Part 65 (1/2)
You Wi'yum, c.u.m 'ere, suh, dis minute. Wut dat you got under dat box?
I don't want no foolin'--you hear me? Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n but _rocks_?
'Peahs ter me you's owdashus perticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine.
I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline?
_I_ calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed; It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road.
You stole it, you rascal--you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot.
En time I gits th'ough wid you, n.i.g.g.e.r, you won't eb'n be a grease spot!
_I'll_ fix you. Mirandy! Mirandy! go cut me a hick'ry--make 'ase!
En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place.
I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yum Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner, Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner!
Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'f, suh? I is. I's 'shamed you's my son!
En de holy accorjun angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done; En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters-- ”One water-million stoled by Wi'yum Josephus Vetters.”
En wut you s'posin' Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school, 'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule?
Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black villiun?
I's s'prised dat a chile er yo' mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million.
En I's now gwiner cut it right open, en you shain't have narry bite, Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions--en dat in de day's broad light-- Ain't--_Lawdy!_ it's |GREEN|! Mirandy; Mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch!
_Well_, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever heered tell er des sich?
Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y, you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey is green; But when dey go _punk_, now you mine me, dey's ripe--en dat's des wut I mean.
En nex' time you hook water-millions--_you_ heered me, you ign'ant young hunk, Ef you don't want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go ”punk”!
_Harrison Robertson._
JOHN GRUMLIE
John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moon And the green leaves on the tree, That he could do more work in a day Than his wife could do in three.
His wife rose up in the morning Wi' cares and troubles enow-- John Grumlie bide at hame, John, And I'll go haud the plow.
First ye maun dress your children fair, And put them a' in their gear; And ye maun turn the malt, John, Or else ye'll spoil the beer; And ye maun reel the tweel, John, That I span yesterday; And ye maun ca' in the hens, John, Else they'll all lay away.
O he did dress his children fair, And put them a' in their gear; But he forgot to turn the malt, And so he spoil'd the beer: And he sang loud as he reeled the tweel That his wife span yesterday; But he forgot to put up the hens, And the hens all layed away.
The hawket crummie loot down nae milk; He kirned, nor b.u.t.ter gat; And a' gade wrang, and nought gade right; He danced with rage, and grat; Then up he ran to the head o' the knowe Wi' mony a wave and shout-- She heard him as she heard him not, And steered the stots about.