He did this idly, and with no hope
of hearing anything interesting or helpful.
"Snakes!" Della exclaimed. "Didja say the poor man was seein'
snakes, Mrs. Cullen?"
"No, Della," Mrs. Cullen returned dolorously; "jist one. Flora
says he niver see more th'n one--jist one big, long, ugly-faced
horrible black one; the same one comin' back an' makin' a fizzin'
n'ise at um iv'ry time he had the fit on um. 'Twas alw'ys the
same snake; an' he'd holler at Flora. 'Here it comes ag'in, oh,
me soul!' he'd holler. 'The big, black, ugly-faced thing; it's as
long as the front fence!' he'd holler, 'an' it's makin' a fizzin'
n'ise at me, an' breathin' in me face!' he'd holler. 'Fer th'
love o' hivin', Flora,' he'd holler, 'it's got a little black man
wit' a gassly white forehead a-pokin' of it along wit' a
broom-handle, an' a-sickin' it on me, the same as a boy sicks a
dog on a poor cat. Fer the love o' hivin', Flora,' he'd holler,
'cantcha fright it away from me before I go out o' me head?'"
"Poor Tom!" said Della with deep compassion. "An' the poor man
out of his head all the time, an' not knowin' it! 'Twas awful fer
Flora to sit there an' hear such things in the night like that!"
"You may believe yerself whin ye say it!" Mrs.
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