“No, chile,” replied his mother; “you aint skipped nuffin.  Dis is yo’ buff-day:  de ’fects ob which is, dat it’s des so many yeahs sence you wuz fust borned.  I don’t know how ’t ’ll be, Sam,—­folks is sim’lar to de cocoa-grass, whut grows up mighty peart, tell ’long come somebody wid a hoe to slosh it down,—­but ef you libs long enough, an’ nuffin happens, you’ll keep on habbin a buff-day ebry yeah wunst a yeah till you dies.  An’ ebry time you has one, son, you’ll be one yeah older.”

“Fine way to git gray-headed,” said Sam.

At this moment a mighty crash resounded from the kitchen, down-stairs, and Aunt Phillis descended the steps with great precipitation.  Then Sam heard her shouting, angrily: 

“You, Bose!  Oh, you bettah git, you mean ole no-’count rascal!  I do ’spise a houn’-dog!”

Sam went on with his toilet, musing, the while, upon the probability of his ever getting to be as old as Uncle “Afrikin Tommy,” who was the patriarch of the plantation, and popularly supposed to be “cluss onto” two hundred years of age; and who was wont to aver that when he arrived in that part of the country, when he was a boy, the squirrels all had two tails apiece, and the Mississippi River was such a small stream that people bridged it, on occasion, with a fence-rail.  Thus meditating upon the glorious possibilities of his future, Sam got ready for breakfast, and went down.  It was not until he had absorbed an enormous quantity of fried pickled-pork and hot corn-cakes, and finally with reluctance ceased to eat, that his mother told him what had caused the noise a little while before,—­how old Bose, the fox-hound, had with felonious intent come into the kitchen, and surreptitiously “supped up” the chicken-soup that had been prepared for Sam’s birthday breakfast; and further, how the said delinquent had added insult to injury, by contemptuously smashing the bowl that he had emptied.

“I alluz did ’low,” exclaimed Sam, in justifiable wrath, “as dat ’ar ole houn’ Bose wuz de triflin’est meanest dog in de whole State ob Claiborne County!”

Sam, however, was too true a philosopher to cry long over spilt milk—­or soup.  He reflected that the breakfast he had just taken would prevent his eating any soup, even if he had it.  “I isn’t injy-rubber,” said he to himself, with which beautiful and happy thought his frown was superseded by a smile, the smile developed into his normal grin, and he began to chant an appropriate stanza from one of his favorite lyrics: 

       “O-o-o-old Uncle John! 
        A-a-a-aunt Sally Goodin! 
      When you got enough corn-bread
        It’s des as good as puddin’.”

The excellent Aunt Phillis was much affected by this saint-like conduct on the part of her son.  She sighed; fearing that the boy was too good to live.

“Nemmind, Sam,” said she; “you needn’t tote no wood to-day, or fetch no water, or do nuffin.  Go down to de quarters, an’ git Pumble to play wid you.”