His Irish and his
African temperaments struggled together for expression.
"Bless my soul, Miss Miriam," he said; "nobody in this world ever
brought me nuthin' to eat, 'cause they know'd I didn't need it, an'
gittin' the best of livin' right here in your house, Miss Miriam, an' if
they had brought it I wouldn't have took it an' swallowed the family
pride; an' what's more, the doctor's cook didn't bring that pie on
purpose for me. She just comed down here to ax me how to make real good
corn-cakes, knowin' that I was a fust-rate cook, an' could make
corn-cakes, an' she wanted to know how to do it. When I tole her jes'
how to do it,--ash-cakes, griddle-cakes, batter-cake, every kin' of
cake,--she was so mighty obligated that she took a little bit of a pie,
made of meat, out of the bag what she'd brought along to eat on the way
home, not feelin' hungry at lunch time, an' give it to me. An' not
wantin' to hurt her feelin's, I jes' took it, an' when I went to my
house I het it an' eat it, an' bless your soul, Miss Miriam, it did
taste good; for that there woman in the kitchen don't give me half
enough to eat, an' never no corn-bread an' ham fat, which is mighty
cheap, Miss Miriam, an' a long sight better for a workin' pusson than
crusts of wheat bread a week old an'--"
"You don't mean to say," interrupted Miriam, "that Molly does not give
you enough to eat? I'll speak to her about that.
Pages:
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387