Chapter III: Part 3

Little Billy was as black as a tar pot, short of stature, very bow-legged, cunning as a fox, and smart. When he drew his bow across a fiddle it made you feel like dancing, and when there was a dance among the overseers, Billy played, and called out, “Swing yo’ partners;” “pigeon wing,” “ladies ter de center,” etc. He set muskrat traps, fished on Sundays, and often coon and ’possum hunted Sunday nights. His bow legs enabled him to climb like a cat, and no tree was too big for him to _negotiate_ if Truman treed up the same; and when Billy sang out, “Put him up, True!” and Truman “chawed de bark an’ wep, an’ ’stressed hissef,” as Billy would say, you might be sure there was a coon in the tree.

Billy was a slave, helped to milk the cows, tote fire wood, pick the chickens, turkeys and geese, and was “horngry” all the time. The negroes thought Billy monstrous wise, but thought Satan would get him. He was an innocent fabricator, and a harmless rogue.

One day whilst husking corn he said he had once killed twelve eagles at a shot. The darkies remonstrated with him, and said they had never seen more than two eagles at a time, whereupon Billy said he had killed ten. They continued to taunt him until he dropped to three, and then said, “I’ll die befo’ I drap another eagle!”

One Saturday in March Billy sauntered to the humble cabin of Jerry and Caesar Butler, brothers and free negroes, to steal a dozen raw. They lived at the head of a creek, fished, oystered, and hunted the marsh for muskrats for a livelihood. Saturday night the boat came, and he knew they would have several barrels of oysters for the steamer. The weather was not very cold and he assumed they were oystering, because the day before whilst they were out Billy had slipped over and stolen a cooking ’possum. Arriving at the cabin, lo! and behold, Caesar and Jerry were both on deck, the former lamenting and pondering about his ’possum, the latter skinning a lot of muskrats he had trapped the night before.

Caesar was fond of ’possum, and returning from oystering hungry and tired, stopped at the country store, bought a pint of applejack and a fat ’possum, went home, put his ’possum in the ashes, covered it with coals, took several swigs of applejack, and went soundly to sleep—_’possum struck_.

When Billy appeared the ’possum was nicely roasted, which Billy ate, piled the bones in Caesar’s lap, greased his hands and face, so when Caesar awoke he found his hands and cheeks greasy, and a pile of ’possum bones in his lap. He licked his hands, and said, “Dat’s ’possum;” felt his cheeks and said, “Dat’s ’possum sho’,” and when he saw the pile of bones in his lap, said: “Dat’s ’stonishin’ applejack, an’ de mos’ ornsatisfactionis’ ’possum dat ebber I et.”

Billy was very generous and when he had money would buy oysters, but without money would invite himself to take, and generally took them, for he was prodigal. It was nothing unusual for him to go to the country store and buy two eggs’ worth of molasses, of which he was very fond.

Billy had to have an excuse for his midday visit, so he pondered quite a while inventing one. The ’possum came to mind, and his heart sank into his boots. Then he thought of the snipe that had pitched on the marsh the night before, and soon had a yarn ready; so as the two old brothers sat gazing into the soothing fire, watching some bacon fry, he sauntered in, looking _meek like_, and said he had “come to tell dem what he heahd de Jack Snipe say on de mash lars nite, when he wuz mus’rattin’.” Jerry and Caesar were credulous and superstitious, but questioned Billy’s hearing the snipe talk. True they thought them “ve’y ’ceitful and _quare_ birds, but nebber heahd dem talk.” Billy said, “Crows an’ parrots talk, but dey wan’ anyt’ing ter jack snipe. Ghoses an’ witches libbed in cow’s hohns! Watah rail tu’ned inter frogs an’ jack snipe tu’ned into jack-uh-ma-lanterns, which wuz ’ceitful larf in witches, but after all, hit all ain’ harf ez strange ez uh little blossom meckin’ uh watermillion.”

The brothers were now perplexed and anxious to hear Billy’s story, and when urged said he “wuz too horngry to tell ’bout hit, mus’ go home an’ git some dinner;” whereupon Jerry suggested oysters, which Billy said he “wuz not ve’y fon’ ub, but dey wud do.” Then he gave the snipe story, as follows:

“I wuz mus’rattin’ on de mash lars’ nite. De moon had jes’ riz, an’ de tide wuz creepin’ in jes’ ez quiet an’ rash-nal ez uh settin’ hen. De creek an’ de mash look so lubly, I ’gin ter muse an’ fogot ’bout de mus’rats, an’ wuz t’inkin’ boutin uh new chune I’s learnin’ ter play, call, ‘I Sweeps de Kitchen Clean’—when, sizz! cum uh flite ub dem snipe, an’ dey mos’ lit on me. I reckon dey wud, but I say, ‘You better mine yo’sef, snipe!’ Bimeby one ub ’em say ter uh frog dat wuz chawin’ uh grasshopper not mo’n de length ub uh fence rail fum me, ‘Lubly nite, Mr. Frog!’”

Jerry: “Now, hush! I al’ays sed dem birds wuz strange—cum ter day an’ gone ter morrow!”

Partridge Hunting at “Fairlands”—Rob Roy and Rose.
]

“Den de snipe say, ‘What sort ub frogs you bin keepin’ comp’ny wid?’ Uncle Jerry, I got so skeerd an’ cole I ain’ got warm yit.”

Uncle Caesar: “Po’ Billy! Won’ you hab ub sip ub applejack?”

“Ef you don’ t’ink I’ll get too het up.”

Uncle Caesar: “’Cose you won’!”

“Well, den, heah’s luck!”

“Sarvis ter you, Billy! Now go on ’bout dat sassy frog an’ snipe.”

“Well, de frog he say, ‘I’s uh white-bellied frog, I is! I ain’ no kin ter toad frogs. I is uh qual’ty frog. What kounty you fum, Mr. Snipe?’”

Uncle Jerry Butler: “Now, Billy, you mean ter tell me you heahd dat composation?”

Little Billy: “’Cose I did! Ain’ you nebber heahd uh frog talk, Uncle Jerry?”

“No indeed, chile!”

“Dat’s kase you don’ keep quiet ’nuff. How cum dey hab sich _long tungs_ ef’n dey kyant talk? Why, heah’s uh book gib me by Mars John Charles lars’ Chrismus, writ by (I kyant read de fus’ part ub de name, but hit en’s wid Sop) [Aesop]. Dat pictur’ is wha de frogs is askin’ fuh uh king.”

Uncle Jerry: “De Lawd bless meh soul, what is we ter speck nex’? Lemme see de pictur’, Billy.”

“Well, I struck at dat frog wid meh paddle. He jes’ wink he eye, grunt, an’ gib me sich uh curisome look, dat I got so skeered an’ cole I kyant git wa’m; so I don’ feel peart ’nuff ter tell de res’ ub de story.”

Uncle Jerry: “Teck sum mo’ applejack, Billy; but don’ teck much, kase hit’s applejack dat mecks you _ve’y fogitful_.”

“Dat lars’ drink mecks me feel nice an’ wa’m! Well, when de frog say, ‘What kounty you cum fum?’ de snipe say, ‘Souf Kharlina!’ Den de frog say, “What meck you set so fur out in de mash? De mud, grass an’ bresh is fine in heah, an’ jes’ ez wa’m ez uh tose, an’ plenty ub tussocks, too.’ De jacksnipe say, ‘I nebber sleep er feed ’doutin I kin see all ’roun’ me. I’s got uh game leg, an’ I will tell you all erbout mehsef. What yo’ fus’ name, Mr. Frog? Bull! Dat’s uh lubly name. Meh name is Cap’n Jack Snipe!’”

“Mr. Frog: ‘What sorter spring you hab?’

“Cap’n Snipe: ‘Not ve’y nice. Grasshoppus an’ wumms is so sca’ce, an’ ez I befo’ tole you, I got uh game leg an’ kyant git ’roun’ good. “All moufs mus’ eat, but all moufs musn’ eat gravel.” Dat’s chicken an’ tukkey food, I eats wumms, grasshoppus, an’ sich like.’

“‘Well, how boutin de game leg, Cap’n? I ’gin ter think you ain’ got no game leg.’

“‘Deed I is; an’ dat game leg cum fum fallin’ in lub. Let me tell you fus’ what meh tase is an’ how brabe I is. I lub de juicy mash, glade an’ meadow, an’ I is feared ub nuffin ceppin hawks, owls, guns, dogs an’ mus’rats. But when I tu’ns inter uh Jack-uh-ma-lantern I ain’ feared ub nuffin.’”

Uncle Jerry: “Billy, look at me! You sho’ dat snipe spressify dey tu’n inter Jack-uh-ma-lanterns?”

“Cross meh hyart an’ bref.”

Uncle Jerry: “Well, den, I eat no mo’ snipe! Dat mus’ be de reason I’s bin dreamin’ so bad.”

Little Billy: “Talkin’ ’bout dem Jack-uh-ma-lanterns meck me feel quare. I is trimlin’ like uh aspine leaf.”

“Teck ’nubba nip, Billy, an’ try ter ’stain yo’sef tell you git th’oo dis s’prisin’ narration.”

“Well, he say: ‘Meh name Cap’n Jack Snipe, an’ I cummand uh comp’ny ub snipe, an’ we gwine ter summer on dis mash wid some cute young lady snipe fum Souf Kyarlina, dat’s gwine ter mate heah, an’ ub cose, nes’. De mus’rats don’ meck any mo’ mirations ’bout dis mash den I do. An’ de wumms, an’ de sweet roots dat grow heah wud ’tract uh snipe fum any State. I heahd uh woodcock say lars’ summer dat she had trabel uh good deal, but had nebber seen sich uh mash ez Wile Goose Mash. I sleeps well out on de mash kase I am de cap’n ub dis comp’ny ub snipe, an’ has ter watch out. Dat’s why I ain’ shuck yo’ han’, Mr. Frog; kase I is ve’y sociable, an’ likes frogs eben ef dey do say when he go co’tin’ he carry uh swo’d an’ pisel by he side. Hit’s mos’ my co’tin’ time!’

“Mr. Frog: ‘When’s dat?’

“‘When de peach an’ cherry trees am bloomin’, when de bees am suckin’ clober, an’ de patridge say, “Bob White,” we gits in lub, an’ wants uh mate. It’s ’nuff ter meck you cry, Mr. Frog, but dat’s de time I got uh game leg. Hit wuz one lubly day early in May. I wuz sorter dozin’ ’side uh tussock, ebery now an’ den ketchin’ uh grub wum, when I saw uh gran’ lookin’ pinter dog, gallopin’ same ez uh race hoss, cummin’ my way, an’ not fur behin’ him uh man in gum boots. Sez I ter mehsef, sez I, when you git erboutin uh hun’erd ya’ds fum me I’ll dart ’way. Jes’ den uh putty young lady snipe fum Firginny darted fum un’er uh nearby tussock, winked huh lubly black eyes in de mos’ coaxin’ way, spread huh tail like uh dear little fan.’”

Uncle Caesar: “Wan’ she uh sassy snipe?”

“‘So I say in de p’lites’ way, “Won’ you tase dis wum?” In uh moment she stood ’side me an’ say in words mo’ sweetah dan de mockin’ birds, “I’s got such miration fuh you I kyant resis’.” A moment later I heahd dat gunner say, “Careful da!” I ris up. Bang! Uh number ten shot wen’ th’oo meh thigh, an’ dat’s why I got uh game leg.’”

Uncle Jerry Butler: “Billy, I s’pose I mus’ bleebe yo’ story, kase I heah ’em read down ter de sto’ lars’ nite, dat uh hen lay uh gole egg, which is wussa yit. How-some-eber, I sut’ny wud lub ter ketch one ub dem breed ub chickens uh roosin’ ’roun’ heah.”

NANCY YOUNG.

In Pleasant Valley, at the head of Fausley Creek, there were several quarters, in one of which lived Nancy Young, not a stone’s throw from the quarter of Aunt Cassey. Nancy helped in milking the cows, churning, making butter, and at harvest time helped the cooks, but Mammy Nancy, as the darkies called her, was virtually her own mistress, and was never required to do hard work; in short, she was the plantation doctress, and it was seldom that any little darkies came into the world without Mammy Nancy’s assisting their advent. The negroes thought her inspired, and when they had ailments Nancy made them a decoction that went to the spot; in brief, she was well acquainted with the use of herbs. She had faithfully nursed Mrs. Isaac Atkinson, a Quakeress and neighbor, who imparted to her many of her secret remedies; some of these would have enlightened a modern doctor. For example, she had a remedy for what she called “cowbuncle,” which was almost a specific for carbuncle. Nancy especially doted on making catnip tea, and when she held in her faithful arms a cantankerous baby, and crooned and gave it catnip tea, “De chile wan’ pestered no mo.’”

She was motherly, sympathetic and a born nurse, and not only attended the servants, but nursed the ladies of the neighborhood. She was extremely pious, and if she had not been, I do not know what would have become of Little Billy; she was his wife.

Nancy was full of determination and spirit, and when Billy came in early in the morning from ’possum hunting without a ’possum, she always suspected he had been to Major Rudd’s store, and took the strong hand with him that he took with his steers, and would not let him have his banjo and pipe.

The earliest watermelons grew in her garden, and she had spring chicken weeks before her neighbors. Billy was not allowed even to go into the garden, for she was afraid he might disturb her herb patch. It did not disturb Billy, however, who preferred his corncob pipe and banjo. Nancy was very fond of music, and once she said to me: “Billy ain’ got no erligion, but he do play de banjo same ez uh cherrypin” [cherubim].

Some gypsies struck their tents on the main road about a mile from Nancy’s home, and one night a man rode up, inquired for Mammy Nancy, and said his wife was sick. She was soon with the gypsy, who was ailing some two weeks, and when Nancy returned she was not only a doctress, but a firm believer in witchcraft, and could tell your fortune by looking at your hand.

Nancy was making some bone-set and snake-root tea—Billy had the shakes, so she said—when Billy broke the silence by asking, “Nancy, what’s de matter wid dem hens?”

“Billy, you know uh mink skerd de hens week ’fo’ lars’, an’ ’sturbed deah mem’ry fuh layin’. I ain’ got but eight eggs ter-day an’ none yistiddy, so dese all we got fuh suppah.”

“Is you got de spider hot? Well, den, cut orf eight slices ub bacon an’ den we will hab uh slice ub bacon fuh each egg. Heah’s some kinlin’ wood I picked up in Mars Pinckney’s woodpile, an’ by de time de bacon is fryin’ good—dat is, de grease bilin’—speck me back wid fo’ catfish I kotch in de net lars’ nite, which will keep us fum gittin’ horngry befo’ suppah time. I’m gwine ter de rebate ter-night.”

“Billy, ez I ondastan’ hit da ain’ much use gwine. Uncle Reubin, Pawson Demby an’ Damon Danridge is on de side futto ’sterminate de witches, an’ dat fusty niggah, Jerry Jones, is fuh lettin’ de witches lib. Now I don’ kuh any mo’ fuh him dan I do fuh uh shirk! Tell me, lars’ nite at Mage Rudd’s sto’ he spressify hissef dat he wuz so well ’quainted wid de witches in Haylan’ Branch dat dey al’ays bow ter him when dey meet him; an’ he say he of’n hab composation wid ’em, an’ dat dey hab de gre’tes’ condidence in him; an’ Mage Rudd say he has heahd de witches mo’n once praisin’ him. He’s got uh bran’ new fiddle an’ bo’ dat cos’ $9, which he made fum coon hides in one monf. De fac’ is, strange ez hit may seem, dey won’ let nobody hunt in Haylan’ Branch ceppin Jerry. Mo’n dat, dey tell me he said he wan’ feared ub de sponsibility ub rebatin’ by hissef; dat de witches sass him sometimes, but fuh de mos’ part dey kine and lubly.”

“Now, Nancy, Jerry nebba spressify dat de witches lubly.”

“Yas he did! Mo’n dat, Ceaser an’ Jerry Butler heah him, an’ dey so pestered ’boutin dem witches ’stead ub walkin’ fum deah house thoo Pleasant Walley ter wha dey keep deah boat on de ribba, not mo’n uh quarter ub uh mile fum deah house, dey walks two miles ’roun’ de walley, dey so feared dem witches ride an’ whup ’em. Hit wudn’ s’prise me ef’n de debbil wuz ter transplant Jerry same ez de Lawd transplanted Eunuch. Why, he’s ebin ’cused de Petracks ub lubbin’ an’ keepin’ comp’ny wid witches. Hit’s scan’lus! Damon Danridge say dat he heah Jerry Jones say dat Samuel de fus’ use ter let witches roos’ all erroun’ his house, an’ dat hit’s true dat Moses fell out wid uh witch an’ say, [10]”Thou shall not suffah uh witch ter lib,” an’ he mout uh kilt ’em all, but jes’ den Mars Noahy an’ his cullud son Ham driv up wid uh bag an’ say, “Saul, I’m bleeged ter hab uh par ub witches fuh meh boat,” an’ Jerry ’low dat de sponsibility resses wid Mars Noahy, de father ub dat lubly boy Ham.

“Stephen, what is de rebate ezactly? I dunno what you gwine fuh! I hab uh gre’t mine ter meck you stay home an’ hab nuffin ter do wid witches. How kin you go ter de rebate when da is three hens hatchin’, an’ minks imperdent? Da is only one thing I want you ter go fuh, an’ I bin layin’ out futto tell you.

“Yistiddy mawnin’ I wuz crossin’ de road gwine ter de thicket wha dat speckled hen name “Yaller Legs” is hatchin’—in de pile ub jack-oak brush close ter de spring—when, lo an’ beholst! dat free niggah Jim Brooks cum erlong. He wuz dribin’ in his kyart uh po’ leetle harf-starbed steer, an’ I wuz jes’ thinkin’ ter mehsef, Is dat kyart movin’ er no, so slow wuz he gwine. De truf is de leetle steer wan’ much bigger dan one ub Mars Pinckney’s wethers. Tho’ I nebba been interjuced ter dat Jim Brooks (me dat waits on de qual’ty), jes’ ez I cross de road dat free niggah say ter his steer, ‘Step up, Pete, step up; an’ look out, stranger, dat you don’ git run ober!’ Now, I cornsider dat de wus’ sort ub impotence, an’ I wan’ you ter tell him so ef’n he is at Zion ter-night. I’m not gwine ter stan’ hit. Ef’n he had uh par ub fars-trottin’ steers like Uncle Simon’s, hit wud be bad ’nuff, but ter be ’sulted by dat sort ub miration is scan’lus.”

“Well, Nancy, stay home an’ let me go ter de rebate; dem chickens’ hatchin’ is pow’ful waluble. I gib Mage Rudd five levys fuh thutty ub dem eggs, an’ he say dat breed ub chickens cum fum Henrico County, Firginny, an’ once lay uh gole egg; so ub cose dey wuf watchin’ day an’ nite. Mo’n dat, I am one ub de arbiters, an’ I won’ let dat imperdent free niggah Jim Brooks dat ’sulted you cum in Zion, ef’n hit breck up de rebate. I holp ter meck de brick fuh dat chuch, an’ I sut’ny got some sponsibility in de matter.”

“Well, Billy, when you spressify yo’sef dat way, ez de moon is so young, an’ hit so dark, I will stay home.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a gentle knock at the door, which Nancy opened and exclaimed, “Bless meh soul an’ body, an’ body an’ soul, ef’n hit ain’ young Mistis! Why, honey, howdy; an’ wha you bin?”

“Mammy Nancy, one of Father’s ewes died in February and left a dear little lamb. I took it to the house, fed it from a bottle, and it became like Mary’s little lamb—everywhere that I went the lamb was sure to go. Early this morning I started out to get the first spring flowers. After I had walked about a mile I heard Snow Flake bleating, and looking back saw her gambolling after me. When I passed the fold a hundred or more of beautiful leaping lambs romped around her, and soon my sweet Snow Flake seemed to forget me and skipped and played with the other lambs. I felt that I would be a wolf to take that lamb from the flock; and yet, Mammy Nancy, I love that little lamb so much. And, oh! how I have watched and tended it! Finally I walked to your spring, sat down and cried, and then I felt thirsty; and when I looked for the gourd that hangs on the nail in the pine tree it was gone. So I have come for the gourd.”

“Dat’s Billy’s carlesomeness; dar’s de gourd, honey, in de watah bucket. Miss Marg’retta, you looks ez sweet ez dem flowers dat’s reposin’ on yo’ bres’. I bin heahin’ erbout you. Dey tell me de bows jes’ cum in drobes futto see you. De fac’ is, you is mo’ beau’ful an’ beau’ful ev’y day. Dey tells me dat de young marsters cum fum Balt’mo’ ter see you; how-some-eber, I heah dat Mars John Charles Dickinson, fum Queens Anne’s County, is yo’ favorite. He! He! He! Dat’s what Miss Osman say. Got uh new ring on yo’ fingah, too; but Ole Mars ain’ gwine ter let you merry anybody ceppin uh Pres’dent er sompin’ like dat. Chile, lemmy tell yo’ fortune?”

Courtesy Knaffl Bros., Knoxville, Tenn.

You gwine ter merry uh king an’ hab thutteen chillun!
]

“All right, Mammy Nancy.”

“Do you wan’ uh long fortune er uh short fortune?”

“Well, a short one to-day and to-morrow I will come and get the long one.”

“Mistis, I will teck yo’ lef’ han’ ter-day. How does you keep yo’ han’s so white an’ dimpled? Dar’s many uh one ub dem young men dat fox hunts wid Ole Mars dat wud gib deah hyarts ter hole dis han’; deed dey wud. One, two, three, fo’ five, six, sebin, eight, nine, ten, ’lebin, twelbe, thutteen. Yo’ gwine ter merry uh king an’ hab thutteen chillun. Billy, go out an’ see how dem hens is hatchin’.”

When Billy was sent out Margaretta thought it was going to be a long fortune, so she switched the conversation off and said, “Has Billy got religion? We haven’t heard of his being at Major Rudd’s store of late, fiddling and banjo playing.”

Nancy said, “Billy goes ter Mr. Dawson’s sto’ now, uh mile fudder up de rode, futto sell his eggs, mus’rat hides an’ coon hides. You see Mage Rudd fell out wid Billy, an’ ’twuz all uh accident. It wuz dis way: Fus’ place Mage Rudd sol’ Billy some eggs dat cos’ 2 cents uh piece. He say dat de breed ub chickens dat dey cum fum once laid uh gole egg. Well, Billy’s eggs all hatched ducks. Billy wuz furisome, an’ wen’ right ’way ter Mage Rudd’s sto’, but he got sich uh way ub twissin’ his tongue dat he twiss out ub it by sayin’ dat somebody swap eggs wid Billy. Cose den I molested him boutin dem duck eggs, an’ he say, ‘Nancy, I hab got uh ve’y fine new lantern fuh sale, an’ I wan’ ter sell you one.’ Sez I, ‘Why; I’s got uh good lantern.’ ‘Well,’ sez he, ‘Billy’s so black you wan’ uh fus’-class lantern ter stick outin de winder in de mawnin’ ter see ef’n day is broke!’ Now, qual’ty people wud nebba talk dat way, an’ dat’s what made Billy skeer dem frogs ub Mage Rudd’s.”

“Well, what did Billy do?”

“Well, Mage Rudd had uh empty mullasses barrel in front ub de sto’, an’ de flies wuz swa’min’ erroun’ hit same ez uh swa’m ub bees, an’ Mage Rudd’s toad-frogs wuz almos’ ez thick ez de flies, an’ dey wuz ketchin’ de flies same ez de debbil ketches sinnahs.

“Well, ’twuz erboutin sundown when Billy cum erlong an’ seed dem flies an’ frogs. So he got uh piece ub ole rope, hide hissef ’hine de barrel, an’ den he twiss dat rope thoo de grass ezactly like uh snake. De frogs dat wan’ full ub flies an’ cud jump went all ober dat sto’, in de butter, mullasses, sugar, brakin’ eggs, lamp chimneys, nockin’ down bottles, an’ wussa still, dey jumped ’roun’ Mage Rudd’s ole maiden sistuh’s feets an’ ankles, tell she tuck up huh dress like she gwine wadin’. Mars Pinckney say she mussa tho’t de frogs wuz _garter_ snakes. But de mos’ ’stressin’ part ub all wuz de frogs dat wuz full ub flies an’ cudn’ hop; dey los’ deah mines—bellerd an’ wep’, wep’ an’ bellered wuss dan uh pon’ full ub horngry calves. Uh big frog pon’ wuz nuffin ter hit.

“Mage Rudd ’low he didn’ keer fuh de flies, er de things dat wuz ’stroyed in de sto’, but he did keer _fuh dem frogs_; dat he wuz uh widderer, wid no chillun, an’ summer ebenin’s dem frogs ’mused him; an’ lars, but not leas’, dat he wuz keepin’ dat rope _fuh Billy_, an’ when he kotch him he wud meck him jump leap frog.”

Billy fully intended going to the debate, but on his way he met a lot of coon hunters, forgot the debate and returned to his quarter about daylight, when he explained matters to Mammy Nancy. She said, “You shan’t hab yo’ pipe fuh uh monf.” Whereupon Billy, to melt Mammy Nancy, tuned his banjo, twanged it and sang:

“Didn’ my Lawd d’liver Daniel?
D’liver Daniel, d’liver Daniel.
Didn’ my Lawd d’liver Daniel?
An’ why not ev’y man.

“He d’liver’d Daniel fum de lions’ den,
Jo-nah fum de belly ub de whale,
An’ de He-boo chillun fum de fiery furnace,
An’ why not ev’y man.

“De win’ blows Eas’ an’ de win’ blow Wes’;
It blows like de judgment day,
An’ ev’y po’ soul dat nebba did pray
Will be glad ter pray dat day.”

When Billy had finished singing Nancy said, “I reckon you kin hab yo’ pipe, Billy, ef’n you promise ter jine de chuch.” And Billy promised “ter jine.”

MARS PINCKNEY’S ’SIMMONS

De chickens all hab gone ter roos’, de milkin’s almos’ ober; I heah de hooppo-will’s loud song, de rabbits in de clober, De ’possum gittin’ out ub bed, de coon he ’gin ter wake, An’ one, er bof, in Haylan’ Branch, I specks ter obertake.

Da ain’ no moon, de stars is brite, de ’simmons ripe an’ sweet— De ve’y night fuh Traveler ter sent uh varment’s feet; Befo’ de roostus crow hit’s day, an’ ’fo’ de Bob White stir, I no I’ll heah de lubly tongue ub meh dog Traveler.

Jes’ ez I harked him in de branch, an’ wa’k ’long de parf, I seed de bushes moobin’, an’ I heahd uh leetle larf; ’Twuz den de dog cum ter de tree an’ made uh monstus fuss, An’ what wuz in dat ’simmon tree wuz wuss dan scanalous.

At fus’ I tho’t hit wuz uh owl, but coon dogs don’ tree owls, An’ Traveler wuz too skeer’d ter bark, ’twuz jes’ uh stream ub howls; So den I look up in de tree, an’ settin’ ’pon uh lim’, Wuz uh cunnin’ leetle niggah, sorter hummin’ ub uh hymn.

I saw ’twuz leetle Ezzy feedin’ on dem ’simmons ripe— De night befo’ he’d tole “De composation ub de snipe;” He al’ays spressify hissef in sech uh cutesome way Dat ev’ybody lubbed him, an’ bleebe what Billy say.

So I didn’ wan’ ter ’stress him, but meck bleebe I did, An’ said, “Fum Caesar’s quarters hencefof you is fuhbid;” An’ den dat leetle roscal say he didn’ cuh fuh me, “Dese is Mars Pinckney’s ’simmons, an’ Mars Pinckney’s ’simmon tree.”

I tole him ef’n I had uh ax I’d cut de fruit tree down, An’ ef he fell an’ breck he neck when he struck on de groun’ Hit wouldn’ ’stress me any, kase you t’ink yo’sef so wise, An’ you de sort ub niggah dat de Babtis’ chuch dispise.

“DEM DAYS.”

“Is this Uncle Stephen Demby?”

“Yas, honey; dat’s meh name! I jes’ got in fum crabbin’. Lemmy put meh paddles un’er de house ter keep dese carelessom’ gre’t-gran’chillun ub mine fum fin’in’ ’em. Dem two gals, Marfy an’ Muhtilda, out da in de watah sorf crabbin’ is meh gran’chillun. An’ jes’ look at dem two boys er ridin’ dat cow ub Mars Pinckney’s; dem is meh gre’t-gran’chillun, an’ dey monstus bad. (Ef’n you don’ git of’n dat cow I’ll whup you till da ain’ no bref in you!) Dar’s three ub dem boys, an’ dey name Stephen, Saul an’ Bonypart, an’ like ez not de one name Bonypart is ridin’ dat cow’s calf. Deah gre’t-gran’mammy gibs ’em too much cawn bred, an’ hit natchelly puts noshuns in deah haids.”

“Do you live here?”

“Yas’um; but de road don’ go no fudder. You’r sho’ly on de rong road, chile; dat’s de road ter de Royal Oak, an’ de road you on is wha dey bin haulin’ oyster shells, ter fix de road you lef’.”

Dem two gals, Marthy an’ Muhtilda, out da in de watah sorf crabbin’ is
meh gran’chillun.
]

“Uncle Stephen, I know exactly where I am, and I have come to see you, and want you to tell me all about Talbot County before the war, so that I can put it in my magazine.”

“Well, bless meh soul an’ body, an’ meh body an’ soul. Heh! heh! heh! Jes’ speckin’, I reckon, futto see Mars Pinckney ’roun’ heah; I’m sho’ he bin meckin’ ’mirations at yer. Uh foxhoun’ don’ lub uh fox hunt mo’ dan de ladies ’roun’ heah lub Mars Pinckney, an’ I heah Mars John Charles Tilghman say ter ole Mars Nickey, ‘He is ez hainsome ez de son ub King Dabid-Ab-so-lum, dat got kilt by uh mule.’ Mules wuz ornry in dem days. Now, how you gwine ter put Talbot County in yo’ mag’zine? You jes’ tezin’ po’ ole Stephen. You see I’s al’ays libbed wid de qual’ty, an’ ain’ easy ter fool. Now, you sho’ly ain’ got uh mag’zine?”

“Indeed I have, dear Uncle Stephen.”

“Well, what we gwine ter cum ter. Ef’n meh dear ole Missis had ebin seed one ub huh chillun ridin’ on one ub dem one-wheel t’ings she’d uh tuck an’ spanked huh an’ kep’ huh in bed fuh two weeks; but ter t’ink ub uh lubly young mistis like you is, habin’ uh mag-zine—chile, I is libbed too long. It’s mos’ ez bad ez ghoses an’ witches.”

“Uncle Stephen, don’t you think I could manage a magazine and put the nicest sort of stories in it?”

“Well, den, what good it gwine ter do you? I wish de one dat ’sploded at Petersbu’g had nuffin in it but stories. Why, honey, it blowed up an’ kilt fo’ thousan’ mules, an’ I dunno how many millions ub solders, an’ de good Lawd only nose how many plantations. Is you got uh pa? Well, chile, you will twiss yo’ po’ pa’s feelin’s sum ub dese days ornless you stop playin’ wid mag-zines.”

“Why, Uncle Stephen, you are too old to have been a soldier in the civil war.”

“Indeed I wuz, honey, an’ I wuz skeer’d stiff! You see dey tuck me ter Easton, gib me toddy, ’fused me, an’ ’swaded me ter go. I’s got uh pension, fuh I drobed uh fo’-hoss mule team fuh six monfs. I didn’ keah fuh de wah; fac’ is, I kep’ ’way fum de battlefields. I wud uh bin uh exerter, but wuz fear’d ter ezert! So I jes’ had ter pine fuh ole mars, ole miss, an’ Sookey. Sookey’s meh wife, an’ she al’ays wid ’em. She use ter look fuh ole mars’ specks, an’ keep de flies of’n ole miss.”

“Uncle Stephen, my magazine is a kind of book that comes out every month and has pretty stories in it, and they tell me that you can tell a pretty story.”

“Heh! heh! heh! mistis, I al’ays know’d I wuz uh qual’ty niggah.”

Deah gre’t gran’ mammy gibs ’em too much cawn-bred, an’ hit natchelly
puts noshuns in deah haids.
]

“So I have brought you a nice bundle of tea, tobacco, and a new straw hat, for I want you to tell me all about yourself and something about Talbot County before the war.”

“Well, I s’pose dey name books arfter mag’zines, kase dey big soun’in’ t’ings? I’s pow’ful bleeged ter you fuh de tea, ’baccy an’ de hat. I’ll hab ter teck dis sweet blue ban’ of’n de hat, kase it will skeer de fish an’ keep ’em fum bitin’. You mus’ be fum de Souf?”

“No, I am from the North.”

“Well, you mus’ uh had uh mammy fum de Souf, den.”

“Maybe, Uncle Stephen. And now tell me something about the Eastern Shore of Maryland, Talbot County, before the war.”

“Well, hunny, I cum outin’ uh fambly dat lib wha you see dem tall elm, hoss chestnut an’ big oak trees. De place name Otwell. I wuz bo’n da—and so wuz meh fava an’ his fava. Meh fava’s name wuz Phil Demby, an’ Pawson Demby, de ’stinguis’ Babtis preecher, is meh brudder, an’ name arfter meh fava. None of my fambly wuz free niggahs, er ’longed ter po’ white trash. My muvva she named Phillis. Dey called huh Arnt Phillis; an’ she libbed at Otwell, an’ wuz Mars Nickey’s favorite cook. All de niggahs on dat plantation slep’ wid sheets on deah beds. Mars Nickey didn’ hab, an’ he wouldn’ hab no common niggahs. When de oberseers cum ter de po’ch ter git deah orders, dey al’ays stood wid deah haids unkivvered, rain er no rain; dey know’d deah place. An’ Chrismus Ole Mars gib all de serbents toddy, but ef’n dey get tipsy, he whup ’em sho’! Meh muvva, Phillis, wuz de fus’ cook at Otwell. Chile, she wuz uh cook! but one ub de slow-paced sort. Nowdays dey cook uh ham in fo’ hours; dem days it tuck meh muvva two days, an’ dem wuz Mars Nickey’s orders.

“How-some-eber ev’yt’ing wuz slow in dem days. Dey use ter teck uh gre’t big silver tank dat hilt boutin uh gallon, er mebby two gallons, an’ fill it wid mint julip, an’ it had two gre’t big han’les jes’ like ram’s hohns on de sides. An’ Saul an’ Damon—dey wuz de house serbents—dey meck de julips (I use ter holp when dey ve’y busy, an’ tase de julip an’ see ef’n it sweet nuff), an’ when de gemmen cum in fum fox hun’in’, Saul an’ Damon wud pars ’roun’ de tank; an’ _you kyant tell how slow dey wud drink fum dat tank_. An’ when dinner time cum it tuck ’em boutin fo’ hours, sometimes mo’n fo’, an’ sometimes all nite futto eat dinner. Dey riz bees, an’ dey meck peach brandy, an’ dey drink what you call peach an’ honey. How cum dey don’ drink peach an’ honey dese days? Why, de ve’y bref ub it mecks you feel nice.

“Fo’ de wah all de hom’ny wuz bet in uh gre’t big morter; de hom’ny dey mecks nowdays is nuffin ter hit. All de wheat wuz cut wid uh cradle, an’ when dey all in uh row swingin’ deah cradles, sayin’ nuffin an’ lookin’ so full ub condidence, it remin’ you ub de fus’ ub de flood tide in de creek—mus’ go on. Uncle Reuben al’ays tuck de haid row. Swing he cradle same ez Sampson. Steambo’ts cum once uh week dem days, an’ dey tuck all day ter cum, an’ dey stay all nite, an’ go ’way nex’ mawnin’. Now dey cum in fo’ hours, an’ fo’ er five uh day.

“People ebin dance slower dem days; use ter dance de min-e yet. Mars Tilghman co’tin’ Mis Henrietta, an’ he bow ter huh same ez uh tall poplar when de win’ blow hyard; an’ ez fuh Miss Henrietta, she jes’ ez graceful ez uh putty kitten, an’ stylish ez uh unbroken thurrybred colt. Ef’n de flo’ had uh bin kivverd wid de hunard-leaf roses, an’ she wuz uh dancin’, she wudn’ mash one. Many uh time, thoo de wintah, I’b seed ’em dance. I’d bin de haid waitah at ‘Otwell’ ef’n I hadn’ bin so waluble futto breck de steers an’ colts. Ole Mars’ he had de gre’tes’ confluence in meh ’rasity, an’ I wuz al’ays ’roun’ de kitchen, kase, ez I befo’ tole you, meh Muvva Phillis de haid cook. Mam Juby, she de secon’ cook, and ’sis’ mammy.

“Why, hunny, ebin de peaches an’ watahmillions wuz bigger dem deys, kase dey didn’ grow up so fars; dey tuck deah time; an’ ez fuh oysters an’ fish, why dem days you cud walk out in dat cobe not fudder dan yo’ nees, an’ git all de oysters you wan’, an’ set rite at dat stake an’ pull in de fish tell you go ’stracted, an’ de wile ducks quackin’ all ’roun’ you. Dat’s de stake Leetle Billy wuz uh fishin’ at when de shirk pull him ove’bode. Leetle Billy wuz uh ornry niggah, al’ays playin’ de fiddle, mus’rattin’, tellin’ ghose stories, fishinin’ on Sunday, an’ dancin’. Mo’n dat, he nebber ’longed ter de chuch, an’ it wan’ no use ter talk ter him. How-some-eber, ev’ybody liked Billy; al’ays peart, al’ays hab ’baccy in he pocket, an’ gib lib’ly. Billy wuz uh qua’ chap; he wan’ lazy, but he didn’ lub hyard wuck. Well, he tied he bote at _dat ve’y stake_, an’ jes’ fuh fun, befo’ de tide tu’n an’ de fish bite, he put uh gre’t big sorf crab on he hook, flung de bait out, tied de line ’roun’ he leg, tuck his fiddle out an’ ’mence ter play jigs an’ sich like. Bimeby he wen’ uh sleep, an’ uh shirk cum ’long an’ tuck dat bait, pulled po’ Billy ove’bode, an’ Billy wen’ uh skeetin’, bobbin’ up an’ down like uh passel ub ’scovey ducks bavin’ deah sef, an’ prayin’ fas’ ez he cud git de watah fum he mouf. Billy say he wuz jes’ prayin’ dat de fiddle wudn’ git los’, but Cap’n Stitchberry sez he nebba heahd uh moanah pray mo’ pow’ful. Mo’n dat, ef’n Cap’n Stitchberry hadn’ cum ’long in he pungy wid uh load ub oyster shells, an’ kotch Billy when he wuz fai’ly sailin’ ’long, de shirk wud hab ’stroyed Billy. Mars Innis Randolph says, ‘Dey kyant tell whedder de niggah wuz uh fishinin’ er de fish wuz uh niggerin’.’ Dat’s de way people gits talked boutin dat fishes on Sunday.

I’d bin de haid waitah at “Otwell” ef’n I hadn’ bin so waluble futto
breck de steers an’ colts. Ole Mars had de gret’s confluence in meh
’rasity.
]

“Dem days dear ole Mars Nickey had seben sons, an’ dey all wen’ Souf in de wah; all got kilt ’ceppin’ Mars Pinckney, name arfter uh Bishop, an’ he wuz de wiles’ an’ de gayes’, an’ he didn’ git uh scratch. Dem chillun gittin’ kilt, wid _me_ leabin’ Ole Mars, meck him seck an’ breck his hyart. (’Skuse dese teahs, young mistis!) So he died! Meh pappy Demby use ter ’long ter Mars Nickey’s fava, an’ dribe de fo’-in-han’ an’ rid’ ’hine in de saddle when Mars Nickey drobe in de gig. Bof ub ’em wuz name Nickey, an’ he wuz de fif’ Nickey dat wuz bo’n at Otwell. I heah Leetle Billy say dat he heah Mars Tilghman say dat he heah Mr. Stevens say—de man dat use ter run Mars Nickey’s win’ mill—dat de fus’ Mars Nickey cum ober de bay wid uh man name Klumbus, an’ dey ’scover Talbot Kounty. Dat wuz in de time ub de Petracks. [Patriarchs.]

“Dem days dey had what you call gigs. ’Cose you nebber saw one ub dem ole-time gigs. Well, you almos’ had ter git up in ’em wid uh leetle ladder, dey so tall an’ stylish. Dey wuz fuh two hosses tandy, one in de shaf’, de udder in de lead. Dat’s de way dey wen’ co’tin’, an’ dey wo’ silk stockin’s, an’ no pants, ’ceppin’ ter deah knees. Pappy say ev’ything wuz slow in dem days, ’ceppin’ de race hosses, foxhoun’s, an’ de young; an’ de ole marsters, dey luck so peart an’ ’squisit’ in deah silk coats an’ socks, silk all ober, dat de young ladies cudn’ resis’ ’em. Dem days som’times dey had three er four wibes. One mistis hardly hab de hunnysuccle growin’ ober huh grabe ’fo’ dey git annurr wife. I had five wibes mehsef. Heh! Heh! Heh!

“When Pawson Demby, meh brudder, got ’ligion, den I got ’ligion. ’Fo’ dat I use ter ride race hosses, an’ me an’ Mrs. Rodgers’ Ned, an’ Mars Nickey’s Big Billy (you see dey had two Billys, an’ dey use ter call one Big Billy an’ de udder Leetle Billy) use ter play de fiddle, an’ two waitahs fum Myrtle Grobe, Hesakiah Sprouts an’ John Poney, use ter play de flute an’ banjo, an’, hunny, people use ter cum fum Kyarline an’ Qweens Anne’s County futto heah us play, ‘Wha You Gwine, Sistah Sue?’ ‘Rosin de Bow,’ ‘Debbil ’mong de Tailors,’ ‘Yaller Cow,’ an’ sich like.

SCIPIO JONAS JONES AND NIMROD.
]

“Meh deah chile, I cud tell you heap mo’ ’boutin dem days; but when I look ober da—Ole Mars’ gone, all de hoss ches’nut, elms an’ poplars (dey call dem Lombardy poplars) dead—de apple an’ de peach archard ’stroyed wid age, de cobe wha dey use ter swim de hosses so shaller dat uh kildee kin wa’k ’cross, an’ wussa yit, de man what wuz wonce uh oberseer libbin’ in de ole house, how you ’speck I feel? An’ much ez I lub de ole place, I’s ’fear’d ter go da; fuh dey tell me Leetle Billy plays de fiddle an’ dances in de yard sometimes, an’ he bin dead six monfs nex’ harves’. Ef’n I hadn’ preserbation in meh hyart, an’ ’long ter de chuch, I’d be ’fear’d ter lib heah. Do you ’long ter de chuch? Ef’n you don’ git salbation rite ’way, den yo’ mag’zine will bloom jes’ like de blossoms on dem crabapple trees, an’ you will long fuh de chuch jes’ ez much ez uh hen longs fuh huh los’ chickens. Ef’n I hadn’ jine de chuch I, tu, mout be uh ghose like po’ Billy—he died fum eatin’ tu much watahmillion he stole—an’ I mout uh bin wid him.

“Ef’n Ole Mars wuz libbin’ dem crabapple trees wud hab uh new fence ’roun’ dem. Das wha’ he burried Cicero, he favorite p’inter dog. Hunny, I will nebber fogit dat name; I recommember it jes’ ez well ez I recommember yistiddy. All de niggahs in de mansion call him Cis, an’ it meck Ole Mars ’stracted. He stan’ us all, young an’ ole, leetle an’ big, Aunt Phillis, tu, all in uh line, befo’ de po’ch, an’ he say: ‘Dem me, ef’n I don’ sell you all ter Georgy ef’n you don’ stop callin’ dat dog Cis. He’s uh gre’t dog, an’ name arfter uh gre’t man; I won’ hab it. I will wuck de plantation wid free niggahs ’fo’ I hab it.’ An’ he tell de leetle niggahs dey kyant play ’roun’ de po’ch fuh uh monf ef’n dey don’ learn ter call dat dog Cicero. Den he meck us all say arfter him, C-i-c-e-r-o, C-i-c-e-r-o, C-i-c-e-r-o—Cicero!

“When he wuz uh young dog, boutin two year ole, Ole Mars cum fum partridge shootin’ one day, an’ all de dogs jump out de wagon at de po’ch ’ceppin’ Cicero; he wuz almos’ tu tired an’ sleepy ter mobe. But when Mammy Phillis call him he got hongry rite ’way; jump out an’ struck he haid ’gin de iron scraper dey teck de mud of’n deah boots wid, an’ kill hissef. Hongry an’ thusty ez Ole Mars wuz, he wep’! An’ he say, ‘I wan’ you an’ Reubin ter dig uh grabe un’er dem crabapple trees, an’ in de mawnin’ we will burry him.’ An’ so de nex’ mawnin’ Uncle Reubin an’ I wuz stan’in’ by de grabe meddowtatin’, an’ heah wuz me, heah wuz Uncle Reubin, an’ heah wuz Cis. Pres’ny Marster cum an’ put Cis in de grabe, an’ I thowd uh spade full ub uth on Cis; an’ Uncle Reubin riz up his haid, an’ he say, ‘Mars Nickey, ain’ you gwine ter say nuffin?’ An’ Mars Nickey he luck like his hyart wud breck, an’ he say ‘Nuffin, Reubin!’ Den Uncle Reubin thowd in uh spade full ub uth, lean on he shovel an’ sorter whispuh like, ‘Den I will say he wuz uh good _ole_ dog!’

“Marster’s favorite dogs wuz houn’s; he lub ’em so he nebber low you ter call uh houn’ uh dog. An’ he had seben hosses dat done nuffin but hunt ober dem dogs; an’ dey _wuz_ hosses, fuh it tuck uh hoss ub qual’ty ter kerry him; he wuz uh pow’ful man. Fus’ you read de Bible, hunny, boutin de time King Dabid wuz all dress up in his new nuniform an’ whup de Flistins, an’ den teck uh look at Ole Mars’ pictur, you sho’ly wud think King Dabid favo’d Ole Mars, he so hainsome; an’ Mars Pinckney de ve’y spit ub him! When Mars Nickey git on he hun’in’ close he glitter jes’ same ez uh star! Yaller wes’ (yaller wuz he favorite color), no pants ’ceppin’ ter de nees, an’ dey yaller; an’ green welwet cote—bless meh soul an’ body, an’ meh body an’ soul, he look jes’ like King Solomon mus’ uh look when he wen’ struttin’ arfter annurr wife. An’ when he blow he hohn an’ you heah de houn’s moanin’ an’ Jedge Kyarmichael’s, Mars Lloyd’s, Kun’l Winders, an’ Mars Tilghman’s an’ all de qual’ty dogs cummin’ troo de cawn fields almos’ nockin’ down de cawn, an’ all ub ’em carryin’ uh chune, chile you’d almos’ wish yo’sef uh houn’! Yas, indeed, hunny, dem wuz days futto recommember. An’ sich hosses Ole Mars had; dey jes’ jump an’ hunt. Da ain’ no hosses dese days like de hosses dem days. Fuh instinct, like Don Won, Black Nite, Jew-drap, Junius, Fanny Esler, an’ Sky Lark. Jes’ cum in meh quarter an’ I’ll show de pictur ub dem hosses. I done lef’ ’em ter Mars Pinckney when I die; you see, I wan’ ter keep ’em in de fambly.

“Mars Nickey had he quare ways, tu, jes’ like udder people. Fuh instinct, he wud nebber lite he cigah fum uh match, al’ays fum uh cole uh fire, stuck on uh fork; an’ I lub ter tote de fork ter him—sho’ futto gimmy uh levy. When he shabe he nebber look at uh glass; jes’ wa’k all ’roun’ de room meddowtatin’ an’ shabin’, an’ shabin’ an’ meddowtatin’, kase he wo’ no whiskus, an’ ’spise uh beard. One time I nebber will fogit; Mars Jimmy cum fum Woodstock, had his fiddle in de kerridge an’ wuz full ub peartness. He wuz dribin’ Robbin an’ Red Bird tandy togedda—jes’ cum futto see he pa—an’ tho’t he wuz ve’y fine wid uh mustache on he lip. Ole Mars wuz in uh fine umuh, wid uh barsket full ub mushrooms on he ahms, but when he see dat mustache on Mars Jimmy, he say, cussin: “You kyant lite tell you cut dat hyah orf.”

“I recommember one thing mo’ I fogot. Ef you wants ter git uh good view ub de ribber, an’ be tu fur fum de house ter heah Billy’s fiddle, jes’ teck dat parf, an’ hit’s uh nice leetle wa’k ter dat grobe ub cedar trees, an’ when you gits da you will see what’ll s’prise you. Ole Marster lubbed ev’yt’ing dat wuz good—an’ da’s wha he burried he good an’ favorite foxhoun’s. I kyant read, but I nose ev’y name on dem _houn’s toomstone poses_. He nebber done anyt’ing ’dout hit rashnal, an’ he sho’d dat ’sponsibility when he name he foxhoun’s. Lite-foot wuz uh booful houn’; neck almos’ ez long ez uh goose’s, an’ sich long, sorf ears, gre’t big brown eyes, an’ sech uh signifyin’ ’spression ’bout he haid, dat when he los’ de sent, an’ bay an’ look at de sky, hit made yer raal sad. He wuz so swif’ an’ nimble dat he skeercely tech de uth, an’ hardly bresh de jewdraps fum de clober.

“Chimes had uh tongue dat wuz ez sweet ez uh _martingale’s_, same ez uh bell. Jefferson wuz uh gran’ feller, white all ober, ’ceppin’ uh yaller spot on he lef’ side, not much bigger dan uh new moon. He wuz ve’y stylis’ an’ clean, ’pear’d like he wuz dressup all de time. He wuz ez brabe ez Mars Pinckney, an’ ez gentle ez uh lam’—’ceppin’ uh _black_ dog cum ’long; den da wuz trubble. Mars Nickey didn’ like nuffin _black_ hissef, ’ceppin’ de niggahs, so he ’cided ter hab no mo’ black houn’s er black sheep on de plantation, all fuh de lub ub _Jefferson_.

“But Ole Mars had one houn’ he lub mos’; he wan’ so pow’ful fas’, but he wuz al’ays true. Ef de sent wuz cole, er ef’n it wuz uh los’ sent, you’d heah ’em say, ‘Wait tell Jerry cum ’long, he will pick it up;’ an’ de young an’ de ole houn’s had condidence in him, an’ ’spected him. His name wuz Jerry-Myah, an’ Ole Mars say he gib him dat name kase Jerry-Myah wuz uh profit.”

DAT CHRISMUS CAKE.

Scipio Jones say dey gwine ter hab uh cake walk
An’ uh hus’in’ Mars John’s cawn—it wuz ev’ybody’s talk,
So dey ’pinted uh cummittee ter ’quire ’bout de cake
Ter be raal sho’ dat Scipio wuz makin’ no mustake.

He al’ays foun’ out ev’yt’ing, an’ yet he wuz no good,
An’ ef’n he tried ter tell de truf, wuz nebber ondastood;
Fuh de ghoses an’ de witches he lubbed ter talk erbout
Wuz al’ays in de cow’s hohns when udder people out.

De cummittee went uh ’quirin’ an’ dey foun’ dat Sistuh Chew
Had tole de plum-cake secret ter only one er two;
An’ Scipio he lis’en while she milk de cows an’ say
Dat Mistis gwine ter meck uh cake dat’s walked fuh Chrismus Day.

So Mistis mixed de Chrismus cake an’ fill it full ub plums,
An’ Scipio look in de stobe an’ stuck in it his thum’s.
De heat wuz so ornple’sant an’ bu’n dat roscal so
He scream an’ cry, “Aunt Phillis cool de thum’s ub Scipio.”

When Mistis saw de Chrismus cake an’ heahd ’bout dem thum’s
She say, “Dat niggah Scipio shan’t ebin hab de crum’s;”
An’ when dat walk wuz ober you cud see rite on he face—
Don’ stick yo’ thum’s in plum cake an’ git yo’sef disgrace.

Da ain’ no use ub talkin’; it’s al’ays out ub place
Ter stick yo’ thum’s in anyt’ing ter ebin git uh tase—
Ornless you bin inwited, an’ den it’s al’ays bes’
Ter wait an’ hab cool fingahs an’ eat wid all de res’.

WHEN SAUL RUN ERWAY.

Miss Marg’retta wuz ve’y fon’ ub Saul, an’ when he run erway hit ’stress huh pow’ful. Uh showman cum ’long wid uh circus an’ ’swaded po’ Saul ter go. Miss Marg’retta teach him ter read an’ rite, kase da wuz recommembrances clustah’d ’roun’ Saul’s mammy dat made Miss Marg’retta fon’ ub de chile. Lars’ week I had uh lettah fum de po’ boy, rote fum Balt’mo’. Mars Pinckney red hit fuh me, an’ hit say dat when de circus got ter Balt’mo’ de showman sot him ter wuck feedin’ de snakes. Saul’s letter spressify dat he lef’ dat circus in uh run! Saul al’ays wuz smart. He! He! He! Ef’n he had fed dem snakes, he mite bin ’flicted like Uncle Snake-bit Jim.

Arfter uh few days Saul say he got de place ub waitah on uh tugboat; uh nice place, but de lettah say he wuz so sad an’ lonesom’ he wuz mos’ dead. (’Skuse meh cryin’, Muhtilda.) He say he misses de ribber so—de cluckin’ hens, crowin’ roostus, de calbes moanin’ fuh deah ma’s, de sweet little skippin’ lam’s an’ de singin’ birds—but he say he mos’ miss Mars Nickey’s houn’s, an’ dat he will nebber refuse ter hunt fuh hens’ nesses fuh he aunty ef’n he kin git home, but he sho’ Ole Mars won’ let his foot tech Woodstock.

Fus’ I tho’t ub gwine ter Ole Mistis, but she so sad I ’cided not ter trubble huh. Muhtilda, she will nebber git ober de deaf ub Mars Francis. Ev’y day befo’ he died she teck uh barsket on huh ahm, pahr cissers in huh han’, an’ go ter de gyarden befo’ de jewdraps of’n de flowers, an’ wid dem cissers she wud cut wiolets, heal’trope, ’benas, sweet-lizziums, roses an’ udder sweet flowers, tell de barsket full. Den Mistis wud meck ’em in bokays, an’ meck me ty ’em wid lamp wick. You see hit’s sorf, an’ don’ squench de flowers. Dem days I had ter put one ub de bokays in ev’y room, but dese days she don’ hab no bokays; jes’ puts all dem flowers ev’y mawnin’ on Mars Francis’ grabe.