The Octoroon

Pete. Guess they nebber was born-dem tings! what, dem?-get away! Born here-dem darkies? What, on Terrebonne! Don't b'lieve it, Mas'r George; dem black tings never was born at all; dey swarmed one mornin' on a sassafras tree in the swamp: I cotched 'em; dey ain't no 'count. Don't b'lieve dey'll turn out niggers when dey're growed; dey'll come out sunthin else. Grace. Yes, Mas'r George, dey was born here; and old Pete is fonder on 'em dan he is of his fiddle on a Sunday. Pete. What? dem tings-dem?-getaway [makes blow at the CHILDREN.] Born here! dem darkies! What, on Terrebonne? Don't b'lieve it, Mas'r George, -no. One morning dey swarmed on a sassafras tree in de swamp, and I cotched 'em all in a sieve.-dat's how dey come on top of dis yearth-git out, you, -ya, ya! [Laughs