“A ‘little Fraid,’” interrupted Diddie, contemptuously.  “Why, Mammy, there’s no such a thing as a ‘Fraid.’”

“Lord, Miss Diddie, ’deed dey is,” said Dilsey, with her round eyes stretched to their utmost; “I done seed ’em myse’f, an’ our Club-foot Bill he was er gwine ’long one time—­”

“Look er hyear, yer kinky-head nigger, whar’s yer manners?” asked Mammy, “’ruptin uv eld’ly pussons.  “I’m de one w’at’s ’struck’n dese chil’en, done strucked dey mother fuss; I’ll tell ’em w’at’s becomin’ fur ’em ter know; I don’t want ’em ter hyear nuf’n ‘bout sich low cornfiel’ niggers ez Club-foot Bill.

“Yes, Miss Diddie, honey,” said Mammy, resuming her story, “dar sholy is Fraids; Mammy ain’t gwine tell yer nuf’n’, honey, w’at she dun know fur er fack; so as I wuz er sayin’, dis little Fraid wuz name Cheery, an’ she’d go all ‘roun’ eb’y mornin’ an’ tech up de grass an’ blossoms an’ keep ’em fresh, fur she loved ter see chil’en happy, an’ w’en dey rolled ober on de grass, an’ strung de blossoms, an’ waded up an’ down de streams, an’ peeped roun’ de trees, Cheery’d clap ‘er han’s an’ laugh, an’ dance roun’ an’ roun’; an’ sometimes dar’d be little po’ white chil’en, an’ little misfortnit niggers would go dar; an’ w’en she’d see de bright look in dey tired eyes, she’d fix things prettier ’n eber.

“Now dar wuz er nudder little Fraid name Dreary; an’ she wuz sad an’ gloomy, an’ nebber dance, nor play, nor nuf’n; but would jes go off poutin’ like to herse’f.  Well, one day she seed er big flat stone under a tree.  She said ter herse’f, ’I ain’t gwine ter be like dat foolish Cheery, dancin’ an’ laughin’ foreber, caze she thinks sich things ez flowers an’ grass kin make folks happy; but I’m gwine ter do er rael good ter eb’ybody;’ so she laid er spell on de stone, so dat w’en anybody sot on de stone an’ wush anything dey’d hab jes w’at dey wush fur; an’ so as ter let er heap er folks wush at once, she made it so dat eb’y wush would make de stone twice ez big ez ‘twuz befo’.

“Po’ little Cheery was mighty troubled in her min’ w’en she foun’ out bout’n hit, an’ she beg Dreary ter tuck de spell off; but no, she wouldn’t do it.  She ’lowed, do, ef anybody should eber wush anything fur anybody else, dat den de stone might shrink up ergin; fur who, she sez ter herse’f, is gwine ter wush fur things fur tudder folks?  An’ she tol’ de little birds dat stay in de tree de stone wuz under, when anybody sot on de stone dey mus’ sing,’ I wush I had,’ an’ ‘I wush I wuz,’ so as ter min ’em bout’n de wushin’-stone.  Well, ‘twan’t long fo’ de gyarden wuz plum crowded wid folks come ter wush on de stone, an’ hit wuz er growin’ bigger an’ bigger all de time, an’ mashin’ de blossoms an’ grass; an’ dar wan’t no mo’ merry chil’en playin’ ‘mong de trees an’ wadin’ in de streams; no soun’s ob laughin’ and joy in de gyarden; eb’ybody wuz er quarlin’ bout’n who should hab de nex’ place, or wuz tryin’ ter study up what dey’d wush fur; an’ Cheery wuz jes ez mizer’bul as er free nigger, ’bout her gyarden.