nobody
else hain't got the common perliteness to ast 'im, shorely you mus' ast
'im,' says I; 'but don't go an' make no great to-do,' says I; 'bekaze
the little we got mightent be satisfactual to the gentulmun,' says I.
What we got may be little enough, an' it may be too much, but hit's
welcome."

It would be impossible to convey an idea of the emphasis which Mrs.
Bivins imposed upon her conversation. She talked rapidly, but with a
certain deliberation of manner which gave a quaint interest to
everything she said. She had thin grey hair, a prominent nose, firm
thin lips, and eyes that gave a keen and sparkling individuality to
sharp and homely features. She had evidently seen sorrow and defied it.
There was no suggestion of compromise in manner or expression. Even her
hospitality was uncompromising. I endeavoured to murmur my thanks to
Mrs. Bivins for Mingo's thoughtfulness, but her persistent conversation
drowned out such poor phrases as I could hastily frame.

"Come 'ere, Pud Hon," continued Mrs. Bivins, calling the child, and
trimming the demonstrative terms of "Pudding" and "Honey" to suit all
exigencies of affection--"come 'ere, Pud Hon, an' tell the gentulmun
howdy. Gracious me! don't be so _countrified_. He ain't a-gwine to
_bite_ you. No, sir, you won't fine no begrudgers mixed up with the
_Sanderses_. Hit useter be a _common_ sayin' in Jones, an' cle'r 'cross
into Jasper, that pa would 'a bin a rich man an' 'a owned _niggers_ if
it hadn't but 'a bin bekase he sot his head agin stintin' of his
stomach. That's what they useter say--usen't they, Mingo?"

"Dat w'at I year tell, Miss F'raishy--sho'," Mingo assented, with great
heartiness. But Mrs. Bivins's volubility would hardly wait for this
perfunctory indorsement. She talked as she arranged the dishes, and
occasionally she would hold a piece of crockery suspended in the air as
she emphasised her words. She dropped into a mortuary strain--"Poor
pa! I don't never have nuthin' extry an' I don't never see a dish er
fried chicken but what pa pops in my mind. A better man hain't never
draw'd the breath of life--that they hain't. An' he was thes as gayly
as a kitten. When we gals'd have comp'ny to dinner, pore pa he'd cut
his eye at me, an' up an' say, says he, 'Gals, this 'ere turkey's
mighty nice, yit I'm reely afeared you put too much inguns in the
stuffin. Maybe the young men don't like 'em as good as you all does;'
an' then pore pa'd drap his knife an' fork, an