"But, Mammy Phyllis, _all_ cats are not as mean as ole Sis' Cat," ventured a little girl. "Honey, my gran-mammy wus black! What color is I?" "Black!" chimed all the children. "An' dat crab apple tree,--what sort er apples does you git off'n _hit_?" "Crab apples!" was the answer. "Well, ole Sis' Cat was mean an' 'ceitful, an'all 'er chillun is gwine ter be des like her long es I stays black an' dem crab apples stays sour. Now run erlong,--dere's de fust bell!" VIII SHOO FLY 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.