“An’ wid all d’ bringin’ up she had, how could she?” moaningly she asked of her son. “Wid all d’ talkin’ wid her I did an’ d’ t’ings I tol’ her to remember. When a girl is bringed up d’ way I bringed up Maggie, how kin she go teh d’ devil?”

1922, Eugene O'Neill, The Hairy Ape, http://print.google.com/print?hl=en&id=Z2ZgNkU5r18C&pg=PA258&lpg=PA258&sig=_ZQWa7a1p_C4jGCG0woMSdujZhw
Oh, there was fine beautiful ships them days—clippers wid tall masts touching the sky—fine strong men in them—men that was sons of the sea as if ’twas the mother that bore them.

1940, Shirley Graham, “It’s Morning,” in Black Female Playwrights, Kathy A Perkins ed. http://print.google.com/print?hl=en&id=ZV3afTMMSHsC&pg=PA221&lpg=PA221&sig=32zaTsB-Xv0Yi-dHcTbtr-8rNCA
Cissie. But, when da saints ob God go marchin’ home
Mah gal will sing! Wid all da pure, bright stars,
Tuhgedder wid da mawnin’ stars—She’ll sing!

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