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Updated: August 9, 2024
I means by dat, Lee King tuk her an' my brudder George fer a whiskey debt. Yes, old Marster drinked dem up. Den dey was car'ied to Florida by Sam Oneal, an' George was jes a baby. You know, de white folks wouldn't often sep'rate de mammy an' baby. I ain't seen' em since. "Did I work? Yes ma'm, me an' a girl worked in de fiel', carryin' one row; you know, it tuk two chullun to mek one han'.
We've split up into nineteen sep'rate and distinct corporations, with a diff'rent set of directors for each one, and if the Attorney General can sleuth out where they're tied together he's got to do some high-class snoopin' around. Maybe you think too, that little Sunny Haired Hank, guardin' the brass gate, ain't wise to every move. Say, I make that part of my job.
Sam Coy, up to Atlantic Avenoo, give him his board free fer a year or more on account of his stories. "Counahan the Navigator! Tck! Tck! Dead these fifteen year, ain't he?" "Seventeen, I guess. He died the year the Caspar McVeagh was built; but he could niver keep things sep'rate. Steyning tuk him fer the reason the thief tuk the hot stove bekaze there was nothin' else that season.
Even after they've gone their sep'rate ways, ez they most likely will in time, it'll be a pleasure to 'em to look back to the time when they was little sweethearts. I know I had a number, off an' on, when I was a youngster, an' they're every one hung up in my mind, of co'se in little gilt frames, each one to herself.
Do 'ee see these hyur nicks: them standin' sep'rate?" And the trapper pointed to a row of small notches cut in the stock of his rifle. "Ay, ay!" cried several men in reply. "Thur's five o' 'em, ain't thur?" "One, two, three; yes, five." "Them's Rapahoes!" Rube's story was ended.
She cut over her wedding dress to have something nice to wear last summer, and all those sep'rate skirts you talk about are some of her sister's old ones. She hasn't spent a cent for clothes since she bought her straw hat, and that cost two dollars and a half. Mr. Strong told me so, himself.
"'Consolation! sez he, bould as brass. 'D'ye take me fer a dialect? Thirty-five mile from Cape Clear, an' fourteen days from Boston Light. Sufferin' Christianity, 'tis a record, an' by the same token I've a mother to Skibbereen! Think av ut! The gall av um! But ye see he could niver keep things sep'rate.
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