The telephone had just been mended again, and the man suggested as he left that the little boy find another plaything. Phyllis indignantly protested that Willis had done no damage to the instrument, and that the frequent defects were due to the failure of the workman to put it in proper condition. Being thus defended by so strong an ally, Willis lost no time in attacking the forbidden object as soon as the door was closed.

“Let de ole telerfome erlone, baby,” said Phyllis in a tone of sympathetic protest. But the boy could not resist such an opportunity. “Dat table tiltin’ right now.” She caught her breath as the table righted itself. “An’ dat telerfom’ll bus’ yo’ haid wide op’n.”

“I’m going to talk to my papa.”

“You gwinter talk ter er bust’d haid, dat’s who you—” At that moment, table, telephone, boy and all fell to the floor with a bang. “What’d I tell yer?”

Willis answered with a succession of screams that admitted of no argument or consolation. Phyllis offered none until she had satisfied herself that a bumped head and a much frightened little boy were the extent of the damage.

“Mammy gwine whup dat telerfome,” she continued, “an’ de flo’ too, caze dey hu’t her baby.” And she proceeded to execute the threat.

“Don’t whip the telephone—whip the table!” he screamed.

“Dat’s right,” striking the table with a towel; “’twas dat ole table done all de mischuf—Mammy gwina rub camfer on dat telerfome’s haid des like she rub’in on yorn, an’ beg his pard’n too,” looking for the raised place. “Come on ov’r ter de wind’r so Mammy kin see her baby’s haid good!”

“I don’t want you to see it good!” And the wails redoubled.

“Lawsee! Look at dat ole rooster in de yard!” half dragging the little fellow to the window; “he’s done gone an’ telerfome ter Miss Churchill’s rooster ’bout you holl’rin’ an’ kicken’ up so!”

“No, he shan’t!” blubbered Willis.“He done done it, an’ he fixin’ ter do hit ergin!”

Another crow from the rooster: “I tole yer so! heah ’im? An’ Miss Churchill’s rooster done telerfome ov’r ter Miss Coxe’s roost’r, an’ dey keeps on telerfomin’ ter de nex’ yard tell all de roost’rs in dis whole place’ll know you settin’ up hyah cryin’ an’ yellin’ like you wus Ma’y Van.”

“I don’t want ’em to tell,” said the little boy, burying his face on her shoulder.

“I doan speck yer does, but he done tole hit!” A fresh burst followed, which Phyllis strove to quiet. “Hyah, eat dis nice butt’r’d biskit Mammy bin savin’ fur yer.” Willis pushed the bread away. She coaxed, “I speck ef you eats er lit’le, an’ thows er lit’le out yond’r ter ole man Roost’r, he’ll git in er good humor (like all de men fokes does whin dey eats), an’ he’ll telerfome ter Miss Churchill’s roost’r dat he jes foolin’ him, an’ Miss Churchill’s roost’r’ll keep de wurd passin’ erlong dat way tell all de roost’rs’ll know our ole Shanghi jes pass er joke off on you.”

“Where’s his telephone?” sniffled the boy, only partly diverted by the chicken pecking up the crumbs of bread.

“He keep hit in his th’oat whar de Lawd put hit.”

“How can he eat?” Willis turned from the window to gaze into the old woman’s face.

“Pshaw, boy, you think er stool an’ er table wid er telerfome on hit’s in dat roost’r’s th’oat?” and she laughed aloud. Moistening the handkerchief again with camphor, she parted the curls and tenderly pressed the cloth to the bumped place. “Nor suhree! dey ain’ no sich er thing in dat roost’r’s th’oat. Mist’r Man put dat un in hyar fur yo’ ma,” pointing in the direction of the ’phone, “but de Lawd hook up dat un out yond’r in ole man Roost’r’s th’oat. Yas, Lawd! He put hit in dar fur Roost’rs ter talk wid an’ fur fokes ter lis’n ter whut dey talks. You ’member de uth’r night when you wus took sick in de night, an’ Mammy keep er tellin’ yer ter stop cryin’ ’bout de cast’r oil, an’ lis’n ter de roost’rs crowin’? Well, our ole roost’r wus jes gittin’ news fum Peter’s roost’r den.”

“Who’s Peter?” Willis shook the camphor cloth from his head. “Who’s Peter, Mammy?” he insisted.

“Lemme see how I kin ’splain ter yer who Peter is,” scratching her head under the bandana. “Lemme see—Peter wus er gent’mun de scriptur speak erbout dat trip hissef up on de ‘Bridge er Trufe’ an’ fell er sprawlin’ flat; an’ de Lawd sont er roost’r ’long ’bout dat time ter pick ’im up. Cose you know de roost’r didn’t pick ’im up wid his foots, but he raise him up wid er speeret de Lawd put in ’im fur dat ’speshul ’casion. Oh, I tell yer, de Lawd talks er heap er talk ter fokes thu fowels an’ beastes, but nobody doan take no notice uv ’em; dey ’pears ter fergit how dat fowel hope Peter up, an’ pint’d de road ter Glory fer ’im.”

“Mammy, can roosters talk show nuf?”

“Roosters kin talk good es you kin,—hits jes fokes ain’ got nuf speeret in ’em ter heah whut dey says. Way back yonder time whin hants an’ bible fokes projeck’ wid one nuth’r, beastes an’ speerets confabs wid fokes, jes like me an’ you talkin’ now! Yas, suh, an’ fokes lis’ns ter de confab dem sorter creeters talks too! Whar you speck ole man Balim wud er bin terday ef hit hadn’t er bin fur dat mule er his’n? But screech owels an’ jay birds an’ er heap mo’ ’sides chicken roosters is got speerets in ’em in dese days too. Some fokes calls ’em hants!”

The door opened and little Mary Van, who had caught the last word, tripped quickly to the old woman’s side and whispered in suppressed excitement: “Where’s the hants, Mammy Phyllis?”

“Nem’ine whar de hants is terday. I’m talkin’ ’bout de rooster telerfome. Yer see Peter’s rooster’s settin’ up in rooster heb’n keepin’ his eye out fur all de news. He nuv’r do go ter sleep reg’lar; sometime at night he sorter nod er lit’le, but he nuv’r do git in bed, caze he feer’d Mist’r Sun wake up ’fo’ he do. Well, whin he heah ole man Sun gap loud, an’ turn hisself ov’r an’ scratch, he know he fixin’ ter git up, an’ dat minit he flap his wings an’ telerfome loud es he kin ‘de break er day is c-o-m-i-n’’ (imitating the rooster). Ole man Diminicker down yonder on yo’ gran’pa’s rice plantation, down on de aige er de oshun, is de fus ter git de news. He stir hissef erbout an’ flop his wings, an’ telerfome loud es he kin, ‘de break er day is c-o-m-i-n’.’ De rooster on de nex’ plantation gits de wurd an’ dey passes hit on tell our ole rooster gits hit way up hyah in de mountains. Den our ole Shanghi keeps de wurd er gwine, tell ev’ry chickin fum one side de country ter de uth’r knows day fixin’ ter break.”“Mammy, Mister Rooster wants some more biscuit.”

“I ’speck he do; did yer ev’r know er man dat wus satisfied wid what wus give him? Yas, Lawd! dat rooster’ll stan’ dar an’ peck vit’als long es you thows hit ter ’im, eb’n whin he feel hissef bustin’ wide op’n; he’ll stretch his neck ter git one mo’ bite whilst he’s dyin’.”

“Who’s dyin?”

“Nobody ain’t dyin’, caze dat rooster ain’ gwina git ernuf fum me an’ you ter do him no harm.”

“Make him telephone again.”

“Nor, he say he want ter pass er lit’le conversation wid Sis Hen, an’ Miss Pullet, an’ tell ’em, mebbe ef dey scratch hard ernuf, dey’ll fine some crum’s er his but’r’d biskit.”“Why didn’t Mister Rooster save ’em some?”

“Who, dat rooster?” Phyllis shook her head. “Dem wimmen hens doan git nuthin’ but whut dey scratches fur,” then thoughtfully she added: “Cose all roosters ain’ ’zackly erlike. Dey’s er few, but recoleck I says er pow’ful few, dat saves mos’ ev’ything fur de hens an’ chickens; den der’s some uv ’em dat saves right smart fur ’em; den der’s er heap uv ’em dat leaves ’em de crum’s, but de res’ er de rooster men fokes doan leave ’em nuthin’, an’ de po’ things hatt’r scratch fur der sefs.”

“Less give Sis Hen and Miss Pullet some biscuit too,” Mary Van insisted.

“You think Willis’s pa got ter feed all de po’ scratchin’ hens in dis worl’?—well, he ain’t.”“Give ’em this piece. It hasn’t got any butter on it.” Willis handed her the bread.

“Lawsee,” she threw up the disengaged hand and brought it down softly on the little boy’s head, “but ain’t you ’zackly like all de uth’r roosters—an’ hens too fur dat matt’r—willin’ ter give ’em dat ole crus’ atter you done eat all de sof but’r’d insides out’n it!”

A lusty crow sounded from the rooster in the yard.

“Mammy, what did Mister Rooster say?”

“He say ‘dey’s er good little boy in h-y-a-h,’” trilled Phyllis, imitating the rooster’s crow.

Willis smiled while his hands unconsciously clapped applause. Slipping from her lap, he ran about the room flapping his arms and crowing: “There’s a good little boy in h-e-r-e, there’s er good little boy in h-e-r-e.”

Mary Van started in the opposite direction: “There’s a good little girl in h-e-r-e.”

“Hush, Mary Van,” commanded Willis; “you can’t crow, you’ve got to cackle.”

“I haven’t neether; I can crow just as good as you. Can’t I, Mammy Phyllis?”

“Well,” solemnly answered Phyllis, “it soun’ mo’ ladylike ter heah er hen cackle dan ter crow, but dem wimmen hens whut wants ter heah dersefs crow is got de right ter do it,” shaking her head in resignation but disapproval, “but I allus notice dat de roosters keeps mo’ comp’ny wid hens whut cackles, dan dem whut crows. G’long now an’ cackle like er nice lit’le hen.”