"Law, honey, it ain't wrote. Dem Dago folks hain't got no writin' ner
readin'. Dey mo' er less like de beasts er de fiel'. Dat message by
word er mouf. I goin' tell nuffin 'bout de quahumteem. I'm gotter
say: 'Toby sen' word to liebuh Augustine dat she needn' worry. He li'l
sick, not much, but de doctah ain' 'low him out fer two weeks; an'
'mejutly at de en' er dat time he come an' git her an' den kin go on
home wheres de canary bu'd is.' Honey, you evah hyuh o' sich a
foolishness? But de gyahd, he say de message gotter be ca'yied dass
dataways."

"Lan' name!" ejaculated the widow. "Who dat message to?"

"Hit to a Dutch gal."

"My Lawd!" The widow lifted amazed hands to heaven. "De impidence er
dem Dagoes! _Little_ mo' an' dey'll be sen'in' messages to you
er me!--What her name?"

"Name Bertha Grass," responded Mrs. Morton, "an', nigh as I kin make
out, she live in one er dese little w'ite-paint cottages, right 'long
yere."

"Yas'm! I knows dat Dutch gal, ole man Grass, de tailor, dass his
niece. W'y, dey done move out dis mawn, right f'um dis ve'y house you
stan'in in front de gate of. De ole man skeered er de smallpox, an' he
mad, too, an' de neighbuhs ask him whuh he gwine, he won't tell; so
mad he won't speak to nobody. None on 'em 'round hyuh knows an' dey's
considabul cyu'us 'bout it, too. Dey gone off in bofe d'rections--him
one way, her 'nother. 'Peah lak dey be'n quollun!"