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diff --git a/4992-h/4992-h.htm b/4992-h/4992-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..61056cf --- /dev/null +++ b/4992-h/4992-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7481 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg Book of Diddie, Dumps, and Tot, by Louise-Clarke Pyrnelle</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Diddie, Dumps, and Tot, by Louise-Clarke Pyrnelle</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Diddie, Dumps, and Tot<br /> +or, Plantation Child-Life</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Louise-Clarke Pyrnelle</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 7, 2002 [eBook #4992]<br /> +[Most recently updated: June 15, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Jim Weiler, xooqi.com</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIDDIE, DUMPS, AND TOT ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>Diddie, Dumps, and Tot</h1> + +<h4>OR</h4> + +<h3>PLANTATION CHILD-LIFE</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Louise-Clarke Pyrnelle</h2> + +<h4>GROSSET & DUNLAP</h4> + +<h4>PUBLISHERS NEW YORK</h4> + +<h4><i>By arrangement with Harper & Brothers </i></h4> + +<h4>COPYRIGHT, 1882, BY HARPER & BROTHERS</h4> + +<h4>COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY MARY C. MOTLEY</h4> + +<h5>Printed in the United States of America</h5> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap00">PREFACE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. DIDDIE, DUMPS, AND TOT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. CHRISTMAS ON THE OLD PLANTATION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. MAMMY’S STORY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. OLD BILLY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. DIDDIE’S BOOK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. UNCLE SNAKE-BIT BOB’S SUNDAY-SCHOOL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. POOR ANN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. UNCLE BOB’S PROPOSITION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. AUNT EDY’S STORY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. PLANTATION GAMES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. DIDDIE IN TROUBLE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. HOW THE WOODPECKER’S HEAD AND THE ROBIN’S BREAST CAME TO BE RED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. A PLANTATION MEETING, AND UNCLE DANIEL’S SERMON</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. DIDDIE AND DUMPS GO VISITING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. THE FOURTH OF JULY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. “’STRUCK’N UV DE CHIL’EN”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. WHAT BECAME OF THEM</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h4>TO MY DEAR FATHER<br/> +DR. RICHARD CLARKE<br/> +OF SELMA, ALABAMA<br/> +MY HERO AND MY BEAU IDEAL OF A GENTLEMAN<br/> +I DEDICATE THIS BOOK<br/> +WITH THE LOVE OF HIS<br/> +DAUGHTER </h4> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap00"></a>PREFACE</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Diddie, Dumps, and Tot.</i> +</p> + +<p> +The stories, plantation games, and Hymns are just as I heard them in my +childhood. I have learned that Mr. Harris, in <i>Uncle Remus,</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +I hope that none of my readers will be shocked at the seeming irreverence of my +book, for that <i>intimacy </i>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! +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +LOUISE-CLARKE PYRNELLE. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +COLUMBUS, GA. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>DIDDIE, DUMPS AND TOT</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I<br/> +DIDDIE, DUMPS AND TOT</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes I did, Granny; don’t yer b’lieve dat gal; I said +jes’ much ‘kingdom come’ ez she did.” +</p> + +<p> +And presently Jim would retaliate by saying, +</p> + +<p> +“Granny, Polly nuber sed nuf’n ’bout her +‘cruspusses.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +At these interruptions Aunt Nancy would stop to investigate the matter, and +whoever was found in fault was punished with strict and impartial justice. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Ef’n hit want fur dat furmifuge, den marster wouldn’t hab +all dem niggers w’at yer see hyear.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Then the wagons came up, and the strong negro men began taking out the boxes +and bundles and carrying them to the storeroom. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>white woolly puppies</i>—one for Diddie, and one +for Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +The little girls clapped their hands and danced with delight. +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t they lovely?” said Dumps, squeezing hers in her arms. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hit’s er gittin’ so late, honey,” urged Mammy, +“let ’um stay in de box, an’ go ter bed now, like good +chil’en.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Dumps began to sing: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Ef’n ’ligion was er thing that money could buy,<br/> + O reign, Marse Jesus, er reign;<br/> + De rich would live, an’ de po’ would die,<br/> + O reign, Marse Jesus, er reign.<br/> +<br/> + Chorus<br/> + O reign, reign, reign, er my Lord,<br/> + O reign, Marse Jesus, er reign: <br/> + O reign, reign, reign, er my Lord,<br/> + O reign, Marse Jesus, er reign.<br/> +<br/> + But de Lord he ’lowed he wouldn’t have it so.<br/> + O reign, Marse Jesus, er reign;<br/> + So de rich mus’ die jes’ same as de po’,<br/> + O reign, Marse Jesus, er reign.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Dumps, what are you goin’ ter name your doggie?” +</p> + +<p> +“I b’lieve I’ll name ’im ‘Papa,’” +replied Dumps, “because he give ’im ter me.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Papa,’ indeed!” said Diddie, contemptuously; +“that’s no name for a dog; I’m goin’ ter name mine +after some great big somebody.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>beau-ti-ful</i> Injun girl, an’ +she throwed her arms ’roun’ Mr. Smith an’ never let the +tomahawks kill ’im.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know I ain’t goin’ to name mine no Injun,” said +Dumps, decidedly. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>do</i> wid no Injuns; no, +sar! I don’t like’ dem folks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, chil’en de dogs is ’sleep,” said Mammy, yawning +and rubbing her eyes; “go ter bed, won’t yer?” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“I think, Dumps, we had better name ’um Cherubim an’ +Seraphim, for they continually do cry.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II<br/> +CHRISTMAS ON THE OLD PLANTATION</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Thankee, mistis! thankee, honey; an’ God bless yer!” +</p> + +<p> +And then Chris, who had been looking anxiously every moment or two towards the +quarters, cried out, +</p> + +<p> +“Yon’ dey is! I see um! Yon’ dey come!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Min’ yer manners, now!” +</p> + +<p> +At which the little nigs would make a comical little “bob-down” +courtesy and say, “Thankee, marm.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>meant</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +However, one evening his mistress came upon the poor fellow sitting on the +creek bank looking very disconsolate, and overheard him talking to himself, +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Laurel and magnify His holy name,” +</p> + +<p> +and to return thanks to God for his great Christmas gift of a Saviour to the +world. +</p> + +<p> +As they were leaving the chapel after service, Dumps drew close to her mother +and whispered, +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +‘<i>billycrow;</i>’ 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lor’, chile,” replied Mammy, “I dunno, honey; I allers +hyeard dat Injuns wuz monstrous onstreperous, an’ I wouldn’t play +no sich er game.” +</p> + +<p> +But “Injuns, Injuns, Injuns!” persisted all the little folks, and +Mammy had to yield. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Up at the house was a grand dinner, with turkey, mince-pie, and plum-pudding, +of course. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In the centre of the table was a pyramid, beginning with a large cake at the +bottom and ending with a “snowball” on top. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III<br/> +MAMMY’S STORY</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Having thus authenticated her story beyond a doubt, Mammy hugged Tot a little +closer and began: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“A ‘little Fraid,’” interrupted Diddie, contemptuously. +“Why, Mammy, there’s no such a thing as a +’Fraid.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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’. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>you</i> wuz,’ ‘I wush <i>dey</i> had,” but +all de time ‘I wush <i>I</i> wuz,’ ‘I wush <i>I</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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I wush I wuz,’ ‘I wush I had,’ sung de birds in +er flutter, hoppin’ all ’bout ’mong de branches. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p> +“‘I wush <i>I</i> had,’ ‘I wush <i>I</i> wuz.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dar now!” exclaimed Aunt Milly. +</p> + +<p> +“De truff, sho’! jes like I ben tellin’ yer,” said +Mammy. +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mammy, what about the little girl? did she ever get well an’ +strong, an’ not be lame any more?” asked Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV<br/> +OLD BILLY</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“He won’t do it, though, ef we don’t mind our mother,” +replied Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +They had only waited a few minutes when Diddie came running down the road, and +behind her (unknown to her) came Old Billy. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what made you bring him?” asked Dumps, as Diddie came up. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—I know he <i>shall</i> 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 <i>shall</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I want ter go to the hotel,” said Dumps, as Dilsey came up rolling +the wheelbarrow—“me an’ my three little chil’en.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is your name, madam?” she inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“My name is Mrs. Dumps,” replied the guest, “an’ this +is my little boy, an’ these is my little girls.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t know nothin’ else,” said Dumps; “I +couldn’t think of nothin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dese my ’itty dirls,” said Tot, as Diddie received her, +“an’ I tome in de bumberbuss.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is your name?” asked Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Tot, that’s a <i>thing;</i> that ain’t no name for +folks,” said Diddie. “Let’s play you’re Mrs. Bunker +Hill; that’s a nice name.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as Mrs. Washington laid eyes on the mud cakes and pies, she exclaimed, +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Diddie, I’m er goin’ ter be the cook, an’ make the +pies an’ things.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Dumps,” said Diddie, “somebody’s got to be +stoppin’ at the hotel, an’ I think the niggers ought to be the +cooks.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I want ter make the mud cakes,” persisted Dumps, an’ Tot +can be the folks at the hotel—she and the doll-babies.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +All of the little folks were pleased at that idea, and Diddie immediately began +to issue her orders. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And ain’t you glad we let Billy come?” said Diddie; +“we wouldn’t er had nobody to be Lord Burgoyne.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“’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, +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Me ’n <i>Chris</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>my</i> +nigger, I’d make her git down an’ drive ’im away.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t gwine hab nuf’n ter do wid ’im,” said +Chris. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Riar, you go,” said Diddie; “he ain’t butted you +yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ma-a-a-m!” answered all of the little folks at once. +</p> + +<p> +“Whar is yer?” called Mammy, +</p> + +<p> +“On top the lumber-pile,” answered the children; and soon Mammy +appeared coming through the woods. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</i> +ain’t bodern’ you. I jes come fur de chil’en, an’ yer +bet not fool ’long er me, yer low-life sheep.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mammy, we won’t never run away any more,” said Diddie, as +Mammy came up; “’twas Dumps’s fault, anyhow.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V<br/> +DIDDIE’S BOOK</h2> + +<p> +One morning Diddie came into the nursery with a big blank-book and a +lead-pencil in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now don’t you bother me, Dumps,” said Diddie; +“I’m goin’ to write a book.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you?” said Dumps, her eyes opening wide in astonishment. +“Who’s goin’ ter tell yer what ter say?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m goin’ ter make it up out o’ my head,” said +Diddie; “all about little girls and boys and ladies.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Jes’ beautiful,” replied Dumps; and Diddie wrote the name at +the beginning of the book. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think two pages on this big paper will be long enough +for one story?” asked Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“Plenty,” answered Dumps. So at the bottom of the second page +Diddie wrote “The END of Nettie Herbert.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, what would you name the second story?” asked Diddie, biting +her pencil thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d name it ‘The Bad Little Girl,’” answered +Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +The titles being all decided upon, Dumps and Chris went back to their dolls, +and Diddie began to write her first story. +</p> + +<p> +“NETTIE HERBERT.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nettie Herbert was a poor little girl;” and then she stopped and +asked, +</p> + +<p> +“Dumps, would you have Nettie Herbert a po’ little girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Diddie stopped suddenly and said, +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, Diddie, please don’t,” entreated Dumps; +“po’ little Nettie, don’t make the horse run over her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m <i>obliged to,</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And Dumps, having thus washed her hands of the whole affair, went back to her +dolls, and Diddie resumed her writing: +</p> + +<p> +“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 +</p> + +<p> +the END of Nettie Herbert.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“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! <i>she</i> skweeled, an’ <i>she</i> holler’d, an’ +<i>she</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but, Dumps,” interrupted Diddie, “you said she was +dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You said the spoon choked her to death,” said Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“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’?” +</p> + +<p> +“When she was er playin’ one day,” prompted Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Dumps, what are you talkin’ ’bout?” again interrupted +Diddie. “She couldn’t be er foolin’ long o’ +nothin’ ef she’s dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she ain’t dead, Diddie,” persisted Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you said the fire burned her up,” retorted Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, then,” said Diddie, “an I won’t bother +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Dumps, what become of her?” asked Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“I dunno what become uv her,” said Dumps. “She went ter hebn, +I reckon.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she couldn’t go ter hebn ef she’s so bad,” said +Diddie; “the angel wouldn’t let her come in,” +</p> + +<p> +“The cow throwed her in,” said Dumps, “an’ the angel +wan’t er lookin’, an’ he nuver knowed nothin’ +’bout it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Once ’twas a little girl, and she was so bad,” +</p> + +<p> +and read it aloud; then said, “Now, Dumps, sposin’ you make up the +nex’ line.” +</p> + +<p> +Dumps buried her face in her hands, and remained in deep study for a few +moments, and presently said, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And now she is dead, an’ I am so glad.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Dumps, do you min’ ef the cow was to run his horns through her +forrid stid of her neck?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, hit don’t make no diffrence to me,” replied Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then,” said Diddie, “ef ’twas her forrid, I kin +fix it.” +</p> + +<p> +So, after a little more study and thought, Diddie wound up the story thus: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Once ’twas er little girl, so wicked and horrid,<br/> + Till the cow run his horns right slap through her forrid,<br/> + And throwed her to hebn all full of her sin,<br/> + And, the gate bein open, he pitched her right in.” +</p> + +<p> +And that was “The END of the Bad Little Girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dunno hit,” said Chris, “but I kin tell yer +’bout’n de tar baby, el dat’ll do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think that’ll do jes as well, Dumps?” asked +Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“Certingly!” replied Dumps. So Diddie drew her pencil through +“Annie’s Visit,” and wrote in its place, +</p> + +<p> +“THE TAR BABY,” +</p> + +<p> +and Chris began: +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well,’ sez Brer Coon, sezee, ‘I bet yer hit’s +Brer Rabbit.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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, +</p> + +<p> +“‘Brer Coon, hyear’s de man wat stole my goobers; now wat +mus’ I do wid ’im?’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.” +</p> + +<p> +The children were mightily pleased with this story; and Diddie, after carefully +writing underneath it, +</p> + +<p> +“The END of The Tar Baby,” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI<br/> +UNCLE SNAKE-BIT BOB’S SUNDAY-SCHOOL</h2> + +<p> +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 +<i>Snake-bit</i> 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, <i>long</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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’.” +</p> + +<p> +After this exhortation, the old man began at the top of the line, and asked +“Gus,” a bright-eyed little nig, “Who made you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dun no, sar,” answered Gus, very untruthfully, for Aunt Nancy +had told him repeatedly. +</p> + +<p> +“God made yer,” said Uncle Bob. “Now, who Inane yer?” +</p> + +<p> +“God,” answered Gus. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I dunno, sar,” answered Jim, with as little regard for truth as +Gus had shown. +</p> + +<p> +“He made yer out’n dut,” said Uncle Bob. “Now, +what’d he make yer out’n?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dut,” answered Jim, promptly, and the old man passed on to the +next. +</p> + +<p> +“What’d he make yer fur?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p> +“Who made yer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dut,” answered the little negro. +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” demanded Uncle Bob, in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Dut,” replied the child. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’ I tell yer God made yer?” asked the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sar,” replied the boy; “dat’n wat God made done +slip out de do’.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>he wuzn totch!</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Dan’l wuz er prayin’ man;<br/> + He pray tree times er day;<br/> + De Lord he hist de winder,<br/> + Fur ter hyear po’ Dan’l pray.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>dey</i> went up; an’ de pater-rollers <i>dey</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“O bless us, Lord! O bless us, Lord!<br/> + O bless us mo’ an’ mo’;<br/> + Unless yer’ll come an’ bless us, Lord,<br/> + We will not let yer go.<br/> +<br/> +“My marster, Lord; my marster, Lord—<br/> + O Lord, he does his bes’,<br/> + So when yer savin’ sinners, Lord,<br/> + Save him wid all de res’.<br/> +<br/> +“O bless us, Lord! O bless us, Lord!<br/> + An’ keep us in yer cyar;<br/> + Unless yer’ll come an’ bless us, Lord,<br/> + We’re gwine ter hol’ yer hyear.<br/> +<br/> +“My missus, Lord; my missus, Lord,<br/> + O bless my missus now—<br/> + She’s tryin’ hard ter serve yer, Lord,<br/> + But den she dunno how.<br/> +<br/> +“O bless us, Lord! O bless us, Lord!<br/> + O bless us now, we pray;<br/> + Unless ye’ll come an’ bless us, Lord,<br/> + We won’t leave hyear ter day.<br/> +<br/> +“Deze chil’en, Lord; deze chil’en, Lord,<br/> + O keep dey little feet<br/> + Er gwine straight ter hebn, Lord,<br/> + Fur ter walk dat golden street.<br/> +<br/> +“O bless us, Lord! O bless us, Lord!<br/> + O come in all yer might;<br/> + Unless yer’ll come an’ bless us, Lord,<br/> + We’ll wrestle hyear all night.<br/> +<br/> +“Deze niggers, Lord; deze niggers, Lord,<br/> + Dey skins is black, hit’s true,<br/> + But den dey souls is white, my Lord,<br/> + So won’t yer bless dem too?<br/> +<br/> +“O bless us, Lord! O bless us, Lord!<br/> + O bless us mo’ an’ mo’;<br/> + Unless yer’ll come an’ bless us, Lord,<br/> + We’ll keep yer hyear fur sho.<br/> +<br/> +“All folkses, Lord; all folkses, Lord—<br/> + O Lord, bless all de same.<br/> + O bless de good, an’ bless de bad,<br/> + Fur de glory uv dy name.<br/> +<br/> +“Now bless us, Lord! now bless us, Lord!<br/> + Don’t fool ’long o’ us, no mo’;<br/> + O sen’ us down de blessin’, Lord,<br/> + An’ den we’ll let yer go.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII<br/> +POOR ANN</h2> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s sayin’ her lessons,” answered Dumps. “What +do you want with her?” +</p> + +<p> +“De specerlaters is come,” said Dilsey; “dey’s right +down yon’er on de crick banks back er de quarters.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Whar yer gwine?” asked Mammy. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mammy, de specerlaters is come,” said Dumps, “an’ +we’re goin’ down to the creek to see ’um.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hit uz Dilsey,” answered Chris and Riar in a breath; and Mammy, +giving Dilsey a sharp slap, said, +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +In the meanwhile Dumps and Tot were crying over their disappointment. +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And Mammy left the room in high dudgeon, but presently came back, and said +Dumps was to go to her mother at once. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter with my little daughter?” asked her father, as +she came slowly downstairs, crying bitterly, and met him in the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, come in mamma’s room,” said her father, “and +we’ll talk it all over.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The negroes were well clothed, well fed, and the great majority of them looked +exceedingly happy. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Waldron expressed a wish to see the woman, and they went in. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you feel much pain?” he asked, tenderly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ my little painted wagin,” put in Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Major Waldron’s own eyes moistened as he answered, +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this always your work?” asked Ann, by way of opening a +conversation with the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Kin</i> yer read in de book?” asked the old man earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, as well as anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who showed yer?” asked Uncle Bob. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +The old man nodded his head, and went on with his work, while Ann related to +him the sad history of her life. +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I know wat I’m gwine do; my min’ hit’s made +up.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br/> +UNCLE BOB’S PROPOSITION</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ebenin’ ter yer, marster,” said the old man, scraping his +foot and bowing his head. +</p> + +<p> +“How are you, Uncle Bob?” responded his master. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Uncle Bob, what is it now?” asked Major Waldron. “The +little negroes been bothering your splits again?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Marster, I come ter ax yer wat’ll yer take fur dat little boy yer +bought fum de specerlaters?” +</p> + +<p> +“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,” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Bob, I believe you are crazy,” said his master, “or +drunk.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And Uncle Rob related Ann’s story to his master, and wound up by saying: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The next day Uncle Bob dug up his money, and the bag was found to contain three +hundred dollars. +</p> + +<p> +His master put with it a check for the same amount, and sent him into the +laundry to tell Ann of her good fortune. +</p> + +<p> +The poor woman was overcome with happiness and gratitude, and, throwing her +arms around Uncle Bob, she sobbed and cried on his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX<br/> +AUNT EDY’S STORY</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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,” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Aunt Edy,” said Dumps, presently, “could’n yer tell us +’bout Po’ Nancy Jane O?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Den he ’gun ter stedy how wuz he fur ter git dat stone. +</p> + +<p> +“He stedded an’ <i>he stedded,</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, mun, in er few days de whole yearth wuz er movin’; +eb’ything dar wuz in de lan’ wuz er gwine. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Please on-tie, please on-tie Po’ Nancy Jane O!<br/> + Please on-tie, please on-tie Po’ Nancy Jane O!’ +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Please on-tie, please on-tie Po’ Nancy Jane O!’ +</p> + +<p> +an’ he went whar he hyeard de soun’, an’ dar wuz de po’ +bird layin’ down all tied ter de bush. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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: +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Who on-tied, who on-tied Po’ Nancy Jane O?’ +</p> + +<p> +An’ de frog he holler back, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘O Pig-un-a-wa-ya, Pig-un-a-wa-ya, hooo-hooo!’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Who on-tied, who on-tied Po’ Nancy Jane O?’ +</p> + +<p> +An’ de frog, he turnt roun,’ he did, an’ he wave his +han’ roun’ his head, an’ he holler back, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Pig-un-a-wa-ya, Pig-un-a-wa-ya, hooo-hooo!’ +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Who on-tied, who on-tied Po’ Nancy Jane O?’ +</p> + +<p> +An’ de frog he ans’er back, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Pig-un-a-wa-ya, Pig-un-a-wa-ya, hooo-hooo!’ +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘O Pig-un-a-wa-ya, Pig-un-a-wa-ya, hoo-hooo!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did the king get the stone, Aunt Edy?” asked Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Who on-tied, who on-tied Po’ Nanty Dane O?” +</p> + +<p> +and Dumps answering back, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Pig-un-a-wa-ya, Pig-un-a-wa-ya, hooo-hooo!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X<br/> +PLANTATION GAMES</h2> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yer allers want ter be ’long er dem quarter-folks,” said +Mammy. “Dem ain’t de ’soshuts fur you chil’en.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after the children had taken their seats, the young folks came out on the +playground for a game of Monkey Motions. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“I ac’ monkey moshuns, too-re-loo;<br/> + I ac’ monkey moshuns, so I do;<br/> + I ac’ ’em well, an’ dat’s er fac’—I +ac’ jes like dem monkeys ac’.<br/> +<br/> +“I ac’ gemmun moshuns, too-re-loo;<br/> + I ac’ gemmun moshuns, so I do;<br/> + I ac’ ’em well, an’ dat’s er fac’—I +ac’ jes like dem gemmums ac’.<br/> +<br/> +“I ac’ lady moshuns, too-re-loo;<br/> + I ac’ lady moshuns, so I do;<br/> + I ac’ ’em well, an’ dat’s er fac’—I +ac’ jes like dem ladies ac’.<br/> +<br/> +“I ac’ chil’en moshuns, too-re-loo;<br/> + I ac’ chil’en moshuns, so I do;<br/> + I ac’ ’em well, an’ dat’s er fac’<br/> + I ac’ jes like dem chil’ens ac’.<br/> +<br/> +“I ac’ preacher moshuns, too-re-loo;<br/> + I ac’ preacher moshuns, so I do;<br/> + I ac’ ’em well, an’ dat’s er fac’—I +ac’ jes like dem preachers ac’.<br/> +<br/> +“I ac’ nigger moshuns, too-re-loo;<br/> + I ac’ nigger moshuns, so I do;<br/> + I ac’ ’em well, an’ dat’s er fac’—I +ac’ jes like dem niggers ac’.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I ac’ chil’en moshuns” was portrayed by his pouting +out his lips and twirling his thumbs, or giggling or crying. +</p> + +<p> +When they sang “I ac’ preacher moshuns,” he straightened +himself back, and began to “lay off” his hands in the most +extravagant gestures. +</p> + +<p> +“I ac’ nigger moshuns” was represented by scratching his +head, or by bending over and pretending to be picking cotton or hoeing. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +After one or two games of “Monkey Moshuns,” some one proposed they +should play “Lipto,” which was readily acceded to. +</p> + +<p> +All joined hands, and formed a ring around one in the middle, as before, and +danced around, singing, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Lipto, lipto, jine de ring;<br/> + Lipto, lipto, dance an’ sing;<br/> + Dance an’ sing, an’ laugh an’ play,<br/> + Fur dis is now er halerday.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, letting loose hands, they would all wheel around three times, singing, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Turn erroun’ an’ roun’ an’ roun’;” +</p> + +<p> +then they would clap their hands, singing, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Clap yer han’s, an’ make’ em soun’;” +</p> + +<p> +then they would bow their heads, singing, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Bow yer heads, an’ bow ’em low;” +</p> + +<p> +then, joining hands again, they would dance around, singing, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“All jine han’s, an’ hyear we go.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Lipto, lipto—fi-yi-yi;<br/> + Lipto, lipto, hyear am I,<br/> + Er holdin’ uv dis goldin’ crown,<br/> + An’ I choose my gal fur ter dance me down.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“An’ I choose my man fur ter dance me down.” +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Now while we all will dance an’ sing,<br/> + O choose er partner fum de ring;<br/> + O choose de lady you like bes’;<br/> + O pick her out fum all de res,’<br/> + Fur her hansum face an’ figur neat;<br/> + O pick her out ter kiss her sweet.<br/> + O walk wid her erroun’ an’ roun’;<br/> + O kneel wid her upon de groun’;<br/> + O kiss her once, an’ one time mo’;<br/> + O kiss her sweet, an’ let her go.<br/> + O lif’ her up fum off de groun’,<br/> + An’ all jine han’s erroun’ an’ roun’,<br/> + An’ while we all will dance an’ sing,<br/> + O choose er partner fum de ring.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Cotton-eyed Joe, Cotton-eyed Joe,<br/> + What did make you sarve me so,<br/> + Fur ter take my gal erway fum me,<br/> + An’ cyar her plum ter Tennessee?<br/> + Ef it hadn’t ben fur Cotton-eyed Joe,<br/> + I’d er been married long ergo.<br/> +<br/> +“His eyes wuz crossed, an’ his nose wuz flat,<br/> + An’ his teef wuz out, but wat uv dat?<br/> + Fur he wuz tall, an’ he wuz slim,<br/> + An’ so my gal she follered him.<br/> + Ef it hadn’t ben fur Cotton-eyed Joe,<br/> + I’d er been married long ergo.<br/> +<br/> +“No gal so hansum could be foun’,<br/> + Not in all dis country roun’,<br/> + Wid her kinky head, an’ her eyes so bright,<br/> + Wid her lips so red an’ her teef so white.<br/> + Ef it hadn’t ben fur Cotton-eyed Joe,<br/> + I’d been married long ergo.<br/> +<br/> +“An’ I loved dat gal wid all my heart,<br/> + An’ she swo’ fum me she’d never part;<br/> + But den wid Joe she runned away,<br/> + An’ lef’ me hyear fur ter weep all day.<br/> +<br/> +“O Cotton-eyed Joe, O Cotton-eyed Joe,<br/> + What did make you sarve me so?<br/> + O Joe, ef it hadn’t er ben fur you,<br/> + I’d er married dat gal fur true.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mammy,” urged Dumps; “we ain’t er goin’ ter; +we want ter sing ‘Cotton-eyed Joe,” hit ain’t late.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Dumps, you know we promised,” said Diddie, “and so we +must go when Mammy tells us.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI<br/> +DIDDIE IN TROUBLE</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She ain’t no <i>rich</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And Mammy resumed her work, but all the time grumbling, and muttering something +about “ole maids” and “po’ white folks.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Dilsey called Diddie softly, and the little girl appeared at the window. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you said your lesson yet?” asked Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“No, an’ I ain’t ergoin’ to, neither,” answered +Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“An’ yer ain’t had yer dinner, nuther, is yer, Miss +Diddie?” asked Dilsey. +</p> + +<p> +“No; but I don’t care ’bout that; I sha’n’t say +my lesson not ef she starves me clean ter death.” +</p> + +<p> +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, “<i>Please</i> sen’ +Diddie some dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Hyear ’tis, Diddie! ’tis des de bes’es kine er +dinner!” +</p> + +<p> +And now the trouble was how to get it up to Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell yer,” said Chris; “me ’n Dilsey’ll fotch +de step-ladder wat Uncle Douglas washes de winders wid.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” replied Diddie; “you ’member the +time’ bout Ole Billy?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And just then the little girls heard some one singing, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“De jay bird died wid de hookin’-coff,<br/> + Oh, ladies, ain’t yer sorry?” +</p> + +<p> +and Uncle Snake-bit Bob came up the ditch bank with an armful of white-oak +splits. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doin’, Uncle Bob?” called Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m jes er cuttin’ me er few willers fur ter make +baskit-handles outn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t we come an’ look at yer?” asked Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle Bob,” asked Dumps, “what was that you was +singin’ ’bout the jay bird?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Uncle Bob?” +</p> + +<p> +“Caze, honey, dem jay birds dey cyars news ter de deb’l, dey do +an’ yer better not fool ’long ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do they tell him everything?” asked Diddie, in some solicitude. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle Bob,” said Dumps, thoughtfully, “s’posin’ +they wuz some little girls l-o-n-g <i>time</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>you</i> chil’en wouldn’t do nuffin +wrong, an’ I knowed he wouldn’t have nuffin fur ter tell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t he never make up things an’ tell ’em?” +asked Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>he made it up!</i> Now +that’s jes what I’ b’lieve; an’ can’t you tell +the deb’l so, Uncle Bob?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Uncle Bob,” answered Diddie; “what did he do to +him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t yer neber hyeard how come de wood-pecker’s head ter be +red, an’ wat makes de robin hab er red bres’?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I dunno,” said the old man, thoughtfully, scratching his +head; “I dunno, dat <i>mout</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell us how you heard it, Uncle Bob,” asked Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII<br/> +HOW THE WOODPECKER’S HEAD AND THE ROBIN’S BREAST CAME TO BE +RED</h2> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?’ +</p> + +<p> +“Dat made de Blue Jay kint er mad; an’ sezee, ‘Yer pyear ter +tuck er mighty intrus’ in ’im.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 <i>hansum</i> bird,’ sez she. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p> +“‘Miss Robin, I gwine ter hab er party termorrer night; de +Woodpecker’ll be dar, an’ I’d like fur yer ter come.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Robin ’lowed she’d come, and’ de Jay Bird tuck +his leave. +</p> + +<p> +“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’?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>dat</i> day ter <i>dis</i> his +head’s ben red.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ did he marry the Robin?” asked Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>nuffin’,</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we <i>are</i> satisfied, Uncle Bob,” said Diddie. “It +was a very pretty tale, and we are much obliged to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph!” said Uncle Bob; “you chil’en is mighty bad, +anyhow.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think we’re heap mo’ <i>better’n</i> we’re +<i>bad,”</i> said Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, dat mout er be so,” said the old man; +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“We <i>are</i> sorry about it now, Uncle Bob,” said Diddie; +“but what would you ’vise us to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my invice is <i>dis,”</i> 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 +<i>don’t,</i> 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 <i>dis,</i> +Is—you—sorry—dat—you—runned—off? +an’—is—you—’pentin’—uv—wadin’—in—de—ditch?” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am truly sorry, Uncle Bob.” +</p> + +<p> +Dumps and Tot and the three little darkies gravely nodded their heads in +assent. +</p> + +<p> +“Den jes go an’ tell yer pa so,” said the old man. +“An’, anyway, yer’ll hatter be gwine, caze hit’s +gittin’ dark.” +</p> + +<p> +The little folks walked off slowly towards the house, and presently Dumps said, +</p> + +<p> +“Diddie, I don’t b’lieve I’m <i>rael</i> sorry we +runned off, an’ I don’t <i>right</i> ’pent ’bout +wadin’ in the ditch, cause we had er mighty heap er fun; an’ yer +reckon ef I’m jes <i>sorter</i> sorry, an’ jes +<i>toler’ble</i> ’pent, that’ll do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know about that,” said Diddie; “but +<i>I’m</i> right sorry, and I’ll tell papa fur all of us.” +</p> + +<p> +The children went at once to the library, where Major Waldron was found +reading. +</p> + +<p> +“Papa,” said Diddie, “we’ve ben very bad, an’ +we’ve come ter tell yer ’bout it.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ the Jay Bird, he tol’ the deb’l,” put in +Dumps, “an’ ’twan’t none er his business.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tuz me,” chimed in Tot. “I b’ing ’er de +<i>besses</i> dinner—take an’ jam an’ pud’n in de +p’ate. Aunt Mawy dum tum me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, Tot,” said Diddie, “till I get through. An’ +then, papa, I climbed out the winder on the step-ladder, an’ +I—” +</p> + +<p> +“Dilsey an’ Chris got the ladder,” put in Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“HUSH UP, Dumps!” said Diddie; “you’re all time +’ruptin’ me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, you can tell it all,” said Diddie, with dignity. +“Papa, Dumps will tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +And Dumps, nothing daunted, continued: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which lesson was it?” asked Major Waldron. +</p> + +<p> +“’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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I rather think Miss Carrie was right,” said the father. +“Go and bring me the book.” +</p> + +<p> +Diddie soon returned with her little history, and, showing the passage to her +father, said eagerly, +</p> + +<p> +“Now don’t you see here, papa?” +</p> + +<p> +And Major Waldron read, “He was the son of a <i>distinguished +navigator.”</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII<br/> +A PLANTATION MEETING AND UNCLE DANIEL’S SERMON</h2> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t we go with you, Mammy? We’ll be good, an’ not +laugh at ’em shoutin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after they had taken their seats, Uncle Gabe, who had a powerful voice, +and led the singing, struck up: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Roll, Jordan, roll! roll, Jordan, roll!<br/> + I want ter go ter heb’n wen I die,<br/> + Fur ter hyear sweet Jordan roll.<br/> +<br/> +“Oh, pray, my brudder, pray!<br/> + Yes, my Lord;<br/> + My brudder’s settin in de kingdom,<br/> + Fur ter hyear sweet Jordan roll.<br/> +<br/> +Chorus<br/> +<br/> +“Roll, Jordan, roll! roll, Jordan, roll!<br/> + I want ter go ter heb’n wen I die,<br/> + Fur ter hyear sweet Jordan roll.<br/> +<br/> +“Oh, shout, my sister, shout!<br/> + Yes, my Lord;<br/> + My sister she’s er shoutin’<br/> + Caze she hyears sweet Jordan roll.<br/> +<br/> +“Oh, moan, you monahs, moan!<br/> + Yes, my Lord;<br/> + De monahs sobbin’ an’ er weepin’,<br/> + Fur ter hyear sweet Jordan roll.<br/> +<br/> +“Oh, scoff, you scoffers, scoff!<br/> + Yes, my Lord;<br/> + Dem sinners wat’s er scoffin’<br/> + Can’t hyear sweet Jordan roll.” +</p> + +<p> +And as the flood of melody poured through the house, the groups on the outside +came in to join the singing. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Burhol’, I’ll punish um! dey young men shall die by +de s’ord, an’ dey sons an’ dey daughters by de famine.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Burhol’, I’ll punish um! dey young men shall die by +de s’ord, an’ dey sons an’ dey daughters by de famine.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Burhol’, I’ll punish um! dey young men shall die by +de s’ord, an’ dey sons an’ dey daughters by de famine.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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’. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Dey young men shall die by de s’ord.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +The scene that followed baffles all description. Uncle Gabe struck up— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Oh, lebe de woods uv damnation;<br/> + Come out in de fields uv salvation;<br/> + Fur de Lord’s gwine ter bu’n up creation,<br/> + Wen de day uv jedgment come.<br/> +<br/> +“Oh, sinners, yer may stan’ dar er laffin’,<br/> + Wile de res’ uv us er quaffin’<br/> + Uv de streams wich de win’s is er waffin’<br/> + Right fresh fum de heb’nly sho’.<br/> +<br/> +“But, min’, der’s er day is er comin’,<br/> + Wen yer’ll hyear a mighty pow’ful hummin’;<br/> + Wen dem angels is er blowin’ an’ er drummin’,<br/> + In de awful jedgment day.<br/> +<br/> +“Oh, monahs, you may stan’ dar er weepin’,<br/> + Fur de brooms uv de Lord is er sweepin’,<br/> + An’ all de trash dey’s er heapin’<br/> + Outside er de golden gate.<br/> +<br/> +“So, sinners, yer’d better be er tu’nin’,<br/> + Er climin’ an’ er scramblin’ an’ er +runnin’,<br/> + Fur ter ’scape dat drefful burnin’<br/> + In de awful jedgment day.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Papa,” called Dumps, “we’re goin’ ter have awful +troubles hyear.” +</p> + +<p> +“How, my little daughter?” asked her father. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV<br/> +DIDDIE AND DUMPS GO VISITING</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Little missy, fur de Lord’s sake, can’t yer gimme +sump’n t’ eat?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Little missy,” he said, piteously, “I’se er +starvin’ ter def. I ain’t had er mouf’l ter eat in fo’ +days.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the reason?” asked Dumps. “Are you a runaway +nigger?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you wait,” said Dumps, “an’ I’ll go bring +yer the picnic.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t tell nobody ’boutn my bein’ hyear, honey.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you sleep here at night?” asked Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, honey, I’se skyeert ter go out any-whar; I’se so +skyeert uv Tight-fis’ Smith.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s awful mean, ain’t he?” asked Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“Dat he is chile,” replied the man; “he’s cruel +an’ bad.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you always b’long to Mr. Tight-fis’ Smith?” asked +Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“No, honey; he bought me fum de Powell ’state, an’ I +ain’t b’longst ter him no mo’n ’boutn fo’ +years.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he got any little girls?” asked Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is your name Brer Dan’l?” asked Dumps, who remembered Uncle +Bob’s story of Daniel’s praying three times a day. +</p> + +<p> +“No, honey, my name’s Pomp; but den I’m er prayin’ man, +des same ez Danl’ wuz.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Lor’, chile,” interrupted Uncle Pomp, “don’t +tell yer pa nuf’n ’boutn it; he’ll <i>sho</i>’ 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, s’posin’ the dogs might come?” said Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, honey, dey ain’t come yit; an’ wen dey duz come, den +hit’ll be time fur ter tell yer pa.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +As they neared the house, Dumps asked Diddie how far it was to Mr. +“Tight-fis’ Smith’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know exactly,” said Diddie; “’bout three +miles, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s jest what we’ll do, Dumps; and we’ll get +Dilsey to go with us, ’cause she knows the way.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Diddie,” asked Dumps, after a little time, “ain’t yer +scared?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I’m scared, Dumps,” replied Diddie; +“but I’m not right comfor’ble.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I’m</i> scared,” said Dumps. “I’m <i>jes</i> +ez fraid of Mr. Tight-fis’ Smith!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we ain’t black, Diddie an’ me,” said Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m er goin’ ter put my pen’ence in de Lord. +I’m er goin’ ter pray.” +</p> + +<p> +Diddie and Dilsey thought this a wise move, and, the three children kneeling +down, Dumps began, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Now, I lay me down to sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“If I should die before I wake,<br/> + I pray the Lord my soul to take;<br/> + An’ this I ask for Jesus’ sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Amen!” reverently responded Diddie and Dilsey; and they all rose +from their knees much comforted. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I b’lieve so too,” said Diddie; and, turning to the window, +she found Mr. Smith watching them. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you Mr. Tight-fis’ Smith?” asked Diddie, timidly. +</p> + +<p> +“I am Mr. Smith, and I have heard that I am called +‘tight-fisted’ in the neighborhood,” he replied, with a +smile. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t whup him, will you?” urged Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Mr. Tight-fis’ Smith and Uncle Pomp.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV<br/> +THE FOURTH OF JULY</h2> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dar now!” said Mammy; “de folks done gone an’ +lef’ Ole Daddy, an’ we got ter stuff ’im in hyear +somewhar.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“How come yer ter git lef’, Daddy,” asked Uncle Snake-bit +Bob, as the old man came up hobbling on his stick. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mammy, what does folks have Fourf of Julys for?” asked Dumps, +after a little while. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>wat</i> time hit wuz; but den +I knows hit wuz some fightin’ or nuther.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was the ‘Declination of Independence’,” said +Diddie. “It’s in the little history; and it wasn’t any +fightin’, it was a <i>writin’;</i> and there’s the picture of +it in the book: and all the men are sittin’ roun’, and one of +’em is writin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s er Defemation, Uncle Bob?” asked Dumps, who possessed +an inquiring mind. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Yer wrong, Brer Bob; I ’members well de fus’ Fourf uv July; +hit wuz er man, honey. Marse Fofer July wuz er <i>man,</i> 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 <i>wuz</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what was he writin’ about Daddy?” asked Diddie, who +remembered the picture too well to give up the “writing part.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +They soon wearied of such dull sport, and began to set their wits to work to +know what to do next. +</p> + +<p> +“Le’s go ’possum-huntin’,” suggested Dilsey. +</p> + +<p> +“There ain’t any ’possums in the daytime,” said Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>she</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>make</i> ’possums, do; an’ ef dey ain’t no +’possums, den I can’t tree ’em, dat’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe they don’t come out on the Fourf uv July,” said Dumps. +“Maybe ’possums keeps it same as peoples,” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you looking for, Uncle Bob?” asked Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“Des er few buckeyes, honey,” answered the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“What you goin’ ter du with ’em?” asked Dumps, as the +little girls joined him in his search. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t want ter die no drunkard, myse’f,” said +Uncle Bob, whose besetting sin was love of whiskey. +</p> + +<p> +“Does buckeyes keep folks from dying drunkards?” asked Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if they would stop drinkin’ whiskey they wouldn’t die +drunkards anyhow, would they, Uncle Bob?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>white +lady</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But I was hungry, Mammy,” apologized the little girl. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t I eat no shotes an’ lambs, Uncle Bob?” asked +Dumps, wiping her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ dat wuz too much,” said Mammy, “right befo’ +de gemmuns.” +</p> + +<p> +But Dumps was comforted at Uncle Bob’s moderate statement of the case, +and so Mammy’s lecture lost much of its intended severity. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s he sayin’?” asked Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“Wy, don’t yer hyear him, honey, er sayin’, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘Who cooks fur you-oo-a?<br/> + Who cooks fur you-oo-a?<br/> + Ef you’ll cook for my folks,<br/> + Den I’ll cook fur y’ all-l-lll?’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you tell us about it, Daddy?” asked Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI<br/> +“’STRUCK’N UV DE CHIL’EN”</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you see him, Daddy?” interrupted Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Whooo cooks fur you-oo-a?<br/> + Whooo cooks fur you-oo-a?<br/> + I cooks fur my folks,<br/> + But who cooks fur y’ all-ll-l?’ +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Whoo cooks fur you-oo-a?<br/> + Whoo cooks fur you-oo-a?<br/> + Ef you’ll cook fur my folks,<br/> + Den I’ll cook fur y’ all-l-lll.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The rattlesnake?” asked Diddie, in horror. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How does he doctor, Daddy?” asked Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The children begged his pardon, and promised not to interrupt again, and Daddy +Jake continued his story. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p> +“‘Come over! come over!’ +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p> +“‘How deep is it?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 <i>nuber</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Daddy Jake happened to look down, and he caught Polly nodding. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that what makes it, Daddy?” asked Diddie, much interested. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was it you, Daddy?” asked Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“Wy , no, honey, hit wan’t me, hit wuz my forecisters.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s a forecister, Daddy?” asked Diddie, rather curious +about the relationship. +</p> + +<p> +“Yer forecisters,” explained Daddy, “is dem uv yer <i>way +back folks,</i> 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 <i>fuss forecister;</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I ain’t er talkin’ ’bout’n +<i>murlatters,</i> 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 <i>folks</i> ez de muel is er <i>horse!</i> +</p> + +<p> +“An’ den dar’s Injuns; dey’s ergin ernudder kin’ +er folks. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ump, ump, kinterlosha wannycoola tusky noba, inickskymuncha +fluxkerscenuck kintergunter skoop.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going, Daddy,” asked Diddie. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>gwine.”</i> +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Diddie, did you know ole Daddy wuz er <i>trick</i> nigger?” +asked Dilsey, as they left the old man’s cabin. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s er trick nigger?” asked Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>tricked;</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I wish I was a trick nigger, then,” remarked Dumps, gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII<br/> +WHAT BECAME OF THEM</h2> + +<p> +Well, of course, I can’t tell you <i>all</i> 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 <i>her</i> book, I’ve got to “wind +up,” and tell you what became of them. +</p> + +<p> +The family lived happily on the plantation until the war broke out in 1861. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +</p> + +<p> +“Nobly died for Dixie.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And ere long a messenger came,<br/> + Bringing the sad, sad story—<br/> + A riderless horse: a funeral march:<br/> + Dead on the field of glory!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Book</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Dumps is doing “DE BES’ SHE KIN.” +</p> + +<h4>THE END</h4> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIDDIE, DUMPS, AND TOT ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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. 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