Chapter II: Foreword (1)

Just under the left shoulder of Africa, which juts out boldly into the Atlantic, as though to meet half way the right shoulder of South America, lie, between Sierra Leone and the Bight of Benin, the Slave Coast, the Ivory Coast, and the Gold Coast. It was the lure of gold and ivory that brought to these shores the enterprising traders who first offered the African slave-holders a stable foreign market for the captives of bow and spear and knobkerrie.

Out of this fetid armpit of the Dark Continent came the first black bondsmen to curse the Western world. Thence, across the narrowing ocean, but a night’s flight for Walt Whitman’s “Man-of-War-Bird”--

“At dusk that look’st on Senegal, at morn America”--Portuguese and Spanish traders, but a few years after Columbus had set foot on San Salvador, transported their first human cargoes to the plantations of Brazil and the rich islands of the Caribbean. Here the labor of the blacks proved so profitable that the envious English soon engaged in the traffic, and during the reign of the virginal Elizabeth certain of her noble subjects sought concessions for the monopoly of the West Indian slave trade.

A generation or two later, the first slaves filtered through to the mainland colonies of North America from the Barbados, Antigua, and other West Indian Islands. After the institution had become firmly established, the New England eye, not lacking “speculation,” saw the promise of the East, and New England, pocketing her prayer book while pouching her musket balls, freighted her bluff-bowed ships with red flannel and glass beads with which to accentuate, if not to clothe, the heathen nakedness, and set sail for the rising sun. Thenceforth the New England slavers sailed in cycles, and their course was charted by rum, slaves, and molasses. The “black-birders” bartered their human cargoes for West Indian molasses, which, by a spirituous, if not a spiritual, process, became New England rum. “Old Medford” filled their holds, westerly winds filled their bellying sails, and the rum was soon converted into more slaves, to be in turn converted again into molasses in completing the gainful cycle.

For a hundred and fifty years Rhode Island and Massachusetts competed successfully with England for the North American trade, and these colonies (with “God’s grace”) throve exceedingly. In the early years of the last century, however, the importation of slaves was interdicted and the last Yankee slaver converted the last rum-bought slave into cash, then, converting himself, he became an Abolitionist, and the well-known “New England conscience” was developed.

But the Puritan slaver, whatever “woes unnumbered” he brought upon his own race, was, in transferring these bought or stolen blacks to the humane Cavalier planters of the South, an unconscious benefactor to thousands of Negro captives and to millions of their descendants, whose masters gave them Christianity and such a measure of civilization, that, in the short space of two hundred years from the cannibal savagery of the stew-pot and the spit, they were fitted, in the New England mind, at least, for manhood suffrage, which came to enlightened England only after more than a thousand years of development!

None of the encyclopedias mentions the Gullah Negroes, nor does the name appear in the dictionaries. Mr. John Bennett, the well-known writer of Charleston, who has, for twenty years, been gathering data concerning this interesting people, places the Gullahs among the Liberian group of tribes; “formerly powerful and numerous, they have been crowded and overrun; their remnant remains about thirty miles inward from Monrovia;” but in 1822, in a publication by the Charleston City Council at the time of the attempted Negro insurrection, reference is made to “Gullah Jack” and his company of “Gullah or Angola” Negroes, thereby making the suggestion that “Gullah” is a corruption of Angola. As Angola and Liberia are at least fifteen hundred miles apart, the former being nearly one thousand miles south of the Equator, these two opinions seem to be in hopeless conflict.

Mr. Bennett says further: “Among the many African tribes brought to this country, the presence of very many Gullah Negroes is apparent from the earliest times. On some plantations, before the days of experienced precaution, it is highly probable they formed a majority of the hands. As early as 1730 a plan had been hatched against Charleston by these Negroes....

“The dialect of the West Coast, from which came these Gullah Negroes, was early commented upon as peculiarly harsh, quacking, flat in intonation, quick, clipped and peculiar even in Africa. Bosman, the Dutch sailor, described its peculiar tonality, and calls its speakers the ‘Qua-quas,’ because they gabbled like ducks.

“The clinging together of these Gullah tribesmen, as indicated above, and their apparent resolute and persistent character, evidently assisted in impressing their dialectical peculiarities on weaker and more plastic natures brought in contact with them, and fixed the tonality of the Negro dialect of the Carolina low-country....

“For the above reason, of prevalence and domination as a peculiar dialect with singular and marked tonality, the characteristic patois of the districts where these Negroes most abounded, came to be universally referred to as the Gullah dialect.”

Whatever the origin of these Gullahs, Mr. Bennett is probably correct in his estimate of their influence upon low-country Negro speech.

Slovenly and careless of speech, these Gullahs seized upon the peasant English used by some of the early settlers and by the white servants of the wealthier Colonists, wrapped their clumsy tongues about it as well as they could, and, enriched with certain expressive African words, it issued through their flat noses and thick lips as so workable a form of speech that it was gradually adopted by the other slaves and became in time the accepted Negro speech of the lower districts of South Carolina and Georgia. With characteristic laziness, these Gullah Negroes took short cuts to the ears of their auditors, using as few words as possible, sometimes making one gender serve for three, one tense for several, and totally disregarding singular and plural numbers. Yet, notwithstanding this economy of words, the Gullah sometimes incorporates into his speech grotesquely difficult and unnecessary English words; again, he takes unusual pains to transpose numbers and genders.

On some of the sea-islands and on portions of the mainland, sparsely inhabited by whites, the Gullah speech still persists in its original “purity.” The explanation for this is that the Negroes, before and after the war, were in so tremendous a majority on the great plantations of the low-country that only the house servants came in frequent contact with their masters’ families, and these house servants, certainly those who had been “in the house” for generations, spoke with scarcely a taint of Negro speech. The field hands, seldom coming in contact with whites, had neither opportunity nor temptation to amend their speech. There was none to “impeach” their language, and so virile was this Gullah that, in some sections higher up the state, as in Barnwell and Sumter counties, where, in the settlement of estates certain families or colonies of coast-bred Negroes were sold before the war, the Gullah tongue, although with difficulty understood by the other Negroes of the community, still persists like lingual oases in the desert of up-country Negro speech.

This Gullah dialect is interesting, not merely for its richness, which falls upon the ear as opulently as the Irish brogue, but also for the quaint and homely similes in which it abounds and for the native wit and philosophy of its users. Isolated from the whites as were these coast Negroes, and having no contact with the more advanced slaves of the up-country, who, belonging as a rule to small slave-holders, were in close touch with their masters’ families, the coast Negroes retained more of the habits and traditions of their African ancestry and presented, therefore, a more interesting study of the Negro as he was, and to a certain extent “ever shall be.” Living close to nature, they were learned in woodcraft and the ways of animals and birds and fish, and used this knowledge to illustrate their dealings with their own kind.

The peasantry, the lower classes generally, are the conservators of speech. Writers who have exploited the white mountaineers of the Appalachian ranges of North Carolina and Tennessee have heard from their lips Biblical and Shakesperean English now almost forgotten among educated people. So these coast Negroes still use fragments of Shakesperean English long obsolete among their former masters.

To Mr. Bennett and other philological investigators must be committed the task of working out the sources of many words of this interesting tongue. The purpose here is simply to record the oddities of the dialect as the Coast Country Negroes use it. After all, grotesque and interesting as is this speech to those familiar with it, it is only a vehicle for carrying to the reader the thought and life of an isolated group among the varied peoples that make up the complex population of this Republic.

* * * * *

There have been many writers of Negro dialect. Some stories that have come out of the North, feminine effusions chiefly, have been fearfully and wonderfully made; the thoughts of white people, and very common-place thoughts at that, issuing from Negro mouths in such phonetic antics as to make the aural angels weep!

In fact, no Northern writer has ever succeeded even indifferently well in putting Negro thought into Negro dialect. Even Poe, in “the Goldbug,” put into the mouth of a Charleston Negro such vocables as might have been used by a black sailor on an English ship a hundred years ago, or on the minstrel stage, but were never current on the South Carolina coast. To recent Southern writers, therefore, one must turn for intelligent understanding of the Negro character and the recording of his speech, which varies in the different sections of the South.

Thomas Nelson Page, recognized as the outstanding exponent of the Virginia Negro in literature, has yet touched his field lightly, considering chiefly the old family man servant and his relations with his master’s household. Very beautifully and tenderly, because very truthfully, Mr. Page has portrayed the ante-bellum Negro man servant; but as to the younger Negro, Negro life before and since the war, and the relations of Negroes to one another, it is to be regretted that he has contributed little or nothing.

The genius of Joel Chandler Harris, who, with Judge Longstreet and his “Georgia Scenes,” fixed Georgia firmly upon the literary map of the world, embalmed the Negro myths and folk-tales of the South so subtly in the amber of his understanding that “Uncle Remus” is known and loved by the children of half the civilized world. There was little creative work in “Uncle Remus.” Mr. Harris claimed to record the stories only “like hit wer’ gun ter me.” These myths were known and told by Negro nurses to the white children over all the Southern states, and in the West Indian Islands as well, but the artistry of Harris lay in the sympathetic understanding of children prompted by his kindly heart, and the human appeal of the tender relations of “the little boy” and the old Negro family servant was irresistible, not only to the children, but to those happy grown-ups who loved them.

It is interesting to know that in the low-country of South Carolina, instead of “Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox,” it is invariably “Buh Rabbit en’ Buh Wolf.” Strange, too, because wolves must have been found in upper Georgia and Carolina for more than a hundred years after they were exterminated along the coast, within whose forests still abound the grey foxes whose natural prey is the rabbit.

Encouraged by the success of the “Uncle Remus” stories, which greatly surprised this singularly modest man, Mr. Harris wrote novels and other stories of Georgia life among whites and blacks. While these were published successfully, it is upon the animal tales of “Uncle Remus” that his fame has been permanently established.

In the introduction to one of his volumes Mr. Harris has made a rather exhaustive study and analysis of the origin of these Negro myths. That they are of African origin none can doubt, but as on the West Coast of Africa, whence the slaves came to the American continent and the West Indian Islands, there are neither wolves, foxes, nor rabbits, it would be interesting to know what African animals were their legendary prototypes. In Jamaica many of the “Uncle Remus” tales are current and have been told to English children by their black nurses for generations, but there the Anancy Spider, a black, hairy tarantula-like creature, is substituted for the rabbit in the mythical triumph of mind over matter--cunning over physical strength--while the tiger does duty for the outwitted fox. Whence comes the Jamaican tiger? One can only surmise that tales of the strength and ferocity of the Jaguar (“el tigre” to the Spaniards) the great spotted cat of South and Central America, were brought from the mainland to the West Indies by the Indians of the Caribbean Coast or the earlier Negro slaves; but in Jamaica even the saddle-horse story is told complete in all its details, the spider, clapping spurs to the tiger’s flanks and riding him up to the house of the “nyung ladies” (Mis’ Meadows an de gals) hitching him to a post and walking boldly in to love’s conquest. For the “Tar Baby” story, instead of the violated spring, the drinking preserve of fox or wolf, a “tar pole” is set up in a banana grove, and to this sticky lure the pilfering spider is found stuck fast by the lord of the plantation when he makes his morning rounds.

Harry Stillwell Edwards, of Macon, is another Georgian whose charming stories in the up-country or cotton plantation dialect have given pleasure to thousands. With an unusual knowledge of the Negro character--the first consideration, if one would present truthful pictures of Negro life--he combines a charming literary style, and his writings deservedly rank high among Negro stories.

Harris touched the Gullah dialect very lightly and not with authority. In “Nights with Uncle Remus,” a later collection of Negro myths, he puts into the mouth of “Daddy Jack” certain variants of the Uncle Remus stories told in the dialect of the coast, and in his introduction to this volume he acknowledges his obligation to correspondents in Charleston and elsewhere on the Carolina and Georgia Coasts for the Gullah stories. It is almost certain that he lacked first-hand contact with the story-tellers, and thus missed some of the subtleties of their speech as well as the peculiar construction of their sentences, differing entirely, as they do, from those of the up-country Negroes. Mr. Harris also includes in his introduction a brief glossary of Gullah words, and expresses the opinion that this peculiar dialect is more easily read than the Georgia dialect of “Uncle Remus,” an opinion in which, unfortunately for the popularity of “Gullah,” few will concur.

In “Myths of the Georgia Coast,” Col. Charles Colcock Jones, of Georgia (and South Carolina, also, by the way) has given, in generally correct Gullah dialect, the stories current along the coast, many of them variants of those told in “Uncle Remus.” A careful lawyer, Col. Jones has set down, with most meticulous exactness, and without imagination or embellishment, the stories as they were told him on the plantation.

One familiar with Negro speech recognizes that these tales are recorded as they fell from Negro lips, and as such they must be regarded, as far as they go, as the most authentic record of Negro myths on the continent--probably the originals of many of the “Uncle Remus” stories, for the slaves first came from Africa to the coast, bringing with them their myths and legends which gradually infiltrated into the hinterland.

A comparison of Jones’s story of the rabbit and the tar baby with Uncle Remus’s version of the same tale will be interesting as showing, not only the richer and quainter dialect of the Gullah, but also his more direct and homely mode of thought.

The “Coteney” sermons of the Reverend John G. Williams, of Barnwell County, which appeared in the Charleston News & Courier about twenty-five years ago and were subsequently published in pamphlet form, purporting to be pulpit deliverances and consequently showing chiefly the Negro’s conception of his relation to religion, are full of homely wit, and, written in the language of the coast, constitute a noteworthy contribution to dialectal literature.

Mrs. A. M. H. Christensen, of Beaufort, although of Northern birth, enjoyed soon after the war unusual opportunities for acquiring folk-lore stories of the sea-islands and littoral, and she has set forth in a small volume certain of the tales that were told her, which are in the main variants of versions of those already related by Harris and Jones.

Another booklet, by the late J. Jenkins Hucks, of Georgetown, S. C., recording some of the cases that came before him as Magistrate, is, perhaps, the most humorous example extant of Gullah undefiled.

Following the Stories, will be found a fairly complete Glossary of the Gullah speech as used by the Negroes of the Carolina-Georgia Coast and sea-islands, perhaps the only extensive vocabulary of Gullah that has yet been compiled.

The words are, of course, not African, for the African brought over or retained only a few words of his jungle-tongue, and even these few are by no means authenticated as part of the original scant baggage of the Negro slaves.

What became of this jungle-speech? Why so few words should have survived is a mystery, for, even after freedom, a few native Africans of the later importations were still living on the Carolina Coast, and the old family servants often spoke, during and after the war, of native Africans they had known; but, while they repeated many tales that came by word of mouth from the Dark Continent--the story-tellers were almost invariably of royal blood, and did not hesitate to own it--they seem to have picked from the mouths of their African brothers not a single jungle-word for the enrichment of their own speech.

As the small vocabulary of the jungle atrophied through disuse and was soon forgotten, the contribution to language made by the Gullah Negro is insignificant, except through the transformation wrought upon a large body of borrowed English words. Adopting, as needed and immediately when needed, whatever they could assimilate, they have reshaped perhaps 1,700 words of our language by virtue of an unwritten but a very definite and vigorous law of their own tongue.

In connection with the Glossary, certain characteristic features of this strange tongue are noted. Their consideration will facilitate the reader’s exploration of “The Black Border.”

Of the stories included in this volume, the last fourteen were written and published in The State in the Spring of 1892. The remaining twenty-eight were written and published during the year 1918.

AMBROSE E. GONZALES.

Columbia, August, 1922.

THE BLACK BORDER

NOBLESSE OBLIGE

Joe Fields was the most onery looking darkey on Pon Pon. Squat, knock-kneed, lopsided, slew-footed, black as a crow, pop-eyed, with a few truculent looking yellow teeth set “slantindicularly” in a prognathous jaw, he was the embodiment of ramshackle inefficiency. Although he worked only now and then, thanks to the industry of a hard-working wife, he usually owned, encumbered by a chattel mortgage, a wretched half-starved horse upon which he rode to his occasional employments.

Joe, runt as he was, had two sources of pride--the aristocratic lineage of his “owners,” for he had belonged to the Heywards, and the achievement, on his own behalf, of the paternity of twins. Poor, patient Philippa, being only the mother, and a person of no family to speak of, having been the slave of a Charleston baker--whose fortunes rose during the war, though his Confederate yeast didn’t--Philippa, of the bourgeoisie, was not taken into account. “Dem two twin duh my’own,” and “Me nyuse to blonx to Mass Clinch,” were the Andante and Allegro of Joe’s prideful song. When some lusty young wench, during the customary “chaffing” of the plantation dinner hour, would ridicule his small size, Joe would swell with importance, grin like a ’possum, and overwhelm her with the retort: “Little axe cut down big tree! You see dem two twin, enty? Dem duh _my’own_.” But the “two twins,” poor little dusky wights, were in evidence in the neighborhood and could be estimated at their true value and Joe’s paternal prowess appraised accordingly, but “Mass Clinch” lived away off “een Walterburruh” and, later, as governor, in Columbia, and his name, mouthed unctuously by his former slave, carried with it a weird, mystical importance, a portentous something that held his auditors with staring eyes and dropping jaws till Joe reached his climax, when the tension relaxed and they returned to earth.

Once started, Joe’s imagination fed upon his words as a dog upon his own fleas. One day when Philippa reprobated his want of industry, Joe, other negroes being present, began to brag: “Wunnuh haffuh wu’k ’cause wunnuh blan blonx to po’ buckruh. Yo’ maussuh _’self_ haffuh wu’k! Enty I shum een town one time duh stan’ een ’e bake sto’ duh mek bread, en’ ’e kibbuh wid flour ’tell ’e baid stan’ sukkuh deseyuh cedar hedge duh wintuhtime w’en w’ite fros’ dey ’puntop’um?”

“Enty yo’ maussuh wu’k, Joe?”

“_Who?_ _My Maussuh?_ _Mass Clinch?_ ’Ooman, you mus’ be fool! Enty wunnuh know him duh quality? You ebbuh yeddy ’bout _quality_ wu’k? Wuffuh him haffuh wu’k? No, suh! Him hab him ob’shay, Mistuh Jokok, fuh wu’k. _My_ maussuh tek ’e pledjuh. ’E ride hawss, ’e eat ricebu’d en’ summuh duck en’ t’ing’. Him hab t’irteen plantesshun ’puntop Cumbee Ribbuh. Him plant seb’n t’ous’n’ acre’ rice.”

“_Seb’n t’ous’n’ acre’!_”

“Yaas, enty uh tell wunnuh ’e plant nine t’ous’n’ acre’ rice? Wunnuh t’ink me duh lie, enty? Uh swaytogawd, w’en uh bin Cumbee one time uh count fo’ t’ous’n’ head uh nigguh’ duh hoe rice een de baa’nyaa’d fiel’. Nigguh’ stan’ een Mass Clinch’ fiel’ sukkuh crow’ duh mustuh! En’ him hab seb’n hund’ud mule’!”

“De mule’ wu’k ’pun Cumbee?” asked an iconoclast.

“Co’se de mule’ wu’k, en’ de nigguh’ wu’k, en’ Mistuh Jokok wu’k. Eb’rybody wu’k ’scusin’ my maussuh. Dem mule’ hab long tail’ dull summuhtime fuh switch fly, but w’en wintuhtime come en’ dem ’leb’n hund’ud mule’ tail’ roach, de pyo’ hair wuh shabe off’um mek one pile stan’ big mo’nuh rice rick!”

“Hukkuh yo’ maussuh plant all dat rice en’ t’ing’ ef ’e yent wu’k?”

“Enty I tell wunnuh him lib een Walterburruh? Duh summuhtime ’e does dribe duh plantesshun now en’ den fuh see how him crap stan’. Him dribe two hawss’, en’ de buckle on ’e haa’ness shine lukkuh gol’. One nigguh duh seddown behine ’e buggy wid alltwo ’e han’ fol’ befor’um lukkuh hog tie. Mass Clinch hab on one kid glub ’pun ’e han’ wuh come to ’e elbow. W’en ’e git Cumbee, ’e light out ’e buggy. T’ree nigguh’ run up fuh hol’ ’e hawss’ head. Mistuh Jokok mek’um uh low bow. Mass Clinch iz uh berry mannussubble juntlemun, alldo’ him _iz_ quality, en’ him ’spon’ to de bow. Den ’e biggin fuh walk. Him hab shishuh rich walk! Den ’e cock ’e hat one side ’e head. You nebbuh see nobody kin cock ’e hat stylish lukkuh Mass Clinch. Den ’e onbutt’n ’e weskit. ’E pit ’e lef’ han’ een ’e britchiz pocket, en’ swing ’e walkin’ stick een ’e right han’, en’ biggin fuh quizzit him ob’shay. By dis time ’e git ’puntop de baa’nyaa’d hill en’ look obuh ’e fiel’.

“‘Jokok’,” ’e say, “‘dat de stretch flow you got on my rice, enty?’”

“‘No, suh, dat de haa’bis’ flow.’”

“‘De debble’!” ’e say. “‘’E mus’ be mos’ time fuh ricebu’d!’”

“‘Yaas, suh. We gwine hab some fuh dinnuh’.”

“‘Wuh else you got fuh eat?’” Maussuh quizzit’um.

“‘We got one cootuh soup mek out’uh tarrypin’ wuh bin een one pen duh fatten ’pun gritch en’ t’ing,’ en’ one trout fish, en’ summuh duck’.”

“‘You hab enny mint?’”

“‘Yaas, suh, we hab ’nuf.’”

“‘Berry well, mek we a few julip’,” ’e say. “‘You got enny mo’ ’pawtun’ bidness dat ’quire my ’tenshun?’”

“‘Yaas, suh; snake hole en’ crawfish en’ t’ing’ spile one uh we bank, en’ de trunk blow out, en’ uh hab uh berry bad break, en’ Cumbee ribbuh comin’ een de fiel’. You wantuh shum, suh?’”

“‘No, I t’engk you’,” ’e say. “‘Leh de ribbuh tek ’e co’se. Leh we eat’.”

“W’en ’e gitt’ru ’e bittle, ’e hab ’e fo’ hawss’ hitch up, en’ Mistuh Jokok pit two-t’ree bag uh cootuh en’ ricebu’d en’ summuh duck een him cyaaridge, en’ ’e gone _spang_ Walterburruh, same lukkuh bu’d fly! Da’ duh _my_ maussuh!”

By the time Joe concluded his story the noon hour was over, and the awed negroes rose silently to resume their work. One old mauma, turning to Joe as she knocked the ashes out of her clay pipe and carefully stuck it in the knotty wool behind her ear, said, “Joe, dat duh Gawd you binnuh talk ’bout, enty?”

“No, enty I tell wunnuh duh Mass Clinch Heywu’d! Him duh my maussuh, me duh him nigguh. Me ain’ haffuh wu’k, him ain’ haffuh wu’k. W’en wunnuh look ’puntop’uh she, wunnuh look ’puntop’uh me. Me en’ him alltwo stan’ same fashi’n.”

“I t’aw’t,” said the old woman, scornfully, “I t’aw’t ’e mus’ be de blessed Gawd you bin gib shishuh high praise, but I always yeddy suh Him duh de ainjul’ maussuh, en’ I yeddy suh de ainjul’ w’ite en’ shiny lukkuh staar een de sky, but _you_, nigguh! _YOU black_ ez uh _buzzut_!”

“MY MAUSSUH”

How beneficent must have been the institution of slavery under kindly masters which could cause Joe Fields, black, yellow-eyed, knock-kneed, slew-footed, longtime husband of Philippa, sometime father of twins, to boast, 53 years after the war, of the prowess and attainments of his former master, Duncan Clinch Heyward, sometime governor of South Carolina, now collector of internal revenue and sitting at the receipt of customs in the tall Palmetto building at Columbia, with dominion over war tax, surtax and every other impost internally levied by a benevolent government upon its loyal people. Although, perhaps, an infant in arms when Joe first looked freedom in the face, this “master” was exalted in the mind of his former slave to almost Godlike proportions. “Joe’ maussuh duh him Jedus,” conservatively remarked Philippa.

The negroes about Pon Pon had been considerably exercised over the lengthening of the daylight hours by pushing forward the hands of the clock. Always suspicious of a Caucasian in the woodpile, it was generally regarded as a device for increasing the hours of negro labor. At a recent gathering of the idle black at Adams Run station, the opinion was expressed that the President, although a “Dimmycrack,” must be “a smaa’t man” to have lengthened the days on the darkeys and taken over the railroads.

New York, in the minds of the coast negroes, is the _ultima Thule_--at once the farthest North, and the very core and center of Yankeedom, where, in awful majesty, the President of the United States is supposed to sit like Zeus upon Mt. Olympus, or “my maussuh” in Columbia.

“Yaas, man,” said Joe, “de Prezzydent smaa’t man, fuh true, but ’e yent smaa’t lukkuh maussuh, ’cause my maussuh haffuh gone New Yawk fuh tell de Prezzydent wuh fuh do. Same lukkuh maussuh tell Mistuh Jokok, him ob’shay ’puntop Cumbee, hummuch rice en’ t’ing’ fuh plant, same fashi’n him tell de Prezzydent wuh fuh do, en’ de Prezzydent smaa’t ’nuf fuh do’um.

“Todduh day uh hab uh hebby disapp’int. Uh yeddy suh uh big buckruh wedd’n’ bin fuh hab een Adam’ Run billage, en’ uh yeddy suh my maussuh fuh come spang f’um Cuhlumbia to de wedd’n’. Uh gone en’ pit on me shoe’ en’ da’ new britchiz wuh uh buy yeah ’fo’ las’, en’ uh pit on uh old weskit wuh uh bin hab, so ’e kin mek me fuh look lukkuh maussuh, en’ uh tek me two foot en’ walk, ’cause da’ las’ oxin wuh uh buy done dead onduhneet’ de mawgidge da’ buckruh mek me fuh pit ’puntop’um, en’ uh yent hab nutt’n’ fuh ride, en’ uh gone slam Adam’ Run billage to de wedd’n’, so uh kin see maussuh, en’ uh stan’ outside de ’Piskubble chu’ch en uh fast’n’ alltwo me yeye ’pun de do’ fuh see w’en de buckruh’ gone een en’ w’en dem come out, en’ ’nuf buggy en’ cyaaridge en’ t’ing’ dribe up to de do’, en’ some dem torruh t’ing wuh buckruh hab now--uh cyan’ call ’e name, but ’e hab fo’ w’eel en’ ’e run lukkuh bu’d fly, en’ ’e smell lukkuh kyarrysene--en’ uh see de buckruh git out en’ gone een de chu’ch en’ de preechuh pit on ’e new shroud, ’cause ’e done buy anodduh one attuh Estelle t’ief de fus’ one ’e hab. Bimeby, eb’rybody come out de do’, en’ uh look ’tell uh pop-eye,’ but uh nebbuh see no maussuh; en’ den uh fin’ out suh maussuh ent hab uh chance fuh come to de wedd’n’ cause him haffuh gone New Yawk fuh tell de Prezzydent wuh fuh do! Yaas, suh, da’ duh my maussuh! Same way ’e mek Mistuh Jokok en’ dem nigguh’ en’ t’ing’ fuh stan’ ’roun’ ’puntop’uh Cumbee ribbuh, uh yeddy suh same fashi’n him fuh do een Cuhlumbia en’ New Yawk. Uh yeddy suh my maussuh fuh lib een Cuhlumbia een one high house. ’E high mo’nuh loblolly pine tree. De house hab seb’n hund’ud room’, but dem buckruh’ wuh bin Cuhlumbia tell me de house ent hab no step fuh climb. W’en maussuh ready fuh go to de top uh ’e house, ’e gone een one leetle room, en’ ’e shet de do’ en ’e shet ’e yeye. Fus’ t’ing you know, ’e gone _spang_ to de top uh ’e house. Wen ’e op’n ’e yeye de do’ op’n, en’ ’e walk een ’e office en’ ’e hab ’nuf man en’ nyung lady een ’e office. ’E seddown befo’ ’e table. ’E table big lukkuh winnuh-house flatfawm. ’E pit uh seegyaa’ een ’e mout’. ’E cross ’e foot. ’E call one dem nyung lady. ‘You got any match?’ maussuh ax’um.

“‘Yaas, suh,’ ’e say.”

“‘Please gimme uh matches,’ maussuh say, berry puhlite, ‘en’ light’um fuh me.’ De nyung lady g’em de match, but him say suh maussuh hab mo’ ’speriunce fuh light match’ den w’at him hab. Maussuh say, ‘berry well,’ en’ him ’cratch’ de match ’pun ’e britchiz. ’E ketch fire. ’E light ’e seegyaa’. ’E blow smoke! ’E study! Bimeby ’e reach obuh ’e table. ’E tetch one leetle sump’n’nurruh lukkuh rattlesnake’ butt’n. De t’ing hab lightnin’ een’um, but ’e nebbuh t’unduh. W’en maussuh tetch’um, de felluh go ‘_ping_,’ same lukkuh oonuh t’row stick ’puntop tallygraf wire. Bimeby, fo’ man’ run een de room. ‘Hummuch money oonuh tek f’um de buckruh teday?’ maussuh ax’um. ‘You tek all dem got?’”

“‘Yaas, suh,’ dem say. ‘Eb’n so we tek dem fowl off de roos’!’”

“‘Berry well,’ maussuh say. ‘Ef you tek all dem got, uh haffuh study ’pun uh plan fuh git mo’, en’ ’e tell de fo’ man’ fuh gone. W’en dem gone, maussuh study. ’E pit ’e head one side sukkuh bluejay. ’E blow smoke, en’ ’e study. Maussuh _too_ schemy! Bimeby, ’e say to ’eself: ‘Wuh me en’ de Prezzydent gwine do? Us done ketch all de money wuh de buckruh got, en’ us yent lef’um nutt’n’ ’cep’ de railroad. Nigguh’ ent got nutt’n’ but dem han’ en’ dem foot’. Nigguh’ ent fuh hab no money. Nigguh’ fuh w’uk. Leh we see,’ ’e say. ‘Fus’ t’ing, me en’ de Prezzydent haffuh wu’k! Alltwo uh we duh juntlemun, en’ juntlemun ent fuh wu’k.’ Maussuh pit on ’e hat. ’E gone deepo’ een Cuhlumbia. ’E ride de westyblue strain, en’ ’e nebbuh git off ’tell ’e git spang New Yawk! ’E gone to de Prezzydent’ house. De Prezzydent mek’um uh bow. ’E ax’um, ‘How you lef’ yo’ fambly en’ yo’ crap?’ Maussuh treat’um berry mannussubble. ’E tell’um ’e fambly well, but ’e crap ent stan’ so berry good, ’cause nigguh’ seem lukkuh dem ent lub fuh wu’k ’fo’ day clean een de mawnin’, en’ dem dat good-fuhnutt’n’ dem wan’ knock-off soon ez daa’k come. ‘Dem eegnunt tuh dat,’ de Prezzydent tell’um. ‘Ent you hab moonlight night’ ’puntop Cumbee ribbuh?’ Maussuh tell’um yaas, him hab moonlight, fuh true, but seem lukkuh moonlight night’ duh summuhtime nigguh’ fuhrebbuh duh shout en’ beat stick. Maussuh tell’um ef him kin mek uh law fuh pit anodduh hour een eb’ry day, him kin git mo’ wu’k out de nigguh’. ‘Berry well,’ de Prezzydent tell’um. En’ ’e mek law fuh sattify maussuh, same lukkuh maussuh tell’um.

“Den maussuh cross ’e foot, en’ ’e study some mo’. ’E git schemy ’gen! Maussuh tell’um t’engky fuh de law wuh ’e mek, but ’e tell’um one t’ing wuh bodduhr’um duh de railroad wuh run f’um W’ite Hall fuh gone town. ’E tell’um eb’ry Sattyday W’ite Hall deepo’ black wid nigguh’ fuh gone town fuh t’row’way dem money. Maussuh tell’um de ticket en’ de ’scusshun too cheap, en’ ef de Prezzydent gi’ _him_ de railroad, him will chaa’ge mo’ money fuh de ticket, en’ den de nigguh’ cyan’ trabble so fas’. De Prezzydent tell’um, yaas, ’e plan berry good, but him hab uh sonny-law wuh hab uh berry good ecknowledge fuh git money out’uh buckruh’, en’ ef him kin git’um out’uh buckruh’, him kin git’um out’uh nigguh’ alltwo, so ’e say ’e gwine tek de railroad f’um de buckruh’ en’ g’em to ’e sonny-law, en’ maussuh tell’um berry well, him ’low’um fuh do dat, en’ den maussuh come home en’ write uh ansuh to Mistuh Jokok fuh tell’um nigguh’ fuh wu’k one mo’ hour eb’ry day Gawd sen’, en’ Mistuh Jokok pass de wu’d; en’, please Gawd, de Prezzydent’ sonny-law mek nigguh’ fuh pay mo’ fuh ride de railroad, en eb’rybody say suh de Prezzydent shishuh smaa’t man fuh mek dem law, but, oonuh yeddy me! duh _my maussuh_ mek de Prezzydent fuh mek law! Him schemy fuh t’ink all dem t’ing so him en’ de Prezzydent ent haffuh wu’k! _My_ maussuh ent full wu’k. No, _suh_!”

AN ANTEMORTEM DEMISE

Under whatever star Philippa had been born, she had known only ill luck since her acquisition of a husband in Joe Fields, the slew-footed former slave of former Governor Heyward. Joe’s pride in his former master was too great to permit him to walk, and the mortgaged horse or mule which he usually owned seldom lived very long on the light rations and scant attention it received. Its demise would soon be followed by another animal purchase, another mortgage, and another death. Joe occasionally worked when it suited him, but Philippa toiled unceasingly, and, although she seldom lived at home, she was very proud of the little establishment which her labor maintained. Always distrustful of Joe, she yet gave him the custody of, and dominion over, the few material things she possessed, representing in her character the contradictions not infrequently met with among those of her sex in higher circles.

Once upon a time, Philippa aspired to animal husbandry. Tired of buying bacon for Joe at the Cross Roads store, she applied the savings of several months of hard labor to the purchase of a young sow, and, perhaps in compliment to Joe, she bought a Berkshire, the blackest pig she could find. During the months of anticipation, while she worked for the money with which to make the purchase, her mind was full of the little black pigs that some time would be running about her yard around the cabin in the woodland, furnishing meat in prospect, and immediate companionship for Joe and their taciturn black daughter, Christopher Columbus, who kept the home fires burning with whatever lightwood knots she could pick up in the pineland, while the wife and mother worked for “de buckruh” several miles away.

“Joe en’ Cuhlumbus sho’ gwine hab uh good cump’ny w’en uh buy da’ hog en’ sen’ um home,” she thought. “Ef uh kin raise ten pig’ dis’yeah, maybe nex’ yeah uh kin raise two-t’ree hund’ud, en’ dem kin git ’nuf fuh eat een de swamp en’ de pinelan’ bidout buy’um no bittle.”

So her fancy pictured her humble premises teeming with little pigs, first squirming in their beds among the straw, then grunting and running about the place, while Joe and Columbus, squatting on the door step of the cabin, communed with them in spirit and watched them grow. Later, the husky shoats would forage the pinelands and swamps for mast and acorns, and root about in the muddy branches for slugs and crayfish, then, grown to fat porkers, they would be slaughtered, salted and smoked, and hams, shoulders, and flitches would hang in festoons from the cabin rafters. So they successively passed through the seven ages of swine. At last the sow that was to transmute Philippa’s dreams into realities was bought and paid for, and a message dispatched to Joe to come and take her home. In due time he arrived with ox and cart and, admonished by Philippa to meet the responsibility placed upon him, he drove away, the guardian of her hopes.

But Joe was not a forward-looking man. His eyes, lacking speculation, were filled with the insistent materialism of the moment. A present pig was worth a hundred in prospect. His eyeballs popped and his lips leaked as he viewed Opportunity that grunted so tantalizingly at his door, and the gnawings of “Guamba” (the meat hunger of the savage African tribes) played Lady Macbeth to his halting thoughts of murder and turned them into resolution.

“Yaas, ma’am, uh glad fuh git uh chance fuh wu’k out ’gen, ’cause Joe’ shishuh po’ puhwiduh. ’E nebbuh hab no bittle een de house fuh eat. ’E lub fuh eat, but ’e say suh ’cause him maussuh duh quality, suh him ent fuh nyam no dry bittle. Cawn hom’ny ent wut’ fuh Joe ’scusin’ ’e got hog meat ’long’um fuh greese ’e mout’, en’ da’ time we’n uh binnuh wu’k Pon Pon uh lavuh’ haa’d fuh two munt’ fuh buy uh sow so uh kin raise hog meat fuh keep f’um fuhrebbuh duh run duh sto’ fuh bodduh wid dem Jew’ en’ t’ing’, en’ w’en uh done pay fuh de sow, uh sen’ one metsidge fuh tell Joe fuh come fuh fetch’um home. Yuh come Joe een ’e oxin cyaa’t! ’E _dat_ swonguh, ’e mos’ mek somebody wuh ent know’um t’ink suh _himself_ wu’k fuh buy de hog. Joe tie all fo’ de sow’ foot, ’e pit’um een ’e cyaa’t, en’ ’e gone! Attuh uh week done gone, uh sen’ wu’d fuh tell Joe fuh come fuh see me fuh tell me how de hog git ’long. Bimeby Joe come, ’e tell me de hog hab uh berry good he’lt’. Uh t’engkful fuh yeddy dat, ’cause uh study ’puntop da’ hog tummuch. Anodduh week done gone, uh sen’ fuh Joe ’gen. ’E come. Uh ax’um how de hog’ he’lt’. ’E say ’e he’lt’ ent so berry good, ’e say seem lukkuh de hog kind’uh po’ly. Uh baig’um fuh ent tek ’e yeye off de hog, en’ ’e mek me uh prommus suh ’e gwine watch’um same lukkuh de sow duh ’e own chile. Anodduh week gone. Joe come ’gen. ’E fetch uh berry sad news f’um de hog, ’cause ’e say suh de hog duh leddown, en’ him berry ’f’aid suh ’e dey at de p’int uh de’t’. Wen him tell me dat, uh seddown en’ uh cry, but w’en uh look ’puntop’um uh see suh Joe hab uh berry sattify’ face, en’ ’e jaw look hebby ’tell ’e stan’ lukkuh mufflejaw fowl, but stillyet uh nebbuh ’spishun nutt’n’, en’ uh ax Joe wuffuh mek ’e jaw fat. ’E tell me ’e hab uh teet’ache, en’ dat w’ymekso ’e jaw swell. Joe gone. Nex’ week ’e come ’gen. ’E jowl hebby ez uh buckruh’ barruh Chris’mus time, en’ ’e face look berry sattify. Uh ax’um how de hog? ’E say de hog dead ’tell buzzut done eat’um. Wen uh yeddy dat wu’d, me h’aa’t hebby ’tell ’e ready fuh drap out me t’roat ’pun de du’t. Uh look ’pun Joe ’gen. Uh study ’pun how ’e jaw fat. Uh biggin fuh ’spishun. Uh ax’um ef ’e still hab uh teet’ache een ’e jaw. ’E tell me yaas, ’e teet’ache hot’um ’tell ’e cyan’ nyam ’e cawn hom’ny. Uh ax’um ef ’e teet’ hot’um to dat, hukkuh him mout’ kin grin lukkuh possum mout’ duh wintuhtime w’en ’e dey een possimmun tree? ’E say suh ’e teet’ache hot’um ’tell ’e mek’um fuh grin. W’en ’e tell me dat, uh know him duh lie, en’ uh know berry well weh de hog gone, ’cause him hab shishuh selfish face uh know suh nutt’n’ gwine mek’um grin ’cep’n’ ’e belly tight. Dat, en’ brag ’bout ’e maussuh, duh de only two t’ing fuh sweet’n ’e face fuh mek laugh come een ’e mout’! Uh tell’um, berry well, uh fret ’bout de hog ’tell uh haffuh gone home en’ look ’puntop de po’ creetuh’ bone. ’E tell me suh buzzut done scattuh ’e bone. Uh tell’um, nemmine, uh gwine fin’um ef uh haffuh hunt spang tuh Caw Caw Swamp! Joe stick out ’e mout’ ’tell ’e oagly ez uh catfish, but uh yent mine’um, en’ uh climb’ een de oxin cyaa’t en’ mek’um fuh dribe tuh de house. Uh know berry well suh uh kin mek Cuhlumbus fuh tell me de straight ’bout de hog, ’cause uh train’um fuh watch ’e Pa same ez beebu’d watch beehibe. W’en uh git home uh holluh fuh Cuhlumbus, but ’e yent mek no ansuh en’ uh know ’e mus’be gone deepo. Uh look full de key een de knot hole een one de house’ log weh ’e does lef’um w’en ’e gone out, but befo’ uh gone een de house uh tell Joe fuh show me weh de hog done dead, so uh kin look ’pun ’e bone. Joe look shameface’ ez uh suck-aig dog w’en oonuh ketch’um een uh hen nes,’ but ’e nebbuh crack ’e teet’, en’ ’e gone tuh de aige uh de swamp en’ ’e tell me suh dey de hog dead, en’ de buzzut mus’be flew ’way ’long ’e bone, ’cause none ain’ lef’. Uh tell’um ’e buzzut strong fuh true, but de nigguh lie so easy, uh haffuh suck me teet’ at’um. Uh gone dull house, uh onlock de do’ en’ uh gone een. De fiah done out een de chimbly, but een de cawnuh uh de chimbly uh see de big spiduh duh set, kibbuh’ up wid ashish en’ dead coal’. Uh ax Joe wuh ’e got fuh eat. ’E say ’e dunno wuh Cuhlumbus cook’ befo’ ’e gone out. ’E say ’e ’spec’ Cuhlumbus him roas’ tettuh, eeduhso bile’ hom’ny een de spiduh. Uh tek off de kibbuh. Please me Jedus, uh see de hog’ head dey een de spiduh _done cook_, en’ uh know ’e duh my’own, ’cause ’e hab de w’ite people’ maa’k wuh uh buy’um f’um een alltwo ’e yez! W’en uh look ’puntop de sow head, en’ ’membuh all de t’ing uh bin agguhnize ’bout fuh git da’ hog, uh hab uh berry hebby sperrit en’ water full’ alltwo me yeye. Uh ax Joe weh da’ hog meat come f’um? ’E say him ent know nutt’n’ ’t’all ’bout’um, ’e say suh somebody mus’be gi’ Cuhlumbus de meat. ’E say suh him binnuh nyam de pyo’ cawn hom’ny ’tell him hab uh dry drought een ’e t’roat. Uh tell’um, ‘Joe, you sho’ iz uh fait’ful liah fuh tell lie. Yo’ jaw swell wid de pyo’ fat you git f’um eat my hog, en’ da’ berry sow gwine ride you duh night time. ’E fuh haant you long ez you lib.’ Cuhlumbus come. Uh ax’um hukkuh de sow git ’e de’t’. ’E say suh ebbuh sence de hog come home, ’e Pa binnuh hankuh at’um fuh eat. ’E say suh eb’ry day ’e Pa seddown on de do’ step duh watch de hog duh root ’bout de yaa’d, en’ eb’ry time de hog grunt, ’e Pa dat hongry fuh eat’um, ’e gnash ’e teet’ en’ water run out ’e mout’. One time de hog git ketch een de fench en’ squeal. W’en Joe yeddy ’e woice ’e run out, en’ ’stead’uh ’e loose’um out de fench, ’e tek axe, knock’um een e’ head, en’ ’e tell Cuhlumbus ’e kill’um fuh pit’um out ’e mis’ry. Den ’e staa’t fuh eat’um to ’e tail en’ eat spang t’ru de hog ’tell ’e git to ’e head wuh uh fin’ een de pot! De berry day da’ nigguh tell me suh de sow eenjy uh berry po’ he’lt’, ’e done eat de hog’ two hanch! Uh _done_ wid feed Joe! Ef ’e maussuh lub’um tuh dat, _him_ kin feed’um! Meself, _uh done_!”

Though the abandoned Joe made bones of Philippa’s hopes, he made none about acknowledging the butchery, and boasting of it, away from home.

“Joe, you sho’ iz fat.”

“Yaas, man, uh fat fuh true. Uh binnuh eat hog meat. Philpuh him buy uh hog en’ sen’ um home, en’ de hog meet uh acksident een de fench, en’ uh ’f’aid ’e gwine dead lukkuh da’ todduh hog ’e hab fuh dead on me han’ one time, en’ buzzut git’um ’fo’ uh hab uh chance fuh eat’um. Buzzut git uhhead’uh me one time, but ’e nebbuh do’um two time! My maussuh’ nigguh haffuh smaa’t mo’nuh buzzut! Stepney[1] ain’ fuh come een _my_ house! Me fuh ’low my maussuh’ nigguh fuh perish fuh hog meat? _Me_ jaw full dry ’long cawn hom’ny, en’ buzzut mout’ fuh greesy ’long de ’ooman hog meat, enty? No suh! Uh gwine nyam’um fus’! _Uh kill’um ’fo’ ’e dead!_”

THE LION OF LEWISBURG

Several years ago there lived on the “Lewisburg” rice plantation of former Governor Duncan Clinch Heyward, one Monday White, a yellow negro and a persistent and imaginative practical joker. The little “Devil’s Fiddles” which boys construct of empty tin cans and rosined string emit unchristian squeaks and groans when played upon with smooth hardwood sticks, and Monday believed that a similar device on a larger scale could be so manipulated as to frighten into hysterics half the negro population along Combahee River. Begging from the store a large empty powder keg, he surreptitiously rigged it up with stout twine which, well rubbed with rosin and scraped with a dry hickory stick for a bow, produced a hoarse and horrible sound which might have passed among the uninitiated for the roar of a lion--or for anything else.

Monday knew that the superstitious negroes feared most the unknown. The negro who would have taken a chance with alligator or bull, or the even more dangerous hind legs of a mule, could be scared stiff by a weird, unfamiliar sound in the woods at night. So Monday decided that the ear-jarring sound emitted by his double-bass “Devil’s Fiddle” should do service for the roar of a lion, as these creatures were unknown on Combahee, and the few negroes who had once seen lions when the circus visited Walterboro, brought back marvelous tales of their ferocity and their terrible voices.

Monday baited his victims skilfully. One Saturday night when the store was crowded with trading negroes, he led the conversation lionwards. He needed tales of terror, and the two or three negroes who had once seen lions were willing to oblige. One of them had even seen them fed. “W’en uh bin Walterburruh, uh look ’puntop one dem annimel fuh call lion, en’ uh shum w’en dem duh g’em ’e bittle fuh eat.”

“Nigguh g’em ’e bittle?

“No man, buckruh feed’um. Nigguh ent fuh feed’um. Da’ t’ing dainjus tummuch! Nigguh duh him bittle. Lion en’ nigguh alltwo come f’um Aff’iky, en’ w’en dem Aff’ikin king en’ t’ing hab lion een dem cage, ’e g’em uh nigguh fuh eat eb’ry day Gawd sen’, en’ ’e crack nigguh’ hambone een ’e jaw sukkuh dem Beefu’t nigguh crack crab claw’ w’en ’e done bile. Him _done_ fuh lub nigguh! W’en dem sukkus man fuh feed’um een Walterburruh, dem fetch half uh bull yellin’ fuh ’e bittle, en’ w’en da’ t’ing look ’puntop de meat, ’e tail t’rash’ ’pun de flo’ sukkuh nigguh duh t’rash rice ’long flail, en’ ’e gyap ’e mout’ same lukkuh Mistuh Jokok op’n ’e trunk mout’ fuh t’row uh flow ’puntop Mass Clinch’ rice! ’E woice roll lukkuh t’unduh roll, en’ w’en ’e holluh, eb’ry Chryce’ nigguh t’row ’e han’ obuh e’ two’ yez en’ run out de tent, en’ gone!”

“Tengk Gawd dem annimel nebbuh come ’puntop Cumbee!” a woman fervently exclaimed.

“Yaas, tittie,” said another, “ef da’ t’ing ebbuh come yuh, me fuh run Sabannuh. Uh nebbuh stop run ’tell uh done pass de Yamassee!”

Others joined in the trembling chorus and Monday, when they had become sufficiently worked up, shrewdly spilled the first spoonful of powder leading to his mine. “Oonuh nigguh, one buckruh binnuh talk ’puntop de flatfawm to W’ite Hall deepo dis mawnin’, en’ uh yeddy’um tell dem torruh buckruh suh one sukkus hab uh acksident to Orangebu’g, en’ one lion git out ’e cage en’ run een de swamp en’ gone, en’ de buckruh try fuh ketch’um but dem ’f’aid fuh gone een de swamp, en’ dem sen’ dem dog attuhr’um, en’ de lion kill t’irteen beagle one time!”

“Oh Jedus!” cried an excited woman, “Uh berry ’f’aid da’ t’ing gwine come Cumbee! Hummuch mile Orangebu’g stan’ f’um yuh?”

“Uh dunno hummuch mile,” Monday replied, “but uh know lion kin mek’um ’tween middlenight en’ dayclean, en’ ef uh ebbuh yeddy ’e woice roll een dish’yuh swamp, meself gwine git een me trus’me’gawd coonoo en’ uh fuh gone down Cumbee ribbuh, en’ uh nebbuh stop paddle ’tell uh git Beefu’t!”

A week passed. Like the waves from a stone thrown into still waters, the lion stories spread among the outlying plantations in all directions. Saturday night found Monday early at the store. Another convenient buckra at White Hall station had told that morning of the lion’s escape from the Edisto and his crossing over the intervening pinelands into the Salkehatchie Swamp and, as most people know, the Salkehatchie River, below the line of the Charleston and Savannah railway, becomes the Combahee. The lion was loose, therefore, in their own proper swamp, and might even now be riding a floating log down the current of their beloved river!

Monday stealthily slipped out. An hour later, when the negroes in and about the store had worked themselves up to a delectable pitch of excitement, an unearthly groaning roar came from the woods nearby. The night was hot, but the negroes almost froze with fear, and the clerk, in whom Monday had confided, raised no objection when the negroes within the store called in their companions from the outside and asked permission to bar the door.

“Oonuh yeddy’um, enty! Wuh uh tell you ’bout da’ t’ing’ woice?” said the negro who had seen lions in Walterboro.

Monday’s “Devil’s Fiddle” groaned again, and as its dying notes trembled on the summer night, a rush was made to close and bolt the windows. The kerosene lamps smoked and flared in the fetid air. The men listened and shuddered as the recurrent roars, now muffled, reached their expectant ears. The women wailed. “O Gawd! uh lef’ me t’ree chillun shet up een me house,” cried one. “Uh ’spec’ da’ t’ing done nyam’um all by dis time!”

“Shet yo’ mout’, ’ooman,” said a masculine comforter. “Hukkuh him kin eat en’ holluh alltwo one time? Yo’ chillun ent fuh eat.”

“Me lef’ my juntlemun een de house,” said another woman, with resignation, “Uh ’spec’ him done eat.”

“Wuh you duh bodduh ’bout loss uh man?” said the mother. “Man easy fuh git tummuch. Me yent duh bodduh ’bout man. Uh kin git anodduh juntlemun ef da’ t’ing nyam my’own, but weh uh fuh git mo’ chillun?”

“Go’way, gal, ef you kin fuh git anodduh juntlemun, same fashi’n Gawd help you fuh git anodduh chillun.”

After a while the roaring ceased and the clerk, being perilously near suffocation, calmed the fears of the negroes and opened the windows. The trembling darkeys cocked their ears and listened apprehensively, but the shrilling of the Cicada among the pines and the bellowing of the bullfrogs in the distant canals were the only sounds that broke the silence of the night so recently full of terrors. After awhile the door also was unbarred and opened, and a bold man borrowed an axe from the storekeeper and adventured far enough to cut some slabs of lightwood from a familiar stump. The hero added to his popularity by splitting these up and distributing them among the members of the gentler sex, whose escorts lighted torches and convoyed them in a body back to the quarters, where the children and husbands whom they left at home were found intact.