The Mister, he's been in his grave ten years,
Nannie. He passed in the summer of 'aught-eight. Come the first
Sunday in June-and that'll be next Sunday-it'll be ten years,
even."
"Mama, Mister Ward said-"
"Shh, Bandershanks, Miss Dink's talking, hon."
Miss Dink talked on and on. Mama just nodded her head or
said, "Yes'm, that's right" or "Well, I declare to my soul!" or
"I reckon so."
"Mama, when is Mister Ward gonna-"
"Bandershanks, get up here in my lap and be quiet! How can me
and Miss Dink talk if you don't be quiet?"
Miss Dink started telling about hound dogs stealing goose
eggs and about how it's easier to pick a goose than a gander when
you're making feather beds. She told all about her drove of geese
that nipped off the grass in the cotton fields, and that made her
think about the summer the lice crawled off the geese and got all
in her hair.
Then Mama remembered that once when she was a little girl,
way back in Alabama, she and all the other pupils at Clay Hill
School got lice on their heads.
Pages:
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39