“I don’t know what he’ll do,” Cora says. “I just don’t know.”
“Poor Anse,” I say. “She kept him at work for thirty-odd years. I reckon she is tired.”
“And I reckon she’ll be behind him for thirty years more,” Kate says. “Or if it ain’t her, he’ll get another one before cotton-picking.”
“I reckon Cash and Darl can get married now,” Eula says.
“That poor boy,” Cora says. “The poor little tyke.”
“What about Jewel?” Kate says.
“He can, too,” Eula says.
“Humph,” Kate says. “I reckon he will. I reckon so. I reckon there’s more gals than one around here that don’t want to see Jewel tied down. Well, they needn’t to worry.”
“Why, Kate!” Cora says. The wagon begins to rattle. “The poor little tyke,” Cora says.
It’s fixing to rain this night. Yes, sir. A rattling wagon is mighty dry weather, for a Birdsell. But that’ll be cured. It will for a fact.
“She ought to taken them cakes after she said she would,” Kate says.