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You used to cook faw him in camp di'n' you? How much good sense he got, tubbe sho'!" A mixture of roguishness spoiled the pretence of wonder. "Good sense? Law'! 'twant good sense in Gyarnit nuther. It was jess my pow' ove' him! my stra-ange, masmaric poweh! You know, the arrangements is jess this! Gyarnit got th'ee hund'ed sheers, I got fawty; yit I the poweh behime the th'one.
I just go every three months and draw my money, and think no more about it. Maybe if they knew at Washington " "Sho! they couldn't make a difference for one; and it's just what Josh says they ain't goin' to pay you for havin' a dead husband if you got a live one. Well, it wouldn't be sense, Lizzie." Lizzie shook her head. "Wait till I look at my paper " Mrs.
The stranger, who was at once ushered into the parlor, was evidently disconcerted by the presence of the three women. "I reckoned to see John Hale yer," he began, awkwardly. A slight look of disappointment passed over their faces. "He has not yet returned," said Mrs. Hale briefly. "Sho! I wanter know. He's hed time to do it, I reckon," said the stranger.
What? I'll say he's a good rightus man, an' um sho' go' vot' fo' him." Residing in her little cabin in Eatonville, Florida, she is able to smile because she has some means of security, the Old Age Pension. DADE COUNTY, FLORIDA, FOLKLORE Ex-Slaves Reverend Eli Boyd was born May 29, 1864, four miles from Somerville, South Carolina on John Murray's plantation.
"Hold on," the pottery hands and the peasants sho ut, meeting them. "Hold on." But why? Let the keen, cold wind beat in one's face and bite one's hands; let the lumps of snow, kicked up by the horses' hoofs, fall on one's cap, on one's back, down one's collar, on one's chest; let the runners ring on the snow, and the traces and the sledge be smashed, deuce take them one and all!
Yes, suh, de hoss he come right in des like he knowed me, en w'en I helt out my han' he poke his nose spang inter it en w'innied like he moughty glad ter see me en he wuz, too, dat's sho'. Well, I ketch holt er his bridle en lead 'im thoo de woods up ter my do' whar he tu'n right in en begin ter nibble in de patch er kebbage.
"I reckon yer guessed the name, all right, boy. Were you the cook of the Diamond L?" "No, sah, I nebber cooked no di'onds. I'se ol' Neb, sah." "What?" "Yes, sah, I'se de boy dat libbed wid ol' Missus Caton durin' de wah. I ain't seen yo', Massa Jack, sence de day we buried yo' daddy, ol' Massa Keith. But I knowed yo' de berry minute I woke up. Sho', yo' 'members Neb, sah?"
"To be sho', li'l' Marster, to be sho'. Sees 'em mos' any time. Saw one las' Sunday night." "What was it like, Uncle Billy?" "Like, Honey? Like ole Mose, dat's what t'wus like. Does you 'member Mose whar useter drive de hotel hack?" "Yes, he's dead isn't he?" "Yes, suh, daid as a do' nail. Dat's de cur'us part on it. He's daid an' was buried las' Sunday ebenin' buried deep.
"Ain't seen much of it, eh? No-o, no, no. I guess you ain't, guess you ain't. He, he, he . . . Um . . . Let's see, what was I talkin' about?" "Why, nothing in particular, I think, Mr. Mr. "Didn't I tell you my name? Sho, sho! That's funny. My name's Keeler Laban B. Keeler. That's my name and bookkeeper is my station.
She used to pick big Catawba leaves an' roll her dough in 'em an' bake hit in a log heap, pilin' ashes over hit. Some called hit ash cakes an' hit sho' was good. Nothin' lak hit dese days no sir. "We had plen'y to eat smoke sausage, beef, home made lard, an' yes sir, possum when we wanted hit.
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