14
THE BATTALION.
beef, fenison, doorkey, wildt tuck, some kind of game?
Also, we dakes early breakfast so as we dake de train oom
Acht Oor.
Cyrus—Dat boy! (Flings up his hands.)
Fritz—Wot’s the matter wit you now, olt coon?
Cyrus—I tell ’um, you order beefsteak, mutton chop,
an fenson hanch. He sway, you all come, daybreak dis
mownin’ an order fish, crab, prawn, ennyting frum de
wawtah.
Mr. Doerflinger—Who is dat wot you are talking
about, oldt man?
Cyrus—Dat boy, Pluto. I sway he sholy dreamin’.
Miss Rosie—Ware is he now, uncle?
Cyrus—“Uncle” fo’ deni niggah lib way wawtah run
one way all de time, way niggah cahn wash he sin Va}^
clean an see ’um go. Don yuh, way de wawtah salt an
good, wite folks, de real true-true buckrah, call ole man
like me, “Daddy.”
Miss Rosie (laughing)—Well, daddy, wot you mean
wen you say, de black people in de up-country can’t be
baptizt clean? Isn’t riffer water shust as goot to wash
wit as de sea water?
Cyrus—Dis is de way, missie. Wen de tide cum een,
she tumble all obah de sinnah, an wrastle wid ’um, an
trow ’um down, an fayly wallah ’nm, tell she scoop out all
de sinfulness, an kin see ’um rollin’ een de scum ’pun top o’
de tide. Den de tide tun, an she run out jess iz fass an iz
prancy ez a racin’ mare, an she cah out dat niggah sin
intah de big oshen, an de sin roll about, an roll about, an
roll about tell he trabble right down eentah de debble