but meanness. Now mind, Aunt Cornely,
I ain't say Sammy knows this his own se'f. But I studied Sammy mighty well,
an' _I_ know. Sammy gittin' tell he do me the same way. I wait on him hand
and foot; I cook his bacon jest like he tol' me you did it fer him. I fix
everything the best I kin (and mebby all three of the chillen a-cryin'
after me); and when he come in and see it all ready, and see how hard I got
it, and seem like there's a call fer him to be thankful, then Sammy jest
turns on hit all. He draw down his face at me and he say, black like: 'I
don't want no bacon--what did you fix that shirt for that-a-way? Take away
that turnip sallet--I cain't git nothin' like I want it.' Then, you know,"
with a little smile up into the other's face, half pitiful, half
saucy,--"Then you know, Sammy don't have to be thankful. Hit was all done
wrong."
It was the next evening--Saturday evening. The entire household (which
included Elder Justice and two young preachers from Big Turkey Track, with
Brother Tarbush, one of the new exhorters) had returned from the
afternoon's meeting in the grove. Supper had been eaten and cleared away.
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