  Ponchus Pilut ust to be Ist a Slave, an’ now he’s free. Slaves wuz on’y ist before The War wuz—an’ ain’t no more. He works on our place fer us,— An’ comes here—sometimes he does. He shocks corn an’ shucks it.—An’ He makes hominy “by han’!”— Wunst he bringed us some, one trip, Tied up in a piller-slip: Pa says, when Ma cooked it, “My! This-here’s gooder’n you buy!” Ponchus pats fer me an’ sings; An’ he says funny things! Ponchus calls a dish a “deesh”— Yes, an’ he calls fishes “feesh”! When Ma want him eat wiv us He says, “’Skuse me—’deed you mus’!— Ponchus know’ good manners, Miss.— He ain’ eat wher’ White-folks is!” ’Lindy takes his dinner out Wher’ he’s workin’—roun’ about.— Wunst he et his dinner spread In our ole wheelborry-bed. Ponchus Pilut says “’at’s not His right name,—an’ done fergot What his sho’-’nuff name is now— An’ don’ matter none nohow!” Yes, an’ Ponchus he’ps Pa, too, When our butcherin’s to do, An’ scalds hogs—an’ says, “Take care ’Bout it, er you’ll set the hair!” Yes, an’ out in our back-yard He he’ps ’Lindy rendur lard; An’, wite in the fire there, he Roast’ a pigtail wunst fer me.— An’ ist nen th’ole tavurn-bell Rung, down-town, an’ he says, “Well!— Hear dat! Lan’ o’ Caanan, Son, Ain’t dat bell say ‘Pigtail done!’ —‘Pigtail done! Go call Son!— Tell dat Chile dat |
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