

E-text prepared by David Edwards, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org)



Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
      file which includes the original illustrations.
      See 36370-h.htm or 36370-h.zip:
      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36370/36370-h/36370-h.htm)
      or
      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36370/36370-h.zip)


      Images of the original pages are available through
      Internet Archive. See
      http://www.archive.org/details/bishopboogerman00harrrich





THE BISHOP AND THE BOOGERMAN

Being the Story of a Little Truly-Girl, Who Grew Up; Her Mysterious
Companion; Her Crabbed Old Uncle; the Whish-Whish Woods; a Very Civil
Engineer, and Mr. Billy Sanders the Sage of Shady Dale

by

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Drawings by Charlotte Harding







New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1909

All Rights Reserved, Including That of Translation
into Foreign Languages, Including the Scandinavian

Copyright, 1907, by Sunny South Publishing Co.

Copyright, 1909, by Doubleday, Page & Company
Published, January, 1909




[Illustration: "They paused--then she pointed to the darkest corner"]




ILLUSTRATIONS


"They paused--then she pointed to the darkest corner"

"It seemed to Adelaide that it held a whole bushel of fried chicken and
biscuits"

"The child stared at her uncle so seriously that he was actually
embarrassed"

"Old Jonas would listen by her bedside to convince himself that she was
really breathing"

"They began to creep forward, making as little noise as possible"

"'You are pouting,' she said, 'or you'd never be sitting in this room
where nobody ever comes'"

"'That's why you see these shoes lookin' like they're spang new'"

"Mr. Sanders went from the courthouse with a sweeping stride"




THE BISHOP AND THE BOOGERMAN




PART I

    The old Pig went to wander,
    The other went far to roam
    And, at last, when night was falling,
    And a little Pig was calling
    Never a one came home.

    --_Rhunewalt's Ballads of Life_.


Adelaide and I have come to the conclusion that if you can't believe
anything at all, not even the things that are as plain as the nose on
your face--if you can't enjoy what is put here to be enjoyed--if you are
going to turn up your nose at everything we tell you, and deny things
that we know to be truly-ann-true, just because we haven't given you the
cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die sign--then it's your own fault if we
don't reply when you try to give the wipple-wappling call. And more than
that, if you know so much that you don't know anything, or less than
anything, you will have to go somewhere else to be amused and
entertained; you will have to find other play-fellows. You might
persuade us to play with you if you had something nicer than peppermint
candy, and sweeter than taffy, and then Adelaide would show you things
that you never so much as dreamed of before, and tell you things you
never heard of.

Adelaide! Doesn't the very sound of the name make you feel a little bit
better than you were feeling awhile ago? Doesn't it remind you of the
softest blue eyes in the world, and of long curly hair, spun from summer
sunbeams that were left over from last season's growing? If all these
things don't flash in your mind, like magic pictures on a white
background, then you had better turn your head away, and not bother
about the things I am saying. And another thing: Don't imagine that I am
writing of the Right-Now time, for, one day when Adelaide and I were
playing in the garden, we found Eighteen-Hundred-and-Sixty-Eight hiding
under a honeysuckle vine, where it had gone to die. Adelaide picked the
poor thing up and put it in the warm place in her apron that she keeps
for all the weaklings; and now when we want to remember a great many
things, both good and bad, we go back to the poor thing we found under
the honeysuckle vine.

It was a very good thing that old Jonas Whipple, of Shady Dale, had a
sister who married and went to Atlanta, because Adelaide was in Atlanta,
and nowhere else; it was the only place where she could have been found.
Old Jonas's sister had been in Atlanta not longer than a year, if that
long, when, one day, she found Adelaide, and appeared to be very fond of
her. At that time, Adelaide had hardly been aroused from her dreams. She
may have opened her eyes sometimes, but she seemed sleepy; and when she
snored, as the majority of people will, when they are not put to bed
right, everybody said she was crying. It was so ridiculous that she
sometimes smiled in her sleep. But the most mysterious thing about it,
was that old Jonas's sister knew she was named Adelaide almost as soon
as she found her. Now, how did old Jonas's sister know that? Adelaide
and I have often tried to figure it out when we were playing in the
garden, but no matter how many figures we made in the sand, there was
always something or other in the top row that stood for No-Time, and we
didn't know how to add that up.

One day, Adelaide's father, who had been ailing a long time, became so
ill that a great many people came to the house in carriages and took him
away so that he might get well again. Adelaide hardly had time to forget
that her father had gone away, before her mother went to bed one night,
and, after staying there a long time, was carried away by the people who
had been so kind to her, only this time there were a great many more
women in the house, and some of them went about acting as though they
had been taking snuff. And there was a very nice old gentleman, with a
smooth face, and a big ring on one of his fat fingers. As well as
Adelaide could remember, this was the Peskerwhalian Bishop, and he was
just as kind as he could be. He had a pink complexion just like a woman.
He took Adelaide in his arms, and told her all about Heaven, and
everything like that, and then he felt about in his pockets and found
some candy drops.

Adelaide knew very well that the people who came to the house were very
much concerned about her. They talked in whispers when she was in
hearing, but she knew by their sad faces that they were troubled about
something, and she wished that they would get over it, and laugh and
talk as they used to do. When she went on the street, the little girls
she met turned and looked at her curiously, and though they were very
friendly indeed, they had the inquisitive look that older people have
such a dread of. At first she thought her nose must be smutty, or her
bonnet on crooked, or her frock torn; but when it turned out that
everything about her was according to the prevailing fashions of
cleanliness and correctness, she was quite content to be the observed of
all observers in her neighbourhood.

And then, one day (can it ever be forgotten by anybody who was living at
that time?), a lovely man, looking so much like the Bishop that Adelaide
named him so, came after her and said that she was to go to Shady Dale,
and live with her Uncle Jonas. This was Mr. Sanders--Billy Sanders, of
Shady Dale. "I ain't sorry for you one bit," Mr. Sanders declared--I was
there when he said it--"bekaze the first time I saw you, you made a face
at me."

"How did I look, and what else did I say?" Adelaide asked.

"You looked this way," replied Mr. Sanders, puckering up his
countenance, "an' you said 'W-a-a-a!'"

"Then what did you say?" inquired Adelaide.

"Why, I shuck my fist at you an' said I never saw anybody look so much
like your Uncle Jonas." Adelaide took all this very seriously, as she
did most things.

It turned out that she was to go to her Uncle Jonas, and that Mr.
Sanders had come after her; and then, my goodness gracious! she was so
full of anticipation and joy that she was frightened for herself. The
kind ladies who had had charge of her told her not to be frightened, and
to be very good, but she just rolled her big blue eyes, and had long,
long thoughts about things of which she never breathed a word. She
started at last, and went with Mr. Sanders on the choo-choo train, and
such a time as the two had buying tickets to Malvern, and laughing at
the people they saw, and getting their baggage checked, and getting on
the train, and watching the station slide back away from them so they
could get a good start--such a time has hardly been repeated for anybody
from that day to this.

A man caught a cinder in his eye, and ran with such speed to the
water-cooler that he turned the whole thing over; and it came down with
such a crash that everybody was frightened except Mr. Sanders and
Adelaide. Women screamed, babies squalled, and all the time the cinder
man was saying things under his breath, and some of them sounded to
Adelaide like the words that her good friend, the Peskerwhalian Bishop,
used in his sermon, only they were not so fierce and emphatic. The child
glanced around, and remarked with a satisfied smile: "It didn't scare
Cally-Lou." "I reckon not," Mr. Sanders remarked, although he had no
idea what Adelaide meant.

Well, they reached Malvern in due time, and there, right at the station,
was the stage-coach, which was driven by John Bell. Mr. Sanders
introduced Adelaide to the driver, who took off his hat and bowed very
gravely, and after that it was only a few minutes before they were on
their way to Shady Dale. If the choo-choo train had been fine, the
stage-coach was finer; it was like getting in a swing and staying there
a long time. There were a few passengers in the coach, and they all
appeared to be very sleepy. When they nodded, as the most of them did,
they fell about somewhat promiscuously--though Adelaide didn't think of
that word--and made it somewhat uncomfortable for the child, who was
wide awake and alert. But when they came to the place where the horses
were watered, John Bell leaned from his seat, and saw at a glance what
Adelaide's trouble was. In a jiffy he had her up on the swaying seat
beside him. It would have been a frightful position for most children,
but Adelaide thought it was the grandest thing in the world. She was
seated almost directly above the two wheel horses, and not very far from
the leaders. She could see their muscles rise and fall as they whirled
the coach along; she could see the flecks of foam made by the harness,
and--well, it was just glorious! She had what Mr. Sanders called the
Christmas feeling--the feeling that is ever ready to become awe or
delight--and the swing of the stage-coach kept her alternating between
the two.

It was wonderful, too, how one man could manage four great big horses,
how he could guide them by merely touching one of the reins with the end
of a finger; and then, when John Bell gave his long whip wide play,
sending it through the air with a swish, and bringing it down as gently
as a breath of wind on the back of the horse he desired to warn,
Adelaide could have screamed with delight. There was a half-way house
where the horses were changed, and when the coach stopped for that
purpose, most of the passengers went into a near-by inn for their
dinner. One or two of them, however, had brought a lunch along. One of
them offered Adelaide a share, saying: "Won't you have some of my
dinner, Sissy?" Her mother had called her many fond names, but nothing
like that. John Bell glanced at her, and the expression on the little
face opened his eyes. "No, I thank you," he replied, "she'll go snucks
wi' me." She snuggled up to John Bell--"Did you hear him?" she asked;
"he called me Sissy." "I heard him," said John Bell; "I heard every
word, and just how he said it."

The lunch-basket that John Bell found under the seat was a wonder to
see. It seemed to Adelaide that it held a whole bushel of fried chicken
and biscuits with yellow butter on the inside of each. "Now," said John
Bell, "there ain't enough vittles here for one, much less six." "Six!"
cried Adelaide. "Yes'm; you and yourself, Mr. Sanders and his self, and
me and myself." "Ef you're countin' me in," remarked Mr. Sanders, "jest
add three more figgers to the multiplication table." "And then," said
Adelaide very solemnly, "there's Cally-Lou and herself. Cally-Lou's
herself is just big enough to be counted," she went on, "but Cally-Lou
is bigger than I am. She's sitting right here by me; you could see her
if you could turn your head quick enough. She dodges when she thinks
anybody is going to look at her, because she is neither black nor white;
she's a brown girl with straight black hair that wavies when you brush
it."

[Illustration: "It seemed to Adelaide that it held a whole bushel of
fried chicken and biscuits"]

"Why, of course," said John Bell; "I'd know her anywhere. I was afraid,
once or twice, that I'd put out her eye with my whip-lash."

"Oh, did you really see Cally-Lou?" cried Adelaide, with an ecstatic
smile.

"Didn't you hear what he said about the vittles?" remarked Mr. Sanders.
"Do you think he'd 'a' said that ef he'd 'a' seed only us three? I'll
say this much for John Bell before I eat all his chicken an'
biscuits--he's nuther stingy ner greedy. Now, then," he went on, "jest
shet you eyes, an' grab, bekaze the one that grabs the quickest will git
that big hind leg there. My goodness! I can shet my eyes an' see it!"
Whereupon Mr. Sanders and John Bell closed their eyes, and reached into
the basket, and one drew a back and a biscuit, and the other grabbed a
neck and a biscuit. "We dassent shet our eyes any more," remarked Mr.
Sanders, "bekaze if we do, Cally-Lou will git all the chicken!"

Talk about picnics or barbecues, or parties where you have to wear your
best clothes, or receptions where you have tea-cakes and ice-cream! Why,
this banquet on top of the stage-coach, where no strange person could
look over your shoulder, and no one tell you not to eat with your
fingers, and not to tuck your napkin under your chin, like--like I don't
know what--why, it was just simply a true fairy story, not one of the
make-believe kind--the kind that grows out of the weariness of
invention.

The feast was over much too soon, though all had had much more than was
good for them. John Bell covered the treasure basket with a towel, and
stowed it away in the big hollow place under the seat; then he beckoned
to a <DW64> who was helping with the horses. "Run down to the spring and
fetch us some water, and be certain to get it out of the north side of
the spring, where it is cold and sweet." The <DW64> did this in a jiffy,
and such water Adelaide had never before tasted. There was a whole
bucketful, too. When they had all drunk their fill, Adelaide looked at
Mr. Sanders and John Bell with a frown. "What can we do for you now,
ma'am?" Mr. Sanders asked.

"Why, I want you to turn your heads away. Cally-Lou says she is nearly
famished for water, and she won't drink when any one is looking."

All this being done, everybody was ready to go. Mr. Sanders got in the
stage, declaring that he must have his own warm place, John Bell took
the reins that were handed to him by the hostlers, gave a harmless swish
with his long whip, and away they went to Shady Dale. It was all so
strange, and so pleasant that Adelaide could have wished the journey to
continue indefinitely. But after a while, the houses they passed became
larger and more numerous, and then the stage-coach made its appearance
on the public square that was one of the features of Shady Dale. It
rolled and swung toward the old tavern, and just when Adelaide thought
that John Bell was going to drive right into the house for her benefit,
he gave a little twist to his wrist, and the leaders swung around. Even
then it seemed that they would assuredly run headlong into the big
mulberry tree, and trample to death the man who was leaning against it
in a chair; but just as the leader was about to plant his forefeet in
the man's bosom, John Bell sent another signal down the tightly held
reins, and the leaders swung around until the child could look right
into their tired faces. And, oh, the thrill of it! Adelaide felt that
she could just hug John Bell, but the man who had made such a narrow
escape from the horses' feet had an entirely different view of the
matter.

"You shorely must be tryin' to show off," he growled to John Bell; "an'
what for, I'd like to know? The next time you kill me, I'll have the law
on you!"

"Quite so," remarked John Bell, with a grin that showed his white teeth.
"But I want you to know that I've got company; let folks that ain't got
company look out for themselves! Have you seen Mr. Jonas Whipple around
here?"

"You don't want to run over old Jonas, do you?" replied the man. "All
I've got to say is, jest try it! Old Jonas is a lot tougher than what I
am."

"I'd run over him in a minnit if it would give my company any pleasure,"
said John Bell. "I've got a package for him that come all the way from
Atlanta, an' I reckon the best thing to do is to take it right straight
to his house. It's wropped in cloth, an' he's got to give me a receipt
for it!"

"Oh, I know!" cried Adelaide, pouting a little; "you are talking about
me!"

"Drive on!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, who was sitting on the inside of the
stage-coach. "I'll have my ride out ef I have to set in here ontell
to-morrer."

"Quite so!" exclaimed John Bell, and with that, he signalled the
leaders, all the other passengers having got out by this time, and in
less than no time the coach was whirling in the direction of old Jonas
Whipple's house.

I'd like to show you how the neighbours came to their doors and stared;
I can't describe it on paper, but if you were sitting where you could
see my motions and gestures you'd laugh until you cried. The way the
horses swept down that long red hill, leading from the tavern to old
Jonas's, was assuredly a sight to see; and not only the neighbours saw
it. Old Jonas saw it, and Lucindy saw it, too. Lucindy tried hard to be
two persons that day; she'd look at old Jonas and frown, and then she'd
look at the stage-coach and smile all over her face. She was mad on one
side and glad on the other--mad because old Jonas wasn't as excited as
she was, and glad because the child was coming. But old Jonas had a very
good reason for his lack of excitement; he had such a cold that he could
hardly talk for coughing, and such a bad cough that he could hardly
cough for wheezing. And before he would come to the door, he wrapped his
neck in a piece of red flannel. He tried to smile when he saw Adelaide
waving her flower-like hand, and the smile came near strangling him. But
Lucindy, the cook, was more than equal to the emergency; she whipped off
her big apron and waved it up and down at arm's length, which was quite
as hearty a welcome as any one would wish to have. I am sure that no one
else ever received such a welcome at old Jonas's door. Up swept the
stage, around it swung, and then, "All out for Whipple's Cross-roads!"

Mr. Sanders had his head out of the window, and saw Adelaide lift her
lovely face and kiss John Bell. It must have been a great strain on John
Bell to stoop so low, for when he straightened himself he was very red
in the face.

"That," said Mr. Sanders, who was a close observer, "is the first time
anybody has kissed John Bell since he was a baby. That's what makes him
sweat so!"

"Much you know about such things," exclaimed John Bell, mopping his face
with a red bandana. Nobody knows to this day how Lucindy managed to take
the trunk from the boot of the stage, and place it in the veranda in
time to run back and seize Adelaide and pull her through the window of
the coach before any one could open the door. But such was the feat she
performed in her excitement. Mr. Sanders appeared to be so surprised
that he could do nothing but pucker up his face, pretending he was
crying, and yell out: "Lucindy's took Miss Adelaide, an' now who's gwine
to take me out'n this stage. Ef you don't come an' git me, Jonas, I'll
be took off by John Bell, an' you won't never see me no more!" Old Jonas
looked at Mr. Sanders as if he were in a dream, and had not heard
aright. Observing this, Mr. Sanders kept up the pretence, and he cried
so loudly, and to such purpose, that the neighbours on each side of the
street came running to their front doors to see what the trouble was.
And then old Jonas became furiously angry. "Take him away, John Bell!"
he commanded; "I hold you responsible! Confound you! why don't you drive
on." With that he went into the house.

Mr. Sanders cared not a whit for old Jonas's irritation, and so he
alighted from the coach and followed the rest into the house. He was
just in time to hear Adelaide begin her course of instruction to old
Jonas.

"Nunky-Punky," said she, very solemn, "why didn't you wait for
Mr.----oh, I know who he is, he's the Peskerwhalian Bishop!--why didn't
you wait for the Bishop?"

"Much he looks like a bishop!" replied old Jonas, when he could control
his cough. "Did you ever hear a bishop boo-hooing and carrying on in
that way?"

The child stared at her uncle so seriously that he was actually
embarrassed. He rubbed his hand over a sharp chin that needed a razor
very badly, and really forgot that he was angry with Mr. Sanders. Then
something quite shocking occurred to Adelaide's nimble mind.

[Illustration: "The child stared at her uncle so seriously that he was
actually embarrassed"]

"Oh, Nunky-Punky!" she cried, "you didn't kiss me when I comed, and
everybody said you would, cause I asked 'em particular."

"Honey," said Mr. Sanders, "le' me stand in Nunky-Punky's shoes while
the kissin' is gwine on, bekaze he ain't shaved in two days, and his
whiskers'll scratch your face."

But Adelaide ran to old Jonas, and held out her little arms to be lifted
up. Jonas hesitated; he looked at Lucindy, then at Mr. Sanders, and
finally allowed his glance to fall on the sweetly solemn face of the
child. He tried to say something, to make some excuse, but he could
think of none. He was not only dreadfully embarrassed, he was actually
ashamed. Not in forty years had any one ever asked to kiss him and,
whether you count it backward or forward, forty years is a long time.
Mr. Sanders tried to pilot him through the deep water--so to speak--in
which he found himself. "Sit down, Jonas, and take Miss Adelaide on your
knee, an' let the thing be done right. Kinder shet your eyes an' pucker
your mouth, and she'll do the rest."

"Sanders," said old Jonas, bristling up again, "if you really want to
hurt my feelings just say so. You have no real delicacy about you. How
do you know some one hasn't told the little girl that it is her duty to
pretend to want to kiss her uncle, whether she wants to or not? Tell me
that!" Old Jonas's eyes glistened under his overhanging brows, and if
"looks" could kill a man, Mr. Sanders would have fallen down dead.
Adelaide dropped her arms, and stood close to old Jonas's knee, looking
quite forlorn. "Well, come on, Cally-Lou, Uncle Jonas has a very bad
cold and a headache, and we mustn't bother him."

"No, no, no!" cried old Jonas, screwing up his face until it looked like
the seed-ball of a sweet-gum tree. "There are some things a man has to
do whether he's used to them or not. Come here and kiss me if you really
want to." Adelaide turned, tossing her head as if she were growner than
a grown woman, and went toward old Jonas with the queerest little smile
ever seen. Her feelings had been dreadfully hurt, but not a quiver of
mouth or eyelid disclosed the fact, and only Cally-Lou knew it. Old
Jonas sat down in his favourite chair, and took the child on his knee.
If he had to be a martyr, he would go through the performance as
gracefully as he could. Adelaide made great preparations. She felt of
his chin with one hand, while she threw the other around his neck. She
seemed to know instinctively that old Jonas was rather timid when it
came to kissing people, and she went to his rescue. "Now, I'm not going
to kiss him until all you people turn your heads away. No, that won't
do! You've got to turn clean around, and look the other way!" She waited
until she had been obeyed, and then, as nimbly as a humming-bird kisses
a flower, she kissed the grim old man, and slid from his knee.

"Ten-ten-double-ten-forty-five-fifteen!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "All
eyes open! I'm gwine to peep!"

Adelaide laughed joyously, and when Mr. Sanders turned around she was
standing in the middle of the floor.

"You're It!" he said to Jonas. Then the smile disappeared from his face.
"Lucindy," he said, "do you reckon Mr. Whipple would buss me ef I was to
ast him?" The question was a little too much for Lucindy, and she
disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, bent double with laughter.

"Sanders, why do you make a joke out of everything? Did you ever reflect
that there is somewhere a limit to some things?"

"I certainly do, Jonas, an' you come mighty nigh reachin' it wi' me
awhile ago. Ef you hadn't 'a' let that child kiss you when she wanted
to, I'd 'a' went out'n yon' door an' I'd 'a' never darkened it
ag'in--not in this world."

"Well, your common sense should tell you, Sanders, that people ain't
made alike. What you are keen to do I have no appetite for, and what I'm
fond of, you have no relish for. That's plain enough, I reckon."

"Ef that's a conundrum, Jonas, I thank my Maker that the answer is
plain, yes!"

Old Jonas looked hard at Mr. Sanders as though he wanted to say
something. He stuck out his chin, and looked toward the ceiling; then he
looked at the floor, and began to rub his hands briskly together. Then
his thought came out: "Sanders," he said, almost hospitably, "suppose
you stay to supper to-night; or, if you can't stay until supper's ready,
suppose you come back to supper? How will that suit you? I----"

"Well, I'll tell you the truth, Jonas: ef you think you need me for to
pertect you from that child, you're mighty much mistaken. I don't
believe that Miss Adelaide would harm a ha'r on your head, few as you've
got."

"Nonsense, Sanders! you twist every mortal thing around in your mind,
and you are never happy until you set your best friends up as a target
for your folly. Answer my question: will you take supper with--with us?"

Mr. Sanders regarded old Jonas with real interest. His mild but fearless
blue eyes studied the other's face as if they would read there the
solution to some mystery. "Yes, Jonas; I'll not stay to supper, but I'll
come back in time for supper. But don't publish it; ef the public know'd
anything about it, they might think I was tryin' for to wheedle you out
of a loan, an' then what'd happen? Why, all my creditors would come
swarmin' aroun' me like gnats aroun' a sleepin' dog. I could jest as
well stay right here tell supper time, but I'm oblidze for to git out
an' walk about a little, an' git the amazement out'n my system. Off an'
on, Jonas, I've been a-knowin' you mighty nigh thirty year, an' this is
the fust time you've ast me to take a meal in your house. I feel as
funny as a flushed pa'tridge!"

Jonas stalked out of the room pretending to be very angry, but he began
to chuckle as soon as his back was turned. "Sanders is out of his
sphere," he said to himself. "More than half the time he should have a
big tent over his head and be rigged up like a clown." Mr. Sanders
watched the door through which old Jonas had gone, as if he expected him
to come back. Then he called out to him: "Jonas! be shore to have
somethin' for supper that me an' that child can eat!"

Old Jonas heard the voice of Mr. Sanders, but he paid no attention to
its purport. He went on into the kitchen where Adelaide and Lucindy were
having a conversation. He tried to smile at the child, but he realised
that his face was not made for smiles. It may have been different in the
days of his boyhood, and probably was, but since he had devoted himself
to the heartless problems that beset a man who is money-mad, the facial
muscles that smiling brings into play had become so set in other
directions, and had been so frequently used for other purposes, that
they made but a poor success of a smile. Realising this, he turned to
Lucindy, with a business-like air. "Lucindy, Mr. Sanders is coming to
supper; I reckon he knows how you can cook, for he jumped at the
invitation. And then there's the little girl; we must have something
nice and sweet for her," he went on.

"No, Mr. Jonas!" Lucindy exclaimed; "nothin' sweet fer dis chile; des a
little bread an' milk, er maybe a little hot-water tea."

"Well, you know about that," remarked Jonas, with a sigh; "we shall have
to get a nurse for the child, I reckon."

Lucindy drew a deep breath. "A nuss fer dat chile! Whar she gwineter
stay at? Not in dis kitchen! not in dis house! not on dis lot! No, suh!
Ef she do, she'll hafter be here by herse'f. I'll drive her off, an' den
you'll go out dar on de porch an' call her back; an' wid dat, I'll say
good bye an' far'-you-well! Yes, la! I kin stan' dis chile, here, an' I
kin 'ten' ter what little ten'in' ter she'll need--but a new <DW65> on
de place! an' a triflin' gal at dat! No suh, no suh! you'll hafter
scuzen me dis time, an' de nex' time, too."

Old