We don't gwyn stay an'
let ole Meshach starve us like a lizzer."
"Aunt Hominy," said Roxy, "maybe, old lady, ef you bake a nice loaf of
Federal bread, or a game-pie, or a persimmon custard, an' send it to ole
Meshach, he won't sell us to the slave-buyers. He never gets nothing
good to eat, an' don't know what it is. A little taste of it'll make him
want mo'."
"Roxy, gal," said Aunt Hominy, "I'd jess like to make a dumplin'-bag out
o' dat steeple-hat he got. When I skinned de dumplin' de hat would be
bad spiled, chillen, an' den de Judge would git his lan' back dat
Meshach's measured in. For de Judge would say, 'Meshach, ye hain't
measured me fair. Wha's yer yard-stick, ole debbil?' Den Meshach he say,
'De hat I tuk it in wid, done gone burnt by dat ole Hominy, makin' of
her puddin's.' 'Den,' says de Judge, 'ye ain't measured me squar. I
won't play. Take it all back!' Chillen, we must git dat ar ole hat, or
de slave-buyers done take us all."
They started to take another peep of cupidity and awe at the storied
hat, when Virgie emerged from the parlor door with the dreaded article
in her hand, and, hanging it on the peg, came with superstitious fear
and relief into the colonnade. Aunt Hominy hurried her to the kitchen,
strewed her with herb-dust, waved a rattle of snake's teeth in a pig's
weazen over her head, and ended by pushing a sweet piece of preserved
watermelon-rind down her throat.
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