you gits it.

She's a Scriptu'al cow, Brindle is--she so meek.

Yas, I sho' does love Brindle. Any cow dat kin walk in so 'umble, after
all de res' git done, an' pick up a little scrap o' leavin's out'n
de trough de way she do--an' turn it eve'y bit into good yaller
butter--_dat what I calls a cow!_ Co'se I know Lady'll git in here
ahead o' yer, honey, an' eat all dis mash I'm a-mixin' so good fur you.
It do do me good to see 'er do it, too. I sho' does love Lady--de way
'er manners sets on 'er. She don't count much at de churn--an' she
ain't got no conscience--an' no cha'acter--_but she's a lady!_ Dat's
huccome I puts up wid 'er. Yas, I'm a-talkin' 'bout you, Lady, an' I'm
a-lookin' at yer, too, rahin' yo' head up so circumstantial. But you
meets my eye like a lady! You ain't shame-faced, is yer! You too well
riz--you is. _You_ know dat _I_ know dat yo' po' measly sky-colored
milk sours up into mighty fine clabber ter feed yo'ng tukkeys wid--you
an' me, we knows dat, don't we?

Hyah! Dar, now, we done turned de joke on all you yaller-creamers--ain't
we, Lady?

Lordy! I wonder fo' gracious ef Lady nod her head to me accidental!

Is you 'spondin' ter me, Lady? Tell de trufe, I spec's Lady ter twis' up
'er tongue an' talk some day--she work 'er mouf so knowin'!

Dis heah cotton-seed ought ter be tooken out'n her trough, by rights. Ef
I could feed her on bran an' good warm slops a while, de churn would
purty soon 'spute her rights wid de tukkeys!

A high-toned cow, proud as Lady is, ought ter reach white-folk's table
somehow-ma-ruther. But you gits dar all the same, don't yer Lady? You
gits dar in tukkey-meat _ef dey don't reco'nize yer_!

Well! I'm done mixin' now an' I turns my back on de trough--an' advance
ter de bars. Lordy, how purty dem cows does look--wid dat low sun
'g'ins' dey backs! So patient an' yit so onpatient.

Back, now, till I teck out dese rails!

Soh, now! Easy, Spot! Easy, Lady! I does love ter let down dese bars wid
de sun in my eyes. I loves it mos' as good as I loves ter milk.

Down she goes!

Step up quick, now, Brindle, an' git yo' place.

Lord have mussy! Des look how Brindle meck way fur Lady! I know'd Lady'd
git dar fust! I know'd it!

An' dat's huccome I mixed dat feed so purtic'lar.

I does love Lady!

A PULPIT ORATOR

Old Reub' Tyler, pastor of Mount Zion Chapel, Sugar Hollow Plantation,
was a pulpit orator of no mean parts. Though his education, acquired
durin