"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." IX ELECTION DAY "Mammy, can't my papa be mayor if he wants to?" bragged Willis, darting a satisfied look at Mary Van. "I'll tell yer mo' 'bout dat dis time termorrer," was the unexpected reply. "Yahn, yahn, yahn," taunted Mary Van. "He can, too," retorted Willis. Willis's papa was a candidate for mayor, hence in the family politics colored the conversation from the parlor through the nursery even to the kitchen. "De reason I says whut I does," Mammy apologized, "is 'caze dey tells me er dark hoss kin jump in at de las' minit an bus' de whole thing all ter pieces." "Does he kick up and run away?" Willis jerked at her apron to hasten the reply. "Dey runs erway wid de 'lection sometimes, ef de uth'r run'rs ain' sho' nuf race hosses an' got mighty strong harnes' on 'em." "Mammy, less me an' Mary Van be race hosses, an' you be er dark hoss, an' see which one can beat." "I low ef we-all wuster race hoss 'roun' dis hyah garret, 'tain' long fo' yo' ma'll be de dark hoss ter do de beatin'." "No, Mammy, put m' harness on," shaking the bells in impatience. "I can't play no race hoss up hyah terday, boy, 'caze Miss Lucy got her mine on 'lection news, an' she say you got ter be quiet." "No, I'm going to be a race horse, put m' harness on!" "Auntie might whip you, Willis," ventured Mary Van, "mightn't she, Mammy Phyllis?" "She whup 'im in er minit, ef he fool wid her terday." "Well, Mammy--" he fretted. "Lis'n hyah, baby--Miss Race Hoss settin' ov'r yond'r in de pastur' waitin' jes' like yo' ma is terday." "What's she waiting for?" "Waitin' ter hyah ef Mist'r Race Hoss beat Brer Bar ter be ruler er de beastes. Oh, I tell yer Ned Dog mos' run hisse'f plum ter death gittin' votes fur Mist'r Race Hoss; an' Mist'r Wile Cat, he de haid man gittin' votes fur Brer Bar." "But, Mammy--"