Joel Chandler Harris

“ What was the matter?”
“I got strucken wid a sickness, an’ she hit de ole nigger a joe-darter ’fo’ she tu’n ’im loose.”
“What kind of sickness?”
“Hit look sorter cu’ous, boss, but ole an’ steddy ez I is, I tuck’n kotch de meezles.”
“Oh, get out! You are trying to get up a sensation.”
“Hit’s a natal fack, boss, I declar’ ter grashus ef ’tain’t. Dey sorter come on wid a col’, like—leas’ways dat’s how I commence fer ter suffer, an’ den er koff got straddle er de col’—one dese yer koffs w’at look like hit goes ter de foundash’n. ”

“ Go long, boss! w’at you speck I be doin’ sailin’ ’roun’ ter dese yer cullud picnics? Much mo’ an’ I wouldn’t make bread by wukkin’ fer’t, let ’lone follerin’ up a passel er boys an’ gals all over keration. ”