Transcriber’s Note: This book contains outdated racial stereotypes and
words that are now considered highly offensive.




THE CHRONICLES OF AUNT MINERVY ANN

[Illustration: “I ain’t fergot dat ar ’possum.”]




                            THE CHRONICLES OF
                            AUNT MINERVY ANN

                                   BY
                          JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

                             ILLUSTRATED BY
                               A. B. FROST

                         CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
                              NEW YORK 1899

                           COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY
                         CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

                             TROW DIRECTORY
                    PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
                                NEW YORK




CONTENTS


                                                                      PAGE

       I. An Evening with the Ku-Klux                                    1

      II. “When Jess went a-fiddlin’”                                   34

     III. How Aunt Minervy Ann Ran Away and Ran Back Again              70

      IV. How She Joined the Georgia Legislature                        97

       V. How She Went Into Business                                   119

      VI. How She and Major Perdue Frailed Out the Gossett Boys        139

     VII. Major Perdue’s Bargain                                       157

    VIII. The Case of Mary Ellen                                       182




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

    “I ain’t fergot dat ar ’possum”                          _Frontispiece_

                                                               FACING PAGE

    “Well, he can’t lead _me_”                                           6

    He wore a blue army overcoat and a stove-pipe hat                    8

    “Sholy you-all ain’t gwine put dat in de paper, is you?”            10

    Inquired what day the paper came out                                14

    “I was on the lookout,” the Major explained                         18

    In the third he placed only powder                                  26

    We administered to his hurts the best we could                      30

    “I’d a heap rather you’d pull your shot-gun on me than your pen”    32

    The Committee of Public Comfort                                     72

    Buying cotton on his own account                                    76

    “Miss Vallie!”                                                      78

    “I saw him fling his hand to his shoulder and hold it there”        80

    “Dat ar grape jelly on de right han’ side”                          82

    “‘Conant!’ here and ‘Conant’ dar”                                   84

    “Drapt down on de groun’ dar an’ holler an’ cry”                    90

    “Oh, my shoulder!”                                                 122

    “Marse Tumlin never did pass a nigger on de road”                  124

    “We made twelve pies ef we made one”                               126

    “I gi’ Miss Vallie de money”                                       128

    “Ef here ain’t ol’ Minervy Ann wid pies!”                          130

    “You see dat nigger ’oman?”                                        132

    “An’ he sot dar, suh, wid his haid ’twix’ his han’s fer I dunner
      how long”                                                        134

    “You’ll settle dis wid me”                                         136

    “Dat money ain’t gwine ter las’ when you buy dat kin’ er doin’s”   160

    Trimmin’ up de Ol’ Mules                                           162

    “She wuz cryin’—settin’ dar cryin’”                                164

    “Here come a nigger boy leadin’ a bob-tail hoss”                   166

    “He been axin’ me lots ’bout Miss Vallie”                          172

    “Marse Tumlin ’low he’ll take anything what he can chaw, sop,
      er drink”                                                        176

    “I hatter stop an’ pass de time er day”                            178

    “Hunt up an’ down fer dat ar Tom Perryman”                         180




THE CHRONICLES OF AUNT MINERVY ANN




I

AN EVENING WITH THE KU-KLUX


The happiest, the most vivid, and certainly the most critical period of
a man’s life is combined in the years that stretch between sixteen and
twenty-two. His responsibilities do not sit heavily on him, he has hardly
begun to realize them, and yet he has begun to see and feel, to observe
and absorb; he is for once and for the last time an interested, and yet
an irresponsible, spectator of the passing show.

This period I had passed very pleasantly, if not profitably, at
Halcyondale in Middle Georgia, directly after the great war, and the town
and the people there had a place apart, in my mind. When, therefore, some
ten years after leaving there, I received a cordial invitation to attend
the county fair, which had been organized by some of the enterprising
spirits of the town and county, among whom were Paul Conant and his
father-in-law, Major Tumlin Perdue, it was natural that the fact should
revive old memories.

The most persistent of these memories were those which clustered around
Major Perdue, his daughter Vallie, and his brother-in-law, Colonel
Bolivar Blasengame, and Aunt Minervy Ann Perdue. Curiously enough, my
recollection of this negro woman was the most persistent of all. Her
individuality seemed to stand out more vitally than the rest. She was
what is called “a character,” and something more besides. The truth is,
I should have missed a good deal if I had never known Aunt Minervy Ann
Perdue, who, as she described herself, was “Affikin fum ’way back yander
’fo’ de flood, an’ fum de word go”—a fact which seriously interferes with
the somewhat complacent theory that Ham, son of Noah, was the original
negro.

It is a fact that Aunt Minervy Ann’s great-grandmother, who lived to be
a hundred and twenty years old, had an eagle tattooed on her breast, the
mark of royalty. The brother of this princess, Qua, who died in Augusta
at the age of one hundred years, had two eagles tattooed on his breast.
This, taken in connection with his name, which means The Eagle, shows
that he was either the ruler of his tribe or the heir apparent. The
prince and princess were very small, compared with the average African,
but the records kept by a member of the Clopton family show that during
the Revolution Qua performed some wonderful feats, and went through some
strange adventures in behalf of liberty. He was in his element when war
was at its hottest—and it has never been hotter in any age or time, or
in any part of the world, savage or civilized, than it was then in the
section of Georgia now comprised in the counties of Burke, Columbia,
Richmond, and Elbert.

However, that has nothing to do with Aunt Minervy Ann Perdue; but her
relationship to Qua and to the royal family of his tribe, remote though
it was, accounted for the most prominent traits of her character,
and many contradictory elements of her strong and sharply defined
individuality. She had a bad temper, and was both fierce and fearless
when it was aroused; but it was accompanied by a heart as tender and
a devotion as unselfish as any mortal ever possessed or displayed.
Her temper was more widely advertised than her tenderness, and her
independence more clearly in evidence than her unselfish devotion, except
to those who knew her well or intimately.

And so it happened that Aunt Minervy Ann, after freedom gave her the
privilege of showing her extraordinary qualities of self-sacrifice,
walked about in the midst of the suspicion and distrust of her own race,
and was followed by the misapprehensions and misconceptions of many of
the whites. She knew the situation and laughed at it, and if she wasn’t
proud of it her attitude belied her.

It was at the moment of transition from the old conditions to the new
that I had known Aunt Minervy Ann and the persons in whom she was so
profoundly interested, and she and they, as I have said, had a place
apart in my memory and experience. I also remembered Hamp, Aunt Minervy
Ann’s husband, and the queer contrast between the two. It was mainly
on account of Hamp, perhaps, that Aunt Minervy Ann was led to take
such a friendly interest in the somewhat lonely youth who was editor,
compositor, and pressman of Halcyondale’s ambitious weekly newspaper in
the days following the collapse of the confederacy.

When a slave, Hamp had belonged to an estate which was in the hands of
the Court of Ordinary (or, as it was then called, the Inferior Court), to
be administered in the interest of minor heirs. This was not a fortunate
thing for the negroes, of which there were above one hundred and fifty.
Men, women, and children were hired out, some far and some near. They
came back home at Christmastime, enjoyed a week’s frolic, and were
then hired out again, perhaps to new employers. But whether to new or
old, it is certain that hired hands in those days did not receive the
consideration that men gave to their own negroes.

This experience told heavily on Hamp’s mind. It made him reserved,
suspicious, and antagonistic. He had few pleasant memories to fall back
on, and these were of the days of his early youth, when he used to trot
around holding to his old master’s coat-tails—the kind old master who had
finally been sent to the insane asylum. Hamp never got over the idea (he
had heard some of the older negroes talking about it) that his old master
had been judged to be crazy simply because he was unusually kind to his
negroes, especially the little ones. Hamp’s after-experience seemed to
prove this, for he received small share of kindness, as well as scrimped
rations, from the majority of those who hired him.

It was a very good thing for Hamp that he married Aunt Minervy Ann,
otherwise he would have become a wanderer and a vagabond when freedom
came. It was a fate he didn’t miss a hair’s breadth; he “broke loose,”
as he described it, and went off, but finally came back and tried in vain
to persuade Aunt Minervy Ann to leave Major Perdue. He finally settled
down, but acquired no very friendly feelings toward the white race.

He joined the secret political societies, strangely called “Union
Leagues,” and aided in disseminating the belief that the whites were
only awaiting a favorable opportunity to re-enslave his race. He was
only repeating what the carpet-baggers had told him. Perhaps he believed
the statement, perhaps not. At any rate, he repeated it fervently and
frequently, and soon came to be the recognized leader of the negroes in
the county of which Halcyondale was the capital. That is to say, the
leader of all except one. At church one Sunday night some of the brethren
congratulated Aunt Minervy Ann on the fact that Hamp was now the leader
of the colored people in that region.

“What colored people?” snapped Aunt Minervy Ann.

“We-all,” responded a deacon, emphatically.

“Well, he can’t lead _me_, I’ll tell you dat right now!” exclaimed Aunt
Minervy Ann.

[Illustration: “Well, he can’t lead _me_.”]

Anyhow, when the time came to elect members of the Legislature (the
constitutional convention had already been held), Hamp was chosen to be
the candidate of the negro Republicans. A white man wanted to run, but
the negroes said they preferred their own color, and they had their way.
They had their way at the polls, too, for, as nearly all the whites who
would have voted had served in the Confederate army, they were at that
time disfranchised.

So Hamp was elected overwhelmingly, “worl’ widout een’,” as he put it,
and the effect it had on him was a perfect illustration of one aspect of
human nature. Before and during the election (which lasted three days)
Hamp had been going around puffed up with importance. He wore a blue army
overcoat and a stove-pipe hat, and went about smoking a big cigar. When
the election was over, and he was declared the choice of the county, he
collapsed. His dignity all disappeared. His air of self-importance and
confidence deserted him. His responsibilities seemed to weigh him down.

He had once “rolled” in the little printing-office where the machinery
consisted of a No. 2 Washington hand-press, a wooden imposing-stone,
three stands for the cases, a rickety table for “wetting down” the paper,
and a tub in which to wash the forms. This office chanced to be my
headquarters, and the day after the election I was somewhat surprised
to see Hamp saunter in. So was Major Tumlin Perdue, who was reading the
exchanges.

“He’s come to demand a retraction,” remarked the Major, “and you’ll have
to set him right. He’s no longer plain Hamp; he’s the Hon. Hamp—what’s
your other name?” turning to the negro.

“Hamp Tumlin my fergiven name, suh. I thought ’Nervy Ann tol’ you dat.”

“Why, who named you after me?” inquired the Major, somewhat angrily.

“Me an’ ’Nervy Ann fix it up, suh. She say it’s about de purtiest name in
town.”

The Major melted a little, but his bristles rose again, as it were.

“Look here, Hamp!” he exclaimed in a tone that nobody ever forgot or
misinterpreted; “don’t you go and stick Perdue onto it. I won’t stand
that!”

“No, suh!” responded Hamp. “I started ter do it, but ’Nervy Ann say
she ain’t gwine ter have de Perdue name bandied about up dar whar de
Legislature’s at.”

[Illustration: He wore a blue army overcoat and a stove-pipe hat.]

Again the Major thawed, and though he looked long at Hamp it was with
friendly eyes. He seemed to be studying the negro—“sizing him up,” as
the saying is. For a newly elected member of the Legislature, Hamp
seemed to take a great deal of interest in the old duties he once
performed about the office. He went first to the box in which the
“roller” was kept, and felt of its surface carefully.

“You’ll hatter have a bran new roller ’fo’ de mont’s out,” he said, “an’
I won’t be here to he’p you make it.”

Then he went to the roller-frame, turned the handle, and looked at the
wooden cylinders. “Dey don’t look atter it like I use ter, suh; an’ dish
yer frame monst’us shackly.”

From there he passed to the forms where the advertisements remained
standing. He passed his thumb over the type and looked at it critically.
“Dey er mighty skeer’d dey’ll git all de ink off,” was his comment. Do
what he would, Hamp couldn’t hide his embarrassment.

Meanwhile, Major Perdue scratched off a few lines in pencil. “I wish
you’d get this in Tuesday’s paper,” he said. Then he read: “The Hon.
Hampton Tumlin, recently elected a member of the Legislature, paid us a
pop-call last Saturday. We are always pleased to meet our distinguished
fellow-townsman and representative. We trust Hon. Hampton Tumlin will
call again when the Ku-Klux are in.”

“Why, certainly,” said I, humoring the joke.

“Sholy you-all ain’t gwine put dat in de paper, is you?” inquired Hamp,
in amazement.

“Of course,” replied the Major; “why not?”

“Kaze, ef you does, I’m a ruint nigger. Ef ’Nervy Ann hear talk ’bout
my name an’ entitlements bein’ in de paper, she’ll quit me sho. Uh-uh!
I’m gwine ’way fum here!” With that Hamp bowed and disappeared. The
Major chuckled over his little joke, but soon returned to his newspaper.
For a quarter of an hour there was absolute quiet in the room, and, as
it seemed, in the entire building, which was a brick structure of two
stories, the stairway being in the centre. The hallway was, perhaps,
seventy-five feet long, and on each side, at regular intervals, there
were four rooms, making eight in all, and, with one exception, variously
occupied as lawyers’ offices or sleeping apartments, the exception being
the printing-office in which Major Perdue and I were sitting. This was at
the extreme rear of the hallway.

[Illustration: “Sholy you-all ain’t gwine put dat in de paper, is you?”]

I had frequently been struck by the acoustic properties of this hallway.
A conversation carried on in ordinary tones in the printing-office could
hardly be heard in the adjoining room. Transferred to the front rooms,
however, or even to the sidewalk facing the entrance to the stairway,
the lightest tone was magnified in volume. A German professor of music,
who for a time occupied the apartment opposite the printing-office,
was so harassed by the thunderous sounds of laughter and conversation
rolling back upon him that he tried to remedy the matter by nailing two
thicknesses of bagging along the floor from the stairway to the rear
window. This was, indeed, something of a help, but when the German left,
being of an economical turn of mind, he took his bagging away with him,
and once more the hallway was torn and rent, as you may say, with the
lightest whisper.

Thus it happened that, while the Major and I were sitting enjoying an
extraordinary season of calm, suddenly there came a thundering sound
from the stairway. A troop of horse could hardly have made a greater
uproar, and yet I knew that fewer than half a dozen people were ascending
the steps. Some one stumbled and caught himself, and the multiplied
and magnified reverberations were as loud as if the roof had caved in,
carrying the better part of the structure with it. Some one laughed at
the misstep, and the sound came to our ears with the deafening effect
of an explosion. The party filed with a dull roar into one of the front
rooms, the office of a harum-scarum young lawyer who had more empty
bottles behind his door than he had ever had briefs on his desk.

“Well, the great Gemini!” exclaimed Major Perdue, “how do you manage to
stand that sort of thing?”

I shrugged my shoulders and laughed, and was about to begin anew a very
old tirade against caves and halls of thunder, when the Major raised a
warning hand. Some one was saying——

“He hangs out right on ol’ Major Perdue’s lot. He’s got a wife there.”

“By jing!” exclaimed another voice; “is that so? Well, I don’t wanter git
mixed up wi’ the Major. He may be wobbly on his legs, but I don’t wanter
be the one to run up ag’in ’im.”

The Major pursed up his lips and looked at the ceiling, his attitude
being one of rapt attention.

“Shucks!” cried another; “by the time the ol’ cock gits his bellyful of
dram, thunder wouldn’t roust ’im.”

A shrewd, foxy, almost sinister expression came over the Major’s rosy
face as he glanced at me. His left hand went to his goatee, an invariable
signal of deep feeling, such as anger, grief, or serious trouble. Another
voice broke in here, a voice that we both knew to be that of Larry
Pulliam, a big Kentuckian who had refugeed to Halcyondale during the war.

“Blast it all!” exclaimed Larry Pulliam, “I hope the Major will come out.
Me an’ him hain’t never butted heads yit, an’ it’s gittin’ high time. Ef
he comes out, you fellers jest go ahead with your rat-killin’. _I_’ll
’ten’ to him.”

“Why, you’d make two of him, Pulliam,” said the young lawyer.

“Oh, I’ll not hurt ’im; that is, not _much_—jest enough to let ’im know
I’m livin’ in the same village,” replied Mr. Pulliam. The voice of the
town bull could not have had a more terrifying sound.

Glancing at the Major, I saw that he had entirely recovered his
equanimity. More than that, a smile of sweet satisfaction and contentment
settled on his rosy face, and stayed there.

“I wouldn’t take a hundred dollars for that last remark,” whispered the
Major. “That chap’s been a-raisin’ his hackle at me ever since he’s
been here, and every time I try to get him to make a flutter he’s off
and gone. Of course it wouldn’t do for me to push a row on him just dry
so. But now——” The Major laughed softly, rubbed his hands together, and
seemed to be as happy as a child with a new toy.

“My son,” said he after awhile, “ain’t there some way of finding
out who the other fellows are? Ain’t you got some word you want Seab
Griffin”—this was the young lawyer—“to spell for you?”

Spelling was the Major’s weakness. He was a well-educated man, and could
write vigorous English, but only a few days before he had asked me how
many _f_’s there are in _graphic_.

“Let’s see,” he went on, rubbing the top of his head. “Do you spell
_Byzantium_ with two _y_’s, or with two _i_’s, or with one _y_ and one
_i_? It’ll make Seab feel right good to be asked that before company, and
he certainly needs to feel good if he’s going with that crowd.”

So, with a manuscript copy in my hand, I went hurriedly down the hall and
put the important question. Mr. Griffin was all politeness, but not quite
sure of the facts in the case. But he searched in his books of reference,
including the Geographical Gazette, until finally he was able to give me
the information I was supposed to stand in need of.

While he was searching, Mr. Pulliam turned to me and inquired what day
the paper came out. When told that the date was Tuesday, he smiled and
nodded his head mysteriously.

“That’s good,” he declared; “you’ll be in time to ketch the news.”

[Illustration: Inquired what day the paper came out.]

“What news?” I inquired.

“Well, ef you don’t hear about it before to-morrer night, jest inquire of
Major Perdue. He’ll tell you all about it.”

Mr. Pulliam’s tone was so supercilious that I was afraid the Major would
lose his temper and come raging down the hallway. But he did nothing
of the kind. When I returned he was fairly beaming, and seemed to be
perfectly happy. The Major took down the names in his note-book—I have
forgotten all except those of Buck Sanford and Larry Pulliam; they were
all from the country except Larry Pulliam and the young lawyer.

After my visit to the room, the men spoke in lower tones, but every word
came back to us as distinctly as before.

“The feed of the horses won’t cost us a cent,” remarked young Sanford.
“Tom Gresham said he’d ’ten’ to that. They’re in the stable right now.
And we’re to have supper in Tom’s back room, have a little game of ante,
and along about twelve or one we’ll sa’nter down and yank that darned
nigger from betwixt his blankets, ef he’s got any, and leave him to cool
off at the cross-roads. Won’t you go ’long, Seab, and see it well done?”

“I’ll go and see if the supper’s well done, and I’ll take a shy at your
ante,” replied Mr. Griffin. “But when it comes to the balance of the
programme—well, I’m a lawyer, you know, and you couldn’t expect me to
witness the affair. I might have to take your cases and prove an alibi,
you know, and I couldn’t conscientiously do that if I was on hand at the
time.”

“The Ku-Klux don’t have to have alibis,” suggested Larry Pulliam.

“Perhaps not, still—” Apparently Mr. Griffin disposed of the matter with
a gesture.

When all the details of their plan had been carefully arranged, the
amateur Ku-Klux went filing out, the noise they made dying away like the
echoes of a storm.

Major Perdue leaned his head against the back of his chair, closed his
eyes, and sat there so quietly that I thought he was asleep. But this was
a mistake. Suddenly he began to laugh, and he laughed until the tears ran
down his face. It was laughter that was contagious, and presently I found
myself joining in without knowing why. This started the Major afresh, and
we both laughed until exhaustion came to our aid.

“O Lord!” cried the Major, panting, “I haven’t had as much fun since the
war, and a long time before. That blamed Pulliam is going to walk into a
trap of his own setting. Now you jest watch how he goes out ag’in.”

“But I’ll not be there,” I suggested.

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the Major, “you can’t afford to miss it. It’ll be
the finest piece of news your paper ever had. You’ll go to supper with
me—” He paused. “No, I’ll go home, send Valentine to her Aunt Emmy’s, get
Blasengame to come around, and we’ll have supper about nine. That’ll fix
it. Some of them chaps might have an eye on my house, and I don’t want
’em to see anybody but me go in there. Now, if you don’t come at nine,
I’ll send Blasengame after you.”

“I shall be glad to come, Major. I was simply fishing for an invitation.”

“_That_ fish is always on your hook, and you know it,” the Major insisted.

As it was arranged, so it fell out. At nine, I lifted and dropped the
knocker on the Major’s front door. It opened so promptly that I was
somewhat taken by surprise, but in a moment the hand of my host was on my
arm, and he pulled me inside unceremoniously.

“I was on the lookout,” the Major explained. “Minervy Ann has fixed to
have waffles, and she’s crazy about havin’ ’em just right. If she waits
too long to make ’em, the batter’ll spoil; and if she puts ’em on before
everybody’s ready, they won’t be good. That’s what she says. Here he is,
you old Hessian!” the Major cried, as Minervy Ann peeped in from the
dining-room. “Now slap that supper together and let’s get at it.”

“I’m mighty glad you come, suh,” said Aunt Minervy Ann, with a courtesy
and a smile, and then she disappeared. In an incredibly short time
supper was announced, and though Aunt Minervy has since informed me
confidentially that the Perdues were having a hard time of it at that
period, I’ll do her the justice to say that the supper she furnished
forth was as good as any to be had in that town—waffles, beat biscuit,
fried chicken, buttermilk, and coffee that could not be surpassed.

“How about the biscuit, Minervy Ann?” inquired Colonel Blasengame, who
was the Major’s brother-in-law, and therefore one of the family.

“I turned de dough on de block twelve times, an’ hit it a hundred an
forty-sev’m licks,” replied Aunt Minervy Ann.

“I’m afeard you hit it one lick too many,” said Colonel Blasengame,
winking at me.

[Illustration: “I was on the lookout,” the Major explained.]

“Well, suh, I been hittin’ dat away a mighty long time,” Aunt Minervy
Ann explained, “and I ain’t never hear no complaints.”

“Oh, I’m not complainin’, Minervy Ann.” Colonel Blasengame waved his
hand. “I’m mighty glad you did hit the dough a lick too many. If you
hadn’t, the biscuit would ’a’ melted in my mouth, and I believe I’d
rather chew on ’em to get the taste.”

“He des runnin’ on, suh,” said Aunt Minervy Ann to me. “Marse Bolivar
know mighty well dat he got ter go ’way fum de Nunited State fer ter git
any better biscuits dan what I kin bake.”

Then there was a long pause, which was broken by an attempt on the part
of Major Perdue to give Aunt Minervy Ann an inkling of the events likely
to happen during the night. She seemed to be both hard of hearing and
dull of understanding when the subject was broached; or she may have
suspected the Major was joking or trying to “run a rig” on her. Her
questions and comments, however, were very characteristic.

“I dunner what dey want wid Hamp,” she said. “Ef dey know’d how no-count
he is, dey’d let ’im ’lone. What dey want wid ’im?”

“Well, two or three of the country boys and maybe some of the town chaps
are going to call on him between midnight and day. They want to take him
out to the cross-roads. Hadn’t you better fix ’em up a little snack? Hamp
won’t want anything, but the boys will feel a little hungry after the job
is over.”

“Nobody ain’t never tell me dat de Legislatur’ wuz like de Free Masons,
whar dey have ter ride a billy goat an’ go down in a dry well wid de
chains a-clankin’. I done tol’ Hamp dat he better not fool wid white
folks’ doin’s.”

“Only the colored members have to be initiated,” explained the Major,
solemnly.

“What does dey do wid um?” inquired Aunt Minervy Ann.

“Well,” replied the Major, “they take ’em out to the nearest cross-roads,
put ropes around their necks, run the ropes over limbs, and pull away as
if they were drawing water from a well.”

“What dey do dat fer?” asked Aunt Minervy Ann, apparently still oblivious
to the meaning of it all.

“They want to see which’ll break first, the ropes or the necks,” the
Major explained.

“Ef dey takes Hamp out,” remarked Aunt Minervy Ann, tentatively—feeling
her way, as it were—“what time will he come back?”

“You’ve heard about the Resurrection Morn, haven’t you, Minervy Ann?”
There was a pious twang in the Major’s voice as he pronounced the words.

“I hear de preacher say sump’n ’bout it,” replied Aunt Minervy Ann.

“Well,” said the Major, “along about that time Hamp will return. I hope
his record is good enough to give him wings.”

“Shuh! Marse Tumlin! you-all des fool’in’ me. I don’t keer—Hamp ain’t
gwine wid um. I tell you dat right now.”

“Oh, he may not want to go,” persisted the Major, “but he’ll go all the
same if they get their hands on him.”

“My life er me!” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann, bristling up, “does you-all
’speck I’m gwine ter let um take Hamp out dat away? De fus’ man come ter
my door, less’n it’s one er you-all, I’m gwine ter fling a pan er hot
embers in his face ef de Lord’ll gi’ me de strenk. An’ ef dat don’t do no
good, I’ll scald um wid b’ilin’ water. You hear dat, don’t you?”

“Minervy Ann,” said the Major, sweetly, “have you ever heard of the
Ku-Klux?”

“Yasser, I is!” she exclaimed with startling emphasis. She stopped
still and gazed hard at the Major. In response, he merely shrugged his
shoulders and raised his right hand with a swift gesture that told the
whole story.

“Name er God! Marse Tumlin, is you an’ Marse Bolivar and dish yer young
genterman gwine ter set down here flat-footed and let dem Kukluckers
scarify Hamp?”

“Why should _we_ do anything? You’ve got everything arranged. You’re
going to singe ’em with hot embers, and you’re going to take their hides
off with scalding water. What more do you want?” The Major spoke with an
air of benign resignation.

Aunt Minervy Ann shook her head vigorously. “Ef dey er de Kukluckers,
fire won’t do um no harm. Dey totes der haids in der han’s.”

“Their heads in their hands?” cried Colonel Blasengame, excitedly.

“Dat what dey say, suh,” replied Aunt Minervy Ann.

Colonel Blasengame looked at his watch. “Tumlin, I’ll have to ask you
to excuse me to-night,” he said. “I—well, the fact is, I have a mighty
important engagement up town. I’m obliged to fill it.” He turned to Aunt
Minervy Ann: “Did I understand you to say the Ku-Klux carry their heads
in their hands?”

“Dat what folks tell me. I hear my own color sesso,” replied Aunt Minervy
Ann.

“I’d be glad to stay with you, Tumlin,” the Colonel declared; “but—well,
under the circumstances, I think I’d better fill that engagement. Justice
to my family demands it.”

“Well,” responded Major Perdue, “if you are going, I reckon we’d just as
well go, too.”

“Huh!” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann, “ef gwine’s de word, dey can’t nobody
beat me gittin’ way fum here. Dey may beat me comin’ back, I ain’t
’sputin’ dat; but dey can’t beat me gwine ’way. I’m ol’, but I got mighty
nigh ez much go in me ez a quarter-hoss.”

Colonel Blasengame leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. “It
seems to me, Tumlin, we might compromise on this. Suppose we get Hamp to
come in here. Minervy Ann can stay out there in the kitchen and throw a
rock against the back door when the Ku-Klux come.”

Aunt Minervy Ann fairly gasped. “_Who? Me?_ I’ll die fust. I’ll t’ar dat
do’ down; I’ll holler twel ev’ybody in de neighborhood come a-runnin’. Ef
you don’t b’lieve me, you des try me. I’ll paw up dat back-yard.”

Major Perdue went to the back door and called Hamp, but there was no
answer. He called him a second time, with the same result.

“Well,” said the Major, “they’ve stolen a march on us. They’ve come and
carried him off while we were talking.”

“No, suh, dey ain’t, needer. I know right whar he is, an’ I’m gwine
atter ’im. He’s right ’cross de street dar, colloguin’ wid dat ol’ Ceely
Ensign. Dat’s right whar he is.”

“Old! Why, Celia is young,” remarked the Major. “They say she’s the best
cook in town.”

Aunt Minervy Ann whipped out of the room and was gone some little time.
When she returned, she had Hamp with her, and I noticed that both were
laboring under excitement which they strove in vain to suppress.

“Here I is, suh,” said Hamp. “’Nervy Ann say you call me.”

“How is Celia to-night?” Colonel Blasengame inquired, suavely.

This inquiry, so suddenly and unexpectedly put, seemed to disconcert
Hamp. He shuffled his feet and put his hand to his face. I noticed a
blue welt over his eye, which was not there when he visited me in the
afternoon.

“Well, suh, I ’speck she’s tolerbul.”

“_Is she? Is she? Ah-h-h!_” cried Aunt Minervy Ann.

“She must be pretty well,” said the Major. “I see she’s hit you a clip
over the left eye.”

“Dat’s some er ’Nervy Ann’s doin’s, suh,” replied Hamp, somewhat
disconsolately.

“Den what you git in de way fer?” snapped Aunt Minervy Ann.

“Marse Tumlin, dat ar ’oman ain’t done nothin’ in de roun’ worl’. She say
she want me to buy some hime books fer de church when I went to Atlanty,
an’ I went over dar atter de money.”

“_I himed ’er an’ I churched ’er!_” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann.

“Here de money right here,” said Hamp, pulling a small roll of
shinplasters out of his pocket; “an’ whiles we settin’ dar countin’ de
money, ’Nervy Ann come in dar an’ frail dat ’oman out.”

“Ain’t you hear dat nigger holler, Marse Tumlin?” inquired Minervy Ann.
She was in high good-humor now. “Look like ter me dey could a-heerd ’er
blate in de nex’ county ef dey’d been a-lis’nin’. ’Twuz same ez a picnic,
suh, an’ I’m gwine ’cross dar ’fo’ long an’ pay my party call.”

Then she began to laugh, and pretty soon went through the whole episode
for our edification, dwelling with unction on that part where the
unfortunate victim of her jealousy had called her “Miss ’Nervy.” The more
she laughed the more serious Hamp became.

At the proper time he was told of the visitation that was to be made by
the Ku-Klux, and this information seemed to perplex and worry him no
little. But his face lit up with genuine thankfulness when the programme
for the occasion was announced to him. He and Minervy Ann were to remain
in the house and not show their heads until the Major or the Colonel or
their guest came to the back door and drummed on it lightly with the
fingers.

[Illustration: In the third he placed only powder.]

Then the arms—three shot-guns—were brought out, and I noticed with some
degree of surprise, that as the Major and the Colonel began to handle
these, their spirits rose perceptibly. The Major hummed a tune and the
Colonel whistled softly as they oiled the locks and tried the triggers.
The Major, in coming home, had purchased four pounds of mustard-seed
shot, and with this he proceeded to load two of the guns. In the third
he placed only powder. This harmless weapon was intended for me, while
the others were to be handled by Major Perdue and Colonel Blasengame. I
learned afterward that the arrangement was made solely for my benefit.
The Major and the Colonel were afraid that a young hand might become
excited and fire too high at close range, in which event mustard-seed
shot would be as dangerous as the larger variety.

At twelve o’clock I noticed that both Hamp and Aunt Minervy were growing
restless.

“You hear dat clock, don’t you, Marse Tumlin?” said Minervy as the chimes
died away. “Ef you don’t min’, de Kukluckers’ll be a-stickin’ der haids
in de back do’.”

But the Major and the Colonel were playing a rubber of seven-up (or
high-low-Jack) and paid no attention. It was a quarter after twelve when
the game was concluded and the players pushed their chairs back from the
table.

“Ef you don’t fin’ um in de yard waitin’ fer you, I’ll be fooled
might’ly,” remarked Aunt Minervy Ann.

“Go and see if they’re out there,” said the Major.

“_Me_, Marse Tumlin? _Me?_ I wouldn’t go out dat do’ not for ham.”

The Major took out his watch. “They’ll eat and drink until twelve or a
little after, and then they’ll get ready to start. Then they’ll have
another drink all ’round, and finally they’ll take another. It’ll be a
quarter to one or after when they get in the grove in the far end of the
lot. But we’ll go out now and see how the land lays. By the time they get
here, our eyes will be used to the darkness.”

The light was carried to a front room, and we groped our way out at the
back door the best we could. The night was dark, but the stars were
shining. I noticed that the belt and sword of Orion had drifted above
the tree-tops in the east, following the Pleiades. In a little while the
darkness seemed to grow less dense, and I could make out the outlines of
trees twenty feet away.

Behind one of these trees, near the outhouse in which Hamp and Aunt
Minervy lived, I was to take my stand, while the Major and the Colonel
were to go farther into the wood-lot so as to greet the would-be Ku-Klux
as they made their retreat, of which Major Perdue had not the slightest
doubt.

“You stand here,” said the Major in a whisper. “We’ll go to the far-end
of the lot where they’re likely to come in. They’ll pass us all right
enough, but as soon as you see one of ’em, up with the gun an’ lam
aloose, an’ before they can get away give ’em the other barrel. Then
you’ll hear from us.”

Major Perdue and Colonel Blasengame disappeared in the darkness, leaving
me, as it were, on the inner picket line. I found the situation somewhat
ticklish, as the saying is. There was not the slightest danger, and I
knew it, but if you ever have occasion to stand out in the dark, waiting
for something to happen, you’ll find there’s a certain degree of suspense
attached to it. And the loneliness and silence of the night will take a
shape almost tangible. The stirring of the half-dead leaves, the chirping
of a belated cricket, simply emphasized the loneliness and made the
silence more profound. At intervals, all nature seemed to heave a deep
sigh, and address itself to slumber again.

In the house I heard the muffled sound of the clock chime one, but
whether it was striking the half-hour or the hour I could not tell.
Then I heard the stealthy tread of feet. Someone stumbled over a stick
of timber, and the noise was followed by a smothered exclamation and a
confused murmur of voices. As the story-writers say, I knew that the
hour had come. I could hear whisperings, and then I saw a tall shadow
steal from behind Aunt Minervy’s house, and heard it rap gently on the
door. I raised the gun, pulled the hammer back, and let drive. A stream
of fire shot from the gun, accompanied by a report that tore the silence
to atoms. I heard a sharp exclamation of surprise, then the noise of
running feet, and off went the other barrel. In a moment the Major and
the Colonel opened on the fugitives. I heard a loud cry of pain from one,
and, in the midst of it all, the mustard-seed shot rattled on the plank
fence like hominy-snow on a tin roof.

The next instant I heard someone running back in my direction, as if
for dear life. He knew the place apparently, for he tried to go through
the orchard, but just before he reached the orchard fence, he uttered a
half-strangled cry of terror, and then I heard him fall as heavily as if
he had dropped from the top of the house.

It was impossible to imagine what had happened, and it was not until we
had investigated the matter that the cause of the trouble was discovered.
A wire clothes-line, stretched across the yard, had caught the would-be
Ku-Klux under the chin, his legs flew from under him, and he had a fall,
from the effects of which he was long in recovering. He was a young man
about town, very well connected, who had gone into the affair in a spirit
of mischief. We carried him into the house, and administered to his hurts
the best we could; Aunt Minervy Ann, be it said to her credit, being more
active in this direction than any of us.

[Illustration: We administered to his hurts the best we could.]

On the Tuesday following, the county paper contained the news in a form
that remains to this day unique. It is hardly necessary to say that it
was from the pen of Major Tumlin Perdue.

“Last Saturday afternoon our local editor was informed by a prominent
citizen that if he would apply to Major Perdue he would be put in
possession of a very interesting piece of news. Acting upon this hint,
ye local yesterday went to Major Perdue, who, being in high good-humor,
wrote out the following with his own hand:

“‘Late Saturday night, while engaged with a party of friends in searching
for a stray dog on my premises, I was surprised to see four or five
men climb over my back fence and proceed toward my residence. As my
most intimate friends do not visit me by climbing over my back fence, I
immediately deployed my party in such a manner as to make the best of
a threatening situation. The skirmish opened at my kitchen-door, with
two rounds from a howitzer. This demoralized the enemy, who promptly
retreated the way they came. One of them, the leader of the attacking
party, carried away with him two loads of mustard-seed shot, delivered in
the general neighborhood and region of the coat-tails, which, being on
a level with the horizon, afforded as fair a target as could be had in
the dark. I understand on good authority that Mr. Larry Pulliam, one of
our leading and deservedly popular citizens, has had as much as a quart
of mustard-seed shot picked from his carcass. Though hit in a vulnerable
spot, the wound is not mortal.—T. PERDUE.’”

I did my best to have Mr. Pulliam’s name suppressed, but the Major would
not have it so.

“No, sir,” he insisted; “the man has insulted me behind my back, and he’s
got to cut wood or put down the axe.”

Naturally this free and easy card created quite a sensation in
Halcyondale and the country round about. People knew what it would mean
if Major Perdue’s name had been used in such an off-hand manner by Mr.
Pulliam, and they naturally supposed that a fracas would be the outcome.
Public expectation was on tiptoe, and yet the whole town seemed to take
the Major’s card humorously. Some of the older citizens laughed until
they could hardly sit up, and even Mr. Pulliam’s friends caught the
infection. Indeed, it is said that Mr. Pulliam, himself, after the first
shock of surprise was over, paid the Major’s audacious humor the tribute
of a hearty laugh. When Mr. Pulliam appeared in public, among the first
men he saw was Major Perdue. This was natural, for the Major made it a
point to be on hand. He was not a ruffler, but he thought it was his duty
to give Mr. Pulliam a fair opportunity to wreak vengeance on him. If the
boys about town imagined that a row was to be the result of this first
meeting, they were mistaken. Mr. Pulliam looked at the Major and then
began to laugh.

[Illustration: “I’d a heap rather you’d pull your shot-gun on me than
your pen.”]

“Major Perdue,” he said, “I’d a heap rather you’d pull your shot-gun on
me than your pen.”

And that ended the matter.




II

“WHEN JESS WENT A-FIDDLIN’”


The foregoing recital is unquestionably a long and tame preface to the
statement that, after thinking the matter over I concluded to accept the
official invitation to the fair—“The Middle Georgia Exposition” it was
called—if nothing occurred to prevent. With this conclusion I dismissed
the matter from my mind for the time being, and would probably have
thought of it no more until the moment arrived to make a final decision,
if the matter had not been called somewhat sharply to my attention.

Sitting on the veranda one day, ruminating over other people’s troubles,
I heard an unfamiliar voice calling, “You-all got any bitin’ dogs here?”
The voice failed to match the serenity of the suburban scene. Its tone
was pitched a trifle too high for the surroundings.

But before I could make any reply the gate was flung open, and the
new-comer, who was no other than Aunt Minervy Ann, flirted in and began
to climb the terraces. My recognition of her was not immediate, partly
because it had been long since I saw her and partly because she wore her
Sunday toggery, in which, following the oriental tastes of her race, the
reds and yellows were emphasized with startling effect. She began to talk
by the time she was half-way between the house and gate, and it was owing
to this special and particular volubility that I was able to recognize
her.

“Huh!” she exclaimed, “hit’s des like clim’in’ up sta’rs. Folks what
live here bleeze ter b’long ter de Sons er Tempunce.” There was a
relish about this reference to the difficulties of three terraces that
at once identified Aunt Minervy Ann. More than that, one of the most
conspicuous features of the country town where she lived was a large
brick building, covering half a block, across the top of which stretched
a sign—“Temperance Hall”—in letters that could be read half a mile away.

Aunt Minervy Ann received a greeting that seemed to please her, whereupon
she explained that an excursion had come to Atlanta from her town, and
she had seized the opportunity to pay me a visit. “I tol’ um,” said she,
“dat dey could stay up in town dar an’ hang ’roun’ de kyar-shed ef dey
wanter, but here’s what wuz gwine ter come out an’ see whar you live at,
an’ fin’ out fer Marse Tumlin ef you comin’ down ter de fa’r.”

She was informed that, though she was welcome, she would get small
pleasure from her visit. The cook had failed to make her appearance,
and the lady of the house was at that moment in the kitchen and in a
very fretful state of mind, not because she had to cook, but because she
had about reached the point where she could place no dependence in the
sisterhood of colored cooks.

“Is she in de kitchen now?” Aunt Minervy’s tone was a curious mixture of
amusement and indignation. “I started not ter come, but I had a call, I
sho’ did; sump’n tol’ me dat you mought need me out here.” With that, she
went into the house, slamming the screen-door after her, and untying her
bonnet as she went.

Now, the lady of the house had heard of Aunt Minervy Ann, but had never
met her, and I was afraid that the characteristics of my old-time friend
would be misunderstood and misinterpreted. The lady in question knew
nothing of the negro race until long after emancipation, and she had
not been able to form a very favorable opinion of its representatives.
Therefore, I hastened after Aunt Minervy Ann, hoping to tone down by
explanation whatever bad impression she might create. She paused at the
screen-door that barred the entrance to the kitchen, and, for an instant,
surveyed the scene within. Then she cried out:

“You des ez well ter come out’n dat kitchen! You ain’t got no mo’ bizness
in dar dan a new-born baby.”

Aunt Minervy Ann’s voice was so loud and absolute that the lady gazed at
her in mute astonishment. “You des es well ter come out!” she insisted.

“Are you crazy?” the lady asked, in all seriousness.

“I’m des ez crazy now ez I ever been; an’ I tell you you des ez well ter
come out’n dar.”

“Who are you anyhow?”

“I’m Minervy Ann Perdue, at home an’ abroad, an’ in dish yer great town
whar you can’t git niggers ter cook fer you.”

“Well, if you want me to come out of the kitchen, you will have to come
in and do the cooking.”

“Dat ’zackly what I’m gwine ter do!” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann. She went
into the kitchen, demanded an apron, and took entire charge. “I’m mighty
glad I come ’fo’ you got started,” she said, “’kaze you got ’nuff fier
in dis stove fer ter barbecue a hoss; an’ you got it so hot in here dat
it’s a wonder you ain’t bust a blood-vessel.”

She removed all the vessels from the range, and opened the door of the
furnace so that the fire might die down. And when it was nearly out—as
I was told afterward—she replaced the vessels and proceeded to cook a
dinner which, in all its characteristics, marked a red letter day in the
household.

“She’s the best cook in the country,” said the lady, “and she’s not very
polite.”

“Not very hypocritical, you mean; well if she was a hypocrite, she
wouldn’t be Aunt Minervy Ann.”

The cook failed to come in the afternoon, and so Aunt Minervy Ann felt
it her duty to remain over night. “Hamp’ll vow I done run away wid
somebody,” she said, laughing, “but I don’t keer what he think.”

After supper, which was as good as the dinner had been, Aunt Minervy Ann
came out on the veranda and sat on the steps. After some conversation,
she placed the lady of the house on the witness-stand.

“Mistiss, wharbouts in Georgy wuz you born at?”

“I wasn’t born in Georgia; I was born in Lansingburgh, New York.”

“I know’d it!” Aunt Minervy turned to me and nodded her head with energy.
“I know’d it right pine blank!”

“You knew what?” the presiding genius of the household inquired with some
curiosity.

“I know’d ’m dat you wuz a Northron lady.”

“I don’t see how you knew it,” I remarked.

“Well, suh, she talk like we-all do, an’ she got mighty much de same
ways. But when I went out dar dis mornin’ an’ holler at ’er in de
kitchen, I know’d by de way she turn ’roun’ on me dat she ain’t been
brung up wid niggers. Ef she’d ’a’ been a Southron lady, she’d ’a’
laughed an’ said, ‘Come in here an’ cook dis dinner yo’se’f, you ole
vilyun,’ er she’d ’a’ come out an’ crackt me over de head with dat i’on
spoon what she had in her han’.”

I could perceive a vast amount of acuteness in the observation, but I
said nothing, and, after a considerable pause, Aunt Minervy Ann remarked:

“Dey er lots er mighty good folks up dar”—indicating the North—“some
I’ve seed wid my own eyes an’ de yuthers I’ve heern talk un. Mighty fine
folks, an’ dey say dey mighty sorry fer de niggers. But I’ll tell um
all anywhar, any day, dat I’d lots druther dey’d be good ter me dan ter
be sorry fer me. You know dat ar white lady what Marse Tom Chippendale
married? Her pa come down here ter he’p de niggers, an’ he done it de
best he kin, but Marse Tom’s wife can’t b’ar de sight un um. She won’t
let um go in her kitchen, she won’t let um go in her house, an’ she don’t
want um nowhars ’roun’. She’s mighty sorry fer ’m, but she don’t like um.
I don’t blame ’er much myse’f, bekaze it look like dat de niggers what
been growin’ up sence freedom is des tryin’ der han’ fer ter see how no
’count dey kin be. Dey’ll git better—dey er bleeze ter git better, ’kaze
dey can’t git no wuss.”

Here came another pause, which continued until Aunt Minervy Ann, turning
her head toward me, asked if I knew the lady that Jesse Towers married;
and before I had time to reply with certainty, she went on:

“No, suh, you des can’t know ’er. She ain’t come dar twel sev’mty, an’
I mos’ know you ain’t see ’er dat time you went down home de las’ time,
’kaze she wa’n’t gwine out dat year. Well, she wuz a Northron lady. I
come mighty nigh tellin’ you ’bout ’er when you wuz livin’ dar, but fus’
one thing an’ den anudder jumped in de way; er maybe ’Twuz too new ter be
goshup’d ’roun’ right den. But de way she come ter be dar an’ de way it
all turn out beats any er dem tales what de ol’ folks use ter tell we
childun. I may not know all de ins an’ outs, but what I does know I knows
mighty well, ’kaze de young ’oman tol’ me herse’f right out ’er own mouf.

“Fus’ an’ fo’mus’, dar wuz ol’ Gabe Towers. He wuz dar whence you wuz
dar, an’ long time ’fo’ dat. You know’d him, sho’, ’kaze he wuz one er
dem kinder men what sticks out fum de res’ like a waggin’ tongue. Not dat
he wuz any better’n anybody else, but he had dem kinder ways what make
folks talk ’bout ’im an’ ’pen’ on ’im. I dunner ’zackly what de ways wuz,
but I knows dat whatsomever ol’ Gabe Towers say an’ do, folks ’d nod der
head an’ say an’ do de same. An’ me ’long er de res’. He had dem kinder
ways ’bout ’im, an’ ’twa’n’t no use talkin’.”

In these few words, Aunt Minervy conjured up in my mind the memory of one
of the most remarkable men I had ever known. He was tall, with iron-gray
hair. His eyes were black and brilliant, his nose slightly curved, and
his chin firm without heaviness. To this day Gabriel Towers stands out
in my admiration foremost among all the men I have ever known. He might
have been a great statesman; he would have been great in anything to
which he turned his hand. But he contented himself with instructing
smaller men, who were merely politicians, and with sowing and reaping on
his plantation. More than one senator went to him for ideas with which to
make a reputation.

His will seemed to dominate everybody with whom he came in contact, not
violently, but serenely and surely, and as a matter of course. Whether
this was due to his age—he was sixty-eight when I knew him, having been
born in the closing year of the eighteenth century—or to his moral power,
or to his personal magnetism, it is hardly worth while to inquire. Major
Perdue said that the secret of his influence was common-sense, and this
is perhaps as good an explanation as any. The immortality of Socrates
and Plato should be enough to convince us that common-sense is almost as
inspiring as the gift of prophecy. To interpret Aunt Minervy Ann in this
way is merely to give a correct report of what occurred on the veranda,
for explanation of this kind was necessary to give the lady of the house
something like a familiar interest in the recital.

“Yes, suh,” Aunt Minervy Ann went on, “he had dem kinder ways ’bout ’im,
an’ whatsomever he say you can’t shoo it off like you would a hen on de
gyarden fence. Dar ’twuz an’ dar it stayed.

“Well, de time come when ol’ Marse Gabe had a gran’son, an’ he name ’im
Jesse in ’cordance wid de Bible. Jesse grow’d an’ grow’d twel he got ter
be a right smart chunk uv a boy, but he wa’n’t no mo’ like de Towerses
dan he wuz like de Chippendales, which he wa’n’t no kin to. He tuck atter
his ma, an’ who his ma tuck atter I’ll never tell you, ’kaze Bill Henry
Towers married ’er way off yander somers. She wuz purty but puny, yit
puny ez she wuz she could play de peanner by de hour, an’ play it mo’
samer de man what make it.

“Well, suh, Jesse tuck atter his ma in looks, but ’stidder playin’ de
peanner, he l’arnt how ter play de fiddle, an’ by de time he wuz twelve
year ol’, he could make it talk. Hit’s de fatal trufe, suh; he could make
it talk. You hear folks playin’ de fiddle, an’ you know what dey doin’;
you kin hear de strings a-plunkin’ an’ you kin hear de bow raspin’ on
um on ’count de rozzum, but when Jesse Towers swiped de bow cross his
fiddle, ’twa’n’t no fiddle—’twuz human; I ain’t tellin’ you no lie, suh,
’twuz human. Dat chile could make yo’ heart ache; he could fetch yo’ sins
up befo’ you. Don’t tell me! many an’ many a night when I hear Jesse
Towers playin’, I could shet my eyes an’ hear my childun cryin’, dem
what been dead an’ buried long time ago. Don’t make no diffunce ’bout de
chune, reel, jig, er promenade, de human cryin’ wuz behime all un um.

“Bimeby, Jesse got so dat he didn’t keer nothin’ ’tall ’bout books. It
uz fiddle, fiddle, all day long, an’ half de night ef dey’d let ’im. Den
folks ’gun ter talk. No need ter tell you what all dey say. De worl’
over, fum what I kin hear, dey got de idee dat a fiddle is a free pass
ter whar ole Scratch live at. Well, suh, Jesse got so he’d run away fum
school an’ go off in de woods an’ play his fiddle. Hamp use ter come ’pon
’im when he haulin’ wood, an’ he say dat fiddle ain’t soun’ no mo’ like
de fiddles what you hear in common dan a flute soun’ like a bass drum.

“Now you know yo’se’f, suh, dat dis kinder doin’s ain’t gwine ter suit
Marse Gabe Towers. Time he hear un it, he put his foot down on fiddler,
an’ fiddle, an’ fiddlin’. Ez you may say, he sot down on de fiddle an’
smash it. Dis happen when Jesse wuz sixteen year ol’, an’ by dat time he
wuz mo’ in love wid de fiddle dan what he wuz wid his gran’daddy. An’ so
dar ’twuz. He ain’t look like it, but Jesse wuz about ez high strung ez
his fiddle wuz, an’ when his gran’daddy laid de law down, he sol’ out his
pony an’ buggy an’ made his disappearance fum dem parts.

“Well, suh, ’twa’n’t so mighty often you’d hear sassy talk ’bout Marse
Gabe Towers, but you could hear it den. Folks is allers onreasonable wid
dem dey like de bes’; you know dat yo’se’f, suh. Marse Gabe ain’t make
no ’lowance fer Jesse, an’ folks ain’t make none fer Marse Gabe. Marse
Tumlin wuz dat riled wid de man dat dey come mighty nigh havin’ a fallin’
out. Dey had a splutter ’bout de time when sump’n n’er had happen, an’
atter dey wrangle a little, Marse Tumlin sot de date by sayin’ dat ’twuz
‘a year ’fo’ de day when Jess went a-fiddlin’.’ Dat sayin’ kindled de
fier, suh, an’ it spread fur an’ wide. Marse Tom Chippendale say dat
folks what never is hear tell er de Towerses went ’roun’ talkin’ ’bout
‘de time when Jess went a-fiddlin’.’”

Aunt Minervy Ann chuckled over this, probably because she regarded it as
a sort of victory for Major Tumlin Perdue. She went on:

“Yes, suh, ’twuz a by-word wid de childun. No matter what happen, er when
it happen, er ef ’tain’t happen, ’twuz ’fo’ er atter ‘de day when Jess
went a-fiddlin’.’ Hit look like dat Marse Gabe sorter drapt a notch or
two in folks’ min’s. Yit he helt his head dez ez high. He bleeze ter hol’
it high, ’kaze he had in ’im de blood uv bofe de Tumlins an’ de Perdues;
I dunner how much, but ’nuff fer ter keep his head up.

“I ain’t no almanac, suh, but I never is ter fergit de year when Jess
went a-fiddlin. ’Twuz sixty, ’kaze de nex’ year de war ’gun ter bile,
an’ ’twa’n’t long ’fo’ it biled over. Yes, suh! dar wuz de war come on
an Jess done gone. Dey banged aloose, dey did, dem on der side, an’ we
on our’n, an’ dey kep’ on a bangin’ twel we-all can’t bang no mo’. An’
den de war hushed up, an’ freedom come, an’ still nobody ain’t hear tell
er Jesse. Den you come down dar, suh, an’ stay what time you did; still
nobody ain’t hear tell er Jesse. He mought er writ ter his ma, but ef he
did, she kep’ it mighty close. Marse Gabe ain’t los’ no flesh ’bout it,
an’ ef he los’ any sleep on account er Jess, he ain’t never brag ’bout it.

“Well, suh, it went on dis away twel, ten year atter Jess went
a-fiddlin’, his wife come home. Yes, suh! His wife! Well! I wuz stan’in’
right in de hall talkin’ wid Miss Fanny—dat’s Jesse’s ma—when she come,
an’ when de news broke on me you could ’a’ knockt me down wid a permeter
fan. De house-gal show’d ’er in de parler, an’ den come atter Miss
Fanny. Miss Fanny she went in dar, an’ I stayed outside talkin’ wid de
house-gal. De gal say, ‘Aunt Minervy Ann, dey sho’ is sump’n n’er de
matter wid dat white lady. She white ez any er de dead, an’ she can’t git
’er breff good.’ ’Bout dat time, I hear somebody cry out in de parler,
an’ den I hear sump’n fall. De house-gal cotch holt er me an’ ’gun ter
whimper. I shuck ’er off, I did, an’ went right straight in de parler,
an’ dar wuz Miss Fanny layin’ face fo’mus’ on a sofy wid a letter in ’er
han’ an’ de white lady sprawled out on de flo’.

“Well, suh, you can’t skeer me wid trouble ’kaze I done see too much; so
I shuck Miss Fanny by de arm an’ ax ’er what de matter, an’ she cry out,
‘Jesse’s dead an’ his wife come home.’ She uz plum heart-broke, suh, an’
I ’speck I wuz blubberin’ some myse’f when Marse Gabe walkt in, but I wuz
tryin’ ter work wid de white lady on de flo’. ’Twix’ Marse Gabe an’ Miss
Fanny, ’twuz sho’ly a tryin’ time. When one er dem hard an’ uppity men
lose der grip on deyse’f, dey turn loose ever’thing, an’ dat wuz de way
wid Marse Gabe. When dat de case, sump’n n’er got ter be done, an’ it got
ter be done mighty quick.”

Aunt Minervy Ann paused here and rubbed her hands together
contemplatively, as if trying to restore the scene more completely to her
memory.

“You know how loud I kin talk, suh, when I’m min’ ter. Well, I talk loud
den an’ dar. I ’low, ‘What you-all doin’? Is you gwine ter let Marse
Jesse’s wife lay here an’ die des ’kaze he dead? Ef you is, I’ll des go
whar I b’longs at!’ Dis kinder fotch um ’roun’, an’ ’twa’n’t no time ’fo’
we had de white lady in de bed whar Jesse use ter sleep at, an’ soon’s we
got ’er cuddled down in it, she come ’roun’. But she wuz in a mighty bad
fix. She wanter git up an’ go off, an’ ’twuz all I could do fer ter keep
’er in bed. She done like she wuz plum distracted. Dey wa’n’t skacely a
minnit fer long hours, an’ dey wuz mighty long uns, suh, dat she wa’n’t
moanin’ an’ sayin’ dat she wa’n’t gwine ter stay, an’ she hope de Lord’d
fergive ’er. I tell you, suh, ’twuz tarryfyin’. I shuck nex’ day des like
folks do when dey er honin’ atter dram.

“You may ax me how come I ter stay dar,” Aunt Minervy Ann suggested with
a laugh. “Well, suh, ’twa’n’t none er my doin’s. I ’speck dey mus’ be
sump’n wrong ’bout me, ’kaze no matter how rough I talk ner how ugly I
look, sick folks an’ childun alters takes up wid me. When I go whar dey
is, it’s mighty hard fer ter git ’way fum um. So, when I say ter Jesse’s
wife, ‘Keep still, honey, an’ I’ll go home an’ not pester you,’ she sot
up in bed an’ say ef I gwine she gwine too. I say, ‘Nummine ’bout me,
honey, you lay down dar an’ don’t talk too much.’ She ’low, ‘Le’ me talk
ter you an’ tell you all ’bout it.’ But I shuck my head an’ say dat ef
she don’t hush up an’ keep still I’m gwine right home.

“I had ter do ’er des like she wuz a baby, suh. She wa’n’t so mighty
purty, but she had purty ways, ’stracted ez she wuz, an’ de biggest black
eyes you mos’ ever seed, an’ black curly ha’r cut short kinder, like our
folks use ter w’ar der’n. Den de house-gal fotched some tea an’ toas’,
an’ dis holp ’er up mightly, an’ atter dat I sont ter Marse Gabe fer some
dram, an’ de gal fotched de decanter fum de side-bode. Bein’, ez you may
say, de nurse, I tuck an’ tas’e er de dram fer ter make sho’ dat nobody
ain’t put nothin’ in it. An’, sho’ ’nuff, dey ain’t.”

Aunt Minervy Ann paused and smacked her lips. “Atter she got de vittles
an’ de dram, she sorter drap off ter sleep, but ’twuz a mighty flighty
kinder sleep. She’d wake wid a jump des ’zackly like babies does, an’ den
she’d moan an’ worry twel she dozed off ag’in. I nodded, suh, bekaze you
can’t set me down in a cheer, night er day, but what I’ll nod, but in
betwix’ an’ betweens I kin hear Marse Gabe Towers walkin’ up an’ down in
de liberry; walk, walk; walk, walk, up an’ down. I ’speck ef I’d ’a’ been
one er de nervious an’ flighty kin’ dey’d ’a’ had to tote me out er dat
house de nex’ day; but me! I des kep’ on a-noddin’.

“Bimeby, I hear sump’n come swishin’ ’long, an’ in walkt Miss Fanny. I
tell you now, suh, ef I’d a met ’er comin’ down de road, I’d ’a’ made
a break fer de bushes, she look so much like you know sperrets oughter
look—an’ Marse Jesse’s wife wuz layin’ dar wid ’er eyes wide open. She
sorter swunk back in de bed when she see Miss Fanny, an’ cry out, ‘Oh,
I’m mighty sorry fer ter trouble you; I’m gwine ’way in de mornin’.’
Miss Fanny went ter de bed an’ knelt down ’side it, an’ ’low, ‘No, you
ain’t gwine no whar but right in dis house. Yo’ place is here, wid his
mudder an’ his gran’fadder.’ Wid dat, Marse Jesse’s wife put her face in
de piller an’ moan an’ cry, twel I hatter ax Miss Fanny fer ter please,
ma’m, go git some res’.

“Well, suh, I stayed dar dat night an’ part er de nex’ day, an’ by dat
time all un um wuz kinder quieted down, but dey wuz mighty res’less in
de min’, ’speshually Marse Jesse’s wife, which her name wuz Miss Sadie.
It seem like dat Marse Jesse wuz livin’ at a town up dar in de fur
North whar dey wuz a big lake, an’ he went out wid one er dem ’scursion
parties, an’ a storm come up an’ shuck de boat ter pieces. Dat what
make I say what I does. I don’t min’ gwine on ’scursions on de groun’,
but when it come ter water—well, suh, I ain’t gwine ter trus’ myse’f
on water twel I kin walk on it an’ not wet my foots. Marse Jesse wuz
de Captain uv a music-ban’ up dar, an’ de papers fum dar had some long
pieces ’bout ’im, an’ de paper at home had a piece ’bout ’im. It say he
wuz one er de mos’ renounced music-makers what yever had been, an’ dat
when it come ter dat kinder doin’s he wuz a puffick prodigal. I ’member
de words, suh, bekaze I made Hamp read de piece out loud mo’ dan once.

“Miss Sadie, she got mo’ calmer atter while, an’ ’twa’n’t long ’fo’ Marse
Gabe an’ Miss Fanny wuz bofe mighty tuck up wid ’er. Dey much’d ’er up
an’ made a heap un ’er, an’ she fa’rly hung on dem. I done tol’ you she
ain’t purty, but dey wuz sump’n ’bout ’er better dan purtiness. It mought
er been ’er eyes, en den ag’in mought er been de way er de gal; but
whatsomever ’twuz, hit made you think ’bout ’er at odd times durin’ de
day, an’ des ’fo’ you go ter sleep at night.

“Eve’ything went swimmin’ along des ez natchul ez a duck floatin’ on de
mill-pon’. Dey wa’n’t skacely a day but what I seed Miss Sadie. Ef I
ain’t go ter Marse Gabe’s house she’d be sho’ ter come ter mine. Dat uz
atter Hamp wuz ’lected ter de legislatur, suh. He ’low dat a member er de
ingener’l ensembly ain’t got no bizness livin’ in a kitchen, but I say
he ain’t a whit better den dan he wuz befo’. So be, I done been cross ’im
so much dat I tell ’im ter git de house an’ I’d live in it ef ’twa’n’t
too fur fum Miss Vallie an’ Marse Tumlin. Well, he had it built on de
outskyirts, not a big jump fum Miss Vallie an’ betwix’ de town an’ Marse
Gabe Towers’s. When you come down ter de fa’r, you mus’ come see me. Me
an’ Hamp’ll treat you right; we sholy will.

“Well, suh, in dem days dey wa’n’t so many niggers willin’ ter do an’ be
done by, an’ on account er dat, ef Miss Vallie wa’n’t hollin’ fer ’Nervy
Ann, Miss Fanny er Miss Sadie wuz, an’ when I wa’n’t at one place, you
might know I’d be at de yuther one. It went on dis away, an’ went on twel
one day got so much like an’er dat you can’t tell Monday fum Friday.
An’ it went on an’ went on twel bimeby I wuz bleeze ter say sump’n ter
Hamp. You take notice, suh, an’ when you see de sun shinin’ nice an’ warm
an’ de win’ blowin’ so saft an’ cool dat you wanter go in a-washin’ in
it—when you see dis an’ feel dat away, _Watch out! Watch out_, I tell
you! Dat des de time when de harrycane gwine ter come up out’n de middle
er de swamp an’ t’ar things ter tatters. Same way when folks gitting on
so nice dat dey don’t know dey er gittin’ on.

“De fus’ news I know’d Miss Sadie wuz bringin’ little bundles ter my
house ’twix’ sundown an’ dark. She’d ’low, ‘Aunt Minervy Ann, I’ll des
put dis in de cornder here; I may want it some time.’ Nex’ day it’d be
de same doin’s over ag’in. ‘Aunt Minervy Ann, please take keer er dis; I
may want it some time.’ Well, it went on dis away fum day ter day, but
I ain’t pay no ’tention. Ef any ’spicion cross my min’ it wuz dat maybe
Miss Sadie puttin’ dem things dar fer ter ’sprise me Chris’mus by tellin’
me dey wuz fer me. But one day she come ter my house, an’ sot down an’
put her han’s over her face like she got de headache er sump’n.

“Wellum”—Aunt Minervy Ann, with real tact, now began to address herself
to the lady of the house—“Wellum, she sot dar so long dat bimeby I ax ’er
what de matter is. She ain’t say nothin’; she ain’t make no motion. I
’low ter myse’f dat she don’t wanter be pestered, so I let ’er ’lone an’
went on ’bout my business. But, bless you! de nex’ time I look at ’er she
wuz settin’ des dat away wid ’er han’s over her face. She sot so still
dat it sorter make me feel quare, an’ I went, I did, an’ cotch holt er
her han’s sorter playful-like. Wellum, de way dey felt made me flinch.
All I could say wuz, ‘Lord ’a’ mercy!’ She tuck her han’s down, she did,
an’ look at me an’ smile kinder faint-like. She ’low, ‘Wuz my han’s
col’, Aunt Minervy Ann?’ I look at ’er an’ grunt, ‘Huh! dey won’t be no
colder when youer dead.’ She ain’t say nothin’, an’ terreckly I ’low,
‘What de name er goodness is de matter wid you, Miss Sadie?’ She say,
‘Nothin’ much. I’m gwine ter stay here ter-night, an’ ter-morrer mornin’
I’m gwine ’way.’ I ax ’er, ‘How come dat? What is dey done to you?’ She
say, ‘Nothin’ ’tall.’ I ’low, ‘Does Marse Gabe an’ Miss Fanny know you
gwine?’ She say, ‘No; I can’t tell um.’

“Wellum, I flopt down on a cheer; yessum, I sho’ did. My min’ wuz gwine
like a whirligig an’ my head wuz swimmin’. I des sot dar an’ look at
’er. Bimeby she up an’ say, pickin’ all de time at her frock, ‘I know’d
sump’n wuz gwine ter happen. Dat de reason I been bringin’ dem bundles
here. In dem ar bundles you’ll fin’ all de things I fotch here. I ain’t
got nothin’ dey give me ’cep’n dish yer black dress I got on. I’d ’a’
fotch my ol’ trunk, but I dunner what dey done wid it. Hamp’ll hatter buy
me one an’ pay for it hisse’f, ’kaze I ain’t got a cent er money.’ Dem
de ve’y words she say. I ’low, ‘Sump’n must ’a’ happen den.’ She nodded,
an’ bimeby she say, ‘Mr. Towers comin’ home ter-night. Dey done got a
telegraph fum ’im.’

“I stood up in de flo’, I did, an’ ax ’er, ‘Which Mr. Towers?’ She say,
‘Mr. Jesse Towers.’ I ’low, ‘He done dead.’ She say, ‘No, he ain’t; ef he
wuz he done come ter life; dey done got a telegraph fum ’im, I tell you.’
‘Is _dat_ de reason you gwine ’way?’ I des holla’d it at ’er. She draw’d
a long breff an’ say, ‘Yes, dat’s de reason.’

“I tell you right now, ma’m, I didn’t know ef I wuz stannin’ on my head
er floatin’ in de a’r. I wuz plum outdone. But dar she sot des es cool ez
a curcumber wid de dew on it. I went out de do’, I did, an’ walk ’roun’
de house once ter de right an’ twice ter de lef’ bekaze de ol’ folks use
ter tell me dat ef you wuz bewitched, dat ’ud take de spell away. I ain’t
tellin’ you no lie, ma’m—fer de longes’ kinder minnit I didn’t no mo’
b’lieve dat Miss Sadie wuz settin’ dar in my house tellin’ me dat kinder
rigamarole, dan I b’lieve I’m flyin’ right now. Dat bein’ de case, I
bleeze ter fall back on bewitchments, an’ so I walk ’roun’ de house. But
when I went back in, dar she wuz, settin’ in a cheer an’ lookin’ up at de
rafters.

“Wellum, I went in an’ drapt down in a cheer an’ lookt at ’er. Bimeby,
I say, ‘Miss Sadie, does you mean ter set dar an’ tell me youer gwine
’way ’kaze yo’ husban’ comin’ home?’ She flung her arms behime ’er
head, she did, an’ say, ‘I ain’t none er his wife; I des been playin’
off!’ De way she look an’ de way she say it wuz ’nuff fer me. I wuz
pairlized; yessum, I wuz dumfounder’d. Ef anybody had des but totch me
wid de tip er der finger, I’d ’a’ fell off’n dat cheer an’ never stirred
atter I hit de flo’. Ever’thing ’bout de house lookt quare. Miss Vallie
had a lookin’-glass one time wid de pictur’ uv a church at de bottom.
When de glass got broke, she gimme de pictur’, an’ I sot it up on de
mantel-shelf. I never know’d ’fo’ dat night dat de steeple er der church
wuz crooked. But dar ’twuz. Mo’ dan dat I cotch myse’f feelin’ er my
fingers fer ter see ef ’twuz me an’ ef I wuz dar.

“Talk ’bout _dreams_! dey wa’n’t no dream could beat dat, I don’t keer
how twisted it mought be. An’ den, ma’m, she sot back dar an’ tol’ me de
whole tale ’bout how she come ter be dar. I’ll never tell it like she
did; dey ain’t nobody in de wide worl’ kin do dat. But it seem like she
an’ Marse Jesse wuz stayin’ in de same neighborhoods, er stayin’ at de
same place, he a-fiddlin’ an’ she a-knockin’ on de peanner er de harp, I
fergit which. Anyhow, dey seed a heap er one an’er. Bofe un um had come
dar fum way off yan’, an’ ain’t got nobody but deyse’f fer ter ’pen’ on,
an’ dat kinder flung um togedder. I ’speck dey must er swapt talk ’bout
love an’ marryin’—you know yo’se’f, ma’m, dat dat’s de way young folks
is. Howsomever dat may be, Marse Jesse, des ter tease ’er, sot down one
day an’ writ a long letter ter his wife. Tooby sho’ he ain’t got no wife,
but he des make out he got one, an’ dat letter he lef’ layin’ ’roun’ whar
Miss Sadie kin see it. ’Twa’n’t in no envelyup, ner nothin’, an’ you know
mighty well, ma’m, dat when a ’oman, young er ol’, see dat kinder letter
layin’ ’roun’ she’d die ef she don’t read it. Fum de way Miss Sadie talk,
dat letter must ’a’ stirred up a coolness ’twix’ um, kaze de mornin’ when
he wuz gwine on dat ’scursion, Marse Jesse pass by de place whar she wuz
settin’ at an’ flung de letter in her lap an’ say, ‘What’s in dar wuz fer
you.’

“Wellum, wid dat he wuz gone, an’ de fus’ news Miss Sadie know’d de
papers wuz full er de names er dem what got drownded in de boat, an’
Marse Jesse head de roll, ’kaze he wuz de mos’ pop’lous music-maker in
de whole settlement. Den dar wuz de gal an’ de letter. I wish I could
tell dis part like she tol’ me settin’ dar in my house. You’ll never git
it straight in yo’ head less’n you’d ’a’ been dar an’ hear de way she
tol’ it. Nigger ez I is, I know mighty well dat a white ’oman ain’t got
no business parmin’ ’erse’f off ez a man’s wife. But de way she tol’ it
tuck all de rough aidges off’n it. She wuz dar in dat big town, wuss’n
a wilderness, ez you may say, by ’erse’f, nobody ’penin’ on ’er an’
nobody ter ’pen’ on, tired down an’ plum wo’ out, an’ wid all dem kinder
longin’s what you know yo’se’f, ma’am, all wimmen bleeze ter have, ef dey
er white er ef dey er black.

“Yit she ain’t never tol’ nobody dat she wuz Marse Jesse’s wife. She des
han’ de letter what she’d kep’ ter Miss Fanny, an’ fell down on de flo’
in a dead faint, an’ she say dat ef it hadn’t but ’a’ been fer me, she’d
a got out er de bed dat fust night an’ went ’way fum dar; an’ I know
dat’s so, too, bekaze she wuz ranklin’ fer ter git up fum dar. But at de
time I put all dat down ter de credit er de deleeriums, an’ made ’er stay
in bed.

“Wellum, ef I know’d all de books in de worl’ by heart, I couldn’t tell
you how I felt atter she done tol’ me dat tale. She sot back dar des ez
calm ez a baby. Bimeby she say, ‘I’m glad I tol’ you; I feel better dan
I felt in a mighty long time.’ It look like, ma’am, dat a load done been
lift fum ’er min’. Now I know’d pine blank dat sump’n gotter be done,
’kaze de train’d be in at midnight, an’ den when Marse Jesse come dey’d
be a tarrifyin’ time at Gabe Towers’s. Atter while I up an’ ax ’er,
‘Miss Sadie, did you reely love Marse Jesse?’ She say, ‘Yes, I did’—des
so. I ax ’er, ‘Does you love ’im now?’ She say, ‘Yes, I does—an’ I love
dem ar people up dar at de house; dat de reason I’m gwine ’way.’ She talk
right out; she done come to de p’int whar she ain’t got nothin’ ter hide.

“I say, ‘Well, Miss Sadie, dem folks up at de house, dey loves you.’
She sorter flincht at dis. I ’low, ‘Dey been mighty good ter you. What
you done, you done done, an’ dat can’t be holp, but what you ain’t gone
an’ done, dat kin be holp; an’ what you oughter do, dat oughtn’t ter be
holp.’ I see ’er clinch ’er han’s an’ den I riz fum de cheer.” Suiting
the action to the word, Aunt Minervy Ann rose from the step where she had
been sitting, and moved toward the lady of the house.

“I riz, I did, an’ tuck my stan’ befo’ ’er. I ’low, ‘You say you love
Marse Jesse, an’ you say you love his folks. Well, den ef you got any
blood in you, ef you got any heart in yo’ body, ef you got any feelin’
fer anybody in de roun’ worl’ ’cep’n’ yo’ naked se’f, you’ll go up dar
ter dat house an’ tell Gabe Towers dat you want ter see ’im, an’ you’ll
tell Fanny Towers dat you want ter see her, an’ you’ll stan’ up befo’ um
an’ tell um de tale you tol’ ter me, word fer word. Ef you’ll do dat, an’
you hatter come back here, _come! come!_ Bless God! _come!_ an’ me an’
Hamp’ll rake an’ scrape up ’nuff money fer ter kyar you whar you gwine.
An’ don’t you be a’skeer’d er Gabe Towers. Me an’ Marse Tumlin ain’t
a-skeer’d un ’im. I’m gwine wid you, an’ ef he say one word out de way,
you des come ter de do’ an’ call me, an’ ef I don’t preach his funer’l,
it’ll be bekaze de Lord’ll strike me dumb!’ _An’ she went!_”

Aunt Minervy paused. She had wrought the miracle of summoning to life one
of the crises through which she had passed with others. It was not the
words she used. There was nothing in them to stir the heart or quicken
the pulse. Her power lay in the tones of her voice, whereby she was able
to recall the passion of a moment that had long spent itself; in the
fluent and responsive attitudes; in gesticulation that told far more than
her words did. The light from the vestibule lamp shone full upon her and
upon the lady whom she unconsciously selected to play the part of the
young woman whose story she was telling. The illusion was perfect. We
were in Aunt Minervy Ann’s house, Miss Sadie was sitting helpless and
hopeless before her—the whole scene was vivid and complete. She paused;
her arm, which had been outstretched and rigid for an instant, slowly
fell to her side, and—the illusion was gone; but while it lasted, it was
as real as any sudden and extraordinary experience can be.

Aunt Minervy Ann resumed her seat, with a chuckle, apparently ashamed
that she had been betrayed into such a display of energy and emotion,
saying, “Yessum, she sho’ went.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” remarked the lady of the house, with a long-drawn
sigh of relief.

Aunt Minervy Ann laughed again, rather sheepishly, and then, after
rubbing her hands together, took up the thread of the narrative, this
time directing her words to me: “All de way ter de house, suh, she ain’t
say two words. She had holt er my han’, but she ain’t walk like she uz
weak. She went along ez peart ez I did. When we got dar, some er de
niggers wuz out in de flower gyarden an’ out in de big grove callin’ ’er;
an’ dey call so loud dat I hatter put um down. ‘Hush up!’ I say, ‘an’ go
on ’bout yo’ business! Can’t yo’ Miss Sadie take a walk widout a whole
passel er you niggers a-hollerin’ yo’ heads off?’ One un um make answer,
‘Miss Fanny huntin’ fer ’er.’ She sorter grip my han’ at dat, but I say,
‘She de one you wanter see—her an’ Gabe Towers.’

“We went up on de po’ch, an’ dar wuz Miss Fanny an’ likewise Marse Gabe.
I know’d what dey wanted; dey wanted ter talk wid ’er ’bout Marse Jesse.
She clum de steps fus’ an’ I clum atter her. She cotch ’er breff hard
when she fus’ hit de steps, an’ den it come over me like a flash how deep
an’ big her trouble wuz, an’ I tell you right now, ef dat had ’a’ been
Miss Vallie gwine up dar, I b’lieve I’d ’a’ flew at ol’ Gabe Towers an’
to’ ’im lim’ fum lim’ ’fo’ anybody could ’a’ pull me off. Hit’s de trufe!
You may laugh, but I sho’ would ’a’ done it. I had it in me. Miss Fanny
seed sump’n wuz wrong, de minnit de light fell on de gal’s face. She say,
‘Why, Sadie, darlin’, what de matter wid you?’—des so—an’ made ez ef ter
put ’er arms ’roun’ ’er; but Miss Sadie swunk back. Miss Fanny sorter
swell up. She say, ‘Oh, ef I’ve hurt yo’ feelin’s ter-day—_ter-day_ uv
all de days—please, please fergi’ me!’ Well, suh, I dunner whar all dis
gwine ter lead ter, an’ I put in, ‘She des wanter have a talk wid you an’
Marse Gabe, Miss Fanny; an’ ef ter-day is one er de days her feelin’s
oughtn’ter be hurted, take keer dat you don’t do it. Kyar ’er in de
parler dar, Miss Fanny.’ I ’speck you’ll think I wuz takin’ a mighty
heap on myse’f, fer a nigger ’oman,” remarked Aunt Minervy Ann, smoothing
the wrinkles out of her lap, “but I wuz des ez much at home in dat house
ez I wuz in my own, an’ des ez free wid um ez I wuz wid my own folks.
Miss Fanny look skeer’d, an’ Marse Gabe foller’d atter, rubbin’ a little
mole he had on de top er his head. When he wus worried er aggervated, he
allers rub dat mole.

“Well, suh, dey went in, dey did, an’ I shot de do’ an’ tuck up my stan’
close by, ready fer to go in when Miss Sadie call me. I had myse’f keyed
up ter de p’int whar I’d ’a’ tol’ Marse Gabe sump’n ’bout his own fambly
connection; you know dey ain’t nobody but what got i’on rust on some er
der cloze. But dey stayed in dar an’ stayed, twel I ’gun ter git oneasy.
All kinder quare idees run th’oo my head. Atter while some un pull de
do’ open, an’ hol’ it dat away, an’ I hear Marse Gabe say, wid a trimble
an’ ketch in his th’oat, ‘Don’t talk so, chil’. Ef you done wrong, you
ain’t hurt nobody but yo’se’f, an’ it oughtn’ter hurt you. You been a
mighty big blessin’ ter me, an’ ter Fanny here, an’ I wouldn’t ’a’ missed
knowin’ you, not fer nothin’. Wid dat, he come out cle’rin up his th’oat
an’ blowin’ his nose twel it soun’ like a dinner-horn. His eye fell on
me, an’ he ’low, ‘Look like you er allers on han’ when dey’s trouble.’ I
made answer, ‘Well, Marse Gabe, dey might be wusser ones ’roun’ dan me.’
He look at me right hard an’ say, ‘Dey ain’t no better, Minervy Ann.’
Well, suh, little mo’ an’ I’d ’a’ broke down, it come so sudden. I had
ter gulp hard an’ quick, I tell you. He say, ‘Minervy Ann, go back dar
an’ tell de house-gal ter wake up de carriage-driver ef he’s ’sleep, an’
tell ’im to go meet Jesse at de train. An’ he mus’ tell Jesse dat we’d
’a’ all come, but his ma ain’t feelin’ so well.’ I say, ‘I’ll go wake
’im up myse’f, suh.’ I look in de parler an’ say, ‘Miss Sadie, does you
need me right now?’ She ’low, ‘No, not right now; I’ll stay twel—twel Mr.
Towers come.’ Miss Fanny wuz settin’ dar holdin’ Miss Sadie’s han’.

“I’ll never tell you how dey patcht it up in dar, but I made a long
guess. Fus’ an’ fo’mus’, dey wuz right down fon’ er Miss Sadie, an’ den
ef she run off time Marse Jesse put his foot in de town dey’d be a big
scandal; an’ so dey fix it up dat ef she wuz bleeze ter go, ’twuz better
to go a mont’ er two atter Marse Jesse come back. Folks may like you
mighty well, but dey allers got one eye on der own consarns. Dat de way I
put it down.

“Well, suh, de wuss job wuz lef’ fer de las’, ’kaze dar wuz Marse Jesse.
Sump’n tol’ me dat he oughter know what been gwine on ’fo’ he got in de
house, ’kaze den he won’t be aggervated inter sayin’ an’ doin’ sump’n he
oughtn’ter. So when de carriage wuz ready, I got in an’ went down ter
de depot; an’ when Marse Jesse got off de train, I wuz de fus’ one he
laid eyes on. I’d ’a’ never know’d ’im in de worl’, but he know’d me.
He holler out, ‘Ef dar ain’t Aunt Minervy Ann! Bless yo’ ol’ soul! how
you come on anyhow?’ He come mighty nigh huggin’ me, he wuz so glad ter
see me. He wuz big ez a skinned hoss an’ strong ez a mule. He say, ‘Ef I
had you in my min’ once, Aunt Minervy Ann, I had you in dar ten thousan’
times.’

“Whiles de carriage rollin’ ’long an’ grindin’ de san’ I try ter gi’ ’im
a kinder inkling er what been gwine on, but ’twuz all a joke wid ’im. I
wuz fear’d I mought go at ’im de wrong way, but I can’t do no better.
I say, ‘Marse Jesse, yo’ wife been waitin’ here fer you a long time.’
He laugh an’ ’low, ‘Oh, yes! did she bring de childun?’ I say, ‘Shucks,
Marse Jesse! Dey’s a lady in deep trouble at Marse Gabe’s house, an’ I
don’t want you ter go dar jokin’. She’s a monst’us fine lady, too.’ Dis
kinder steady ’im, an’ he say, ‘All right, Aunt Minervy Ann; I’ll behave
myse’f des like a Sunday-school scholar. I won’t say bad words an’ I
won’t talk loud.’ He had his fiddle-case in his lap, an’ he drummed on it
like he keepin’ time ter some chune in his min’.

“Well, suh, we got dar in de due time, an’ ’twuz a great meetin’ ’twixt
Marse Jesse an’ his folks. Dey des swarmed on ’im, ez you may say, an’
while dis gwine on, I went in de parler whar Miss Sadie wuz. She wuz
pale, tooby sha’, but she had done firm’d ’erse’f. She wuz standin’ by de
fier-place, lookin’ down, but she lookt up when she hear de do’ open, an’
den she say, ‘I’m mighty glad it’s you, Aunt Minervy Ann; I want you ter
stay in here.’ I ’low, ‘I’ll stay, honey, ef you say stay.’ Den she tuck
’er stand by me an’ cotch holt er my arm wid bofe ’er han’s an’ kinder
leant ag’in me.

“Bimeby, here come Marse Jesse. Trouble wuz in his eye when he open de
do’, but when he saw de gal, his face lit up des like when you strike a
match in a closet. He say, ‘Why, Miss Sadie! You dunner how glad I is ter
see you. I been huntin’ all over de country fer you.’ He make ez ef ter
shake han’s, but she draw’d back. Dis cut ’im. He say: ‘What de matter?
Who you in mournin’ fer?’ She ’low, ‘Fer myse’f.’ Wid dat she wuz gwine
on ter tel ’im ’bout what she had done, but he wouldn’t have it dat
way. He say, ‘When I come back ter life, atter I wuz drownded, I ’gun
ter hunt fer you des ez soon’s I got out’n de hospittle. I wuz huntin’
fer you ter tell you dat I love you. I’d ’a’ tol’ you dat den, an’ I
tell you dat now.’ She grip my arm mighty hard at dat. Marse Jesse went
on mightly. He tell ’er dat she ain’t done nobody no harm, dat she wuz
welcome ter his name ef he’d ’a’ been dead, an’ mo’ welcome now dat he
wuz livin’. She try ter put in a word here an’ dar, but he won’t have it.
Stan’in’ up dar he wuz ol’ Gabe Towers over ag’in; ’twuz de fus’ time I
know’d he faver’d ’im.

“He tol’ ’er ’bout how he wrenched a do’ off’n one er de rooms in de
boat, an’ how he floated on dat twel he got so col’ an’ num’ dat he can’t
hol’ on no longer, an’ how he turn loose an’ don’t know nothin’ twel
he wake up in some yuther town; an’ how, atter he git well, he had de
plooisy an’ lay dar a mont’ er two, an’ den he ’gun ter hunt fer her. He
went ’way up dar ter Hampsher whar she come fum, but she ain’t dar, an’
den he come home; an’ won’t she be good ’nuff ter set down an’ listen at
’im?

“Well, suh, dey wuz mo’ in Marse Jesse dan I had any idee. He wuz a rank
talker, sho’. I see ’er face warmin’ up, an’ I say, ‘Miss Sadie, I ’speck
I better be gwine.’ Marse Jesse say, ‘You ain’t in my way, Aunt Minervy
Ann; I done foun’ my sweetheart, an’ I ain’t gwine ter lose ’er no mo’,
you kin des bet on dat.’ She ain’t say nothin’ an’ I know’d purty well
dat eve’ything wuz all skew vee.”

“I hope they married,” remarked the lady of the house, after waiting
a moment for Aunt Minervy Ann to resume. There was just a shade of
suspicion in her tone.

“Oh, dey married, all right ’nuff,” said Aunt Minervy Ann, laughing.

“Didn’t it create a good deal of talk?” the lady asked, suspicion still
in her voice.

“Talk? No, ma’m! De man what dey git de license fum wuz Miss Fanny’s
br’er, Gus Featherstone, an’ de man what married um wuz Marse Gabe’s
bro’er, John Towers. Dey wa’n’t nobody ter do no talkin’. De nex’ mornin’
me an Miss Sadie an’ Marse Jesse got in de carriage an’ drove out ter
John Towers’s place whar he runnin’ a church, an’ ’twuz all done an’ over
wid mos’ quick ez a nigger kin swaller a dram.”

“What do you think of it?” I asked the lady of the house.

“Why, it is almost like a story in a book.”

“Does dey put dat kinder doin’s in books?” asked Aunt Minervy Ann, with
some solicitude.

“Certainly,” replied the lady.

“Wid all de turmile, an’ trouble, an’ tribulation—an’ all de worry an’
aggervation? Well, Hamp wanted me ter l’arn how ter read, but I thank my
stars dat I can’t read no books. Dey’s ’nuff er all dat right whar we
live at widout huntin’ it up in books.”

After this just observation, it was time to put out the lights.




III

HOW AUNT MINERVY ANN RAN AWAY AND RAN BACK AGAIN


In the matter of attending the fair at Halcyondale, Aunt Minervy Ann’s
hospitable wishes jumped with my own desires, and it was not difficult
to give her a hard and fast promise in the matter; nor did it take the
edge off my desires to entertain a suspicion, verified long afterward,
that Aunt Minervy Ann’s anxiety was based on a hope, expressed by Major
Perdue, that the fair would be properly handled in the Atlanta papers.

The directors of the fair were represented at the little railway station,
at Halcyondale, by a committee, and into the hands of this committee
fell every man, woman, and child that stepped from the passing trains.
It mattered little what the business of these incoming travellers was;
whether they came to visit the fair or to attend to their own private
affairs. They were seized, bag and baggage, by the committee and borne
triumphantly to the hotel, or to a boarding-place, or to some private
house. The members of the committee had a duty to perform, and they
performed it with an energy and a thoroughness that was amazing if not
altogether satisfactory. As I remember, this vigorous body was called the
Committee on Public Comfort, and most heroically did it live up to its
name and its duties.

These things I learned by observation and not by experience, for before
the train on which I was a passenger had cleared the suburbs of Atlanta,
I caught a glimpse of Major Tumlin Perdue, who had long been a prominent
citizen of Halcyondale. He had changed but little during the ten years.
His hair was whiter, and he was a trifle thinner, but his complexion
was still rosy and his manners as buoyant as ever. I doubted whether
he would know me again, though he had been very friendly with me in
the old days, seeming to know by instinct just when and how to drop a
word of encouragement and appreciation, and so I forbore to renew the
acquaintance. The Major could be boisterous enough in those times when
in the humor, but when at his best he had more ways like those of a
woman (and a noble and tender-hearted woman at that) than any man I had
ever known. He had a woman’s tact, intuition, and sympathy; and these
qualities were so exquisitely developed in him that they lifted him high
in the estimation of a young man who was living away from his mother, and
who was somewhat lonely on that account.

Presently, the Major came along the aisle for a drink of water. As he
was in the act of drinking, his eyes met mine, and he recognized me
instantly. He swallowed the water with a gulp.

“Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed, greeting me with the simple
cordiality that springs from an affectionate nature. “Why, I wouldn’t
take ten dollars for this! I was thinking about you this very day. Don’t
you remember the night we went out to ku-klux the Ku-klux, and the chap
that mighty nigh broke his neck running into a wire clothes-line? I saw
him to-day. He would hardly speak to me,” the Major went on, laughing
heartily. “He’s never got over that night’s business. I thought about
you, and I started to hunt you up; but you know how it is in Atlanta.
Folks ain’t got time to eat, much less to tell you where anybody lives. A
man that’s too busy is bound to worry, and worry will kill him every bit
and grain as quick as John Barleycorn. Business is bound to be the ruin
of this country, and if you don’t live to see it, your children will.”

[Illustration: The Committee of Public Comfort.]

Thus the Major talked, blending wisdom with impracticable ideas in the
most delightful way. He seemed to be highly pleased when he found that I
was to spend a week at Halcyondale, attending the fair and renewing old
friendships.

“Then you belong to me!” he exclaimed. “It’s no use,” he went on, shaking
his head when I would have protested against imposing on his good-nature;
“you needn’t say a word. The tavern is stuffed full of people, and even
if it wasn’t, you’d go to my house. If you ain’t been ruined by living in
Atlanta, it’ll seem like home to you. Dang it all! I’ll _make_ it seem
like home to you anyhow.”

Now, the affectation of hospitality is one of the commonest hypocrisies
in life, and, to a thoughtful man, one of the most sinister; but the
Major’s hospitality was genuine. It was brought over from the times
before the war, and had stood the test of age and long usage, and, most
trying of all, the test of poverty. “If you were welcome when I was well
off, how much more welcome you’ll be now that I am poor!” This was not
said by the Major, but by one of his contemporaries. The phrase fitted a
whole generation of noble men and women, and I thank Heaven that it was
true at one time even if it is not true now.

When the train, with much clinking and clanking and hissing, came to a
standstill at Halcyondale, the Major hustled me off on the side opposite
the station, and so I escaped the ordeal of resisting the efforts of
the Committee on Public Comfort to convey me to a lodging not of my own
selection. The Major’s buggy was in waiting, with a negro driver, who got
out to make room for me. He bowed very politely, calling me by name.

“You remember Hamp, I reckon,” said the Major. “He was a member of the
Legislature when you lived here.”

Certainly I remembered Hamp, who was Aunt Minervy Ann’s husband. I
inquired about her, and Hamp, who had swung up to the trunk-rack as the
buggy moved off, replied that she was at home and as well as she could be.

“Yes,” said the Major, “she’s at my house. You may _see_ somebody else
besides Minervy Ann, but you won’t _hear_ anybody else. She owns the
whole place and the people on it. I had a Boston man to dinner some time
ago, one of Conant’s friends—you remember Paul Conant, don’t you?—and
I stirred Minervy Ann up just to see what the man would say. We had a
terrible quarrel, and the man never did know it was all in fun. He said
they never would have such a lack of discipline among the servants in
Boston. I told him I would give him any reasonable amount if he would go
out and discipline Minervy Ann, just to show me how it was done. It would
have been better than a circus. You heard her, didn’t you, Hamp?”

Hamp chuckled good-naturedly. “Yasser, I did, an’ it make col’ chills run
over me ter hear how Minervy Ann went on. She cert’n’y did try herse’f
dat day.”

The Major smiled a little proudly as I thought, slapped the horse—a
bob-tailed black—with the left rein, and we went skimming along the
level, sandy street at a three-minute gait. In a short while we were at
the Major’s house, where I received a warm welcome from his daughter,
whom I had known when she was a school-girl. She was now Mrs. Paul
Conant, and even more beautiful as a matron than she had been as a girl.
I had also known her husband, who had begun his business career in the
town a year or two before I left, and even at that time he was one of the
most prominent and promising young business men in the town.

He had served in the army the last year of the war, and the service
did him a world of good, physically and mentally. His faculties were
broadened and enlarged. Contact with all sorts and conditions of men
gave him ample knowledge of his kind, and yet he kept in touch with the
finer issues of life. He was ripened and not hardened.

The surrender had no such crushing effects on him as it had on older men.
It left him youth, and where youth is there must be hope and energy.
He returned home, remained a few weeks, sold a couple of horses he had
picked up in the track of Sherman’s army, and then went into the office
of a cotton factor in Savannah, giving his services for the knowledge and
experience he desired to gain. In a very short time he learned all the
secrets of sampling and grading the great staple. He might have remained
in the office at a salary, for his aptness had made him useful, but he
preferred to return to Halcyondale, where he engaged in buying cotton
on his own account. There was just enough risk in this to stimulate his
energies, and not enough to lead to serious speculation.

To this business he added others as his capital grew, and he was soon the
most prosperous man in the town. He had formed the stock company under
whose auspices the county fair was held, and was president of the board
of directors.

[Illustration: Buying cotton on his own account.]

Aunt Minervy Ann was very much in evidence, for she acted as cook, nurse,
and house-girl. The first glimpse I had of her, she had a bucket of
water in her right hand and Conant’s baby—a bouncing boy—on her left arm.
Just then Major Perdue hustled me off to my room, thus postponing, as I
thought, the greeting I had for Aunt Minervy Ann. But presently I heard
her coming upstairs talking to herself.

“Ef dey gwine ter have folks puttin’ up wid um, dey better tell me in de
due time, so I can fix up fer um. Dey ain’t been no fresh water in deze
rooms sence dat baby wuz born’d.”

She went on to the end of the hall and looked in each of the rooms.
Then, with an exclamation I failed to catch, she knocked at my door,
which was promptly opened. As she saw me a broad smile flashed over her
good-natured face.

“I ’low’d ’twuz you,” she said, “an’ I’m mighty glad you come.” She
started to pour the water from can to pitcher, when suddenly she stayed
her hand. With the exclamation, “Well, ef dis don’t bang my time!” she
went to the head of the stairs and cried out: “Miss Vallie! Miss Vallie!
you don’t want no town folks stuck in dish yer back room, does you?”

“Why, certainly not!” cried the lady. “What could father have been
thinking of?”

“Shoo! he like all de men folks,” responded Aunt Minervy Ann.

With that she seized my valise with one hand, and, carrying the can of
water in the other, escorted me to one of the front rooms. It was an
improvement on the back room only because it had more windows to admit
the air and light. I put in a word for the Major, which I hoped would be
carried to the ears of the daughter.

“The Major gave me that room because he wanted to treat me as if I were
one of the home folks. Now you’ve brought me here, and I’ll feel as
uncomfortable as if I were company, sure enough.”

“Dey’s sump’n in dat, I ’speck,” replied Aunt Minervy Ann, laughing;
“but, lawsy, massy! you done been in dis house too much ter talk
dat-a-way. When kin folks come home, we allus gin um de bes’ dey is fer
de fus’ week er so. Atter dat dey kin rustle ’roun’ fer deyse’f.”

It is hardly necessary to say that Aunt Minervy Ann took very good care
that I should want for none of those little attentions that sharpen the
appreciation of a guest; and, in her case, obtrusiveness was not a fault,
for her intentions shone clearly and unmistakably through it all.

[Illustration: “Miss Vallie!”]

Major Perdue had the art of entertainment at his fingers’ ends, which,
though it is very simple, not one man in a hundred learns. It is the
knack of leaving the guest to his own devices without seeming to do so.
Most fortunate in his gifts is the host who knows how to temper his
attentions!

In his efforts to get the fair under way, Paul Conant found it impossible
to come to dinner, but sent his apologies.

“You’ll think it is a mighty small concern when you see it,” said the
Major, “but it takes all that Paul can do to keep it from getting into a
tangle. He has to be here, there, and everywhere, and there hasn’t been
a minute for a week or more but what forty people were hollering at him
at once, and forty more pulling and hauling him about. If he wasn’t a
steam-engine, he couldn’t hold out half an hour.”

“Well, he’ll soon straighten matters out,” said I, “and then they’ll stay
so.”

“That’s so,” remarked the Major; “but when that’s done, he’ll have to
rush around from post to pillar to keep ’em straight.”

“Did he seem to be greatly worried?” Valentine asked.

“No-o-o-o,” replied the Major, slowly and hesitatingly, “but I’m afear’d
his shoulder has begun to trouble him again.” He leaned back in his
chair and looked at the ceiling, apparently lost in thought.

“Why should you think that, father?”

“Once or twice, whilst he was rustling about I saw him fling his hand to
his shoulder and hold it there, and I’m mightily afear’d it’s hurting
him.” The Major drew a deep sigh as he spoke, and silence fell on all.
It was brief, but it was long enough for one to know that an unpleasant
subject had been touched on—that there was something more behind it all
than a pain in Conant’s shoulder. Aunt Minervy Ann, who was equal to
every emergency, created a diversion with the baby, and the Major soon
pulled himself together.

Paul Conant came home to supper, and in the sitting-room, before the meal
was announced, I observed that the Major was as solicitous about him as a
mother is of her baby. His eyes were constantly on his son-in-law, and if
the latter showed any sign of worry, or frowned as if in pain, a shadow
would pass over the Major’s genial face.

[Illustration: “I saw him fling his hand to his shoulder and hold it
there.”]

This intense solicitude was something out of the usual order, and I
wondered what was behind it. But the next day it was forgotten, nor
was it remembered until Aunt Minervy Ann reminded me of it. I had
been faithful in my attendance on the fair, had listened patiently
to the speeches, and had then tried to refresh my benumbed faculties
with such fare as could be found on the grounds—barbecue, pickles, and
ginger-cakes. But the occasion had been too much for me, and so, about
two o’clock in the afternoon, I decided to return to my quarters at Major
Perdue’s home and rest my weary limbs. The very thought of the quiet and
cool house was refreshing, and so, without waiting for a conveyance, I
set out on foot, going through the woods in preference to the public
highway, thereby cutting the distance short by nearly a mile.

A great many others had taken advantage of the short-cut through the
woods, so that I had no lack of company. Among them I noticed Aunt
Minervy and her husband, Hamp, the latter carrying the Conant baby,
which, having had enough of the pomps and vanities of this life for the
time being, was now fast asleep. I soon came up with the trio, and we
went along home together.

“You toughed it out mighty well, suh,” remarked Aunt Minervy Ann, after
some talk about the various attractions of the fair. “Up dar in Atlanty
deze kinder doin’s would be laughed at, I ’speck, but hit’s de bes’
we-all kin do. Me an’ Miss Vallie had some truck dar, speshually dat
ar grape jelly on de right han’ side. Ef dat jelly don’t git de blue
ribbon er sump’n better, hit’ll be bakaze dem ar jedgment men ain’t got
no sense—I don’t keer who dey is. Ain’t you see dat ar quilt hangin’ up
dar wid a pattern in it like a well-whorl, only de middle er de whorl
was shape like de mornin’ star? Dat ar quilt is older dan what you is,
suh—lots older. Me an’ Mistiss made dat quilt long ’fo’ Miss Vallie wuz
born, an’ dish yer baby’ll tell you she ain’t no chicken. Ef dey’s any
purtier quilt on dat hill dey had it hid ter-day; dey ain’t brung it out
whar folks kin look at it. I dunno much, but I knows dat much.”

We reached the house after awhile, and I lost no time in stretching
myself out on a lounge that sat invitingly in the hall behind the
stairway. It was not the coolest place in the world; but, really, when
one is fagged out, it is unnecessary to try to find all the comforts
of life in one spot. Sleep fell on me unawares, and when I awoke, Aunt
Minervy Ann was sitting near the head of the lounge fanning me. Such
courtesy was surprising, as well as pleasing, but I chid her for taking
so much trouble, for I had slept nearly two hours. But she made light of
it, saying she had nothing else to do, the baby being in his cradle and
sleeping like a log.

[Illustration: “Dat ar grape jelly on de right han’ side.”]

Then, to enjoy a smoke, I drew a rocking-chair into the back porch, and
proceeded to fill my pipe with what I regarded as a very good brand of
tobacco, offering some to Aunt Minervy Ann. She soon found her pipe—clay
bowl and reed stem—cleaned it out carefully and filled it from my pouch.

“It look mighty pale, suh,” she remarked. “I ’speck dey steam it ’fo’ dey
mash it up.” She seated herself on the top step, lit her pipe, took a few
whiffs, and then shook her head. “’Tain’t nigh rank ’nuff for me, suh.
Hit tas’e like you er dreamin’ ’bout smokin’ an’ know all de time ’tain’t
nothin’ but a dream.” She knocked the tobacco out, and then refilled the
pipe with the crumbs and cutting from the end of a plug. This she smoked
with an air of supreme satisfaction.

“I ’speck you got de idee dat I better be seein’ ’bout supper, stidder
settin’ up here lookin’ biggity. But ’tain’t no use, suh. Marse Tumlin
and Miss Vallie never is ter come home dis day less’n dey bring Marse
Paul wid um. I done hear um sesso. An’ I know mighty well, deyer gwine
ter come back late, bekaze Paul Conant’s one er dem kinder folks what go
twel dey can’t go, an’ when dey git down dey make motions like dey gwine.
Dey puts me in mind uv a lizard’s tail, suh. Knock it off, an’ it’ll hop
’bout an’ work an’ wiggle plum twel de sun go down.”

I suggested that the illustration was somewhat inapt (though not in
those words), for the reason that Paul Conant’s energy was not expended
blindly. But I found that Aunt Minervy knew what she was saying.

“I ain’t talkin’ ’bout his own business, suh, bekaze dey ain’t nobody
beat ’im at dat. No, suh; I’m talkin’ ’bout dem ar doin’s out dar at de
fair groun’s. He’s a-workin’ at dat lots harder dan he has ter work fer
hisse’f. Maybe you tuck notice uv de way dem yuther folks done out dar,
suh. Dey stood ’round wid dey mouf open, an’ de ribbon pinned on der
coats, an’ when sump’n had ter be done, dey’d call out fer Conant. It
’uz ‘Conant!’ here an’ ‘Conant!’ dar, an’ ef Conant wuz out er hearin’
de whole shebang had ter stop right still an’ wait twel Conant kin be
dragged up. I watched um p’intedly, suh, an’ it’s des like I tell you.”

Aunt Minervy Ann’s characterization of the directors was so acute and so
unexpected that I laughed—not at what she said, but at the vivid picture
of a lot of helpless men standing about, full of dignity, and yet waiting
for young Conant to tell them what to do.

[Illustration: “‘Conant!’ here and ‘Conant!’ dar.”]

“You may laugh, suh,” Aunt Minervy Ann went on with a little frown,
“but I’m tellin’ you de Lord’s trufe. I kep’ my eyes on um, an’ ’twuz
dat-a-way fum soon dis mornin’ ’twel I got mad an’ come home. You kin
ax Hamp, suh, an’ he’ll tell you de same. I reckon you heer’d Marse
Tumlin las’ night at de table ax Marse Paul ef his shoulder hurted ’im.
I know you did, suh, bekaze I tuck notice how you looked, an’ I tried
ter shake de baby up so he’d cry, but dat wuz one er de times, suh, when
he wouldn’t be shuck up. Any udder time dat chil’ would er laid back an’
blated twel you’d hafter put yo’ fingers in yo’ years. I wuz mad wid ’im,
suh, but I wuz bleedz ter laugh. Chillun mighty funny. When you don’t
want um ter cry, dey’ll holler der heads off, an’ when you want um ter
cry, dey’ll laugh in yo’ face. I bet you dey’s a blue place on dat baby’s
arm whar I pinched ’im, but he didn’t no mo’ min’ it dan nothin’.”

“Well,” said I, “there was something peculiar in the way all of you
looked and acted when the Major asked about Mr. Conant’s shoulder. It was
a very simple question.”

“Ah, Lord!” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann, raising her right hand on high,
“dey better ax ’bout dat shoulder. Yesser! ev’y day an’ ev’y night, an’
in betwixt times.”

“Is Mr. Conant troubled with rheumatism?” I inquired.

“Rheumatiz! bless yo’ soul, honey! Ef ’twuz rheumatiz dey wouldn’t be no
Paul Conant ’round dis house, ner no Conant baby.”

Here is something decidedly interesting, I thought, but held my peace,
knowing that whatever it was would be more quickly disclosed if there
were any disclosure to make.

“Ain’t you never hear ’bout it, suh? Well dat bangs me! An’ you right up
dar in Atlanty, too! No, suh; you must er been in Savanny, bekaze ’twuz
de town talk in Atlanty. Anyhow, wharsomever you wuz er might er been,
dey ain’t no rheumatiz de matter wid Marse Paul Conant’s shoulder-blade.
I know dat much, an’ I know it mighty well, bekaze I wuz right here in
dis house, an’ nowhars else ’cep’n ’roun’ de lot an’ up town an’ back.

“Well, den, suh, ef you ain’t never hear ’bout dat, I most know you ain’t
never hear tell er how I run’d off, and how I run’d back, bekaze nobody
ain’t never talk ’bout dat—leas’ways, not as I knows un.”

I declared to Aunt Minervy Ann that I never heard a whisper of it. She
leaned back against the railing of the steps and drew a long whiff from
her pipe.

“’Tain’t no use ter tell you, suh, how times wuz right atter de war.
You wuz right in um, an’ ef you don’t know, it’s bekaze you didn’t look
’roun’ an’ see um. I hear um say, suh, dat niggers wuz po’ when dey come
free. Dey wuz, suh; dey wuz rank pizen po’; but dey never wuz in dis
worl’ a nigger ez po’ ez some er our white folks wuz. You may shake yo’
haid, suh, but I’m givin’ you de straight gov’nment trufe. Niggers is use
ter bein’ po’, an’ dey never wuz dat po’ dat dey can’t scuffle ’roun’ an’
make out somehow. Dey er been po’ so long dey er usen ter it. But white
folks what been rich! I hope de Lord’ll call me home ’fo’ I see again
what I done saw in dem days. I know in reason, suh, dat I seed mo’ er de
trouble dan what you did, kaze you couldn’t go in at de back gates like
me; an’ what trouble folks does have dey allers keep it somers betwix’ de
bedroom an’ de back gate.

“De Perdues wa’n’t no wuss off dan nobody else. Marse Tumlin had dish yer
house an’ lot, an’ de plantation, an’ some lan’ way off yander. But all
de hosses an’ mules an’ cattle been tuck off, an’ de niggers all gone.
Ef he’d er stayed on de plantation, de niggers would ’a’ been dar yit,
but stay he wouldn’t, an’ stay he didn’t, an’ so dar he wuz.

“Do sump’n? What he gwine do? Fo’ de big turmoil he done some lawin’ an’
a heap er farmin’. Leas’ways my ol’ Mistiss done de farmin’, an’ Marse
Tumlin, he done de lawin’. He had ’im a office here in town, an’ on set
days he’d come in an’ look arter de cases what he had. But how anybody
gwine ter do any lawin’ dat-a-way? Marse Tumlin ain’t keerin’ whedder he
git one case er none. He ain’t bleedze ter do no lawin’. An’ den ’pon
top er dat he went off whar dey battlin’, an’ dar he stayed, an’ when he
come back, look like de kinder lawin’ what he use ter do done gone outer
fashion. Ef he hadn’t er been holp out, suh, I dunner what’d ’a’ come un
’im. An’ ’twa’n’t only Marse Tumlin. Dey wuz a whole passel un um, too
young ter die an’ too ol’ ter win money in dem kinder times. Ef you ain’t
ol’ ’nuff ter ’member dem times, suh, you kin thank de Lord, kaze dey sho
did look like tetotal ruination.

“Now, you know yo’se’f, suh, dat you can’t eat a house an’ lot an’ live
dar too; an’ you can’t eat lan’ des dry so less’n you got a mighty
appetite fer dirt. Whyn’t he sell de lan’? You oughter be de las’ one
ter ax me dat, suh. Who gwine buy it? Dem what ain’t got lan’ ain’t had
no money, an’ dem what had money sholy lived a mighty long ways fum here.
Day in an’ day out, suh, I wuz de wuss pester’d nigger you ever laid eyes
on. I ain’t know what ter do.

“An’ den ’pon top er dat, dar wuz Hamp, my ol’ man. When freedom come
out, he tuck de notion dat we better go off some’rs an’ change de name
what we got so dey can’t put us back in slave’y. Night an’ day it fair
rankle in his min’, an’ he kep’ groanin’ an’ growlin’ ’bout it twel I
got stirred up. I oughtn’t ter tell it, suh, but hit’s de Lord’s trufe.
I got mad, I did, an’ I tol’ Hamp I’d go. An’ den I wa’n’t doin’ no good
stayin’ here. ’Twuz des one mo’ mouf ter feed, an’ mo’ dan one, countin’
Hamp. So, bimeby, one day, when I wuz sorter fretted, I tol’ Hamp ter go
on out dar in de country, whar his daddy live at, an’ I’d meet ’im dar
’fo’ night.

“When de time come, I went in de house an’ hunt fer Miss Vallie. She ’uz
settin’ in de parlor by de winder, but behime de curtain like, so nobody
can’t see ’er. She ’uz settin’ dar wid ’er han’s crossed on ’er lap, an’
she look so little, an’ pale, an’ weak, dat I come mighty nigh gwine
right back in de kitchen. But she seed me too quick. Den I up’n tell ’er
dat I’m gwine out in de country, ter whar Hamp daddy live at. She look at
me right hard an’ say, ‘When you comin’ back, Aunt Minervy Ann?’ I ’low,
‘I’m comin’ back des ez soon ez I kin make my ’rangements, honey.’ She
say, ‘Well, I hope you’ll have a good time while you er gone.’ I ’low,
‘Thanky, ma’m.’ Wid dat I went an’ got my bundle an’ put opt fum dar—an’
I ain’t look back nudder, bekaze I had a mighty weakness in de knees, an’
a mighty risin’ in my th’oat.

“I went on down de road, an’ ef anybody had so much ez said _boo_ ter me,
I’d ’a’ turned right ’roun’ an’ gone back home. I went on, I did, twel
I come ter de mile branch. I see somebody crossin’ on de log, an’ when
I come up wid um, who should it ’a’ been but Marse Tumlin. An’ he had
_one chicken_! He had been out ter de plantation—sev’m mile ef its fifty
yards—an’ here he wuz comin’ back wid one chicken—an’ him a walkin’, him
dat use ter ride ’roun’ in his carriage! Walkin’ an’ totin’ one little
chicken! Man, suh! I don’t never want ter feel again like I felt den.
Whedder ’twuz de chicken, er what, I never did see Marse Tumlin Perdue
look ez ol’ an’ ez weasly ez he did den. He look at me an’ sorter laugh
like I done cotch ’im doin’ sump’n he ain’t got no business ter do. But
dey wa’n’t no laugh in me; no, suh, not by a jugful.

[Illustration: “Drapt down on de groun’ dar an’ holler an’ cry.”]

“He say, ‘Hello, Minervy Ann! whar _you_ gwine?’ I ’low, I did, ‘I’m des
gwine out yander whar Hamp kinnery live at.’

“He sorter pull his goatee, an’ look down at de dus’ on his shoes—an’
dey wuz fair kiver’d wid it—an’ den he say, ‘Well, Minervy Ann, I wish
you mighty well. You sho is done a mighty good part by me an’ mine. Ef
yo’ Miss Mary wuz ’live she’d know what ter say—I don’t, ’cep’ dis’—he
straighten up an’ stretch out his han’—‘’cep’ dis: whenever you want ter
come back home, you’ll fin’ de do’ open. Ef you come at night, des knock.
We’ll know yo’ knock.’

“You ain’t never seed no fool nigger ’oman cut up, is you? Well, ef you
does see one, suh, I hope ter goodness ’twon’t be me! Marse Tumlin ain’t
no mo’n got de words out’n his mouf, suh, ’fo’ I tuck de bundle what I
had in my han’, an’ flung it fur ez I could send it.

“Marse Tumlin look at me hard, an’ den he say, ‘Dam ef I don’t b’lieve
youer crazy!’ Time he say it, I ’low, ‘_I don’t keer er dam ef I is!_’

“Yasser! I say it sho, an’ den I drapt down on de groun’ dar an’ holler
an’ cry like somebody wuz beatin’ de life out’n me. Marse Tumlin stood
dar pullin’ at his goatee all dat time, an’ bimeby I got up. I wa’n’t
feelin’ much better, but I done had my cry an’ dat’s sump’n. I got up, I
did, an’ start back de way I come.

“Marse Tumlin say, ‘Whar you gwine, Minervy Ann? I ’low, ‘I’m gwine back
home—dat’s whar I’m gwine!’ He say, ‘Pick up yo’ bundle.’ Wid dat I turn
’roun’ on him an’ ’low, ‘I ain’t gwine ter do it! Ef it hadn’t er been
fer dat ar muslin dress in dar, what Miss Vallie make over an’ gi’ me,
I’d been at home right dis minute.’

“He ’low, ‘What dat got ter do wid it, Minervy Ann?’ I make answer,
‘Bekaze ol’ Satan make me want ter put it on an’ sho’ off ’fo’ dem
country niggers out dar whar Hamp’s folks live at.’ Wid dat I start back
home, but Marse Tumlin holler at me—‘Minervy Ann, take dis chicken.’ I
tuck it, I did, an’ made off up de road. Bimeby I sorter flung my eye
’roun’, an’, bless gracious! dar wuz Marse Tumlin comin’ ’long totin’
my bundle. Well, suh, it flewed all over me like fier. I got so mad wid
myse’f dat I could ’a’ bit a piece out’n my own flesh.

“I waited in de road twel he come up, an’ den I snatched de bundle out er
his han’. I ’low, ‘I ain’t gwine ter have you totin’ none er my bundles
in de public road—no, ner no chickens, needer.’ He say, ‘Well, don’t
fling it ’way, Minervy Ann. De time may come when yo’ Miss Vallie’ll need
dat ar muslin dress.’

“When we got back home I went in de kitchen, an’ fix ter clean an’ kill
de chicken. I ’speck Marse Tumlin must ’a’ tol’ Miss Vallie ’bout it,
bekaze ’twan’t long ’fo’ I hear her runnin’ ’long de plank walk ter de
kitchen. She whipt in de do’ she did, an’ grab me an’ cry like I done riz
fum de dead. Well, suh, niggers ain’t got no sense, you kin take um de
world over. No sooner is Miss Vallie start ter cry dan I chuned up, an’
dar we had it.

“’Bout dat time, Marse Tumlin, he come out—men folks is allers gwine
some’rs dey got no business. He ’low, ‘What you’all blubberin’ ’bout?’
I make answer, ‘We er cryin’ over dese two chickens.’ He ax, ‘What two
chickens?’ I ’low, ‘I’m cryin’ over dis un, kaze it’s so little, an’ Miss
Vallie cryin’ over de one what you ain’t brung.’ He say, ‘Well, I be
dang!’ an’ wid dat he went back in de house.

“An’ den, atter supper, such ez ’twuz, here come Hamp, an’ he say he
come ter lay de law down. I ’speck I like my ol’ man ’bout ez good ez
any udder ’oman what’s lawfully married, but ef I didn’t put a flea in
Hamp year dat night you may shoot me dead. Ef he’d ’a’ waited a day er
two, hit might er been diffunt; but, manlike, he had ter come at de wrong
time, an’ he ain’t open his mouf ’fo’ I wuz fightin’ mad. Ol’ Miss allers
use ter tell me I wuz a bad nigger when I got my dander up, but I never
did look at myse’f dat-a-way twel dat night.

“Well, Hamp he come an’ stood in de do’, but I ain’t say nothin’. Den he
come in de kitchen, an’ stan’ ’roun’, but still I ain’t say nothin’. Den
he sot down next de chimbley, but all dat time I ain’t say nothin’. He
look right pitiful, suh, an’ ef I hadn’t been mad, I’d ’a’ been sorry fer
’im. But I ain’t say nothin’.

“Bimeby, he ’low, ‘’Nervy’—he allers call me ’Nervy—‘’Nervy, whyn’t you
go whar you say you gwine?’ I flung myse’f ’roun’ at ’im an’ say, ‘Bekaze
I ain’t choosen ter go—dar you got it!’ He ’low, ‘Well, you start ter
go, kaze I seed you!’ I say, ‘Yes, an’ I start ter come back, an’ you’d
’a’ seed dat ef you’d ’a’ looked right close.’ He ’low, ‘’Nervy, don’t
you know dem folks in yander’ll think you b’long to um?’ I say, ‘I does.
Ain’t I free? Can’t I b’long to um ef I wanter? I’d like ter see de one
ter hender me. What dey done ter you? An’ what’s I done ter you dat you
want ter drag me ’way fum my white folks? You go drag you’se’f—you can’t
drag _me_.’ He ’low, ‘Dey done begin ter call you a white-folks nigger,
an’ dey say you gwine back on yo’ own color.’”

Aunt Minervy Ann paused here to laugh. “Mad ez I wuz, suh, de minnit
Hamp said dat I know’d I had ter change my chune. I ’low, ‘I know right
pine-blank who tol’ you dat. ’Twan’t nobody in de roun’ worl’ but ol’
Cely Ensign, an’ she ain’t tell you dat in comp’ny, needer. She tol’ you
whar nobody can’t hear ’er but you. Don’t you fret! des ez soon ez I
git thoo wid supper, I’m gwine ’roun’ dar an’ drag ’er out an’ gi’ ’er
de wuss frailin’ any nigger ever got sence de overseers quit bizness. I
ain’t fergot dat ar’ possum you toted off ter her house.’

“Well, suh, I had ’im! He caved in. He ’low, ‘’Twan’t no ’possum; ’twan’t
nothin’ in de roun’ worl’ but a late watermillion.’ I holler, ‘_Ah-yi!
watermillion!_ Well, den, ef you want ter drag anybody off fum der white
folks, go an’ drag ol’ Cely Ensign—bekaze you can’t drag me.’

“We jowered right smart, but I had Hamp in a cornder. He went off an’
stayed maybe a mont’, an’ den he come back, an’ atter ’while he got
’lected ter de legislature. He done mighty well, suh. He got nine dollars
a day, an’ ev’y Sat’dy night he’d fetch de bigges’ part uv it home.
’Twuz mighty handy, too, suh, kaze ef hadn’t been fer dat legislatur’
money I dunner what me and Miss Vallie an’ Marse Tumlin would ’a’ done.

“Dat wuz ’bout de time, suh, dat de town boys wanter ku-kluck Hamp, an’
you an’ Marse Tumlin went out an’ ku-klucked dem. Hamp ain’t never forgot
it, suh. He’d walk fum here to Atlanty fer you ef ’twould do you any
good. He don’t say much, but I know how he feel. I hear ’im calling me
now, suh.”

“You haven’t told me about Paul Conant,” I suggested.

“I’ll tell you, suh, ’fo’ you go.”

In half a minute I heard Aunt Minervy Ann quarrelling and laughing at
Hamp in the same breath.




IV

HOW SHE JOINED THE GEORGIA LEGISLATURE


The second day of the fair, I saw more of Paul Conant. He insisted on
taking charge of me, and, in his buggy, we visited every part of the
fair-grounds, which had been laid out on a most liberal scale. When
dinner-time came I was glad enough to excuse myself and hurry back to the
refreshing shade of Major Perdue’s veranda. There I found Aunt Minervy
Ann swinging the baby in a hammock.

“I ’low’d maybe you’d git tired an’ come back, suh; an’ so I des let
dinner sorter simmer whiles I got dish yer baby ter sleep. I dunner how
you all does in Atlanty, but down here we has soon dinner. Dem what
wanter kin have two meals a day, but dem what does sho ’nuff work better
eat three. Me! I want three, whedder I works er not.”

The baby stirred, and Aunt Minervy paused. At that moment a group of men,
wearing badges, passed by, evidently officials of the fair going to
dinner. They were evidently engaged in a very earnest discussion.

“I’m for Conant,” said one, with considerable emphasis.

“Oh, so am I,” assented another. “When Jim told me this morning that he
was a candidate for the Legislature, I told him flat and plain that I was
for Paul Conant.”

“That’s right,” remarked a third. “We want a man there with some business
sense, and Conant’s the man.”

Aunt Minervy Ann laughed. “Ef de Legislatur’ up dar in Atlanty is like it
wuz when I b’long’d ter it, dey can’t drag Marse Paul in dar; no, suh!
dey can’t drag him in dar.”

Amazement must have shown in my face, for Aunt Minervy Ann immediately
became solemn. “Ain’t you never hear tell ’bout my j’inin’ de
Legislatur’? You may look an’ you may laugh, but dat don’t wipe out de
trufe. Dey wuz a time when I jined de Legislatur’ an’ when I b’long’d ter
de gang same ez Hamp did. You don’t ’spute but what Hamp b’long’d ter de
Legislatur’, suh?” asked Aunt Minervy Ann, anxious to make out the title
of her own membership. No, I didn’t dispute Hamp’s credentials. He had
been elected and he had served.

“I know’d you couldn’t ’spute dat, suh,” Aunt Minervy Ann went on,
“’kaze you wuz down dar when dey choosen’d ’im, an’ you wuz dar when dem
ar white folks come mighty nigh ku-kluckin’ ’im; you wuz right dar wid
Marse Tumlin an’ Marse Bolivar. I never is ter fergit dat, suh, ner Hamp
nudder; an’ ef you don’t b’lieve it, you des sen’ us word you want us. Ef
we git de word at midnight we’ll git up, an’ ef de railroad track is tore
up we’ll git a waggin, an’ ef we can’t git a waggin, we’ll walk, but what
we’ll come.”

“Well,” said I, “tell us about your joining the Legislature.”

“I may be long in tellin’ it, suh, but ’tain’t no long tale,” replied
Aunt Minervy Ann. “Atter Hamp come up here an’ tuck his seat—dat what dey
call it den, ef dey don’t call it dat now—well, atter he come up an’ been
here some little time, I tuck notice dat he ’gun ter hol’ his head mighty
high; a little too high fer ter suit me. He want me ter go up dar wid ’im
an’ stay dar, ’kaze he sorter skittish ’bout comin’ home when dem country
boys mought be hangin’ ’roun’ de depot. But I up an’ tol’ ’im flat an’
plain dat I wa’n’t gwine ter leave Miss Vallie an’ let er’ git usen ter
strange niggers. I tol’ ’im he mought go an’ stay ef he want ter, but de
fus’ week he miss comin’ home, I wuz gwine atter ’im, an’ ef I fotch ’im
home he won’t go back in a hurry; I tol’ ’im dat, flat an’ plain.

“Well, suh, he done mighty well; I’ll say dat fer ’im. He want too many
clean shirts an’ collars fer ter suit me, but he say he bleeze ter have
um dar whar he at, an’ I ain’t make no complaint ’bout dat; but I took
notice dat he wuz sorter offish wid Marse Tumlin. Mo’ dan dat, I tuck
notice dat needer Marse Tumlin ner Marse Bolivar so much ez look at ’im
when dey pass ’im by. I know’d by dat dat sump’n wuz up.

“Now, Hamp ain’t had no reg’lar time fer comin’ home. Sometimes he’d come
We’n’sday, an’ den ag’in he’d come Friday. I ax ’im why he ain’t stay de
week out an’ ’ten’ ter his work like he oughter. He say he gettin’ des
much pay when he at home loafin’ ’roun’ ez he do when he up yer. Well,
suh, dat ’stonish me. You know yo’se’f, suh, dat when folks is gittin’
pay fer dat what dey ain’t doin’, dey’s boun’ ter be swindlin’ gwine on
some’rs, ef not wuss, an’ dat what I tol’ ’im. He laugh an’ say dat’s on
account er politics an’ de erpublican party, an’ I make answer dat ef
dat de case, dey er bofe rank an’ rotten; desso.

“We went on fum one thing ter an’er, twel bimeby I ax ’im what dey is
’twixt ’im an’ Marse Tumlin an’ Marse Bolivar. Hamp say dey ain’t nothin’
’ceppin’ dat dey done ax ’im fer ter do sump’n dat ain’t in ’cordance
wid erpublican pencerpuls, an’ he bleeze ter effuse um. Well, suh, dis
kinder riled me. I know’d right pine-blank dat Hamp ain’t know no mo’
’bout erpublican pencerpuls dan I is, an’ I wouldn’t a-know’d um ef I’d a
met um in de road wid der name painted on um; so I ax ’im what erpublican
pencerpuls hender’d ’im fum doin’ what Marse Tumlin ax ’im ter do. He
sot dar an’ hummed an’ haw’d, an’ squirm’d in his cheer, an’ chaw’d on
de een’ er his segyar. I wait long ’nuff, an’ den I ax ’im ag’in. Well,
suh, dat’s been twenty years ago, an’ he ain’t never tol’ me yit what dem
erpublican pencerpuls wuz. I ain’t flingin’ off on um, suh. I ’speck dey
wuz a bairlful er dem erpublican pencerpuls, an’ maybe all good uns, but
I know’d mighty well dat dey ain’t hender dat nigger man fum doin’ what
Marse Tumlin ax ’im ter do.

“So de nex’ chance I git, I up’n ax Marse Tumlin what de matter wuz
’twix’ him an’ Hamp. He say ’twa’n’t nothin’ much, ’cep’ dat Hamp
had done come up here in Atlanta an’ sol’ hisse’f out to a passel er
kyarpit-baggers what ain’t no intruss down here but ter git han’s on all
de money in sight. I say, ‘He may ’a’ gi’ hisse’f ’way, Marse Tumlin, but
he sho’ ain’t sell hisse’f, ’kaze I ain’t seen one er de money.’ Marse
Tumlin ’low, ‘Well, anyhow, it don’t make much diffunce, Minervy Ann. Dem
kyarpit-baggers up dar, dey pat ’im on de back an’ tell ’im he des ez
good ez what dey is. I had de idee, Minervy Ann,’ he say, ‘dat Hamp wuz
lots better dan what dey is, but he ain’t; he des ’bout good ez dey is.’

“Marse Tumlin do like he don’t wanter talk ’bout it, but dat ain’t nigh
satchify me. I say, ‘Marse Tumlin, what did you want Hamp ter do?’ He
drum on de arm er de cheer wid his fingers, an’ sorter study. Den he say,
‘Bein’ it’s all done an’ over wid, I don’t min’ tellin’ you all about it.
Does you know who’s a-runnin’ dis county now?’ I had a kinder idee, but I
say, ‘Who, Marse Tumlin?’ He ’low, ‘Mahlon Botts an’ his br’er Mose; dey
er runnin’ de county, an’ dey er ruinin’ it.’

“Den he ax me ef I know de Bottses. Know um! I’d been a-knowin’ um sence
de year one, an’ dey wuz de ve’y drugs an’ offscourin’s er creation. I
ax Marse Tumlin how come dey ter have holt er de county, an’ he say dey
make out dey wuz good erpublicans, des ter make de niggers vote um in
office—so dey kin make money an’ plunder de county. Den I ax ’im what he
want Hamp ter do. He say all he want Hamp ter do wuz ter he’p ’im git er
whatyoumaycallum—yasser, dat’s it, a bill; dat’s de ve’y word he say—he
want Hamp ter he’p ’im git a bill th’oo de Legislatur’; an’ den he went
on an’ tell me a long rigamarolious ’bout what ’twuz, but I’ll never tell
you in de roun’ worl’.”

[The proceedings of the Georgia Legislature reported in the Atlanta _New
Era_, of November 10, 1869, show that the measure in question was a local
bill to revive the polling-places in the militia districts of the county
represented by the Hon. Hampton Tumlin, and to regulate elections so that
there could be no repeating. This verification of Aunt Minervy Ann’s
statement was made long ago after she told the story, and purely out of
curiosity. The discussions shed an illuminating light over her narrative,
but it is impossible to reproduce them here, even in brief.]

“He tol’ me dat, suh, an’ den he le’nt back in de cheer, an’ kinder
hummed a chune. An’ me—I stood up dar by de fireplace an’ studied. Right
den an’ dar I made up my min’ ter one thing, an’ I ain’t never change
it, needer; I made up my min’ dat ef we wuz all gwine ter be free an’
live in de same neighborhoods—dat ef we wuz gwine ter do dat, whatsomever
wuz good fer de white folks bleeze ter be good fer de niggers, an’
whatsomever wuz good fer Marse Tumlin an’ Miss Vallie wuz des ez good fer
me an’ Hamp.

“I ’low, ‘Marse Tumlin, when you gwine up dar whar Hamp at?’ He say, ‘Oh,
I dunno; I’m tired er de infernal place,’ desso. Den he look at me right
hard. ‘What make you ax?’ sez he. I ’low, ‘’Kaze ef youer gwine right
soon, I’m gwine wid you.’ He laugh an’ say, ‘What de dickunce you gwine
up dar fer?’ I ’low, ‘I gwine up dar fer ter jine de Legislatur’. I ain’t
here tell dat dem what jines hatter be baptize in runnin’ water, an’ ef
dey ain’t, den I’ll jine long wid Hamp.’ Marse Tumlin say, ‘You reckin
Hamp would be glad fer to see you, Minervy Ann?’ I ’low, ‘He better had
be, ef he know what good fer ’im.’ Marse Tumlin say, ‘Ef I wuz you,
Minervy Ann, I wouldn’t go up dar spyin’ atter Hamp. He’ll like you none
de better fer it. De las’ time I wuz up dar, Hamp wuz havin’ a mighty
good time. Ef you know what’s good fer you, Minervy Ann, you won’t go up
dar a-doggin’ atter Hamp.’

“Well, suh, right at dat time I had de idee dat Marse Tumlin wuz prankin’
an’ projeckin’; you know how he runs on; but he wa’n’t no mo’ prankin’
dan what I am right now. (Nummine! I’ll git back ter Hamp terreckly.)
I laugh an’ say, ‘I ain’t gwine ter dog atter Hamp, Marse Tumlin; I
des wanter go up dar an’ see how he gittin’ on, an’ fin’ out how folks
does when dey sets up dar in de Legislatur’. An’ ef you’ll put dat ar
whatshisname—bill; dat’s right, suh; bill wuz de word—ef you’ll put dat
ar bill in yo’ pocket, I’ll see what Hamp kin do wid it.’ Marse Tumlin
’low, ‘’Tain’t no use fer ter see Hamp, Minervy Ann. He done tol’ me he
can’t do nothin’. I lef’ de bill wid ’im.’

“I say, ‘Marse Tumlin, you dunner nothin’ ’tall ’bout Hamp. He must er
change mighty sence dey ’fo’ yistidy if he erfuse ter do what I tell ’im
ter do. Ef dat de case, I’ll go up dar an’ frail ’im out an’ come on back
home an’ ten’ ter my work.’

“Marse Tumlin look at me wid his eyes half shot an’ kinder laugh way down
in his stomach. He ’low, ‘Minervy Ann, I been livin’ a long time, an’ I
been knowin’ a heap er folks, but you er de bangin’est nigger I ever is
see. Free ez you is, I wouldn’t take two thousan’ dollars fer you, cash
money. I’ll git Bolivar, an’ we’ll go up dar on de mornin’ train. Vallie
kin stay wid er aunt. ’Tain’t gwine ter hurt you ter go; I want you ter
see some things fer yo’se’f.’

“Well, suh, sho’ ’nuff, de nex’ mornin’ me an’ Marse Tumlin an’ Marse
Bolivar, we got on de train, an’ put out, an’ ’twa’n’t long ’fo’ we wuz
pullin’ in under de kyar-shed. Dat ’uz de fus’ time I ever is been ter
dis town, an’ de racket an’ de turmoil kinder tarrify me, but when I see
’t’er folks gwine ’long ’tendin’ ter der bizness, ’twa’n’t no time ’fo’ I
tuck heart, ’kaze dar wuz Marse Tumlin an’ Marse Bolivar right at me, an’
dey wuz bowin’ an’ shakin’ han’s wid mos’ eve’ybody dat come ’long. Dey
wuz two mighty pop’lous white men, suh; you know dat yo’se’f.

“I ’speck de train must ’a’ got in ’fo’ de Legislatur’ sot down, ’kaze
when we went th’oo a narrer street an’ turn inter de one what dey call
Decatur, whar dey carry on all de devilment, I hear Marse Tumlin say dat
we wuz ’bout a hour too soon. Right atter dat Marse Bolivar say, ‘Tumlin,
dat ar nigger man ’cross dar wid de gals is got a mighty familious look
ter me; I done been seed ’im somewhar, sho’.’ Marse Tumlin say, ‘Dat’s
a fac’; I used ter know dat man some’rs.’ Well, suh, I lookt de way dey
wuz a-lookin’, an’ dar wuz Hamp! Yassar! Hamp! Hamp an’ two mulatter
gals. An’ I wish you could ’a’ seed um; I des wish you could! Dar wuz
Hamp all diked out in his Sunday cloze which I tol’ ’im p’intedly not
ter w’ar while he workin’ in de Legislatur’. He had a segyar in his mouf
mos’ ez big an’ ez long ez a waggin-spoke, an’ dar he wuz a-bowin’ an’
scrapin’, an’ scrapin’ an’ gigglin’, an’ de mulatter gals wuz gigglin’
an’ snickerin’ an’ squealin’—I _declaire_, Mr. Tumlin! you oughter be
_’shame_ er yo’se’f; oh, youer too _b-a-a-a-d_!’”

With powers of mimicry unequalled, Aunt Minervy Ann illustrated the
bowing and scraping of Hamp, and reproduced the shrill but not unmusical
voices of the mulatto girls.

“I tell you de trufe, suh, whiles you could count ten you might ’a’ pusht
me over wid a straw, an’ den, suh, my dander ’gun ter rise. I must ’a’
show’d it in my looks, ’kaze Marse Tumlin laid his han’ on my shoulder
an’ say, ‘Don’t kick up no racket, Minervy Ann; you got Hamp right whar
you want ’im. You know what we come fer.’ Well, suh, I hatter stan’ dar
an’ swaller right hard a time er two, ’kaze I ain’t got no use fer
mulatters; to make um, you got ter spile good white blood an’ good nigger
blood, an’ when dey er made dey got in um all dat’s mean an’ low down
on bofe sides, an’ ef dey yever is ter be saved, dey’ll all hatter be
baptize twice han’ runnin’—once fer de white dat’s in um, and once fer de
black. De Bible mayn’t sesso, but common-sense’ll tell you dat much.

“Well, suh, I stood dar some little time watchin’ Hamp’s motions, an’ he
wuz makin’ sech a big fool er hisse’f dat I des come mighty nigh laughin’
out loud, but all dat time Marse Tumlin had de idee dat I wuz mad, an’
when I start to’rds Hamp, wid my pairsol grabbed in de middle, he ’low,
‘Min’ yo’ eye, Minervy Ann.’ I walk up, I did, an’ punch Hamp in de back
wid de pairsol. Ef I’d ’a’ hit ’im on de head wid a pile-driver, he
couldn’t ’a’ been mo’ dum’founder’d. He look like he wuz gwine th’oo’ de
sidewalk. I say, ‘When you git time, I’d like ter have a little chat wid
you.’ He ’low, ‘Why, why’—an’ wid dat he stuck de lit een’ er his segyar
in his mouf. Well, suh, you may b’lieve you done seed splutterin’ an’
splatterin’, but you ain’t never seed none like dat. He made a motion,
Hamp did, like he wanter make me ’painted wid de mulatter gals, but I
say, ‘When you git time fum yo’ Legislatur’, I got a sesso fer you ter
hear.’

“Wid dat, suh, I turn ’roun’ an’ cross de street an’ foller on atter
Marse Tumlin an’ Marse Bolivar. I ain’t mo’n git ’cross, ’fo’ here come
Hamp. He ’low, ‘Why, honey, whyn’t you tell me you wuz comin’? When’d you
come?’ I say, ‘Oh, I’m _honey_, is I? Well, maybe you’ll fin’ a bee in de
comb.’ He ’low, ‘Whyn’t you tell me you wuz comin’ so I kin meet you at
de train?’ I say, ‘I wanter see what kinder fambly you got in dis town.
An’ I seed it! I seed it!’

“Well, suh, I ’speck I’d ’a’ got mad ag’in, but ’bout dat time we cotch
up wid Marse Tumlin an’ Marse Bolivar. Marse Tumlin turn ’roun’, he did,
an’ holler out, ‘Well, ef here ain’t Minervy Ann! What you doin’ up here,
an’ how did you lef’ yo’ Miss Vallie?’ He shuck han’s des like he ain’t
see me befo’ in a mont’, an’ Marse Bolivar done de same. I humor’d um,
suh, but I ain’t know what dey wuz up ter fer long atterwards. Dey don’t
want Hamp ter know dat I come ’long wid um. Den dey went on, an’ me an’
Hamp went ter whar he stay at.

“When I got ’im off by hisse’f, suh, he sot in ter tellin’ me how come
’im ter be wid dem ar gals, an’ he want me ter know um, an’ he know
mighty well I’d like um—you know how men-folks does, suh. But dey
wa’n’t na’er minit in no day dat yever broke when Hamp kin fool me,
an’ he know’d it. But I let ’im run on. Bimeby, when he get tired er
splanifyin’, I ’low, ‘What dat paper what Marse Tumlin ax you ter put in
de Legislatur’?’ He say, ‘How you know ’bout dat?’ I ’low, ‘I hear Marse
Tumlin tellin’ Miss Vallie ’bout it, an’ I hear Miss Vallie wonder an’
wonder what de matter wid you.’

“I fotch Miss Vallie in, suh, bekaze Hamp think dey ain’t nobody in de
worl’ like Miss Vallie. One time, des ’fo’ de big turmoil, when Marse
Tumlin hire Hamp fum de Myrick ’state, he fell sick, an’ Miss Vallie (she
wa’n’t nothin’ but a school-gal den) she got sorry fer ’im ’kaze he wuz
a hired nigger, an’ she’d fill a basket wid things fum de white folks’
table an’ tote um to ’im. Mo’ dan dat, she’d set dar whiles he’s eatin’
an’ ax ’bout his folks. Atter dat, suh, de groun’ whar Miss Vallie walk
wuz better’n any yuther groun’ ter Hamp. So when I call her name up, Hamp
ain’t say nothin’ fer long time.

“Den he shuck his head an’ say dey ain’t no use talkin’, he des can’t
put dat ar paper in de Legislatur’. He say ef he wuz ter, ’twon’t do no
good, ’kaze all de erpublicans would jump on it, an’ den dey’d jump on
him ter boot. I ’low, ‘Whar you reckon I’ll be whiles all dat jumpin’
gwine on?’ He say, ‘You’ll be on de outside, an’ ef you wuz on de inside,
dey’d hike you out.’ ‘An’ who’d do de hikin’?’ sez I. ‘De surgeon er de
armies,’ sez he. ‘White er black?’ sez I. ‘Yaller,’ sez Hamp. I ’low,
‘Good ’nuff; we’ll see which un’ll be hiked.’ An’ I told Hamp right den
an’ dar, dat ef he erfuse ter put dat paper in, I’ll do it myse’f.

“Well, suh, whiles we settin’ dar talkin’, dey come a-rappin’ at de do’
an’ in walk a big bushy-head mulatter, an’ I ain’t tellin’ you no lie, he
de mos’ venomous-lookin’ creetur you ever laid yo’ eyes on. His ha’r wuz
all spread out like a scourin’ mop, an’ he had a grin on ’im ez big ez
dat gate dar. Hamp call ’im Arion Alperiar Ridley.”

At this point I was compelled to come to the rescue of Aunt Minervy
Ann’s memory. The stateman’s real name was Aaron Alpeora Bradley, and
he was one of the most corrupt creatures of that corrupt era. He had a
superficial education that only added to the density of his ignorance,
but it gave him considerable influence with the negro members of the
Legislature. Aunt Minervy Ann accepted the correction with alacrity.

“I fergot his name, suh, but I ain’t never fergit him. He so mean-lookin’
he make de col’ chills run over me. He wuz a low-country mulatter, an’
you know how dey talk. Eve’y time he look at me, he’d bow, an’ de mo’ he
bowed de mo’ I ’spized ’im. He call Hamp ‘Mistooah Tummalin,’ an’ eve’y
time he say sump’n’, he’d gi’ one er dem venomous grins. I declar’ ter
gracious, suh, I oughtn’t ter talk ’bout dat man dis way, but de way he
look wuz scan’lous. I done fergive ’im for dat long time ’go on ’count er
what he done; but when I hear white folks ’busin’ ’im in dat day an’ time
I know’d dey had mighty good groun’, bekaze dey ain’t no human kin look
like dat man an’ not be mean at bottom.

“Well, suh, Hamp, he up’n tol’ dis yer Alpory er Alpiry (whatsomever his
name mought be) what I come ter town fer, an’ Alpory, he say, ‘Mistooah
Tummalin, you kyarn’t do it. Hit would-er ruin you in de-er party, suh—er
ruin you.’ I kinder fired up at dat. I ’low, ‘How come he can’t do it?
Ain’t he free?’ Ol’ Alpory, he grin an’ he talk, he talk an’ he grin, but
he ain’t budge me. At de offstart I say ef Hamp don’t put dat paper in
de Legislatur’, I’ll put it in myse’f, an’ at de windin’ up I still say
dat ef he don’t put Marse Tumlin’s paper in de Legislatur’, den I’ll be
de one ter do it. Ol’ Alpory say, ‘You-er is got no marster, ma’am.’ Den
I snapt ’im up an’ cut ’im off short; I say, ‘I got one ef I want one.
Ain’t I free?’ Den he went on wid a whole passel er stuff dat I can’t
make head er tail un, ner him needer, fer dat matter, twel bimeby I say,
‘Oh, hush up an’ go on whar you gwine.’

“Hamp look so broke up at dis dat I wuz kinder sorry I say it, but dat’s
de only way ter deal wid dem kind er folks, suh. Ol’ Alpory wuz des
famishin’, suh, fer some un ter b’lieve he’s a big Ike; dat ’uz all de
matter wid ’im an’ I know’d it. So he quit his jawin’ when I snapped ’im
up, an’ he sot dar some time lookin’ like a cow does when her cud don’t
rise. Bimeby he ax Hamp fer ter let ’im see de paper what I want ’im ter
put in de Legislatur’. He tuck it, he did, an’ look at it sideways an’
upside down, an’ eve’ywhichaway. Ez ef dat wa’n’t ’nuff, he took off his
goggles an’ wiped um an’ put um on ag’in, an’ read de paper all over
ag’in, noddin’ his head an’ movin’ his mouf, an’ grinnin’.

“Atter he got th’oo, he fol’ de paper up an’ han’ it back ter Hamp. He
say he can’t see no harm in it ter save his life, an’ he ’low dat ef
Hamp’ll put it in at one een’ er de Legislatur’, he’ll put it in at de
t’er een’. Dey call one part a house, but nobody ain’t never tell me why
dey call a wranglin’ gang er men a house. Dey des might ez well call um a
hoss an’ buggy; eve’y bit an’ grain. Well, suh, de house wuz de part what
Hamp b’longs ter, an’ de ’t’er part wuz whar ol’ Alpory b’long’d at, an’
by de time dey wuz ready fer ter set in dar dey had e’en ’bout ’greed fer
put de paper in at bofe een’s.

“I went ’long wid Hamp, suh, an’ he show’d me de way ter de gall’ry, an’
I sot up dar an’ look down on um, an’ wonder why all un um, white an’
black, wa’n’t at home yearnin’ der livin’ ’stidder bein’ in dat place
a-wranglin’ an’ callin’ names, an’ howlin’ an’ wavin’ der arms an’ han’s.
Dey wuz a big fat white man settin’ up in de pulpit, an’ he kep’ on
a-maulin’ it wid a mallet. I dunner what his name wuz, but I hear one big
buck nigger call ’im Mr. Cheer. Marse Tumlin tol’ me atterwards dat de
man wuz de speaker, but all de res’ done lots mo’ speakin’ dan what he
did; all un um ’cep’ Hamp.

“Yasser; all un um ’cep’ Hamp, an’ he sot dar so still dat ’twa’n’t long
’fo’ I ’gun ter git shame un him. He sot dar an’ fumble wid some papers,
an’ helt his head down, an’ look like he skeer’d. I watch ’im, suh, twel
I got so res’less in de min’ I can’t set still. Bimeby I got up an’ went
down ter de front do’; I wuz gwine ter make my way in dar whar Hamp wuz
at, an’ kinder fetch ’im out’n his dreams, ef so be he wuz dreamin’. An’
I’d a gone in, but a nigger man at de do’ barred de way. He say, ‘Who you
want ter see?’ I ’low, ‘I wanter see Hamp Tumlin, dat’s who.’ He say,
‘Does you mean de Honnerbul Hampton Tumlin?’ I ’low, ‘Yes, I does ef you
wanter put it dat away. _Go in dar an’ tell ’im dat de Honnerbul Minervy
Ann Perdue is out here waitin’ fer ’im, an’ he better come quick ef he
know what good fer ’im._’

“Wid dat, suh, I hear somebody laugh, an’ look up an’ dar wuz Marse
Tumlin standin’ not fur fum de do’ talkin’ wid an’er white man. He ’low,
‘Scott, dis is Minervy Ann. She got mo’ sense an’ grit dan half de white
folks you meet.’ Well, suh, de man come up, he did, an’ shuck han’s an’
say he mighty glad ter see me. I never is ter fergit his name on ’count
er what happen afterwards. ’Bout dat time Hamp come out an’ Marse Tumlin
an’ de ’t’er man draw’d off up de hall.

“I say, ‘Hamp, why in de name er goodness ain’t you ’ten’ ter yo’
bizness? What you waitin’ fer? Is you skeer’d?’ He vow an’ declair’ dat
he des waitin’ a chance fer ter put de paper in. I tol’ ’im dat de way
ter git a chance wuz ter make one, an’ wid dat he went on in, an’ I went
back in de gall’ry. Well, suh, ’twa’n’t long ’fo’ Hamp put in de paper.
A man at de foot er de pulpit read it off, an’ den a white man settin’
not fur fum Hamp jump up an’ say he want sump’n done wid it, I dunner
what. Hamp say sump’n back at ’im, an’ den de white man say he sorry fer
ter see de honnerbul gemman gwine back on de erpublican party. Den Mose
Bently—I know’d Mose mighty well—he riz an’ say ef de erpublican party
is got ter be led ’roun’ by men like de one what des tuck his seat, it’s
high time fer honest folks ter turn der backs on it.

“Well, suh, when Mose say dat, I clap my han’s, I did, an’ holla ‘Good!
good! now you got it!’ I couldn’t he’p it fer ter save my life. De man
in de pulpit maul de planks wid de mallet like he tryin’ ter split um,
an’ he ’low dat ef folks in de gall’ry don’t keep still, he’ll have um
cle’r’d out. I holla back at ’im, ‘You better some er dat gang down dar
cle’r’d out!’ Quick ez a flash, suh, dat ar Mr. Scott what been talkin’
wid Marse Tumlin jump up an’ ’low, ‘I secon’s de motion!’ De man in de
pulpit say, ‘What motion does de gemman fum Floyd secon’?’ Den Mr. Scott
fling his head back an’ low, ‘De Honnerbul Minervy Ann Perdue done move
dat de flo’ be cle’r’d ’stidder de gall’ry. I secon’s de motion.’

“Den fum dat he went on an’ ’buze de erpublican party, speshually dat ar
man what had de ’spute wid Hamp. Mr. Scott say dey got so little sense
dat dey go ag’in a paper put in by one er der own party. He say he ain’t
keer nothin’ ’tall ’bout de paper hisse’f, but he des wanter show um up
fer what dey wuz.

“He totch’d um, suh, ez you may say, on de raw, an’ when he git th’oo
he say, ‘Now, I hope de cheer will deal wid de motion of de Honnerbul
Minervy Ann Perdue.’ Mr. Scott say, ‘She settin’ up dar in de gall’ry an’
she got des ez much right ter set on dis flo’ ez nineteen out er twenty
er dem settin’ here.’ De man in de pulpit look at me right hard, an’ den
he ’gun ter laugh. I say, ‘You nee’n ter worry yo’se’f ’bout me. You
better ’ten’ ter dem ar half-drunk niggers an’ po’ white trash down dar.
I wouldn’t set wid ’em ef I never did fin’ a place fer ter set at.’

“Wid dat, suh, I pickt up my pairsol an’ make my way out, but ez I went I
hear um whoopin’ an’ hollerin’.”

“Well, they didn’t pass the bill, did they?” I asked.

“What? dat paper er Marse Tumlin’s? Bless yo’ soul, suh, dey run’d over
one an’er tryin’ ter pass it. Mr. Scott fit it like he fightin’ fire,
an’ make out he wuz terribly ag’in it, but dat des make um wuss. Hamp
say dat inginer’lly dem ar laws has ter wait an’ hang fire; but dey tuck
up dat un, an’ shove it th’oo. Dey tuck mo’ time in de ’t’er een’ er de
Legislatur’, whar ol’ Alpory wuz at, but it went th’oo when it start.
I hope dey don’t have no sech gwines-on now, suh. Ef dey does de whole
county can’t drag Paul Conant in dar. I’ll jine um myse’f, ’fo’ I’ll let
’im git in dat kind er crowd.”




V

HOW SHE WENT INTO BUSINESS


Aunt Minervy Ann’s picturesque reminiscences were sufficiently amusing
to whet my appetite for more. The county fair, which was the occasion of
my visit to Halcyondale, was still dragging its slow length along, but
it had lost its interest for me. The displays in the various departments
were as attractive as ever to those who saw them for the first time,
but it seemed to me that all my old acquaintances, or their wives and
daughters, had something on exhibition, and nothing must do but I must
go around and admire it. A little of this goes far, and, as I had been
through the various departments a dozen times over, I concluded that it
would be more comfortable to remain away from the grounds altogether,
making more room for those who desired to see the judges deliver the
prizes, or who were anxious to witness the trotting matches and running
races.

Therefore, when Major Tumlin Perdue (whose guest I was) and his
daughter, Mrs. Conant, made an early start for the fair grounds, on the
fourth day, I excused myself, on the plea of having some letters to
write. The excuse was readily accepted, especially by Major Perdue, who
expressed a very strong hope that I would do the fair justice in the
Atlanta newspapers.

“If you can put in a word about Paul Conant, I’d be glad if you’d do it,”
the Major added. “He’s come mighty near working himself down to get the
blamed thing a-going. If it wasn’t on account of Paul, me and Valentine
wouldn’t go any closer to the fair grounds than we are right now. But we
think maybe we can help Paul, and if we can’t do that, we hope to keep
him from running his legs off. He ain’t well a bit. Vallie says he didn’t
sleep more than two hours last night for the pains in his shoulder.”

“It seems to be an old trouble,” I suggested.

“Yes, it’s an old trouble,” replied the Major. Then he looked over the
tree-tops and sighed.

Here was the same air of mystery that I had observed when I first came,
and I remembered that Aunt Minervy Ann had begun to tell me about it when
she became entangled in her reminiscences. Therefore, when they were
all gone, and Aunt Minervy Ann had cleaned up the house and coaxed the
Conant baby to sleep (which was no hard thing to do, he was such a fat
and good-humored little rascal), I ventured to remind the old negress
that she had neglected to tell me why the Major and his daughter were so
mysteriously solicitous about Paul Conant’s shoulder.

“Well, de goodness knows!” Aunt Minervy Ann exclaimed, with well-affected
surprise; “ain’t I done tell you ’bout dat? I sho’ wuz dreamin’, den,
bekaze I had it right on de tip-eend er my tongue. I dunno what got de
matter wid me deze days, less’n I’m gettin’ ol’ an’ light-headed. Well,
suh! an’ I ain’t tol’ you ’bout dat!”

She paused, as if reflecting, but continued to rock the baby’s cradle
gently, moving it slower and slower, until, finally, she ceased to move
it altogether. The baby merely gave a self-satisfied sigh, and settled
into the profound and healthy sleep of infancy. Then Aunt Minervy Ann
went out on the back porch, and seated herself on the top step. I
followed, and found the rocking-chair I had occupied on a former occasion.

“I’ll set here, suh, twel Hamp gits back wid de carriage, an’ den I’ll
see ’bout gittin’ dinner, an’ he better make ’as’e, too, bekaze I ain’t
got no time ter set here an’ lis’n at dat baby, whiles he projickin’ out
dar at dem grounds. I kin wait, suh, but I can’t wait all day.”

“Major Perdue said that Mr. Conant’s shoulder was very painful last
night,” I suggested.

“Dat what Miss Vallie say, suh. She say dey wuz up an’ down wid ’im
mighty nigh all night long. I don’t blame um, suh, but, dey ain’t no
use talkin’, grown folks kin be waited on twey dey er sp’iled same ez
chilluns. I’d cut my tongue out, suh, ’fo’ I’d say it ter anybody else,
but I done got ter b’lievin’ dat Marse Paul Conant grunts an’ groans many
a time des bekaze he wants somebody fer ter worry wid ’im an’ honey ’im
up. I may be doin’ ’im wrong, suh, but I done get a sneakin’ notion dat
he’s one er deze yer kinder men-folks what likes to be much’d an’ petted.
An’ dey’ll do it, suh—dey’ll much ’im night er day, hot er col’. Des let
’im say, ‘Oh, my shoulder!’ an’ bofe un um’ll try ter outdo de udder in
takin’ keer un ’im.

[Illustration: “Oh, my shoulder!”]

“Marse Tumlin is got mo’ ways like a ’oman dan any man I ever is laid
eyes on. It’s de Lord’s trufe. He ain’t fussy like de common run er
wimmen, but his han’ is des ez light an’ his heart des ez saft ez any
’oman dat ever breave de breff er life, let er breave whence an’ whar she
mought. I look at ’im sometimes, an’ I des nat’ally tease myse’f ter
know how dat man kin stan’ up an’ shoot anybody like I done see ’im do.
Hit’s de same way wid Marse Bolivar Blasengame—you know him, I spec. Dey
married sisters, suh, an’ dey allers been monstus thick. Dem two wuz big
dogs ’roun’ here, suh, ’fo’ de war. Ef you ain’t never seed um in dem
days, you never is ter know how folks looked up to um an’ give way to um.

“But dey ain’t put on no airs, suh. Dey des do like de quality all do.
’Tain’t money dat makes de quality; hit’s dat ar kinder breedin’ what’ll
make de finest folks stop an’ shake han’s wid a nigger des ez quick ez
dey would wid de king er Rooshy—ef dey got any king dar. Long ’fo’ de
turmoil, suh, endurin’ er de farmin’ days, ’twuz des dat-a-way. When he
’uz at his richest, Marse Tumlin never did pass a nigger on de road, no
matter how lonesome an’ ragged he look, widout stoppin’ an’ axin’ who he
b’long ter, an’ what he name, an’ how he gittin’ on. An’ he allers gi’ um
sump’n, maybe a piece er terbacker, er maybe a thrip. I know, suh; I done
hear my color talk, an’ dey talks it down ter dis ve’y day. Dey ain’t
never been a time in dat man’s life when he ain’t think mo’ er somebody
else dan what he think er hisse’f. Dat’s what I call de quality, suh.
’Tain’t money; ’tain’t land; ’tain’t fine duds; ’tain’t nothin’ ’tall
like dat. I tell you, suh, dem what want ter be de quality is got ter
have a long line er big graveyards behime um, an’ dem graveyards is
got ter be full er folks what use ter know how ter treat yuther folks.
Well, suh, Marse Tumlin is got um behime him, an’ dey retch fum here ter
Ferginny an’ furder. An’ on dat account, he ain’t ’shame’ to show nobody
dat he love um, an’ he ain’t afear’d ter tell nobody dat he hate um.

“I bet you right now, suh, ef you wuz ter ax Miss Vallie ef she ever see
’er pa mad, she’d look at you like she ain’t know what you talkin’ ’bout.
Fum de time she has been born, suh, down ter dis ve’y day, she ain’t
never hear a cross word come from his mouf. She’s seed ’im frownin’ an’
she’s seed ’im frettin’, but she ain’t never hear no cross word. An’ dat
what make I say what I does. ’Tain’t nobody but de quality dat kin show
der breedin’ right in der own fambly.”

“Why, I’ve heard that the Major has something of a temper,” I remarked.

[Illustration: “Marse Tumlin never did pass a nigger on de road.”]

“_Temper!_” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann, holding up both hands; “temper, I
hear you say! Well, suh, dat ain’t no name fer it. I done seed bad men,
but Marse Tumlin is de wuss man when he git his dander up dat I yever
come ’cross in all my born days. De fust time I seed ’im mad, suh, wuz
right atter de folks come home fum der fightin’ and battlin’. It make me
open my eyes. I been livin’ wid ’im all dem years, an’ I never is know
how servigrous dat man is.

“An’ de funny part wuz, suh, dat he got mad ’bout a ole nigger ’oman.”
Aunt Minervy Ann paused to indulge in a very hearty laugh. “Yasser, all
’bout a ole nigger ’oman. In dem times we all had ter scuffle ’roun’
right smart fer ter git vittles ter eat, let ’lone cloze ter w’ar. Miss
Vallie wuz w’arin’ a frock what her mammy had when she wuz a gal. An’ de
clof wuz right good an’ look’ mighty well on ’er. Ez fer me, I dunner
whedder I had on any frock—ef I did ’twuz ’bout ter drap off’n me. ’Long
’bout dat time, court-week wuz comin’ on, de fust court-week we had sence
de folks come home fum battlin’. Dey wuz a great miration ’bout it,
bekaze dey say ev’ybody gwine ter come an’ see de lawyers rastle.

“Well, suh, it come ’cross my min’ dat ef I kin bake some ginger-cakes
an’ make some chicken-pies, maybe I kin pick up a little money. De dime
an’ thrip species had all done gone, but dey wuz oodles er shinplasters
floatin’ ’roun’ ef you had sump’n fer ter git um wid. I dunner whar in
de worl’ we got ’nuff flour an’ ’lasses fer ter make de cakes. I know I
got one chicken, an’ Hamp he went off one night and borried two mo’. I
ain’t ax ’im whar he borry um, suh, bekaze ’twan’t none er my business.
We made de cakes, an’ den we made de pies. Ef you ain’t know how ter make
um, suh, you’d be ’stonished ter know how fur dem ar chickens went. We
made twelve pies ef we made one. Yasser! ez sho’ ez I’m settin’ here. We
strung um out—a wing here, a piece er de back dar, an’ a neck yonner.
Twelve pies, suh, an’ nuff chicken lef’ over fer ter gi’ Miss Vallie a
right smart bait; an’ de Lord knows she need it, an’ need it bad.

“Well, suh, I make de ginger-cakes de week ’fo’ court, bekaze it he’ps a
ginger-cake ef you bake ’im an’ den shet ’im up in a tight box whar he
kin sweat, an’ Monday we sot in ter bake de pies. I make de dough wid my
own han’s, an’ I lef’ Miss Vallie fer ter bake um, wid Hamp ter keep de
fire gwine. De word wuz dat ’bout half-pas’ ten Hamp wuz ter fetch me all
de pies dey had ready, an’ den go back fer de yuthers.

[Illustration: “We made twelve pies ef we made one.”]

“I ain’t say nothin’ ’bout de balance er de cakes; bekaze I ’low’d ter
myse’f dat I had ’nuff. I had many ez I kin tote widout gittin’ tired,
an’ I ain’t no baby when it comes ter totin’ cakes. Well, suh, I been
livin’ a mighty long time, but I ain’t never see folks wid such a cravin’
fer ginger-cakes. Fum de word go dey wuz greedy fer ’m. Hit mought er
been ’kaze dey wuz des natchally hongry, en den ag’in hit mought er been
bekaze de cakes call up ol’ times; but no matter ’bout dat, suh, dey des
showered de shinplasters down on me. ’Twa’n’t de country folks doin’
de most er de buyin’ at fust. It ’uz de town boys an’ de clerks in de
stores; an’ mos’ ’fo’ I know’d it de cakes wuz all gone, an’ Hamp ain’t
come wid de pies.

“I would ’a’ waited, suh, but dey kep’ callin’ fer cakes so ravenous dat
bimeby I crumpled my shinplasters up in a wad an’ tuck my basket an’ went
polin’ home fer ter hurry Hamp up. He wuz des gittin’ ready ter start
when I got dar. I gi’ Miss Vallie de money—you kin count it up yourse’f,
suh; ’twuz fer fo’ dozen ginger-cakes at a thrip a-piece—an’ tol’ her
ter sen’ Hamp atter some mo’ flour an’ ’lasses ’fo’ night, ’kaze de
ginger-cakes half-gone an’ court-week ain’t skacely open up. Hamp, he
tuck de pies an’ de cakes, an’ I got me one er de low cheers out’n de
kitchen, ’kaze I done tired er settin’ on de een’ uv a box.

“I ’speck you know right whar I sot at, suh; ’twuz dar by dat big
chany-tree front er Sanford’s sto’. Hit sho’ wuz a mighty tree. De win’
done blow’d up an’ blew’d it down, but de stump stan’in’ dar sproutin’
right now. Well, suh, right under de shadder er dat tree, on de outer
aidge er de sidewalk, I tuck my stan’, an’ I ain’t been dar long ’fo’ de
folks ’gun ter swarm atter my cakes, an’ den when dey seed my pies—well!
hit look like dey fair dribble at de mouf.

“I sol’ um all ’cep’ one, an’ ef I’d ’a’ sol’ dat un, I don’t ’speck
dey’d ’a’ been any trouble; but you know what a fool a nigger kin be,
suh, speshually a nigger ’oman. I tuck a notion in my min’ dat I done so
pow’ful well, I’d save dat pie fer Marse Tumlin an’ Miss Vallie. So ev’y
time somebody’s come ’long an’ want ter buy de pie, I’d up an’ say it
done sold.

“Bimeby, who should come ’long but dat ar Salem Birch! He dead now, but
I ’speck you done hear talk un ’im, bekaze he made matters mighty hot in
deze parts twel—twel—well, suh, twel he ’gun ter hone atter dat pie, ez
you may say.” Aunt Minervy Ann paused and rubbed her hands together, as
if reflecting. Then she shook her head and laughed somewhat doubtfully.

[Illustration: “I gi’ Miss Vallie de money.”]

“What dey want ter name ’im Salem fer, I’ll never tell you. Hit’s a
Bible name, an’ mo’ dan dat, hit’s a church name. You know it yo’se’f,
suh, bekaze dey’s a Salem church not mo’n sev’m mile fum whar we settin’
at right now. _Salem_ Birch! Hit bangs my time how some folks kin go
on—an’ I ain’t nothin’ but a nigger. Dey’s mo’ chillun ruint by der
names, suh, dan any udder way. I done notice it. Name one un um a Bible
name, an’ look like he bleedze ter go wrong. Name one un um atter some
high an’ mighty man, an’ dey grows up wid des ’bout much sense ez a
gate-post. I done watch um, suh.

“I ’speck dis yer Salem Birch would ’a’ been a right good man but fer dat
ar Bible name. Dat ruint ’im. I don’t b’lieve dey’s a man in de worl’
what kin walk straight under dat name less’n he done been called fer ter
be a preacher, an’ Salem Birch ain’t had no sech call up ter dat time.
Dat much I know.

“Well, suh, dar sot de pie, an’ dar wuz de ginger-cakes, ol’ timers,
big ter look at, but light ter handle. Eve’ybody want de pie, but my
min’ done made up. Some bought cakes stidder de pie, an’ some des wipe
der mouf an’ go on. But, bimeby, here come Salem Birch, six feet high,
an’ his hat sot on de side er his haid like he done bought de whole
town. I know’d de minnit I laid eyes on ’im dat he had dram in ’im, an’
dat he wuz up ter some devilment. Him an’ his bre’r, Bill-Tom, suh,
had tarryfied de whole county. Dey wuz constant a-fightin’, an’ ef dey
couldn’t git nobody else ter fight, dey’d fight ’mongst deyse’f. Yassir!
dem ar Birches had done whip der own daddy.

“An’ yit, suh, dis yer Salem wa’n’t no bad-lookin’ man. He had long curly
ha’r, an’ he wuz constant a-laughin’. Ef de fac’ troof wuz ter come out,
I ’speck he had more devilment in ’im dan downright meanness; an’ he wuz
mean nuff, de Lord knows. But, be sech as it mought, bimeby here he come,
sorter half tip-toein’, like some folks do when dey feel der dram an’
dunner how ter show it. He stop right front er me, suh, an’ time his eye
fell on me he sung out:

“‘_Whoopee! Ef here ain’t ol’ Minervy Ann! Wid pies! An’ cakes! Come on,
boys! Have some pies! An’ cakes!_’

[Illustration: “Ef here ain’t ol’ Minervy Ann wid pies!”]

“Well, suh, you mought er heer’d ’im a mile. He holler des like de
She’ff do when he stick his haid out’n de court-house winder an’ call
somebody in ter court—des dat ve’y way. He say, ‘How much you take fer
yo’ chicken-pie?’ I ’low, ‘Hit done sol’, suh.’ He say, ‘I’ll gi’ you a
quarter fer dat pie.’ I ’low, ‘De pie done sol’, suh.’ By dat time dey
wuz a right smart clump er folks come up fer see what Salem Birch wuz
holl’in’ ’bout, an’ you know yo’se’f, suh, how a half-drunk man’ll do
when dey’s a crowd lis’nin’ at him.

“He say, ‘Who done bought dat pie?’ I ’low, ‘Marse Tumlin Perdue.’ He
sorter draw’d hisse’f up, he did, an’ say, ‘Ain’t I des ez good ez Tumlin
Perdue?’ I ’low, ‘I ain’t know nothin’ ter de contrary, suh, but ef you
is, you got ter be a monstus good man.’ He say, ‘I is! I’m de bes’ man in
de county.’ I ’low, ‘Dat may be, suh; I ain’t ’sputin’ it.’ By dat time
I ’gun ter feel de Ol’ Boy kinder ranklin’ in my gizzard. He say, ‘Why
can’t I git dat pie?’ I ’low, ‘Bekaze it done sol’, suh.’ He say, ‘Fer
cash?’ I ’low, ‘No, suh; but Marse Tumlin’s word is lots better’n some
folks’ money.’

“Well, suh, I know’d ’fo’ I open my mouf dat I ought’n ter say dat, but
I couldn’t he’p it fer ter save my neck. He say, ‘Well, blast yo’ black
hide, my money’s better’n anybody’s money!’ Wid dat he flung down a
shinplaster quarter an’ retch fer de pie. By de time he grabbed it, I
grabbed it, an’ he pulled an’ I pulled. I dunner whedder ’twuz de strenk
in me er de dram in ’im, but in de pullin’, de box what de pie wuz on
turnt over, an’ my cheer turnt over, an’ down come Salem Birch right
spang on top er me.

“I tell you now, suh, dis skeer’d me. ’Twuz mo’ dan I bargain fer. Right
at de minnit, I had de idee dat de man had jumped on me an’ wuz gwine
ter kill me—you know how some folks is ’bout niggers. So I des give one
squall——

“‘_Marse Tumlin! Run here, Marse Tumlin! He killin’ me! Oh, Marse
Tumlin!_’

“Well, suh, dey tell me dat squall wuz so inhuman it made de country
hosses break loose fum de racks. One white lady at de tavern hear it, an’
she had ter be put ter bed. Bless yo’ soul, honey! don’t never say you
done hear anybody blate twel you hear ol’ Minervy Ann—an’ de Lord knows I
hope you won’t never hear me.

“Dey ain’t no use talkin’, suh, hit ’larmed de town. Eve’ybody broke an’
run to’rds de place whar de fuss come fum. Salem Birch got up des ez
quick ez he kin, an’ I wuz up des ez quick ez he wuz, an’ by dat time my
temper done run my skeer off, an’ I des blazed out at him. What I say
I’ll never tell you, bekaze I wuz so mad I ain’t never hear myse’f talk.
Some say I called ’im dis an’ some say I called ’im dat, but whatsomever
’twuz, hit wa’n’t no nice name—I kin promise you dat.

[Illustration: “You see dat nigger ’oman?”]

“’Twus ’nuff ter rise his dander, an’ he draw’d back his arm fer ter hit
me, but des ’bout dat time Marse Tumlin shoved ’im back. Marse Tumlin
’low, ‘You dirty dog! You sneakin’, nasty houn’! is dis de way you does
yo’ fightin’?’

“Well, suh, dis kinder skeer me ag’in, kaze I hear talk dat Salem Birch
went ’bout wid dirks an’ pistols on ’im, ready fer ter use um. He look
at Marse Tumlin, an’ his face got whiter an’ whiter, an’ he draw’d his
breff, deep an’ long.

“Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘You see dat nigger ’oman? Well, ef she wuz blacker
dan de hinges er hell’—he say dem ve’y words, suh—‘ef she wuz blacker dan
de hinges er hell, she’d be whiter dan you er any er yo’ thievin’ gang.’
An’ den, suh—I ’clar’ I’m mos’ shame ter tell you—Marse Tumlin rise up on
his tip-toes an’ spit in de man’s face. Yasser! Right spang in his face.
You may well look ’stonish’d, suh. But ef you’d ’a’ seed de way Marse
Tumlin looked you’d know why Salem Birch ain’t raise his han’ ’cep’ ter
wipe his face. Ef dey ever wuz blood an’ killin’ in anybody’s eyes, hit
wuz in Marse Tumlin’s right dat minnit. He stan’ dar while you kin count
ten, an’ den he snap his thumb an’ turn on his heel, an’ dat ar Salem
Birch tuck’n walk ’cross de public squar’ an’ sot down on de court-house
steps, an’ he sot dar, suh, wid his haid ’twix’ his han’s fer I dunner
how long.

“Well, suh, I know in reason dat de een’ er dat business ain’t come. You
know how our white folks is; you kin spit in one man’s face an’ he not
take it up, but some er his kinnery er his frien’s is sho ter take it
up. So I say ter myse’f, ‘Look here, nigger ’oman, you better keep yo’
mouf shot an’ bofe eyes open, kaze dey gwine ter be hot times in deze
diggin’s.’ When I come ter look at um, suh, my ginger-cakes wa’n’t hurt,
an’ de chicken-pie wuz safe an’ soun’ ’cep’ dat er little er de gravy had
sorter run out. When I git thoo brushin’ an’ cleanin’ um, I look up, I
did, an’ dar wuz Marse Bolivar Blasengame walkin’ up an’ down right close
at me. You oughter know ’im, suh, him an’ Marse Tumlin married sisters,
an’ dey wuz ez thick ez two peas in a pod. So I ’low, ‘Won’t you have a
ginger-cake, Marse Bolivar? I’d offer you de pie, but I’m savin’ dat fer
Miss Vallie.’ He say he don’t b’lieve his appetite run ter cakes an’ pies
right dat minnit. Dat make me eye ’im, suh, an’ he look like he mighty
glum ’bout sump’n. He des walk up an’ down, up an’ down, wid his han’s in
his pockets. It come back ter me atterwards, but I ain’t pay no ’tention
den, dat de folks all ’roun’ town wuz kinder ’spectin’ anudder fuss. Dey
wuz all standin’ in clumps here an’ dar, some in de middle er de street,
an’ some on de sidewalks, but dey wa’n’t nobody close ter me ’cep’ Marse
Bolivar. Look like dey wuz givin’ us elbow room.

[Illustration: “An’ he sot dar, suh, wid his haid ’twix’ his han’s fer I
dunner how long.”]

“De bigges’ clump er folks, suh, wuz down at de public well, at de fur
side er de squar’, an’ I notice dey kep’ movin’, now dis way, an’ now
dat, sorter swayin’ like some un wuz shovin’ um ’bout an’ pushin’ um
’roun’. An’ dat des de way it wuz, ’kaze ’twa’n’t long ’fo’ somebody
broke loose fum um an’ come runnin’ to’rds whar I wuz settin’ at.

“I know’d in a minnit, suh, dat wuz Bill-Tom Birch. He wuz holdin’ his
han’ on his wes’cut pocket fer ter keep his watch fum fallin’ out. He
come runnin’ up, suh, an’ he wuz so mad he wuz cryin’. His face wuz
workin’ des like it hurted ’im. He holler at me. ‘Is you de——?’ I won’t
name de name what he call me, suh. But I know ef he’d ’a’ been a nigger
I’d ’a’ got up fum dar an’ brained ’im. I ain’t say nothin’. I des sot
dar an’ look at ’im.

“Well, suh, he jerk a cowhide fum under his cloze—he had it run down his
britches leg, an’ say, ‘I’ll show you how you _erfuse_ ter sell pies when
a gemman want ter buy um.’ I dunner what I’d ’a’ done, suh, ef he’d ’a’
hit me, but he ain’t hit me. Marse Bolivar walk right ’twix’ us an’ ’low,
‘You’ll settle dis wid me, right here an’ now.’ Wid dat, Bill-Tom Birch
step back an’ say, ‘Colonel, does you take it up?’ Marse Bolivar ’low,
‘Dat’s what I’m here fer.’ Bill-Tom Birch step back a little furder and
make as ef ter draw his pistol, but his han’ ain’t got ter his pocket
’fo’ _bang!_ went Marse Bolivar’s gun, an’ down went Bill-Tom Birch, des
like somebody tripped ’im up.

“I know mighty well, suh, dat I ain’t no hard-hearted nigger—anybody what
know me will tell you dat—but when dat man drapt, I ain’t keer no mo’ dan
ef he’d ’a’ been a mad dog. Dat’s de Lord’s trufe, ef I ever tol’ it. I
ain’t know wharbouts de ball hit ’im, an’ I wa’n’t keerin’. Marse Bolivar
ain’t move out’n he tracks. He stood dar, he did, an’ bresh de cap off’n
de bairl what shot, an’ fix it fer ter shoot ag’in. ’Twuz one er deze yer
ervolvers, suh, what move up a notch er two when you pull de trigger.

[Illustration: “You’ll settle dis wid me.”]

“Well, suh, time de pistol went off, folks come runnin’ fum eve’ywhars.
Salem Birch, he come runnin’ ’cross de public squar’, bekaze he had de
idee dat sump’n done happen. Marse Bolivar, he see Salem Birch a-comin’,
an’ he walk out fum de crowd ter meet ’im. Dat make me feel sorter
quare, kaze hit look like he wuz gwine ter shoot de man down. But Salem
Birch seed ’im, an’ he stop an’ say, ‘Colonel, what de name er God is de
matter?’ Marse Bolivar make answer, ‘Salem, I had ter shoot yo’ bre’r.’
Salem Birch say, ‘Is he dead?’ Marse Bolivar ’spon’, ‘He ain’t nigh dead.
I put de ball ’twix’ de hip an’ de knee-j’int. He’ll be up in a week.’
Salem Birch say, ‘Colonel, I thank you fer dat. Will you shake han’s?’
Marse Bolivar say dey ain’t nothin’ suit ’im better, bekaze he ain’t got
a thing ag’in’ de Birches.

“An’ ’twuz des like Marse Bolivar say. Bill-Tom Birch wuz wuss skeer’d
dan hurt, an’ ’twa’n’t long ’fo’ he wuz well. Salem Birch, he went off
ter Texas, an’ dem what been dar an’ come back, say dat he’s one er
deze yer ervival preachers, gwine ’bout doin’ good an’ takin’ up big
collections. Dat what dey say, an’ I hope it’s des dat way. I don’t
begrudge nobody de money dey makes preachin’ ter sinners, bekaze hit’s
des natchally w’arin’ ter de flesh.”

At this juncture Aunt Minervy Ann called to Hamp and informed him, in
autocratic tones, that it was time to cut wood with which to cook dinner.

“I don’t keer ef you is been ter de legislatur’,” she added, “you better
cut dat wood, an’ cut it quick.”

I suggested that she had started to tell me about Paul Conant’s shoulder,
but had neglected to do so.

“Ain’t I tell you ’bout dat? Well, ef dat don’t bang my time! Hamp, you
hear dat? You better go an’ make ’rangements fer ter have me put in de
as’lum, bekaze I sho’ I’s gittin’ light-headed. Well, suh, dat beats all!
But I’ll tell you ’bout it ’fo’ you go back.”

Then Aunt Minervy Ann went to see about dinner.




VI

HOW SHE AND MAJOR PERDUE FRAILED OUT THE GOSSETT BOYS


During the progress of the fair, there was some discussion of financial
matters in Major Perdue’s family. As I remember, someone had given Paul
Conant a check which was thrown out by the Atlanta bank on which it was
drawn. The sum was not a considerable one, but it was sufficiently large
to attract Aunt Minervy Ann’s attention.

“I ’speck dey got mo’ banks in Atlanty dan what we-all got down here,”
she remarked, the next time I had an opportunity to talk with her. She
laughed so heartily as she made the remark that I regarded her with some
astonishment. “You may look, suh, but I ain’t crazy. When I hear anybody
say ‘bank’ it allers puts me in min’ er de time when me an’ Marse Tumlin
frailed out de Gossett boys.”

“Frailed out the Gossett boys?” I exclaimed.

“Yasser, frailed is de word.”

“But what has that to do with a bank?” I inquired.

“Hit got all ter do wid it, suh,” she replied. We were in the
sitting-room, and Aunt Minervy Ann sank down on a footstool and rested
one arm on the lounge. “Right atter freedom dey wa’n’t nothin’ like no
bank down whar we live at; you know dat yo’se’f, suh. Folks say dat banks
kin run widout money, but ’fo’ you start um, dey got ter have money, er
sump’n dat look like money. An’ atter freedom dey wa’n’t no money ’roun’
here ’cep’ dat kin’ what nobody ain’t hankerin’ atter.

“But bimeby it ’gun ter dribble in fum some’rs; fus’ dem ar little
shinplasters, an’ den de bigger money come ’long. It kep’ on dribblin’
in an’ dribblin’ in twel atter while you could git a dollar here an’ dar
by workin’ yo’ han’s off, er spraining’ yo’ gizzard to git it. Bimeby de
news got norated ’roun’ dat ol’ Joshaway Gossett gwine ter start a bank.
Yasser! ol’ Joshaway Gossett. Dat make folks open der eyes an’ shake der
head. I ’member de time, suh, when ol’ Joshaway wuz runnin’ a blacksmith
shop out in de country. Den he sot in ter make waggins. Atter dat, he
come ter be overseer fer Marse Bolivar Blasengame, but all de time he
wuz overseein’ he wuz runnin’ de blacksmith shop an’ de waggin fact’ry.

“When de war come on, suh, dey say dat ol’ Joshaway tuck all de money
what he been savin’ an’ change it inter gol’; de natchul stuff. An’ he
had a pile un it. He kep’ dat up all endurin’ er de turmoil, and by de
time freedom come out he had mo’ er de natchul stuff dan what Cyarter
had oats. Dat what folks say, suh, an’ when eve’ybody talk one way you
may know dey ain’t fur fum de trufe. Anyhow, de word went ’roun’ dat ol’
Joshaway gwine ter start a bank. Folks wa’n’t ’stonished ’kaze he had
money, but bekaze he gwine ter start a bank, an’ he not much mo’ dan
knowin’ B fum bullfoot. Some snicker, some laugh, an’ some make fun er
ol’ Joshaway, but Marse Tumlin say dat ef he know how ter shave a note,
he bleeze ter know how ter run a bank. I ain’t never see nobody shave a
note, suh, but dat ’zackly what Marse Tumlin say.

“But ol’ Joshaway, he ain’t a-keerin’ what folks say. He start de bank,
an’ he kep’ it up twel de time I’m gwine tell you ’bout. He bought ’im
a big strong safe, an’ he had it walled up in de back er de bank, an’
dar ’twuz. Don’t make no diffunce what folks say ’bout ol’ Joshaway, dey
can’t say he ain’t honest. He gwine ter have what’s his’n, an’ he want
yuther folks fer ter have what’s der’n. When dat de case, ’tain’t no
trouble ter git folks ter trus’ you. Dey put der money in ol’ Joshaway’s
bank, whar he kin take keer un it, bekaze dey know’d he wa’n’t gwine ter
run off wid it.

“Well, suh, de bank wuz runnin’ ’long des like ’twuz on skids, an’ de
skids greased. Ol’ Joshaway ain’t move ter town, but he hired ’im a
clerk, an’ de clerk stayed in de bank night an’ day, an’ I hear folks say
de town wuz better’n bigger on ’count er ol’ Joshaway’s bank. I dunner
how dey make dat out, ’kaze de bank wa’n’t much bigger dan de kitchen
back dar. Anyhow, dar she wuz, and dar she stayed fer a time an’ a time.

“But one day Marse Tumlin Perdue tuck de notion dat he got ter borry some
money. He seed yuther folks gwine in dar an’ borryin’ fum ol’ Joshaway,
an’ he know he got des ez much bizness fer ter borry ez what dey is. Mo’
dan dat, when he had plenty er money an’ niggers, he done ol’ Joshaway
many a good turn. I know’d dat myse’f, suh, an’ ’tain’t no hearsay; I
done seed it wid my own eyes. On de day I’m talkin’ ’bout, Miss Vallie
sont me up town fer ter ax Marse Tumlin kin he spar’ two dollars—dat wuz
befo’ Miss Vallie wuz married; ’bout a mont’ befo’, an’ she wuz makin’
up her weddin’ fixin’s.

“’Twa’n’t no trouble ter fin’ Marse Tumlin. He wuz settin’ in de shade
wid a passel er men. He seed me, he did, an’ he come ter meet me. When
I tell ’im what Miss Vallie want, he kinder scratch his head an’ look
sollum. He studied a minit, an’ den he tell me ter come go ’long wid
’im. He cut ’cross de squar’ an’ went right ter ol’ Joshaway’s bank, me
a-follerin’ right at his heels. He went in, he did, an’ ’low, ‘Hello,
Joshaway!’ Ol’ Joshaway, he say, ‘Howdy, Maje?’ He wuz settin’ in dar
behime a counter what had wire palin’s on top un it, an’ he look fer all
de worl’ like some ongodly creetur what dey put in a cage for ter keep
’im fum doin’ devilment.

“Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘Joshaway, I want ter borry a hunderd dollars for a
mont’ er so.’ Ol’ Joshaway kinder change his cud er terbacker fum one
side ter de yuther, an’ cle’r up his th’oat. He say, ‘Maje, right dis
minit, I ain’t got fifty dollars in de bank.’ Nigger ez I is, I know’d
dat wuz a lie, an’ I couldn’t help fum gruntin’ ef I wuz gwine to be kilt
fer it. At dat ol’ Joshaway look up. Marse Tumlin stood dar drummin’ on
de counter. Bimeby ol’ Joshaway say, ’Spoze’n I had it, Maje, who you
gwine git fer yo’ skyority?’ des so. Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘Fer my what?”
‘Fer yo’ skyority,’ sez ol’ Joshaway. I up an’ say, ‘Des lissen at dat!’
Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘Who went yo’ skyority when I use ter loan you money?’
‘Times is done change, Maje,’ sez ol’ Joshaway. Marse Tumlin flirted de
little gate open, an’ went ’roun’ in dar so quick it made my head swim.
He say, ‘_I_ ain’t change!’ an’ wid dat, he took ol’ Joshaway by de
coat-collar an’ cuff’d ’im ’roun’ considerbul. He ain’t hurt ol’ Joshaway
much, but he call ’im some names dat white folks don’t fling at one an’er
widout dey’s gwine ter be blood-lettin’ in de neighborhoods.

“Den Marse Tumlin come out fum behime de counter, an’ stood in de do’ an’
look up town. By dat time I wuz done out on de sidewalk, ’kaze I don’t
want no pistol-hole in my hide. When it come ter fa’r fis’ an’ skull, er
a knock-down an’ drag-out scuffle, I’m wid you; I’m right dar; but deze
yer guns an’ pistols what flash an’ bang an’ put out yo’ lights—an’ maybe
yo’ liver—when it come ter dem, I lots druther be on t’er side de fence.
Well, suh, I fully ’spected ol’ Joshaway to walk out atter Marse Tumlin
wid de double-bairl gun what I seed behime de counter; an’ Marse Tumlin
’spected it, too, ’kaze he walk up an’ down befo’ de bank, an’ eve’y once
in a while he’d jerk his wescut down in front like he tryin’ ter t’ar de
bindin’ off. Bimeby I see Marse Bolivar Blasengame git up fum whar he
settin’ at, an’ here he come, swingin’ his gol’-head cane, an’ sa’nt’in’
’long like he gwine on a promenade.

“I know’d by dat, suh, dat Marse Bolivar been watchin’ Marse Tumlin’s
motions, an’ he seed dat trouble er some kind wuz on han’. He walk up, he
did, an’ atter he cut his eye at Marse Tumlin, he turn ter me an’ laugh
ter hisse’f—he had de purtiest front teef you mos’ ever is see, suh—an’
he ’low, ‘Well, dang my buttons, ef here ain’t ol’ Minervy Ann, de
warhoss fum Wauhoo! Wharsomever dey’s trouble, dar’s de ol’ warhoss fum
Wauhoo.’ Wid dat, he lock arms wid Marse Tumlin, an’ dey march off down
de street, me a-follerin’. You ain’t kin fin’ two men like dem anywhar
an’ eve’ywhar. Dey wa’n’t no blood-kin—dey married sisters—but dey wuz
lots closer dan br’ers. Hit one an’ you’d hurt de yuther, an’ den ef you
wa’n’t ready ter git in a scuffle wid two wil’-cats, you better leave
town twel dey cool off.

“Well, suh, dey ain’t took many steps ’fo’ dey wuz laughin’ an’ jokin’
des like two boys. Ez we went up de street Marse Tumlin drapt in a sto’
er two an’ tol’ um dat ol’ Joshaway Gossett vow’d dat he ain’t got fifty
cash dollars in de bank. Dish yer money news is de kin’ what spreads, an’
don’t you fergit it. It spread dat day des like powder ketchin’ fire an’
’twa’n’t no time ’fo’ you could see folks runnin’ ’cross de squar’ des
like dey er rabbit-huntin’, an’ by dinner-time dey wa’n’t no bank dar no
mo’ dan a rabbit. Folks say dat ol’ Joshaway try mighty hard ter ’splain
matters, but dem what had der money in dar say dey’d take de spondulix
fus’ an’ listen ter de ’splainin’ atterwards. ’Long to’rds de noon-hour
ol’ Joshaway hatter fling up his han’s. All de ready money done gone, an’
folks at de do’ hollin’ fer dat what dey put in dar. I dunner how he ever
got ’way fum dar, ’kaze dey wuz men in dat crowd ripe ter kill ’im; but
he sneaked out an’ went home, an’ lef’ some un else fer ter win’ up de
shebang.

“De bank wuz des ez good ez any bank, an’ folks got back all dey put in
dar des ez soon ez dey’d let ol’ Joshaway show his head in town; but he
drapt dat kinder bizness an’ went back ter farmin’ an’ note-shavin’.
An’ all bekaze he want skyority fer Marse Tumlin, which his word des ez
good ez his bon’. He mought not er had de money when de clock struck de
minit, but what diffunce do dat make when you know a man’s des ez good ez
gol’? Huh! no wonder dey broke ol’ Joshaway down!”

Aunt Minervy Ann’s indignation was a fine thing to behold. Her scorn
of the man who wanted Major Perdue to put up security for his note was
as keen and as bitter as it had been the day the episode occurred. She
paused at this point as if her narrative had come to an end. Therefore, I
put in a suggestion.

“Was this what you call frailing out the Gossett boys?”

“No, suh,” she protested, with a laugh; “all deze yer gwines-on ’bout dat
ar bank wuz des de ’casion un it. You bleeze ter know dem Gossett boys,
suh. Dey had sorter cool down by de time you come here, but dey wuz still
ripe fer any devilment dat come ’long. Dar wuz Rube an’ Sam an’ John
Henry, an’ a’er one un um wuz big ez a hoss. Dey use ter come ter town
eve’y Chuseday an’ Sat’day, an’ by dinner-time dey’d be a-whoopin’ an’
hollin’ in de streets, an’ a-struttin’ ’roun’ mashin’ folks’ hats down on
der eyes. Not all de folks, but some un um. An’ all fer fun; dat what dey
say.

“Tooby sho’, dey had a spite ag’in Marse Tumlin and Marse Bolivar atter
de bank busted. Dey show’d it by gwine des so fur; dey’d fling out der
hints; but dey kep’ on de safe side, ’kaze Marse Tumlin wa’n’t de man fer
ter go ’roun’ huntin’ a fuss, ner needer wuz Marse Bolivar; but fetch a
fuss an’ lay it in der laps, ez you may say, an’ dey’d play wid it an’
dandle it, an’ keep it fum ketchin’ col’. Dey sho’ would, suh. When dem
Gossett boys’d come ter town, Marse Tumlin an’ Marse Bolivar would des
set’ ’roun’ watchin’ um, des waitin’ twel dey cross de dead-line. But it
seem like dey know des how fur ter go, an’ right whar ter stop.

“Well, suh, it went on dis away fer I dunner how long, but bimeby, one
day, our ol’ cow got out, an’ ’stidder hangin’ ’roun’ an’ eatin’ de grass
in de streets like any yuther cow would ’a’ done, she made a straight
shoot fer de plantation whar she come fum.

“Miss Vallie tol’ Marse Tumlin ’bout it, an’ he say he gwine atter her.
Den some er de niggers in de nex’ lot tol’ me dat de cow wuz out an’
gone, an’ I put out atter her, too, not knowin’ dat Marse Tumlin wuz
gwine. He went de front street an’ I went de back way. Ef de town wuz
big ez de streets is long, we’d have a mighty city down here; you know
dat yo’se’f, suh. De place whar de back street jines in wid de big road
is mighty nigh a mile fum de tempunce hall, an’ when I got dar, dar wuz
Marse Tumlin polin’ ’long. I holler an’ ax ’im whar he gwine. He say he
gwine atter a glass er milk. Den he ax me whar I gwine. I say I’m gwine
atter dat ol’ frame dat nigh-sighted folks call a cow. He ’low dat he’d
be mighty thankful ef de nex’ time I tuck a notion fer ter turn de cow
out I’d tell ’im befo’han’ so he kin run ’roun’ an’ head ’er off an’
drive ’er back. He wuz constant a-runnin’ on dat away. He’d crack his
joke, suh, ef he dyin’.

“We went trudgin’ ’long twel we come ’pon de big hill dat leads down ter
de town branch. You know de place, suh. De hill mighty steep, an’ on bofe
sides er de road der’s a hedge er Cherrykee roses; some folks calls um
Chickasaw; but Chicky er Cherry, dar dey wuz, growin’ so thick a rabbit
can’t hardly squeeze thoo um. On one side dey wuz growin’ right on de
aidge uv a big gully, an’ at one place de groun’ wuz kinder caved in, an’
de briar vines wuz swayin’ over it.

“Well, suh, des ez we got on de hill-top, I hear a buggy rattlin’ an’
den I hear laughin’ an’ cussin’. I lookt ’roun’, I did, an’ dar wuz de
Gossett boys, two in de buggy an’ one ridin’ hossback; an’ all un um full
er dram. I could tell dat by de way dey wuz gwine on. You could hear um a
mile, cussin’ one an’er fer eve’ything dey kin think un an’ den laughin’
’bout it. Sump’n tol’ me dey wuz gwine ter be a rumpus, bekaze three ter
one wuz too good a chance for de Gossett boys ter let go by. I dunner
what make me do it, but when we got down de hill a little piece, I stoop
down, I did, an’ got me a good size rock.

“Terreckly here dey come. Dey kinder quiet down when dey see me an’ Marse
Tumlin. Dey driv up, dey did, an’ driv on by, an’ dis make me b’lieve dat
dey wuz gwine on ’bout der bizness an’ let we-all go on ’bout our’n, but
dat idee wa’n’t in der head. Dey driv by, dey did, an’ den dey pulled
up. We walkt on, an’ Marse Tumlin lookt at um mighty hard. Rube, he was
drivin’, an’ ez we come up even wid um, he ’low, ‘Major Perdue, I hear
tell dat you slap my pa’s face not so mighty long ago.’ Marse Tumlin say,
‘I did, an’ my han’ ain’t clean yit.’ He helt it out so dey kin see fer
deyse’f. ‘I b’lieve,’ sez Rube, ‘I’ll take a closer look at it.’ Wid dat
he lipt out er de buggy, an’ by de time he hit de groun’, Marse Tumlin
had knockt ’im a-windin’ wid his curly-hick’ry walkin’-cane. By dat
time, John Henry had jumpt out’n de buggy, an’ he went at Marse Tumlin
wid a dirk-knife. He kep’ de cane off’n his head by dodgin’, but Marse
Tumlin hit a back lick an’ knock de knife out’n his han’ an’ den dey
clincht. Den Rube got up, an’ start to’rds um on de run.

“Well, suh, I wuz skeer’d an’ mad bofe. I seed sump’n had ter be done,
an’ dat mighty quick; so I tuck atter Rube, cotch ’m by de ellybows,
shoved ’im ahead faster dan he wuz gwine, an’ steer’d ’im right to’rds
de caved-in place in de brier-bushes. He tried mighty hard ter stop, but
he wuz gwine down hill, an’ I had de Ol’ Boy in me. I got ’im close ter
de place, suh, an’ den I gi’ ’m a shove, an’ inter de briers he went,
head over heels. All dis time I had de rock in my han’. By de time I turn
’roun’ I see Sam a-comin’. When de rumpus start up, his hoss shied an’
made a break down de hill wid ’im, but he slew’d ’im ’roun’, an’ jumped
off, an’ here he come back, his face red, his hat off, an’ ol’ Nick
hisse’f lookin’ out’n his eyes. I know’d mighty well I can’t steer him
inter no brier-bush, an’ so when he run by me I let ’im have de rock in
de burr er de year. ’Twa’n’t no light lick, suh; I wuz plum venomous by
den; an’ he went down des like a beef does when you knock ’im in de head
wid a ax.”

Aunt Minervy Ann, all unconscious of her attitudes and gestures, had
risen from the floor, and now stood in the middle of the room, tall,
towering, and defiant.

“Den I run ter whar Marse Tumlin an’ John Henry Gossett had been
scufflin’; but by de time I got dar John Henry squalled out dat he had
’nuff; an’ he wa’n’t tellin’ no lie, suh, fer Marse Tumlin had ketched
his cane up short, an’ he used it on dat man’s face des like you see
folks do wid ice-picks. He like to ’a’ ruint ’im. But when he holla dat
he got ’nuff, Marse Tumlin let ’im up. He let ’im up, he did, an’ sorter
step back. By dat time Rube wuz a-climbin’ out’n de briers, an’ Sam wuz
makin’ motions like he comin’-to. Marse Tumlin say, ‘Lemme tell you
cowardly rascals one thing. De nex’ time a’er one un you bat his eye at
me, I’m gwine ter put a hole right spang th’oo you. Ef you don’t b’lieve
it, you kin start ter battin’ um right now.’ Wid dat, he draw’d out his
ervolver an’ kinder played wid it. Rube say, ‘We’ll drap it, Major; we
des had a little too much licker. But I’ll not drap it wid dat nigger
dar. I’ll pay her fer dis day’s work, an’ I’ll pay ’er well.’

“Well, suh, de way he say it set me on fire. I stept out in de middle er
de road, an’ ’low, ‘_Blast yo’ rotten heart, ef you’ll des walk out here
I’ll whip you in a fa’r fight. Fight me wid yo’ naked han’s an’ I’ll eat
you up, ef I hatter pizen myse’f ter do it._’”

Once more Aunt Minervy Ann brought the whole scene mysteriously before
me. Her eyes gleamed ferociously, her body swayed, and her outstretched
arm trembled with the emotion she had resummoned from the past. We were
on the spot. The red hill-side, the hedges of Cherokee roses, Major
Perdue grim and erect, Sam Gossett struggling to his feet, John Henry
wiping his beaten face, Rube astounded at the unwonted violence of a
negro woman, the buggy swerved to one side by the horse searching for
grass—all these things came into view and slowly faded away. Aunt Minervy
Ann, suddenly recollecting herself, laughed sheepishly.

“I ain’t tellin’ you no lie, suh, dat ar Rube Gossett stood dar like de
little boy dat de calf run over. He mought er had sump’n ugly ter say,
but Marse Tumlin put in. He ’low, ‘Don’t you fool yo’se’f ’bout dis
nigger ’oman. When you hit her you hits me. Befo’ you put yo’ han’ on ’er
you come an’ spit in my face. You’ll fin’ dat lots de cheapes’ way er
gittin’ de dose what I got fer dem what hurts Minervy Ann.’

“Well, suh, dis make me feel so funny dat a little mo’ an’ I’d a got ter
whimperin’, but I happen ter look ’roun’, an’ dar wuz our ol’ cow lookin’
at me over a low place in de briers. She done got in de fiel’ by a gap
back up de road, an’ dar she wuz a-lookin’ at us like she sorry. Wid me,
suh, de diffunce ’twixt laughin’ an’ cryin’ ain’t thicker dan a fly’s
wing, an’ when I see dat ol’ cow lookin’ like she ready ter cry, I wuz
bleeze to laugh. Marse Tumlin look at me right hard, but I say, ‘Marse
Tumlin, ol’ June lis’nin’ at us,’ an’ den _he_ laughed.

“Dem Gossett boys brush deyse’f off good ez dey kin an’ den dey put out
fer home. Soon ez dey git out er sight, Marse Tumlin started in ter
projickin’. He walk all ’roun’ me a time er two, an’ den he blow out his
breff like folks does when dey er kinder tired. He look at me, an’ say,
‘_Well, I be dam!_’ ‘Dat would ’a’ been de word,’ sez I, ‘ef ol’ Minervy
Ann hadn’t ’a’ been here dis day an’ hour.’ He shuck his head slow. ‘You
hit de mark dat time,’ sez he; ‘ef you hadn’t ’a’ been here, Minervy
Ann, dem boys would sholy ’a’ smasht me; but ef I hadn’t ’a’ been here,
I reely b’lieve you’d ’a’ frailed out de whole gang. You had two whipt,
Minervy Ann, an’ you wuz hankerin’ fer de yuther one. I’ll hatter sw’ar
ter de facts ’fo’ anybody’ll b’lieve um.’ I ’low ‘’Tain’t no use ter tell
nobody, Marse Tumlin. Folks think I’m bad ’nuff now.’

“But, _shoo!_ Marse Tumlin would ’a’ mighty nigh died ef he couldn’t tell
’bout dat day’s work. I ain’t min’ dat so much, but it got so dat when de
Gossetts come ter town an’ start ter prankin’, de town boys ’ud call um
by name, an’ holla an’ say, ‘You better watch out dar! Minervy Ann Perdue
comin’ ’roun’ de cornder!’ Dat wuz so errytatin’, suh, dat it kyo’d um.
Dey drapt der dram-drinkin’ an’ spreein’, an’ now dey er high in Horeb
Church. Dey don’t like me, suh, an’ no wonder; but ef dey kin git ter
hev’m widout likin’ me, I’d be glad ter see um go.

“Well, suh, I call de ol’ cow, an’ she foller long on ’er side er de
briers, an’ when she got whar de gap wuz, she curl ’er tail over ’er back
an’ put out fer home, des for all de worl’ like she glad ’kaze me an’
Marse Tumlin frailed out de Gossett boys.

“I say, ‘Marse Tumlin, I’m a member er de church an’ I don’t b’lieve in
fightin’, but ef we hadn’t er fit wid dem Gossetts we’d ’a’ never foun’
dat ol’ cow in de roun’ worl’.’ He ’low, ‘An’ ef we hadn’t er fit wid um,
Minervy Ann, I’d ’a’ never know’d who ter take wid me fer ter keep de
boogerman fum gittin’ me.’

“Dat night, suh, Marse Bolivar Blasengame come rappin’ at my do’. Hamp
wuz done gone ter bed, an’ I wuz fixin’ ter go. Marse Bolivar come in, he
did, an’ shuck han’s wid me like he ain’t seed me sence de big war. Den
he sot down over ag’in’ me an’ look at me, an’ make me tell ’im all ’bout
de rumpus. Well, suh, he got ter laughin’, an’ he laughed twel he can’t
hardly set in de cheer. He say, ‘Minervy Ann, ef dem folks say a word ter
hurt yo’ feelin’s, don’t tell Tumlin. Des come a-runnin’ ter me. He done
had his han’s on um, an’ now I want ter git mine on um.’

“Dat ’uz de way wid Marse Bolivar. He wa’n’t no great han’ ter git in a
row, but he wuz mighty hard ter git out’n one when he got in. When he
start out he stop on de step an’ say, ‘Minervy Ann, I didn’t know you wuz
sech a rank fighter.’ ‘I’m a Perdue,’ sez I. Wid dat he got ter laughin’,
an’ fur ez I kin hear ’im he wuz still a-laughin’. He b’longed ter a
mighty fine fambly, suh; you know dat yo’se’f.”




VII

MAJOR PERDUE’S BARGAIN


When next I had an opportunity to talk with Aunt Minervy Ann, she
indulged in a hearty laugh before saying a word, and it was some time
before she found her voice.

“What is so funny to-day?” I inquired.

“Me, suh—nothin’ tall ’bout me, an’ ’tain’t only ter-day, nudder. Hit’s
eve’y day sence I been big ’nuff fer to see myse’f in de spring branch. I
laughed den, an’ I laugh now eve’y time I see myse’f in my min’—ef I’ got
any min’. I wuz talkin’ ter Hamp las’ night an’ tellin’ ’im how I start
in ter tell you sump’n ’bout Marse Paul Conant’ shoulder, an’ den eend up
by tellin’ you eve’ything else I know but dat.

“Hamp ’low, he did, ‘Dat ain’t nothin’, bekaze when I ax you ter marry
me, you start in an’ tell me ’bout a nigger gal’ cross dar in Jasper
County, which she make promise fer ter marry a man an’ she crossed her
heart; an’ den when de time come she stood up an’ marry ’im an’ fin’ out
’tain’t de same man, but somebody what she ain’t never see’ befo’.’

“I ’speck dat’s so, suh, bekaze dey wuz sump’n like dat happen in Jasper
County. You know de Waters fambly—dey kep’ race-hosses. Well, suh, ’twuz
right on der plantation. Warren Waters tol’ me ’bout dat hisse’f. He wuz
de hoss-trainer, an’ he ’uz right dar on de groun’. When de gal done
married, she look up an’ holler, ‘You ain’t my husban’, bekaze I ain’t
make no promise fer ter marry you.’ De man he laugh, an’ say, ‘Don’t need
no promise atter you done married.’

“Well, suh, dey say dat gal wuz skeer’d—skeer’d fer true. She sot an’
look in de fire. De man sot an’ look at ’er. She try ter slip out de do’,
an’ he slipped wid ’er. She walked to’rds de big house, an’ he walkt wid
’er. She come back, an’ he come wid ’er. She run an’ he run wid ’er. She
cry an’ he laugh at ’er. She dunner what to do. Bimeby she tuck a notion
dat de man mought be de Ol’ Boy hisse’f, an’ she drapped down on her
knees an’ ’gun ter pray. Dis make de man restless; look like he frettin’.
Den he ’gun ter shake like he havin’ chill. Den he slip down out’n de
cheer. Den he got on his all-fours. Den his cloze drapped off, an’ bless
gracious! dar he wuz, a great big black shaggy dog wid a short chain
roun’ his neck. Some un um flung a chunk of fire at ’im, an’ he run out
howlin’.

“Dat wuz de last dey seed un ’im, suh. Dey flung his cloze in de fire,
an’ dey make a blaze dat come plum out’n de top er de chimbley stack. Dat
what make me tell Hamp ’bout it, suh. He ax me fer ter marry ’im, an’ I
wan’t so mighty sho’ dat he wan’t de Ol’ Boy.”

“Well, that is queer, if true,” said I, “but how about Mr. Conant’s
crippled shoulder?”

“Oh, it’s de trufe, suh. Warren Waters tol’ me dat out’n his own mouf,
an’ he wuz right dar. I dunno but what de gal wuz some er his kinnery. I
don’t min’ tellin’ you dat ’bout Marse Paul, suh, but you mustn’t let on
’bout it, bekaze Marse Tumlin an’ Miss Vallie des’ ez tetchous ’bout dat
ez dey kin be. I’d never git der fergivunce ef dey know’d I was settin’
down here tellin’ ’bout dat.

“You know how ’twuz in dem days. De folks what wuz de richest wuz de
wussest off when de army come home from battlin’. I done tol’ you ’bout
Marse Tumlin. He ain’t had nothin’ in de roun’ worl’ but a whole passel
er lan’, an’ me an’ Miss Vallie. I don’t count Hamp, bekaze Hamp ’fuse
ter b’lieve he’s free twel he ramble ’roun’ an’ fin’ out de patterollers
ain’t gwine ter take ’im up. Dat how come I had ter sell ginger-cakes an’
chicken-pies dat time. De money I made at dat ain’t last long, bekaze
Marse Tumlin he been use’ ter rich vittles, an’ he went right down-town
an’ got a bottle er chow-chow, an’ some olives, an’ some sardines, an’
some cheese, an’ you know yo’se’f, suh, dat money ain’t gwine ter las’
when you buy dat kin’ er doin’s.

“Well, suh, we done mighty well whiles de money helt out, but ’tain’t
court-week all de time, an’ when dat de case, money got ter come fum
some’rs else ’sides sellin’ cakes an’ pies. Bimeby, Hamp he got work at
de liberty stable, whar dey hire out hosses an’ board um. I call it a
hoss tavern, suh, but Hamp, he ’low its a liberty stable. Anyhow, he got
work dar, an’ dat sorter he’p out. Sometimes he’d growl bekaze I tuck his
money fer ter he’p out my white folks, but when he got right mad I’d gi’
Miss Vallie de wink, an’ she’d say: ‘Hampton, how’d you like ter have a
little dram ter-night? You look like youer tired.’ I could a-hugged ’er
fer de way she done it, she ’uz dat cute. An’ den Hamp, he’d grin an’
’low, ‘I ain’t honin’ fer it, Miss Vallie, but ’twon’t do me no harm,
an’ it may do me good.’

[Illustration: “Dat money ain’t gwine ter las’ when you buy dat kin’ er
doin’s.”]

“An’ den, suh, he’d set down, an’ atter he got sorter warmed up wid
de dram, he’d kinder roll his eye and ’low, ‘Miss Vallie, she is a
fine white ’oman!’ Well, suh, ’tain’t long ’fo’ we had dat nigger man
trained—done trained, bless yo’ soul! One day Miss Vallie had ter
go ’cross town, an’ she went by de liberty stable whar Hamp wuz at,
leastways, he seed ’er some’rs; an’ he come home dat night lookin’ like
he wuz feelin’ bad. He ’fuse ter talk. Bimeby, atter he had his supper,
he say, ‘I seed Miss Vallie down-town ter-day. She wuz wid Miss Irene,
an’ dat ’ar frock she had on look mighty shabby.’ I ’low, ‘Well, it de
bes’ she got. She ain’t got money like de Chippendales, an’ Miss Irene
don’t keer how folks’ cloze look. She too much quality fer dat.’ Hamp
say, ‘Whyn’t you take some er yo’ money an’ make Miss Vallie git er nice
frock?’ I ’low, ‘Whar I got any money? Hamp he hit his pocket an’ say,
‘You got it right here.’

“An’ sho’ ’nuff, suh, dat nigger man had a roll er money—mos’ twenty
dollars. Some hoss drovers had come ’long an’ Hamp made dat money by
trimmin’ up de ol’ mules dey had an’ makin’ um look young. He’s got de
art er dat, suh, an’ dey paid ’im well. Dar wuz de money, but how wuz I
gwine ter git it in Miss Vallie’s han’? I kin buy vittles an’ she not
know whar dey come fum, but when it come ter buyin’ frocks—well, suh,
hit stumped me. Dey wan’t but one way ter do it, an’ I done it. I make
like I wuz mad. I tuck de money an’ went in de house dar whar Miss Vallie
wuz sewin’ an’ mendin’. I went stompin’ in, I did, an’ when I got in I
started my tune.

“I ’low, ‘Ef de Perdues gwine ter go scandalizin’ deyse’f by trottin’
down town in broad daylight wid all kinder frocks on der back, I’m gwine
’way fum here; an’ I dun’ner but what I’ll go anyhow. ’Tain’t bekaze
dey’s any lack er money, fer here de money right here.’ Wid dat I slammed
it down on de table. ‘Dar! take dat an’ git you a frock dat’ll make you
look like sump’n when you git outside er dis house. An’ whiles you er
gittin’, git sump’n for ter put on yo’ head!’”

[Illustration: Trimmin’ Up de Ol’ Mules.]

Whether it was by reason of a certain dramatic faculty inherent in her
race that she was able to summon emotions at will, or whether it was
mere unconscious reproduction, I am not prepared to say. But certain it
is that, in voice and gesture, in tone and attitude, and in a certain
passionate earnestness of expression, Aunt Minervy Ann built up the
whole scene before my eyes with such power that I seemed to have been
present when it occurred. I felt as if she had conveyed me bodily into
the room to become a witness of the episode. She went on, still with a
frown on her face and a certain violence of tone and manner:

“I whipped ’roun’ de room a time er two, pickin’ up de cheers an’
slammin’ um down ag’in, an’ knockin’ things ’roun’ like I wuz mad.
Miss Vallie put her sewin’ down an’ lay her han’ on de money. She
’low, ‘What’s dis, Aunt Minervy Ann?’ I say, ‘Hit’s money, dat what
’tis—nothin’ but nasty, stinkin’ money! I wish dey wan’t none in de worl’
less’n I had a bairlful.’ She sorter fumble at de money wid ’er fingers.
You dunno, suh, how white an’ purty an’ weak her han’ look ter me dat
night. She ’low, ‘Aunt Minervy Ann, I can’t take dis.’ I blaze’ out at
’er, ‘You don’t haf’ter take it; you done got it! An’ ef you don’t keep
it, I’ll rake up eve’y rag an’ scrap I got an’ leave dis place. Now, you
des’ try me!’”

Again Aunt Minervy Ann summoned to her aid the passion of a moment that
had passed away, and again I had the queer experience of seeming to
witness the whole scene. She continued:

“Wid dat, I whipt out er de room an’ out er de house an’ went an’ sot
down out dar in my house whar Hamp was at. Hamp, he ’low, ‘What she say?’
I say, ‘She ain’t had time ter say nothin’—I come ’way fum dar.’ He ’low,
‘You ain’t brung dat money back, is you?’ I say: ‘Does you think I’m a
start naked fool?’ He ’low: ’Kaze ef you is, I’ll put it right spang in
de fire here.’

“Well, suh, I sot dar some little time, but eve’ything wuz so still in
de house, bein’s Marse Tumlin done gone down town, dat I crope back
an’ crope in fer ter see what Miss Vallie doin’. Well, suh, she wuz
cryin’—settin’ dar cryin’. I ’low, ‘Honey, is I say anything fer ter hurt
yo’ feelin’s?’ She blubber’ out, ‘You know you ain’t!’ an’ den she cry
good-fashion.

“Des ’bout dat time, who should come in but Marse Tumlin. He look at
Miss Vallie an’ den he look at me. He say, ‘Valentine, what de matter?’
I say, ‘It’s me! I’m de one! I made ’er cry. I done sump’n ter hurt ’er
feelin’s.’ She ’low, ‘’Tain’t so, an’ you know it. I’m des cryin’ bekaze
you too good ter me.’

[Illustration: “She wuz cryin’—settin’ dar cryin’.”]

“Well, suh, I had ter git out er dar fer ter keep fum chokin’. Marse
Tumlin foller me out, an’ right here on de porch, he ’low, ‘Minervy Ann,
nex’ time don’t be so dam good to ’er.’ I wuz doin’ some snifflin’ myse’f
’bout dat time, an’ I ain’t keerin’ what I say, so I stop an’ flung back
at ’im, ‘_I’ll be des ez dam good ter ’er ez I please—I’m free!_’ Well,
suh, stidder hittin’ me, Marse Tumlin bust out laughin’, an’ long atter
dat he’d laugh eve’y time he look at me, des like sump’n wuz ticklin’ ’im
mighty nigh ter death.

“I ’speck he must er tol’ ’bout dat cussin’ part, bekaze folks ’roun’
here done got de idee dat I’m a sassy an’ bad-tempered ’oman. Ef I had
ter work fer my livin’, suh, I boun’ you I’d be a long time findin’
a place. Atter dat, Hamp, he got in de Legislatur’, an’ it sho wuz a
money-makin’ place. Den we had eve’ything we wanted, an’ mo’ too, but
bimeby de Legislatur’ gun out, an’ den dar we wuz, flat ez flounders,
an’ de white folks don’t want ter hire Hamp des kaze he been ter de
Legislatur’; but he got back in de liberty stable atter so long a time.
Yit ’twan’t what you may call livin’.

“All dat time, I hear Marse Tumlin talkin’ ter Miss Vallie ’bout what
he call his wil’ lan’. He say he got two thousan’ acres down dar in de
wire-grass, an’ ef he kin sell it, he be mighty glad ter do so. Well,
suh, one day, long to’rds night, a two-hoss waggin driv’ in at de side
gate an’ come in de back-yard. Ol’ Ben Sadler wuz drivin’, an’ he ’low,
‘Heyo, Minervy Ann, whar you want deze goods drapped at?’ I say, ‘Hello
yo’se’f, ef you wanter hello. What you got dar, an’ who do it b’long
ter?’ He ’low, ‘Hit’s goods fer Major Tumlin Perdue, an’ whar does you
want um drapped at?’ Well, suh, I ain’t know what ter say, but I run’d
an’ ax’d Miss Vallie, an’ she say put um out anywheres ’roun’ dar, kaze
she dunner nothin’ ’bout um. So ol’ Ben Sadler, he put um out, an’ when
I come ter look at um, dey wuz a bairl er sump’n, an’ a kaig er sump’n,
an’ a box er sump’n. De bairl shuck like it mought be ’lasses, an’ de
kaig shuck like it mought be dram, an’ de box hefted like it mought be
terbarker. An’, sho’ ’nuff, dat what dey wuz—a bairl er sorghum syr’p,
an’ a kaig er peach brandy, an’ a box er plug terbarker.

[Illustration: “Here come a nigger boy leadin’ a bob-tail hoss.”]

“I say right den, an’ Miss Vallie’ll tell you de same, dat Marse Tumlin
done gone an’ swap off all his wil’ lan’, but Miss Vallie, she say no; he
won’t never think er sech a thing; but, bless yo’ soul, suh, she wan’t
nothin’ but a school-gal, you may say, an’ she ain’t know no mo’ ’bout
men folks dan what a weasel do. An den, right ’pon top er dat, here come
a nigger boy leadin’ a bob-tail hoss. When I see dat, I dez good ez
know’d dat de wil’ lan’ done been swap off, bekaze Marse Tumlin ain’t
got nothin’ fer ter buy all dem things wid, an’ I tell you right now,
suh, I wuz rank mad, kaze what we want wid any ol’ bob-tail hoss? De
sorghum mought do, an’ de dram kin be put up wid, an’ de terbarker got
some comfort in it, but what de name er goodness we gwine ter do wid dat
ol’ hoss, when we ain’t got hardly ’nuff vittles fer ter feed ourse’f
wid? Dat what I ax Miss Vallie, an’ she say right pine-blank she dunno.

“Well, suh, it’s de Lord’s trufe, I wuz dat mad I dunner what I say, an’
I want keerin’ nudder, bekaze I know how we had ter pinch an’ squeeze fer
ter git ’long in dis house. But I went ’bout gittin’ supper, an’ bimeby,
Hamp, he come, an’ I tol’ ’im ’bout de ol’ bob-tail hoss, an’ he went out
an’ look at ’im. Atter while, here he come back laughin’. I say, ‘You
well ter laugh at dat ol’ hoss.’ He ’low, ‘I ain’t laughin’ at de hoss.
I’m laughin’ at you. Gal, dat de finest hoss what ever put foot on de
groun’ in dis town. Dat’s Marse Paul Conant’s trottin’ hoss. He’ll fetch
fi’ hunder’d dollars any day. What he doin’ here?’ I up an’ tol’ ’im all
I know’d, an’ he shuck his head; he ’low, ‘Gal, you lay low. Dey’s sump’n
n’er behime all dat.’

“What Hamp say sorter make me put on my studyin’-cap; but when you come
ter look at it, suh, dey wan’t nothin’ ’tall fer me ter study ’bout. All
I had ter do wuz ter try ter fin’ out what wuz behime it, an’ let it go
at dat. When Marse Tumlin come home ter supper, I know’d sump’n wuz de
matter wid ’im. I know’d it by his looks, suh. It’s sorter wid folks like
’tis wid chillun. Ef you keer sump’n ’bout um you’ll watch der motions,
and ef you watch der motions dey don’t hatter tell you when sump’n de
matter. He come in so easy, suh, dat Miss Vallie ain’t hear ’im, but I
hear de do’ screak, an’ I know’d ’twuz him. We wuz talkin’ an’ gwine on
at a mighty rate, an’ I know’d he done stop ter lisn’.

“Miss Vallie, she ’low she ’speck somebody made ’im a present er dem ar
things. I say, ‘Uh-uh, honey! don’t you fool yo’se’f. Nobody ain’t gwine
ter do dat. Our folks ain’t no mo’ like dey useter wuz, dan crabapples is
like plums. Dey done come ter dat pass dat whatsomever dey gits der han’s
on dey ’fuse ter turn it loose. All un um, ’cep’ Marse Tumlin Perdue. Dey
ain’t no tellin’ what he gun fer all dat trash. _Trash!_ Hit’s wuss’n
trash! I wish you’d go out dar an’ look at dat ol’ bob-tail hoss. Why dat
ol’ hoss wuz stove up long ’fo’ de war. By rights he ought ter be in de
bone-yard dis ve’y minnit. He won’t be here two whole days ’fo’ you’ll
see de buzzards lined up out dar on de back fence waitin’, an’ dey won’t
hatter wait long nudder. Ef dey sen’ any corn here fer ter feed dat bag
er bones wid, I’ll parch it an’ eat it myse’f ’fo’ he shill have it. Ef
anybody ’speck I’m gwine ter ’ten’ ter dat ol’ frame, deyer ’speckin’ wid
de wrong specks. I tell you dat right now.’

“All dis time Marse Tumlin wuz stan’in’ out in de hall lis’nin’. Miss
Vallie talk mighty sweet ’bout it. She say, ‘Ef dey ain’t nobody else ter
’ten’ de hoss, reckin I kin do it.’ I ’low, ‘My life er me, honey! de
nex’ news you know you’ll be hirin’ out ter de liberty stable.’

“Well, suh, my talk ’gun ter git so hot dat Marse Tumlin des had ter make
a fuss. He fumbled wid de do’ knob, an’ den come walkin’ down de hall,
an’ by dat time I wuz in de dinin’-room. I walk mighty light, bekaze ef
he say anything I want ter hear it. You can’t call it eave-drappin’, suh;
hit look ter me dat ’twuz ez much my business ez ’twuz dern, an’ I ain’t
never got dat idee out’n my head down ter dis day.

“But Marse Tumlin ain’t say nothin’, ’cep’ fer ter ax Miss Vallie ef she
feelin’ well, an’ how eve’ything wuz, but de minnit I hear ’im open his
mouf I know’d he had trouble on his min’. I can’t tell you how I know’d
it, suh, but dar ’twuz. Look like he tried to hide it, bekaze he tol’ a
whole lot of funny tales ’bout folks, an’ ’twan’t long befo’ he had Miss
Vallie laughin’ fit ter kill. But he ain’t fool me, suh.

“Bimeby, Miss Vallie, she come in de dinin’-room fer ter look atter
settin’ de table, bekaze fum a little gal she allers like ter have de
dishes fix des so. She wuz sorter hummin’ a chune, like she ain’t want’
ter talk, but I ain’t let dat stan’ in my way.

“I ’low, ‘I wish eve’ybody wuz like dat Mr. Paul Conant. I bet you right
now he been down town dar all day makin’ money han’ over fist, des ez
fast ez he can rake it in. I know it, kaze I does his washin’ and cleans
up his room fer ’im.’

“Miss Vallie say, ‘Well, what uv it? Money don’t make ’im no better’n
anybody else.’ I ’low, ‘Hit don’t make ’im no wuss; an’ den, ’sides dat,
he ain’t gwine ter let nobody swindle ’im.’

“By dat time, I hatter go out an’ fetch supper in, an’ ’tain’t take me
no time, bekaze I wuz des’ achin’ fer ter hear how Marse Tumlin come by
dem ar contraptions an’ contrivances. An’ I stayed in dar ter wait on de
table, which it ain’t need no waitin’ on.

“Atter while, I ’low, ‘Marse Tumlin, I like ter forgot ter tell you—yo’
things done come.’ He say, ‘What things, Minervy Ann?’ I ’low, ‘Dem ar
contraptions, an’ dat ar bob-tail hoss. He look mighty lean an’ hongry,
de hoss do, but Hamp he say dat’s bekaze he’s a high-bred hoss. He say
dem ar high-bred hosses won’t take on no fat, no matter how much you feed
um.’

“Marse Tumlin sorter drum on de table. Atter while he ’low, ‘Dey done
come, is dey, Minervy Ann?’ I say, ‘Yasser, dey er here right now. Hamp
puts it down dat dat ar hoss one er de gayliest creatur’s what ever make
a track in dis town.’

“Well, suh, ’tain’t no use ter tell you what else wuz said, kaze ’twan’t
much. I seed dat Marse Tumlin want gwine ter talk ’bout it, on account er
bein’ ’fear’d he’d hurt Miss Vallie’s feelin’s ef he tol’ ’er dat he done
swap off all dat wil’ lan’ fer dem ar things an’ dat ar bob-tail hoss.
Dat what he done. Yasser! I hear ’im sesso atterwards. He swap it off ter
Marse Paul Conant.

“I thank my Lord it come out all right, but it come mighty nigh bein’ de
ruination er de fambly.”

“How was that?” I inquired.

“Dat what I’m gwine ter tell you, suh. Right atter supper dat night,
Marse Tumlin say he got ter go down town fer ter see a man on some
business, an’ he ax me ef I won’t stay in de house dar wid Miss Vallie.
’Twa’n’t no trouble ter me, bekaze I’d ’a’ been on de place anyhow, an’
so when I got de kitchen cleaned up an’ de things put away, I went back
in de house whar Miss Vallie wuz at. Marse Tumlin wuz done gone.

“Miss Vallie, she sot at de table doin’ some kind er rufflin’, an’ I sot
back ag’in de wall in one er dem ar high-back cheers. What we said I’ll
never tell you, suh, bekaze I’m one er deze kinder folks what ain’t no
sooner set down an’ git still dan dey goes ter noddin’. Dat’s me. Set
me down in a cheer, high-back er low-back, an’ I’m done gone! I kin set
here on de step an’ keep des ez wide-’wake ez a skeer’d rabbit, but set
me down in a cheer—well, suh, I’d like ter see anybody keep me ’wake when
dat’s de case.

“Dar I sot in dat ar high-back cheer, Miss Vallie rufflin’ an’ flutin’
sump’n, an’ tryin’ ter make me talk, an’ my head rollin’ ’roun’ like
my neck done broke. Bimeby, _blam! blam!_ come on de do’. We got one
er dem ar jinglin’ bells now, suh, but in dem times we had a knocker,
an’ it soun’ like de roof fallin’ in. I like ter jumped out’n my skin.
Miss Vallie drapped her conflutements an’ ’low, ‘What in de worl’! Aunt
Minervy Ann, go ter de do’.’

[Illustration: “He been axin’ me lots ’bout Miss Vallie.”]

“Well, suh, I went, but I ain’t had no heart in it, bekaze I ain’t know
who it mought be, an’ whar dey come fum, an’ what dey want. But I went.
’Twuz me er Miss Vallie, an’ I want gwine ter let dat chile go, not dat
time er night, dough ’twa’n’t so mighty late.

“I open de do’ on de crack, I did, an’ ’low, ‘Who dat?’ Somebody make
answer, ‘Is de Major in, Aunt Minervy Ann?’ an’ I know’d right den it
wuz Marse Paul Conant. An’ it come over me dat he had sump’n ter do wid
sendin’ er dem contraptions, mo’ ’speshually dat ar bob-tail hoss. An’
den, too, suh, lots quicker’n I kin tell it, hit come over me dat he been
axin’ me lots ’bout Miss Vallie. All come ’cross my min’, suh, whiles I
pullin’ de do’ open.

“I ’low, I did, ‘No, suh; Marse Tumlin gone down town fer ter look atter
some business, but he sho ter come back terreckly. Won’t you come in,
suh, an’ wait fer ’im?’ He sorter flung his head back an’ laugh, saft
like, an’ say, ‘I don’t keer ef I do, Aunt Minervy Ann.’

“I ’low, ‘Walk right in de parlor, suh, an’ I’ll make a light mos’ ’fo’
you kin turn ’roun’.’ He come in, he did, an’ I lit de lamp, an’ time I
lit ’er she ’gun ter smoke. Well, suh, he tuck dat lamp, run de wick up
an’ down a time er two, an’ dar she wuz, bright ez day.

“When I went back in de room whar Miss Vallie wuz at, she wuz stan’in’
dar lookin’ skeer’d. She say, ‘Who dat?’ I ’low, ‘Hit’s Marse Paul
Conant, dat’s who ’tis.’ She say, ‘What he want?’ I ’low, ‘Nothin’ much;
he does come a-courtin’. Better jump up an’ not keep ’im waitin’.’

“Well, suh, you could ’a’ knock’d ’er down wid a fedder. She stood dar
wid ’er han’ on ’er th’oat takin’ short breffs, des like a little bird
does when it flies in de winder an’ dunner how ter fly out ag’in.

“Bimeby, she say, ‘Aunt Minervy Ann, you ought ter be ’shame or yo’se’f!
I know dat man when I see ’im, an’ dat’s all.’ I ’low, ‘Honey, you know
mighty well he ain’t come callin’. But he wanter see Marse Tumlin, an’
dey ain’t nothin’ fer ter hender you fum gwine in dar an’ makin’ ’im feel
at home while’s he waitin’.’ She sorter study awhile, an’ den she blush
up. She say, ‘I dunno whedder I ought ter.’

“Well, suh, dat settled it. I know’d by de way she look an’ talk dat she
don’t need no mo’ ’swadin’. I say, ‘All right, honey, do ez you please;
but it’s yo’ house; you er de mist’iss; an’ it’ll look mighty funny ef
dat young man got ter set in dar by hisse’f an’ look at de wall whiles
he waitin’ fer Marse Tumlin. I dunner what he’ll say, kaze I ain’t never
hear ’im talk ’bout nobody; but I know mighty well he’ll do a heap er
thinkin’.’

“Des like I tell you, suh—she skipped ’roun’ dar, an’ flung on ’er Sunday
frock, shuck out ’er curls, an’ sorter fumble’ ’roun’ wid some ribbons,
an’ dar she wuz, lookin’ des ez fine ez a fiddle, ef not finer. Den she
swep’ inter de parlor, an’, you mayn’t b’lieve it, suh, but she mighty
nigh tuck de man’s breff ’way. Mon, she wuz purty, an’ she ain’t do no
mo’ like deze eve’y-day gals dan nothin’. When she start ’way fum me,
she wuz a gal. By de time she walk up de hall an’ sweep in dat parlor,
she wuz a grown ’oman. De blush what she had on at fust stayed wid ’er
an’ look like ’twuz er natchual color, an’ her eyes shine, suh, like
she had fire in um. I peeped at ’er, suh, fum behime de curtains in de
settin’-room, an’ I know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. It’s de Lord’s trufe,
suh, ef de men folks could tote derse’f like de wimmen, an’ do one way
whiles dey feelin’ annuder way, dey wouldn’t be no livin’ in de worl’.
You take a school gal, suh, an’ she kin fool de smartest man what ever
trod shoe leather. He may talk wid ’er all day an’ half de night, an’ he
never is ter fin’ out what she thinkin’ ’bout. Sometimes de gals fools
deyse’f, suh, but dat’s mighty seldom.

“I dunner what all dey say, kaze I ain’t been in dar so mighty long
’fo’ I wuz noddin’, but I did hear Marse Paul say he des drapt in fer
’pollygize ’bout a little joke he played on Marse Tumlin. Miss Vallie ax
what wuz de joke, an’ he ’low dat Marse Tumlin wuz banterin’ folks fer
ter buy his wil’ lan’; an’ Marse Paul ax ’im what he take fer it, an’
Marse Tumlin ’low he’ll take anything what he can chaw, sop, er drink.
Dem wuz de words—chaw, sop, er drink. Wid dat, Marse Paul say he’d gi’
’im a box er terbarker, a bairl er syr’p, an’ a kaig er peach brandy an’
th’ow in his buggy-hoss fer good medjer. Marse Tumlin say ‘done’ an’ dey
shuck han’s on it. Dat what Marse Paul tol’ Miss Vallie, an he ’low he
des done it fer fun, kaze he done looked inter dat wil’ lan’, an’ he ’low
she’s wuff a pile er money.

[Illustration: “Marse Tumlin ’low he’ll take anything what he can chaw,
sop, er drink.”]

“Well, suh, ’bout dat time, I ’gun ter nod, an’ de fus news I know’d Miss
Vallie wuz whackin’ ’way on de peanner, an’ it look like ter me she wuz
des tryin’ ’erse’f. By dat time, dey wuz gettin’ right chummy, an’ so I
des curl up on de flo’, an’ dream dat de peanner chunes wuz comin’ out’n
a bairl des like ’lasses.

“When I waked up, Marse Paul Conant done gone, an’ Marse Tumlin ain’t
come, an’ Miss Vallie wuz settin’ dar in de parlor lookin’ up at de
ceilin’ like she got some mighty long thoughts. Her color wuz still up. I
look at ’er an’ laugh, an’ she made a mouf at me, an’ I say ter myse’f,
‘Hey! sump’n de matter here, sho,’ but I say out loud, ‘Marse Paul Conant
sho gwine ter ax me ef you ain’t had a dram.’ She laugh an’ say, ‘What
answer you gwine ter make?’ I ’low, ‘I’ll bow an’ say, “No, suh; I’m de
one dat drinks all de dram fer de fambly.”’

“Well, suh, dat chile sot in ter laughin’, an’ she laugh an’ laugh twel
she went inter highsterics. She wuz keyed up too high, ez you mought say,
an’ dat’s de way she come down ag’in. Bimeby, Marse Tumlin come, an’ Miss
Vallie, she tol’ ’m ’bout how Marse Paul done been dar; an’ he sot dar,
he did, an’ hummed an’ haw’d, an’ done so funny dat, bimeby, I ’low,
‘Well, folks, I’ll hatter tell you good-night,’ an’ wid dat I went out.”

At this point Aunt Minervy leaned forward, clasped her hands over her
knees, and shook her head. When she took up the thread of her narrative,
if it can be called such, the tone of her voice was more subdued, almost
confidential, in fact.

“Nex’ mornin’ wuz my wash-day, suh, an’ ’bout ten o’clock, when I got
ready, dey want no bluin’ in de house an’ mighty little soap. I hunted
high an’ I hunted low, but no bluin’ kin I fin’. An’ dat make me mad,
bekaze ef I hatter go down town atter de bluin’, my wash-day’ll be broke
inter. But ’tain’t no good fer ter git mad, bekaze I wuz bleeze ter go
atter de bluin’. So I tighten up my head-hankcher, an’ flung a cape on my
shoulders an’ put out.

“I ’speck you know how ’tis, suh. You can’t go down town but what you’ll
see nigger wimmen stan’in’ out in de front yards lookin’ over de palin’s.
Dey all know’d me an’ I know’d dem, an’ de las’ blessed one un um hatter
hail me ez I go by, an’ I hatter stop an’ pass de time er day, kaze ef
I’d ’a’ whipt on by, dey’d ’a’ said I wuz gwine back bofe on my church
an’ on my color. I dunner how long dey kep’ me, but time I got ter
Proctor’s sto’, I know’d I’d been on de way too long.

[Illustration: “I hatter stop an’ pass de time er day.”]

“I notice a crowd er men out dar, some settin’ an’ some stan’in’, but I
run’d in, I did, an’ de young man what do de clerkin’, he foller me in
an’ ax what I want. I say I want a dime’s wuff er bluin’, an’ fer ter
please, suh, wrop it up des ez quick ez he kin. I tuck notice dat while
he wuz gittin’ it out’n de box, he sorter stop like he lis’nin’ an’ den
ag’in, whiles he had it in de scoop des ready fer ter drap it in de
scales, he helt his han’ an’ wait. Den I know’d he wuz lis’nin’.

“Dat makes me lis’n, an’ den I hear Marse Tumlin talkin’, an’ time I hear
’im I know’d he wuz errytated. Twa’n’t bekaze he wuz talkin’ loud, suh,
but ’twuz bekaze he wuz talkin’ level. When he talk loud, he feelin’
good. When he talk low, an’ one word soun’ same ez anudder, den somebody
better git out’n his way. I lef’ de counter an’ step ter de do’ fer ter
see what de matter wuz betwix’ um.

“Well, suh, dar wuz Marse Tumlin stan’in’ dar close ter Tom Perryman.
Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘Maybe de law done ’pinted you my gyardeen. How you
know I been swindled?’ Tom Perryman say, ‘Bekaze I hear you say he bought
yo’ wil’ lan’ fer a little er nothin’. He’ll swindle you ef you trade wid
’im, an’ you done trade wid ’im.’ Marse Tumlin, ’low, ‘Is Paul Conant
ever swindle _you_?’ Tom Perryman say, ‘No, he ain’t, an’ ef he wuz ter
I’d give ’im a kickin’.’ Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘Well, you know you is a
swindler, an’ nobody ain’t kick you. How come dat?’ Tom Perryman say, ‘Ef
you say I’m a swindler, you’re a liar.’

“Well, suh, de man ain’t no sooner say dat dan _bang!_ went Marse
Tumlin’s pistol, an’ des ez it banged Marse Paul Conant run ’twix’ um,
an’ de ball went right spang th’oo de collar-bone an’ sorter sideways
th’oo de p’int er de shoulder-blade. Marse Tumlin drapt his pistol an’
cotch ’im ez he fell an’ knelt down dar by ’im, an’ all de time dat ar
Tom Perryman wuz stan’in’ right over um wid his pistol in his han’. I
squall out, I did, ‘Whyn’t some er you white men take dat man pistol ’way
fum ’im? Don’t you see what he fixin’ ter do?’

“I run’d at ’im, an’ he sorter flung back wid his arm, an’ when he done
dat somebody grab ’im fum behime. All dat time Marse Tumlin wuz axin’
Marse Paul Conant ef he hurt much. I hear ’im say, ‘I wouldn’t ’a’ done
it fer de worl’, Conant—not fer de worl’.’ Den de doctor, he come up, an’
Marse Tumlin, he pester de man twel he hear ’im say, ‘Don’t worry, Major;
dis boy’ll live ter be a older man dan you ever will.’ Den Marse Tumlin
got his pistol an’ hunt up an’ down fer dat ar Tom Perryman, but he done
gone. I seed ’im when he got on his hoss.

[Illustration: “Hunt up an’ down fer dat ar Tom Perryman.”]

“I say to Marse Tumlin, ‘Ain’t you des ez well ter fetch Marse Paul
Conant home whar we all kin take keer uv ’im?’ He ’low, ‘Dat’s a _fack_.
Go home an’ tell yo’ Miss Vallie fer ter have de big room fixed up time
we git dar wid ’im.’ I say, ‘Humph! I’ll fix it myse’f; I know’d I ain’t
gwine ter let Miss Vallie do it.’

“Well, suh, ’tain’t no use fer ter tell yer de rest. Dar’s dat ar baby in
dar, an’ what mo’ sign does you want ter show you dat it all turned out
des like one er dem ol’-time tales?”




VIII

THE CASE OF MARY ELLEN


It came to pass in due time that Atlanta, following the example of
Halcyondale, organized a fair. It was called the Piedmont Exposition,
and, as might be supposed, Aunt Minervy Ann was among those attracted
to the city by the event. She came to see whether the fair was a bigger
one than that held at Halcyondale. Naturally enough she made my house
her headquarters, and her coming was fortunately timed, for the cook,
taking advantage of the heavily increased demand for kitchen servants,
caused by the pressure of strangers in the city, had informed us that
if we wanted her services we could either double her wages or dispense
with her entirely. It was a very cunningly prepared plan, for there was
company in the house, friends from middle Georgia, who had come to spend
a week while the exposition was going on, and there would have been no
alternative if Aunt Minervy Ann, her Sunday hat sitting high on her
head, had not walked in the door.

“I hope all er you-all is well,” she remarked. “Ef you ain’t been
frettin’ an’ naggin’ one an’er den my nose done been knocked out er
j’int, kaze I know sump’n ’bleeze ter be de matter.”

The truth is, the lady of the house was blazing mad with the cook, and
I was somewhat put out myself, for the ultimatum of the servant meant
robbery. Aunt Minervy Ann was soon in possession of the facts. At first
she was properly indignant, but in a moment she began to laugh.

“Des come out on de back porch wid me, please’m. All I ax you is ter
keep yo’ face straight, and don’t say a word less’n I ax you sump’n’.”
She flung her hat and satchel in a corner and sallied out. “I don’t
blame cooks fer wantin’ ter quit when dey’s so much gwine on up town,”
she remarked, in a loud voice, as she went out at the back door. “Dey
stan’ by a stove hot wedder er col’, an’ dey ain’t got time ter go ter
buryin’s. But me! I don’t min’ de work; I’m ol’ an’ tough. Why, de well
ain’t so mighty fur fum de steps, an’ dar’s de wood-cellar right dar. How
much you pay yo’ cooks, ma’am?”

“What wages have you been getting?” asked the lady of the house.

“Wellum, down dar whar I come fum dey been payin’ me four dollars a
mont’—dat de reason I come up here. Ef you gi’ me six I’ll stay an’ you
won’t begrudge me de money. Tu’n me loose in de kitchen an’ I’m at home,
ma’am—plum’ at home.”

The lady seemed to be hesitating, and the silence in the kitchen was
oppressive.

“I’ll decide to-day,” she remarked. “Our cook is a good one, but she has
been thinking of resting awhile. If she goes, you shall have the place.”

“Den she ain’t gone?” cried Aunt Minervy Ann. “Well, I don’t want de
place less’n she goes. I ain’t gwine ter run my color out’n no job ef I
kin he’p it. We got ’nuff ter contend wid des dry so.” Then she turned
and looked in the kitchen. “Ain’t dat Julie Myrick?” she asked.

“How you know me?” cried the cook. “I b’lieve in my soul dat’s Miss
’Nervy Ann Perdue!”

With that Aunt Minervy Ann went into the kitchen, and the two old
acquaintances exchanged reminiscences for a quarter of an hour.
After awhile she came back in the sitting-room, stared at us with a
half-indignant, half-quizzical expression on her face, and then suddenly
collapsed, falling on the floor near a couch, and laughing as only an
old-time negro can laugh. Then she sat bolt upright, and indignation,
feigned or real, swept the smiles from her countenance, as if they had
been suddenly wiped out with a sponge.

“You know what you got in dat kitchen dar? You ain’t got nothin’ in de
worl’ in dar but a Injun merlatter; dat zackly what you got. I know’d
her daddy and I know’d her mammy. Ol’ one-legged Billy Myrick wuz her
daddy, an’ he wuz one part white an’ one part nigger, an’ one part Injun.
Don’t tell me ’bout dem kind er tribes. Dey ain’t no good in um. Hamp’ll
tell you dat hisse’f, an’ he b’longed ter de Myrick ’state. Merlatter is
bad ’nuff by itse’f, but when you put Injun wid it—well, you may hunt
high an’ you may hunt low, but you can’t git no wuss mixtry dan dat. I
tell you right now,” Aunt Minervy Ann went on, “I never did see but one
merlatter dat wuz wuff a pinch er snuff, an’ she wuz so nigh white dat de
ol’ boy hisse’f couldn’t ’a’ tol’ de difffunce. Seem like you must ’a’
knowed Mary Ellen Tatum, suh?” she suggested, appealing to my memory.

I had heard the name somehow and somewhere, but it was as vague in my
recollection as a dream.

“Maybe you didn’t know ’er, suh, but she was born an’ bred down whar I
cum fum. Dat’s so! She wuz done gone fum dar when you come. Wuz ol’ Fed
Tatum dead? Yasser! ol’ Fed died de year dey quit der battlin’, an’ ’twuz
de year atter dat when you come; an’ you sho did look puny, suh, ter what
you does now. Well, ol’ Fed Tatum, he wuz one er deze yer quare creeturs.
He made money han’ over fist, an’ he had a sight er niggers. He had a
place sorter close ter town, but he didn’t stay on it; an’ he had a house
not fur fum Marse Bolivar Blasengame, but he’d des go out ter his place
endurin’ er de day, an’ den he’d come back, git his vittles, an’ walk ter
de tavern an’ dar he’d take a cheer an’ go off by hisse’f, an’ set wid
his chin in his coat collar, an’ look at his foots an’ make his thum’s
turn somersets over one an’er. Ef you wanted ter talk wid ol’ Fed Tatum,
you’d hafter go whar he wuz settin’ at an’ do all de talkin’ yo’se’f.
He’d des set back dar an’ grunt an’ maybe not know who you wuz. But when
he come huntin’ you up, you better watch out. Dey say dey ain’t nobody
ever is make a trade wid ol’ Fed but what dey come out at de little een’
er de horn.

“Well, ol’ Fed had a nigger ’oman keepin’ house fer ’im, an’ doin’ de
cookin’ and washin’. I say ‘nigger,’ suh, but she wuz mighty nigh white.
She wuz Mary Ellen’s mammy, an’ Mary Ellen wuz des white ez anybody,
I don’t keer whar dey cum fum, an’ she wuz purty fum de word go. Dey
wa’n’t never no time, suh, atter Mary Ellen wuz born dat she wa’n’t de
purtiest gal in dat town. I des natchully ’spises merlatters, but dey wuz
sump’n ’bout Mary Ellen dat allers made a lump come in my goozle. I tuck
ter dat chile, suh, de minnit I laid my eyes on ’er. She made me think
’bout folks I done forgot ef I ever know’d um, an’ des de sight un ’er
made me think ’bout dem ol’ time chunes what mighty nigh break yo’ heart
when you hear um played right. Dat wuz Mary Ellen up an’ down.

“Well, suh, when Mary Ellen got so she could trot ’roun’, old Fed Tatum
sorter woke up. He stayed at home mo’, and when de sun wuz shinin’ you
might see ’im any time setting in his peazzer wid Mary Ellen playin’
roun’, er walkin’ out in de back yard wid Mary Ellen trottin’ at his
heels. I’m telling you de start-naked trufe—by de time dat chile wuz
six-year ol’ she could read; yasser! read out’n a book, an’ read good. I
seed her do it wid my own eyes, an’ heer’d ’er wid my own years. ’Tain’t
none er dish yer readin’ an’ stoppin’ like you hear de school chillun
gwine on; no, suh! ’Twuz de natchual readin’ right ’long. An’ by de time
she wuz eight, dey wa’n’t no words in no book in dat town but what she
could take an’ chaw um same as lawyers in de cote-house. Mo’ dan dat,
suh, she could take a pencil, an’ draw yo’ likeness right ’fo’ yo’ face.

“’Long ’bout dat time she struck up wid little Sally Blasengame, an’ when
dem two got tergedder dar wuz de pick er de town ez fer ez de chillun
went. I don’t say it, suh, bekaze Marse Bolivar was Marse Tumlin’s
br’er-in-law—dey married sisters—but his little gal Sally wuz ez fine
ez split silk. Mary Ellen had black hair an’ big black eyes, an’ Sally
had yaller hair an’ big blue eyes. Atter dey come ter know one an’er dey
wa’n’t a day but what dem two chillun wuz playin’ tergedder. How many an’
many is de times I seed um gwine ’long wid der arms ’roun’ one an’er!

“Well, one day atter dey been playin’ tergedder a right smart whet Marse
Bolivar ’gun ter make inquirements ’bout Mary Ellen, an’ when he foun’
out who an’ what she wuz, he went out whar dey at an’ tol’ her she better
go home. I wuz right dar in de back yard when he said de word. Mary Ellen
stood an’ looked at ’im, an’ den she picked up her bonnet an’ marched
out’n de yard holdin’ her head up; she wuz twelve year ol’ by den.

“Sally seed Mary Ellen go out, an’ she turn ’roun’ on her daddy, her
face ez white ez a sheet. Den her whole frame ’gun ter shake. She ’low,
‘I been lovin’ you all dis time, an’ I didn’t know you could be so mean
an’ low-life.’ She flung at ’im de fust words dat pop in her min’.

“Marse Bolivar say, ‘Why, honey! Why, precious!’ an’ start ter put his
arm ’roun’ ’er. She flung fum ’im, she did, an’ cry out, ‘Don’t you never
say dem words ter me no mo’ ez long ez you live, an’ don’t you never
tetch me no mo’.’ Den she seed me, an’ she come runnin’ des like she wuz
skeer’d. She holler, ‘Take me ’way! take me ’way! Don’t let ’im tetch
me!’ Talk ’bout temper—talk ’bout venom! All dem Blasengames had it, an’
when you hurt de feelin’s er dat kind er folks dey are hurted sho ’nuff.
Marse Bolivar couldn’t ’a’ looked no wuss ef somebody had ’a’ spit in
his face while his han’s tied. You talk ’bout people lovin’ der chillun,
but you dunner nothin’ ’tall ’bout it twel you see Marse Bolivar lovin’
Sally. Why, de very groun’ she walkt on wuz diffunt ter him fum any udder
groun’. He wuz ready ter die fer ’er forty times a day, an’ yit here she
wuz wid her feelin’s hurt so bad dat she won’t let ’im put his han’s on
’er. An’ he ain’t try; he had sense ’nuff fer dat. He des walk ’roun’ and
kick up de gravel wid de heel er his boots. But Sally, she had ’er face
hid in my frock, an’ she ain’t so much ez look at ’im. Bimeby he went in
de house, but he ain’t stay dar long. He come out an’ look at Sally, an’
try ter make ’er talk, but she erfuse ter say a word, an’ atter while he
went on up-town.

“Ef dey ever wuz hard-headed folks, suh, dat wuz de tribe. He went
up-town, but he ain’t stay long, an’ when he come back he foun’ Sally
in de house cryin’ an’ gwine on. She won’t tell what de matter, an’ she
won’t let nobody do nothin’ fer ’er. Now, ef she’d ’a’ been mine, suh,
I’d ’a’ frailed ’er out den an’ dar, an’ I’d ’a’ kep’ on frailin’ ’er out
twel she’d ’a’ vowed dat she never know’d no gal name Mary Ellen. Dat’s
me! But Marse Bolivar ain’t look at it dat away, an’ de man what never
knuckle ter no human bein’, rich er po’, high er low, had ter knuckle ter
dat chile, an’ she wa’n’t much bigger dan yo’ two fists.

“So bimeby he say, ‘Honey, I’m gwine atter Mary Ellen, ef dat’s her name,
an’ she can stay here all day an’ all night, too, fer what I keer.’

“Sally ’low, ‘She sha’n’t come here! she sha’n’t! I don’t want nobody ter
come here dat’s got ter git der feelin’s hurted eve’y time dey come.’

“Right dar, suh, is whar my han’ would ’a’ come down hard; but Marse
Bolivar, he knuckle. He say, ‘Well, honey, you’ll hafter fergive me dis
time. I’ll go fetch ’er ef she’ll come, an’ ef she won’t ’tain’t my
fault.’

“So out he went. I dunner how he coaxed Mary Ellen, but she say he tol’
’er dat Sally wuz feelin’ mighty bad, an’ wuz ’bleeze ter see ’er; an’
Mary Ellen, havin’ mo’ heart dan min’, come right along. An’ Marse
Bolivar wuz happy fer ter see Sally happy.

“Dis wuz long ’fo’ de battlin’, suh, but even dat fur back dey wuz
talkin’ ’bout war. Ol’ Fed Tatum wuz a mighty long-headed man, an’ he
know’d mighty well dat ef Mary Ellen stayed dar whar she wuz at, she
won’t have no mo’ show dan a chicken wid its head wrung off. So he fixed
’er up an’ packed ’er off up dar whar de Northrons is at. He’d ’a’ sont
her mammy wid ’er, but she say no; she’d be in de way; folks would
’spicion what de matter wuz; an’ so she shet her mouf an’ stayed. Ef Mary
Ellen had ’a’ been my chile, suh, I’d ’a’ gone wid ’er ef I had ter claw
my way wid my naked han’s thoo forty miles er brick wall. But her mammy
was diffunt; she stayed an’ pined.

“Now, ef anybody want pinin’ done dey’ll hafter go ter somebody else
’sides ol’ Minervy Ann Perdue. When you see me pinin’, suh, you may know
my tongue done cut out an’ my han’s pairlized. Ef Mary Ellen had ’a’ been
my chile dey’d ’a’ been murder done, suh. I’d ’a’ cotch ol’ Fed Tatum
by what little hair he had an’ I’d ’a’ ruint ’im; an’ ez ’twuz, I come
mighty nigh havin’ a fight wid ’im. An’ ef I had—_ef I had_——”

Aunt Minervy Ann was on her feet. Her right arm was raised high in the
air, and her eyes blazed with passion. It was not a glimpse of temper
she gave us, but a fleeting portrayal of mother-love at white heat. She
had been carried away by her memory, and had carried us away with her;
but she caught herself, as it were, in the act, laughed, and sat down
again by the sofa, caressing it with both arms. Presently she resumed her
narrative, addressing herself this time to the lady of the house. It was
a stroke of rare tact that had its effect.

“Wellum, Mary Ellen wa’n’t my chile, an’ ol’ Fed Tatum sont ’er off
up dar ’mongst de Northrons; an’ ’bout de time de two sides ’gun der
battlin’ he sol’ some lan’ an’ sont her ’nuff money ter las’ ’er twel she
got all de larnin’ she want. Den de war come, an’ nobody ain’t hear no
mo’ ’bout Mary Ellen. Dey fit an’ dey fout, an’ dey fout an’ dey fit, an’
den, bimeby, dey quit, an’ fer long days nobody didn’t know whedder ter
walk backerds er go forruds.

“Ol’ Fed Tatum wuz one er dem kinder folks, ma’am, what you been seein’
an’ knowin’ so long dat you kinder git de idee dey er gwine ter stay des
like dey is; but one day ol’ Fed Tatum fetch’d a grunt an’ went ter bed,
an’ de nex’ day he fetch’d a groan an’ died. He sho did. An’ den when dey
come ter look into what he had, dey foun’ dat he ain’t got nothin’ he kin
call his own but a little cabin in one een’ er town, an’ dis went ter
Mary Ellen’s mammy.

“I tell you now, ma’am, dat ’oman tried me. She wuz long an’ lank an’
slabsided, an’ she went ’bout wid ’er mouf shet, an’ ’er cloze lookin’
like somebody had flung um at ’er. I like ter hear folks talk, myself,
an’ ef dey can’t do nothin’ else I like ter see um show dey temper. But
dat ’oman, she des walk ’roun’ an’ not open her mouf fum mornin’ twel
night, less’n you ax ’er sump’n. I tried ter git her ter talk ’bout Mary
Ellen, but she ain’t know no mo’ ’bout Mary Ellen dan a rabbit.

“I dunner but what we’d ’a’ got in a fuss, ma’am, kaze dat ’oman sho
did try me, but ’long ’bout dat time Marse Bolivar’s gal tuck sick, an’
’twa’n’t long ’fo’ she died. ’Twuz a mighty pity, too, kaze dat chile
would ’a’ made a fine ’oman—none better. ’Long todes de las’ she got
ter gwine on ’bout Mary Ellen. Look like she could see Mary Ellen in de
fever-dreams, an’ she’d laugh an’ go on des like she useter when she wuz
a little bit er gal.

“Wellum, when dat chile died Marse Bolivar come mighty nigh losin’ ’is
min’. He ain’t make no fuss ’bout it, but he des fell back on hisse’f an’
walk de flo’ night atter night, an’ moan an’ groan when he think nobody
ain’t lis’nin’. An’ den, atter so long a time, here come a letter fum
Mary Ellen, an’ dat broke ’im all up. I tell you right now, ma’am, Marse
Bolivar had a hard fight wid trouble. I don’t keer what folks may say;
dey may tell you he’s a hard man, ready ter fight an’ quick ter kill.
He’s all dat, an’ maybe mo’; but I know what I know.

“Wellum, de days went an’ de days come. Bimeby I hear some er de niggers
say dat Mary Ellen done come back. I laid off ter go an’ see de chile;
but one day I wuz gwine ’long de street an’ I met a white lady. She say,
‘Ain’t dat Aunt Minervy Ann?’ I ’low, ‘Yessum, dis is de remnants.’
Wid dat, ma’am, she grab me ’roun’ de neck an’ hug me, an’ bu’st out
a-cryin’, an’ ’twa’n’t nobody in de worl’ but Mary Ellen.

“Purty! I never has foun’ out, ma’am, how any human can be ez purty ez
Mary Ellen. Her skin wuz white ez milk an’ her eyes shine like stars. I’d
’a’ never know’d her in de worl’. But dar she wuz, cryin’ one minnit an’
laughin’ de nex’. An’ she wuz in trouble too. She had a telegraph in her
han’ tellin’ ’er dat one er her ol’ schoolmates gwine on ter Flurridy
wuz gwine ter stop over one train des ter see Mary Ellen. Hit seem like
dat up dar whar she been stayin’ at she ain’t never tell nobody but what
she wuz white, an’ de human wa’n’t born dat could tell de diffunce. So
dar ’twuz. Here wuz de Northron lady comin’ fer ter see Mary Ellen, an’
what wuz Mary Ellen gwine ter do?—whar wuz she gwine ter take de Northron
lady? Dar wuz de ramshackle cabin, an’ dar wuz my kitchen. You may think
’twuz funny, ma’am——”

“But I don’t,” said the lady of the house, abruptly and unexpectedly; “I
don’t think it was funny at all.”

Aunt Minervy Ann looked at me and lifted her chin triumphantly, as she
resumed: “No’m, ’twa’n’t funny. Mary Ellen wuz proud an’ high-strung;
you could read dat in de way she walk an’ eve’y motion she make, an’ dat
ar telegraph dat de Northron lady sont ’er fum Atlanty kinder run ’er in
a corner. She dunner what ter do, ner which way ter turn. Look at it
yo’se’f, ma’am, an’ see whar she wuz.

“She laughed, ma’am, but she wuz in trouble, an’ I’m sech a big fool dat
I’m allers in trouble ’long wid dem what I like. Take de tape-line ter
der trouble an’ den ter mine, an’ you’ll fin’ dat dey medjer ’bout de
same. Mary Ellen laugh an’ say, ‘Dey’s two things I kin do; I kin leave
town, er I kin go down dar ter de cabin an’ kill myse’f.’ Oh, she wuz in
a corner, ma’am—don’t you doubt it.

“Right den an’ dar sump’n pop in my head. I ’low, ‘Is you been ter call
on Marse Bolivar Blasengame?’ She say ‘No, I ain’t, Aunt Minervy Ann. I
started ter go, but I’m afear’d ter.’ I ’low, ‘Well, I’m gwine dar right
now; come go wid me.’

“So we went dar, and I left Mary Ellen on de back porch, an’ I went in de
house. Marse Bolivar wuz settin’ down, gwine over some papers, an’ Mis’
Em’ly wuz darnin’ an’ patchin’.

“I say, ‘Marse Bolivar, dey’s a gal out here dat I thought maybe you an’
Mis’ Em’ly would be glad ter see?”

“He ’low, ‘Dang you’ hide, Minervy Ann! You like ter make me jump out’n
my skin. Who is de gal?’

“I say, ‘I wanter see ef you know ’er.’ Wid dat I went back an’ fotch
Mary Ellen in. Well, dey didn’t know ’er, ma’am, na’er one un um; an’ I
dunner how it all happened, but de fust thing I know Mary Ellen fell on
’er knees, by a lounge what sot under de place whar Miss Sally’s pictur’
wuz hangin’ at. She fell on her knees, Mary Ellen did, and ’low, ‘She’d
know who I is,’ an’ wid dat she bust aloose an’ went ter cryin’ des like
’er heart wuz done broke in two.

“Marse Bolivar stood dar an’ wait twel Mary Ellen cool off, an’ quiet
down. Mis’ Em’ly, ma’am, is one er dem ar primity, dried-up wimmen,
which, ef dey ain’t fightin’ you wid bofe han’s, er huggin’ you wid bofe
arms, ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ’tall. An’ ef Mis’ Em’ly ain’t sayin’ nothin’
you can’t put de key in de Bible an’ fin’ no tex’ dat’ll tell you what
she got in ’er min’. But she wuz darnin’, an’ I see ’er wipe one eye on
de leg er de sock, an’ den present’y she wipe t’er eye.

“Wellum, Marse Bolivar stood dar an’ look at Mary Ellen, an’ when she riz
fum her knees an’ stood dar, her head hangin’ down, still a-cryin’, but
mo’ quieter, he went close up an’ ’low, ‘I know you, Mary Ellen, an’ I’m
mighty glad ter see you. Dat ar letter what you writ me, I got it yit,
an’ I’m gwine ter keep it whiles I live.’

“He talk right husky, ma’am, an’ I ’gun ter feel husky myse’f; an’ den
I know’d dat ef I didn’t change de tune, I’d be boo-hooin’ right dar
’fo’ all un um wid needer ’casion nor ’skuce. I went up ter Mary Ellen
an’ cotch ’er by de shoulder and say, ‘Shucks, gal! Dat train’ll be here
terreckly, an’ den what you gwine ter do?’

“’Twuz a hint ez broad ez a horse-blanket, ma’am, but Mary Ellen never
tuck it. She des stood dar an’ look at me. An’ ’bout dat time Marse
Bolivar he ketch’d holt er my shoulder an’ whirlt me ’roun’, an’ ’low,
‘What de matter, Minervy Ann? Talk it right out!’

“Wellum, I let you know I tol’ ’im; I des laid it off! I tol’ des how
’twuz; how Mary Ellen been sont up dar by ol’ Fed Tatum, an’ how, on de
’count er no fault er her’n de Northron folks tuck ’er ter be a white
gal; an’ how one er de gals what went ter school wid ’er wuz gwine ter
come ter see ’er an’ stay ’twixt trains. Den I ’low, ‘Whar is Mary Ellen
gwine ter see ’er? In dat ar mud-shack whar her ma live at? In de big
road? In de woods? In de hoss-lot?”

The whole scene from beginning to end had been enacted by Aunt Minervy
Ann. In the empty spaces of the room she had placed the colonel, his
wife, and Mary Ellen, and they seemed to be before us, and not only
before us, but the passionate earnestness with which she laid the case of
Mary Ellen before the colonel made them live and move under our very eyes.

“_In de big road? In de woods? In de hoss-lot?_”

And when she paused for the reply of the colonel, the look of expectation
on her face was as keen and as eager as it could have been on the day and
the occasion when she was pleading for Mary Ellen. The spell was broken
by the lady of the house, who leaned forward eagerly as if expecting the
colonel himself to reply. Perhaps Aunt Minervy Ann misunderstood the
movement. She paused a moment as if dazed, and then sank by the sofa with
a foolish laugh.

“I know you all put me down ter be a fool,” she said, “an’ I ’speck I is.”

“Nonsense!” cried the lady of the house, sharply. “What did the colonel
reply?”

Aunt Minervy remained silent a little while, picking at one of the
fringes of the sofa. She was evidently trying to reassemble in her mind
the incidents and surroundings of her narrative. Presently she began
again, in a tone subdued and confidential:

“Marse Bolivar look at me right hard, den he look at Mary Ellen, an’ den
he pull at de tip-een’ er his year. Wellum, I fair helt my breff; I say
ter myse’f, ‘Man, whyn’t you look at poor Miss Sally’s pictur’? I wuz
feared a fly might light on ’im an’ change his min’. But, look at de
pictur’ he did, an’ dat settled it.

“He ’low, ‘Set down, Mary Ellen; you look tired. Minervy Ann, fetch ’er a
drink er water.’ Wellum, you may well b’lieve dat I flied up an’ flew’d
’roun’ an’ fotch dat water. Den he ’low, ‘Minervy Ann, go in dar an’
straighten out dat parlor; fling open de blinds an’ do ’bout in dar!’”

Again Aunt Minervy Ann arose from her reclining position by the sofa and
stood in the floor; again, by a wave of her hand, she brought the scene
before our eyes.

“I stood dar, I did, an’ look at dat man. I ’low, ‘Marse Bolivar, less’n
it’s Marse Tumlin, youer de bes’ man dat God A’mighty ever breathe de
breath er life inter!’ He rub his han’ over his face an’ say, ‘Dang yo’
ol’ hide! go on an’ hush up! Fum de time I fust know’d you, you been
gittin’ me an’ Tumlin in hot water.’

“I flung back at ’im, ‘_’Tain’t never scald you! ’Tain’t never been too
deep fer you!_’ He straighten hisse’f up an’ helt his head back an’
laugh. He ’low, ‘Dang it all, Minervy Ann! Dey er times when I want it
bofe hot an’ deep. You go an’ scuffle ’roun’ in dat parlor, an’ don’t you
let yo’ Mis’ Em’ly do a han’s-turn in dar.’

“Wellum, dat uz ’bout de upshot un it. De Northron lady wuz name Miss
Wilbur, er Willard, I disremember which, but she was a mighty nice white
gal. Marse Bolivar an’ Hamp wuz bofe at de train ter meet ’er, an’ Marse
Bolivar fotch ’er right ter de house, an’ show’d ’er in de parlor. Atter
while, Mary Ellen went in dar, an’ ’twuz a mighty meetin’ ’twix um. Dey
chattered same ez a flock er blackbirds on a windy day; an’ atter so long
a time Marse Bolivar went in dar. ’Twa’n’t long ’fo’ he got ter tellin’
tales, an’ de Northron lady laugh so she kin hardly set on de cheer. Den
he open de pianner, an’ ax de white lady ter play, but she vow she can’t
play atter he been hearin’ Mary Ellen. Den he say, ‘Won’t you play me a
chune, Mary Ellen? Sump’n ol’ timey?’

“Dat gal went ter de pianner, ma’am, an’ sot dar wid her han’s over her
face like she prayin’, an’ den she laid her han’s on de keys an’ started
a chune des like yo’ hear in yo’ dreams. It got a little louder, an’
den present’y you could hear ’er singin’. I never did know whar’bouts
her voice slipped inter dat chune; but dar ’twuz, an’ it fit in wid de
pianner des like a flute does.

“Wellum, it tuck me back, way back dar in de ol’ days, an’ den brung me
down ter later times, fer many a moonlight night did I hear Miss Sally
an’ Mary Ellen sing dat song when dey wuz chillun. Den atter dat de
Northron lady plump herse’f down at de pianner, an’ she sho did shake dat
ol’ shebang up. ’Twuz dish yer highfalutin’ music what sprung up sence de
war, an’ it sho sound like war ter me, drums a-rattlin’, guns a-shootin’,
an’ forty-levm brass horns all tootin’ a diffunt chune.

“When train-time come, ma’am, de Northron lady ax Mary Ellen ef she won’t
go ter de train wid ’er. But Marse Bolivar spoke up an’ say dat Mary
Ellen been feelin’ bad all de mornin’, an’ she hatter skuzen ’er. He went
wid de lady hisse’f, an’ when he come back Mary Ellen tol’ ’im she never
would fergit what he done fer her dat day, an’ say she gwine ter pay ’im
back some day.

“What did the neighbors say about it?” the lady of the house asked, in
her practical way.

“Dat what pestered me all de time, ma’am,” Aunt Minervy Ann replied. “I
ax Marse Bolivar, ‘What de folks gwine ter say when dey hear ’bout dis
come off?’ He stuck his thum’s in de armholes er his wescut, an’ ’low,
‘Dat what I wanter know, an’ I wanter know so bad, Minervy Ann, dat ef
you hear anybody talkin’ loose talk ’bout it, des come runnin’ ter me
while it’s hot. Now don’t you fail.’

“But Marse Bolivar ain’t wait fer me ter hear what folks say. He went
polin’ up town de nex’ day, an’ tol’ ’bout it in eve’y sto’ on de street,
an’ de las’ man in town vow’d ’twuz de ve’y thing ter do. An’ dat ain’t
all, ma’am! De folks dar raise a lot er money fer Mary Ellen, an’ de way
dat chile went on when Marse Bolivar put it in ’er han’ an’ tol’ er whar
it come fum wuz pitiful ter see.

“Dat’s de way ’tis, ma’am; ketch um in de humor an’ eve’ybody’s
good; ketch um out’n de humor an’ dey er all mean—I know dat by my
own feelin’s. Ef a fly had lit on Marse Bolivar’s face dat day, Mary
Ellen would ’a’ had ter face ’er trouble by ’er own ’lone self. Ef
some sour-minded man had gone up town an’ told how Marse Bolivar wuz
en’tainin’ nigger gals an’ a Yankee ’oman in his parlor, dey’d all been
down on ’im. An’ den——”

“What, then?” the lady of the house asked, as Aunt Minervy Ann paused.

“Dey’d ’a’ been weepin’ an’ whailin’ in de settlement sho. Ain’t it so,
suh?”

It was natural, after Aunt Minervy Ann had narrated the particulars
of this episode, that her statements should dwell in my memory, and
sally forth and engage my mind when it should have been concerned with
other duties. One of these duties was to examine each day the principal
newspapers of New England in search of topics for editorial comment.

An eye trained to this business, as any exchange editor can tell you,
will pick out at a glance a familiar name or suggestive phrase, no matter
what its surroundings nor how obscurely it may be printed. Therefore, one
day, weeks after Aunt Minervy Ann’s recital, when I opened the _Boston
Transcript_ at its editorial page, it was inevitable that the first thing
to catch my eye was the familiar name of “Mary Ellen Tatum.” It was
printed in type of the kind called nonpareil, but I would have seen it
no sooner nor more certainly if it had been printed in letters reaching
half across the page.

Mary Ellen Tatum! The name occurred in a three-line preface to the
translation of an art note from a Paris newspaper. This note described,
with genuine French enthusiasm, the deep impression that had been made on
artists and art circles in Paris by a portrait painted by a gifted young
American artist, Mlle. Marie Helen Tatum. It is needless to transcribe
the eulogy—I have it in my scrapbook. It was a glowing tribute to a piece
of work that had created a sensation, and closed with the announcement
that another genius had “arrived.”

The comments of the Boston editor, following the sketch, declared that
the friends of Miss Mary Ellen Tatum in Boston, where she spent her early
years and where she was educated, were proud of her remarkable success,
and predicted for her a glorious career as an artist.

I had no more than cut this piece from the newspaper when the door-bell
rang, and as there happened to be no one in the house to answer it at
the moment, I went to the door myself, the clipping still in my hand,
and there before my eyes was Colonel Bolivar Blasengame, his fine face
beaming with good-nature. He had come at a moment when I most desired to
see him, and I greeted him cordially.

“I see now,” said the colonel,“why it is I can never catch you in your
office in town; you do your work at home. Well, that’s lots better than
workin’ where any and everybody can come in on you. I thought I’d find
you out here enjoying your _otium cum digitalis_, as old Tuck Bonner used
to say; but instead of that you’re waist-deep in newspapers.”

I assured the colonel that there were some people in the world whom I
would be glad to see, no matter how busy I might be.

“I know the feeling,” replied Colonel Blasengame; “but you’ll be cussing
me as sure as the world, for I haven’t a grain of business to see you
about. But I hear Tumlin and old Aunt Minervy Ann talking about you so
constantly that I thought I’d come out and say howdye, if no more.”

“Well, you’ll have to say more than that this time,” I remarked; “I was
just thinking, when you rang the door-bell, that I would give something
pretty to see you.”

“Now, is that reely so?” cried the colonel. “Then I’m twice glad—once
because I took a notion to come, and once again because you’re glad. You
used to fight so shy of me when you lived among us that I was afraid I
wouldn’t get on wi’ you; but I’m sorter offish myself.”

“Colonel,” said I, “did you ever know Mary Ellen Tatum?”

He rubbed his face and forehead with his hand, and regarded me with a
slight frown, and a smile that seemed to mean anything except pleasure.

“Will you allow me to ask you why you put such a question to me?”

“Why, certainly, Colonel; read that.” I placed the clipping from the
_Transcript_ in his hand. He held it off at arm’s length and tried to
decipher it, but the print was too fine. Placing it on his knee, he
searched in his pockets until he found his spectacles, and then he read
the article through carefully—not once, but twice.

Then smoothing the clipping out on his knee, he looked at me inquiringly.

“Do you know Mary Ellen?” he asked. I did not, and said so. “Did you ever
hear of her before?”

“Why, yes,” I replied. “Aunt Minervy Ann told me some very interesting
things about her, and I wanted to ask you if they were true.”

The colonel jumped to his feet with a laugh. “Plague on old Minervy
Ann!” he exclaimed. “Why, I came out here purposely to tell you about
Mary Ellen. This thing,” indicating the clipping, “is away behind the
time with its news. The picture it tells about is at my house this very
minute, and another one in the bargain. The first chance you get, come
down home and look at ’em. If you don’t open your eyes I’ll never sign
my name S. B. Blasengame again.” He walked up and down the room in a
restless way. “What do you reckon that gyurl did?” he asked, stopping
before me and stretching out his right arm. “Why, she sent a man with
the pictures—a right nice fellow he was, too. He said it cost a pile of
money to git ’em through the custom-house at New York; he had to hang
around there a week. When I asked him for his bill he raised his hands
and laughed. Everything was paid.”

The colonel continued to walk up and down the room. He was always
restless when anything interested him, unless it happened to be a matter
of life and death, and then he was calmness itself.

“Did Aunt Minervy Ann—blame her old hide!—I wanted to tell you the
whole story myself—did she tell you about a letter Mary Ellen wrote me
when”—the colonel paused and cleared his throat—“about a letter Mary
Ellen wrote me in the seventies?”

“She did,” I replied.

“Well, here’s the letter,” he said, after fumbling in his big pocketbook.
“It’s not a matter to be showing around, but you seem almost like one of
the family, and you’ll know better how to appreciate the pictures when
you read that.”

He turned and went out of the room into the hallway and then to the
veranda, where I heard his firm and measured step pacing back and forth.
The letter was not a very long one, but there was something in it—a vague
undertone of loneliness, a muffled cry for sympathy, which, as I knew all
the facts of the case, almost took my breath away.

The letter was dated “Boston, September 8th, 1878,” and was as follows:

    “COLONEL BLASENGAME—Two days ago the home paper came to me
    bringing the news of the great loss which has come to your
    household, and to me. I feel most keenly that a letter from me
    is an unwarranted intrusion, but I must speak out my thoughts
    to someone. Miss Sallie was almost the only friend I had when
    she and I were children together—almost the only person that
    I ever cared for. I loved her while she lived, and I shall
    cherish her memory to the day of my death.

    “You do not know me, and you will not recognize the name signed
    to this. It is better, far better that this should be so. It
    is enough for you to know that a stranger in a strange land
    will lie awake many and many a long night, weeping for the dear
    young lady who is dead.

                                                “MARY ELLEN TATUM.”

What has become of Mary Ellen? the reader may ask. I have asked the same
question hundreds of times and received no reply to it. So far as we
provincials are concerned, she has disappeared utterly from the face of
the earth.