As he rose from his knees he asked: “Aunt Minerva, do God work on Sunday?”
“No-o,” answered his relative, hesitatingly.
“Well, it look like He’d jest hafter work on Sunday, He’s so busy jest a-makin’ babies. He makes all the niggers an’ heathens an’ Injuns an’ white chillens; I reckon He gits somebody to help him. Don’t you, Aunt Minerva?”
Rabbits’and other eggs
Billy was sitting in the swing. Jimmy crawled over the fence and joined him.
“Miss Cecilia’s dyeing me some Easter eggs,” he said, “all blue and pink and green and yelluh and every kind they is; I tooken her some of our hen’s eggs and she is going to fix ’em for me and they’ll be just like rabbit’s eggs; I reckon I’ll have ’bout a million. I’ll give you one,” he added generously.
“I want more ’n one,” declared Billy, who was used to having the lion’s share of everything.
“You all time talking ’bout you want more ’n one egg,” said Jimmy. “You ’bout the stingiest Peter they is. Ain’t you got no eggs? Get Miss Minerva to give you some of hers and I’ll take ’em over and ask Miss Cecilia to dye ’em for you ’cause you ain’t ’quainted with her yet.”
“Aunt Minerva ain’t got none ‘cep’in’ what she put under a of hen fer to set this mornin’:”
“Can’t you get ’em from under the old hen? Miss Minerva is such a Christian woman, she ain’t—”
“You done fool me ’bout that ’ligious business befo’,” interrupted Billy, “an’ I got put to bed in the daytime.”
“Well, she won’t never miss two or three eggs,” coaxed Jimmy. “How many did she put under the old hen?”
“She put fifteen,” was the response, “an’ I don’t believe she’d want me to tech ’em.”
“They ’re ’bout the prettiest eggs ever was,” continued the tempter, “all blue and pink and green, and ’bout a million kinds. They’re just perzactly like rabbit’s eggs.”
“Me an’ Wilkes Booth Lincoln ain’t never hear teller no rabbit’s eggs sence we’s born,” said Billy; “I don’t berlieve rabbits lays eggs nohow.”
“They don’ lay ’em ’cept to Easter,” said Jimmy. “Miss Cecilia ’splained it all to me and she’s my Sunday-School teacher and rabbits is bound to lay eggs ’cause it’s in the Bible and she’s ’bout the prettiest ’splainer they is. I’m going over there now to see ’bout my eggs,” and he made believe to leave the swing.
“Le’s us slip roun’ to the hen-house an’ see what the of hen’s a-doin’,” suggested the sorely tempted Billy. “Aunt Minerva is a-makin’ me some nightshirts an’ she ain’t takin’ no notice of nothin’ else.”
They tiptoed stealthily around the house to the back-yard, but found the hen-house door locked.
“Can’t you get the key?” asked the younger child.
“Naw, I can’t,” replied the other boy, “but you can git in th’oo this-here little hole what the chickens goes in at, whiles I watches fer Aunt Minerva. I’ll stand right here an’ hol’ my cap whiles you fetches me the eggs. An’ don’t you take more ’n five or six,” he warned.