‘im up, de angel couldn’t fin’ ’im, caze he didn’t know de zack spot whar de Lord sot ‘im; an’ so he hollered an’ called, an’ de nigger he wuz ‘sleep, an’ he nuber hyeard ‘im; so de angel tuck de wite man, an’ cyard him ‘long, an’ de Lord polished uv ’im off.  Well, by’mby de nigger he waked up; but, dar now! he wuz bu’nt black, an’ his hyar wuz all swuv’llt up right kinky.

“De Lord, seein’ he wuz spilte, he didn’t ’low fur ter finish ‘im, an’ wuz des ’bout’n ter thow ’im ’way, wen de wite man axt fur ’im; so de Lord he finished ‘im up des like he wuz, wid his skin black an’ his hyar kunkt up, an’ he gun ‘im ter de wite man, an’ I see he’s got ’im plum tell yit.”

“Was it you, Daddy?” asked Dumps.

“Wy, no, honey, hit wan’t me, hit wuz my forecisters.”

“What’s a forecister, Daddy?” asked Diddie, rather curious about the relationship.

“Yer forecisters,” explained Daddy, “is dem uv yer way back folks, wat’s born’d fo’ you is yerse’f, an’ fo’ yer pa is.  Now, like my ole marster, yer pa’s gran’pa, wat riz me in ole Furginny, he’s you chil’en’s forecister; an’ dis nigger wat I’m tellin’ yer ’bout’n, he waz my fuss forecister; an’ dats’ de way dat I’ve allers hyearn dat he come ter be black, an’ his hyar kinky; an’ I b’lieves hit, too, caze er nigger’s de sleepies’-headed critter dey is; an’ den, ’sides dat, I’ve seed er heap er niggers in my time, but I ain’t nuber seed dat nigger yit wat’s wite, an’ got straight hyar on his head.

“Now I ain’t er talkin’ ’bout’n murlatters, caze dey ain’t no reg’lar folks ‘tall; dey’s des er mixtry.  Dey ain’t wite, an’ dey ain’t black, an’ dey ain’t nuffin’; dey’s des de same kin’ er folks ez de muel is er horse!

“An’ den dar’s Injuns; dey’s ergin ernudder kin’ er folks.

“I usen ter hyear ’em say dat de deb’l made de fuss Injun.  He seed de Lord er makin’ folks, an’ he ’lowed he’d make him some; so he got up his dut and his water, an’ all his ‘grejunces, an’ he went ter wuck; an’ wedder he cooked him too long, or wedder he put in too much red clay fur de water wat he had, wy, I ain’t nuber hyeard; but den I knows de deb’l made ‘im, caze I allers hyearn so; an’, mo’n dat, I done seed ’em fo’ now, an’ dey got mighty dev’lish ways.  I wuz wid yer gran’pa at Fort Mimms, down erbout Mobile, an’ I seed ’em killin’ folks an’ sculpin’ uv ‘em; an, mo’n dat, ef’n I hadn’t er crope under er log, an’ flattent myse’f out like er allergator, dey’d er got me; an’ den, ergin, dey don’t talk like no folks.  I met er Injun one time in de road, an’ I axed ‘im wuz he de man wat kilt an’ sculpt Sis Leah, wat usen ter b’longst ter yer gran’pa, an’ wat de Injuns kilt.  I axt ’im ’ticklur, caze I had my axe erlong, an’ ef’n he wuz de man, I ’lowed fur ter lay him out.  But, bless yer life, chile, he went on fur ter say,

“’Ump, ump, kinterlosha wannycoola tusky noba, inickskymuncha fluxkerscenuck kintergunter skoop.’