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Updated: June 2, 2025
I gotter muskit out dar w'at's used ter persidin' 'roun' whar dey's a cripple nigger. Don't you fergit dat off'n yo' mine." "W'AT'S dis yer I see, great big niggers gwine 'lopin' 'roun' town wid cakes 'n pies fer ter sell?" asked Uncle Remus recently, in his most scornful tone. "That's what they are doing," responded a young man; "that's the way they make a living."
De sin dat's dar, Lord, blot it out wid dy wounded han'. Dear Marster, bless my little Mistiss. Her comin's en her gwines is des like one er dy angels er mercy; she scatters bread en meat 'mongs' dem w'at's lonesome in der ways, en dem w'at runs up en down in de middle er big tribalation. Saviour! Marster! look down 'pon my little Mistiss; gedder her 'nead dy hev'mly wings.
"Say, now, Tode, tell us w'at's up," whispered one, sidling up to him. "Hev ye swiped somethin'?" Tode tried to put on an expression of injured innocence, but his face flushed as he answered, shortly, "Come, hush yer noise, will ye! Can't a chap lay off fer one day 'thout all the town pitchin' inter him?
She sank, trembling, into her chair. "Oh, no, no," she continued, shaking her head, "'tis not Miché Vignevielle w'at's crezzie." Her eyes lighted with sudden fierceness. "'Tis dad law! Dad law is crezzie! Dad law is a fool!" A priest of less heart-wisdom might have replied that the law is the law; but Père Jerome saw that Madame Delphine was expecting this very response.
It was strange to them, but Banker shivered and shrank from the grinning bartender. "Stop it, yuh darn fool! yuh gi' me the creeps! W'at's the matter with everything to-day? Everywhere I go some one starts gabblin' about mines and French Pete an' this all-fired Louisiana! It's a damn good thing there ain't any more like him around here." "W'at's that about mines an' French Pete?
As he ran round the house he passed the wood-pile and snatched up an armful of pieces. A moment later he threw open the door. "Ole 'oman," he exclaimed, "here 's dat wood you tol' me ter fetch in! Why, elder," he said to the preacher, who had started from his seat with surprise, "w'at's yo' hurry? Won't you stay an' hab some supper wid us?" The Bouquet
I got ter keep my eyes open an' keep up wid w'at's happenin'. Ef dere's gwine ter be anudder flood 'roun' here, I wants ter git in de ark wid de w'ite folks, I may haf ter be anudder Ham, an' sta't de cullud race all over ag'in."
"W'at's he up to?" was the burden of his thoughts; "w'at kind of a gold brick has the big guy got to sell?" McGuire was only applying the measure of the streets he had walked to a range bounded by the horizon and the fourth dimension. The description here is undoubtedly from O. Henry's memory of his journey from his home in North Carolina to a ranch in LaSalle County, Texas, when he was twenty.
I not goin' cry again. I goin' laugh and have some fun now!" Musq'oosis let it all come out before he spoke. When his opportunity came he said calmly: "You are a big fool. You don't know w'at's the matter wit' you." She fell into his trap. "W'at is the matter wit' me?" she demanded sullenly. "Sam!" he said scornfully. "I tell you before. You what they call in love wit' Sam.
The skipper would have liked to keep 'em out, but they being two to one, he couldn't. "'That's it, answers Rosy, cheerful. "'W'at's it? "'Why, the things in the grip; the photograph things.
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