§ 326 A Tribute to the Father
Over the alley fence the colored grass widow was calling her small black offspring.
“Morphy!” she shouted. “Oh, you Morphy! Come yere to me.”
The passing white man was moved by curiosity to halt and ask questions:
“‘Morphy’?—isn’t that rather a curious name for a boy, Aunty?”
“Dat ain’t his full name,” she explained. “Dat’s jest whut I calls ’im fur short. Dat chile’s full name is Morphine.”
“Well, then, why Morphine?”
“Ain’t you never heered de word ‘Morphine’?”
“Certainly; but never in this connection. Would you mind telling me why you chose it when you were christening this child?”
“I chose it ’cause it wuz de mos’ suitable one dey wuz. ’Bout de time he wuz bawn, I heerd one of de w’ite folks readin’ out of a book dat Morphine wuz de product of a wild poppy.
“An’, Mista, ef evah a chile had a wild poppy, dis is de chile!”