A confusion of sounds
came from the little cabin across the road. It was a dilapidated negro
cabin, with its roof awry and the weather-boarding off in great patches;
still, it was a place of interest to Uncle Billy. His sister lived there
with three orphan grandchildren.
Leaning heavily on his axe-handle, he thrust out his under lip, and
rolled his eyes in the direction of the uproar. A broad grin spread over
his wrinkled black face as he heard the rapid spank of a shingle, the
scolding tones of an angry voice, and a prolonged howl.
"John Jay an' he gran'mammy 'peah to be havin' a right sma't difference
of opinion togethah this mawnin'," he chuckled.
He shaded his eyes with his stiff, crooked fingers for a better view. A
pair of nimble black legs skipped back and forth across the open
doorway, in a vain attempt to dodge the descending shingle, while a
clatter of falling tinware followed old Mammy's portly figure, as she
made awkward but surprising turns in her wrathful circuit of the crowded
room.
[Illustration: John Jay]
"Ow! I'll be good! I'll be good! Oh, Mammy, don't! You'se a-killin' me!"
came in a high shriek.
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