Phyllis was eating her dinner under the cherry tree near the kitchen door. Willis seated himself on the grass in front of her.

“Mammy, you swallowed a fly then,” he said with earnestness.

“Look er heah, boy, ain’t you had ernuf ter eat, dat you got ter set hyah an’ sight ev’y piece uv vit’als I puts in my mouf?”

“Well, you didn’t want to eat a fly, did you?” he answered defensively.

“Ef I eats er fly, hit’s me doin’ hit, ain’t hit?” with a leg of a chicken poised half way to her mouth.

“But Mama said they’d poison you.” Willis was in trim for argument.“Yo’ ma got er heap er new fangl’d notions; I dunno howcum fokes jes’ startin’ ter git fly pis’n’d. We bin eatin’ vit’als dat flies lights on, sense long ’fo’ yo’ ma wus born’d. An’ An’ Ca’line, dat’s mos’ er hundred ye’r ole, say dat whin er fly light on her ’lasses she lick ev’y speck uv hit off’n him ’fo’ she let him git erway.”

“Uncle Hugh says they’ll make you awful sick,” he pressed, though feeling his position weakened.

“Dey doan make nobody sick, but dem whut puts on so miny airs,” trying to talk with her mouth over full.

“My mama don’t put on airs,” he insisted with a tone of injury.

“She do too—dey ain’ nobody put on es min’y fly airs es yo’ ma. I heah one dese ve’y lit’le shoo flies talkin’ ’bout Miss Lucy las’ week. Shoo Fly settin’ up heah on de lim’ er dis tree talkin’ ter Hoss Fly. He tell Hoss Fly he ain’ had er squar’ meal fur er mont’.

“Hoss Fly tell ’im ter come on an’ g’long down ter de stable an’ take dinn’r wid ’im.

“Shoo Fly say, ‘I can’ git no sumthin’ ter eat out’n corn, an’ oats, I wants chickin’ pie, an’ sweet tat’rs, an’ blackberry dumplin’ sich es fokes eats—go off, boy,’ he say, ‘I ain’ no Hoss Fly.’

“Hoss Fly say, ‘Hits er pity yer ain’t—yer wud live ter be er ole’r man if yer wus.’”

“Why, Mammy, ’caus’ Mister Hoss Fly’s the biggest?” His eyes followed her, as she went to the kitchen door and exchanged her plate for one of blackberry dumpling.

“De bigges’ ain’ got nuthin’ ter do wid hit,” as she resumed her seat; “hit de fokes dey haster ’sociate wid, dat’s dang’us. Dey ain’ nuthin’ mo’ dangersum ter er fly’n yo’ ma,” she looked him straight in the eye. “She got all de wind’rs fas’n’d up so yer can’t shet er bline; an’ she got dat sticky pap’r you sets in ev’ytime yer goes in de kitchin; an’ she got dem pisnous flow’r boxes settin’ ev’ywhar; an’ she run ’roun’ all day atter one fly, hittin’ ’bout de house like de fly wus pis’n, sho’ nuf. Miss Lucy’s er sight, dat’s de trufe, an’ I doan blame Shoo Fly fur busin’ her.”

The soft dumpling rolled down her throat, and Willis swallowed in sympathy.

“Is Shoo Fly on the limb now?”

“Nor, he tak’n din’r wid me terday, an’ las’ night, he tak’n supp’r wid Miss Lucy,” she laughed aloud.

“Did Mama try to kill him?” anxiously.“She sho’ did, son, but dis heah Shoo Fly got er haid er Miss Lucy las’ night,” still she laughed. “Yas, suh, Shoo Fly tell Hoss Fly he sho’ gwine perish ef he doan git er bite fum sumwhars.

“Hoss Fly ax ’im: ‘Is yer skeer’d ter go in Miss Lucy’s house fur vit’als?’

“Shoo Fly say, ‘I ain’ feerd er no Miss Lucy—I bin buttin’ m’ haid up ’ginst sum’in’ nuth’r in de wind’rs, tell m’ haid right full er bumps.’

“Hoss Fly say, ‘You ain’ got no sense, Shoo Fly,—’cose you can’t git in dat wire foolishness! De onlies’ way ter git in, is ter set up on de porch, an’ wait fur sum de fokes ter op’n de do’.’

“Dat peart’n Shoo Fly up moutily, an’ he say he gwine dat minit, an’ he do. He git ter de front porch jes’ es Miss Ma’y wus fancy talkin’ ter one er her beaux. Shoo Fly slip in, an’ fly back ter de pantry an’ light on sum er dis heah right heah,” she scraped the butter sauce from the edge of the plate and smacked her lips. “Whoopee, dat sort’r vit’als drive de skeer out’n enny fly. Shoo Fly jes’ hop erbout, an’ gorge hisse’f, tell bimeby he can’t hole no mo’. He start ter go out de wind’r, but he ’memb’r ’bout dem bumps on his haid, so he tu’n roun’ ter go in de parler, whin he come ’cross Miss Lucy! She start at ’im wid her fly-kill’r, an’ sakes er live!—you ort’r seed de way Shoo Fly make Miss Lucy run erbout dat house!” Again she laughed, calling to mind Miss Lucy’s daily fly fights. “But Shoo Fly hide b’hime yer gran’pa’s pictur’ ov’r de mantelpiece, an’ wint fas’ ter sleep. He doan wake up no mo’ tell supp’r time, neeth’r. He g’long in de dinin’ room ter supp’r wid de fambly, an’ whin dey sets down, he tak’n his seat on de cream pitch’r. Miss Lucy knock at ’im, she do, den he recoleck de fuss him an’ her done had wid one nuth’r, so he g’long ov’r ter Miss Ma’y’s beau’s plate, whar he know he kin eat all he want ter.”

“Wasn’t he afraid of Shoo Fly?” asked Willis, surprised.

“I nuv’r heah ’im pass no ’pinion ’bout de matt’r. Shoo Fly know dat man’s eyes too bizzy lookin’ at sum’in’ purtier’n him, an’ he know ergin de man got too much mann’rs ter set up an’ fight flies whin he’s vis’tin’.

“Miss Lucy, she sot dar an’ mos’ fidgit herse’f ter death, whin Shoo Fly light fus’ in de gent’muns vit’als, den up on his nose. De man breash ’im off his nose er heap er times, but Shoo Fly g’long back ev’y time, ’caze hit wus er nice place ter wash de greese off’n his face an’ han’s. An’ ev’y time he git coffee er ice cream, er enny thing on his foots, he g’long back ter sumwhars on dat man’s face ter wash his han’s, an’ wipe ’em on his coat tails. Miss Lucy say she know de man think she got er million flies in dat house.

“Shoo Fly done full er vit’als now, so he g’long ter bed b’hime yer gran’pa’s pictur’. In de mawnin’, he git up an’ look erbout, he do, an’ I tell yer he git pow’ful wo’ out waitin’ fur dem sleepy haid’d niggers ter start dey wurk, so by de time de cant’lopes git fix’d, Shoo Fly wus so hongry dat he eat hisse’f plum full er mush-mil’n ’fo’ brekfus’ time. He fly ’roun’ an’ zamine dat fly pap’r but he ain’ got no room fur no mo’ eatin’; den he look at dat cur’us Pison flow’r, but he keep way fum dat, ’caze he say he ain’ no bee. Jes’ den heah come Miss Lucy wid ’er fly-kill’r. Him an’ her dances considerbul ergin, but bimeby he g’long ter take er nap b’hime yer gran’pa, an’ Miss Lucy set down ter read de mawnin’ pap’r.

“Whin he wake up, he sort’r feel holl’r, he do, ’caze cant’lope res’ mighty light yer knows, so he g’long ter hunt sumpin’ nuth’r ter eat. He think Miss Lucy done fergit ’im by now, but no, Lawd, he dunno Miss Lucy, fur he ain’ buz hisse’f mo’n er time er two, ’fo’ Miss Lucy take atter him. She skeer ’im so bad, dat he fergit all ’bout dem wire things in de wind’r, but Lawsee, whin his haid come ’ginst de wire, hit knock de senses out’n ’im, an’ whin dat fly-kill’r er Miss Lucy’s hit his toe, hit tu’n ’im so sick, he fell blip! right on de fly pap’r. Mussy grashus! you ort’r heah Shoo Fly holl’rin’ an’ er buzzin’ fur Hoss Fly.

“’Bout dis time, whin Hoss Fly doan see nuthin’ er Shoo Fly on de cherry tree, he g’long ter git er peep in at de wind’r ter see ef he kin git enny news uv ’im; an’ bless de Lawd, he ain’ git ter de wind’r ’fo’ he heah Shoo Fly holl’rin’: ‘Oh, Hoss Fly, p-l-e-a-s-e come hope me out’n heah!’

“Hoss Fly run ter de front do’, but dat’s shet tight, so he take an’ run ’roun’ ter de kitchin do’ whar he know dey’s allus keerles’. He fly ter de kitchin’ do’ an’ seen Kitty standin’ wid her foot in de do’ passin’ news wid ole An’ Malviny, an’ he know he got plenty time ter go in an’ ’ten’ ter his biznes’, ’fo’ dat do’ git shet ergin. He fly thu de kitchin, an’ make fur de liberry, whar po’ Shoo Fly had done mos’ buzz hisse’f ter death.

“SHOO-FLY HOLL’R, ‘LOOK OUT FUR M’ LEGS!’”

“Hoss Fly swoop down an’ grab ’im by de wing, but Shoo Fly holl’r, ‘Look out fur m’ legs! Oh, Lawdy, you’se pullin’ m’ wing off—Oh, Lawdy, Lawdy!’

“Nobody dunno de mis’ry po’ Shoo Fly wus in. I tell yer Hoss Fly wurk mouty keerful ter git ’im all out tergeth’r. Den he liftes ’im up, but he doan hatt’r hole on ter ’im, ’caze Shoo Fly so sticky he hole his own se’f on. Hoss Fly come er flyin’ back thu de kitchin.”

“Did Kitty have the door open for him?”

“Cose, boy, ain’t I done alreddy tole yer Kitty an’ Mal gwine talk tell Miss Lucy come an’ put ’em ter wurk? Yas, suh, Hoss Fly didn’t had no trub’le gittin’ ’im out er dat kitchin,—an’ he come flyin’ straight ter de stable, an’ light wid Shoo Fly on top er de kerrige. He tell ’im ter roll hisse’f erbout on de kiv’r tell he git shed er dat sticky pison on ’im.”

“Did Shoo Fly go back to the house when he got well?”

Willis rose as he saw the old woman preparing to take her plate to the kitchen.

“Nor, suhree, Shoo Fly say, he done got his full er big fokes! He say he done foun’ out hit wus er heap bett’r ter g’long an’ live whar de Lawd born’d yer ter live at, dan ter go ’mongst fokes dat doan want yer.”