TRUE-BLOODED an' breeded nigga's hate dog-ketchers as bad as dey hate cold wedder, when de freezeomter am down. Now, de way dat my forty-lebenth cousin, Pomp Tucker, an' anoder color'd gemman took in a dog-ketcher, was worse dan sick lizards. De brack canine kidnapper had stole Deacon Tucker's dog, got de reward, an' den had him cooked up in de great dog-wasten house, along wid de rest ob de captive dogs' flesh. Well, when Deacon Tucker found it out, he axed Mr. Dog Kidnapper to a possum dinner. He took an' filled up his plate wid a separate part ob de warm wittals, an' de nigger's jaws went into it like a chopper into sassage-meat. But, ya! ya! ya! wa-oo-wa! White folks, jist as he was usen up de last part ob de trimmin's, an' opened his large gash to put it in, he discubbered dat he had been feasted on Deacon Tucker's kidnapped dog, an was jist conweyen de last part ob de fore paw into his wittal's hopper. Now, de Deacon had resurrectionized de animal, an' cooked him for dat very express 'casion. Ya! ya! ha! if dat wasn't a fore-paw, as de sayin' is, den dar didn't was one nebber.