The clothes are thrown into the pond, and allowed to remain there until completely saturated with water; they are then taken out, placed upon large stones, (which are generally to be found about such spots,) and holding a piece of wood (in shape like a cricket-bat, which they call a beetle) in their hands, they commence pounding the articles with all their might, utterly regardless of loss of buttons, causing large rents, or any other _et cetera_ which may chance to happen. When they think the clothes are sufficiently _washed_, (if that term can be applied to this operation,) they are again steeped in the pond, rinsed out, and then spread along the ground, to imbibe the heat of the glaring sun. All the time the labour of the hands is going on, the tongue is by no means idle. The news of the island is discussed; dress, dances, and religion, descanted on; and the songs upon individuals (already alluded to) composed. One party of staid matrons commence a conversation. “You no go prayers last night; bery well; massa miss yo—why yo no go? Don’t you ’member what godmodder (as they call their leaders in the Moravian society) say ’bout aunty Nanny, ’cause she no go get her speak last time?[34] Well! sure the Lor’ he one good Lor’, (what you keep bawling so for, you cross pic’nee, eh?—me no gee you one cane to suck, you good-for-noting you!” addressed by way of parenthesis to a little crawling _black-a-moor_, who, unable to gain its mother’s attention by more pleasing means, is compelled to raise its ‘importunate call;’) yes, me dear sister, de Lor’ one good Lor’, and massa parson talk all good talk.” Another party of giddy, laughing girls, chatter away in a different strain. “I say, Ange’, (Angelina,) you see dem _challis_ se (sister) Eleanor hab selling last week? Well, I buy one, only it no make yet, ’cause I no get money ’nough to buy de black lace to trim it. I’se wants to hab it make like dat buckra lady’s frock, she as come from England the oder day.”—“No, me no seed em; me buy one robe dress Christmas gone. But did you hear ’bout se Margate?”—“No; war ’bout she?”—“Eh! eh! you no hear. Why, last night she war coming home past were de old play-house used to ’tan, when just as she get close de wall, dere she see one big ole jumby man—ugly so! most kill her, she so frighten. Bery well! she try to run, but he old jumby knock her down, fall to lick (_flog_) her in such a manner dat she hab feber all last night.”—“Eh! eh! poor Margate! you b’lieve me, me no tink me dare go by de ole play-house at night den.”