“Den you oughter hear dat ole king
talk biggity! lie des fa’rly paw de
groun’. He rip, he rave, he fume, lie
fret. Yit ’taint no good. Dai - wur de
folks, en dey dos stood dar groun’ en
kep’ tier eye on ’im. Bimeby do 010 king
sorter cool down. He see ’twant no use
sorter lie cuttin’ up no didoes, so he pick
up his hat en his hankcher whar he dun
drop urn, en got back on de—whatzis
name.”
“On his throne?” the littlo boy sug
gested.
