The door opened and little Mary Van, who had caught the last word, tripped quickly to the old woman’s side and whispered in suppressed excitement: “Where’s the hants, Mammy Phyllis?”

“Nem’ine whar de hants is terday. I’m talkin’ ’bout de rooster telerfome. Yer see Peter’s rooster’s settin’ up in rooster heb’n keepin’ his eye out fur all de news. He nuv’r do go ter sleep reg’lar; sometime at night he sorter nod er lit’le, but he nuv’r do git in bed, caze he feer’d Mist’r Sun wake up ’fo’ he do. Well, whin he heah ole man Sun gap loud, an’ turn hisself ov’r an’ scratch, he know he fixin’ ter git up, an’ dat minit he flap his wings an’ telerfome loud es he kin ‘de break er day is c-o-m-i-n’’ (imitating the rooster). Ole man Diminicker down yonder on yo’ gran’pa’s rice plantation, down on de aige er de oshun, is de fus ter git de news. He stir hissef erbout an’ flop his wings, an’ telerfome loud es he kin, ‘de break er day is c-o-m-i-n’.’ De rooster on de nex’ plantation gits de wurd an’ dey passes hit on tell our ole rooster gits hit way up hyah in de mountains. Den our ole Shanghi keeps de wurd er gwine, tell ev’ry chickin fum one side de country ter de uth’r knows day fixin’ ter break.”

“Mammy, Mister Rooster wants some more biscuit.”

“I ’speck he do; did yer ev’r know er man dat wus satisfied wid what wus give him? Yas, Lawd! dat rooster’ll stan’ dar an’ peck vit’als long es you thows hit ter ’im, eb’n whin he feel hissef bustin’ wide op’n; he’ll stretch his neck ter git one mo’ bite whilst he’s dyin’.”

“Who’s dyin?”

“Nobody ain’t dyin’, caze dat rooster ain’ gwina git ernuf fum me an’ you ter do him no harm.”

“Make him telephone again.”

“Nor, he say he want ter pass er lit’le conversation wid Sis Hen, an’ Miss Pullet, an’ tell ’em, mebbe ef dey scratch hard ernuf, dey’ll fine some crum’s er his but’r’d biskit.”

“Why didn’t Mister Rooster save ’em some?”

“Who, dat rooster?” Phyllis shook her head. “Dem wimmen hens doan git nuthin’ but whut dey scratches fur,” then thoughtfully she added: “Cose all roosters ain’ ’zackly erlike. Dey’s er few, but recoleck I says er pow’ful few, dat saves mos’ ev’ything fur de hens an’ chickens; den der’s some uv ’em dat saves right smart fur ’em; den der’s er heap uv ’em dat leaves ’em de crum’s, but de res’ er de rooster men fokes doan leave ’em nuthin’, an’ de po’ things hatt’r scratch fur der sefs.”

“Less give Sis Hen and Miss Pullet some biscuit too,” Mary Van insisted.

“You think Willis’s pa got ter feed all de po’ scratchin’ hens in dis worl’?—well, he ain’t.”

“Give ’em this piece. It hasn’t got any butter on it.” Willis handed her the bread.

“Lawsee,” she threw up the disengaged hand and brought it down softly on the little boy’s head, “but ain’t you ’zackly like all de uth’r roosters—an’ hens too fur dat matt’r—willin’ ter give ’em dat ole crus’ atter you done eat all de sof but’r’d insides out’n it!”

A lusty crow sounded from the rooster in the yard.

“Mammy, what did Mister Rooster say?”

“He say ‘dey’s er good little boy in h-y-a-h,’” trilled Phyllis, imitating the rooster’s crow.

Willis smiled while his hands unconsciously clapped applause. Slipping from her lap, he ran about the room flapping his arms and crowing: “There’s a good little boy in h-e-r-e, there’s er good little boy in h-e-r-e.”

Mary Van started in the opposite direction: “There’s a good little girl in h-e-r-e.”

“Hush, Mary Van,” commanded Willis; “you can’t crow, you’ve got to cackle.”

“I haven’t neether; I can crow just as good as you. Can’t I, Mammy Phyllis?”

“Well,” solemnly answered Phyllis, “it soun’ mo’ ladylike ter heah er hen cackle dan ter crow, but dem wimmen hens whut wants ter heah dersefs crow is got de right ter do it,” shaking her head in resignation but disapproval, “but I allus notice dat de roosters keeps mo’ comp’ny wid hens whut cackles, dan dem whut crows. G’long now an’ cackle like er nice lit’le hen.”

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II
OLD MAN GULLY’S HANT

“Put some bread crumbs on top of the barrel, Willis, and less see if he can peck it off,” suggested Mary Van in baby treble.

The Langshan seemed to understand, for he watched Willis with interest as he crumbled the bread; and after due consideration, and with an almost human scorn towards the hens, measured his steps to the barrel, and stretching his long neck, removed every crumb from the top. After this he slowly raised one foot as though to return to the company of hens, but changing his mind, stood with the foot poised in air and one eye apparently fixed upon Phyllis.

“Come on, chillun, I ain’ gwine stay hyah an’ let dat ole chicken conjur me.”

“I don’t want to go, Mammy, I want to stay and feed the chickens,” protested Willis.

“I want to see him eat off the barrel some more,” pleaded Mary Van.

“Dat rooster ain’t no chicken, I tell yer, ’tain’ nuthin’ in dis worl’ but er hant.”

This closed the argument, for they felt the mysterious influence of “hants” that was upon Phyllis, hence they followed like the meekest of lambs until she stopped at her own room in the yard. After stirring some embers to a flickering sort of blaze, she looked insinuatingly about her and broke into an excited whisper: “Whinsomev’r yer sees enything right shiny black, widout er single white speck on hit nowhar, you kin jes put hit down in yo’ mine, dats er hant! ’Tain’ no use ter argufy erbout it; dem’s de creeturs dat speerets rides whin dey comes back ter dis worl’. An’ ’twas one er dem same black, biggity Langshans dat ole man Gully’s hant come back inter.” Phyllis had taken her seat by this time, and the children had scrambled into her lap. “Sakes erlive! You all mos’ claw me ter death. How yer ’speck erbody ter be hol’in’ two growd up fokes like youall is?” But the children continued to climb, one on each knee. Phyllis put out her foot and dragged a chair in front of her. “Hyah stretch yer foots out on de cheer, an’ mebby ef yer sets still, I kin make out ter hole yer.”

“Mammy, where do hants stay?” asked Willis.

“Hants is ev’r whars,” she looked about her;