town." Mrs. Jones gasped, and then turned and went hastily downstairs.
An American Negro stevedore assigned to the great docks in southwestern France had written several letters to his black Susanna in Jacksonville, Fla., when she wrote back saying: "You-all don't nevah tell me nothin' 'bout de battle a-tall. Tilda Sublet's Dave done wrote her all about how he kotched two Germans all by hisself and kilt three mo'."
Sister Dicey's laugh rang out loud and musical before she replied, "Nevah you min', Brothah Williams. I don' see yo' back bowed so much by de yoke." "Oh, honey, I's labo'in' even ef you do'n know it, but you'll see it on de day." "I 'low you labo'in' de mos' to git dat wife o' yo'n a new dress," and her tormentor's guffaw seemed to admit some such benevolent intention.
I nevah furgit de day dat my ol' Mas' Jack put me on 'June Boy, his black geldin', an' say to me, 'Si, says he, 'if you don' ride de tail offen Cunnel Scott's mare, "No Quit," I's gwine to larrup you twell you cain't set in de saddle no mo'. Hyah, hyah. My ol' Mas' was a mighty han' fu' a joke. I knowed he wan't gwine to do nuffin' to me. "Did I win?
"Artists cannot tell a fib," Alma said, "or even act one," and she laughed in Beaton's upturned face. He did not unbend his dreamy gaze. "You're quite right. The suggestions are stupid." Alma turned to Miss Woodburn: "You hear? Even when we speak of our own work." "Ah nevah hoad anything lahke it!" "And the design itself?" Beaton persisted.
You know my papa he hown a sugah-plantation, you know. 'Jules, me son, he say one time to me, 'I goin' to make one baril sugah to fedge the moze high price in New Orleans. Well, he take his bez baril sugah I nevah see a so careful man like me papa always to make a so beautiful sugah et sirop.
Hayward flashed a quick upward glance at his hostess' face and then repeated slowly, "Yes'm, dat sutny is de trufe. I ain't nevah t'ought o' that befo'. Hit ain't no ha'dah lookin' out fu' two dan hit is fu' one," and though he was usually an incessant talker, he lapsed into a brown study. Be it known that the Rev. Mr.
"Shippin' 'fore de mahst ain't no job to make a preacher f'm a youngster; hit's plenty tough; but I ain't nevah been sorry I went to sea; effen a boy gwine take to likker an' wimmen, he kin git plenty o'both at home, same as in for'n ports."
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