diff options
Diffstat (limited to '4992-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 4992-0.txt | 5304 |
1 files changed, 5304 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/4992-0.txt b/4992-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..30ff92c --- /dev/null +++ b/4992-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5304 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Diddie, Dumps, and Tot, by Martin + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Diddie, Dumps, and Tot + or, Plantation Child-Life + +Author: Louise-Clarke Pyrnelle + +Release Date: April 7, 2002 [eBook #4992] +[Most recently updated: June 15, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Jim Weiler, xooqi.com + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIDDIE, DUMPS, AND TOT *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +Diddie, Dumps, and Tot + +OR +PLANTATION CHILD-LIFE + +by Louise-Clarke Pyrnelle + +GROSSET & DUNLAP +PUBLISHERS NEW YORK + +_By arrangement with Harper & Brothers _ + +COPYRIGHT, 1882, BY HARPER & BROTHERS +COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY MARY C. MOTLEY + +Printed in the United States of America + + +Contents + + PREFACE + CHAPTER I. DIDDIE, DUMPS, AND TOT + CHAPTER II. CHRISTMAS ON THE OLD PLANTATION + CHAPTER III. MAMMY’S STORY + CHAPTER IV. OLD BILLY + CHAPTER V. DIDDIE’S BOOK + CHAPTER VI. UNCLE SNAKE-BIT BOB’S SUNDAY-SCHOOL + CHAPTER VII. POOR ANN + CHAPTER VIII. UNCLE BOB’S PROPOSITION + CHAPTER IX. AUNT EDY’S STORY + CHAPTER X. PLANTATION GAMES + CHAPTER XI. DIDDIE IN TROUBLE + CHAPTER XII. HOW THE WOODPECKER’S HEAD AND THE ROBIN’S BREAST CAME TO BE RED + CHAPTER XIII. A PLANTATION MEETING, AND UNCLE DANIEL’S SERMON + CHAPTER XIV. DIDDIE AND DUMPS GO VISITING + CHAPTER XV. THE FOURTH OF JULY + CHAPTER XVI. “’STRUCK’N UV DE CHIL’EN” + CHAPTER XVII. WHAT BECAME OF THEM + + + + +TO MY DEAR FATHER +DR. RICHARD CLARKE +OF SELMA, ALABAMA +MY HERO AND MY BEAU IDEAL OF A GENTLEMAN +I DEDICATE THIS BOOK +WITH THE LOVE OF HIS +DAUGHTER + + + + +PREFACE + + +In writing this little volume, I had for my primary object the idea of +keeping alive many of the old stories, legends, traditions, games, +hymns, and superstitions of the Southern slaves, which, with this +generation of negroes, will pass away. There are now no more dear old +“Mammies” and “Aunties” in our nurseries, no more good old “Uncles” in +the workshops, to tell the children those old tales that have been told +to our mothers and grandmothers for generations—the stories that kept +our fathers and grandfathers quiet at night, and induced them to go +early to bed that they might hear them the sooner. + +Nor does my little book pretend to be any defence of slavery. I know +not whether it was right or wrong (there are many pros and cons on the +subject); but it was the law of the land, made by statesmen from the +North as well as the South, long before my day, or my father’s or +grandfather’s day; and, born under that law a slave-holder, and the +descendant of slave-holders, raised in the heart of the cotton section, +surrounded by negroes from my earliest infancy, “I KNOW whereof I do +speak”; and it is to tell of the pleasant and happy relations that +existed between master and slave that I write this story of _Diddie, +Dumps, and Tot._ + +The stories, plantation games, and Hymns are just as I heard them in my +childhood. I have learned that Mr. Harris, in _Uncle Remus,_ has +already given the “Tar Baby”; but I have not seen his book, and, as our +versions are probably different, I shall let mine remain just as +“Chris” told it to the “chil’en.” + +I hope that none of my readers will be shocked at the seeming +irreverence of my book, for that _intimacy _with the “Lord” was +characteristic of the negroes. They believed implicitly in a Special +Providence and direct punishment or reward, and that faith they +religiously tried to impress upon their young charges, white or black; +and “heavy, heavy hung over our heads” was the DEVIL! + +The least little departure from a marked-out course of morals or +manners was sure to be followed by, “Nem’ min’, de deb’l gwine git +yer.” + +And what the Lord ’lowed and what he didn’t ’low was perfectly well +known to every darky. For instance, “he didn’t ’low no singin’ uv +week-er-day chunes uv er Sunday,” nor “no singin’ uv reel chunes” +(dance music) at any time; nor did he “’low no sassin’ of ole pussons.” + +The “chu’ch membahs” had their little differences of opinion. Of course +they might differ on such minor points as “immersion” and “sprinklin’,” +“open” or “close” communion; but when it came to such grave matters as +“singin’ uv reel chunes,” or “sassin’ uv ole pussons,” Baptists and +Methodists met on common ground, and stood firm. + +Nor did our Mammies and Aunties neglect our manners. To say “yes” or +“no” to any person, white or black, older than ourselves was considered +very rude; it must always be “yes, mam,” “no, mam”; “yes, sir,” “no, +sir”; and those expressions are still, and I hope ever will be, +characteristic of Southerners. + +The child-life that I have portrayed is over now; for no hireling can +ever be to the children what their Mammies were, and the strong tie +between the negroes and “marster’s chil’en” is broken forever. + +So, hoping that my book (which claims no literary merit) will serve to +amuse the little folks, and give them an insight into a childhood +peculiar to the South in her palmy days, without further preface I send +out my volume of Plantation Child-life. + +LOUISE-CLARKE PYRNELLE. + +COLUMBUS, GA. + + + + +DIDDIE, DUMPS AND TOT + + + + +CHAPTER I +DIDDIE, DUMPS AND TOT + + +They were three little sisters, daughters of a Southern planter, and +they lived in a big white house on a cotton plantation in Mississippi. +The house stood in a grove of cedars and live-oaks, and on one side was +a flower-garden, with two summer-houses covered with climbing roses and +honey-suckles, where the little girls would often have tea-parties in +the pleasant spring and summer days. Back of the house was a long +avenue of water-oaks leading to the quarters where the negroes lived. + +Major Waldron, the father of the children, owned a large number of +slaves, and they loved him and his children very dearly. And the little +girls loved them, particularly “Mammy,” who had nursed their mother, +and now had entire charge of the children; and Aunt Milly, a lame +yellow woman, who helped Mammy in the nursery; and Aunt Edy, the head +laundress, who was never too busy to amuse them. Then there was Aunt +Nancy, the “tender,” who attended to the children for the field-hands, +and old Uncle Snake-bit Bob, who could scarcely walk at all, because he +had been bitten by a snake when he was a boy: so now he had a little +shop, where he made baskets of white-oak splits for the hands to pick +cotton in; and he always had a story ready for the children, and would +let them help him weave baskets whenever Mammy would take them to the +shop. + +Besides these, there were Riar, Chris, and Dilsey, three little +negroes, who belonged to the little girls and played with them, and +were in training to be their maids by-and-by. + +Diddie, the oldest of the children, was nine years of age, and had a +governess, Miss Carrie, who had taught her to read quite well, and even +to write a letter. She was a quiet, thoughtful little girl, well +advanced for her age, and lady-like in her manners. + +Dumps, the second sister, was five, full of fun and mischief, and gave +Mammy a great deal of trouble on account of her wild tomboyish ways. + +Tot, the baby, was a tiny, little blue-eyed child of three, with long +light curls, who was always amiable and sweet-tempered, and was petted +by everybody who knew her. + +Now, you must not think that the little girls had been carried to the +font and baptized with such ridiculous names as Diddie, Dumps, and Tot: +these were only pet names that Mammy had given them; but they had been +called by them so long that many persons forgot that Diddie’s name was +Madeleine, that Dumps had been baptized Elinor, and that Tot bore her +mother’s name of Eugenia, for they were known as Diddie, Dumps and Tot +to all of their friends. + +The little girls were very happy in their plantation home. ’Tis true +they lived ’way out in the country, and had no museums nor toy-shops to +visit, no fine parks to walk or ride in, nor did they have a very great +variety of toys. They had some dolls and books, and a baby-house +furnished with little beds and chairs and tables; and they had a big +Newfoundland dog, Old Bruno; and Dumps and Tot both had a little kitten +apiece; and there was “Old Billy,” who once upon a time had been a +frisky little lamb, Diddie’s special pet; but now he was a vicious old +sheep, who amused the children very much by running after them whenever +he could catch them out-of-doors. Sometimes, though, he would butt them +over and hurt them and Major Waldron had several times had him turned +into the pasture; but Diddie would always cry and beg for him to be +brought back and so Old Billy was nearly always in the yard. + +Then there was Corbin, the little white pony that belonged to all of +the children together, and was saddled and bridled every fair day, and +tied to the horse-rack, that the little girls might ride him whenever +they chose; and ’twas no unusual sight to see two of them on him at +once, cantering down the big road or through the grove. + +And, besides all these amusements, Mammy or Aunt Milly or Aunt Edy, or +some of the negroes, would tell them tales; and once in a while they +would slip off and go to the quarters, to Aunt Nancy the tender’s +cabin, and play with the little quarter children. They particularly +liked to go there about dark to hear the little negroes say their +prayers. + +Aunt Nancy would make them all kneel down in a row, and clasp their +hands and shut their eyes: then she would say, “Our Father, who art in +heaven,” and all the little darkies together would repeat each petition +after her; and if they didn’t all keep up, and come out together, she +would give the delinquent a sharp cut with a long switch that she +always kept near her. So the prayer was very much interrupted by the +little “nigs” telling on each other, calling out “Granny” (as they all +called Aunt Nancy), “Jim didn’t say his ‘kingdom come.’” + +“Yes I did, Granny; don’t yer b’lieve dat gal; I said jes’ much +‘kingdom come’ ez she did.” + +And presently Jim would retaliate by saying, + +“Granny, Polly nuber sed nuf’n ’bout her ‘cruspusses.’” + +“Lord-ee! jes’ lis’n at dat nigger,” Polly would say. “Granny, don’t +yer min’ ’im; I sed furgib us cruspusses, jes’ ez plain ez anybody, and +Ginny hyeard me; didn’t yer, Ginny?” + +At these interruptions Aunt Nancy would stop to investigate the matter, +and whoever was found in fault was punished with strict and impartial +justice. + +Another very interesting time to visit the quarters was in the morning +before breakfast, to see Aunt Nancy give the little darkies their +“vermifuge.” She had great faith in the curative properties of a very +nauseous vermifuge that she had made herself by stewing some kind of +herbs in molasses, and every morning she would administer a teaspoonful +of it to every child under her care; and she used to say, + +“Ef’n hit want fur dat furmifuge, den marster wouldn’t hab all dem +niggers w’at yer see hyear.” + +Now, I don’t know about that; but I do know that the little darkies +would rather have had fewer “niggers” and less “furmifuge;” for they +acted shamefully every time they were called upon to take a dose. In +the first place, whenever Aunt Nancy appeared with the bottle and +spoon, as many of the children as could get away would flee for their +lives, and hide themselves behind the hen-coops and ash-barrels, and +under the cabins, and anywhere they could conceal themselves. + +But that precaution was utterly useless, for Aunt Nancy would make them +all form in a line, and in that way would soon miss any absentees; but +there were always volunteers to hunt out and run down and bring back +the shirkers, who, besides having to take the vermifuge, would get a +whipping into the bargain. + +And even after Aunt Nancy would get them into line and their hands +crossed behind their backs, she would have to watch very closely, or +some wicked little “nig” would slip into the place of the one just +above him, and make a horrible face, and spit, and wipe his mouth as if +he had just taken his dose; and thereby the one whose place he had +taken would have to swallow a double portion, while he escaped +entirely; or else a scuffle would ensue, and a very animated discussion +between the parties as to who had taken the last dose; and unless it +could be decided satisfactorily, Aunt Nancy would administer a dose to +each one; for, in her opinion, “too much furmifuge wuz better’n none.” + +And so you see the giving of the vermifuge consumed considerable time. +After that was through with she would begin again at the head of the +line, and making each child open its mouth to its fullest extent, she +would examine each throat closely, and, if any of them had their +“palates down,” she would catch up a little clump of hair right on top +of their heads and wrap it around as tightly as she could with a +string, and then, catching hold of this “top-knot,” she would pull with +all her might to bring up the palate. The unlucky little “nig” in the +meanwhile kept up the most unearthly yells, for so great was the +depravity among them that they had rather have their palates down than +up. Keeping their “palate locks” tied was a source of great trouble and +worriment to Aunt Nancy. + +The winter was always a great season with the children; Mammy would let +them have so many candy-stews, and they parched “goobers” in the +evenings, and Aunt Milly had to make them so many new doll’s clothes, +to “keep them quiet,” as Dumps said; and such romps and games as they +would have in the old nursery! + +There were two rooms included in the nursery—one the children’s bedroom +and the other their playroom, where they kept all their toys and +litter; and during the winter bright wood fires were kept up in both +rooms, that the children might not take cold, and around both +fireplaces were tall brass fenders that were kept polished till they +shone like gold. Yet, in spite of this precaution, do you know that +once Dilsey, Diddie’s little maid, actually caught on fire, and her +linsey dress was burned off, and Aunt Milly had to roll her over and +over on the floor, and didn’t get her put out till her little black +neck was badly burned, and her little wooly head all singed. After that +she had to be nursed for several days. Diddie carried her her meals, +and Dumps gave her “Stella,” a china doll that was perfectly good, only +she had one leg off and her neck cracked; but, for all that, she was a +great favorite in the nursery, and it grieved Dumps very much to part +with her; but she thought it was her “Christian juty,” as she told +Diddie; so Aunt Milly made Stella a new green muslin dress, and she was +transferred to Dilsey. + +There was no railroad near the plantation, but it was only fifteen +miles to the river, and Major Waldron would go down to New Orleans +every winter to lay in his year’s supplies, which were shipped by +steamboats to the landing and hauled from there to the plantation. It +was a jolly time for both white and black when the wagons came from the +river; there were always boxes of fruits and candies and nuts, besides +large trunks which were carried into the store-room till Christmas, and +which everybody knew contained Christmas presents for “all hands.” One +winter evening in 1853, the children were all gathered at the big gate, +on the lookout for the wagons. Diddie was perched upon one gate-post +and Dumps on the other, while Tot was sitting on the fence, held on by +Riar, lest she might fall. Dilsey and Chris were stationed ’way down +the road to catch the first glimpse of the wagons. They were all +getting very impatient, for they had been out there nearly an hour, and +it was now getting so late they knew Mammy would not let them stay much +longer. + +“I know de reason dey so late, Miss Diddie,” said Riar, “dey got dat +new mule Sam in de lead in one de wagins, and Unker Bill say he know he +gwine cut up, f’um de look in he’s eyes.” + +“Uncle Bill don’t know everything,” answered Diddie. “There are six +mules in the wagon, and Sam’s jest only one of ’em; I reckon he can’t +cut up much by hisself; five’s more’n one, ain’t it?” + +“I do b’lieve we’ve been out hyear er hun-der-d hours,” said Dumps, +yawning wearily; and just then Dilsey and Chris came running towards +the gate, waving their arms and crying, + +“Hyear dey come! hyear dey come!” and, sure enough, the great +white-covered wagons came slowly down the road, and Major Waldron on +Prince, his black horse, riding in advance. + +He quickened his pace when he caught sight of the children; for he was +very fond of his little daughters, and had been away from them two +weeks, trading in New Orleans. He rode up now to the fence, and lifting +Tot to the saddle before him, took her in his arms and kissed her. + +Diddie and Dumps scrambled down from the gate-posts and ran along by +the side of Prince to the house, where their mamma was waiting on the +porch. And oh! such a joyful meeting! such hugging and kissing all +around! + +Then the wagons came up, and the strong negro men began taking out the +boxes and bundles and carrying them to the storeroom. + +“Hand me out that covered basket, Nelson,” said Major Waldron to one of +the men; and taking it carefully to the house, he untied the cover, and +there lay two little _white woolly puppies_—one for Diddie, and one for +Dumps. + +The little girls clapped their hands and danced with delight. + +“Ain’t they lovely?” said Dumps, squeezing hers in her arms. + +“Lubly,” echoed Tot, burying her chubby little hands in the puppy’s +wool, while Diddie cuddled hers in her arms as tenderly as if it had +been a baby. + +Mammy made a bed for the doggies in a box in one corner of the nursery, +and the children were so excited and so happy that she could hardly get +them to bed at all; but after a while Tot’s blue eyes began to droop, +and she fell asleep in Mammy’s arms, murmuring, “De booful itty +doggie.” + +“De booful itty doggies,” however, did not behave very well; they cried +and howled, and Dumps insisted on taking hers up and rocking him to +sleep. + +“Hit’s er gittin’ so late, honey,” urged Mammy, “let ’um stay in de +box, an’ go ter bed now, like good chil’en.” + +“I know I ain’t, Mammy,” replied Dumps. “You mus’ think I ain’t got no +feelin’s ter go ter bed an’ leave ’im hollerin’. I’m er goin’ ter rock +’im ter sleep in my little rockin’-cheer, an’ you needn’t be er fussin’ +at me nuther.” + +“I ain’t er fussin’ at yer, chile; I’m jes’ ’visin’ uv yer fur yer +good; caze hit’s yer bed-time, an’ dem puppies will likely holler all +night.” + +“Then we will sit up all night,” said Diddie, in her determined way. +“I’m like Dumps; I’m not going to bed an’ leave ’im cryin’.” + +So Mammy drew her shawl over her head and lay back in her chair for a +nap, while Diddie and Dumps took the little dogs in their arms and sat +before the fire rocking; and Chris and Dilsey and Riar all squatted on +the floor around the fender, very much interested in. the process of +getting the puppies quiet. + +Presently Dumps began to sing: + +“Ef’n ’ligion was er thing that money could buy, + O reign, Marse Jesus, er reign; + De rich would live, an’ de po’ would die, + O reign, Marse Jesus, er reign. + + Chorus + O reign, reign, reign, er my Lord, + O reign, Marse Jesus, er reign: + O reign, reign, reign, er my Lord, + O reign, Marse Jesus, er reign. + + But de Lord he ’lowed he wouldn’t have it so. + O reign, Marse Jesus, er reign; + So de rich mus’ die jes’ same as de po’, + O reign, Marse Jesus, er reign.” + + +This was one of the plantation hymns with which Mammy often used to +sing Tot to sleep, and all the children were familiar with the words +and air; so now they all joined in the singing, and very sweet music it +was. They had sung it through several times, and the puppies, finding +themselves so outdone in the matter of noise, had curled up in the +children’s laps and were fast asleep, when Diddie interrupted the +chorus to ask: + +“Dumps, what are you goin’ ter name your doggie?” + +“I b’lieve I’ll name ’im ‘Papa,’” replied Dumps, “because he give ’im +ter me.” + +“‘Papa,’ indeed!” said Diddie, contemptuously; “that’s no name for a +dog; I’m goin’ ter name mine after some great big somebody.” + +“Lord-ee! I tell yer, Miss Diddie; name ’im Marse Samson, atter de man +w’at Mammy wuz tellin’ ’bout totin’ off de gates,” said Dilsey. + +“No yer don’t, Miss Diddie; don’t yer name ’im no sich,” said Chris; +“le’s name im’ Marse Whale, w’at swallered de man an’ nuber chawed +’im.” + +“No, I sha’n’t name him nothin’ out’n the Bible,” said Diddie, “because +that’s wicked, and maybe God wouldn’t let him live, just for that; I +b’lieve I’ll name him Christopher Columbus, ’cause if he hadn’t +discovered America there wouldn’t er been no people hyear, an’ I +wouldn’t er had no father nor mother, nor dog, nor nothin’; an’, Dumps, +sposin’ you name yours Pocahontas, that was er _beau-ti-ful_ Injun +girl, an’ she throwed her arms ’roun’ Mr. Smith an’ never let the +tomahawks kill ’im.” + +“I know I ain’t goin’ to name mine no Injun,” said Dumps, decidedly. + +“Yer right, Miss Dumps; now yer’s er talkin’,” said Riar; “I wouldn’t +name ’im no Injun; have ’im tearin’ folks’ hyar off, like Miss Diddie +reads in de book. I don’t want ter hab nuffin ’tall ter _do_ wid no +Injuns; no, sar! I don’t like’ dem folks.” + +“Now, chil’en de dogs is ’sleep,” said Mammy, yawning and rubbing her +eyes; “go ter bed, won’t yer?” + +And the little girls, after laying the puppies in the box and covering +them with an old shawl, were soon fast asleep. But there was not much +sleep in the nursery that night; the ungrateful little dogs howled and +cried all night. Mammy got up three times and gave them warm milk, and +tucked them up in the shawl; but no sooner would she put them back in +the box than they would begin to cry and howl. And so at the +breakfast-table next morning, when Dumps asked her papa to tell her +something to name her puppy, Diddie gravely remarked, + +“I think, Dumps, we had better name ’um Cherubim an’ Seraphim, for they +continually do cry.” + +And her papa was so amused at the idea that he said he thought so too; +and thus the puzzling question of the names was decided, and the little +wooly poodles were called Cherubim and Seraphim, and became great pets +in the household. + + + + +CHAPTER II +CHRISTMAS ON THE OLD PLANTATION + + +Christmas morning, 1853, dawned cold and rainy, and scarcely had the +first gray streak appeared when the bolt of the nursery was quietly +turned, and Dilsey’s little black head peered in through the half-open +door. + +“Chris’mus gif’, chil’en!” she called out, and in a twinkling Diddie, +Dumps and Tot were all wide awake, and climbing over the side of the +bed. Then the three little sisters and Dilsey tip-toed all around to +everybody’s rooms, catching “Chris’mus gif’;” but just as they were +creeping down-stairs to papa and mamma two little forms jumped from +behind the hall door, and Riar and Chris called out, “Chris’mus gif’!” +and laughed and danced to think they had “cotch de white chil’en.” + +As soon as everybody had been caught they all went into the +sitting-room to see what Santa Clause had brought, and there were eight +stockings all stuffed full! Three long, white stockings, that looked as +if they might be mamma’s, were for the little girls, and three coarse +woolen stockings were for the little nigs; and now whom do you suppose +the others were for? Why, for Mammy and Aunt Milly, to be sure! Oh, +such lots of things—candies and nuts, and raisins and fruits in every +stocking; then there was a doll baby for each of the children. Diddie’s +was a big china doll, with kid feet and hands, and dressed in a red +frock trimmed with black velvet. Dumps’s was a wax baby with eyes that +would open and shut; and it had on a long white dress, just like a +sure-enough baby, and a little yellow sack, all worked around with +white. + +Tot was so little, and treated her dollies so badly, that “Old Santa” +had brought her an India-rubber baby, dressed in pink tarlatan, with a +white sash. + +Dilsey, Chris, and Riar each had an alabaster baby, dressed in white +Swiss, and they were all just alike, except that they had different +colored sashes on. + +And Diddie had a book full of beautiful stories, and Dumps had a slate +and pencil, and Tot had a “Noah’s ark,” and Mammy and Aunt Milly had +red and yellow head “handkerchiefs,” and Mammy had a new pair of +“specs” and a nice warm hood, and Aunt Milly had a delaine dress; and +’way down in the toes of their stockings they each found a five-dollar +gold piece, for Old Santa had seen how patient and good the two dear +old women were to the children, and so he had “thrown in” these gold +pieces. + +How the little folks laughed and chatted as they pulled the things out +of their stockings! But pretty soon Mammy made them put them all away, +to get ready for breakfast. + +After breakfast the big plantation bell was rung, and the negroes all +came up to the house. And then a great box that had been in the +store-room ever since the wagons got back from the river, three weeks +before, was brought in and opened, and Mrs. Waldron took from it +dresses and hats, and bonnets and coats, and vests and all sorts of +things, until every pair of black hands had received a present, and +every pair of thick lips exclaimed, + +“Thankee, mistis! thankee, honey; an’ God bless yer!” + +And then Chris, who had been looking anxiously every moment or two +towards the quarters, cried out, + +“Yon’ dey is! I see um! Yon’ dey come!” + +And down the long avenue appeared the funniest sort of a procession. +First came Aunt Nancy, the “tender,” with her head handkerchief tied in +a sharp point that stuck straight up from her head; and behind her, two +and two, came the little quarter negroes, dressed in their brightest +and newest clothes, All were there—from the boys and girls of fourteen +down to the little wee toddlers of two or three, and some even younger +than that; for in the arms of several of the larger girls were little +bits of black babies, looking all around in their queer kind of way, +and wondering what all this was about. + +The procession drew up in front of the house, and Diddie, Dumps and Tot +went from one end of it to the other distributing candies and apples, +and oranges and toys; and how the bright faces did light up with joy as +the little darkies laughed and chuckled, and I dare say would have +jumped up and clapped their hands but for Aunt Nancy, who was keeping a +sharp eye upon them, and who would say, as every present was delivered, + +“Min’ yer manners, now!” + +At which the little nigs would make a comical little “bob-down” +courtesy and say, “Thankee, marm.” + +When the presents were all delivered, Major Waldron told the negroes +that their mistress and himself were going to the quarters to take +presents to the old negroes and the sick, who could not walk to the +house, and after that he would have service in the chapel, and that he +hoped as many as could would attend. + +Then the crowd dispersed, and the children’s mamma filled a basket with +“good things,” and presents for old Aunt Sally, who was almost blind; +and poor Jane, who had been sick a long time; and Daddy Jake, the +oldest negro on the place, who never ventured out in bad weather for +fear of the “rheumatiz;” and then, accompanied by her husband and +children, she carried it to the quarters to wish the old negroes a +happy Christmas. + +The quarters presented a scene of the greatest excitement. Men and +women were bustling about, in and out of the cabins, and the young +folks were busily engaged cleaning up the big barn and dressing it with +boughs of holly and cedar; for you see Aunt Sukey’s Jim was going to be +married that very night, and the event had been talked of for weeks, +for he was a great favorite on the place. + +He was a tall, handsome black fellow, with white teeth and bright eyes, +and he could play the fiddle and pick the banjo, and knock the bones +and cut the pigeon-wing, and, besides all that, he was the best +hoe-hand, and could pick more cotton than any other negro on the +plantation. He had amused himself by courting and flirting with all of +the negro girls; but at last he had been caught himself by pretty +Candace, one of the housemaids, and a merry dance she had led him. + +She had kept poor Jim six long months on the rack. First she’d say +she’d marry him, and then she’d say she wouldn’t (not that she ever +really _meant_ that she wouldn’t), for she just wanted to torment him; +and she succeeded so well that Jim became utterly wretched, and went to +his master to know “ef’n he couldn’t make dat yaller gal ’have +herse’f.” + +But his master assured him it was a matter that he had nothing on earth +to do with, and even told Jim that it was but fair that he, who had +enjoyed flirting so long, should now be flirted with. + +However, one evening his mistress came upon the poor fellow sitting on +the creek bank looking very disconsolate, and overheard him talking to +himself, + +“Yes, sar!” he was saying, as if arguing with somebody. “Yes, sar, by +rights dat nigger gal oughter be beat mos’ ter deff, she clean bodder +de life out’n me, an’ marster, he jes’ oughter kill dat nigger. I dunno +w’at makes me kyar so much er bout’n her no way; dar’s plenty er +likelier gals’n her, an’ I jes’ b’lieve dat’s er trick nigger; anyhow +she’s tricked me, sho’s yer born; an’ ef’n I didn’t b’long ter nobody, +I’d jump right inter dis creek an’ drown myse’f. But I ain’t got no +right ter be killin’ up marster’s niggers dat way; I’m wuff er thousan’ +dollars, an’ marster ain’t got no thousan’ dollars ter was’e in dis +creek, long er dat lazy, shif’less, good-fur-nuffin’ yaller nigger.” + +The poor fellow’s dejected countenance and evident distress enlisted +the sympathy of his mistress, and thinking that any negro who took such +good care of his master’s property would make a good husband, she +sought an interview with Candace, and so pleaded with her in behalf of +poor Jim that the dusky coquette relented, and went down herself to +Aunt Sukey’s cabin to tell her lover that she did love him all along, +and was “jis’ er projeckin’ wid ’im,” and that she would surely marry +him Christmas-night. + +Their master had had a new cabin built for them, and their mistress had +furnished it neatly for the young folks to begin housekeeping, and in +mamma’s wardrobe was a white dress and a veil and wreath that were to +be the bride’s Christmas gifts. They were to be married in the parlor +at the house, and dance afterwards in the barn, and the wedding supper +was to be set in the laundry. + +So you see it was a busy day, with so much of cake-baking and icing and +trimming to be done; and then the girls had to see about their dresses +for the evening, and the young men had their shoes to black, and their +best clothes to brush, and their hair to unwrap; but notwithstanding +all this, when Major Waldron and his family entered the chapel they +found a large congregation assembled; indeed, all were there except the +sick; and master and slaves, the white children and black, united their +hearts and voices to + +“Laurel and magnify His holy name,” + + +and to return thanks to God for his great Christmas gift of a Saviour +to the world. + +As they were leaving the chapel after service, Dumps drew close to her +mother and whispered, + +“Mamma, bein’ as this is Chris’mas an’ it’s rainin’, can’t we have some +of the little quarter niggers to go to the house and play Injuns with +us?” + +Mamma was about to refuse, for the little girls were not allowed to +play with the quarter children; but Dumps looked very wistful, and, +besides, Mammy would be with them in the nursery, so she consented, and +each of the children were told that they might select one of the little +negroes to play with them. + +Diddie took a little mulatto girl named Agnes. Dumps had so many +favorites that it was hard for her to decide; but finally she selected +Frances, a lively little darky, who could dance and pat and sing and +shout, and do lots of funny things. + +Tot took Polly, a big girl of fourteen, who could, and sometimes did, +take the little one on her back and trot around with her. She lifted +her now to her shoulders, and, throwing her head up and snorting like a +horse, started off in a canter to the house; while Diddie and Dumps, +and Chris and Riar, and Agnes and Frances followed on behind, all +barking like dogs, and making believe that Tot was going hunting and +they were the hounds. + +“See, Mammy, here’s Agnes and Polly and Frances,” said Diddie, as they +entered the nursery; “mamma let us have them, and they are to stay here +a long time and play Injuns with us.” + +“Now, Miss Diddie, honey,” said Mammy, “Injuns is sich a sackremenchus +play, an’ makes so much litter and fuss; git yer dolls, an’ play like +er little lady.” + +“No, no, no,” interrupted Dumps; “we’re goin’ ter play Injuns! We’re +goin’ ter make out we’re travellin’ in the big rockin’-cheer, goin’ ter +New Orleans, an’ the little niggers is got ter be Injuns, hid all +behin’ the trunks an’ beds an’ door; an’ after, we rock an’ rock er +lo-o-ong time, then we’re goin’ ter make out it’s night, an’ stretch +mamma’s big shawl over two cheers an’ make er tent, and be cookin’ +supper in our little pots an’ kittles, an’ the little niggers is got +ter holler, ‘Who-ee, who-eee,’ an’ jump out on us, an’ cut off our +heads with er billycrow.” + +“How silly you do talk, Dumps!” said Diddie; “there ain’t any Injuns +between here and New Orleans; we’ve got ter be goin’ to California, a +far ways f’um here. An’ I don’t b’lieve there’s nothin’ in this world +named er ‘_billycrow;_’ it’s er tommyhawk you’re thinkin’ about: an’ +Injuns don’t cut off people’s heads; it was Henry the Eighth. Injuns +jes’ cut off the hair and call it sculpin’, don’t they, Mammy?” + +“Lor’, chile,” replied Mammy, “I dunno, honey; I allers hyeard dat +Injuns wuz monstrous onstreperous, an’ I wouldn’t play no sich er +game.” + +But “Injuns, Injuns, Injuns!” persisted all the little folks, and Mammy +had to yield. + +The big chair was put in the middle of the room, and the little girls +got in. Chris sat up on the arms to be the driver, and they started off +for California. After travelling some time night set in, and the +emigrants got out, and pitched a tent and made preparations for cooking +supper; little bits of paper were torn up and put into the miniature +pots and kettles, and the children were busy stirring them round with a +stick for a spoon, when the terrible war-whoop rang in their ears, and +from under the bed and behind the furniture jumped out the five little +negroes. + +The travellers ran in every direction, and the Injuns after them. +Diddie hid in the wardrobe, and Mammy covered Tot up in the middle of +the bed; Chris turned the chip-box over and tried to get under it, but +the fierce savages dragged her out, and she was soon tied hand and +foot; Dumps jumped into the clothes-basket, and Aunt Milly threw a +blanket over her, but Frances had such keen little eyes that she soon +spied her and captured her at once. + +Then a wild yell was sounded, and Polly and Dilsey pounced upon Tot, +who had become tired of lying still, and was wriggling about so that +she had been discovered; and now all the travellers were captured +except Diddie. The injuns looked everywhere for her in vain. + +“She mus’ er gone up fru de chimbly, like Marse Santion Claws,” said +Agnes; and Diddie thought that was so funny that she giggled outright, +and in a moment the wardrobe was opened and she was also taken +prisoner. Then the four little captives were laid on their backs, and +Polly scalped them with a clothes-brush for a tomahawk. + +As soon as they were all scalped they started over again, and kept up +the fun until the big plantation bell sounded, and then the Injuns +deserted in a body and ran off pell-mell to the quarters; for that bell +was for the Christmas dinner, and they wouldn’t miss that for all the +scalps that ever were taken. + +There were three long tables, supplied with good, well-cooked food, +followed by a nice dessert of pudding and cake, and the darkies, one +and all, did full justice to it. + +Up at the house was a grand dinner, with turkey, mince-pie, and +plum-pudding, of course. + +When that was through with, mamma told the little girls that the little +quarter negroes were to have a candy stew, and that Mammy might take +them to witness the pulling. This was a great treat, for there was +nothing the children enjoyed so much as going to the quarters to see +the little negroes play. + +The candy stew had been suggested by Aunt Nancy as a fine device for +getting rid of the little darkies for the night. They were to have the +frolic only on condition that they would go to bed and not insist on +being at the wedding. This they readily agreed to; for they feared they +would not be allowed to sit up anyway, and they thought best to make +sure of the candy-pulling. + +When the little girls reached Aunt Nancy’s cabin, two big kettles of +molasses were on the fire, and, to judge by the sputtering and +simmering, the candy was getting on famously. Uncle Sambo had brought +his fiddle in, and some of the children were patting and singing and +dancing, while others were shelling goobers and picking out scaly-barks +to put in the candy; and when the pulling began, if you could have +heard the laughing and joking you would have thought there was no fun +like a candy stew. + +As a special favor, the little girls were allowed to stay up and see +Candace married; and very nice she looked when her mistress had +finished dressing her: her white Swiss was fresh and new, and the +wreath and veil were very becoming, and she made quite a pretty bride; +at least Jim thought so, and that was enough for her. + +Jim was dressed in a new pepper-and-salt suit, his Christmas present +from his master, and the bridesmaids and groomsmen all looked very +fine. Mamma arranged the bridal party in the back parlor, and the +folding-doors were thrown open. Both rooms and the large hall were full +of negroes. The ceremony was performed by old Uncle Daniel, the negro +preacher on the place, and the children’s father gave the bride away. + +After the marriage, the darkies adjourned to the barn to dance. Diddie +and Dumps begged to be allowed to go and look at them “just a little +while,” but it was their bedtime, and Mammy marched hem off to the +nursery. + +About twelve o’clock supper was announced, and old and young repaired +to the laundry. The room was festooned with wreaths of holly and cedar, +and very bright and pretty and tempting the table looked, spread out +with meats and breads, and pickles and preserves, and home-made wine, +and cakes of all sorts and sizes, iced and plain; large bowls of +custard and jelly; and candies, and fruits and nuts. + +In the centre of the table was a pyramid, beginning with a large cake +at the bottom and ending with a “snowball” on top. + +At the head of the table was the bride-cake, containing the “ring” and +the “dime;” it was handsomely iced, and had a candy Cupid perched over +it, on a holly bough which was stuck in a hole in the middle of the +cake. It was to be cut after a while by each of the bridesmaids and +groomsmen in turns; and whoever should cut the slice containing the +ring would be the next one to get married; but whoever should get the +dime was to be an old maid or an old bachelor. + +The supper was enjoyed hugely, particularly a big bowl of eggnog, which +so enlivened them all that the dancing was entered into with renewed +vigor, and kept up till the gray tints in the east warned them that +another day had dawned, and that Christmas was over. + +But you may be sure that in all Christendom it had been welcomed in and +ushered out by no merrier, lighter hearts than those of the happy, +contented folks on the old plantation. + + + + +CHAPTER III +MAMMY’S STORY + + +One cold, rainy night a little group were assembled around a crackling +wood fire in the nursery; Mammy was seated in a low chair, with Tot in +her arms; Dumps was rocking her doll back and forth, and Diddie was +sitting at the table reading; Aunt Milly was knitting, and the three +little darkies were nodding by the fire. + +“Mammy,” said Dumps, “s’posin you tell us a tale.” Tot warmly seconded +the motion, and Mammy, who was never more delighted than when +astonishing the children with her wonderful stories, at once assumed a +meditative air. “Lem me see,” said the old woman, scratching her head; +“I reckon I’ll tell yer ’bout de wushin’-stone, ain’t neber told yer +dat yit. I know yer’ve maybe hearn on it, leastways Milly has; but den +she mayn’t have hearn de straight on it, fur ’taint eb’y nigger knows +it. Yer see, Milly, my mammy was er ’riginal Guinea nigger, an’ she +knowed ’bout de wushin’-stone herse’f, an’ she told me one Wednesday +night on de full er de moon, an’ w’at I’m gwine ter tell yer is de +truff.” + +Having thus authenticated her story beyond a doubt, Mammy hugged Tot a +little closer and began: + +“Once ’pon er time dar wuz a beautiful gyarden wid all kind er nice +blossoms, an’ trees, an’ brooks, an’ things, whar all de little chil’en +usen ter go and play, an’ in dis gyarden de grass wuz allers green, de +blossoms allers bright, and de streams allers clar, caze hit b’longed +to er little Fraid, named Cheery.” + +“A ‘little Fraid,’” interrupted Diddie, contemptuously. “Why, Mammy, +there’s no such a thing as a ’Fraid.’” + +“Lord, Miss Diddie, ’deed dey is,” said Dilsey, with her round eyes +stretched to their utmost; “I done seed ’em myse’f, an’ our Clubfoot +Bill he was er gwine ’long one time—” + +“Look er hyear, yer kinky-head nigger, whar’s yer manners?” asked +Mammy, “’ruptin’ uv eld’ly pussons. I’m de one w’at’s ’struck’n dese +chil’en, done struck dey mother fuss; I’ll tell ’em w’at’s becomin’ fur +’em ter know; I don’t want ’em ter hyear nuf’n ’bout sich low cornfiel’ +niggers ez Club-foot Bill. + +“Yes, Miss Diddie, honey,” said Mammy, resuming her story, “dar sholy +is Fraids; Mammy ain’t gwine tell yer nuf’n’, honey, w’at she dun know +fur er fack; so as I wuz er sayin’, dis little Fraid wuz name Cheery, +an’ she’d go all ’roun’ eb’y mornin’ an’ tech up de grass an’ blossoms +an’ keep ’em fresh, fur she loved ter see chil’en happy, an’ w’en dey +rolled ober on de grass, an’ strung de blossoms, an’ waded up an’ down +de streams, an’ peeped roun’ de trees, Cheery’d clap ’er han’s an’ +laugh, an’ dance roun’ an’ roun’; an’ sometimes dar’d be little po’ +white chil’en, an’ little misfortnit niggers would go dar; an’ w’en +she’d see de bright look in dey tired eyes, she’d fix things prettier’n +eber. + +“Now dar wuz er nudder little Fraid name Dreary; an’ she wuz sad an’ +gloomy, an’ neber dance, nor play, nor nuf’n; but would jes go off +poutin’, like to herse’f. Well, one day she seed er big flat stone +under a tree. She said ter herse’f, ‘I ain’t gwine ter be like dat +foolish Cheery, dancin’ an’ laughin’ foreber, caze she thinks such +things ez flowers an’ grass kin make folks happy; but I’m gwine ter do +er rael good ter eb’ybody,” so she laid er spell on de stone, so dat +w’en anybody sot on de stone an’ wush anything dey’d hab jes w’at dey +wush fur; an’ so as ter let er heap er folks wush at once, she made it +so dat eb’y wush would make de stone twice ez big ez ’twuz befo’. + +“Po’ little Cheery was mighty troubled in her min’ w’en she foun’ out +’bout’n hit, an’ she beg Dreary ter tuck de spell off; but no, she +wouldn’t do it. She ’lowed, do, ef anybody should eber wush anything +fur anybody else, dat den de stone might shrink up ergin; fur who, she +sez ter herse’f, is gwine ter wush fur things fur tudder folks? An’ she +tol’ de little birds dat stay in de tree de stone wuz under, when +anybody sot on de stone dey mus’ sing, ‘I wush I had,’ an’ ‘I wush I +wuz,’ so as ter ’min’ ’em ’bout’n de wushin’-stone. Well, ’twan’t long +fo’ de gyarden wuz plum crowded wid folks come ter wush on de stone, +an’ hit wuz er growin’ bigger an’ bigger all de time, an’ mashin’ de +blossoms an’ grass; an’ dar wan’t no mo’ merry chil’en playin’ ’mong de +trees an’ wadin’ in de streams; no soun’s ob laughin’ and joy in de +gyarden; eb’ybody wuz er quarlin, ’bout’n who should hab de nex’ place, +or wuz tryin’ ter study up what dey’d wush fur; an’ Cheery wuz jes ez +mizer’bul as er free nigger, ’bout her gyarden. + +“De folks would set on de stone, while de little birds would sing, ‘I +wush I had,” an’ dey’d wush dey had money, an’ fren’s, an’ sense, an’ +happiness, an’ ’ligion; an’ ’twould all come true jes like dey wush +fur. Den de little birds would sing, ‘I wush I wuz,” an’ dey’d wush dey +wuz lubly, an’ good, an’ gran’; un’ ’twould all come ter pass jes so. + +“But all dat time nobody neber wush nobody else was rich, an’ good, an’ +lubly, an’ happy; fur don’t yer see de birds neber sung, ‘I wush _you_ +wuz,’ ‘I wush _dey_ had,” but all de time ‘I wush _I_ wuz,’ ‘I wush _I_ +had.’ At last, one day dar come inter de gyarden er po’ little cripple +gal, who lived ’way off in er ole tumble-down house. She wuz er little +po’ white chile, an’ she didn’t hab no farder nor mudder, nor niggers +ter do fur her, an’ she had to do all her own wuck herse’f.” + +“Bress de Lord!” ejaculated Aunt Milly, who was becoming very much +interested in the story, while tears gathered in Dump’s blue eyes; and +even Diddie was seen to wink a little at the forlorn condition of “de +po’ white chile.” + +“Yes, indeed,” continued Mammy, “she done all her own wuk herse’f, an’ +nobody ter say er blessed word ter her, nor he’p her a bit; an’ she +neber eben hyeard ob de wushin’-stone, but had jes come out fur er +little while ter enjoy de birds, an’ de fresh air, an’ flowers, same as +de quality folks; fur she was mos’ all de time sick, an, dis wuz jes de +same as Christmus ter her. She hobbled erlong on her crutches, an’ +atter while she got ter de stone; an’ hit so happened dar wan’t nobody +dar, so she sot down ter res’. Well, mun, she hadn’t mo’n totch de +stone when de little birds began, ‘I wush I had,’ ‘I wush I wuz.’ + +“‘Oh, what er sweet, pretty place!’ de little gal said; ‘an’ what nice +little birds! I wush dat po’ old sick man what libs next ter us could +come out here and see it all.’ + +“‘I wush I had,’ ‘I wush I wuz,’ sung de little birds. ‘I wush all de +po’ chil’en could come an’ spen’ de day here,’ said de little gal; +‘what er nice time dey would hab!’ + +“‘I wush I wuz,’ ‘I wush I had,’ sung de birds in er flutter, hoppin’ +all ’bout ’mong de branches. + +“‘An’ all de lame people, an’ sick people, an’ ole people,’ said de +little gal, ‘I wush dey could all git well, an’ strong, an’ lib in er +beautiful place jes like dis, an’ all be happy.’ + +“Oh, de little birds! what er bustle dey wuz in to be sho’! Dey sot +upon de bery topes’ branches, an’ dey sung like dey’d split der troats, + +“‘I wush _I_ had,’ ‘I wush _I_ wuz.’ + +“But de little gal neber min’ ’em. She was rested, an’ hobbled on all +by herse’f; but now, sence she done wush fur blessin’ fur tudder folks, +de spell was loosenin’ an’ de stone all drawerd up ter a little bit er +stone, den sunk away in de groun’ clar out o’ sight. An’ dat wuz de +last ob de wushin’-stone.” + +“Dar now!” exclaimed Aunt Milly. + +“De truff, sho’! jes like I ben tellin’ yer,” said Mammy. + +“But, Mammy, what about the little girl? did she ever get well an’ +strong, an’ not be lame any more?” asked Dumps. + +“Well, honey, yer see de Lord, he fixes all dat. He sont fur her one +night, an’ she jes smiled, bright an’ happy like, an’ laid right back +in de angel’s arms; an’ he tuck her right along up thu de hebenly +gates, an’ soon as eber he sot her down, an’ her foot totch dem golden +streets, de lameness, an’ sickness, an’ po’ness all come right; an’ her +fader, an’ her mudder, an’ her niggers wuz all dar, an’ she wuz well +an’ strong, an’ good an’ happy. Jes like she wush fur de po’ folks, an’ +de sick folks, de Lord he fixed it jes dat way fur her. He fixed all +dat hisse’f.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV +OLD BILLY + + +The gin-house on the plantation was some distance from the house; and +in an opposite direction from the quarters. It was out in an open +field, but a narrow strip of woods lay between the field and the house, +so the gin-house was completely hidden. + +Just back of the gin-house was a pile of lumber that Major Waldron had +had hauled in build a new pick-room, and which was piled so as to form +little squares, large enough to hold three of the children at once. +During the last ginning season they had gone down once with Mammy to +“ride on the gin,” but had soon abandoned that amusement to play +housekeeping on the lumber, and have the little squares for rooms. They +had often since thought of that evening, and had repeatedly begged +Mammy to let them go down to the lumber pile; but she was afraid they +would tear their clothes, or hurt themselves in some way, and would +never consent. + +So one day in the early spring, when Mammy and Aunt Milly were having a +great cleaning-up in the nursery, and the children had been sent into +the yard to play, Chris suggested that they should all slip off, and go +and play on the lumber pile. + +“Oh, yes,” said Dumps, “that will be the very thing, an’ Mammy won’t +never know it, ’cause we’ll be sho’ ter come back befo’ snack-time.” + +“But something might happen to us, you know,” said Diddie, “like the +boy in my blue book, who went off fishin’ when his mother told him not +to, an’ the boat upsetted and drownded him.” + +“Tain’t no boat there,” urged Dumps; “tain’t no water even, an’ I don’t +b’lieve we’d be drownded; an’ tain’t no bears roun’ this place like +them that eat up the bad little Chil’en in the Bible; and tain’t no +Injuns in this country, an’ tain’t no snakes nor lizards till +summer-time, an’ all the cows is out in the pasture; an’ tain’t no +ghos’es in the daytime, an’ I don’t b’lieve there’s nothin’ ter happen +to us; an’ ef there wuz, I reckon God kin take care of us, can’t he?” + +“He won’t do it, though, ef we don’t mind our mother,” replied Diddie. + +“Mammy ain’t none of our mother, and tain’t none of her business not to +be lettin’ us play on the lumber, neither. Please come, Diddie, we’ll +have such a fun, an’ nothin’ can’t hurt us. If you’ll come, we’ll let +you keep the hotel, an’ me an’ Tot ’ll be the boarders.” + +The idea of keeping the hotel was too much for Diddie’s scruples, and +she readily agreed to the plan. Dilsey was then despatched to the +nursery to bring the dolls, and Chris ran off to the wood-pile to get +the wheelbarrow, which was to be the omnibus for carrying passengers to +and from the hotel. + +These details being satisfactorily arranged, the next thing was to slip +off from Cherubim and Seraphim, for they followed the little girls +everywhere, and they would be too much trouble on this occasion, since +they couldn’t climb up on the pile themselves, and would whine +piteously if the children left them. + +The plan finally decided upon was this: Diddie was to coax them to the +kitchen to get some meat, while the other children were to go as fast +as they could down the avenue and wait for her where the road turned, +and she was to slip off while the puppies were eating, and join them. + +They had only waited a few minutes when Diddie came running down the +road, and behind her (unknown to her) came Old Billy. + +“Oh, what made you bring him?” asked Dumps, as Diddie came up. + +“I didn’t know he was comin’,” replied Diddie, “but he won’t hurt: +he’ll just eat grass all about, and we needn’t notice him.” + +“Yes, he will hurt,” said Dumps; “he behaves jus’ dreadful, an’ I don’t +want ter go, neither, ef he’s got ter be er comin’.” + +“Well—I know he _shall_ come,” retorted Diddie. “You jes don’t like him +’cause he’s gettin’ old. I’d be ashamed to turn against my friends like +that. When he was little and white, you always wanted to be er playin’ +with him; an’ now, jes ’cause he ain’t pretty, you don’t want him to +come anywhere, nor have no fun nor nothin’; yes—he _shall_ come; an’ ef +that’s the way you’re goin’ to do, I’m goin’ right back to the house, +an’ tell Mammy you’ve all slipped off, an’ she’ll come right after you, +an’ then you won’t get to play on the lumber.” + +Diddie having taken this decided stand, there was nothing for it but to +let Old Billy be of the party; and peace being thus restored, the +children continued their way, and were soon on the lumber-pile. Diddie +at once opened her hotel. Chris was the chambermaid, Riar was the +waiter, and Dilsey was the man to take the omnibus down for the +passengers. Dumps and Tot, who were to be the boarders, withdrew to the +gin-house steps, which was to be the depot, to await the arrival of the +omnibus. + +“I want ter go to the hotel,” said Dumps, as Dilsey came up rolling the +wheelbarrow—“me an’ my three little chil’en.” + +“Yes, marm, jes git in,” said Dilsey, and Dumps, with her wax baby and +a rag doll for her little daughters, and a large cotton-stalk for her +little boy, took a seat in the omnibus. Dilsey wheeled her up to the +hotel, and Diddie met her at the door. + +“What is your name, madam?” she inquired. + +“My name is Mrs. Dumps,” replied the guest, “an’ this is my little boy, +an’ these is my little girls.” + +“Oh, Dumps, you play so cur’us,” said Diddie; “who ever heard of +anybody bein’ named Mrs. Dumps? there ain’t no name like that.” + +“Well, I don’t know nothin’ else,” said Dumps; “I couldn’t think of +nothin’.” + +“Sposin’ you be named Mrs. Washington, after General Washington?” said +Diddie, who was now studying a child’s history of America, and was very +much interested in it. + +“All right,” said Dumps; and Mrs. Washington, with her son and +daughters, was assigned apartments, and Chris was sent up with +refreshments, composed of pieces of old cotton-bolls and gray moss, +served on bits of broken china. + +The omnibus now returned with Tot and her family, consisting of an +India-rubber baby with a very cracked face, and a rag body that had +once sported a china head, and now had no head of any kind; but it was +nicely dressed, and there were red shoes on the feet; and it answered +Tot’s purpose very well. + +“Dese my ’itty dirls,” said Tot, as Diddie received her, “an’ I tome in +de bumberbuss.” + +“What is your name?” asked Diddie. + +“I name—I name—I name—Miss Gin-house,” said Tot, who had evidently +never thought of a name, and had suddenly decided upon gin-house, as +her eye fell upon that object. + +“No, no, Tot, that’s a _thing;_ that ain’t no name for folks,” said +Diddie. “Let’s play you’re Mrs. Bunker Hill; that’s a nice name.” + +“Yes, I name Miss Unker Bill,” said the gentle little girl, who rarely +objected to playing just as the others wished. Miss “Unker Bill” was +shown to her room; and now Riar came out, shaking her hand up and down, +and saying, “Ting-er-ling—ting-er-ling—ting-er-ling!” That was the +dinner-bell, and they all assembled around a table that Riar had +improvised out of a piece of plank supported on two bricks, and which +was temptingly set out with mud pies and cakes and green leaves, and +just such delicacies as Riar and Diddie could pick up. + +As soon as Mrs. Washington laid eyes on the mud cakes and pies, she +exclaimed, + +“Oh, Diddie, I’m er goin’ ter be the cook, an’ make the pies an’ +things.” + +“I doin’ ter be de took an’ make de itty mud takes,” said Miss Unker +Bill, and the table at once became a scene of confusion. + +“No, Dumps,” said Diddie, “somebody’s got to be stoppin’ at the hotel, +an’ I think the niggers ought to be the cooks.” + +“But I want ter make the mud cakes,” persisted Dumps, an’ Tot can be +the folks at the hotel—she and the doll-babies.” + +“No, I doin’ ter make de mud takes, too,” said Tot, and the hotel +seemed in imminent danger of being closed for want of custom, when a +happy thought struck Dilsey. + +“Lor-dy, chil’en! I tell yer: le’s play Ole Billy is er gemman what +writ ter Miss Diddie in er letter dat he was er comin’ ter de hotel, +an’ ter git ready fur ’im gins he come.” + +“Yes,” said Diddie, and lets play Dumps an’ Tot was two mo’ niggers I +had ter bring up from the quarters to help cook; an’ we’ll make out Ole +Billy is some great general or somethin’, an’ we’ll have ter make lots +of cakes an’ puddin’s for ’im. Oh, I know; we’ll play he’s Lord +Burgoyne.” + +All of the little folks were pleased at that idea, and Diddie +immediately began to issue her orders. + +“You, Dumps, an’ Tot an’ Dilsey, an’ all of yer—I’ve got er letter from +Lord Burgoyne, an’ he’ll be here to-morrow, an’ I want you all to go +right into the kitchen an’ make pies an’ cakes.” And so the whole party +adjourned to a little ditch where mud and water were plentiful (and +which on that account had been selected as the kitchen), and began at +once to prepare an elegant dinner. + +Dear me! how busy the little housekeepers were! and such beautiful pies +they made, and lovely cakes all iced with white sand, and bits of grass +laid around the edges for trimming! and all the time laughing and +chatting as gayly as could be. + +“Ain’t we havin’ fun?” said Dumps, who, regardless of her nice clothes, +was down on her knees in the ditch, with her sleeves rolled up, and her +fat little arms muddy to the elbows; “an’ ain’t you glad we slipped +off, Diddie? I tol’ yer there wan’t nothin’ goin’ to hurt us.” + +“And ain’t you glad we let Billy come?” said Diddie; “we wouldn’t er +had nobody to be Lord Burgoyne.” + +“Yes,” replied Dumps; “an’ he ain’t behaved bad at all; he ain’t butted +nobody, an’ he ain’t runned after nobody to-day.” + +“’Ook at de take,” interrupted Tot, holding up a mudball that she had +moulded with her own little hands, and which she regarded with great +pride, + +And now, the plank being as full as it would hold, they all returned to +the hotel to arrange the table. But after the table was set the +excitement was all over, for there was nobody to be the guest. + +“Ef Ole Billy wan’t so mean,” said Chris, “we could fotch ’im hyear in +de omnibus. I wush we’d a let Chubbum an’ Suppum come; dey’d been Lord +Bugon.” + +“I b’lieve Billy would let us haul ’im,” said Diddie, who was always +ready to take up for her pet; “he’s rael gentle now, an’ he’s quit +buttin’; the only thing is, he’s so big we couldn’t get ’im in the +wheelbarrer.” + +“Me ’n _Chris_ kin put ’im in,” said Dilsey. “We kin lif’ ’im, ef dat’s +all;” and accordingly the omnibus was dispatched for Lord Burgoyne, who +was quietly nibbling grass on the ditch bank at some little distance +from the hotel. + +He raised his head as the children approached, and regarded them +attentively. “Billy! Billy! po’ Ole Billy!” soothingly murmured Diddie, +who had accompanied Dilsey and Chris with the omnibus, as she had more +influence over Old Billy than anybody else. He came now at once to her +side, and rubbed his head gently against her; and while she caressed +him, Dilsey on one side and Chris on the other lifted him up to put him +on the wheelbarrow. + +And now the scene changed. Lord Burgoyne, all unmindful of love or +gratitude, and with an eye single to avenging this insult to his +dignity, struggled from the arms of his captors, and, planting his head +full in Diddie’s chest, turned her a somersault in the mud. Then, +lowering his head and rushing at Chris, he butted her with such force +that over she went headforemost into the ditch! and now, spying Dilsey, +who was running with all her might to gain the lumber-pile, he took +after her, and catching up with her just as she reached the gin-house, +placed his head in the middle of her back, and sent her sprawling on +her face. Diddie and Chris had by this time regained their feet, both +of them very muddy, and Chris with her face all scratched from the +roots and briers in the ditch. Seeing Old Billy occupied with Dilsey, +they started in a run for the lumber; but the wily old sheep was on the +look-out, and, taking after them full tilt, he soon landed them flat on +the ground. And now Dilsey had scrambled up, and was wiping the dirt +from her eyes, preparatory to making a fresh start. Billy, however, +seemed to have made up his mind that nobody had a right to stand up +except himself, and, before the poor little darky could get out of his +way, once more he had butted her down. + +Diddie and Chris were more fortunate this time; they were nearer the +lumber than Dilsey, and, not losing a minute, they set out for the pile +as soon as Old Billy’s back was turned, and made such good time that +they both reached it, and Chris had climbed to the top before he saw +them; Diddie, however, was only half-way up, so he made a run at her, +and butted her feet from under her, and threw her back to the ground. +This time he hurt her very much, for her head struck against the +lumber, and it cut a gash in her forehead and made the blood come. This +alarmed Dumps and Tot, and they both began to cry, though they, with +Riar, were safely ensconced on top of the lumber, out of all danger. +Diddie, too, was crying bitterly; and as soon as Billy ran back to butt +at Dilsey, Chris and Riar caught hold of her hands and drew her up on +the pile. + +Poor little Dilsey was now in a very sad predicament. Billy, seeing +that the other children were out of his reach, devoted his entire time +and attention to her, and her only safety was in lying flat on the +ground. If she so much as lifted her head to reconnoitre, he would +plant a full blow upon it. + +The children were at their wit’s end. It was long past their +dinner-time, and they were getting hungry; their clothes were all +muddy, and Diddie’s dress almost torn off of her; the blood was +trickling down from the gash in her forehead, and Chris was all +scratched and dirty, and her eyes smarted from the sand in them. So it +was a disconsolate little group that sat huddled together on top of the +lumber, while Old Billy stood guard over Dilsey, but with one eye on +the pile, ready to make a dash at anybody who should be foolish enough +to venture down. + +“I tol’ yer not to let ’im come,” sobbed Dumps, “an’ now I spec’ we’ll +hafter stay here all night, an’ not have no supper nor nothin’.” + +“I didn’t let ’im come,” replied Diddie; “he come himself, an’ ef you +hadn’t made us run away fum Mammy, we wouldn’t er happened to all this +trouble.” + +“I never made yer,” retorted Dumps, “you come jes ez much ez anybody; +an’ ef it hadn’t er been fur you, Ole Billy would er stayed at home. +You’re all time pettin’ ’im an’ feedin’ ’im—hateful old thing—tell he +thinks he’s got ter go ev’rywhere we go. You ought ter be ’shamed er +yourse’f. Ef I was you, I’d think myse’f too good ter be always er +’soshatin’ with sheeps.” + +“You’re mighty fond of ’im sometimes,” said Diddie, “an’ you was mighty +glad he was here jes now, to be Lord Burgoyne: he’s jes doin’ this fur +fun; an’ ef Chris was _my_ nigger, I’d make her git down an’ drive ’im +away.” + +Chris belonged to Dumps, and Mammy had taught the children never to +give orders to each other’s maids, unless with full permission of the +owner. + +“I ain’t gwine hab nuf’n ter do wid ’im,” said Chris. + +“Yes you are, Chris,” replied Dumps, who had eagerly caught at Diddie’s +suggestion of having him driven away. “Get down this minute, an’ drive +’im off; ef yer don’t, I’ll tell Mammy you wouldn’t min’ me.” + +“Mammy ’ll hatter whup me, den,” said Chris (for Mammy always punished +the little negroes for disobedience to their mistresses); “she’ll +hatter whup me, caze I ain’t gwine ter hab nuf’n tall ter do wid dat +sheep; I ain’t gwine ter meddle long ’im, hab ’im buttin’ me in de +ditch.” + +“Riar, you go,” said Diddie; “he ain’t butted you yet.” + +“He ain’t gwine ter, nuther,” said Riar, “caze I gwine ter stay up +hyear long o’ Miss Tot, like Mammy tell me. I ’longs to her, an’ I +gwine stay wid ’er myse’f, an’ nuss ’er jes like Mammy say.” + +It was now almost dark, and Old Billy showed no signs of weariness; his +vigilance was unabated, and the children were very miserable, when they +heard the welcome sound of Mammy’s voice calling “Chil’en! O-o-o-o, +chil’en!” + +“Ma-a-a-m!” answered all of the little folks at once. + +“Whar is yer?” called Mammy, + +“On top the lumber-pile,” answered the children; and soon Mammy +appeared coming through the woods. + +She had missed the children at snack-time, and had been down to the +quarters, and, in fact, all over the place, hunting for them. The +children were delighted to see her now, and so, indeed, seemed Old +Billy, for, quitting his position at Dilsey’s head, he set out at his +best speed for Mammy; and Dilsey immediately jumped to her feet, and +was soon on the lumber with her companions. + +“Now yer gwuf fum yer, gwuf fum yer!” said Mammy, furiously waving a +cotton-stalk at Old Billy. “Gwuf fum yer, I tell you! _I_ ain’t bodern’ +you. I jes come fur de chil’en, an’ yer bet not fool ’long er me, yer +low-life sheep.” + +But Old Billy, not caring a fig for Mammy’s dignity or importance, +planted his head in her breast, and over the old lady went backwards. +At this the children, who loved Mammy dearly, set up a yell, and Mammy, +still waving the cotton-stalk, attempted to rise, but Billy was ready +for her, and, with a well-aimed blow, sent her back to the earth. + +“Now yer stop dat,” said Mammy. “I don’t want ter fool wid yer; I lay +I’ll bus’ yer head open mun, ef I git er good lick at yer; yer better +gwuf fum yer!” But Billy, being master of the situation, stood his +ground, and I dare say Mammy would have been lying there yet, but +fortunately Uncle Sambo and Bill, the wagoners, came along the big +road, and, hearing the children’s cries, they came upon the scene of +action, and, taking their whips to Old Billy, soon drove him away. + +“Mammy, we won’t never run away any more,” said Diddie, as Mammy came +up; “’twas Dumps’s fault, anyhow.” + +“Nem min’, yer ma’s gwine whup yer,” said Mammy; “yer’d no business at +dis gin-house long o’ dat sheep, an’ I won’er what you kinky-head +niggers is fur, ef yer can’t keep de chil’en in de yard: come yer ter +me!” And, picking up a cotton-stalk, she gave each of the little +darkies a sound whipping. + +The children were more fortunate. Mamma lectured them on the sin of +running away from Mammy; but she put a piece of court-plaster on +Diddie’s head, and kissed all of the dirty little faces, much to +Mammy’s disgust, who grumbled a good deal because they were not +punished, saying, + +“Missis is er spilin’ dese chil’en, let’n uv ’em cut up all kind er +capers. Yer all better hyear me, mun. Yer better quit dem ways yer got, +er runnin’ off an’ er gwine in de mud, an’ er gittin’ yer cloes tor’d, +an’ er gittin’ me butted wid sheeps; yer better quit it, I tell yer; ef +yer don’t, de deb’l gwine git yer, sho’s yer born.” + +But, notwithstanding her remarks, the little girls had a nice hot +supper, and went to bed quite happy, while Mammy seated herself in her +rocking-chair, and entertained Aunt Milly for some time with the +children’s evil doings and their mother’s leniency. + + + + +CHAPTER V +DIDDIE’S BOOK + + +One morning Diddie came into the nursery with a big blank-book and a +lead-pencil in her hand. + +“What’s that, Diddie?” asked Dumps, leaving her paper dolls on the +floor where she had been playing with Chris, and coming to her sister’s +side. + +“Now don’t you bother me, Dumps,” said Diddie; “I’m goin’ to write a +book.” + +“Are you?” said Dumps, her eyes opening wide in astonishment. “Who’s +goin’ ter tell yer what ter say?” + +“I’m goin’ ter make it up out o’ my head,” said Diddie; “all about +little girls and boys and ladies.” + +“I wouldn’t have no boys in it,” said Dumps; “they’re always so +hateful: there’s Cousin Frank broke up my tea-set, an’ Johnnie Miller +tied er string so tight roun’ Cherubim’s neck till hit nyearly choked +’im. Ef I was writin’ er book, I wouldn’t have no boys in it.” + +“There’s boun’ ter be boys in it, Dumps; you can’t write a book +without’n boys;” and Diddie seated herself, and opened the book before +her, while Dumps, with her elbows on the table and face in her hands, +looked on anxiously. “I’m not goin’ ter write jes one straight book,” +said Diddie; “I’m goin’ ter have little short stories, an’ little +pieces of poetry, an’ all kin’ of things; an’ I’ll name one of the +stories ‘Nettie Herbert:’ don’t you think that’s a pretty name, Dumps?” + +“Jes’ beautiful,” replied Dumps; and Diddie wrote the name at the +beginning of the book. + +“Don’t you think two pages on this big paper will be long enough for +one story?” asked Diddie. + +“Plenty,” answered Dumps. So at the bottom of the second page Diddie +wrote “The END of Nettie Herbert.” + +“Now, what would you name the second story?” asked Diddie, biting her +pencil thoughtfully. + +“I’d name it ‘The Bad Little Girl,’” answered Dumps. + +“Yes, that will do,” said Diddie, and she wrote “The Bad Little Girl” +at the top of the third page; and, allowing two pages for the story, +she wrote “The END of The Bad Little Girl” at the bottom of the next +page. + +“And now it’s time for some poetry,” said Diddie, and she wrote +“Poetry” at the top of the fifth page, and so on until she had divided +all of her book into places for stories and poetry. She had three +stories— “Nettie Herbert,” “The Bad Little Girl,” and “Annie’s Visit to +her Grandma.” She had one place for poetry, and two places she had +marked “History;” for, as she told Dumps, she wasn’t going to write +anything unless it was useful; she wasn’t going to write just trash. + +The titles being all decided upon, Dumps and Chris went back to their +dolls, and Diddie began to write her first story. + +“NETTIE HERBERT.” + +“Nettie Herbert was a poor little girl;” and then she stopped and +asked, + +“Dumps, would you have Nettie Herbert a po’ little girl?” + +“No, I wouldn’t have nobody er po’ little girl,” said Dumps, +conclusively, and Diddie drew a line through what she had written, and +began again. + +“Nettie Herbert was a rich little girl, and she lived with her pa and +ma in a big house in Nu Orlins; and one time her father give her a gold +dollar, and she went down town, and bort a grate big wax doll with open +and shet eyes, and a little cooking stove with pots and kittles, and a +wuck box, and lots uv peices uv clorf to make doll cloes, and a +bu-te-ful gold ring, and a lockit with her pas hare in it, and a big +box full uv all kinds uv candy and nuts and razens and ornges and +things, and a little git-ar to play chunes on, and two little tubs and +some little iuns to wash her doll cloes with; then she bort a little +wheelbarrer, and put all the things in it, and started fur home. When +she was going a long, presently she herd sumbody cryin and jes a sobbin +himself most to deaf; and twas a poor little boy all barefooted and jes +as hungry as he could be; and he said his ma was sick, and his pa was +dead, and he had nine little sisters and seven little bruthers, and he +hadnt had a mouthful to eat in two weeks, and no place to sleep, nor +nuthin. So Nettie went to a doctors house, and told him she would give +him the gold ring fur some fyssick fur the little boys muther; and the +doctor give her some castor-oil and parrygorick, and then she went on +tell they got to the house, and Nettie give her the fyssick, and some +candy to take the taste out of her mouth, and it done her lots uv good; +and she give all her nuts and candy to the poor little chillen. And she +went back to the man what sold her the things, and told him all about +it; and he took back all the little stoves and tubs and iuns and things +she had bort, and give her the money, and she carried it strait to the +poor woman, and told her to buy some bread and cloes for her chillen. +The poor woman thanked her very much, and Nettie told em good-by, and +started fur home.” + +Here Diddie stopped suddenly and said, + +“Come here a little minute, Dumps; I want you to help me wind up this +tale.” Then, after reading it aloud, she said, “You see, I’ve only got +six mo’ lines of paper, an’ I haven’t got room to tell all that +happened to her, an’ what become of her. How would you wind up, if you +were me?” + +“I b’lieve I’d say, she furgive her sisters, an’ married the prince, +an’ lived happy ever afterwards, like ‘Cinderilla an’ the Little Glass +Slipper.’” + +“Oh, Dumps, you’re such er little goose; that kind of endin’ wouldn’t +suit my story at all,” said Diddie; “but I’ll have to wind up somehow, +for all the little girls who read the book will want to know what +become of her, an’ there’s only six lines to wind up in; an’ she’s only +a little girl, an’ she can’t get married; besides, there ain’t any +prince in Nu Orlins. No, somethin’ will have to happen to her. I tell +you, I b’lieve I’ll make a runaway horse run over her goin’ home.” + +“Oh, no, Diddie, please don’t,” entreated Dumps; “po’ little Nettie, +don’t make the horse run over her.” + +“I’m _obliged to,_ Dumps; you mustn’t be so tender-hearted; she’s got +ter be wound up somehow, an’ I might let the Injuns scalp her, or the +bears eat her up, an’ I’m sure that’s a heap worse than jes er horse +runnin’ over her; an’ then you know she ain’t no sho’ nuff little girl; +she’s only made up out of my head.” + +“I don’t care, I don’t want the horse to run over her. I think it’s bad +enough to make her give ’way all her candy an’ little tubs an’ iuns an’ +wheelbarrers, without lettin’ the horses run over her; an’ ef that’s +the way you’re goin’ ter do, I sha’n’t have nuthin’ ’tall ter do with +it.” + +And Dumps, having thus washed her hands of the whole affair, went back +to her dolls, and Diddie resumed her writing: + +“As she was agoin along, presently she herd sumthin cumin +book-er-ty-book, book-er-ty-book, and there was a big horse and a buggy +cum tearin down the road, and she ran jes hard as she could; but befo +she could git out er the way, the horse ran rite over her, and killed +her, and all the people took her up and carried her home, and put +flowers all on her, and buried her at the church, and played the organ +’bout her; and that’s + +the END of Nettie Herbert.” + +“Oh, dear me!” she sighed, when she had finished, “I am tired of +writin’ books; Dumps, sposin’ you make up ’bout the ‘Bad Little Girl,’ +an’ I’ll write it down jes like you tell me.” + +“All right,” assented Dumps, once more leaving her dolls, and coming to +the table. Then, after thinking for a moment, she began, with great +earnestness: + +“Once pun er time there was er bad little girl, an’ she wouldn’t min’ +nobody, nor do no way nobody wanted her to; and when her mother went +ter give her fyssick, you jes ought ter seen her cuttin’ up! _she_ +skweeled, an’ _she_ holler’d, an’ _she_ kicked, an’ she jes done ev’y +bad way she could; an’ one time when she was er goin’ on like that the +spoon slipped down her throat, an’ choked her plum ter death; an’ not +long after that, when she was er playin’ one day—” + +“Oh, but, Dumps,” interrupted Diddie, “you said she was dead.” + +“No, I nuver said nuthin’ ’bout her bein’ dead,” replied Dumps; “an’ ef +you wrote down that she’s dead, then you wrote a story, ’cause she’s +livin’ as anybody.” + +“You said the spoon choked her to death,” said Diddie. + +“Well, hit nuver killed her, anyhow,” said Dumps; “hit jes only give +her spasums; an’ now you’ve gone and put me all out; what was I +sayin’?” + +“When she was er playin’ one day,” prompted Diddie. + +“Oh yes,” continued Dumps, “when she was er playin’ one day on the side +uv the creek with her little sister, she got ter fightin’ an’ pinchin’ +an’ scrougin’, an’ the fus thing she knowed, she fell kersplash in the +creek, and got drownded. An’ one time her mammy tol’ ’er not nuber ter +clim’ up on the fender, an’ she neber min’ ’er, but clum right upon the +fender ter git an apple off’n the mantelpiece; an’ the fender turned +over, an’ she fell in the fire an’ burnt all up. An’ another time, jes +er week after that, she was er foolin’ ’long—” + +“Dumps, what are you talkin’ ’bout?” again interrupted Diddie. “She +couldn’t be er foolin’ long o’ nothin’ ef she’s dead.” + +“But she ain’t dead, Diddie,” persisted Dumps. + +“Well, you said the fire burned her up,” retorted Diddie. + +“I don’t care ef hit did,” said Dumps; “she nuver died bout hit; an’ ef +you’re goin’ ter keep sayin’ she’s dead, then I sha’n’t tell yer no +mo’.” + +“Go on, then,” said Diddie, “an I won’t bother you.” + +“Well, one time,” continued Dumps, “when she was er foolin’ ’long o’ +cow, what she had no business, the cow run his horns right thorough her +neck, an’ throwed her way-ay-ay up yon’er; an’ she nuver come down no +mo’, an’ that’s all.” + +“But, Dumps, what become of her?” asked Diddie. + +“I dunno what become uv her,” said Dumps. “She went ter hebn, I +reckon.” + +“But she couldn’t go ter hebn ef she’s so bad,” said Diddie; “the angel +wouldn’t let her come in,” + +“The cow throwed her in,” said Dumps, “an’ the angel wan’t er lookin’, +an’ he nuver knowed nothin’ ’bout it.” + +“That’s er mighty funny story,” said Diddie; “but I’ll let it stay in +the book—only you ain’t finished it, Dumps. Hyear’s fo’ mo’ lines of +paper ain’t written yet.” + +“That’s all I know,” replied Dumps. And Diddie, after considering +awhile, said she thought it would be very nice to wind it up with a +piece of poetry. Dumps was delighted at that suggestion, and the little +girls puzzled their brains for rhymes. After thinking for some time, +Diddie wrote, + +“Once ’twas a little girl, and she was so bad,” + + +and read it aloud; then said, “Now, Dumps, sposin’ you make up the nex’ +line.” + +Dumps buried her face in her hands, and remained in deep study for a +few moments, and presently said, + +“And now she is dead, an’ I am so glad.” + + +“Oh, Dumps, that’s too wicked,” said Diddie. “You mustn’t never be glad +when anybody’s dead; that’s too wicked a poetry; I sha’n’t write it in +the book.” + +“Well, I nuver knowed nuthin’ else,” said Dumps. “I couldn’t hardly +make that up; I jes had ter study all my might; and I’m tired of +writin’ poetry, anyhow; you make it up all by yourse’f.” + +Diddie, with her brows drawn together in a frown, and her eyes tight +shut, chewed the end of her pencil, and, after a few moments, said, + +“Dumps, do you min’ ef the cow was to run his horns through her forrid +stid of her neck?” + +“No, hit don’t make no diffrence to me,” replied Dumps. + +“Well, then,” said Diddie, “ef ’twas her forrid, I kin fix it.” + +So, after a little more study and thought, Diddie wound up the story +thus: + +“Once ’twas er little girl, so wicked and horrid, + Till the cow run his horns right slap through her forrid, + And throwed her to hebn all full of her sin, + And, the gate bein open, he pitched her right in.” + + +And that was “The END of the Bad Little Girl.” + +“Now there’s jes one mo’ tale,” said Diddie, “and that’s about ‘Annie’s +Visit,’ an I’m tired of makin’ up books; Chris, can’t you make up +that?” + +“I dunno hit,” said Chris, “but I kin tell yer ’bout’n de tar baby, el +dat’ll do.” + +“Don’t you think that’ll do jes as well, Dumps?” asked Diddie. + +“Certingly!” replied Dumps. So Diddie drew her pencil through “Annie’s +Visit,” and wrote in its place, + +“THE TAR BABY,” + +and Chris began: + +“Once pun a time, ’twuz er ole Rabbit an’ er ole Fox and er ole Coon: +an’ dey all lived close togedder; an’ de ole Fox he had him er mighty +fine goober-patch, w’at he nuber ’low nobody ter tech; an’ one mornin’ +atter he git up, an’ wuz er walkin’ ’bout in his gyarden, he seed +tracks, an’ he foller de tracks, an’ he see wahr sumbody ben er +grabhin’ uv his goobers. An’ ev’y day he see de same thing; an’ he +watch, an’ he watch, an’ he couldn’t nubber catch nobody! an’ he went, +he did, ter de Coon, and he sez, sezee, ‘Brer Coon, dar’s sumbody +stealin’ uv my goobers.’ + +“‘Well,’ sez Brer Coon, sezee, ‘I bet yer hit’s Brer Rabbit.’ + +“‘I lay I’ll fix ’im,’ sez Brer Fox; so he goes, he does, and he tuck’n +made er man out’n tar, an’ he sot ’im, he did, right in de middle uv de +goober-patch. Well, sar, soon ez eber de moon riz, Brer Rabbit, he +stole out’n his house, and he lit right out fur dem goobers; and by’mby +he sees de tar man er stanin’ dar, an’ he hollers out, ‘Who’s dat er +stanin’ dar an’ er fixin’ ter steal Brer Fox’s goobers?’ Den he lis’en, +and nobody nuver anser, and he ’gin ter git mad, and he sez, sezee, +‘Yer brack nigger you, yer better anser me wen I speaks ter yer;’ and +wid dat he hault off, he did, and hit de tar baby side de head, and his +han’ stuck fas’ in de tar. Now yer better turn me er loose,’ sez Brer +Rabbit, sezee; I got er nuther han’ lef’,’ and ’ker bum’ he come wid +his udder han’, on de tar baby’s tuther jaw, an’ dat han’ stuck. + +“‘Look er hyear! who yer foolin’ wid?’ sez Brer Rabbit; ‘I got er foot +yit.’ Den he kick wid all his might, an’ his foot stuck. Den he kick +wid his udder foot, an’ dat stuck. Den Brer Rabbit he ’gun ter git +madder’n he wuz, an’ sezee, ‘Ef yer fool ’long o’ me mun I’ll butt de +life out’n yer,” an’ he hault off wid his head, an’ butt de tar baby +right in de chis, an’ his head stuck. Dar he wuz! an’ dar he had ter +stay, till, by’mby, Brer Fox he come er long, an’ he seed de Rabbit er +stickin’ dar, an’ he tuck him up, an’ he cyard ’im long ter Brer Coon’s +house, an’ he sez, sezee, + +“‘Brer Coon, hyear’s de man wat stole my goobers; now wat mus’ I do wid +’im?’ + +“Brer Coon tuck de Fox off one side, he did, an’ he say, ‘Le’s give ’im +his chice, wheder he’d er ruther be tho’d in de fire or de brier-patch; +an’ ef he say de fire, den we’ll fling ’im in de briers; an’ ef he say +de briers, den we’ll fling ’im in de fire.’ So dey went back ter de +Rabbit, an’ ax ’im wheder he’d er ruther be tho’d in de fire or de +briers. + +“‘Oh, Brer Fox,’ sezee, ‘plee-ee-eeze don’t tho me in de briers, an’ +git me all scratched up; plee-ee-eeze tho me in de fire; fur de Lord’s +sake,’ sezee, ‘don’t tho me in de briers.’ + +“And wid dat, Brer Fox he lif’ ’im up, an’ tho’d ’im way-ay-ay over in +de briers. Den Brer Rabbit he kick up his heels, he did, an’ he laugh, +an’ he laugh, an’ he holler out, + +“‘Good-bye, Brer Fox! Far’ yer well, Brer Coon! I wuz born an’ riz in +de briers!’ And wid dat he lit right out, he did, an’ he nuber stop +tell he got clean smack home.” + +The children were mightily pleased with this story; and Diddie, after +carefully writing underneath it, + +“The END of The Tar Baby,” + +said she could write the poetry and history part some other day; so she +closed the book, and gave it to Mammy to put away for her, and she and +Dumps went out for a ride on Corbin. + + + + +CHAPTER VI +UNCLE SNAKE-BIT BOB’S SUNDAY-SCHOOL + + +There, was no more faithful slave in all the Southland than old Uncle +Snake-bit Bob. He had been bitten by a rattlesnake when he was a baby, +and the limb had to be amputated, and its place was supplied with a +wooden peg. There were three or four other “Bobs” on the plantation, +and he was called _Snake-bit_ to distinguish him. Though lame, and sick +a good deal of his time, his life had not been wasted, nor had he been +a useless slave to his master. He made all of the baskets that were +used in the cotton-picking season, and had learned to mend shoes; +besides that, he was the great horse-doctor of the neighborhood, and +not only cured his master’s horses and mules, but was sent for for +miles around to see the sick stock; and then too, he could re-bottom +chairs, and make buckets and tubs and brooms; and all of the money he +made was his own: so the old man had quite a little store of gold and +silver sewed up in an old bag and buried somewhere—nobody knew where +except himself; for Uncle Snake-bit Bob had never married, and had no +family ties; and furthermore, he was old Granny Rachel’s only child, +and Granny had died long, _long_ ago, ever since the children’s mother +was a baby, and he had no brothers or sisters. So, having no cause to +spend his money, he had laid it up until now he was a miser, and would +steal out by himself at night and count his gold and silver, and +chuckle over it with great delight. + +But he was a very good old man; as Mammy used to say, “he wuz de piuses +man dar wuz on de place;” and he had for years led in “de +pra’r-meetin’s, and called up de mo’ners.” + +One evening, as he sat on a hog-pen talking to Uncle Daniel, who was a +preacher, they began to speak of the wickedness among the young negroes +on the plantation. + +“Pyears ter me,” said Uncle Rob, “ez ef dem niggers done furgot dey got +ter die; dey jes er dancin’ an’ er cavortin’ ev’y night, an’ dey’ll git +lef’, mun, wheneber dat angel blow his horn. I tell you what I ben er +stud’n, Brer Dan’l. I ben er stud’n dat what’s de matter wid deze +niggers is, dat de chil’en ain’t riz right. Yer know de Book hit sez ef +yer raise de chil’en, like yer want ’em ter go, den de ole uns dey +won’t part fum hit; an’, sar, ef de Lord spars me tell nex’ Sunday, I +’low ter ax marster ter lemme teach er Sunday-school in de gin-house +fur de chil’en.” + +Major Waldron heartily consented to Uncle Bob’s proposition, and had +the gin-house all swept out for him, and had the carpenter to make him +some rough benches. And when the next Sunday evening came around, all +of the little darkies, with their heads combed and their Sunday clothes +on, assembled for the Sunday-school. The white children begged so hard +to go too, that finally Mammy consented to take them. So when Uncle +Snake-bit Bob walked into the gin-house, their eager little faces were +among those of his pupils. “Niw, you all sot down,” said Uncle Rob, +“an’ ’have yerse’fs till I fix yer in er line.” + +Having arranged them to his satisfaction, he delivered to them a short +address, setting forth the object of the meeting, and his intentions +concerning them. “Chil’en,” he began, “I fotch yer hyear dis ebenin fur +ter raise yer like yer ought ter be riz. De folks deze days is er gwine +ter strucshun er dancin’ an’ er pickin’ uv banjers an’ er singin’ uv +reel chunes an’ er cuttin’ up uv ev’y kin’ er dev’lment. I ben er +watchin’ ’em; an’, min’ yer, when de horn hit soun’ fur de jes’ ter +rise, half de niggers gwine ter be wid de onjes’. An’ I ’low ter myse’f +dat I wuz gwine ter try ter save de chil’en. I gwine ter pray fur yer, +I gwine ter struc yer, an’ I gwine do my bes’ ter lan’ yer in hebn. Now +yer jes pay tenshun ter de strucshun I gwine give yer—dat’s all I ax uv +yer—an’ me an’ de Lord we gwine do de res’.” + +After this exhortation, the old man began at the top of the line, and +asked “Gus,” a bright-eyed little nig, “Who made you?” + +“I dun no, sar,” answered Gus, very untruthfully, for Aunt Nancy had +told him repeatedly. + +“God made yer,” said Uncle Bob. “Now, who Inane yer?” + +“God,” answered Gus. + +“Dat’s right,” said the old man; then proceeded to “Jim,” the next in +order. “What’d he make yer out’n?” demanded the teacher. + +“I dunno, sar,” answered Jim, with as little regard for truth as Gus +had shown. + +“He made yer out’n dut,” said Uncle Bob. “Now, what’d he make yer +out’n?” + +“Dut,” answered Jim, promptly, and the old man passed on to the next. + +“What’d he make yer fur?” + +Again the answer was, “I dunno, sar;” and the old man, after scratching +his head and reflecting a moment, said, “Fur ter do de bes’ yer kin,” +which the child repeated after him. + +“Who wuz de fus man?” was his next question; and the little nig +professing ignorance, as usual, the old man replied, “Marse Adum.” And +so he went all down the line, explaining that “Marse Cain kilt his +brudder;” that “Marse Abel wuz de fus man slewed;” that “Marse Noah +built de ark;” that “Marse Thuselum wuz de oldes’ man,” and so on, +until he reached the end of the line, and had almost exhausted his +store of information. Then, thinking to see how much the children +remembered, he began at the top of the line once more, and asked the +child, + +“Who made yer?” + +“Dut,” answered the little negro. + +“Who?” demanded Uncle Bob, in astonishment. + +“Dut,” replied the child. + +“Didn’ I tell yer God made yer?” asked the old man. + +“No, sar,” replied the boy; “dat’n wat God made done slip out de do’.” + +And so it was. As soon as Uncle Bob’s back was turned, Gus, who had +wearied of the Sunday-school, slipped out, and the old man had not +noticed the change. + +The confusion resulting from this trifling circumstances was fearful. +“Dut” made the first child. The question, “What did he make yer fur?” +was promptly answered, “Marse Adum.” “Eve wuz de fus man.” “Marse Cain +wuz de fus ’oman.” “Marse Abel kilt his brudder.” “Marse Noah wuz de +fus one slewed.” “Marse Thuselum built de ark.” And so on, until the +old man had to begin all over again, and give each one a new answer. +The catechising through with, Uncle Bob said: + +“Now, chil’en, I gwine splain de Scripchurs ter yer. I gwine tell yer +boutn Dan’l in de lions’ den. Dan’l wuz er good Christyun man wat lived +in de Bible; and whedder he wuz er white man or whedder he wuz er brack +man I dunno; I ain’t nuber hyeard nobody say. But dat’s neder hyear no +dar; he wuz er good man, and he pray tree times eby day. At de fus +peepin’ uv de day, Brer Dan’l he usen fur ter hop outn his bed and git +down on his knees; and soon’s eber de horn hit blowed fur de hans ter +come outn de field fur dinner, Brer Dan’l he went in his house, he did, +and he flop right back on ’is knees. And wen de sun set, den dar he wuz +agin er prayin’ and er strivin’ wid de Lord. + +“Well, de king uv dat kentry, he ’low he nuber want no prayin’ bout +’im; he sez, sezee, ‘I want de thing fur ter stop’; but Brer Dan’l, he +nuber studid ’im; he jes prayed right on, tell by’mby de king he ’low +dat de nex’ man wat he cotch prayin’ he wuz gwine cas’m in de lions’ +den. + +“Well, nex’ mornin, soon’s Brer Dan’l riz fum ’is bed, he lit right on +’is knees, an’ went ter prayin’; an’ wile he wuz er wrestlin’ in prar +de pater-rollers dey come in’ an’ dey tied ’im han’ an’ foot wid er +rope, an’ tuck ’im right erlong tell dey come ter de lions’ den; an’ +wen dey wuz yit er fur ways fum dar dey hyeard de lions er ro’in an’ er +sayin’, ‘Ar-ooorrrrar! aroooorrrrrar!’ an’ all dey hearts ’gun ter +quake sept’n Brer Dan’l’s; he nuber note’s ’em; he jes pray ’long. +By’mby dey git ter de den, an’ dey tie er long rope roun’ Brer Dan’l’s +was’e, an’ tho ’im right in! an’ den dey drawed up de rope, an’ went +back whar dey come fum. + +“Well, yearly nex’ mornin hyear dey come agin, an’ dis time de king he +come wid ’em; an’ dey hyeard de lions er ro’in, ‘Ar-ooorrrrar! +arooorrrrar!’ an’ dey come ter de den, an’ dey open de do’, an’ dar wuz +de lions wid dey mouf open an’ dey eyes er shinin,’ jes er trompin’ +backerds an f’orerds; an’ dar in de corner sot an angel smoovin’ uv ’is +wings; an’ right in de middle uv de den was Dan’l, jes er sot’n back +dar! Gemmun, _he wuzn totch!_ he nuber so much as had de smell uv de +lions bout’n ’im! he wuz jes as whole, mun, as he wuz de day he wuz +born! Eben de boots on ’im, sar, wuz ez shiny ez dey wuz wen dey put +’im in dar. + +“An’ he jes clum up de side uv de den, he did; an’ soon’s uber his feet +tech de yeath, he sez ter de king, sezee, ‘King, hit ain’t no usen fur +yer ter fool erlong o’ me,’ sezee; ‘I’m er prayin’ man mysef, an I ’low +ter live an’ die on my knees er prayin’ an’ er sarvin’ de Lord.’ Sezee, +‘De Lord ain’t gwine let de lions meddle long o’ me,’ sezee; ‘I ain’t +fyeard o’ nufn,’ sezee. ‘De Lord is my strengt an’ my rocks, an’ I +ain’t er fyeard o’ NO man.’ An’ wid dat he helt er preachin’, sar, +right whar he wuz; an’ he tol’ ’em uv dey sins, an’ de goodness uv de +Lord. He preach de word, he did, right erlong, an’ atter dat he ’gun +ter sing dis hymn: + +“‘Dan’l wuz er prayin’ man; + He pray tree times er day; + De Lord he hist de winder, + Fur ter hyear po’ Dan’l pray.’ + + +“Den he ’gun ter call up de mo’ners, an’ dey come too! Mun, de whole +yeath wuz erlive wid ’em: de white folks dey went up; an’ de niggers +_dey_ went up; an’ de pater-rollers _dey_ went up; an’ de king he went +up; an’ dey all come thu an’ got ’ligion; an’ fum dat day dem folks is +er sarvin’ de Lord. + +“An’ now, chil’en, efn yer be like Brer Dan’l, an’ say yer prars, an’ +put yer pen’ence in de Lord, yer needn be er fyeard uv no lions; de +Lord, he’ll take cyar uv yer, an’ he’ll be mighty proud ter do it. + +“Now,” continued the old man, “we’ll close dis meet’n by singing uv er +hymn, an’ den yer kin all go. I’ll give de hymn out, so’s dar needn’t +be no ’scuse ’bout not know’n uv de words, an’ so’s yer all kin sing.” + +The children rose to their feet, and Uncle Rob, with great solemnity, +gave out the following hymn, which they all, white and black, sang with +great fervor: + +“O bless us, Lord! O bless us, Lord! + O bless us mo’ an’ mo’; + Unless yer’ll come an’ bless us, Lord, + We will not let yer go. + +“My marster, Lord; my marster, Lord— + O Lord, he does his bes’, + So when yer savin’ sinners, Lord, + Save him wid all de res’. + +“O bless us, Lord! O bless us, Lord! + An’ keep us in yer cyar; + Unless yer’ll come an’ bless us, Lord, + We’re gwine ter hol’ yer hyear. + +“My missus, Lord; my missus, Lord, + O bless my missus now— + She’s tryin’ hard ter serve yer, Lord, + But den she dunno how. + +“O bless us, Lord! O bless us, Lord! + O bless us now, we pray; + Unless ye’ll come an’ bless us, Lord, + We won’t leave hyear ter day. + +“Deze chil’en, Lord; deze chil’en, Lord, + O keep dey little feet + Er gwine straight ter hebn, Lord, + Fur ter walk dat golden street. + +“O bless us, Lord! O bless us, Lord! + O come in all yer might; + Unless yer’ll come an’ bless us, Lord, + We’ll wrestle hyear all night. + +“Deze niggers, Lord; deze niggers, Lord, + Dey skins is black, hit’s true, + But den dey souls is white, my Lord, + So won’t yer bless dem too? + +“O bless us, Lord! O bless us, Lord! + O bless us mo’ an’ mo’; + Unless yer’ll come an’ bless us, Lord, + We’ll keep yer hyear fur sho. + +“All folkses, Lord; all folkses, Lord— + O Lord, bless all de same. + O bless de good, an’ bless de bad, + Fur de glory uv dy name. + +“Now bless us, Lord! now bless us, Lord! + Don’t fool ’long o’ us, no mo’; + O sen’ us down de blessin’, Lord, + An’ den we’ll let yer go.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII +POOR ANN + + +“Miss Diddie!” called Dilsey, running into the nursery one morning in a +great state of excitement; then, seeing that Diddie was not there, she +stopped short, and demanded, “Whar Miss Diddie?” + +“She’s sayin’ her lessons,” answered Dumps. “What do you want with +her?” + +“De specerlaters is come,” said Dilsey; “dey’s right down yon’er on de +crick banks back er de quarters.” + +In an instant Dumps and Tot had abandoned their dolls, and Chris and +Riar had thrown aside their quilt-pieces (for Aunt Milly was teaching +them to sew), and they were all just leaving the room when Mammy +entered. + +“Whar yer gwine?” asked Mammy. + +“Oh, Mammy, de specerlaters is come,” said Dumps, “an’ we’re goin’ down +to the creek to see ’um.” + +“No yer ain’t, nuther,” said Mammy. “Yer ain’t er gwine er nyear dem +specerlaters, er cotchin’ uv measles an’ hookin’-coffs an’ sich, fum +dem niggers. Yer ain’t gwine er nyear ’um; an’ yer jes ez well fur ter +tuck off dem bunnits an’ ter set yerse’fs right back on de flo’ an’ go +ter playin’. An’ efn you little niggers don’t tuck up dem quilt-pieces +an’ go ter patchin’ uv ’em, I lay I’ll hu’t yer, mun! Who dat tell deze +chil’en ’bout de specerlaters?” + +“Hit uz Dilsey,” answered Chris and Riar in a breath; and Mammy, giving +Dilsey a sharp slap, said, + +“Now yer come er prancin’ in hyear ergin wid all kin’ er news, an’ I +bet yer’ll be sorry fur it. Yer know better’n dat. Yer know deze +chil’en ain’t got no bizness ’long o’ specerlaters.” + +In the meanwhile Dumps and Tot were crying over their disappointment. + +“Yer mean old thing!” sobbed Dumps. “I ain’t goin’ ter min’ yer, +nuther; an’ I sha’n’t nuver go ter sleep no mo’, an’ let you go to +prayer-meetin’s; jes all time botherin’ me, an’ won’t lemme see de +specerlaters, nor nothin’.” + +“Jes lis’en how yer talkin’,” said Mammy, “given’ me all dat sass. +You’re de sassies’ chile marster’s got. Nobody can’t nuver larn yer no +manners, allers er sassin ole pussons. Jes keep on, an’ yer’ll see +wat’ll happen ter yer; yer’ll wake up some er deze mornins, an, yer +won’t have no hyear on yer head. I knowed er little gal onct wat sassed +her mudder, an’ de Lord he sent er angel in de night, he did, an’ +struck her plum’ bald-headed.” + +“You ain’t none o’ my mother,” replied Dumps. “You’re mos’ black ez my +shoes; an’ de Lord ain’t er goin’ ter pull all my hair off jes ’boutn +you.” + +“I gwine right down-sta’rs an’ tell yer ma,” said Mammy. “She don’t +’low none o’ you chil’en fur ter sass me, an’ ter call me brack; she +nuver done it herse’f, wan she wuz little. I’se got ter be treated wid +’spec myse’f; ef I don’t, den hit’s time fur me ter quit min’en +chil’en: I gwine tell yer ma.” + +And Mammy left the room in high dudgeon, but presently came back, and +said Dumps was to go to her mother at once. + +“What is the matter with my little daughter?” asked her father, as she +came slowly downstairs, crying bitterly, and met him in the hall. + +“Mammy’s ben er sa-a-as-sin me,” sobbed Dumps; “an’ she sa-aid de Lord +wuz goin’ ter sen’ an angel fur ter git my ha-air, an’ she won’t lem’me +go-o-o ter see de spec-ec-ec-erlaters.” + +“Well, come in mamma’s room,” said her father, “and we’ll talk it all +over.” + +And the upshot of the matter was that Major Waldron said he would +himself take the children to the speculator’s camp; and accordingly, as +soon as dinner was over, they all started off in high glee—the three +little girls and the three little negroes—leaving Mammy standing at the +top of the stairs, muttering to herself, “Er catchin’ uv de measles an’ +de hookin’-coffs.” + +The speculator’s camp was situated on the bank of the creek, and a very +bright scene it presented as Major Waldron and his party came up to it. +At a little distance from the main encampment was the speculator’s +tent, and the tents for the negroes were dotted here and there among +the trees. Some of the women were sitting at the creek, others were +cooking, and some were sitting in front of their tents sewing; numbers +of little negroes were playing about, and, altogether, the +“speculator’s camp” was not the horrible thing that one might suppose. + +The speculator, who was a jolly-looking man weighing over two hundred +pounds, came forward to meet Major Waldron and show him over the +encampment. + +The negroes were well clothed, well fed, and the great majority of them +looked exceedingly happy. + +They came across one group of boys and girls dancing and singing. An +old man, in another group, had collected a number of eager listeners +around him, and was recounting some marvellous tale; but occasionally +there would be a sad face and a tearful eye, and Mr. Waldron sighed as +he passed these, knowing that they were probably grieving over the home +and friends they had left. + +As they came to one of the tents, the speculator said, “There is a sick +yellow woman in there, that I bought in Maryland. She had to be sold in +the settlement of an estate, and she has fretted herself almost to +death; she is in such bad health now that I doubt if anybody will buy +her, though she has a very likely little boy about two years old.” + +Mr. Waldron expressed a wish to see the woman, and they went in. + +Lying on a very comfortable bed was a woman nearly white; her eyes were +deep-sunken in her head, and she was painfully thin. Mr. Waldron took +her hand in his and looked into her sad eyes. + +“Do you feel much pain?” he asked, tenderly. + +“Yes, sir,” answered the woman, “I suffer a great deal; and I am so +unhappy, sir, about my baby; I can’t live long, and what will become of +him? If I only had a home, where I could make friends for him before I +die, where I could beg and entreat the people to be kind to him and +take care of him! ’Tis that keeps me sick, sir.” + +By this time Diddie’s eyes were swimming in tears, and Dumps was +sobbing aloud; seeing which, Tot began to cry too, though she hadn’t +the slightest idea what was the matter; and Diddie, going to the side +of the bed, smoothed the woman’s long black hair, and said, + +“We’ll take you home with us, an’ we’ll be good to your little boy, me +an’ Dumps an’ Tot, an’ I’ll give ’im some of my marbles.” + +“An’ my little painted wagin,” put in Dumps. + +“An’ you shall live with us always,” continued Diddie; “an’ Mammy’ll +put yer feet into hot water, an’ rub turkentine on yer ches’, an’ give +yer ‘fermifuge’ ev’y mornin’, an’ you’ll soon be well. Papa, sha’n’t +she go home with us?” + +Major Waldron’s own eyes moistened as he answered, + +“We will see about it, my daughter;” and, telling the woman whose name +was Ann, that he would see her again, he left the tent, and presently +the camp. + +That night, after the little folks were asleep, Major Waldron and his +wife had a long talk about the sick woman and her little boy, and it +was decided between them that Major Waldron should go the next morning +and purchase them both. + +The children were delighted when they knew of this decision, and took +an active part in preparing one room of the laundry for Ann’s +reception. Their mother had a plain bedstead moved in, and sent down +from the house a bed and mattress, which she supplied with sheets, +pillows, blankets, and a quilt. Then Uncle Nathan, the carpenter, took +a large wooden box and put shelves in it, and tacked some +bright-colored calico all around it, and made a bureau. Two or three +chairs were spared from the nursery, and Diddie put some of her toys on +the mantel-piece for the baby; and then, when they had brought in a +little square table and covered it with a neat white cloth, and placed +upon it a mug of flowers, and when Uncle Nathan had put up some shelves +in one corner of the roof, and driven some pegs to hang clothes on, +they pronounced the room all ready. + +And Ann, who had lived for several months in the camp, was delighted +with her new home and the preparations that her little mistresses had +made for her. The baby, too, laughed and clapped his hands over the +toys the children gave him. His name was Henry, and a very pretty child +he was. He was almost as white as Tot, and his black hair curled in +ringlets all over his head; but, strange to say, neither he nor his +mother gained favor with the negroes on the place. + +Mammy said openly that she “nuver had no ’pinion uv white niggers,” and +that “marster sholy had niggers ’nuff fur ter wait on ’im doutn buyen +’em.” + +But, for all that, Ann and her little boy were quite happy. She was +still sick, and could never be well, for she had consumption; though +she got much better, and could walk about the yard, and sit in front of +her door with Henry in her lap. Her devotion to her baby was unusual in +a slave; she could not bear to have him out of her sight, and never +seemed happy unless he was playing around her or nestling in her arms. + +Mrs. Waldron, of course, never exacted any work of Ann. They had bought +her simply to give her a home and take care of her, and faithfully that +duty was performed. Her meals were carried from the table, and she had +every attention paid to her comfort. + +One bright evening, when she was feeling better than usual, she went +out for a walk, and, passing Uncle Snake-bit Bob’s shop, she stopped to +look at his baskets, and to let little Henry pick up some white-oak +splits that he seemed to have set his heart on. + +The old man, like all the other negroes, was indignant that his master +should have purchased her; for they all prided themselves on being +inherited, and “didn’t want no bought folks” among them. He had never +seen her, and now would scarcely look at or speak to her. + +“You weave these very nicely,” said Ann, examining one of his baskets. +Uncle Bob looked up, and, seeing she was pale and thin, offered her a +seat, which she accepted. + +“Is this always your work?” asked Ann, by way of opening a conversation +with the old man. + +“In cose ’tis,” he replied; “who dat gwine ter make de baskits les’n +hit’s me? I done make baskits ’fo mistiss wuz born; I usen ter ’long +ter her pa; I ain’t no bort nigger myse’f.” + +“You are certainly very fortunate,” answered Ann, “for the slave that +has never been on the block can never know the full bitterness of +slavery.” + +“Wy, yer talkin’ same ez white folks,” said Uncle Bob. “Whar yer git +all dem fine talkin’s fum? ain’t you er nigger same ez me?” + +“Yes, I am a negress, Uncle Bob; or, rather, my mother was a slave, and +I was born in slavery; but I have had the misfortune to have been +educated.” + +“_Kin_ yer read in de book?” asked the old man earnestly. + +“Oh yes, as well as anybody.” + +“Who showed yer?” asked Uncle Bob. + +“My mistress had me taught; but, if it won’t bother you, I’ll just tell +you all about it, for I want to get your interest, Uncle Bob, and gain +your love, if I can—yours, and everybody’s on the place—for I am sick, +and must die, and I want to make friends, so they will be kind to my +baby. Shall I tell you my story?” + +The old man nodded his head, and went on with his work, while Ann +related to him the sad history of her life. + +“My mother, who was a favorite slave, died when I was born; and my +mistress, who had a young baby only a few days older than myself, took +me to nurse. I slept, during my infancy, in the cradle with my little +mistress, and afterwards in the room with her, and thus we grew up as +playmates and companions until we reached our seventh year, when we +both had scarlet fever. My little mistress, who was the only child of a +widow, died; and her mother, bending over her death-bed, cried, ‘I will +have no little daughter now!’ when the child placed her arms about her +and said, ‘Mamma, let Ann be your daughter; she’ll be your little girl; +I’ll go to her mamma, and she’ll stay with my mamma.’ + +“And from that time I was no more a slave, but a child in the house. My +mistress brought a governess for me from the North, and I was taught as +white girls are. I was fond of my books, and my life was a very happy +one, though we lived on a lonely plantation, and had but little +company. + +“I was almost white, as you see, and my mistress had taught me to call +her mamma. I was devoted to her, and very fond of my governess, and +they both petted me as if I really had been a daughter instead of a +slave. Four years ago the brother of my governess came out from Vermont +to make his sister a visit at our home. He fell in love with me, and I +loved him dearly, and, accompanied by my ‘mamma’ and his sister, we +went into Pennsylvania, and were married. You know we could not be +married in Maryland, for it is a Slave State, and I was a slave. My +mistress had, of course, always intended that I should be free, but +neglected from time to time to draw up the proper papers. + +“For two years after my marriage my husband and I lived on the +plantation, he managing the estate until he was called to Washington on +business, and, in returning, the train was thrown down an embankment, +and he was among the killed. + +“Soon after that my baby was born, and before he was six months old my +mistress died suddenly, when it was found that the estate was +insolvent, and everything must be sold to pay the debts; and I and my +baby, with the other goods and chattels, were put up for sale. Mr. +Martin, the speculator, bought me, thinking I would bring a fancy +price; but my heart was broken, and I grieved until my health gave way, +so that nobody ever wanted me, until your kind-hearted master bought me +to give me a home to die in. But oh, Uncle Bob,” she continued, +bursting into tears, “to think my boy, my baby, must be a slave! His +father’s relatives are poor. He had only a widowed mother and two +sisters. They are not able to buy my child, and he must be raised in +ignorance, to do another’s bidding all his life, my poor little baby! +His dear father hated slavery, and it seems so hard that his son must +be a slave!” + +“Now don’t yer take on like dat, er makin’ uv yerse’f sick,” said Uncle +Bob; “I know wat I gwine do; my min’ hit’s made up; hit’s true, I’m +brack, but den my min’ hit’s made up. Now you go on back ter de house, +outn dis damp a’r, an’ tuck cyar er yerse’f, an’ don’t yer be er +frettin’, nuther, caze my marster, he’s de bes’ man dey is; an’ den, +’sides dat, my min’ hit’s made up. Hyear, honey,” addressing the child, +“take deze hyear white-oak splits an’ go’n make yer er baskit ’long o’ +yer ma.” + +Ann and her baby returned to the house, but Uncle Snake-bit Rob, long +after the sun went down, still sat on his little bench in front of his +shop, his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands; and +when it grew quite dark he rose, and put away his splits and his +baskets, saying to himself, + +“Well, I know wat I’m gwine do; my min’ hit’s made up.” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII +UNCLE BOB’S PROPOSITION + + +The night after Ann’s interview with Uncle Bob, Major Waldron was +sitting in his library looking over some papers, when some one knocked +at the door, and, in response to his hearty “Come in,” Uncle Snake-bit +Bob entered. + +“Ebenin’ ter yer, marster,” said the old man, scraping his foot and +bowing his head. + +“How are you, Uncle Bob?” responded his master. + +“I’m jes po’ly, thank God,” replied Uncle Bob, in the answer invariably +given by Southern slaves to the query “How are you?” No matter if they +were fat as seals, and had never had a day’s sickness in their lives, +the answer was always the same—“I’m po’ly, thank God.” + +“Well, Uncle Bob, what is it now?” asked Major Waldron. “The little +negroes been bothering your splits again?” + +“Dey’s all de time at dat, marster, an’ dey gwine git hu’t, mun, ef dey +fool long o’ me; but den dat ain’t wat I come fur dis time. I come fur +ter hab er talk wid yer, sar, ef yer kin spar de ole nigger de time.” + +“There’s plenty of time, Uncle Bob; take a seat, then, if we are to +have a talk;” and Major Waldron lit his cigar, and leaned back, while +Uncle Bob seated himself on a low chair, and said: + +“Marster, I come ter ax yer wat’ll yer take fur dat little boy yer +bought fum de specerlaters?” + +“Ann’s little boy?” asked his master; “why, I would not sell him at +all. I only bought him because his mother was dying of exposure and +fatigue, and I wanted to relieve her mind of anxiety on his account, I +would certainly never sell her child away from her,” + +“Yes, sar, dat’s so,” replied the old man; “but den my min’, hit’s made +up. I’ve laid me up er little money fum time ter time, wen I’d be er +doct’in uv hosses an’ mules an’ men’-in’ cheers, an’ all sich ez dat; +de folks dey pays me lib’ul; an’, let erlone dat, I’m done mighty well +wid my taters an’ goobers, er sellin’ uv ’em ter de steamboat han’s, +wat takes ’em ter de town, an’ ’sposes uv ’em. So I’m got er right +smart chance uv money laid up, sar; an’ now I wants ter buy me er +nigger, same ez white folks, fur ter wait on me an’ bresh my coat an’ +drive my kerridge; an’ I ’lowed ef yer’d sell de little white nigger, +I’d buy ’im,” and Uncle Bob chuckled and laughed. + +“Why, Bob, I believe you are crazy,” said his master, “or drunk.” + +“I ain’t neder one, marster; but den I’m er jokin’ too much, mo’n de +’lenity uv de cazhun inquires, an’ now I’ll splain de facks, sar.” + +And Uncle Rob related Ann’s story to his master, and wound up by +saying: + +“An’ now, marster, my min’, hit’s made up. I wants ter buy de little +chap, an’ give ’im ter his mammy, de one wat God give ’im to. Hit’ll go +mighty hard wid me ter part fum all dat money, caze I ben years pun top +er years er layin’ uv it up, an’ hit’s er mighty, cumfut ter me er +countin’ an’ er jinglin’ uv it; but hit ain’t doin’ nobody no good er +buried in de groun’, an’ I don’t special need it myse’f, caze you gives +me my cloes, an’ my shoes, an’ my eatin’s, an’ my backer, an’ my wisky, +an’ I ain’t got no cazhun fur ter spen’ it; an’ let erlone dat, I can’t +stay hyear fureber, er countin’ an’ er jinglin’ dat money, wen de angel +soun’ dat horn, de ole nigger he’s got ter go; he’s boun’ fur ter be +dar! de money can’t hol’ ’im! De Lord, he ain’t gwine ter say, ’Scuze +dat nigger, caze he got money piled up; lef ’im erlone, fur ter count +dat gol’ an’ silver.’ No, sar! But, marster, maybe in de jedgmun’ day, +wen Ole Bob is er stan’in’ fo’ de Lord wid his knees er trim’lin’, an’ +de angel fotches out dat book er hisn, and’ de Lord tell ’im fur ter +read wat he writ gins ’im, an’ de angel he ’gin ter read how de ole +nigger drunk too much wisky, how he stoled watermillions in de night, +how he cussed, how he axed too much fur doct’in’ uv hosses, an’ wen he +wuz men’in’ cheers, how he wouldn’t men’ ’em strong, so’s he’d git ter +men’ ’em ergin some time; an’ den’ wen he read all dat an’ shet de +book, maybe de Lord he’ll say, ‘Well, he’s er pow’ful sinful nigger, +but den he tuck his money, he did, an’ buy’d de little baby fur ter +give ’im ter his mammy, an’ I sha’n’t be too hard on’ im. + +“Maybe he’ll say dat, an’ den ergin maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll punish +de ole nigger ter de full stent uv his ’greshuns; an’ den, ergin, maybe +he’ll let him off light; but dat ain’t neder hyear nur dar. What’ll yer +take fur de baby, caze my min’ hit’s made up?” + +“And mine is too, Uncle Bob,” said his master, rising, and grasping in +his the big black hand. “Mine is too. I will give Ann her freedom and +her baby, and the same amount of money that you give her; that will +take her to her husband’s relatives, and she can die happy, knowing +that her baby will be taken care of.” + +The next day Uncle Bob dug up his money, and the bag was found to +contain three hundred dollars. + +His master put with it a check for the same amount, and sent him into +the laundry to tell Ann of her good fortune. + +The poor woman was overcome with happiness and gratitude, and, throwing +her arms around Uncle Bob, she sobbed and cried on his shoulder. + +She wrote at once to her husband’s relatives, and a few weeks after +Major Waldron took her to New Orleans, had the requisite papers drawn +up for her freedom, and accompanied her on board of a vessel bound for +New York; and then, paying her passage himself, so that she might keep +her money for future emergencies, he bade adieu to the only slaves he +ever bought. + + + + +CHAPTER IX +AUNT EDY’S STORY + + +Aunt Edy was the principal laundress, and a great favorite she was with +the little girls. She was never too busy to do up a doll’s frock or +apron, and was always glad when she could amuse and entertain them. One +evening Dumps and Tot stole off from Mammy, and ran as fast as they +could clip it to the laundry, with a whole armful of their dollies’ +clothes, to get Aunt Edy to let them “iun des er ’ittle,” as Tot said. + +“Lemme see wat yer got,” said Aunt Edy; and they spread out on the +table garments of worsted and silk and muslin and lace and tarlatan and +calico and homespun, just whatever their little hands had been able to +gather up. + +“Lor’, chil’en, ef yer washes deze fine close yer’ll ruint ’em,” said +Aunt Edy, examining the bundles laid out; “de suds’ll tuck all de color +out’n ’em; s’posin’ yer jes press ’em out on de little stool ober dar +wid er nice cole iun,” + +“Yes, that’s the very thing,” said Dumps; and Aunt Edy folded some +towels, and laid them on the little stools, and gave each of the +children a cold iron. And, kneeling down, so as to get at their work +conveniently, the little girls were soon busy smoothing and pressing +the things they had brought. + +“Aunt Edy,” said Dumps, presently, “could’n yer tell us ’bout Po’ Nancy +Jane O?” + +“Dar now!” exclaimed Aunt Edy; “dem chil’en nuber is tierd er hyearn’ +dat tale; pyears like dey like hit mo’ an’ mo’ eb’y time dey hyears +hit;” and she laughed slyly, for she was the only one on the plantation +who knew about “Po’ Nancy Jane O,” and she was pleased because it was +such a favorite story with the children. + +“Once pun er time,” she began, “dar wuz er bird name’ Nancy Jane O, an’ +she wuz guv up ter be de swif’es’-fly’n thing dar wuz in de a’r. Well, +at dat time de king uv all de fishes an’ birds, an’ all de little +beas’es, like snakes an’ frogs an’ wums an’ tarrypins an’ bugs, an’ all +sich ez dat, he wur er mole dat year! an’ he wuz blin’ in bof ’is eyes, +jes same like any udder mole; an’, somehow, he had hyear some way dat +dar wuz er little bit er stone name’ de gol’-stone, way off fum dar, in +er muddy crick, an’ ef’n he could git dat stone, an’ hol’ it in his +mouf, he could see same ez anybody. + +“Den he ’gun ter stedy how wuz he fur ter git dat stone. + +“He stedded an’ _he stedded,_ an’ pyeard like de mo’ he stedded de mo’ +he couldn’ fix no way fur ter git it. He knowed he wuz blin’, an’ he +knowed he trab’l so slow dat he ’lowed ’twould be years pun top er +years befo’ he’d git ter de crick, an’ so he made up in ’is min’ dat +he’d let somebody git it fur ’im. Den, bein’ ez he wuz de king, an’ +could grant any kin’ er wush, he sont all roun’ thu de kentry eb’ywhar, +an’ ’lowed dat any bird or fish, or any kin’ er little beas’ dat ’oud +fotch ’im dat stone, he’d grant ’em de deares’ wush er dey hearts. + +“Well, mun, in er few days de whole yearth wuz er movin’; eb’ything dar +wuz in de lan’ wuz er gwine. + +“Some wuz er hoppin’ an’ some wuz er crawlin’ an’ some wuz er flyin’, +jes ’cord’n to dey natur’; de birds dey ’lowed ter git dar fus’, on +’count er fly’n so fas’; but den de little stone wuz in de water, an’ +dey’d hatter wait till de crick run down, so ’twuz jes ’bout broad ez +’twuz long. + +“Well, wile dey wuz all er gwine, an, de birds wuz in de lead, one day +dey hyeard sump’n gwine f-l-u-shsh—f-l-u-shsh—an’ sump’n streaked by +like lightnin’, and dey look way erhead, dey did, an’ dey seed Nancy +Jane O. Den dey hearts ’gun ter sink, an’ dey gin right up, caze dey +knowed she’d out-fly eb’ything on de road. An’ by’mby de crow, wat wuz +allers er cunin’ bird, sez, ‘I tell yer wat we’ll do; we’ll all gin er +feas’,’ sezee, ‘an’ git Nancy Jane O ter come, an’ den we’ll all club +togedder an’ tie her,’ sezee. + +“Dat took dey fancy, an’ dey sont de lark on erhead fur ter catch up +wid Nancy Jane O, an’ ter ax’ er ter de feas’. Well, mun, de lark he +nearly kill hese’f er flyin’. He flew an’ he flew an’ he flew, but +pyear’d like de fas’er he went de furder erhead wuz Nancy Jane O. + +“But Nancy Jane O, bein’ so fur er start uv all de res’, an’ not er +dreamin’ ’bout no kin’ er develment, she ’lowed she’d stop an’ take er +nap, an’ so de lark he come up wid ’er, wile she wuz er set’n on er +sweet-gum lim’, wid ’er head un’er ’er wing. Den de lark spoke up, an’ +sezee, ‘Sis Nancy Jane O,’ sezee, ‘we birds is gwinter gin er bug +feas’, caze we’ll be sho’ ter win de race anyhow, an’ bein’ ez we’ve +flew’d so long an’ so fur, wy we’re gwine ter stop an’ res’ er spell, +an’ gin er feas’. An’ Brer Crow he ’lowed ’twouldn’ be no feas’ ’tall +les’n you could be dar; so dey sont me on ter tell yer to hol’ up tell +dey come: dey’s done got seeds an’ bugs an’ wums, an’ Brer Crow he’s +gwine ter furnish de corn.’ + +“Nancy Jane O she ’lowed ter herse’f she could soon git erhead uv ’em +ergin, so she ’greed ter wait; an’ by’mby hyear day come er flyin’. An’ +de nex’ day dey gin de feas’; an’ wile Nancy Jane O wuz er eatin’ an’ +er stuffun’ herse’f wid wums an’ seeds, an’ one thing er nudder, de +blue jay he slope up behin’ ’er, an’ tied ’er fas’ ter er little bush. +An’ dey all laft an’ flopped dey wings; an’ sez dey, ‘Good-bye ter yer, +Sis Nancy Jane O. I hope yer’ll enjoy yerse’f,’ sez dey; an’ den dey +riz up an’ stretched out dey wings, an’ away dey flewed. + +“Wen Po’ Nancy Jane O seed de trick wat dey played her, she couldn’ +hardly stan’ still, she wuz so mad; an’ she pulled an’ she jerked an’ +she stretched ter git er loose, but de string wuz so strong, an’ de +bush wuz so fum, she wuz jes er was’en ’er strengt’. An’ den she sot +down, an’ she ’gun ter cry ter herse’f, an’ ter sing, + +“‘Please on-tie, please on-tie Po’ Nancy Jane O! + Please on-tie, please on-tie Po’ Nancy Jane O!’ + + +An’ atter er wile hyear come de ole bullfrog Pigunawaya. He sez ter +hisse’f, sezee, ‘Wat’s dat I hyear? Den he lis’en, an’ he hyear sump’n +gwine, + +“‘Please on-tie, please on-tie Po’ Nancy Jane O!’ + + +an’ he went whar he hyeard de soun’, an’ dar wuz de po’ bird layin’ +down all tied ter de bush. + +“‘Umph!’ says Pigunawaya, sezee, ‘ain’t dis Nancy Jane O, de +swif’es’-flyin’ bird dey is?’ sezee; ‘wat ail ’long yer, chile? wat yer +cryin’ ’bout?’ An’ atter Nancy Jane O she up an’ tol’ ’im, den de frog +sez: + +“‘Now look er yer; I wuz er gwine myse’f ter see ef’n I could’n git dat +gol’-stone; hit’s true I don’t stan’ much showin’ ’long o’ birds, but +den ef’n eber I gits dar, wy I kin jes jump right in an’ fotch up de +stone wile de birds is er waitin’ fur de crick ter run down. An’ now, +s’posin’ I wuz ter ontie yer, Nancy Jane O, could yer tuck me on yer +back an’ cyar me ter de crick? an’ den we’d hab de sho’ thing on de +gol’-stone, caze soon’s eber we git dar, I’ll git it, an’ we’ll cyar it +bof tergedder ter de king, an’ den we’ll bof git de deares’ wush uv our +hearts. Now wat yer say? speak yer min’. Ef’n yer able an’ willin’ ter +tote me fum hyear ter de crick, I’ll ontie yer; ef’n yer ain’t, den far +yer well, caze I mus’ be er gittin’ erlong.’ + +“Well, Nancy Jane O, she stedded an’ stedded in her min’, an’ by’mby +she sez, ‘Brer Frog,’ sez she, ‘I b’lieve I’ll try yer; ontie me,’ sez +she, ‘an’ git on, an’ I’ll tuck yer ter de crick.’ Den de frog he clum +on her back an’ ontied her, an’ she flopped her wings an’ started off. +Hit wuz mighty hard flyin’ wid dat big frog on her back; but Nancy Jane +O wuz er flyer, mun, yer hyeard me! an’ she jes lit right out, an’ she +flew an’ she flew, an’ atter er wile she got in sight er de birds, an’ +dey looked, an’ dey see her comin’, an’ den dey ’gun ter holler, + +“‘Who on-tied, who on-tied Po’ Nancy Jane O?’ + + +An’ de frog he holler back, + +“‘O Pig-un-a-wa-ya, Pig-un-a-wa-ya, hooo-hooo!’ + + +“Den, gemmun, yer oughten seed dat race; dem birds dey done dey leb’l +bes’, but Nancy Jane O, spite er all dey could do, she gaint on ’em, +an’ ole Pigunawaya he sot up dar, an’ he kep’ er urg’n an’ er urg’n +Nancy Jane O. + +“‘Dat’s you!’ sezee; ‘git erhead!’ sezee. ‘Now we’re gwine it!’ sezee; +an’ pres’nly Nancy Jane O shot erhead clean befo’ all de res’, an’ wen +de birds dey seed dat de race wuz los’, den dey all ’gun ter holler, + +“‘Who on-tied, who on-tied Po’ Nancy Jane O?’ + + +An’ de frog, he turnt roun,’ he did, an’ he wave his han’ roun’ his +head, an’ he holler back, + +“‘Pig-un-a-wa-ya, Pig-un-a-wa-ya, hooo-hooo!’ + + +“Atter Nancy Jane O got erhead er de birds, den de hardes’ flyin’ wuz +thu wid; so she jes went ’long, an’ went ’long, kin’ er easy like, tell +she got ter de stone; an’ she lit on er’ simmon-bush close ter de +crick, an’ Pigunawaya he slipt off, he did, an’ he hist up his feet, +an’ he gin er jump, kerchug he went down inter de water; an’ by’mby +hyear he come wid de stone in his mouf. Den he mount on Nancy Jane O, +he did; an’, mun, she wuz so proud, she an’ de frog bof, tell dey flew +all roun’ an’ roun’, an’ Nancy Jane O, she ’gun ter sing, + +“‘Who on-tied, who on-tied Po’ Nancy Jane O?’ + + +An’ de frog he ans’er back, + +“‘Pig-un-a-wa-ya, Pig-un-a-wa-ya, hooo-hooo!’ + + +“An’ wile dey wuz er singing’ an’ er j’yin’ uv deyselves, hyear come de +birds; an’ de frog he felt so big, caze he’d got de stone, tell he +stood up on Nancy Jane O’s back, he did, an’ he tuck’n shuck de stone +at de birds, an’ holler at ’em, + +“‘O Pig-un-a-wa-ya, Pig-un-a-wa-ya, hoo-hooo!’ + + +An’ jes ez he said dat, he felt hisse’f slippin’, an’ dat made him +clutch on ter Po’ Nancy Jane O, an’ down dey bof’ went tergedder +kersplash, right inter de crick. + +“De frog he fell slap on ter er big rock, an’ bust his head all ter +pieces; an’ Po’ Nancy Jane O sunk down in de water an’ got drownded; +an’ dat’s de een’.” + +“Did the king get the stone, Aunt Edy?” asked Dumps. + +“Wy no, chile; don’t yer know de mole he’s blin’ tell yit? ef’n he +could er got dat stone, he could er seen out’n his eyes befo’ now. But +I ain’t got no time ter fool ’long er you chil’en. I mus’ git marster’s +shuts done, I mus’.” + +And Aunt Edy turned to her ironing-table, as if she didn’t care for +company; and Dumps and Tot, seeing that she was tired of them, went +back to the house, Tot singing, + +“Who on-tied, who on-tied Po’ Nanty Dane O?” + + +and Dumps answering back, + +“Pig-un-a-wa-ya, Pig-un-a-wa-ya, hooo-hooo!” + + + + +CHAPTER X +PLANTATION GAMES + + +“Mammy, the quarter folks are goin’ ter play to-night; can’t we go look +at ’em?” pleaded Diddie one Saturday evening, as Mammy was busy sorting +out the children’s clothes and putting them away. + +“Yer allers want ter be ’long er dem quarter-folks,” said Mammy. “Dem +ain’t de ’soshuts fur you chil’en.” + +“We don’t want ter ’soshate with ’em, Mammy; we only want ter look at +’em play ‘Monkey Moshuns’ and ‘Lipto’ and ‘The Lady You Like Best,’ and +hear Jim pick the banjo, and see ’em dance; can’t we go? PLEASE! It’s +warm weather now, an’ er moonshiny night; can’t we go?” + +And Diddie placed one arm around Mammy’s neck, and laid the other +little hand caressingly on her cheek; and Mammy, after much persuasion, +agreed to take them, if they would come home quietly when she wanted +them to. + +As soon as the little girls had had their supper, they set out for the +quarters. Dilsey and Chris and Riar, of course, accompanied them, +though Chris had had some difficulty in joining the party. She had come +to grief about her quilt patching, having sewed the squares together in +such a way that the corners wouldn’t hit, and Mammy had made her rip it +all out and sew it over again, and had boxed her soundly, and now said +she shouldn’t go with the others to the quarters; but here Dumps +interfered, and said Mammy shouldn’t be “all time ’posin’ on Chris,” +and she went down to see her father about it, who interceded with Mammy +so effectually that, when the little folks started off, Chris was with +them. When they got to the open space back of Aunt Nancy’s cabin, and +which was called “de play-groun’,” they found that a bright fire of +light-wood knots had been kindled to give a light, and a large pile of +pine-knots and dried branches of trees was lying near for the purpose +of keeping it up. Aunt Nancy had a bench moved out of her cabin for +“Marster’s chil’en” to sit on, while all of the little negroes squatted +around on the ground to look on. These games were confined to the young +men and women, and the negro children were not allowed to participate. + +Mammy, seeing that the children were safe and in good hands, repaired +to “Sis Haly’s house,” where “de chu’ch membahs” had assembled for a +prayer-meeting. + +Soon after the children had taken their seats, the young folks came out +on the playground for a game of Monkey Motions. + +They all joined hands, and made a ring around one who stood in the +middle, and then began to dance around in a circle, singing, + +“I ac’ monkey moshuns, too-re-loo; + I ac’ monkey moshuns, so I do; + I ac’ ’em well, an’ dat’s er fac’—I ac’ jes like dem monkeys ac’. + +“I ac’ gemmun moshuns, too-re-loo; + I ac’ gemmun moshuns, so I do; + I ac’ ’em well, an’ dat’s er fac’—I ac’ jes like dem gemmums ac’. + +“I ac’ lady moshuns, too-re-loo; + I ac’ lady moshuns, so I do; + I ac’ ’em well, an’ dat’s er fac’—I ac’ jes like dem ladies ac’. + +“I ac’ chil’en moshuns, too-re-loo; + I ac’ chil’en moshuns, so I do; + I ac’ ’em well, an’ dat’s er fac’ + I ac’ jes like dem chil’ens ac’. + +“I ac’ preacher moshuns, too-re-loo; + I ac’ preacher moshuns, so I do; + I ac’ ’em well, an’ dat’s er fac’—I ac’ jes like dem preachers ac’. + +“I ac’ nigger moshuns, too-re-loo; + I ac’ nigger moshuns, so I do; + I ac’ ’em well, an’ dat’s er fac’—I ac’ jes like dem niggers ac’.” + + +The song had a lively air, and Jim picked the accompaniment on the +banjo. Many of the negroes had good voices, and the singing was indeed +excellent. + +While the dancers were singing the first verse, “I ac’ monkey moshuns,” +the one in the middle would screw up his face and hump his shoulders in +the most grotesque manner, to represent a monkey. + +When they sang “I ac’ gemmun moshuns,” he would stick his hat on one +side of his head, take a walking-cane in his hand, and strut back and +forth, to represent a gentleman. + +In the “lady moshuns,” he would take little mincing steps, and toss his +head from side to side, and pretend to be fanning with his hand. + +“I ac’ chil’en moshuns” was portrayed by his pouting out his lips and +twirling his thumbs, or giggling or crying. + +When they sang “I ac’ preacher moshuns,” he straightened himself back, +and began to “lay off” his hands in the most extravagant gestures. + +“I ac’ nigger moshuns” was represented by scratching his head, or by +bending over and pretending to be picking cotton or hoeing. + +The representation of the different motions was left entirely to the +taste and ingenuity of the actor, though it was the rule of the game +that no two people should represent the same character in the same way. +If one acted the lady by a mincing walk, the next one must devise some +other manner of portraying her, such as sewing, or playing on an +imaginary piano, or giving orders to servants, or any thing that his +fancy would suggest. + +The middle man or woman was always selected for his or her skill in +taking off the different characters; and when they were clever at it, +the game was very amusing to a spectator. + +After one or two games of “Monkey Moshuns,” some one proposed they +should play “Lipto,” which was readily acceded to. + +All joined hands, and formed a ring around one in the middle, as +before, and danced around, singing, + +“Lipto, lipto, jine de ring; + Lipto, lipto, dance an’ sing; + Dance an’ sing, an’ laugh an’ play, + Fur dis is now er halerday.” + + +Then, letting loose hands, they would all wheel around three times, +singing, + +“Turn erroun’ an’ roun’ an’ roun’;” + + +then they would clap their hands, singing, + +“Clap yer han’s, an’ make’ em soun’;” + + +then they would bow their heads, singing, + +“Bow yer heads, an’ bow ’em low;” + + +then, joining hands again, they would dance around, singing, + +“All jine han’s, an’ hyear we go.” + + +And now the dancers would drop hands once more, and go to patting, +while one of the men would step out with a branch of honeysuckle or +yellow jessamine, or something twined to form a wreath, or a paper cap +would answer, or even one of the boys’ hats—anything that would serve +for a crown; then he would sing, + +“Lipto, lipto—fi-yi-yi; + Lipto, lipto, hyear am I, + Er holdin’ uv dis goldin’ crown, + An’ I choose my gal fur ter dance me down.” + + +Then he must place the crown on the head of any girl he chooses, and +she must step out and dance with him, or, as they expressed it, “set to +him” (while all the rest patted), until one or the other “broke down,” +when the man stepped back in the ring, leaving the girl in the middle, +then they all joined hands, and began the game over again, going +through with the wheeling around and clapping of hands and the bowing +of heads just as before; after which the girl would choose her partner +for a “set to,” the song being the same that was sung by the man, with +the exception of the last line, which was changed to + +“An’ I choose my man fur ter dance me down.” + + +“Lipto” was followed by “De One I Like de Bes’,” which was a kissing +game, and gave rise to much merriment. It was played, as the others +were, by the dancers joining hands and forming a ring, with some one in +the middle, and singing, + +“Now while we all will dance an’ sing, + O choose er partner fum de ring; + O choose de lady you like bes’; + O pick her out fum all de res,’ + Fur her hansum face an’ figur neat; + O pick her out ter kiss her sweet. + O walk wid her erroun’ an’ roun’; + O kneel wid her upon de groun’; + O kiss her once, an’ one time mo’; + O kiss her sweet, an’ let her go. + O lif’ her up fum off de groun’, + An’ all jine han’s erroun’ an’ roun’, + An’ while we all will dance an’ sing, + O choose er partner fum de ring.” + + +At the words “choose de lady you like bes’,” the middle man must make +his selection, and, giving her his hand, lead her out of the ring. At +the words “walk wid her erroun’ an’ roun’,” he offers her his arm, and +they promenade; at the words “kneel wid her upon de groun’,” both +kneel; when they sing “kiss her once,” he kisses her; and at the words +“one time mo,” the kiss is repeated; and when the dancers sing “lif’ +her up fum off de groun’,” he assists her to rise; and when they sing +“all jine han’s erroun’ an’ roun’,” he steps back into the ring, and +the girl must make a choice, the dancers singing, “O choose de gemmun +you like bes’;” and then the promenading and kneeling and kissing were +all gone through with again. + +Some of the girls were great favorites, and were chosen frequently; +while others not so popular would perhaps not be in the middle during +the game. + +“De One I Like de Bes’” was a favorite play, and the young folks kept +it up for some time, until some one suggested sending for “Uncle Sambo” +and his fiddle, and turning it into a sure-enough dance. Uncle Sambo +was very accommodating, and soon made his appearance, then partners +were taken, and an Old Virginia reel formed. The tune that they danced +by was “Cotton-eyed Joe,” and, the words being familiar to all of them +as they danced they sang, + +“Cotton-eyed Joe, Cotton-eyed Joe, + What did make you sarve me so, + Fur ter take my gal erway fum me, + An’ cyar her plum ter Tennessee? + Ef it hadn’t ben fur Cotton-eyed Joe, + I’d er been married long ergo. + +“His eyes wuz crossed, an’ his nose wuz flat, + An’ his teef wuz out, but wat uv dat? + Fur he wuz tall, an’ he wuz slim, + An’ so my gal she follered him. + Ef it hadn’t ben fur Cotton-eyed Joe, + I’d er been married long ergo. + +“No gal so hansum could be foun’, + Not in all dis country roun’, + Wid her kinky head, an’ her eyes so bright, + Wid her lips so red an’ her teef so white. + Ef it hadn’t ben fur Cotton-eyed Joe, + I’d been married long ergo. + +“An’ I loved dat gal wid all my heart, + An’ she swo’ fum me she’d never part; + But den wid Joe she runned away, + An’ lef’ me hyear fur ter weep all day. + +“O Cotton-eyed Joe, O Cotton-eyed Joe, + What did make you sarve me so? + O Joe, ef it hadn’t er ben fur you, + I’d er married dat gal fur true.” + + +And what with Uncle Sambo’s fiddle and Jim’s banjo and all of those +fresh, happy young voices, the music was enough to make even the church +members want to dance. + +The children enjoyed the dancing even more than they had the playing, +and Diddie and Dumps and Tot and all of the little darkies were patting +their hands and singing “Cotton-eyed Joe” at the very top of their +voices, when Mammy appeared upon the scene, and said it was time to go +home. + +“No, Mammy,” urged Dumps; “we ain’t er goin’ ter; we want ter sing +‘Cotton-eyed Joe,” hit ain’t late.” + +“Umph-humph! dat’s jes wat I ’lowed,” said Mammy. “I ’lowed yer +wouldn’t be willin’ fur ter go, er set’n’ hyear an’ er patt’n’ yer +han’s same ez niggers, an’ er singin’ uv reel chunes; I dunno wat makes +you chil’en so onstrep’rous.” + +“Yes, Dumps, you know we promised,” said Diddie, “and so we must go +when Mammy tells us.” + +Dumps, finding herself overruled, had to yield, and they all went back +to the house, talking very animatedly of the quarter folks and their +plays and dances. + + + + +CHAPTER XI +DIDDIE IN TROUBLE + + +Diddie was generally a very good and studious little girl, and +therefore it was a matter of surprise to everybody when Miss Carrie +came down to dinner one day without her, and, in answer to Major +Waldron’s inquiry concerning her, replied that Diddie had been so +wayward that she had been forced to keep her in, and that she was not +to have any dinner. + +Neither Major nor Mrs. Waldron ever interfered with Miss Carrie’s +management; so the family sat down to the meal, leaving the little girl +in the schoolroom. + +Dumps and Tot, however, were very indignant, and ate but little dinner; +and, as soon as their mamma excused them, they ran right to the nursery +to tell Mammy about it. They found her overhauling a trunk of old +clothes, with a view of giving them out to such of the little negroes +as they would fit; but she dropped everything after Dumps had stated +the case, and at once began to expatiate on the tyranny of teachers in +general, and of Miss Carrie in particular. + +“I know’d how ’twould be,” she said, “wen marster fotch her hyear; she +got too much white in her eye to suit me, er shettin’ my chile up, an’ +er starvin’ uv her; I an’t got no ’pinion uv po’ white folks, nohow.” + +“Is Miss Carrie po’ white folks, Mammy?” asked Dumps, in horror, for +she had been taught by Mammy and Aunt Milly both that the lowest +classes of persons in the world were “po’ white folks” and “free +niggers.” + +“She ain’t no _rich_ white folks,” answered Mammy, evasively; “caze efn +she wuz, she wouldn’t be teachin’ school fur er livin’; an’ den ergin, +efn she’s so mighty rich, whar’s her niggers? I neber seed ’em. An’, +let erlone dat, I ain’t neber hyeard uv ’em yit;” for Mammy could not +conceive of a person’s being rich without niggers. + +“But, wedder she’s rich or po’,” continued the old lady, “she ain’t no +bizness er shettin’ up my chile; an’ marster he oughtn’t ter ’low it.” + +And Mammy resumed her work, but all the time grumbling, and muttering +something about “ole maids” and “po’ white folks.” + +“I don’t like her, nohow,” said Dumps, “an’ I’m glad me an’ Tot’s too +little ter go ter school; I don’t want never to learn to read all my +life. An’, Mammy, can’t you go an’ turn Diddie erloose?” + +“No, I can’t,” answered Mammy. “Yer pa don’t ’low me fur ter do it; he +won’t do it hisse’f, an’ he won’t let dem do it wat wants ter. I dunno +wat’s gittin’ in ’im myse’f. But, you chil’en, put on yer bunnits, an’ +run an’ play in de yard tell I fixes dis chis’ uv cloes; an’ you little +niggers, go wid ’em, an’ tuck cyar uv ’em; an’ ef dem chil’en git hut, +yer’ll be sorry fur it, mun; so yer’d better keep em off’n seesaws an’ +all sich ez dat.” + +Dumps and Tot, attended by their little maids, went out in the yard at +Mammy’s bidding, but not to play; their hearts were too heavy about +poor little Diddie, and the little negroes were no less grieved than +they were, so they all held a consultation as to what they should do. + +“Le’s go ’roun’ ter de schoolroom winder, an’ talk ter her,” said +Dilsey. And accordingly, repaired to the back of the house, and took +their stand under the schoolroom window. The schoolroom was on the +first floor, but the house was raised some distance from the ground by +means of stone pillars, so none of the children were tall enough to see +into the room. + +Dilsey called Diddie softly, and the little girl appeared at the +window. + +“Have you said your lesson yet?” asked Dumps. + +“No, an’ I ain’t ergoin’ to, neither,” answered Diddie. + +“An’ yer ain’t had yer dinner, nuther, is yer, Miss Diddie?” asked +Dilsey. + +“No; but I don’t care ’bout that; I sha’n’t say my lesson not ef she +starves me clean ter death.” + +At this dismal prospect, the tears sprang to Tot’s eyes, and saying, +“I’ll dit it, Diddie; don’ yer min’, I’ll dit it,” she ran as fast as +her little feet could carry her to the kitchen, and told Aunt Mary, the +cook, that “Diddie is sut up; dey lock her all up in de woom, an’ s’e +neber had no dinner, an’ s’e’s starve mos’ ter def. Miss Tawwy done it, +and s’e’s des ez mean!” Then, putting her chubby little arms around +Aunt Mary’s neck, she added, “_Please_ sen’ Diddie some dinner.” + +And Aunt Mary, who loved the children, rose from the low chair on which +she was sitting to eat her own dinner, and, picking out a nice piece of +fried chicken and a baked sweet potato, with a piece of bread and a +good slice of ginger pudding, she put them on a plate for the child. + +Now it so happened that Douglas, the head dining-room servant, was also +in the kitchen eating his dinner, and, being exceedingly fond of Tot, +he told her to wait a moment, and he would get her something from the +house. So, getting the keys from Aunt Delia, the housekeeper, on +pretence of putting away something, he buttered two or three slices of +light bread, and spread them with jam, and, putting with them some thin +chips of cold ham and several slices of cake, he carried them back to +the kitchen as an addition to Diddie’s dinner. + +Tot was delighted, and walked very carefully with the plate until she +joined the little group waiting under the window, when she called out, +joyfully, + +“Hyear ’tis, Diddie! ’tis des de bes’es kine er dinner!” + +And now the trouble was how to get it up to Diddie. + +“I tell yer,” said Chris; “me ’n Dilsey’ll fotch de step-ladder wat +Uncle Douglas washes de winders wid.” + +No sooner said than done, and in a few moments the step-ladder was +placed against the house, and Dilsey prepared to mount it with the +plate in her hand. + +But just at this juncture Diddie decided that she would make good her +escape, and, to the great delight of the children, she climbed out of +the window, and descended the ladder, and soon stood safe among them on +the ground. + +Then, taking the dinner with them, they ran as fast as they could to +the grove, where they came to a halt on the ditch bank, and Diddie +seated herself on a root of a tree to eat her dinner, while Dumps and +Tot watched the little negroes wade up and down the ditch. The water +was very clear, and not quite knee-deep, and the temptation was too +great to withstand; so the little girls took off their shoes and +stockings, and were soon wading too. + +When Diddie had finished her dinner, she joined them; and such a merry +time as they had, burying their little naked feet in the sand, and +splashing the water against each other! + +“I tell yer, Diddie,” said Dumps, “I don’t b’lieve nuthin’ ’bout bad +little girls gittin’ hurt, an’ not havin’ no fun when they runs away, +an’ don’t min’ nobody. I b’lieve Mammy jes makes that up ter skyeer +us.” + +“I don’t know,” replied Diddie; “you ’member the time’ bout Ole Billy?” + +“Oh, I ain’t er countin’ him,” said Dumps; “I ain’t er countin’ no +sheeps; I’m jes er talkin’ ’bout ditches an’ things.” + +And just then the little girls heard some one singing, + +“De jay bird died wid de hookin’-coff, + Oh, ladies, ain’t yer sorry?” + + +and Uncle Snake-bit Bob came up the ditch bank with an armful of +white-oak splits. + +“Yer’d better git outn dat water,” he called, as soon as he saw the +children. “Yer’ll all be havin’ de croup nex’. Git out, I tell yer! Efn +yer don’t, I gwine straight an’ tell yer pa. + +It needed no second bidding, and the little girls scrambled up the +bank, and drying their feet as best they could upon their skirts, they +put on their shoes and stockings. + +“What are you doin’, Uncle Bob?” called Diddie. + +“I’m jes er cuttin’ me er few willers fur ter make baskit-handles +outn.” + +“Can’t we come an’ look at yer?” asked Diddie. + +“Yes, honey, efn yer wants ter,” replied Uncle Bob, mightily pleased. +“You’re all pow’ful fon’ er dis ole nigger; you’re allers wantin’ ter +be roun’ him.” + +“It’s ’cause you always tell us tales, an’ don’t quar’l with us,” +replied Diddie, as the children drew near the old man, and watched him +cut the long willow branches. + +“Uncle Bob,” asked Dumps, “what was that you was singin’ ’bout the jay +bird?” + +“Lor’, honey, hit wuz jes ’boutn ’im dyin’ wid de hookin’-coff; but yer +better lef’ dem jay birds erlone; yer needn’ be er wantin’ ter hyear +boutn ’em.” + +“Why, Uncle Bob?” + +“Caze, honey, dem jay birds dey cyars news ter de deb’l, dey do an’ yer +better not fool ’long ’em.” + +“Do they tell him everything?” asked Diddie, in some solicitude. + +“Dat dey do! Dey tells ’im eb’ything dey see you do wat ain’t right; +dey cyars hit right erlong ter de deb’l.” + +“Uncle Bob,” said Dumps, thoughtfully, “s’posin’ they wuz some little +girls l-o-n-g _time_ ergo what stole ernuther little girl outn the +winder, an’ then run’d erway, an’ waded in er ditch, what they Mammy +never would let ’em; efn er jay bird would see ’em, would he tell the +deb’l nuthin erbout it?” + +“Lor’, honey, dat ’ud be jes nuts fur ’im; he’d light right out wid it; +an’ he wouldn’t was’e no time, nuther, he’d be so fyeard he’d furgit +part’n it.” + +“I don’t see none ’bout hyear,” said Dumps, looking anxiously up at the +trees. “They don’t stay ’bout hyear much does they, Uncle Bob?” + +“I seed one er sittin’ on dat sweet-gum dar ez I come up de ditch,” +said Uncle Bob. “He had his head turnt one side, he did, er lookin’ +mighty hard at you chil’en, an’ I ’lowed ter myse’f now I won’er wat is +he er watchin’ dem chil’en fur? but, den, I knowed _you_ chil’en +wouldn’t do nuffin wrong, an’ I knowed he wouldn’t have nuffin fur ter +tell.” + +“Don’t he never make up things an’ tell ’em?” asked Dumps. + +“I ain’t neber hyeard boutn dat,” said the old man. “Efn he do, or efn +he don’t, I can’t say, caze I ain’t neber hyeard; but de bes’ way is +fur ter keep ’way fum ’em.” + +“Well, I bet he do,” said Dumps. “I jes bet he tells M-O-O-O-R-E +S-T-O-R-I-E-S than anybody. An’, Uncle Bob, efn he tells the deb’l +sump’n ’boutn three little white girls an’ three little niggers runnin’ +erway fum they teacher an’ wadin’ in er ditch, then I jes b’lieve _he +made it up!_ Now that’s jes what I’ b’lieve; an’ can’t you tell the +deb’l so, Uncle Bob?” + +“Who? Me? Umph, umph! yer talkin’ ter de wrong nigger now, chile! I +don’t hab nuffin te do wid ’im mysef! I’se er God-fyearn nigger, I is; +an’, let erlone dat, I keeps erway fum dem jay birds. Didn’ yer neber +hyear wat er trick he played de woodpecker?” + +“No, Uncle Bob,” answered Diddie; “what did he do to him?” + +“Ain’t yer neber hyeard how come de wood-pecker’s head ter be red, an’ +wat makes de robin hab er red bres’?” + +“Oh, I know ’bout the robin’s breast,” said Diddie. “When the Saviour +was on the cross, an’ the wicked men had put er crown of thorns on him, +an’ his forehead was all scratched up an’ bleedin’, er little robin was +sittin’ on er tree lookin’ at him; an’ he felt so sorry ’bout it till +he flew down, an’ tried to pick the thorns out of the crown; an’ while +he was pullin’ at ’em, one of ’em run in his breast, an’ made the blood +come, an’ ever since that the robin’s breast has been red.” + +“Well, I dunno,” said the old man, thoughtfully, scratching his head; +“I dunno, dat _mout_ be de way; I neber hyeard it, do; but den I ain’t +sayin’ tain’t true, caze hit mout be de way; an’ wat I’m er stan’in’ by +is dis, dat dat ain’t de way I hyeard hit.” + +“Tell us how you heard it, Uncle Bob,” asked Diddie. + +“Well, hit all come ’long o’ de jay bird,” said Uncle Bob. “An’ efn yer +got time fur ter go ’long o’ me ter de shop, an’ sot dar wile I plats +on dese baskits fur de oberseer’s wife, I’ll tell jes wat I hyear +’boutn hit.” + +Of course they had plenty of time, and they all followed him to the +shop, where he turned some baskets bottomside up for seats for the +children, and seating himself on his accustomed stool, while the little +darkies sat around on the dirt-floor, he began to weave the splits +dexterously in an out, and proceeded to tell the story. + + + + +CHAPTER XII +HOW THE WOODPECKER’S HEAD AND THE ROBIN’S BREAST CAME TO BE RED + + +“Well,” began Uncle Bob, “hit wuz all erlong er de jay bird, jes ez I +wuz tellin’ yer. Yer see, Mr. Jay Bird he fell’d in love, he did, ’long +o’ Miss Robin, an’ he wuz er courtin’ her, too; ev’y day de Lord sen’, +he’d be er gwine ter see her, an’ er singin’ ter her, an’ er cyarin’ +her berries an’ wums; hut, somehow or udder, she didn’t pyear ter tuck +no shine ter him. She’d go er walkin’ ’long ’im, an’ she’d sing songs +wid ’im, an’ she’d gobble up de berries an’ de wums wat he fotch, but +den w’en hit come ter marry’n uv ’im, she wan’t der. + +“Well, she wouldn’t gib ’im no kin’ er ’couragement, tell he got right +sick at his heart, he did; an’ one day, ez he wuz er settin’ in his +nes’ an’ er steddin how ter wuck on Miss Robin so’s ter git her love, +he hyeard somebody er laughin’ an’ talkin’, an’ he lookt out, he did, +an’ dar wuz Miss Robin er prumurradin’ wid de Woodpecker. An’ wen he +seed dat, he got pow’ful mad, an’ he ’low’d ter his se’f dat efn de +Lord spar’d him, he inten’ fur ter fix dat Woodpecker. + +“In dem times de Woodpecker’s head wuz right black, same ez er crow, +an’ he had er topknot on ’im like er rooster. Gemmun, he wuz er han’sum +bird, too. See ’im uv er Sunday, wid his ‘go-ter-meetin’’ cloze on, an’ +dar wan’t no bird could totch ’im fur looks. + +“Well, he an’ Miss Robin dey went on by, er laffin’ an’ er talkin’ wid +one ernudder; an’ de Jay he sot dar, wid his head turnt one side, er +steddin an’ er steddin ter hisse’f; an’ by’mby, atter he made up his +min’, he sot right ter wuck, he did, an’ fix him er trap. + +“He got ’im some sticks, an’ he nailt ’em cross’n ’is do’ same ez er +plank-fence, only he lef’ space ’nuff twix’ de bottom stick an’ de nex’ +one fur er bird ter git thu; den, stid er nailin’ de stick nex’ de +bottom, he tuck’n prope it up at one een wid er little chip fur ter +hole it, an’ den jes res’ tudder een ’gins de side er de nes’. Soon’s +eber he done dat, he crawlt out thu de crack mighty kyeerful, I tell +yer, caze he wuz fyeared he mout er knock de stick down, an’ git his +own se’f cotch in de trap; so yer hyeard me, mum, he crawlt thu mighty +tick’ler. + +“Atter he got thu, den he santer ’long, he did, fur ter hunt up de +Woodpecker; an’ by’mby he hyeard him peckin’ at er log; an’ he went up +ter him kin’ er kyeerless, an’ he sez, ‘Good-mornin’,’ sezee; ‘yer +pow’ful busy ter day.’ + +“Den de Woodpecker he pass de kempulmence wid ’im, des same ez any +udder gemmun; an’ atter dey talk er wile, den de Blue Jay he up’n sez, +‘I wuz jes er lookin’ fur yer,’ sezee; ‘I gwine ter hab er party +termorrer night, an’ I’d like fur yer ter come. All de birds’ll be dar, +Miss Robin in speshul,’ sezee. + +“An’ wen de Woodpecker hyearn dat, he ’lowed he’d try ter git dar. An’ +den de Jay he tell him good-mornin’, an’ went on ter Miss Robin’s +house. Well, hit pyeart like Miss Robin wuz mo’ cole dan uzhul dat day, +an’ by’mby de Jay Bird, fur ter warm her up, sez, ‘Yer lookin’ mighty +hansum dis mornin’,’ sezee. An’ sez she, ‘I’m proud ter hyear yer say +so; but, speakin’ uv hansum,’ sez she, ‘hev yer seed Mr. Peckerwood +lately?’ + +“Dat made de Blue Jay kint er mad; an’ sezee, ‘Yer pyear ter tuck er +mighty intrus’ in ’im.’ + +“‘Well, I dunno ’bout’n dat,’ sez Miss Robin, sez she, kinter lookin’ +shame. ‘I dunno ’boutn dat; but, den I tink he’s er mighty _hansum_ +bird,’ sez she. + +“Well, wid dat de Jay Bird ’gun ter git madder’n he wuz, an’ he ’lowed +ter hisse’f dat he’d ax Miss Robin ter his house, so’s she could see +how he’d fix de Peckerwood; so he sez, + +“‘Miss Robin, I gwine ter hab er party termorrer night; de +Woodpecker’ll be dar, an’ I’d like fur yer ter come.’ + +“Miss Robin ’lowed she’d come, and’ de Jay Bird tuck his leave. + +“Well, de nex’ night de Jay sot in ’is nes’ er waitin’ fur ’is cump’ny; +an’ atter er wile hyear come de Woodpecker. Soon’s eber he seed de +sticks ercross de do’, he sez, ‘Wy, pyears like yer ben er fixin’ up,’ +sezee. ‘Ain’t yer ben er buildin’?’ + +“‘Well,’ sez de Jay Bird, ‘I’ve jes put er few ’provemunce up, fur ter +keep de scritch-owls outn my nes’; but dar’s plenty room fur my frien’s +ter git thu; jes come in,’ sezee; an’ de Woodpecker he started thu de +crack. Soon’s eber he got his head thu, de Jay pullt de chip out, an’ +de big stick fell right crossn his neck. Den dar he wuz, wid his head +in an’ his feet out! an’ de Jay Bird ’gun ter laff, an’ ter make fun +atn ’im. Sezee, ‘I hope I see yer! Yer look like sparkin’ Miss Robin +now! hit’s er gre’t pity she can’t see yer stretched out like dat; an’ +she’ll be hyear, too, d’rectly; she’s er comin’ ter de party,’ sezee, +‘an’ I’m gwine ter gib her er new dish; I’m gwine ter sot her down ter +roas’ Woodpecker dis ebenin’. An’ now, efn yer’ll ’scuse me, I’ll lef’ +yer hyear fur ter sorter ’muse yerse’f wile I grin’s my ax fur ten’ ter +yer.’ + +“An’ wid dat de Jay went out, an’ lef’ de po’ Woodpecker er lyin’ dar; +an’ by’mby Miss Robin come erlong; an’ wen she seed de Woodpecker, she +axt ’im ‘wat’s he doin’ down dar on de groun’?’ an’ atter he up an’ +tol’ her, an’ tol’ her how de Jay Bird wuz er grin’in’ his ax fur ter +chop offn his head, den de robin she sot to an’ try ter lif’ de stick +offn him. She straint an’ she straint, but her strengt’ wan’t ’nuff fur +ter move hit den; an’ so she sez, ‘Mr. Woodpecker,’ sez she, ‘s’posin’ +I cotch hold yer feet, an’ try ter pull yer back dis way?’ ‘All right,’ +sez de Woodpecker; an’ de Robin, she cotch er good grip on his feet, +an’ she brace herse’f up ’gins er bush, an’ pullt wid all her might, +an’ atter er wile she fotch ’im thu; but she wuz bleeged ter lef’ his +topnot behin’, fur his head wuz skunt des ez clean ez yer han’; ’twuz +jes ez raw, honey, ez er piece er beef. + +“An’ wen de Robin seed dat, she wuz mighty ’stressed; an’ she tuck his +head an’ helt it gins her breas’ fur ter try an’ cumfut him, an’ de +blood got all ober her breas’, an’ hit’s red plum tell yit. + +“Well, de Woodpecker he went erlong home, an’ de Robin she nusst him +tell his head got well; but de topknot wuz gone, an’ it pyeart like de +blood all settled in his head, caze fum _dat_ day ter _dis_ his head’s +ben red.” + +“An’ did he marry the Robin?” asked Diddie. + +“Now I done tol’ yer all I know,” said Uncle Bob. “I gun yer de tale +jes like I hyearn it, an’ I ain’t er gwine ter make up _nuffin’,_ an’ +tell yer wat I dunno ter be de truff. Efn dar’s any mo’ ter it, den I +ain’t neber hyearn hit. I gun yer de tale jes like hit wuz gunt ter me, +an’ efn yer ain’t satisfied wid hit, den I can’t holp it.” + +“But we _are_ satisfied, Uncle Bob,” said Diddie. “It was a very pretty +tale, and we are much obliged to you.” + +“Yer mo’n welcome, honey,” said Uncle Bob, soothed by Diddie’s +answer—“yer mo’n welcome; but hit’s gittin’ too late fur you chil’en +ter be out; yer’d better be er gittin’ toerds home.” + +Here the little girls looked at each other in some perplexity, for they +knew Diddie had been missed, and they were afraid to go to the house. + +“Uncle Bob,” said Diddie, “we’ve done er wrong thing this evenin’; we +ran away fum Miss Carrie, an’ we’re scared of papa; he might er lock us +all up in the library, an’ talk to us, an’ say he’s ’stonished an’ +mortified, an’ so we’re scared to go home.” + +“Umph!” said Uncle Bob; “you chil’en is mighty bad, anyhow.” + +“I think we’re heap mo’ _better’n_ we’re _bad,”_ said Dumps. + +“Well, dat mout er be so,” said the old man; + +“I ain’t er ’sputin it, but you chil’en comes fum or mighty high-minded +stock uv white folks, an’ hit ain’t becomin’ in yer fur ter be runnin’ +erway an’ er hidin’ out, same ez oberseer’s chil’en, an’ all kin’ er +po’ white trash.” + +“We _are_ sorry about it now, Uncle Bob,” said Diddie; “but what would +you ’vise us to do?” + +“Well, my invice is _dis,”_ said Uncle Bob, “fur ter go ter yer pa, an’ +tell him de truff; state all de konkumstances des like dey happen; +don’t lebe out none er de facks; tell him you’re sorry yer ’haved so +onstreperous, an’ ax him fur ter furgib yer; an’ ef he do, wy dat’s all +right; an’ den ef he _don’t,_ wy yer mus’ ’bide by de kinsequonces. But +fuss, do, fo’ yer axes fur furgibness, yer mus’ turn yer min’s ter +repintunce. Now I ax you chil’en _dis,_ +Is—you—sorry—dat—you—runned—off? +an’—is—you—’pentin’—uv—wadin’—in—de—ditch?” + +Uncle Rob spoke very slowly and solemnly, and in a deep tone; and +Diddie, feeling very much as if she had been guilty of murder, replied, + +“Yes, I am truly sorry, Uncle Bob.” + +Dumps and Tot and the three little darkies gravely nodded their heads +in assent. + +“Den jes go an’ tell yer pa so,” said the old man. “An’, anyway, yer’ll +hatter be gwine, caze hit’s gittin’ dark.” + +The little folks walked off slowly towards the house, and presently +Dumps said, + +“Diddie, I don’t b’lieve I’m _rael_ sorry we runned off, an’ I don’t +_right_ ’pent ’bout wadin’ in the ditch, cause we had er mighty heap er +fun; an’ yer reckon ef I’m jes _sorter_ sorry, an’ jes _toler’ble_ +’pent, that’ll do?” + +“I don’t know about that,” said Diddie; “but _I’m_ right sorry, and +I’ll tell papa fur all of us.” + +The children went at once to the library, where Major Waldron was found +reading. + +“Papa,” said Diddie, “we’ve ben very bad, an’ we’ve come ter tell yer +’bout it.” + +“An’ the Jay Bird, he tol’ the deb’l,” put in Dumps, “an’ ’twan’t none +er his business.” + +“Hush up, Dumps,” said Diddie, “till I tell papa ’bout it. I wouldn’t +say my lesson, papa, an’ Miss Carrie locked me up, an’ the chil’en +brought me my dinner.” + +“’Tuz me,” chimed in Tot. “I b’ing ’er de _besses_ dinner—take an’ jam +an’ pud’n in de p’ate. Aunt Mawy dum tum me.” + +“Hush, Tot,” said Diddie, “till I get through. An’ then, papa, I +climbed out the winder on the step-ladder, an’ I—” + +“Dilsey an’ Chris got the ladder,” put in Dumps. + +“HUSH UP, Dumps!” said Diddie; “you’re all time ’ruptin’ me.” + +“I reckon I done jes bad ez you,” retorted Dumps, “an’ I got jes much +right ter tell ’boutn it. You think nobody can’t be bad but yerse’f.” + +“Well, then, you can tell it all,” said Diddie, with dignity. “Papa, +Dumps will tell you.” + +And Dumps, nothing daunted, continued: + +“Dilsey an’ Chris brought the step-ladder, an’ Diddie clum out; an’ we +runned erway in the woods, an’ waded in the ditch, an’ got all muddy +up; an’ the Jay Bird, he was settin’ on er limb watchin’ us, an’ he +carried the news ter the deb’l; an’ Uncle Snake-bit Bob let us go ter +his shop, an’ tol’ us ’bout the Woodpecker’s head, an’ that’s all; only +we ain’t n-e-v-er goin’ ter do it no mo’; an’, oh yes, I furgot—an’ +Diddie’s rael sorry an’ right ’pents; an’ I’m sorter sorry, an’ +toler’ble ’pents. An’, please, are you mad, papa?” + +“It was certainly very wrong,” said her father, “to help Diddie to get +out, when Miss Carrie had locked her in; and I am surprised that Diddie +should need to be kept in. Why didn’t you learn your lesson, my +daughter?” + +“I did,” answered Diddie; “I knew it every word; but Miss Carrie jus’ +cut up, an’ wouldn’t let me say it like ’twas in the book; an’ she +laughed at me; an’ then I got mad, an’ wouldn’t say it at all.” + +“Which lesson was it?” asked Major Waldron. + +“’Twas er hist’ry lesson, an’ the question was, ‘Who was Columbus?’ an’ +the answer was, ‘He was the son of er extinguished alligator,’ an’ Miss +Carrie laughed, an’ said that wan’t it.” + +“And I rather think Miss Carrie was right,” said the father. “Go and +bring me the book.” + +Diddie soon returned with her little history, and, showing the passage +to her father, said eagerly, + +“Now don’t you see here, papa?” + +And Major Waldron read, “He was the son of a _distinguished +navigator.”_ Then making Diddie spell the words in the book, he +explained to her her mistake, and said he would like to have her +apologize to Miss Carrie for being so rude to her. + +This Diddie was very willing to do, and her father went with her to the +sitting-room to find Miss Carrie, who readily forgave Diddie for her +rebellion, and Dumps and Tot for interfering with her discipline. And +that was a great deal more than Mammy did, when she saw the state of +their shoes and stockings, and found that they had been wading in the +ditch. + +She slapped the little darkies, and tied red-flannel rags wet with +turpentine round the children’s necks to keep them from taking cold, +and scolded and fussed so that the little girls pulled the covers over +their heads and went to sleep, and left her quarrelling. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII +A PLANTATION MEETING AND UNCLE DANIEL’S SERMON + + +“Are you gwine ter meetin’, Mammy?” asked Diddie one Sunday evening, as +Mammy came out of the house attired in her best flowered muslin, with +an old-fashioned mantilla (that had once been Diddie’s grandmother’s) +around her shoulders. + +“Cose I gwine ter meetin’, honey; I’se er tryin’ ter sarve de Lord, I +is, caze we ain’t gwine stay hyear on dis yearth all de time. We got +ter go ter nudder kentry, chile; an’ efn yer don’t go ter meetin’, an’ +watch an’ pray, like de Book say fur yer ter do, den yer mus’ look out +fur yerse’f wen dat Big Day come wat I hyears ’em talkin’ ’bout.” + +“Can’t we go with you, Mammy? We’ll be good, an’ not laugh at ’em +shoutin’.” + +“I dunno wat yer gwine loff at ’em shoutin’ fur; efn yer don’t min’ de +loff gwine ter be turnt some er deze days, an’ dem wat yer loffs at +hyear, dem’s de ones wat’s gwine ter do de loffin’ wen we gits up +yon’er! But, let erlone dat, yer kin go efn yer wants ter; an’ efn +yer’ll make has’e an’ git yer bunnits, caze I ain’t gwine wait no gret +wile. I don’t like ter go ter meetin’ atter hit starts. I want ter +hyear Brer Dan’l’s tex’, I duz. I can’t neber enj’y de sermon doutn I +hyears de tex’.” + +You may be sure it wasn’t long before the children were all ready for +they knew Mammy would be as good as her word, and would not wait for +them. When they reached the church, which was a very nice wooden +building that Major Waldron had had built for that purpose, there was a +large crowd assembled; for, besides Major Waldron’s own slaves, quite a +number from the adjoining plantations were there. The younger negroes +were laughing and chatting in groups outside the door, but the older +ones wore very solemn countenances, and walked gravely in and up to the +very front pews. On Mammy’s arrival, she placed the little girls in +seats at the back of the house, and left Dilsey and Chris and Riar on +the seat just behind them, “fur ter min’ em’,” as she said (for the +children must always be under the supervision of somebody), and then +she went to her accustomed place at the front; for Mammy was one of the +leading members, and sat in the amen corner. + +Soon after they had taken their seats, Uncle Gabe, who had a powerful +voice, and led the singing, struck up: + +“Roll, Jordan, roll! roll, Jordan, roll! + I want ter go ter heb’n wen I die, + Fur ter hyear sweet Jordan roll. + +“Oh, pray, my brudder, pray! + Yes, my Lord; + My brudder’s settin in de kingdom, + Fur ter hyear sweet Jordan roll. + +Chorus + +“Roll, Jordan, roll! roll, Jordan, roll! + I want ter go ter heb’n wen I die, + Fur ter hyear sweet Jordan roll. + +“Oh, shout, my sister, shout! + Yes, my Lord; + My sister she’s er shoutin’ + Caze she hyears sweet Jordan roll. + +“Oh, moan, you monahs, moan! + Yes, my Lord; + De monahs sobbin’ an’ er weepin’, + Fur ter hyear sweet Jordan roll. + +“Oh, scoff, you scoffers, scoff! + Yes, my Lord; + Dem sinners wat’s er scoffin’ + Can’t hyear sweet Jordan roll.” + + +And as the flood of melody poured through the house, the groups on the +outside came in to join the singing. + +After the hymn, Uncle Snake-bit Bob led in prayer, and what the old man +lacked in grammer and rhetoric was fully made up for in fervency and +zeal. + +The prayer ended, Uncle Daniel arose, and, carefully adjusting his +spectacles, he opened his Bible with all the gravity and dignity +imaginable, and proceeded to give out his text. + +Now the opening of the Bible was a mere matter of form, for Uncle +Daniel didn’t even know his letters; but he thought it was more +impressive to have the Bible open, and therefore never omitted that +part of the ceremony. + +“My bredren an’ my sistren,” he began, looking solemnly over his specs +at the congregation, “de tex’ wat I’se gwine ter gib fur yer ’strucshun +dis ebenin’ yer’ll not fin’ in de foremus’ part er de Book, nur yit in +de hine part. Hit’s swotuwated mo’ in de middle like, ’boutn ez fur fum +one een ez ’tiz fum tudder, an’ de wuds uv de tex’ is dis: + +“‘Burhol’, I’ll punish um! dey young men shall die by de s’ord, an’ dey +sons an’ dey daughters by de famine.’ + +“My bredren, embracin’ uv de sistren, I’se ben ’stressed in my min’ +’boutn de wickedness I sees er gwine on. Eby night de Lord sen’ dar’s +dancin’ an’ loffin’ an’ fiddlin’; an’ efn er man raises ’im er few +chickens an’ watermillions, dey ain’t safe no longer’n his back’s +turnt; an’, let erlone dat, dar’s quarlin’ ’longer one nudder, an’ +dar’s sassin’ uv white folks an’ ole pussuns, an’ dar’s drinkin’ uv +whiskey, an’ dar’s beatin’ uv wives, an’ dar’s dev’lin’ uv husban’s, +an’ dar’s imperrence uv chil’en, an’ dar’s makin’ fun uv ’ligion, an’ +dar’s singin’ uv reel chunes, an’ dar’s slightin’ uv wuck, an’ dar’s +stayin’ fum meetin’, an’ dar’s swearin’ an’ cussin’, an’ dar’s eby kin’ +er wickedness an’ dev’lment loose in de land. + +“An’, my bredren, takin’ in de sistren, I’ve talked ter yer, an’ I’ve +tol’ yer uv de goodness an’ de long-suff’rin uv de Lord. I tol’ yer +outn his Book, whar he’d lead yer side de waters, an’ be a Shepherd ter +yer; an’ yer kep’ straight on, an’ neber paid no ’tenshun; so tudder +night, wile I wuz er layin’ in de bed an’ er steddin’ wat ter preach +’bout, sumpin’ kin’ er speak in my ear; an’ hit sez, ‘Brer Dan’l, +yer’ve tol’ ’em ’bout de Lord’s leadin’ uv ’em, an’ now tell ’em ’boutn +his drivin’ uv ’em. An’, my bredren, includin’ uv de sistren, I ain’t +gwine ter spare yer feelin’s dis day. I’m er stan’in’ hyear fur ter +’liver de message outn de Book, an’ dis is de message: + +“‘Burhol’, I’ll punish um! dey young men shall die by de s’ord, an’ dey +sons an’ dey daughters by de famine.’ + +“Yer all hyear it, don’t yer? An’ now yer want ter know who sont it. De +Lord! Hit’s true he sont it by a po’ ole nigger, but den hit’s his own +wuds; hit’s in his Book. An’, fussly, we’ll pursidder dis: IS HE ABLE +TER DO IT? Is he able fur ter kill marster’s niggers wid de s’ord an’ +de famine? My bredren, he is able! Didn’ he prize open de whale’s mouf, +an’ take Jonah right outn him? Didn’ he hol’ back de lions wen dey wuz +er rampin’ an’ er tearin’ roun’ atter Dan’l in de den? Wen de flood +come, an’ all de yearth wuz drownded, didn’ he paddle de ark till he +landed her on top de mount er rats? Yes, my bredren, embracin’ uv de +sistren, an’ de same Lord wat done all er dat, he’s de man wat’s got de +s’ords an’ de famines ready fur dem wat feels deyse’f too smart ter +’bey de teachin’s uv de Book. ‘Dey young men shall die by de s’ord, an’ +dey sons an’ dey daughters by de famine.’ + +“Oh, you chu’ch membahs wat shouts an’ prays uv er Sundays an’ steals +watermillions uv er week-days! Oh, you young men wat’s er cussin’ an’ +er robbin’ uv henrooses! Oh, you young women wat’s er singin’ uv reel +chunes! Oh, you chil’en wat’s er sassin’ uv ole folks! Oh, you ole +pussons wat’s er fussin’ an’ quarlin’! Oh, you young folks wat’s er +dancin’ an’ prancin’! Oh, you niggers wat’s er slightin’ uv yer wuck! +Oh! pay ’tenshun ter de message dis ebenin’, caze yer gwine wake up +some er deze mornin’s, an’ dar at yer do’s ’ll be de s’ord an’ de +famine. + +“‘Burhol’, I’ll punish um! dey young men shall die by de s’ord, an’ dey +sons an’ dey daughters by de famine.’ + +“Bredren, an’ likewise sistren, yer dunno wat yer foolin’ wid! Dem +s’ords an’ dem famines is de wust things dey is. Dey’s wuss’n de +rheumatiz; dey’s wuss’n de toof-ache; dey’s wuss’n de cramps; dey’s +wuss’n de lockjaw; dey’s wuss’n anything. Wen Adam an’ Ebe wuz turnt +outn de gyarden, an’ de Lord want ter keep ’em out, wat’s dat he put +dar fur ter skyer ’em? Wuz it er elfunt? No, sar! Wuz it er lion? No, +sar! He had plenty beases uv eby kin’, but den he didn’ cyar ’boutn +usen uv ’em. Wuz hit rain or hail, or fire, or thunder, or lightnin’? +No, my bredren, hit wuz er s’ord! Caze de Lord knowed weneber dey seed +de s’ord dar dey wan’t gwine ter facin’ it. Oh, den, lis’en at de +message dis ebenin’. + +“‘Dey young men shall die by de s’ord.’ + +“An’ den, ergin, dar dem famines, my bredren, takin’ in de sistren—dem +famines come plum fum Egypt! dey turnt ’em erloose dar one time, mun, +an’ de Book sez all de lan’ wuz sore, an’ thousan’s pun top er +thousan’s wuz slaint. + +“Dey ain’t no way fur ter git roun’ dem famines. Yer may hide, yer may +run in de swamps, yer may climb de trees, but, bredren, efn eber dem +famines git atter yer, yer gone! dey’ll cotch yer! dey’s nuffin like +’em on de face uv de yearth, les’n hit’s de s’ord; dar ain’t much chice +twix dem two. Wen hit comes ter s’ords an’ famines, I tell yer, gemmun, +hit’s nip an’ tuck. Yit de message, hit sez, ‘dey young men shall die +by de s’ord, an’ dey sons an’ dey daughters by de famine.’ + +“Now, bredren an’ sistren, an’ monahs an’ sinners, don’t le’s force de +Lord fur ter drive us; le’s try fur ter sarve him, an’ fur ter git +erlong doutn de s’ords an de famines. Come up hyear roun’ dis altar, +an’ wrestle fur ’ligion, an’ dem few uv us wat is godly—me an’ Brer +Snake-bit Rob an’ Sis Haly an’ Brer Gabe, an’ Brer Lige an’ Brer +One-eyed Pete, an’ Sis Rachel (Mammy) an’ Sis Hannah—we’re gwine put in +licks fur yer dis ebenin’. Oh, my frens, yer done hyeard de message. +Oh, spar’ us de s’ords and de famines! don’t drive de Lord fur ter use +’em! Come up hyear now dis ebenin’, an’ let us all try ter hep yer git +thu. Leave yer dancin’ an’ yer singin’ an’ yer playin’, leave yer +whiskey an’ yer cussin’ an’ yer swearin’, an’ tu’n yer min’s ter de +s’ords an’ de famines. + +“Wen de Lord fotches dem s’ords outn Eden, an’ dem famines outn Egyp’, +an’ tu’n ’em erloose on dis plantation, I tell yer, mun, dar’s gwine be +skyeared niggers hyear. Yer won’t see no dancin’ den; yer won’t hyear +no cussin’, nor no chickens hollin’ uv er night; dey won’t be no reel +chunes sung den; yer’ll want ter go ter prayin’, an’ yer’ll be er +callin’ on us wat is stedfus in de faith fur ter hep yer; but we can’t +hep yer den. We’ll be er tryin’ on our wings an’ er floppin’ ’em” +(“Yes, bless God!” thus Uncle Snake-bit Bob), “an’ er gittin’ ready fur +ter start upuds! We’ll be er lacin’ up dem golden shoes” (“Yes, +marster!” thus Mammy), “fur ter walk thu dem pearly gates. We can’t +stop den. We can’t ’liver no message den; de Book’ll be shot. So, +bredren, hyear it dis ebenin’. ‘Dey young men shall die by de s’ord, +an’ dey sons an’ dey daughters by de famine.’ + +“Now, I’ve said ernuff; day’s no use fur ter keep er talkin’, an’ all +you backslidin’ chu’ch membahs, tremblin’ sinners, an’ weepin’ monahs, +come up hyear dis ebenin’, an’ try ter git erroun’ dem s’ords an’ dem +famines. Now my skyearts is clar, caze I done ’liver de message. I done +tol’ yer whar hit come fum. I tol’ yer ’twas in de Book, ’boutn +middle-ways twix’ een an’ een; an’ wedder David writ it or Sam’l writ +it, or Gen’sis writ it or Paul writ it, or Phesians writ it or Loshuns +writ it, dat ain’t nudder hyear nor dar; dat don’t make no diffunce; +some on ’em writ it, caze hit’s sholy in de Book, fur de oberseer’s +wife she read hit ter me outn dar; an’ I tuck ’tickler notice, too, +so’s I could tell yer right whar ter fin’ it. An’, bredren, I’m er +tellin’ yer de truf dis ebenin’; hit’s jes ’bout de middle twix’ een +an’ een. Hit’s dar, sho’s yer born, an’ dar aint no way fur ter +’sputin’ it, nor ter git roun’ it, ’septin’ fur ter tu’n fum yer +wickedness. An’ now, Brudder Gabe, raise er chune; an’ sing hit lively, +bredren; an’ wile dey’s singin’ hit, I want yer ter come up hyear an’ +fill deze monahs’ benches plum full. Bredren, I want monahs ’pun top er +monahs dis ebenin’. Brethren I want ’em in crowds. I want ’em in +droves. I want ’em laid ’pun top er one ernudder, bredren, tell yer +can’t see de bottumus’ monahs. I want ’em piled up hyear dis ebenin’. I +want ’em packed down, mun, an’ den tromped on, ter make room fur de +nex’ load. Oh, my bredren, come! fur ‘dey young men shall die by de +s’ord, an’ dey sons an’ dey daughters by de famine.’” + +The scene that followed baffles all description. Uncle Gabe struck up— + +“Oh, lebe de woods uv damnation; + Come out in de fields uv salvation; + Fur de Lord’s gwine ter bu’n up creation, + Wen de day uv jedgment come. + +“Oh, sinners, yer may stan’ dar er laffin’, + Wile de res’ uv us er quaffin’ + Uv de streams wich de win’s is er waffin’ + Right fresh fum de heb’nly sho’. + +“But, min’, der’s er day is er comin’, + Wen yer’ll hyear a mighty pow’ful hummin’; + Wen dem angels is er blowin’ an’ er drummin’, + In de awful jedgment day. + +“Oh, monahs, you may stan’ dar er weepin’, + Fur de brooms uv de Lord is er sweepin’, + An’ all de trash dey’s er heapin’ + Outside er de golden gate. + +“So, sinners, yer’d better be er tu’nin’, + Er climin’ an’ er scramblin’ an’ er runnin’, + Fur ter ’scape dat drefful burnin’ + In de awful jedgment day.” + + +And while the hymn was being sung, Uncle Daniel had his wish of “monahs +’pun top er monahs,” for the benches and aisles immediately around the +altar were soon crowded with the weeping negroes. Some were crying, +some shouting Glory! some praying aloud, some exhorting the sinners, +some comforting the mourners, some shrieking and screaming, and, above +all the din and confusion, Uncle Daniel could be heard halloing, at the +top of his voice, “Dem s’ords an’ dem famines!” After nearly an hour of +this intense excitement, the congregation was dismissed, one of them, +at least, more dead than alive; for “Aunt Ceely,” who had long been +known as “er pow’ful sinful ooman,” had fallen into a trance, whether +real or assumed must be determined by wiser heads than mine; for it was +no uncommon occurrence for those “seekin’ ’ligion” to lie in a state of +unconsciousness for several hours, and, on their return to +consciousness, to relate the most wonderful experiences of what had +happened to them while in the trance. Aunt Ceely lay as if she were +dead, and two of the Christian men (for no sinner must touch her at +this critical period) bore her to her cabin, followed by the “chu’ch +membahs,” who would continue their singing and praying until she “come +thu,” even if the trance should last all night. The children returned +to the house without Mammy, for she was with the procession which had +followed Aunt Ceely; and as they reached the yard, they met their +father returning from the lot. + +“Papa,” called Dumps, “we’re goin’ ter have awful troubles hyear.” + +“How, my little daughter?” asked her father. + +“The Lord’s goin’ ter sen’ s’ords an’ famines, an’ they’ll eat up all +the young men, an’ ev’ybody’s sons an’ daughters,” she replied, +earnestly. “Uncle Dan’s said so in meetin’; an’ all the folks was +screamin’ an’ shoutin’, an’ Aunt Ceely is in a trance ’bout it, an’ she +ain’t come thu yet.” + +Major Waldron was annoyed that his children should have witnessed any +such scene, for they were all very much excited and frightened at the +fearful fate that they felt was approaching them; so he took them into +his library, and explained the meaning of the terms “swords and +famines,” and read to them the whole chapter, explaining how the +prophet referred only to the calamities that should befall the Hebrews; +but, notwithstanding all that, the children were uneasy, and made Aunt +Milly sit by the bedside until they went to sleep, to keep the “swords +and the famines” from getting them. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV +DIDDIE AND DUMPS GO VISITING + + +It was some time in June that, the weather being fine, Mammy gave the +children permission to go down to the woods beyond the gin-house and +have a picnic. + +They had a nice lunch put up in their little baskets, and started off +in high glee, taking with them Cherubim and Seraphim and the doll +babies. They were not to stay all day, only till dinner-time; so they +had no time to lose, but set to playing at once. + +First, it was “ladies come to see,” and each of them had a house under +the shade of a tree, and spent most of the time visiting and in taking +care of their respective families. Dumps had started out with Cherubim +for her little boy; but he proved so refractory, and kept her so busy +catching him, that she decided to play he was the yard dog, and content +herself with the dolls for her children. Riar, too, had some trouble in +her family; in passing through the yard, she had inveigled Hester’s +little two-year-old son to go with them, and now was desirous of +claiming him as her son and heir—a position which he filled very +contentedly until Diddie became ambitious of living in more style than +her neighbors, and offered Pip (Hester’s baby) the position of +dining-room servant in her establishment; and he, lured off by the +prospect of playing with the little cups and saucers, deserted Riar for +Diddie. This produced a little coolness, but gradually it wore off, and +the visiting between the parties was resumed. + +After “ladies come to see” had lost its novelty, they made little +leaf-boats, and sailed them in the ditch. Then they played “hide the +switch,” and at last concluded to try a game of hide-and-seek. This +afforded considerable amusement, so they kept it up some time; and +once, when it became Dumps’s time to hide, she ran away to the +gin-house, and got into the pick-room. And while she was standing there +all by herself in the dark, she thought she heard somebody breathing. +This frightened her very much, and she had just opened the door to get +out, when a negro man crawled from under a pile of dirty cotton, and +said, + +“Little missy, fur de Lord’s sake, can’t yer gimme sump’n t’ eat?” + +Dumps was so scared she could hardly stand; but, notwithstanding the +man’s haggard face and hollow eyes, and his weird appearance, with the +cotton sticking to his head, his tone was gentle, and she stopped to +look at him more closely. + +“Little missy,” he said, piteously, “I’se er starvin’ ter def. I ain’t +had er mouf’l ter eat in fo’ days.” + +“What’s the reason?” asked Dumps. “Are you a runaway nigger?” + +“Yes, honey; I ’longs ter ole Tight-fis’ Smith; an’ he wanted ter whup +me fur not gittin’ out ter de fiel’ in time, an’ I tuck’n runned erway +fum ’im, an’ now I’m skyeert ter go back, an’ ter go anywhar; an’ I +can’t fin’ nuf’n t’ eat, an’ I’se er starvin’ ter def.” + +“Well, you wait,” said Dumps, “an’ I’ll go bring yer the picnic.” + +“Don’t tell nobody ’boutn my bein’ hyear, honey.” + +“No, I won’t,” said Dumps, “only Diddie; she’s good, an’ she won’t tell +nobody; an’ she can read an’ write, an’ she’ll know what to do better’n +me, because I’m all the time such a little goose. But I’ll bring yer +sump’n t’ eat; you jes wait er little minute; an’ don’t yer starve ter +def till I come back.” + +Dumps ran back to the ditch where the children were, and, taking Diddie +aside in a very mysterious manner, she told her about the poor man who +was hiding in the gin-house, and about his being so hungry. + +“An’ I tol’ ’im I’d bring ’im the picnic,” concluded Dumps; and Diddie, +being the gentlest and kindest-hearted little girl imaginable, at once +consented to that plan; and, leaving Tot with the little negroes in the +woods, the two children took their baskets, and went higher up the +ditch, on pretence of finding a good place to set the table; but, as +soon as they were out of sight, they cut across the grove, and were +soon at the gin-house. They entered the pick-room cautiously, and +closed the door behind them. The man came out from his hiding-place, +and the little girls emptied their baskets in his hands. + +He ate ravenously, and Diddie and Dumps saw with pleasure how much he +enjoyed the nice tarts and sandwiches and cakes that Mammy had provided +for the picnic. + +“Do you sleep here at night?” asked Diddie. + +“Yes, honey, I’se skyeert ter go out any-whar; I’se so skyeert uv +Tight-fis’ Smith.” + +“He’s awful mean, ain’t he?” asked Dumps. + +“Dat he is chile,” replied the man; “he’s cruel an’ bad.” + +“Then don’t you ever go back to him,” said Dumps. “You stay right here +an’ me’n Diddie’ll bring you ev’ything ter eat, an’ have you fur our +nigger.” + +The man laughed softly at that idea, but said he would stay there for +the present, anyway; and the children, bidding him good-bye, and +telling him they would be sure to bring him something to eat the next +day, went back to their playmates at the ditch. + +“Tot,” said Diddie, we gave all the picnic away to a poor old man who +was very hungry; but you don’t mind, do you? we’ll go back to the +house, and Mammy will give you just as many cakes as you want.” + +Tot was a little bit disappointed, for she had wanted to eat the picnic +in the woods; but Diddie soon comforted her, and before they reached +the house she was as merry and bright as any of them. + +The next morning Diddie and Dumps were very much perplexed to know how +to get off to the gin-house without being seen. There was no difficulty +about obtaining the provisions; their mother always let them have +whatever they wanted to have tea-parties with, and this was their +excuse for procuring some slices of pie and cake, while Aunt Mary gave +them bread and meat, and Douglas gave them some cold buttered biscuit +with ham between. + +They wrapped it all up carefully in a bundle, and then, watching their +chances, they slipped off from Tot and the little darkies, as well as +from Mammy, and carried it to their guest in the pick-room. He was +truly glad to see them, and to get the nice breakfast they had brought; +and the little girls, having now lost all fear of him, sat down on a +pile of cotton to have a talk with him. + +“Did you always b’long to Mr. Tight-fis’ Smith?” asked Diddie. + +“No, honey; he bought me fum de Powell ’state, an’ I ain’t b’longst ter +him no mo’n ’boutn fo’ years.” + +“Is he got any little girls?” asked Dumps. + +“No, missy; his wife an’ two chil’en wuz bu’nt up on de steamboat gwine +ter New ’Leans, some twenty years ergo; an’ de folks sez dat’s wat +makes ’im sich er kintankrus man. Dey sez fo’ dat he usen ter hab +meetin’ on his place, an’ he wuz er Christyun man hisse’f; but he got +mad ’long er de Lord caze de steamboat bu’nt up, an’ eber sence dat +he’s been er mighty wicked man; an’ he won’t let none er his folks +sarve de Lord; an’ he don’t ’pyear ter cyar fur nuffin’ ’cep’n hit’s +money. But den, honey, he ain’t no born gemmun, nohow; he’s jes only er +oberseer wat made ’im er little money, an’ bought ’im er few niggers; +an’, I tells yer, he makes ’em wuck, too; we’se got ter be in de fiel’ +long fo’ day; an’ I ober-slep mysef tudder mornin’ an he Wuz cussin’ +an’ er gwine on, an’ ’lowed he wuz gwine ter whup me, an’ so I des up +an’ runned erway fum ’im, an’ now I’se skyeert ter go back; an’, let +erlone dat, I’se skyeert ter stay; caze, efn he gits Mr. Upson’s dogs, +dey’ll trace me plum hyear; an’ wat I is ter do I dunno; I jes prays +constunt ter de Lord. He’ll he’p me, I reckon, caze I prays tree times +eby day, an’ den in ’tween times.” + +“Is your name Brer Dan’l?” asked Dumps, who remembered Uncle Bob’s +story of Daniel’s praying three times a day. + +“No, honey, my name’s Pomp; but den I’m er prayin’ man, des same ez +Danl’ wuz.” + +“Well, Uncle Pomp,” said Diddie, “you stay here just as long as you +can, an’ I’ll ask papa to see Mr. Tight-fis’ Smith, an’ he’ll get—” + +“Lor’, chile,” interrupted Uncle Pomp, “don’t tell yer pa nuf’n ’boutn +it; he’ll _sho_’ ter sen’ me back, an’ dat man’ll beat me half ter def; +caze I’se mos’ loss er week’s time now, an’ hit’s er mighty ’tickler +time in de crap.” + +“But, s’posin’ the dogs might come?” said Dumps. + +“Well, honey, dey ain’t come yit; an’ wen dey duz come, den hit’ll be +time fur ter tell yer pa.” + +“Anyhow, we’ll bring you something to eat,” said Diddie, “and try and +help you all we can; but we must go back now, befo’ Mammy hunts for us; +so good-bye;” and again they left him to himself. + +As they neared the house, Dumps asked Diddie how far it was to Mr. +“Tight-fis’ Smith’s.” + +“I don’t know exactly,” said Diddie; “’bout three miles, I think.” + +“Couldn’t we walk there, an’ ask him not to whup Uncle Pomp? Maybe he +wouldn’t, ef we was ter beg him right hard.” + +“Yes, that’s jest what we’ll do, Dumps; and we’ll get Dilsey to go with +us, ’cause she knows the way.” + +Dilsey was soon found, and was very willing to accompany them, but was +puzzled to know why they wanted to go. The children, however, would not +gratify her curiosity, and they started at once, so as to be back in +time for dinner. + +It was all of three miles to Mr. Smith’s plantation, and the little +girls were very tired long before they got there. Dumps, indeed, almost +gave out, and once began to cry, and only stopped with Diddie’s +reminding her of poor Uncle Pomp, and with Dilsey’s carrying her a +little way. + +At last, about two o’clock, they reached Mr. Smith’s place. The hands +had just gone out into the field after dinner, and of course their +master who was only a small planter and kept no overseer, was with +them. The children found the doors all open, and went in. + +The house was a double log-cabin, with a hall between, and they entered +the room on the right, which seemed to be the principal living-room. +There was a shabby old bed in one corner, with the cover all +disarranged, as if its occupant had just left it. A table, littered +with unwashed dishes, stood in the middle of the floor, and one or two +rude split-bottomed chairs completed the furniture. + +The little girls were frightened at the unusual silence about the +place, as well as the dirt and disorder, but, being very tired, they +sat down to rest. + +“Diddie,” asked Dumps, after a little time, “ain’t yer scared?” + +“I don’t think I’m scared, Dumps,” replied Diddie; “but I’m not right +comfor’ble.” + +“_I’m_ scared,” said Dumps. “I’m _jes_ ez fraid of Mr. Tight-fis’ +Smith!” + +“Dat’s hit!” said Dilsey. “Now yer talkin’, Miss Dumps; dat’s er mean +white man, an, he might er get mad erlong us, an’ take us all fur his +niggers.” + +“But we ain’t black, Diddie an’ me,” said Dumps. + +“Dat don’t make no diffunce ter him; he des soon hab white niggers ez +black uns,” remarked Diddie, consolingly; and Dumps, being now +thoroughly frightened, said, + +“Well, I’m er goin’ ter put my pen’ence in de Lord. I’m er goin’ ter +pray.” + +Diddie and Dilsey thought this a wise move, and, the three children +kneeling down, Dumps began, + +“Now, I lay me down to sleep.” + + +And just at this moment Mr. Smith, returning from the field, was +surprised to hear a voice proceeding from the house, and, stepping +lightly to the window, beheld, to his amazement, the three children on +their knees, with their eyes tightly closed and their hands clasped, +while Dumps was saying, with great fervor, + +“If I should die before I wake, + I pray the Lord my soul to take; + An’ this I ask for Jesus’ sake.” + + +“Amen!” reverently responded Diddie and Dilsey; and they all rose from +their knees much comforted. + +“I ain’t ’fraid uv him now,” said Dumps, “’cause I b’lieve the Lord’ll +he’p us, an’ not let Mr. Tight-fis’ Smith git us.” + +“I b’lieve so too,” said Diddie; and, turning to the window, she found +Mr. Smith watching them. + +“Are you Mr. Tight-fis’ Smith?” asked Diddie, timidly. + +“I am Mr. Smith, and I have heard that I am called ‘tight-fisted’ in +the neighborhood,” he replied, with a smile. + +“Well, we are Major Waldron’s little girls, Diddie and Dumps, an’ this +is my maid Dilsey, an’ we’ve come ter see yer on business.” + +“On business, eh?” replied Mr. Smith, stepping in at the low window. +“Well, what’s the business, little ones?” and he took a seat on the +side of the bed, and regarded them curiously. But here Diddie stopped, +for she felt it was a delicate matter to speak to this genial, +pleasant-faced old man of cruelty to his own slaves. Dumps, however, +was troubled with no such scruples; and, finding that Mr. Smith was not +so terrible as she hid feared, she approached him boldly, and, standing +by his side, she laid one hand on his gray head, and said: + +“Mr. Smith, we’ve come ter beg you please not ter whup Uncle Pomp if he +comes back. He is runned erway, an me an Diddie know where he is, an’ +we’ve ben feedin’ him, an’ we don’t want you ter whup him; will you +please don’t?” and Dumps’s arm slipped down from the old man’s head, +until it rested around his neck; and Mr. Smith, looking into her eager, +childish face, and seeing the blue eyes filled with tears, thought of +the little faces that long years ago had looked up to his; and, bending +his head, he kissed the rosy mouth. + +“You won’t whup him, will you?” urged Dumps. + +“Don’t you think he ought to be punished for running away and staying +all this time, when I needed him in the crop?” asked Mr. Smith, gently. + +“But, indeed, he is punished,” said Diddie; “he was almost starved to +death when me and Dumps carried him the picnic; and then he is so +scared, he’s been punished, Mr. Smith; so please let him come home, and +don’t whup him.” + +“Yes, PLE-EE-ASE promise,” said Dumps, tightening her hold on his neck; +and Mr. Smith, in memory of the little arms that once clung round him, +and the little fingers that in other days clasped his, said: + +“Well, I’ll promise, little ones. Pomp may come home, and I’ll not whip +or punish him in any way;” and then he kissed them both, and said they +must have a lunch with him, and then he would take them home and bring +Pomp back; for he was astonished to learn that they had walked so long +a distance, and would not hear of their walking back, though Diddie +persisted that they must go, as they had stolen off, and nobody knew +where they were. + +He made the cook bake them some hot corn hoe-cakes and boil them some +eggs; and while she was fixing it, and getting the fresh butter and +buttermilk to add to the meal, Mr. Smith took them to the June +apple-tree, and gave them just as many red apples as they wanted to +eat, and some to take home to Tot. And Dumps told him all about “Old +Billy” and Cherubim and Seraphim, and the old man laughed, and enjoyed +it all, for he had no relatives or friends, and lived entirely alone—a +stern, cold man, whose life had been embittered by the sudden loss of +his loved ones, and it had been many weary years since he had heard +children’s voices chatting and laughing under the apple-tree. + +After the lunch, which his guests enjoyed very much Mr. Smith had a +little donkey brought out for Dilsey to ride, and, taking Diddie behind +him on his horse, and Dumps in his arms, he started with them for home. + +There was but one saddle, so Dilsey was riding “bareback,” and had to +sit astride of the donkey to keep from falling off, which so amused the +children that merry peals of laughter rang out from time to time; +indeed, Dumps laughed so much, that, if Mr. Smith had not held her +tightly, she certainly would have fallen off. But it was not very funny +to Dilsey; she held on with all her might to the donkey’s short mane, +and even then could scarcely keep her seat. She was highly indignant +with the children for laughing at her, and said: + +“I dunno wat yer kill’n yerse’f laffin’ ’bout, got me er settin’ on dis +hyear beas’; I ain’t gwine wid yer no mo’.” + +Major Waldron was sitting on the veranda as the cavalcade came up, and +was surprised to see his little daughters with Mr. Smith, and still +more so to learn that they had walked all the way to his house on a +mission of mercy; but being a kind man, and not wishing to check the +germs of love and sympathy in their young hearts, he forbore to scold +them, and went with them and Mr. Smith to the gin-house for the +runaway. + +On reaching the pick-room, the children went in alone, and told Uncle +Pomp that his master had come for him, and had promised not to punish +him; but still the old man was afraid to go out, and stood there in +alarm till Mr. Smith called: + +“Come out, Pomp! I’ll keep my promise to the little ones; you shall not +be punished in any way. Come out, and let’s go home.” + +And Uncle Pomp emerged from his hiding-place, presenting a very +ludicrous spectacle, with his unwashed face and uncombed hair, and the +dirty cotton sticking to his clothes. + +“Ef’n yer’ll furgib de ole nigger dis time, marster, he ain’t neber +gwine run erway no mo’ an’, mo’n dat, he gwine ter make speshul ’spress +’rangemunce fur ter git up sooner in de mornin’; he is dat, jes sho’s +yer born!” said the old negro, as he came before his master. + +“Don’t make too many promises, Pomp,” kindly replied Mr. Smith; “we +will both try to do better; at any rate, you shall not be punished this +time. Now take your leave of your kind little friends, and let’s get +towards home; we are losing lots of time this fine day.” + +“Good-bye, little misses,” said Uncle Pomp, grasping Diddie’s hand in +one of his and Dumps’s in the other; “good-bye; I gwine pray fur yer +bof ev’y night wat de Lord sen’; an’, mo’n dat, I gwine fotch yer some +pattridge aigs de fus’ nes’ wat I fin’s.” + +And Uncle Pomp mounted the donkey that Dilsey had ridden, and rode off +with his master, while Diddie and Dumps climbed on top of the fence to +catch the last glimpse of them, waving their sun-bonnets and calling +out, + +“Good-bye, Mr. Tight-fis’ Smith and Uncle Pomp.” + + + + +CHAPTER XV +THE FOURTH OF JULY + + +“The glorious Fourth” was always a holiday on every Southern +plantation, and, of course, Major Waldron’s was no exception to the +rule. His negroes not only had holiday, but a barbecue, and it was a +day of general mirth and festivity. + +On this particular “Fourth” the barbecue was to be on the banks of the +creek formed by the back-waters of the river, and was to be a +“fish-fry” as well as a barbecue. + +All hands on the plantation were up by daylight, and preparing for the +frolic. Some of the negro men, indeed, had been down to the creek all +night setting out their fish-baskets and getting the “pit” ready for +the meats. The pit was a large hole, in which a fire was kindled to +roast the animals, which were suspended over it; and they must commence +the barbecuing very early in the morning, in order to get everything +ready by dinner-time. The children were as much excited over it as the +negroes were and Mammy could hardly keep them still enough to dress +them, they were so eager to be off. Major and Mrs. Waldron were to go +in the light carriage, but the little folks were to go with Mammy and +Aunt Milly in the spring-wagon, along with the baskets of provisions +for the “white folks’ tables;” the bread and vegetables and cakes and +pastry for the negroes’ tables had been sent off in a large wagon, and +were at the place for the barbecue long before the white family started +from home. The negroes, too, had all gone. Those who were not able to +walk had gone in wagons, but most of them had walked, for it was only +about three miles from the house. + +Despite all their efforts to hurry up Mammy, it was nearly nine o’clock +before the children could get her off; and even then she didn’t want to +let Cherubim and Seraphim go, and Uncle Snake-bit Bob, who was driving +the wagon, had to add his entreaties to those of the little folks +before she would consent at all; and after that matter had been +decided, and the baskets all packed in, and the children all +comfortably seated, and Dilsey and Chris and Riar squeezed into the +back of the wagon between the ice-cream freezer and the lemonade +buckets, and Cherubim and Seraphim in the children’s laps, and Mammy +and Aunt Milly on two split-bottomed chairs, just back of the driver’s +seat, and Uncle Snake-bit Bob, with the reins in his hands, just ready +to drive off—whom should they see but Old Daddy Jake coming down the +avenue, and waving his hat for them to wait for him. + +“Dar now!” said Mammy; “de folks done gone an’ lef’ Ole Daddy, an’ we +got ter stuff ’im in hyear somewhar.” + +“They ain’t no room in hyear,” said Dumps, tightening her gasp on +Cherubim, for she strongly suspected that Mammy would insist on leaving +the puppies to make room for Daddy. + +“Well, he ain’t got ter be lef’,” said Mammy; “I wuz allers larnt ter +’spect ole folks myse’f, an’ ef’n dis wagin goes, why den Daddy Jake’s +got ter go in it;” and, Major and Mrs. Waldron having gone, Mammy was +the next highest in command, and from her decision there was no appeal. + +“How come yer ter git lef’, Daddy,” asked Uncle Snake-bit Bob, as the +old man came up hobbling on his stick. + +“Well, yer see, chile, I wuz er lightin’ uv my pipe, an’ er fixin’ uv +er new stim in it, an’ I nuber notus wen de wagins went off. Yer see +I’m er gittin’ er little deef in deze ole yurs of mine: dey ben er +fasten’t on ter dis ole nigger’s head er long time, uperds uv er +hundred years or mo’; an’ de time hez ben wen dey could hyear de leaves +fall uv er nights; but dey gittin’ out’n fix somehow; dey ain’t wuckin’ +like dey oughter; an’ dey jus sot up dar, an’ let de wagins drive off, +an’ leave de ole nigger er lightin’ uv his pipe; an’ wen I got thu, an’ +went ter de do’, den I hyeard er mighty stillness in de quarters, an’ +bless yer heart, de folks wuz gone; an’ I lookt up dis way, an’ I seed +de wagin hyear, an’ I ’lowed yer’d all gimme er lif’ some way.” + +“Dem little niggers’ll hatter stay at home,” said Mammy, sharply, +eyeing the little darkies, “or else they’ll hatter walk, caze Daddy’s +got ter come in dis wagin. Now, you git out, you little niggers.” + +At this, Dilsey and Chris and Riar began to unpack themselves, crying +bitterly the while, because they were afraid to walk by themselves, and +they knew they couldn’t walk fast enough to keep up with the wagon; but +here Diddie came to the rescue, and persuaded Uncle Bob to go to the +stable and saddle Corbin, and all three of the little negroes mounted +him, and rode on behind the wagon, while Daddy Jim was comfortably +fixed in the space they had occupied; and now they were fairly off. + +“Mammy, what does folks have Fourf of Julys for?” asked Dumps, after a +little while. + +“I dunno, honey,” answered Mammy; “I hyear ’em say hit wuz ’long o’ +some fightin’ or nuther wat de white folks fit one time; but whedder +dat wuz de time wat Brer David fit Goliar or not, I dunno; I ain’t +hyeard ’em say ’bout dat: it mout er ben dat time, an’ den ergin it +mout er ben de time wat Brer Samson kilt up de folks wid de jawbone. I +ain’t right sho _wat_ time hit wuz; but den I knows hit wuz some +fightin’ or nuther.” + +“It was the ‘Declination of Independence’,” said Diddie. “It’s in the +little history; and it wasn’t any fightin’, it was a _writin’;_ and +there’s the picture of it in the book: and all the men are sittin’ +roun’, and one of ’em is writin’.” + +“Yes, dat’s jes wat I hyearn,” said Uncle Bob. “I hyearn ’em say dat +dey had de fuss’ Defemation uv Ondepen’ence on de Fourf uv July, an’ +eber sence den de folks ben er habin’ holerday an’ barbecues on dat +day.” + +“What’s er Defemation, Uncle Bob?” asked Dumps, who possessed an +inquiring mind. + +“Well, I mos’ furgits de zack meanin’,” said the old man, scratching +his head; “hit’s some kin’ er writin’, do, jes like Miss Diddie say; +but, let erlone dat, hit’s in de squshionary, an’ yer ma kin fin’ hit +fur yer, an’ ’splain de zack meanin’ uv de word; but de Defemation uv +Ondepen’ence, hit happened on de fuss Fourf uv July, an’ hit happens +ev’ry Fourf uv July sence den; an’ dat’s ’cordin ’ter my onderstandin’ +uv hit,” said Uncle Rob, whipping up his horses. + +“What’s dat, Brer Bob?” asked Daddy Jake, and as soon as Uncle Bob had +yelled at him Dumps’s query and his answer to it, the old man said: + +“Yer wrong, Brer Bob; I ’members well de fus’ Fourf uv July; hit wuz er +man, honey. Marse Fofer July wuz er _man,_ an’ de day wuz name atter +him. He wuz er pow’ful fightin’ man; but den who it wuz he fit I mos’ +furgot, hit’s ben so long ergo; but I ’members, do, I wuz er right +smart slip uv er boy, an’ I went wid my ole marster, yer pa’s gran’pa, +to er big dinner wat dey had on de Jeems Riber, in ole Furginny; an’ +dat day, sar, Marse Fofer July wuz dar; an’ he made er big speech ter +de white folks, caze I hyeard ’em clappin’ uv dey han’s. I nuber seed +’im but I hyeard he wuz dar, do, an’ I knows he _wuz_ dar, caze I +sho’ly hyeard ’em clappin’ uv dey han’s; an’, ’cordin’ ter de way I +’members bout’n it, dis is his birfday, wat de folks keeps plum till +yet caze dey ain’t no men nowerdays like Marse Fofer July. He wuz er +gre’t man, an’ he had sense, too; an’ den, ’sides dat, he wuz some er +de fus’ famblys in dem days. Wy, his folks usen ter visit our white +folks. I helt his horse fur ’im de many er time; an’, let erlone dat, I +knowed some uv his niggers; but den dat’s ben er long time ergo.” + +“But what was he writin’ about Daddy?” asked Diddie, who remembered the +picture too well to give up the “writing part.” + +“He wuz jes signin’ some kin’ er deeds or sump’n,” said Daddy. “I dunno +wat he wuz writin’ erbout; but den he wuz er man, caze he lived in my +recommembrunce, an’ I done seed ’im myse’f.” + +That settled the whole matter, though Diddie was not entirely +satisfied; but, as the wagon drove up to the creek bank just then, she +was too much interested in the barbecue to care very much for “Marse +Fofer July.” + +The children all had their fishing-lines and hooks, and as soon as they +were on the ground started to find a good place to fish. Dilsey got +some bait from the negro boys, and baited the hooks; and it was a +comical sight to see all of the children, white and black, perched upon +the roots of trees or seated flat on the ground, watching intently +their hooks, which they kept bobbing up and down so fast that the fish +must have been very quick indeed to catch them. + +They soon wearied of such dull sport, and began to set their wits to +work to know what to do next. + +“Le’s go ’possum-huntin’,” suggested Dilsey. + +“There ain’t any ’possums in the daytime,” said Diddie. + +“Yes dey is, Miss Diddie, lots uv ’em; folks jes goes at night fur ter +save time. I knows how ter hunt fur ’possums; I kin tree ’em jes same +ez er dog.” + +And the children, delighted at the novelty of the thing, all started +off “’possum-hunting,” for Mammy was helping unpack the dinner-baskets, +and was not watching them just then. They wandered off some distance, +climbing over logs and falling into mud-puddles, for they all had their +heads thrown back and their faces turned up to the trees, looking for +the ’possums, and thereby missed seeing impediments in the way. + +At length Dilsey called out, “Hyear he is! Hyear de ’possum!” and they +all came to a dead halt under a large oak-tree, which Dilsey and Chris, +and even Diddie and Dumps, I regret to say, prepared to climb. But the +climbing consisted mostly in active and fruitless endeavors to make a +start, for Dilsey was the only one of the party who got as much as +three feet from the ground; but _she_ actually did climb up until she +reached the first limb, and then crawled along it until she got near +enough to shake off the ’possum, which proved to be a big chunk of wood +that had lodged up there from a falling branch, probably; and when +Dilsey shook the limb it fell down right upon Riar’s upturned face, and +made her nose bleed. + +“Wat you doin’, you nigger you?” demanded Riar, angrily, as she wiped +the blood from her face. “I dar’ yer ter come down out’n dat tree, an’ +I’ll beat de life out’n yer; I’ll larn yer who ter be shakin’ chunks +on.” + +In vain did Dilsey apologize, and say she thought it was a ’possum; +Riar would listen to no excuse; and as soon as Dilsey reached the +ground they had a rough-and-tumble fight, in which both parties got +considerably worsted in the way of losing valuable hair, and of having +their eyes filled with dirt and their clean dresses all muddied; but +Tot was so much afraid Riar, her little nurse and maid, would get hurt +that she screamed and cried, and refused to be comforted until the +combatants suspended active hostilities, though they kept up +quarrelling for some time, even after they had recommenced their search +for ’possums. + +“Dilsey don’t know how to tree no ’possums,” said Riar, contemptuously, +after they had walked for some time, and anxiously looked up into every +tree they passed. + +“Yes I kin,” retorted Dilsey; “I kin tree ’em jes ez same ez er dog, +ef’n dar’s any ’possums fur ter tree; but I can’t _make_ ’possums, do; +an’ ef dey ain’t no ’possums, den I can’t tree ’em, dat’s all.” + +“Maybe they don’t come out on the Fourf uv July,” said Dumps. “Maybe +’possums keeps it same as peoples,” + +“Now, maybe dey duz,” said Dilsey, who was glad to have some excuse for +her profitless ’possum-hunting; and the children, being fairly tired +out, started back to the creek bank, when they came upon Uncle +Snake-bit Bob, wandering through the woods, and looking intently on the +ground. + +“What are you looking for, Uncle Bob?” asked Diddie. + +“Des er few buckeyes, honey,” answered the old man. + +“What you goin’ ter du with ’em?” asked Dumps, as the little girls +joined him in his search. + +“Well, I don’t want ter die no drunkard, myse’f,” said Uncle Bob, whose +besetting sin was love of whiskey. + +“Does buckeyes keep folks from dying drunkards?” asked Dumps. + +“Dat’s wat dey sez; an’ I ’lowed I’d lay me in er few caze I’ve allers +hyearn dat dem folks wat totes a buckeye in dey lef’ britches pocket, +an’ den ernudder in de righthan’ coat pocket, dat dey ain’t gwine die +no drunkards.” + +“But if they would stop drinkin’ whiskey they wouldn’t die drunkards +anyhow, would they, Uncle Bob?” + +“Well, I dunno, honey; yer pinnin’ de ole nigger mighty close; de +whiskey mout hab sump’n ter do wid it; I ain’t ’sputin’ dat—but wat I +stan’s on is dis: dem folks wat I seed die drunk, dey nuber had no +buckeyes in dey pockets; caze I ’members dat oberseer wat Marse Brunson +had, he died wid delirums treums, an’ he runned, he did, fur ter git +’way fum de things wat he seed atter him; an’ he jumped into de riber, +an’ got drownded; an’ I wuz dar wen dey pulled ’im out; an’ I sez ter +Brer John Small, who wuz er standin’ dar, sez I, now I lay yer he ain’t +got no buckeyes in his pockets; and wid dat me’n Brer John we tuck’n +turnt his pockets wrong side outerds; an’ bless yer soul, chile, hit +wuz jes like I say; DAR WAN’T NO BUCKEYES DAR! Well, I’d b’lieved in de +ole sayin’ befo’, but dat jes kin’ter sot me on it fas’er ’n eber; an’ +I don’t cyar wat de wedder is, nor wat de hurry is; hit may rain an’ +hit may shine, an’ de time may be er pressin’, but ole Rob he don’t +stir out’n his house mornin’s ’cep’n he’s got buckeyes in his pockets. +But I seed ’em gittin’ ready fur dinner as I comed erlong, an’ you +chil’en better be er gittin’ toerds de table.” + +That was enough for the little folks, and they hurried back to the +creek. The table was formed by driving posts into the ground, and +laying planks across them, and had been fixed up the day before by some +of the men. The dinner was excellent—barbecued mutton and shote and +lamb and squirrels, and very fine “gumbo,” and plenty of vegetables and +watermelons and fruits, and fresh fish which the negroes had caught in +the seine, for none of the anglers had been successful. + +Everybody was hungry, for they had had very early breakfast, and, +besides, it had been a fatiguing day, for most of the negroes had +walked the three miles, and then had danced and played games nearly all +the morning, and so they were ready for dinner. And everybody seemed +very happy and gay except Mammy; she had been so upset at the +children’s torn dresses and dirty faces that she could not regain her +good-humor all at once; and then, too, Dumps had lost her sun-bonnet, +and there were some unmistakable freckles across her little nose, and +so Mammy looked very cross, and grumbled a good deal, though her +appetite seemed good, and she did full justice to the barbecue. + +Now Mammy had some peculiar ideas of her own as to the right and proper +way for ladies to conduct themselves, and one of her theories was that +no _white lady_ should ever eat heartily in company; she might eat +between meals, if desired, or even go back after the meal was over and +satisfy her appetite; but to sit down with a party of ladies and +gentlemen and make a good “square” meal, Mammy considered very +ungenteel indeed. This idea she was always trying to impress upon the +little girls, so as to render them as ladylike as possible in the years +to come; and on this occasion, as there were quite a number of the +families from the adjacent plantations present, she was horrified to +see Dumps eating as heartily, and with as evident satisfaction, as if +she had been alone in the nursery at home. Diddie, too, had taken her +second piece of barbecued squirrel, and seemed to be enjoying it very +much, when a shake of Mammy’s head reminded her of the impropriety of +such a proceeding; so she laid aside the squirrel, and minced +delicately over some less substantial food. The frowns and nods, +however, were thrown away upon Dumps; she ate of everything she wanted +until she was fully satisfied, and I grieve to say that her papa +encouraged her in such unladylike behavior by helping her liberally to +whatever she asked for. + +But after the dinner was over, and after the darkies had played and +danced until quite late, and after the ladies and gentlemen had had +several very interesting games of euchre and whist, and after the +little folks had wandered about as much as they pleased—swinging on +grape-vines and riding on “saplings,” and playing “base” and “stealing +goods,” and tiring themselves out generally—and after they had been all +duly stowed away in the spring-wagon and had started for home, then +Mammy began at Dumps about her unpardonable appetite. + +“But I was hungry, Mammy,” apologized the little girl. + +“I don’t cyer ef’n yer wuz,” replied Mammy; “dat ain’t no reason fur +yer furgittin’ yer manners, an’ stuffin’ yerse’f right fo’ all de +gemmuns. Miss Diddie dar, she burhavt like er little lady, jes kinter +foolin’ wid her knife an’ fork, an’ nuber eatin’ nuffin’ hardly; an’ +dar you wuz jes ir pilin’ in shotes an’ lams an’ squ’ls, an’ roas’n +yurs, an’ pickles an’ puddin’s an’ cakes an’ watermillions, tell I wuz +dat shame fur ter call yer marster’s darter!” + +And poor little Dumps, now that the enormity of her sin was brought +home to her, and the articles eaten so carefully enumerated, began to +feel very much like a boa-constrictor, and the tears fell from her eyes +as Mammy continued: + +“I done nust er heap er chil’en in my time, but I ain’t nuber seed no +white chile eat fo de gemmuns like you duz. It pyears like I can’t +nuber larn you no manners, nohow.” + +“Let de chile erlone, Sis Rachel,” interposed Uncle Bob; “she ain’t no +grown lady, an’ I seed marster he’p’n uv her plate hisse’f; she nuber +eat none too much, consid’n hit wuz de Fourf uv July.” + +“Didn’t I eat no shotes an’ lambs, Uncle Bob?” asked Dumps, wiping her +eyes. + +“I don’t b’lieve yer did,” said Uncle Bob. “I seed yer eat er squ’l or +two, an’ er few fish, likely; an’ dem, wid er sprinklin’ uv roas’n yurs +an’ cakes, wuz de mos’ wat I seed yer eat.” + +“An’ dat wuz too much,” said Mammy, “right befo’ de gemmuns.” + +But Dumps was comforted at Uncle Bob’s moderate statement of the case, +and so Mammy’s lecture lost much of its intended severity. + +As they were driving through the grove before reaching the house it was +quite dark, and they heard an owl hooting in one of the trees. + +“I see yer keep on sayin’ yer sass,” said Daddy Jake, addressing the +owl. “Ef’n I’d er done happen ter all you is ’bout’n hit, I’d let hit +erlone myse’f.” + +“What’s he sayin’?” asked Diddie. + +“Wy, don’t yer hyear him, honey, er sayin’, + +‘Who cooks fur you-oo-a? + Who cooks fur you-oo-a? + Ef you’ll cook for my folks, + Den I’ll cook fur y’ all-l-lll?’ + + +“Well, hit wuz ’long er dat very chune wat he los’ his eyes, an’ can’t +see no mo’ in de daytime; an’ ev’n I wuz him, I’d let folks’ cookin’ +erlone.” + +“Can’t you tell us about it, Daddy?” asked Dumps. + +“I ain’t got de time now,” said the old man, “caze hyear’s de wagin +almos’ at de do’; an’, let erlone dat, I ain’t nuber hyeard ’twus good +luck ter be tellin’ no tales on de Fourf uv July; but ef’n yer kin come +ter my cabin some ebenin’ wen yer’s er airin’ uv yerse’fs, den I’ll +tell yer jes wat I hyearn ’bout’n de owl, an ’struck yer in er many er +thing wat yer don’t know now.” + +And now the wagon stopped at the back gate, and the little girls and +Mammy and the little darkies got out, and Mammy made the children say +good-night to Daddy Jake and Uncle Rob, and they all went into the +house very tired and very sleepy, and very dirty with their celebration +of “Marse Fofer July’s burfday.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI +“’STRUCK’N UV DE CHIL’EN” + + +It was several days before the children could get off to Daddy Jake’s +cabin to hear about the owl; but on Saturday evening, after dinner, +Mammy said they might go; and, having promised to go straight to Daddy +Jake’s house, and to come home before dark, they all started off. + +Daddy Jake was the oldest negro on the plantation—perhaps the oldest in +the State. He had been raised by Major Waldron’s grandfather in +Virginia, and remembered well the Revolutionary War; and then he had +been brought to Mississippi by Major Waldron’s father, and remembered +all about the War of 1812 and the troubles with the Indians. It had +been thirty years or more since Daddy Jake had done any work. He had a +very comfortable cabin; and although his wives (for the old man had +been married several times) were all dead, and many of his children +were now old and infirm, he had a number of grandchildren and +great-grand-children who attended to his wants; and then, too, his +master cared very particularly for his comfort, and saw that Daddy Jake +had good fires, and that his clothes were kept clean and mended, and +his food nicely cooked; so the old man passed his days in peace and +quiet. + +The children found him now lying stretched out on a bench in front of +his cabin, while Polly, his great-grand-daughter, was scratching and +“looking” his head. + +“We’ve come for you to tell us about the Owl, Daddy,” said Diddie, +after she had given the old man some cake and a bottle of muscadine +wine that her mother had sent to him. + +“All right, little misses,” replied Daddy; and, sitting up on the +bench, he lifted Tot beside him, while Diddie and Dumps sat on the +door-sill, and Dilsey and Chris and Riar and Polly sat flat on the +ground. + +“Well, yer see de Owl,” began Daddy Jake, “he usen fur ter see in de +daytime des same ez he do now in de night; an’ one time he wuz in his +kitchen er cookin’ uv his dinner, wen hyear come de Peafowl er +struttin’ by. Well, in dem days de Peafowl he nuber had none er dem +eyes on his tail wat he got now; his tail wuz des er clean blue.” + +“Did you see him, Daddy?” interrupted Dumps. + +“No, honey, I ain’t seed ’im wen he wuz dat way; dat wuz fo’ my time; +but den I know hit’s de truf, do; his tail wuz er clar blue dout’n no +eyes on it; an’ he wuz er pow’ful proud bird, an’, ’stid er him ’ten’in +ter his bizness, he des prumeraded de streets an’ de roads, an’ he felt +hisse’f too big fur ter ten’ ter his wuck. Well, de Owl knowed dat, an’ +so wen he seed de Peafowl walkin’ by so big, an’ him in de kitchen er +cookin’, it kinter hu’t his feelin’s, so he tuck’n holler’d at de +Peafowl, + +“‘Whooo cooks fur you-oo-a? + Whooo cooks fur you-oo-a? + I cooks fur my folks, + But who cooks fur y’ all-ll-l?’ + + +“Now he jes done dat out’n pyo’ sass’ness, caze he knowed de Peafowl +felt hisse’f ’bove cookin’; an’ wen de Peafowl hyeard dat, he ’gun ter +git mad; an’ he ’lowed dat ef’n de Owl said dat ter him ergin dey’d be +er fuss on his han’s. Well, de nex’ day de Owl seed him comin,’ an’ he +’gun fer ter scrape out’n his pots an’ skillets, an’ ez he scrape ’em +he holler’d out, + +“‘Whoo cooks fur you-oo-a? + Whoo cooks fur you-oo-a? + Ef you’ll cook fur my folks, + Den I’ll cook fur y’ all-l-lll.’ + + +“An’ wid dat de Peafowl tuck’n bounct him; an’ dar dey had it, er +scrougin’ an’ peckin an er clawin’ uv one nudder; an’ somehow, in de +skrummidge, de Owl’s eyes dey got skwushed on ter de Peafowl’s tail, +an’ fur er long time he couldn’t see nuffin’ ’tall; but de rattlesnake +doctored on him.” + +“The rattlesnake?” asked Diddie, in horror. + +“Hit’s true, des like I’m tellin’ yer,” said Daddy; “hit wuz de +rattlesnake; an’ dey’s de bes’ doctor dey is ’mongst all de beases. Yer +may see him creepin’ ’long thu de grass like he don’t know nuffin’, but +he kin doctor den.” + +“How does he doctor, Daddy?” asked Dumps. + +“Now you chil’en look er hyear,” said the old man; “I ain’t gwine ter +tell yer all I know ’bout’n de rattlesnake; dar’s some things fur ter +tell, and den ergin dar’s some things fur ter keep ter yerse’f; an’ wat +dey is twix’ me an’ de rattlesnake, hit’s des twix’ me’n him; an’ you +ain’t de fust ones wat want ter know an’ couldn’t. Yer may ax, but +axin’ ain’t findin’ out den; an’, mo’n dat, ef’n I’m got ter be +bothered wid axin’ uv questions, den I ain’t gwine obstruck yer, dat’s +all.” + +The children begged his pardon, and promised not to interrupt again, +and Daddy Jake continued his story. + +“Yes, de rattlesnake doctored on him, an’ atter er wile he got so he +could see some uv nights; but he can’t see much in de daytime, do; an’ +ez fur de Peafowl, he shuck an’ he shuck his tail, but dem spots is dar +tell yit! An’ wen he foun’ he couldn’t git ’em off, den he g’un ter +’ten like he wuz glad uv ’em on dar, and dat wat makes him spread his +tail and ac’ so foolish in de spring uv de year. + +“Dey’s er heap uv de beases done ruint deyse’fs wid dey cuttin’s up an’ +gwines on,” continued Daddy Jake. “Now dar’s de Beaver, he usen fur ter +hab er smoove roun’ tail des like er ’possum’s, wat wuz er heap handier +fur him ter tote dan dat flat tail wat he got now; but den he wouldn’t +let de frogs erlone: he des tored down dey houses an’ devilled ’em, +till dey ’lowed dey wouldn’t stan’ it; an’ so, one moonshiny night, wen +he wuz er stan’in on de bank uv er mighty swif’-runnin’ creek, ole Brer +Bullfrog he hollered at him, + +“‘Come over! come over!’ + +“He knowed de water wuz too swiff fur de beaver, but den he ’lowed ter +pay him back fur tearin’ down his house. Well, de Beaver he stood dar +er lookin’ at de creek, an’ by’mby he axes, + +“‘How deep is it?’ + +“‘Knee-deep, knee-deep,’ answered the little frogs. An’ de Bullfrogs, +dey kep’ er sayin, ‘Come over, come over,” an’ de little frogs kep’ er +hollin’, ‘Jus’ knee-deep; jus’ knee-deep,’ tell de Beaver he pitched in +fur ter swim ’cross; an’, gemmun, de creek wuz so deep, an de water so +swiff, tell hit put ’im up ter all he knowed. He had ter strain an’ ter +wrestle wid dat water tell hit flattent his tail out same ez er shobel, +an’ er little mo’n he’d er los’ his life; but hit larnt him er lesson. +I ain’t _nuber_ hyeard uv his meddlin’ wid nuffin’ fum dat time ter +dis, but, I tell yer, in de hot summer nights, wen he hatter drag dat +flat tail uv his’n atter him ev’ywhar he go, ’stid er havin’ er nice +handy tail wat he kin turn ober his back like er squ’l, I lay yer, mun, +he’s wusht er many er time he’d er kep’ his dev’lment ter hisse’f, an’ +let dem frogs erlone.” + +Here Daddy Jake happened to look down, and he caught Polly nodding. + +“Oh yes!” said the old man, “yer may nod; dat’s des wat’s de matter wid +de niggers now, dem sleepy-head ways wat dey got is de cazhun uv dey +hyar bein’ kunkt up an’ dey skins bein’ black.” + +“Is that what makes it, Daddy?” asked Diddie, much interested. + +“Ub cose hit is,” replied Daddy. “Ef’n de nigger hadn’t ben so +sleepy-headed, he’d er ben white, an’ his hyar’d er ben straight des +like yourn. Yer see, atter de Lord make ’im, den he lont him up ’gins +de fence-corner in de sun fur ter dry; an’ no sooner wuz de Lord’s back +turnt, an’ de sun ’gun ter come out kin’er hot, dan de nigger he ’gun +ter nod, an’ er little mo’n he wuz fas’ ter sleep. Well, wen de Lord +sont atter ’im fur ter finish uv ’im up, de angel couldn’t fin’ ’im, +caze he didn’t know de zack spot whar de Lord sot ’im; an’ so he +hollered an’ called, an’ de nigger he wuz ’sleep, an’ he nuber hyeard +’im; so de angel tuck de white man, an’ cyard him ’long, an’ de Lord +polished uv ’im off. Well, by’mby de nigger he waked up; but, dar now! +he wuz bu’nt black, an’ his hyar wuz all swuv’llt up right kinky. + +“De Lord, seein, he wuz spilte, he didn’t ’low fur ter finish ’im, an’ +wuz des ’bout’n ter thow ’im ’way, wen de white man axt fur ’im; so de +Lord he finished ’im up des like he wuz, wid his skin black an’ his +hyar kunkt up, an’ he gun ’im ter de white man, an’ I see he’s got ’im +plum tell yit.” + +“Was it you, Daddy?” asked Dumps. + +“Wy , no, honey, hit wan’t me, hit wuz my forecisters.” + +“What’s a forecister, Daddy?” asked Diddie, rather curious about the +relationship. + +“Yer forecisters,” explained Daddy, “is dem uv yer _way back folks,_ +wat’s born’d fo’ you is yerse’f, an’ fo’ yer pa is. Now, like my ole +marster, yer pa’s gran’pa, wat riz me in ole Furginny, he’s you +chil’en’s forecister; an’ dis nigger wat I’m tellin’ yer ’bout’n, he +waz my _fuss forecister;_ an’ dats’ de way dat I’ve allers hyearn dat +he come ter be black, an’ his hyar kinky; an’ I b’lieves hit, too, caze +er nigger’s de sleepies’-headed critter dey is; an’ den, ’sides dat’ +I’ve seed er heap er niggers in my time, but I ain’t nuber seed dat +nigger yit wat’s wite, an’ got straight hyar on his head. + +“Now I ain’t er talkin’ ’bout’n _murlatters,_ caze dey ain’t no reg’lar +folks ’tall; dey’s des er mixtry. Dey ain’t white, an’ dey ain’t black, +an’ dey ain’t nuffin’; dey’s des de same kin’ er _folks_ ez de muel is +er _horse!_ + +“An’ den dar’s Injuns; dey’s ergin ernudder kin’ er folks. + +“I usen ter hyear ’em say dat de deb’l made de fuss Injun. He seed de +Lord er makin’ folks, an’ he ’lowed he’d make him some; so he got up +his dut and his water, an’ all his ’grejunces, an’ he went ter wuck; +an’ wedder he cooked him too long, ur wedder he put in too much red +clay fur de water wat he had, wy, I ain’t nuber hyeard; but den I known +de deb’l made ’im, caze I allers hyearn so; an’, mo’n dat, I done seed +’em fo’ now, an’ dey got mighty dev’lish ways. I wuz wid yer gran’pa at +Fort Mimms, down erbout Mobile, an’ I seed ’em killin’ folks an’ +sculpin’ uv ’em; an, mo’n dat, ef’n I hadn’t er crope under er log, an’ +flattent myse’f out like er allergator, dey’d er got me; an’ den, +ergin, dey don’t talk like no folks. I met er Injun one time in de +road, an’ I axed ’im wuz he de man wat kilt an’ sculpt Sis Leah, wat +usen ter b’longst ter yer gran’pa, an’ wat de Injuns kilt. I axt ’im +’ticklur, caze I had my axe erlong, an’ ef’n he wuz de man, I ’lowed +fur ter lay him out. But, bless yer life, chile, he went on fur ter +say, + +“‘Ump, ump, kinterlosha wannycoola tusky noba, inickskymuncha +fluxkerscenuck kintergunter skoop.’ + +“An’ wen he sed dat, I tuck’n lef’ him, caze I seed hit wouldn’t do fur +ter fool ’long him; an’, mo’n dat, he ’gun fur ter shine his eyes out, +an’ so I des off wid my hat, an’ scrape my lef’ foot, an’ said, ‘Good +ebenin’, marster,’ same ez ef he wuz er white man; an’ den I tuck thu +de woods tell I come ter de fork-han’s een er road, an’ I eberlastin’ +dusted fum dar! I put deze feets in motion, yer hyeard me! an’ I kep’ +’em er gwine, too, tell I come ter de outskirts uv de quarters; an’ +eber sence den I ain’t stopped no Injun wat I sees in de road, an’ I +ain’t meddled ’long o’ who kilt Sis Leah, nudder, caze she’s ben in +glory deze fifty years or mo’, an’ hit’s all one to her now who sculpt +her.” + +But now, as it was getting late, Daddy said he was afraid to stay out +in the night air, as it sometimes “gun him de rheumatiz,” and wound up +his remarks by saying, + +“Tell yer ma I’m mighty ’bleeged fur de cake an’ drinkin’s, an’ weneber +yer gits de time, an’ kin come down hyear any ebenin’, de ole man he’ll +’struck yer, caze he’s gwine erway fo’ long, an’ dem things wat he +knows is onbeknownst ter de mos’ uv folks.” + +“Where are you going, Daddy,” asked Diddie. + +“I gwine ter de ‘kingdum,’ honey, an’ de Lord knows hit’s time; I ben +hyear long ernuff; but hit’s ’bout time fur me ter be er startin’ now, +caze las’ Sat’dy wuz er week gone I wuz er stretchin’ my ole legs in de +fiel’, an’ er rabbit run right ercross de road foreninst me, an’ I +knowed it wuz er sho’ sign uv er death; an’ den, night fo’ las’, de +scritch-owls wuz er talkin’ ter one ernudder right close ter my do’, +an’ I knowed de time wuz come fur de ole nigger ter take dat trip; so, +ef’n yer wants him ter ’struck yer, yer’d better be er ten’in’ ter it, +caze wen de Lord sen’s fur ’im he’s er _gwine.”_ + +The children were very much awed at Daddy’s forebodings, and Dumps +insisted on shaking hands with him, as she felt that she would probably +never see him again, and they all bade him good-night, and started for +the house + +“Miss Diddie, did you know ole Daddy wuz er _trick_ nigger?” asked +Dilsey, as they left the old man’s cabin. + +“What’s er trick nigger?” asked Dumps. + +“Wy, don’t yer know, Miss Dumps? Trick niggers dey ties up snakes’ +toofs an’ frogs’ eyes an’ birds’ claws, an’ all kineter charms; an’ +den, wen dey gits mad ’long o’ folks, dey puts dem little bags under +dey do’s, or in de road somewhar, whar dey’ll hatter pass, an’ dem +folks wat steps ober ’em den dey’s _tricked;_ an’ dey gits sick, an’ +dey can’t sleep uv nights, an’ dey chickens all dies, an’ dey can’t +nuber hab no luck nor nuf’n tell de tricks is tuck off. Didn’t yer +hyear wat he said ’bout’n de snakes’ an’ de folks all sez ez how ole +Daddy is er trick nigger, an’ dat’s wat makes him don’t die.” + +“Well, I wish I was a trick nigger, then,” remarked Dumps, gravely. + +“Lordy, Miss Dumps, yer’d better not be er talkin’ like dat,” said +Dilsey, her eyes open wide in horror. “Hit’s pow’ful wicked ter be +trick niggers.” + +“I don’t know what’s the matter with Dumps,” said Diddie; “she’s +gettin’ ter be so sinful; an’ ef she don’t stop it, I sha’n’t sleep +with her. She’ll be er breakin’ out with the measles or sump’n some uv +these days, jes fur er judgment on her; an’ I don’t want ter be +catchin’ no judgments just on account of her badness.” + +“Well, I’ll take it back, Diddie,” humbly answered Dumps. “I didn’t +know it was wicked; and won’t you sleep with me now?” + +Diddie having promised to consider the matter, the little folks walked +slowly on to the house, Dilsey and Chris and Riar all taking turns in +telling them the wonderful spells and cures and troubles that Daddy +Jake had wrought with his “trick-bags.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVII +WHAT BECAME OF THEM + + +Well, of course, I can’t tell you _all_ that happened to these little +girls. I have tried to give you some idea of how they lived in their +Mississippi home, and I hope you have been amused and entertained; and +now as “Diddie” said about _her_ book, I’ve got to “wind up,” and tell +you what became of them. + +The family lived happily on the plantation until the war broke out in +1861. + +Then Major Waldron clasped his wife to his heart, kissed his daughters, +shook hands with his faithful slaves, and went as a soldier to +Virginia; and he is sleeping now on the slope of Malvern Hill, where he + +“Nobly died for Dixie.” + +The old house was burned during the war, and on the old plantation +where that happy home once stood there are now three or four chimneys +and an old tumbled-down gin-house. That is all. + +The agony of those terrible days of war, together with the loss of her +husband and home, broke the heart and sickened the brain of Mrs. +Waldron; and in the State Lunatic Asylum is an old white-haired woman, +with a weary, patient look in her eyes, and this gentle old woman, who +sits day after day just looking out at the sunshine and the flowers, is +the once beautiful “mamma” of Diddie, Dumps and Tot. + +Diddie grew up to be a very pretty, graceful woman, and when the war +began was in her eighteenth year. She was engaged to one of the young +men in the neighborhood; and though she was so young, her father +consented to the marriage, as her lover was going into the army, and +wanted to make her his wife before leaving. So, early in ’61, before +Major Waldron went to Virginia, there was a quiet wedding in the parlor +one night; and not many days afterwards the young Confederate soldier +donned his gray coat, and rode away with Forrest’s Cavalry. + +“And ere long a messenger came, + Bringing the sad, sad story— + A riderless horse: a funeral march: + Dead on the field of glory!” + + +After his death her baby came to gladden the young widow’s desolate +life; and he is now almost grown, handsome and noble, and the idol of +his mother. + +Diddie is a widow still. She was young and pretty when the war ended, +and has had many offers of marriage; but a vision of a cold white face, +with its fair hair dabbled in blood, is ever in her heart. So Diddie +lives for her boy. Their home is in Natchez now; for of course they +could never live in the old place any more. When the slaves were free, +they had no money to rebuild the houses, and the plantation has never +been worked since the war. + +The land is just lying there useless, worthless; and the squirrels play +in and out among the trees, and the mocking-birds sing in the +honeysuckles and magnolias and rose-bushes where the front yard used to +be. + +And at the quarters, where the happy slave-voices used to sing “Monkey +Motions,” and the merry feet used to dance to “Cotton-eyed Joe,” weeds +and thick underbrush have all grown up, and partridges build their +nests there; and sometimes, at dusk, a wild-cat or a fox may be seen +stealing across the old playground. + +Tot, long years ago, before the war even, when she was yet a pure, +sinless little girl, was added to that bright band of angel children +who hover around the throne of God; and so she was already there, you +see, to meet and welcome her “papa” when his stainless soul went up +from Malvern Hill. + +Well, for “Mammy” and “Daddy Jake” and “Aunt Milly” and “Uncle Dan’l,” +“dat angel” has long since “blowed de horn,” and I hope and believe +they are happily walking “dem golden streets” in which they had such +implicit faith, and of which they never wearied of telling. + +And the rest of the negroes are all scattered; some doing well, some +badly; some living, some dead. Aunt Sukey’s Jim, who married Candace +that Christmas-night, is a politician. He has been in Legislature, and +spends his time in making long and exciting speeches to the loyal +leaguers against the Southern whites, all unmindful of his happy +childhood, and of the kind and generous master who strove in every way +to render his bondage (for which that master was in no way to blame) a +light and happy one. + +Uncle Snake-bit Bob is living still. He has a little candy-store in a +country town. He does not meddle with politics. He says, “I don’t cas’ +my suffrins fur de Dimercracks, nur yit fur de ’Publicans. I can’t go +’ginst my color by votin’ de Dimercrack papers; an’ ez fur dem +’Publicans! Well, ole Bob he done hyear wat de _Book_ say ’boutn +publicans an’ sinners, an’ dat’s ernuff fur him. He’s er gittin’ uperds +in years now; pretty soon he’ll hatter shove off fur dat ‘heb’nly +sho’,” an’ wen de Lord sen’ atter him, he don’t want dat angel ter +catch him in no kinwunshuns ’long wid ’publicans an’ sinners.’” And so +Uncle Bob attends to his store, and mends chairs and tubs, and deals +extensively in chickens and eggs; and perhaps he is doing just as well +as if he were in Congress. + +Dilsey and Chris and Riar are all women now, and are all married and +have children of their own; and nothing delights them more than to tell +their little ones what “us an’ de white chil’en usen ter do.” + +And the last I heard of Aunt Nancy, the “tender,” she was going to +school, but not progressing very rapidly. She did learn her letters +once, but, having to stop school to make a living, she soon forgot +them, and she explained it by saying: + +“Yer see, honey, dat man wat larnt me dem readin’s, he wuz sich er +onstedfus’ man, an’ gittin’ drunk, an’ votin’ an’ sich, tell I +furgittin’ wat he larnt me; but dey’s er colored gemman fum de Norf +wat’s tuck him up er pay-school ober hyear in de ’catermy, an’ ef’n I +kin git him fur ter take out’n his pay in dat furmifuge wat I makes, I +’low ter go ter him er time er two, caze he’s er membah ub de Zion +Chu’ch, an’ er mighty stedfus’ man, an’ dat wat he larns me den I’ll +stay larnt.” + +And Dumps? Well, the merry, lighthearted little girl is an “old maid” +now; and if Mammy could see her, she would think she was “steady” +enough at last. + +Somebody, you know, must attend to the wants and comforts of the +gray-haired woman in the asylum; and Diddie had her boy to support and +educate, so Dumps teaches school and takes care of her mother, and is +doing what Uncle Snake-bit Bob told the Sunday-school children that God +had made them to do; for + +Dumps is doing “DE BES’ SHE KIN.” + +THE END + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIDDIE, DUMPS, AND TOT *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where + you are located before using this eBook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that: + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without +widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + |