Chapter IV: Part 4

Down in a little cabin by the cane-brake, old Maumer, now “the Other Maumer,” lived alone, weaving shuck mats, mending nets for the fishermen, and “hooking” mittens for the negroes against the coming of the winter; for Maumer was deposed, another Maumer reigned over the little wooden cradles, and _her_ foot was not permitted to cross the threshold; for Maumer had been tried and convicted of murder by a jury of her peers.

Ole Marse, upon careful investigation, could find nothing culpable in Maumer save the failure to report the illness, which was made the cause of removal. The charge, made by Cely and the other negroes, of poisoning could not be substantiated; though the attack appeared to have been very sudden, it could not be proved that the child had died from other than a dreaded infantile trouble.

Throughout the trial and investigation Maumer preserved a sullen silence. She neither appealed to Ole Marse nor to any of the negroes. She did not plead her long life of usefulness, and she denied none of the charges, that grew each day with the rapidity of Jonah’s gourd.

Now and again she smiled grimly as she looked upon the thriving child in sleepy Cindy’s arms and heard that Little Miss had taken him for her own. That was glory enough; that was honor, immortality. He would grow up a house nigger—“high quality”—_her_ grandchild, in the eyes of the world, in the eyes of even Cindy, for she could not trust Cindy with her secret, and Cindy was too stupid to know the difference.

Her eyes greedily took in the splendor of Little Miss’s gifts on each successive visit, carefully looking them over, clothes and beads and toys, like a miser counting gold, and it was enough. This sufficed for days alone in the cane-brake, for nights when the wind was high, even though she was now the Other Maumer and had been set apart.

* * * * *

The spring-time came around, but weeks and months were long, and the winter of loneliness was telling upon the Other Maumer.

She missed the spring-time crop of babies, the wooden cradles with their worn rockers—worn by _her_ foot; she missed the little toddlers that had outgrown the cradles, but more than all, she missed her dignity of position. In the brief time, so long to youth and age, the old back became more bowed, and childishness grew apace.

The butterflies possessed a wonderful fascination—the white and yellow—and the reed mats would drop from her hands in forgetful admiration. But when the brown ones hovered near her, poising on gorgeous velvety wings, the Other Maumer would shiver and cover up her head—“De soul er Cindy’s baby, oh, my Gord! kim back ter claim his place, er ’cusin’ me er de lie! Oh, my Gord!”

How she would fight the brown butterflies away, if they alighted on her doorstep! And carefully she gathered and crushed every wild flower that grew around her cabin, fearful lest they should prove to be an attraction. But the brown butterflies came and came; in swarms they filled and circled the Other Maumer’s cabin, by morning, noon, and evening. Then the nets hung on the racks unmended, the reeds dried unwoven, and the hands of the Other Maumer fluttered over the little heaps of red clay that she brought from beside the new well, to fashion into rude butterflies with outstretched wings. Scores and scores were drying in the sun, and yet the busy fingers worked nervously.

“Fly, fly,” she whispered, “an’ fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!”

* * * * *

The cold moon shone through the cracks of the Other Maumer’s cabin; the Other Maumer did not like the moon; even in her sleep she was always hiding something from it, deep and dark, but the moon could always find it.

To-night it was the clay butterflies, and she woke with a start to search for them.

Not one could she find in the cabin, and with a cry of rage she wrung her hands; “Dey tryin’ ter steal de soul er Cindy’s baby! Dey done stole ’em fum me; dey done stole ’em!”

Then she remembered that she had carried her apron full to the river-bank, and had left them on the cotton bales to dry. “Lef’ ’em ter fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!” she assured herself; “but I cain’t lose none uv ’em!” and with her knotted hickory stick in one hand and a bunch of river reeds in the other, the Other Maumer hobbled slowly down the road.

* * * * *

It wanted but little to the holiday season, though Ole Marse had held his cotton back for a great “deal.” But now that he had sent word from New Orleans to ship it on, the old storehouse was full to overflowing, and it was piled all along the levee waiting for the boat, for Ole Marse had never made a better crop.

Perched upon one of the bales that lined the levee, conjuring with the recovered butterflies in the full of the moon sat the Other Maumer, happy in the abandonment of the moment.

All her world was asleep; even the guards stationed around the storehouse had gone off duty; and where was the need of them? People did not steal cotton, and then the boat was coming in the morning.

Tenderly the Other Maumer nursed her butterflies, careful of their frail, sun-baked wings—hiding them in her apron, her bosom, and now in her faded turban.

“Gwine ter fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby; yas, Lord, gwine ter fetch hit back—hain’t yo’, honey? Gwine ter lif’ dem putty wings an’ fly away!” The moon rose high and waned, but still the Other Maumer, shivering with the cold and damp, sat on the river-bank. The big brown butterflies had been gone so long; she was waiting for them to return. She had fought them and driven them away, but now she wanted them to come back and bring the soul of Cindy’s baby.

The cry of a child or a cat somewhere in the Quarters startled her, and she raised her head; suddenly she was conscious of the smell of something burning, and a tiny spark leaped through a crack in the storehouse. Then a shower of little sparks came through, and the Other Maumer rubbed her cold hands together gleefully. “Dey’s done come back—dey’s done come back; fly an’ fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!”

But the odor of the burning cotton was stirring something else in the disordered brain.

Away back in the Other Maumer’s girlhood there had been a great conflagration. Big House, gin-house, cotton, everything was destroyed, and horror had fallen upon the plantation, for there had been loss of life as well. The Other Maumer was trying to remember. Slowly she drew her hand across her eyes, then shook her head.

“Ole Marse?” she queried; then, as the scorching smell grew stronger, she shouted, “De soul er Cindy’s baby!” and crushing her butterflies in her palm, she leaped on her knotted stick into the narrow road leading to the Quarters.

* * * * *

No one knew exactly how the Other Maumer roused the Quarters that night. Some said that she came on bat wings and fluttered against the chimney as she cried. Others said that she came on a great horse that struck fire with his hoofs as she beat upon each door with her hickory stick. Though to all the message was the same: “Fly, fly ter de ribber an’ fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!” But the latter part of the admonition was lost in the weirdness of the command, and the frightened negroes tumbled out of their warm beds, wide awake for once.

Under the guidance of Henry, in the dark hour before the dawn, full fifty negroes had been rolling the outside cotton to a place of safety; and now the overseer, in the absence of Ole Marse, hesitated, for the opening of the storehouse would result in a bursting out of the flames; that moment would require coolness, courage, and rapid handling; and the negro, always obedient, shrank from taking the responsibility alone.

* * * * *

Then a peremptory command came from somewhere, and twenty strong men leaped back as the flames licked through the open doors like tongues.

“Strip, men! Git ter wuk lack debils!” called the impelling voice. “Roll ’em out! Roll ’em out! H— is hotter’n dis! Roll ’em out!” and Henry, awe-struck and thrilled, following the leading, dropped into line with the others.

Swiftly the work went on, and higher and higher rose the mysterious voice, urging to quicker action by prayer and execration, until the negroes, nerved to the limits of human endurance by superstitious fear, pushed forward until they felt their sinews crack.

“One mo’ time, heave ahead, boys!” continued the voice; then the work was discontinued, for the white flame leaped up like a living torch, lighting even the river with its weird splendor.

“Wuk, men, wuk, fur de soul er Cindy’s baby!” cried the voice, now rising in a wail. Then a horror seized upon the negroes, and the men rushed forward to the rescue, for on the roof of the burning storehouse, now revealed through the sickening glare, stood the Other Maumer, waving a bunch of river reeds.

“Look! look!” she shouted, reaching for the scurrying sparks; “de butterflies done come back—dey done come back!” Then folding her arms and smiling, as though she held a child, “De soul er Cindy’s baby!” The picture of the past had been photographed for an instant upon the disordered brain.

It was useless to try to save her; again and again the willing hands were driven back by the heat. Higher and higher crept the flames around her, but, oblivious of life or death, the bent figure swayed and hugged in ecstasy the dream of the recovered soul.

Then a gust swept through the rifled storehouse, the beams quivered, and the cumbersome roof fell in, smothering the flame, and leaving the levee in utter darkness.

It was from Henry’s throat, deep and tremulous, that the death-song rose, joined in by the treble of the women. The wondering Cindy knelt in the sand and hid her face. Then, as the truth broke in upon her consciousness, Cely snatched a sleeping child from the arms of the kneeling Cindy, and a wild note of joy rose high above the dirge.

STOLEN FIRE

“Dey done got hit all wrong!”

Mammy looked across the room to where the children were quietly playing, then knitted her brows and tenderly caressed the bosom of the Colonel’s shirt with her iron.

“Brer Bailey hain’t got no call ter ’low dat niggers is ’v’luted fum Afiker monkeys, fur dey ’v’lutes back inter monkeys, sho’ mun!”

“What did you say, Mammy?” asked Fred, who had been playing in the fire, holding his stick aloft, and eagerly scanning the shining face for a possible story.

“Tell me and Fred a tale,” lisped Margie, outlining her toe upon the spotless kitchen floor with the end of her charred stick.

“If yo’ chillens don’ quit playin’ in de fire, I lay I gwine mek Miss Margret whup yo’ bofe when she come fum up-town—see if I don’t!” and Mammy rolled her eyes ferociously behind her brass specs, at which the children laughed and teased the more.

“What about monkeys, Mammy? Go on!” said Fred.

“Back into monkeys!” echoed Margie. “Go on!”

But Mammy deliberately tested an iron, as the children waited anxiously, then she lifted the expectant Margie upon one end of her board.

“Now, honey, mek yo’ han’s min’ dey own business, or dey’ll git burnt,” said Mammy; “an’ Fred, you set right still dar on dat ar cheer!”

“Well, long time ergo de debil he kim up ter de yeth, he did, an’ went courtin’ er gal.”

“What’s courtin’?” asked Fred.

“Talkin’ putty, lack yo’ Paw talk ter yo’ Maw ’fore dey was married,” said Mammy. “An’ de gal was er mighty fine gal, wid long straight hair an’ blue eyes, an’ she could sing—laws er mussy! how dat gal could sing!

“Well, de debil ain’t heared no singin’ sence he was drapped in de bad place, an’ dey guv ’im de keys, an’ he was dat hongry fur singin’, he mek dat gal sing all de time, an’ he stan’ by de pianny, he did, an’ hide de foot dat got de hoof on hit. Yo’ know by dis time, he done los’ he tail, an’ w’ar er tall stovepipe, ’case he hatter keep up wid whi’ folks.”

“How did he lose his tail?” asked both of the children at once.

“Mammy cain’t tell yo’ now ’bout dat, but he done los’ hit. Anyway, he mek dat gal sing all day ter ’im, an’ de gal she was peart an’ lackly, an’ she sing twel her throat done plum dry, an’ de debil he see hit were gittin’ dark, an’ he say hit were time fur him ter go home. He was ’feared ’case hit were so late, an’ he herry, an’ herry, clop-flop, clop-flop—de man’s foot an’ de hoof foot keep him back, fur de hoof foot mek two steps ter de man’s one, an’ when he git home, he find dat his fire were done plum out.

“Hit were er mighty sorry time fur de debil, ’case dar hain’t nobody gwine give him none nor len’ him none, an’ he cain’t steal hit hisse’f, on account er de hoof foot.”

“Why didn’t he buy some matches in town?” asked Fred.

“Didn’t hab no matches den, honey, an’ folkes hatter tote coals kivered wid ashes, fur miles an’ miles, if dey let de fire go out.”

“’Count of the hoof foot,” repeated Margie, coming back to the story.

“’Count er de hoof foot,” said Mammy, “so de debil castes ’roun’ who he gwine git fur ter steal hit fur him.

“Fust he went ter de b’ar, an’ stan’ er long way off, ’case anybody kin beat de debil when his fire done out, an’ he say: ’Please, Mister B’ar, won’t yo’ fetch me er coal fur ter light my pipe?’ But de b’ar he growl, ’My hair’s too thick, an’ de fire’s too hot, an’ de road’s too long, an’ I ’feared I git het up, an’ die.’

“Kimmin’ back, he meet wid de rabbit, wid his mouf full er green, an’ de debil he say: ’Hello, Mister Rabbit! won’t yo’ fetch me er coal fur ter light my pipe?’ De rabbit he look meek an’ sad, an’ he ’low, ’I sorry, Mister Debil, but my baby chile’s done got er awful cramp, an’ I gwine fur ter mek him some catnip tea. Good-day, Mister Debil!’ an’ he lope right on, an’ de debil mek er mark whar de rabbit cross his path, an’ spit in hit.

“Den he kim an’ knock at de tarrypin’s door, but de tarrypin don’t put more’n his nose outside, an’ de debil he ’low, ’Please Mister Tarrypin, won’t yo’ fetch me er coal fur ter light my pipe?’

“De tarrypin he draw in his door er little more, an’ ’low, ’Yo’ knows I’d ’bleege yo’, Mister Debil, but I goes so slow ’count er de mis’ry in de heart, dat de spark ’ud be out ’fore I could fetch hit! Good-day, Mister Debil!’

“De debil he ’low he must git dat fire somers, ’case dey was er needin’ uv hit down dar, an’ he ’pear ter meet up wid de fox, unbeknownst, an’ he ’low ter be mighty cute, an’ he say, ’Good-evenin’, Mister Fox!’ an’ walk ’long side er him, lack dey was thick es peas in er pod, but Mister Fox he keep er poppin’ uv his tail. Bimeby, Mister Debil he ’low, ’I got two fine segars in my ves’ pocket—tek er smoke, Mister Fox?’

“But de fox he see de debil ain’ got no light, an’ he ’low, ’I sorry ter lose such good comp’ny es yo’ is, but I gwine tek tea wid Misser Dominick Rooster. Good-evenin’, Mister Debil!’

“So de debil he were hard up now, ’case dey keep er hollerin’ fur fire down dar, so he ups an’ goes ter de ole blue jay; de jay don’ eben tek he head fum unner his wing. ’Go ’way, an’ lemme ’lone,’ say de jay—’I done been totin’ wood fur yo’ all dis Friday long, an’ I’se tired an’ I’se sleepy,’ say de jay.

“‘Better kim down fum dar er I’ll roas’ yo!’ say de debil, gittin’ mad.

“‘Hain’t got no fire,’ laugh de jay, an’ he go back ter sleep ergin.

“Den de debil he go ter his nigger, de crow, an’ he ’low, ’Go git me er coal er fire dis minute, ’fore I w’ar yo des plum out!’

“De crow he git mighty sassy, ’case he know de debil cain’t do nuffin’ lessen he got er fire, an’ he say: ’I done toted corn fur yo’, Mister Debil, twel I’se got my wing des plum full er bird-shot; I cain’t fetch yo’ no fire!’

“Den de debil he ’low he ’bout ter gib hit up, twel he spy er worfless town nigger, er chawin’ an’ er spittin’ at er chip in de moon-shine, an’ de debil he know he ain’ got no call ter be keerful here, an’ he up an’ ’low, ’Say, boy! you want ter mek some money?’

“De town nigger plum keen, he don’ keer how he git de money, so he git hit, an’ de debil he say: ’Go git me er coal er fire—quick now—an’ I’ll gib yo’ er dollar!’

“Well, de town nigger he light out an’ ax two er three folks, but dey ain’ got no fire ter spar’, an’ he go ’long twel he kim ter er po’ widder ’oman, er blowin’ on one po’ little coal er fire ter mek er bed fur ter cook her hoe-cake, an’ de nigger he ’low—’Lady, I’se hongry!’

“An’ she say: ’I ’ain’t cook supper yit—wait er while, an’ I’ll gib yo’ er hoe-cake.’ Den de nigger he move up closter, an’ tell de ’oman how good she is, an’ he stretch out his han’s lack ter warm ’em, den all uv er suddent he retch an’ snatch dat coal, an’ go skootin’ wid hit ter de debil.”

Mammy paused to lay the last piece in the basket, but the children were too eager to wait.

“What did the devil do with him?” asked Fred.

“Skootin’ to de devil,” repeated Margie.

“Well,” said Mammy, “de debil gib him de dollar in two halves so’s de nigger could chink ’em; an’ de nigger went ’long, chinkin’ ’em, laughin’ at how smart he were ter steal de coal fum de po’ widder ’oman, an’ it nebber cost him nuffin—when his lef’ arm itch him, an’ he feel dat hit were sproutin’ hair, an’ he fin’ dat he were sproutin’ hair all ober, an’ he git skeered an’ run, but de hair keep er sproutin’ an’ er sproutin’, an’ he keep er changin’, an’ er changin’ so bimeby he des couldn’t talk, an’, bress goodness, honey! ’fore dat nigger git half-way home, he was er walkin’ half on his han’s an’ half on his feet, an’ wa’n’t nuffin but er plum Afika monkey!”

Both blue eyes and brown were wide and shining. “What did they do with him?” asked Fred. “Go on! go on!” urged Margie. “Dar kim yo’ Maw, chillen! dar she kim!” cried Mammy, clapping her hands—“Run, go see what she fotch yo’!”

THE BLACK CAT

Daddy Mose had been counsellor, soothsayer, and leading exhorter to the whole of the dusky population of Piney ever since the close of the war. It was said that in emergencies the white people themselves could not do without him; for the year that the worms were so bad in the bolls even Colonel Preston had sent for Daddy Mose and had a private consultation with him, and the result was that the Colonel’s was the only cotton in the Bend that was worth picking in the fall. Then, on another occasion, the old cherry-tree in the Colonel’s orchard, that had never even blossomed before, had to be propped to keep it from breaking with the fruit, the spring after Daddy Mose drove five rusty nails into its heart and buried something tied up in a rag at its roots.

But it was the rising generation, in his own country and in his own house, that troubled Daddy Mose, and he leaned on his hoe and looked with evident dissatisfaction at the little black figure pirouetting defiantly before him.

“Don’ yo’ do hit, Solly—don’ yo’ do hit!”

“But Misser Lingum say he gimme er quarter, Daddy!”

“What good dat pitiful little quarter gwine do yo’ if yo’ kills er black cat?” There was a withering contempt in the tone which made the little imp squirm and twist uneasily.

“Er black cat es wuth es much es ernuther cat, if hit’s good fur er quarter, Daddy!” grunted the imp, plucking up courage and making, a circle in the dust with his great toe.

Daddy Mose hoed two or three turns vigorously, and then looked the little imp straight in the face.

“Dat des lack dese free-born-sence-de-war niggers! Yo’ po’ little mizerbul fool, does yo’ know who er black cat am?”

Solly winced. “He’s wuth er quarter, fur Misser Lingum at de sto’ he ’low he gimme one if I kills hit an’ fotch de cat ter him. He say he done pay fur de killin’ er dat cat free times, but hit allus turns up ergin.”

“’Cou’se hit gwine kim back; er black cat allus do,” said Daddy Mose. “Hain’t no tree ebber sprouted er chunk dat’ll kill er black cat, lessen you does hit nine times, an’ I lay yo’ gwine be powerful sorry if you does hit den.”

“But I’se gwine hang him wid er rope!” retorted the imp, with a grin.

“Yo’ Sol’mun Hightower Dewberry!—Yo’ little black rapscallion!—Hain’t got de fear er debil er man! What you’ Mammy been er doin’ dat she hain’t larn yo’ better? Des er gwine out in de worl’ an’ er fetching in bad luck lack de mud on you’ foots! I lay I larn yo’ how ter hang er black cat—I larn yo’!”

There was a fruitless plunge and a wild yell, with very spicy punctuations. Solly’s mother, from the tree where she was washing, grunted her endorsement, and, his wrath being appeased and his audience increased by two or three, for it was the noon hour, Daddy Mose took his seat on the washbench and fanned himself with his hat.

“De free niggers is mighty big fools,” he mused, “des er flingin’ out de sense er dey daddies and mammies es fas’ es dey put book larnin’ in; an’ de chillen—de po’, impident free chillen!—dey hain’t lack white folks, an’ dey hain’t lack de niggers uster was—dey des hain’t nuffin!”

There was hardly a unanimous endorsement of the assertion, but it was accorded a respectful hearing, and the quiescent state of his listeners and his “chaw er stingy green” at last rendered Daddy Mose pleasantly reminiscent.

“Ebber telled yo’ all how ’Lish Stone fetched de ten-year bad luck on hisse’f?” he queried, thoughtfully.

“No, yo’ hain’t ebber tole we all, Daddy Mose.”

“An’ he couldn’ git shet uv hit twel dey burn up de cabin an’ de kivers?”

“Po’ creetur!—Um, um.”

“Yas, dey hatter burn up de cabin an’ de kivers,” repeated Daddy Mose, reflectively.

“Tell erbout hit, Daddy—tell erbout hit!” came in chorus.

“Well,” said Daddy Mose, “hit were ’bout dis way: ’Lish Stone wa’n’t much ’count no how, but he hab er mighty fine, peart ’oman, an’ dat how come Daddy Mose ’member hit ter dis day.

“‘Lish hadn’ been pleasin’ er Ole Marse in de way he been er gwine, an’ Ole Marse gib him one mighty straight talk ’fore he put de oberseer’s whup arter him, ’case one nigger is mighty hard on ernuther nigger, bond er free—you knows dat—an’ Ole Marse’s oberseers was allus niggers.

“‘Lish he wa’n’t no survigrous nigger, an’ he feel mighty sorry now ’bout de way he berhave hisse’f, an’ Ole Marse gib him so many chances, an’ he lack mighty well ter please Ole Marse now, an’ he mek hisse’f anxious waitin’ fur de time.

“Well, Dinah an’ Marthy ’ten’ ter de dairy den, an’ bimeby dey gin out dat some un des bardaciously stealin’ de cream off en de pans in de spring-house ever’ night. Nobody know who hit were ner whar dey kim fum, but hit go on, an’ dey git so bol’ dat dar wa’n’t hardly cream ernough fur de Big House coffee, let ’lone fur churnin’ an’ things, an’ Ole Miss she say she gwine mek ’em set er watch, fur Dinah an’ Marthy ’spected some er de fiel’ han’s an’ tole tales on ’em.

“Dar was allus war ’twixt de house niggers an’ de fiel’ han’s, lack de quality white folks an’ _po’ buckra_. Not dat Ole Marse would er let ’em fi’t—no, my Lord—’case we hatter be peaceable an’ Christiun ’roun’ Ole Marse. But de house niggers an’ de fiel’ han’s kinder swap words, quiet lack, when dey passes, an’ when Ole Miss sont fur er little fiel’ nigger ter foller arter de chillen er ter swing de pea-fowl bresh ober de table, um!—you think dat little nigger done gone up ter heaben!

“So dey sets er watch down by de spring-house door, an’ Pomp an’ Dave do de watchin’. Pomp he were er mighty young un, an’ don’ know nuffin but pickin’ down de row an’ er-shakin’ uv he foots arter he done; but Dave he were er hard ole sinner, done cotch in ole age wid conviction, an’ he tryin’ his bestest ter git ’ligion. He done sot on de mourners’ bench fur two weeks, an’ de ’stracted meetin’ mos’ ober; done been prayed fur by ever’ ’zorter in de straw, er-groanin’ all de time lack er ox er-dyin’, but hit ’pear lack he des couldn’ git hit.

“Well, ’bout dat time dey put Dave on de watch, an’ de brederin’ dey tell him dat dey gwine pray on des de same, an’ Brer Jonas, de prophesyin’ ’zorter, he promise Dave dat if he wrastle mightily wid de sperit, he gwine ter see er sign.

“So ever’ night dey watch, but ever’ night de cream done off de pans lack hit were erfore, dough we knows dat Dave hain’t taken hit, ’case if er nigger ebber gwine ter be hones’, hit would be unner hard conviction lack dat Dave was er-wrastlin’ wid.

“Ole Miss she ain’ lack de way things is gwine on, an’ she ’low one day dat we all was mighty po’ niggers, dat cain’t ketch sech er low-down t’ief, an’ Dave he was so mizerbul an’ po’ly, ’case he’s feared de big meetin’ close ’dout he gittin’ ’ligion, dat Brer Jonas he say fur Dave ter leabe Pomp in de Quarters, so’s he kin wrastle erlone wid de sperit down by de spring-house.

“When Brer Jonas gib dat out, Dave he see dat Ole Marse’s two boys, Johnny an’ Jeems, es fine er pa’r er rascals es ebber toted er stone-bruise, been lis’enin’ fru hit all, an’ he see ’em fetchin’ in some green watermillions fum de garden ’dout yellin’ fur er nigger ter kim an’ tote ’em in, but he were so mizerbul he don’ tek no notice.

“Hit were er mighty dark night de fust time dat Dave watch by hese’f, an’ dough hit hain’t gwine rain, de heat light’nin’ streck er match now an’ den, an’ hit mek hit ’pear lonesomer ter Dave; but dar hain’t nuffin kin pester him, ’case he’s unner conviction, an’ he hain’t gwine be erfeared if he see de sign, ’case, ’cordin’ ter Brer Jonas, hit gwine ter be de sign er de promise, an’ if he des kin see hit, he sho’ gwine know he got ’ligion at las’.

“So Dave he sot on de steps an’ wait. Hit were er mighty solumn, furgitable place whar de spring-house were, an’ bimeby de whup’-wills ’gin ter call ’way ober yander, an’ Dave he ’low ter hisse’f dey allus do dat way ter mek lonesome folks feel mo’ lonesomer; den er frog in de spring branch right ’longsider Dave opin he mouf an’ say sumpen mighty short an’ den shet up, but hit mek dat Dave jump putty nigh outen he skin.

“Dave sot an’ steddy an’ steddy ’bout he sins twel he see sumpen ’way off yander lack er star, but Dave he hain’t skeered ertall, ’case he been waitin’ all erlong fur de sign. Den he sees supen er-shinin’ lack two stars, an’ den sumpen white riz up berhin’ ’em, an’ Dave he fall ter stribin’ lack Brer Jonas tell him ’bout, an’ de two sumpens kim er nigher.

“Dave he keep on stribin’, but he stribe wid one eye opin now, an’ de two sumpens an’ de white thing kim er nigh an’ er nigher. Den he fall to stribin’ wid bofe eyes opin now, an’ opin wide, when one er de ghostes fotch er groan, an’ de white fire kim outen he nose an’ mouf.

“Now Brer Jonas he say fur Dave ter ’spute wid de sign when he see hit, dat he mout know hit were de true sign, but when Dave see dat fire—de berry fire er de debil, he say after’ards, des er burnin’ on de inside—he ain’ wait fur ter ’spute, but des tek ’em es dey looks, an’ light out fum dar an’ mek tracks. Dat fool nigger he shake lack he got de agur de res’ er dat night, an’ when mornin’ kim he done got ’ligion good an’ fas’—plum skeered inter hit—an’ Brer Jonas he ’low, sorter private lack ’mongst de bredrin’, but mighty solumn, dough, dat hit hain’t de fust time dat he see ’ligion kim outen er green watermillion. Fur hit git out somers, ’case Marthy she say dat Ole Marse hab Johnny an’ Jeems sont up ter his office one day, when she were dustin’ ’roun’, an’ she ’low she hear Ole Marse say he hain’t gwine hab no sech carryin’s on on his place, er-skeerin’ de niggers inter fits, an’ she ’low hones’ dat he whup ’em bofe, an’ I reckon he did hit, ’case Ole Marse wa’n’t no han’ ter tek any foolishness.

“But dey ain’ git Dave back ter watch at de spring-house no mo’, an’ de cream goes off de pans worser ’n ebber.

“Well, dat triflin’ ’Lish he been er-lis’enin’ ’roun’, an’ he wanter pleasure Ole Miss, ’case he know she tell Ole Marse ’bout hit, an’ he ups an’ ’low dat he gwine watch at de spring-house, an’ cotch de t’ief, an’ he struts ’roun’ mighty mannish ’bout hit.

“So ’Lish he taken Dave’s place on de watch, an’ lock de door er de spring-house an’ gorm up de key-hole wid beeswax, but dat cream was gone in de mornin’ des lack hit were erfore. Den ’Lish he ’low dat hit hain’t man ner beast dat taken de cream, but sumpen dat’ll go fru de door dout opinin’ uv hit; but he ’low he hain’t ’feared er nuffin.

“So he goes down ter de branch in de night-time (hit were de dark er de moon), an’ gadder some _he fern seed_ an’ put ’em in he Sunday shoes (fiel’ han’s don’ w’ar shoes ever’ day), an’ he taken de veil what he were borned wid an’ put hit in he pocket, ’case if hit er sperit dat hone fur de cream, ’Lish know dat he kin view hit now, fur de veil hit work er charm so’s he kin see de ghostes good, an’ de sperits hain’t gwine ter fly fum de foots what got de _he fern seed_ in de holler.

“Well, ’Lish he des sot an’ wait, an’ ever’thing plum cl’ar ter he eye, an’ bimeby he sees er shinin’, an’ sumpen black kim er-sneakin’ an’ er-sneakin’, an’ hit slips right clost ter de door, an’ ’Lish he look twel hit ’pear dat de eyes des pop plum outen he head, ’case dat black cat des stan’ dar an’ wave he tail free times, den go right fru dat door dat done shet an’ locked, des lack dar wa’n’t no door dar.”

“Den ’Lish he git clost up an’ put he year right ’gin de wall an’ hear de water tricklin’ in de trough, but he hear dat cat too, des er-lappin’ de cream. He done fin’ de t’ief, but hit wa’n’t no rale cat ertall, but de debil dat been er-gittin’ dat cream.

“Bimeby de cat git ernough an’ sneak out ergin, an’ look ’Lish plum in de eyes an’ grin es he passes.

“In de mornin’ ’Lish he go up ter de Big House, an’ Ole Miss brag on him fur bein’ smart ernough to fin’ de t’ief, an’ she say dat some un gotter kill de black cat.

“Now, white folks ain’ lack niggers—I mean de ole-time niggers. Dey hain’t got de ole ’he sense’ dat de niggers is got, an’ wid dey book-larnin’ an’ dey fine clo’se an’ things, hit ’pear lack dey done furgit what folks _kin_ do an’ what dey _cain’t_, ’case nobody kin do des what dey pleases; fur dar’s sumpin des er little bit higher ’n ever’body, dat got er rope on em, an’ dey gotter kim when dey feels hit pull. But, howsomebber, I’se seen wid my own eyes de white folks cuttin’ uv er baby’s finger-nails wid de scissors ’stead er bitin’ uv ’em off, lack ’spectable folks, des er makin’ er t’ief fur de jail ter cotch, an’ er-laffin’ ’bout hit, too. Dey sees er rabbit cross de road an’ nebber eben think ’bout makin’ uv er cross an’ spittin’ in hit. Dey’ll look at de new moon ober de lef’ shoulder th’u’ de trees an’ nebber eben tek time ter say er pra’r back’ards; whilst dey puts on de right shoe fust, an’ wonder what’s de matter wid dey business when hit go wrong; an’ dey eben taken dese days ter cuttin’ winders in de house, right whilst dey libin’ in hit an’ dey’s ’sprised when some er dey folks dies soon, an’ dey calls hit de ’wuk er Prov’dence.’ White folks sho’ is cuis.

“Well, ’Lish he know better; ’cordin’ ter de knowledgments er ever’ sensible nigger, he know hit, an’ he know dat stealin’ de cream was des er trick er de debil an’ he sarchin’ fur er humin soul; but ’Lish so proud ’counter Ole Miss praisin’ uv him dat he done turn fool, an’ he promise Ole Miss dat he kill dat cat.

“He steddy ’bout hit powerful arter de proud cool off an’ he go ter de cabin; but he done gib he promise ter Ole Miss, an’ he cain’t back out. He know dar hain’t nuffin but er rope ’ll git yo’ shet uv er black cat, leastways he’d er knowed hit if he’d er thunk; but he knowed de bad luck hit ’ud fotch, so he ’low fur ter lay fur de cat an’ hit him wid er chunk fust.

“So dat night de cat kim sho’ ’nough ergin, an’ es he crope clost by ’Lish, he nail him wid de chunk, an’ leabe him kickin’, an’ ’low ter show him ter Ole Miss in de mornin’. But when de mornin’ kim dar wa’n’t no cat dar, dead er ’live, an’ Ole Marse laff an’ say dat ’Lish been er-dreamin’, but Ole Miss she git sorter mad an’ r’ar ’counter de tale dat ’Lish tell dat he kill de cat.

“Well, ’Lish, he hain’t no skeery nigger, he gittin’ smart lack de white folks; so next night he sets er dead-fall fur de cat, made outen heaby timber, an’ he sees de trigger spring an’ de dead-fall drap, ’bang!’ plum on de cat, ’fore he leabe dar. But in de mornin’ dar wa’n’t no cat ner dead-fall nuther dar, an’ de cream done gone ergin.

“De nex’ night but one ’Lish steddy an’ steddy, an’ set er steel trap fur him. Now er steel trap’s er mighty good trap fur ever’ kin’ er cat ’ceptin’ er black cat, an’ dat nigger ’Lish mout er knowed dat he wastin’ he time, ’case er steel trap cain’t ebber hol ’er black cat; but, anyhow, he sot de steel trap fur him, an’ arter hit snap an’ he hear de cat yowl, he go off inter de cabin ter sleep. Me an’ Marthy an’ Dinah heard dat cat er yowlin’, too, but when mornin’ kim dar wa’n’t no cat by de spring-house, an’ no cream nuther.

“Den Ole Miss she gib ’Lish er gun, an’ he tote de gun so proud dat de fiel’ han’s des couldn’ speak ter him. Well, night kim at las’, an’ wid hit kim de cat, an’ he look at ’Lish an’ grin des er darin’ uv him ter shoot him, ’case he see he got de gun. But de fool nigger ain’ see dat, an’ he tek aim at de shinin’ green eyes an’ fire, ’bang!’ an’ ober went de cat an’ ober go ’Lish, ’case de gun done kick him bad. Well, dar sot ’Lish, an’ dar sot de cat er-grinnin’ an’ wid his eyes er-shinin’ des er-waitin’ fur ’Lish ter shoot ergin. Den de debil tech him wid de fire uv he sperit, an’ ’Lish git blin’ mad, an’ he pull de trigger, an’ dis time he git him, fur de cat keel ober an’ ’pear ter die, an’ ’Lish taken him by de tail an’ fling him in de bayou.

“In de mornin’ dar was blood all ’bout de spring-house door, but Ole Miss she sho’ r’ar dat day, ’case not on’y de cream on top was gone but half de milk in de pans, an’ Ole Miss ’low some mighty hard things.

“Hit pester ’Lish mightily, ’case he done ’memb’rin’ what he Mammy larn him mighty fas’, but Ole Miss she got her dander up now, an’ she say she hain’t gwine ter stan’ all dis foolishness des ’bout de killin’ uv er little black cat, an’ ’Lish, he were sech er big plum fool nigger, he gwine ter gib up he knowledgments des fur de pleasurin’ uv Ole Miss. But if he think bad luck gwine skip anybody dat hunt fur hit wid bofe eyes opin he reckon mighty po’ ’bout luck. So he p’intedly wrastled wid hit, twel he ’low ter hisse’f dat he allus been lucky an’ allus gwine ter be, an’ den he des gits down ter business, an’ greases a rope fur ter mek hit slick, an’ hides hit unbeknownst in de cabin ter wait fur night, ’case he know de niggers be all plum ergin him if dey know he gwine hang er black cat.

“Late in de ebenin’ he go whistlin’ down ter de spring-house, arter Dinah an’ Marthy done put erway de milk, an’ he ben’ down er limb uv er little hick’ry saplin’ an’ cut hit twel he git er swingin’ fork fur ter noose de rope in.

“I’se heared ’Lish tell erbout hit many’s de time. Well, he ’low dat es he work sumpen des ’pear ter git inter him, an’ he whistle an’ whistle, an’ den he couldn’t keep his ole feets still, but des lit inter dancing in front er de spring-house lack mad, an’ all de time, unbeknownst, dat black cat des er-watchin’ uv him up er tree.

“Bimeby he des hatter set down, ’case he done danced all de bref outen him, an’ he feels mighty cuis, ’case es he set dar in de dark hit ’pear lack all he ebber done—all de little good, an’ all de whole heap er low down, sneakin’ things dat he done furgit erbout—kim er-swimmin’ erfore his eyes, des ter mek him tek notice uv ’em. Hit were er warnin’, sho’, ’case hit were de _sperit_ er ’Lish, prophesyin’ ter de po’ weak flesh er de _man_ ’Lish, but de man ’Lish cain’t unnerstan’ what de sperit ’Lish mean, an’ hit mek him plum mizerbul.

“But arter while de cat kim er-sneakin’ erlong, wid he eyes des er-shinin’ white an’ red an’ green, lack de fox-fire in de swamp. When he sees ’Lish, he quoil he tail keerful lack an’ sot down an’ look at him erwhile, an’ he look an’ look, so knowin’, twel hit mek de goose bumps fa’r riz up on ’Lish’s back; den he git tired er settin’, an’ whisk dat ole long tail er his’n at ’Lish an’ go on inter de spring-house, des er darin’ ’Lish ter foller.

“Den ’Lish ’pear ter git sorter flustered, ’case he done furgit ter work de charm ’gin de debil, but go right inter de spring-house an’ cornder de cat an’ fling de greased rope ober he head. De cat he ’ain’ show no fight now, but des grin an’ sink he ole long white teef plum inter ’Lish’s han’, but dar hain’t no blood drawed, ’case black cat nebber draws blood, but des sink p’is’n deep down on de eends er dey teef. ’Lish think ’bout dat, an’ he feared ter put he han’ in he mouf fur ter suck de p’is’n outen hit; but he know he in fur hit now, an’ so he draw dat noose tighter an’ tighter.

“Now er black cat won’t holler when yo’ hangs him, if hit er rale black cat, ’case hit’s mostly de debil dat is er-w’arin’ uv er black cat’s skin when he wanter ’do erbout,’ ’case he know no hones’-minded pusson is gwine ter dribe erway er cat. So de debil he set by de warm hearth, in de skin er de black cat, an’ purr an’ purr, an’ hear all de secrets er de fambly, an’ things dat passes twixt man an’ man an’ man an’ wife, ’dout anybody tekin’ notice; an’ dat how things go singin’ roun’ an’ dar hain’t nobody tole ’em.

“But dar’s one thing dat yo’ kin put in yo’ pipe an’ smoke; we’s all got our match somers, dar’s sumpen gwine ter ketch up wid de fastes’, an’ dat why de black cat ’ain’ show no fight ’gin er rope.

“Well, ’Lish he tightens de noose an’ fling de eend er de rope ober de swingin’ fork, an’ tie hit dar, an’ sot an’ wait. De cat he grin an’ grin at ’Lish; he kin see de teef by de light er de eyes dat des shoot sparks, an’ hit ’pear lack dem eyes des charm ’Lish lack er snake, fur his’n plum sot on de cat’s, an’ he cain’t tek ’em off.

“Den sumpen happin dat mek ’Lish’s blood fa’r rin cole an’ he hair ter stan’ right up an’ straighten out, es kinky es hit were; fur ’Lish he hear er voice ’hine de cat somers, an’ he know hit were de cat, dough de ole cat’s tongue was des er hangin’ out. Den hit ’pear lack dar were two cats, den free cats, den de air hit ’pear ter be plum full er cats, an’ dey all opin dey moufs an’ says de same thing all at de same time; ’Lish say hit were des lack thunder. He hain’t nebber, nebber tole what de cats gib out—he allus shiver an’ ’low he cain’t, so we all hain’t ebber know. But all dis time de hung cat was des er-grinnin’ at ’Lish.

“Dat cat sho’ dead dis time—dar wa’n’t no ’sputin’ ’bout dat, dough dat wa’n’t no sign dat de debil done gone back ter his own. But arter de air git cl’ar fum de odder cats, ’Lish taken de hung cat down an’ hide de rope in de bayou, ’case he don’ want de niggers ter know he hang er black cat, an’ es he lock de door, he know de cream done safe now, an’ dar hain’t nuffin gwine ter pester hit no mo’.

“Ole Miss mek mighty much er ’Lish, an’ Ole Marse brags on him, but it don’ ’pear ter do ’Lish much good; fur we cain’t hide nuffin fum de truf, an’ what er nigger do wrong in de dark, gwine ter be onkivered in de daylight, an’ hit hain’t gwin ter be er cloudy day, sho’s yo’ born. Er sin is one er de bes’ keepin’ things on dis here yeth; hit hain’t er gwine ter spile in de keepin’, an’ when dey onkiver hit, hit ’ll be des es safe an’ soun’ de day arter de Jedgment es you kin fin’ hit ter-day; an’ dat nigger he know he ’mittin’ er sin ’gin de ’ligion er he Mammy when he kill dat cat.

“But de bad luck dat he hunted fur kim on him putty fas’ arter dat; fur de day lackin’ one arter he hang de cat, er muel he were ridin’ ter de fiel’—er ole, slow, jog-trottin’, sleepy muel—git de debil in her an’ frow him an’ break he leg.

“Den he taken wid de browncreeturs in he thote ’fore he git fru dat, an’ hab er powerful hard time. Ole Miss think he gwinter die, but de debil hain’t gwinter let him die, he gwinter mek him mo’ painful yit. Den he taken wid de arysipulous in de lame leg, an’ some call hit scrofulow an’ some call hit des arysipulous; but, anyhow, he seed sights wid hit, dough Ole Miss doctors on him so hard dat he git shet uv hit.

“Den de new wife she leabe him, ’case when he able ter set up she pick hit outen him dat he kill de black cat des ter pleasure Ole Miss, an’ Keziah don’ want de bad luck, ’case hit de ten-year luck, an’ de Lord on’y know whar hit gwinter stop. An’ las’ly ’Lish were taken wid de miz’ry in de chist. Well, dat las’ pester Ole Miss mightily, an’ she do what she kin fur bofe de ailments. She try ter git dat gal ter go back ter ’Lish—she try ter ’suade her an’ ter buy her, an’ she mek plarsters fur ’Lish’s chist all de time ’dout doin’ any good—fur dat Keziah she lub good luck better ’n she lub ’Lish, an’ de plarsters uv er good ’oman lack Ole Miss cain’t work ’gin de debil.

“Well, twixt all de things dat ’Lish is got an’ ain’ got, he w’ar so po’ly dat he git rale ashy, an’ hit ’pear lack de skin des sticks ter de bones, an’ he set by hisse’f, ’case he hain’t stout ernough ter work none now, an’ talk ter somebody we cain’t see, all de time. He ’low hit follers uv him, an’ set down by him when he goes ter sleep uv nights, an’ ain’ let him git shet uv hit er minute.

“Ole Miss she git de fambly doctor now ter come an’ physic on ’Lish, fur she hear de singin’ ’roun’ ’mongst de niggers, an’ she know what dey think, an’ she feel ’sponsible.

“But hit ’pear lack de doctor mek ’Lish worser, an’ Ole Miss she ’low she ain’ know what ter do.

“Den ’Lish he w’ar so low dat Abe, what were de carpenter, he gib out dat he gwine mek er coffin fur ’Lish, so’s ter be ready fur him when he die, an’ Ole Miss she feel mighty bad, ’case she ’member now de tales her black Mammy usen ter tole her when she were little. Fur er white chile ain’ ebber gwine ter furgit ’em if dey lis’ens ter ’em right an’ dey got er good black Mammy.

“So when Ole Miss an’ de white folks’ doctor des plum gib hit up, Unc’ Cæsar he limp up ter de Big House, wid his white head bare, an’ ax Ole Miss mout he work on ’Lish.

“Ole Miss know Unc’ Cæsar ’sponsible’ an’ she say he mout, an’ he limp off inter he cabin ’dout sayin’ er word, eben ter Ole Miss, an’ shot to de door, an’ button hit on de inside.

“Er mighty cuis smoke kim outen Unc’ Cæsar’s chimbly dat ebenin’, an’ all de niggers say he fixin’ sumpen; but we ain’ know what, ’case Unc’ Cæsar were er hoodoo an’ work wid charms. But he go inter ’Lish cabin, an’ shot de door to an’ button hit on de inside, an’ do sumpen ter ’Lish.

“Dat night he taken ’Lish an’ set him in er cheer outside de cabin, an’ ’Lish fetch his kivers outside, ’case he ain’ know what Unc’ Cæsar gwine do.

“Unc’ Cæsar ain’ say er word, but he taken er live chunk fum de hearth an’ sot fire ter de cabin, an’ es she blaze up high he mek passes wid his long arms an’ say sumpen low, mumblin’ lack. Den when de blaze ’gin ter die down he taken ’Lish’s kivers an’ flings’ em on, an’ es de fire clomb high ergin he snatch ever’ rag dat ’Lish got on him an’ flings ’em on, an’ swing he long arms ober he head; den, des es de flames lick de highes’, he taken de rope dat he mek ’Lish creep down ter de bayou ter fin’ an’ fling hit on, an’ dar were er power er quare-lookin’ smoke in de Quarters, an’ all de niggers kim er runnin’ an’ b’ar witness.

“Den ’Lish, des es naked as er new-borned baby, fall down an’ foam an’ foam at de mouf, but Unc’ Cæsar won’ let nobody tech him.

“Dey all stan’ an’ wait, des er hol’in’ dey brefs ter see what gwine happin, an’ bimeby de blaze hit die an’ de smoke cl’ar ’way, an’ dar wa’n’t nuffin lef’ but er little pile er ashes, an’ de niggers falls ter whisperin’, ercusin’ Unc’ Cæsar fur burnin’ up po’ sick ’Lish’s cabin an’ his kivers; when Unc’ Cæsar he p’int one long arm wid er long, shakin’ finger, an’ say: ’Look!’—an’, bless goodness! right dar in de middle er de pile er hot ashes dat des still er-smould’rin’, sot de berry same ole black cat, des er-grinnin’ fitten ter bust.

“De niggers dey was skeered, an’ dey ain’ know what ter do, but dey fotch one shout fur ’glory!’ an’ dat nigger ’Lish he fall ter prayin’ good, ’case he know dat de cuss er de debil was offen him now, an’ de soul an’ de body was free.”

’LIZA

“Dar wa’n’t no tickler pusson nowhar ’n ’Liza’s Maw, Bithie,” said Mammy, as she drew the basket of wool within reach and took up her cards.

“Dar wa’n’t no ’tickler pusson ’n Bithie, slave time ner free; but de way dat ’Liza git ’way wid her one time were er caution.

“‘Liza hain’t nebber been seed but oncet sence, nuther, an’ den hit were only fur er minute, an’ she didn’ speak ter nobody, ner gib out nuffin, but des look plum mizerbul an’ po’ly. Mus’ be mighty ole now, if she’s libin’, which I ’specs she am, fur Unc’ ’Jah say dat bein’ de way dat ’Liza git ter be by her own sinnin’, dey cain’t ebber die, much es dey wanter, an’ I knows dat wharebber ’Liza am, dat she shore wanter die,” added Mammy, mysteriously, as the long soft roll grew under her manipulation. There was a chorus of questions from the quilters who bent over the frame, but Mammy freed the roll and laid fresh wool between her cards before she spoke again.

“A-a-h, lawsy!—dis ole worl’ hain’t no better ’n hit uster was, but I don’ spec’ de Lord gwine let hit git no wusser—he des gwine min’ his own bus’ness, an’ let hit clean hitself lack mos’ t’ings in natur’ does!”

“Tell us about ’Liza, Mammy!” came in chorus from the quilt.

“Well well—arter while,” said Mammy. “Wait twel de chillen git ter bed, fur de tale er what ’Liza do, hain’t fitten fur de years er chillen, es powerful knowin’ es dey is,” and Mammy sighed again, then worked in silence, wrapped in deepest contemplation.

So the quilters told their own tales, merry and bright at first, but as the evening wore away they were ghostly and more mysterious, until the last row of shells in the frame were being rolled—then the quilt was taken out, and cider and gingerbread was set upon the table.

Fresh wood was piled upon the smouldering back log, as the quilters drew up to the fire with laden hands, and Mammy, waking from her reverie, laid aside her cards and smoothed her apron down, preparatory. There was always a great deal of ceremony about Mammy’s preparations, for her art was not hackneyed by frequent repetition, and this was the story she told to the quilters:

Bithie was the only child of Marse Dick’s ’Riah, and Bithie’s ’Liza, a seventh daughter, was born with a veil, besides coming at a time when Bithie had long ceased to look for any more children; so when they brought her to Unc’ Caspar, who was a hoodoo and was given to prophesying, Unc’ Caspar took her in his arms and looked long and earnestly into her face.