She handed the basin of peas through the open window to Seraphina, and
retired to her room, to study, to plan, and to revel in flights of
epicurean fancy.
"Mike," said Seraphina to her brother, who was now raking the grass near
the kitchen window, "did you hear dat ar ole cook a talkin' jes' now?"
"No," said Mike, "I hain't got no time to harken to people talkin', 'cept
they're talkin' to me, an' it 'pends on who they is whether I listens
then or not."
"That fool thinks she made this world," said Seraphina. "I've been
thinkin' she had some notion like dat. She do put on such a'rs."
"Git out," said Mike. "You never heard her say nothing like that."
"I didn't hear all she said," replied the colored woman, "but I heard
more'n 'nough, an' I heard her talkin' about her creation. Her creation
indeed! I'll let her know one thing; she didn't make me."
"Now look a here, Seraphiny," said Mike; "the more you shet up now, now
you's in the prime of life, the gooder you'll feel when you gits old. An'
so long as Mrs. Flower makes them thar three-inch-deep pies for me, I
don't care who she thinks she made, an' who she thinks she didn't make.
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