Chapter VI: Foreword (5)

Scipio swelled with wrath, but at first “too full for sound or foam,” bent to his task and, cutting savagely at the thickest stalks, under the impetus of anger, soon forged ahead of the others and led the line. Before he drew away, however, he projected this Parthian shot with a torpedo in its tail: “Benus en’ Diana, oonuh alltwo duh bodduh me, w’ymekso oonuh ent study ’bout Paul? Him duh alltwo oonuh sweeth’aa’t en’ t’ing. Diana t’ink suh Paul duh him’own ’cause ’e ge’m da’ catfish ’e ketch las’ Sat’d’y, en’ Benus t’ink suh him duh she’own, ’cause ’e buy gunjuh fuhr’um duh Cross Road’, but Paul nebbuh buy no frock fuh Diana, en’ ’e nebbuh buy none fuh Benus, but him buy’um fuh Minda, en’ ’e duh keep cump’ny ’long Minda, en’ him duh yalluh gal, en’ Paul nebbuh fuh study ’bout no black nigguh’ no mo’! Him duh fool oonuh alltwo!”

The torpedo exploded.

Two dusky faces quickly changed from smirking comedy to girding tragedy. Two stalwart forms stiffened in their tracks and stood astraddle like two Colossi of Rhodes. Two pairs of powerful arms akimboed, and two sets of sinewy fingers clutched the handles of their rice hooks!

“Hukkuh Paul happ’n fuh gi’ you catfish? You mus’be baig fuhr’um, enty?”

“_Baig fuhr’um!_ Me fuh baig man fuh catfish! _I_ iz uh lady, uh wan’ you fuh know, en’ ef _you_ haffuh baig’um fuh _gunjuh_, me yent haffuh baig’um fuh _catfish_!”

“Wuh you got fuh do wid wuh Paul gi’ me? Him duh _yo’_ juntlemun, enty?”

“Ef ’e yent my’own, uh know berry well suh him ent fuh blonx to no black nigguh lukkuh you!”

“_Nigguh!_ Who you call nigguh? _De Debble is uh nigguh!_”

“Him duh nigguh fuh true, but dis ricefiel’ full uh ’e chillun, en’ ’e gran’chillun alltwo, en’ uh ’spec’ you duh one uh ’e gran’!”

A shriek of laughter from Scipio filled Diana’s cup of anger to overflowing, and, with a savage rice-cutting swing, she sideswiped Venus with her saw-edged sickle, and cut her acquaintance below, and behind, the belt. Bustles were not then worn, but the victim was saved from a most inconvenient wound by the folds of her looped-up skirt, which, like a furled sail, hung just abaft the beam, and she received only a scratch. Starting at the scratch, however, Diana was twenty feet away and going strong when Venus, yelling with pain, turned and gave chase. Screams of laughter mingled with shouts of excitement, as Diana tripped and fell on the stubble, and Venus, too close to check her speed, stumbled over her prostrate assailant and came a cropper, the rice hook flying out of her hand as she fell. Diana’s weapon, having been taken from her by one of the men, the two ladies were on equal terms with nature’s weapons, and, both being on all-fours, literally and figuratively, they soon fastened their “ten commandments” in each other’s wool. They fought viciously and silently, and not until, collapsed from exhaustion, they had been separated by the men, did they again become vocal. Venus’ gingham skirt had suffered a cruel rent. As she reached behind her and felt the yawning gap in her sartorial hinterland, and realized the ignominy that had been put upon her by this “most unkindest cut of all,” she shrieked in anger. “Uh gwine tek you Trial Jestuss! You fuh gone Adam’ Run fuh dis t’ing wuh you done do!” and she flung wrathfully out of the field. Out of the babel of voices that arose among the partisans of the two goddesses, the dominant note was abuse of Scipio, who had flung Paul, the apple, or rather the Guinea squash, of discord among them.

“Wuh you haffuh do ’long Paul’ name? Ef him _iz_ buy gunjuh en’ frock en’ t’ing fuh t’ree ’ooman’, uh sho’ ’e mo’ bettuh den fuh nebbuh buy nutt’n’ fuh none!” showing the world-wide feminine appreciation of a free spender. “Wuh you ebbuh buy fuh ’ooman? Eb’ry Sat’d’y night da’ buckruh’ sto’ duh Cross Road’ full up wid ’ooman, en’ _you_ ebbuh buy uh tencent wut’ uh bakin fuh greese dem mout’? No, suh! You lub fuh talk sweetmout’ talk ’long’um, but you dat stingy you nebbuh buy uh candy, eeduhso uh sugar, fuh sweet’n dem mout’. Ent you know suh ’ooman lub uh freehan’ man?”

“Yaas, tittie! You talk trute! ’Ooman redduh hab ’e mout’ full’uh muhlassis den ’e yez full’uh sweetmout’ talk!”

“Him lub’um alltwo,” observed a sapient one. “Him mout’ en’ him yez alltwo fuh full one time!”

* * * * *

On the second Saturday thereafter, having been summoned by Big Jim Green, the negro constable, Venus and Diana, with their respective satellites, appeared before the Trial Justice at Adams Run station, where Diana, duly indicted, was charged in the comprehensive phraseology of the Criminal Code with such a string of offenses against the peace and dignity of the State of South Carolina and the proper person of Venus Chisolm that her ears tingled and her eyes popped with amazement.

“Guilty or not guilty?”

“Uh yent know wuh you call so, Jedge, but uh nebbuh do none uh dem t’ing wuh da’ papuh call dem name. Ef Jedus yeddy me, uh nebbuh do uh Gawd’ t’ing but cut da’ ’ooman, en’ uh nebbuh hab uh chance fuh cut’um _good_, ’cause ’e hab ’e frock tie’up ’roun’ ’e wais’, en’ w’en uh cut at ’e hanch en’ de rice hook ketch ’e frock weh ’e roll’up behine’um, dat sabe de ’ooman’ meat, en’ uh only able fuh ’cratch ’e skin, but uh ’cratch’um ’nuf fuh mek’um holluh same lukkuh hog’ holluh w’en oonuh cut dem yez fuh maa’k’um, en’ alldo’ uh yent puhzac’ly _cut_ de ’ooman, uh _try_ fuh cut’um, but uh cut ’e frock en’ uh only able fuh ’cratch’um, en’ ef uh _yiz_ bin cut’um, duh Scipio mek’ me fuh do’um, ’cause him come duh ricefiel’ wid da’ bluegum mout’ uh him’own full’uh pizen talk fuh bex me nuh Benus, en’ uh always yeddy suh ef uh bluegum nigguh bite you ’e gwine pizen you same lukkuh moccasin, en’ same fashi’n de talk wuh come out da’ nigguh’ jaw pizen alltwo uh we en’ mek we fuh fight, but, Jedge, uh nebbuh cut Benus lukkuh da’ papuh say, ’cause ef uh had’uh cut’um _fuh true, true_! da’ ’ooman would’uh haffuh stan’up ’puntop’uh ’e two foot fuh t’ree week!”

“Received as information,” observed the magistrate, and he called Venus, who came up smiling. “You have heard Diana’s story. What have you to say?”

“Uh yeddy’um, suh. But ’e cut me.”

“Where did she cut you?”

“Suh?”

“Where did she cut you?”

“’E cut me een Mas’ Edwu’d’ ricefiel’, suh.”

“Yes, I know you were all in the ricefield, but where did she cut you?”

“’E cut me een ten acre, suh.”

“Cut you in ten acre!”

“’E cut me een da’ ten acre square wuh stan’ close to de baa’nyaa’d, suh.”

“Well, you have given the location in the ricefield, now, where on your person did Diana cut you with a rice hook?”

“Suh?”

“Your person is your body. Did she cut you on your body?”

“Yaas, suh, ’e cut me.”

“Well, on what part of your body did she cut you?”

“Da’ same place wuh you call ’e name, suh.”

“What place?”

“’E cut me on me _pussun_, suh, en’, Jedge, de t’ing sweet’n’ me so bad, ef uh could’uh ketch da’ ’ooman ’fo’ uh ketch me foot en’ fall obuhr’um, da’ ’ooman would uh _dead_!”

As there was murderous intent in the sudden heat and passion of both Venus and Diana, the court imposed upon the defendant a fine only sufficient to rehabilitate the wardrobe of the prosecuting witness, who sailed out of court thoroughly satisfied with the new frock in prospect and the present enrichment of her vocabulary by the buckra word “pussun.”

THE DOWER HOUSE

The “Dower House,” which Abram Drayton had inherited from his father, old John, now resting under the great live-oaks of the plantation burying ground, was quite a pretentious affair, two stories high, with two chimneys and a leak. The stories were not very high, only six or seven feet in the clear, but it was sometimes convenient to be able to reach up and touch the ceiling, and, after all, it was a two-story house and, like all two-story houses among the negroes, added greatly to the prestige of the owner’s family. In the usual one-story negro cabin, the boarded-over “loft,” reached by ladder, is at once the sleeping room for the children, the granary for corn and peas, and the hay mow for whatever straw or fodder the householder possesses, but the Dower House had a real second story, attained by steps, narrow and teetering ’tis true, which the ascending biped usually “cooned” on all-fours, but they were steps, not rungs, and, however vigorously the negro expresses in hymns and spirituals his willingness, indeed anxiety, to “climb up Jacob’s ladder,” in the present life he prefers the creak of a board under his foot.

Under the law of primogeniture, arbitrarily established by old John for the disposition and control of his landed property, the “Two-Chimbly House” was bequeathed by word of mouth to his eldest son, and similarly settled upon his eldest grandson, and so on, as long as the line lasted, or until the shingles fell off, when dynastic difficulties would inevitably intervene. Perhaps he had heard of primogeniture and dower houses while waiting at the table of his English-bred master in the old times, but however the idea came into his kinky head, once in, it stuck, and he determined that a Dower House he would leave, and a Dower House entailed. “Uh gwine tie de ’tail ’puntop da’ house fuh hol’um _fas’_! Uh tie’um fus’ ’puntop my boy, Ebbrum, en’ den ’e fuh tie ’puntop _him_ boy, my gran’, en’ de ’tail ent fuh tek’off! De ’tail ent fuh tie ’puntop no ’ooman. ’Ooman ent fuh hab no house. Man fuh hab’um en’ him fuh hol’um, so him kin fetch de ’ooman to ’e han’!”

So, the “’tail” still tied to Abram, in due time he came into the Dower House, and here, in the woods on the road from Adams Run Station to Caw Caw Swamp, he lived and reared a family.

At the tail of the summer his wife partook “not wisely but too well” of watermelon and buttermilk, and through the unfortunate combination was forthwith translated from the bosom of Abram to that of Abraham. The widowed man resigned himself to the will of the Lord, and accepted his bereavement not the less philosophically that his crop was already made and partly gathered. “Ef de Lawd haffuh tek’um, uh glad ’E yent tek’um ’tell de crap done mek,” he reflected gratefully and reverently. In a week he had picked and sold the last of his cotton, and out of the proceeds outfitted his old mare with a new saddle, bridle and cloth, notwithstanding which, the ungrateful creature, with true feminine perversity, “gone en’ leddown en’ _dead_, jis’ ’cause uh yent feed’um fuh two’t’ree day. Uh nebbuh know da’ mare gwine hongry to dat! ’E hongry ’tell ’e dead, en’ now uh haffuh tek me two foot en’ walk!”

Abram, being now more than a “settled” man, jogged along in single harness uneventfully for several months. “Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing, nor so old as to dote on her for anything,” he now, in the autumn of his days, became somewhat critical in the matter of feminine needlework. His grown daughter esteemed herself a competent, almost a skilful, patcher of broken, frayed or frazzled raiment. She knew very well how to put crocus or burlap patches on the knees of the jeans or blue denim trousers affected by her sire, but though she could attach them in such fashion that they would hold, the edges always overlapped like the strakes of a clinker-built whale boat. But whatever these patches lacked in symmetrical attachment, they served well enough, for, as Abram advanced in years, he did not kneel so often as he sat. The seats of his trousers, however, yawned in pathetic neglect for, however acceptably his daughter repaired his broken knees, the half-soling of the seats was a much more serious matter, which she lacked the high spirit to undertake, and he carried about with him, whithersoever he went, gaping wounds in his sartorial equipment where, according to Hudibras, “a kick in that part more hurts honor than deep wounds before.” Not that anyone would ever have kicked him, for he was of a quiet and inoffensive disposition.

Most observers of humanity have noted with interest the close resemblance of certain types of the “wild (and tame) animals one has known.” The horse, the ass, the bulldog, the pug, sheep and goat, fox, raccoon and rat, the ’possum, grinning with pious hypocrisy, and the Berkshire pig with slanting eyes and champing jowls, are all marked likenesses frequently reproduced in human faces, representing the stupid, the sly, the selfish, the grasping, the predaceous, the stubborn, the sensual, the combative, the treacherous--all of them to be avoided, or warily appraised, for the good of one’s soul--and of one’s pocket. Unhappily, those who have been blessed with so rich an experience as to have suffered both fools and knaves, seldom learn to read the buoys with which nature has wisely marked the dangerous reefs in her physiognomonic charts, until the keels of their craft grind upon the rocks! But Abram’s face was that of the mild-eyed, introspective ox. There was no militant personality in the neighborhood to “walk a mile out of his way to kick a sheep,” and, even had there been, to have kicked Abram would have been anatomically impossible, for the unsportsmanlike may shoot a sitting bird, but he cannot kick (offensively) a sitting man, and Abram was usually sitting! So, having held inviolate against the insulting toe the seats of his trousers, which he had lost only through the slow attrition of honest sloth, he retained his self-respect, though he was a peripatetic scandal whenever he went abroad upon his “peaceful occasions.” With praiseworthy propriety, he now came in late to church or prayer-meeting, and, a vigorous and devout “class leader,” coached his class from the bench, dreading the publicity of the sidelines. Then he sat discreetly at the close of the services until “de ’ooman en’ t’ing” had gained an offing and sailed away, when, as he showed a fairly presentable front, he would follow after them and engage in long distance conversation.

“Come on, Bredduh Drayton. Mekso you walk so slow?”

“Uh haffuh walk slow, tittie, ’cause dese debble’ub’uh britchiz bus’, en’ dem ent wut. Da’ gal uh my’own able fuh pit uh berry deestunt patch ’puntop de knee, but seem lukkuh him ent able fuh do nutt’n’ ’long de seat. Da’ w’ymekso dish’yuh britchiz do berry well fuh man fuh seddown een’um, but dem cyan’ specify fuh walk.”

“Wuh mekso you ent tek anodduh lady fuh wife? You got big house en’ ’nuf groun’ fuh mek crap, mekso you ent fuh hab ’ooman?”

“Uh hab house en’ groun,’ fuh true. Uh got uh two-chimbly house, but ’ooman shishuh onsaa’t’n t’ing, uh kinduh ’f’aid fuh tek anodduh chance. Ebbuh sence my lady nyam dem watuhmilyun en’ buttuhmilk en’ him Jedus tek’um, uh yent hab nutt’n’ fuh bodduh me. Uh kin seddown een de sunhot eenjurin’ de whole day en’ nebbuh yeddy no ’ooman’ woice duh call fuh tell me fuh git’up. Uh kin seddown tell uh fuh gone ’sleep.”

“Yaas, my Bredduh, you binnuh seddown, fuh true!” a church sister laughingly retorted. “Da’ de reas’n w’ymekso you shame’ fuh stan’up fuh lead yo’ class! Long seddown mek short stan’up, you know.”

“Go ’way, gal! ’Nuf man wuh hab wife een dem house, dem britchiz ent able fuh specify. Dem wife lazy tummuch fuh patch’um.” And so Abram, always backward in company, put on the best front he could for a while and, unlike Edward Bellamy, never looked behind him. At last the raillery told on him, however, and he made up his mind to take another plunge into the roiling waters of married life. Not the “uncertain sea of matrimony” beloved of poets, but just the black and sluggish current of the branch or run, in which, among snags and cypress knees, swam the slimy catfish and the venomous moccasin. The hazard was not great, for, however forbidding they looked, the waters were shallow, and the low-country negro, stepping into matrimony, keeps at least one big toe on dry ground, and, if one steps in the wrong place, one can always step out again, and try elsewhere. So, with more than a toe-hold of mental reservation, Abram at last, like the storied frog, “would a wooing go”--and he went. “Uh gwine Cross Road’. Uh gwine Sat’d’y night w’en ’nuf ’ooman dey dey, en’ uh gwine saa’ch dem eb’ry Gawd’ one ’tell uh git one wuh kin specify. Uh yent wan’ no settle’ ’ooman, ’cause dem done hab ’nuf man fuh marri’d, en’ dem know tummuch. Dem too schemy! Seem lukkuh de mo’ husbun’ en’ t’ing dem fuh hab, de mo’ schemy dem git! Ef uh tek uh nyung gal fuh wife, wuh ent know nutt’n’, uh kin bruk’um fuh suit, same lukkuh oxin bruk fuh pull plow. Uh kin fetch’um onduhneet’ me han’!”

With these masterful masculine reflections, Abram went his ways to the Cross Roads, and having, like Poe’s Raven, acquired the sitting habit, down he sat near the store on a convenient log which offered at once rest for his weary bones and camouflage for his sartorial infirmities. For an hour or more he watched with an appraising eye the women coming and going, acknowledging the salutations of those who passed near him. At last, his approving regard rested upon what the ante-bellum advertisements would have called a “likely girl” who curtseyed as she came opposite him. “Come’yuh, gal,” he called. “Wuh you name?”

“Sukey, suh.”

“You duh An’ Minda’ gal, enty?”

“Yaas, suh, him duh my Grumma en’ me duh him gran’.”

“You onduhstan’ ’bout cook en’ wash, enty?”

“Yaas, suh, uh well acquaintun wid alltwo.”

“Berry well. You know how fuh patch man’ britchiz en’ t’ing?”

“No, suh, uh know how fuh patch ’ooman’ frock, but uh yent know nutt’n’ ’bout no britchiz ’cause none ent fuh dey een we house.”

“You hab Pa, enty?”

“No, suh, uh yent hab no Pa. Uh yeddy ’bout’um but uh nebbuh shum. Grumma tell me suh one time uh bin hab Pa, but Ma run’um off en’ ’e ’f’aid fuh come back, en’ attuhw’ile w’en uh biggin fuh grow big, Ma sen’ me fuh lib ’long Grumma, ’cause ’e say suh uh tek attuh Pa ’tell eb’ry time ’e look ’puntop me ’e bex ’tell him haffuh lick me, en’ him say suh ’e yent hab time fuh fuhrebbuh duh lick me.”

“You tek attuh yo’ Pa, enty?”

“Yaas, suh, uh nebbuh shum, but eb’rybody say suh uh look luk’um en’ tek attuhr’um alltwo.”

“You ent tek attuh yo’ Ma, iz you?”

“No, suh, uh yent tek attuh _him_.”

“Berry well, uh gwine hab you fuh wife. You know who uh yiz, enty? Me duh Ebbrum Drayton, en’ uh lib todduh side Adam’ Run deepo, en’ uh hab uh two-chimbly house en’ ’e got two story, en’ uh bin hab uh mare, but him gone en’ dead. En’ w’en you gone home, tell yo’ Grumma uh gwine fuh shum Sunday night fuh tell’um uh gwine hab you fuh wife.”

“Yaas, suh. Well, good ebenin’, suh,” and, with another curtsy, she was gone.

But Abram’s plans they gang’d agley, for old John, in putting the word-of-mouth entail on the Dower House, had tied the “’tail” so loosely that its terms and conditions were constantly subject to family discussion and interpretation, and Abram’s son now objected to his father’s marriage, believing that it would break the entail and deprive him of the right of succession to “de Two-Chimbly House.” “W’en Grumpa him tie de ’tail ’puntop de house, ’e say ’sponsubble suh ’e yent fuh tek off, en’ suh ’e yent fuh tie ’puntop no ’ooman. Pa ent know uh Gawd’ t’ing ’bout da’ gal him duh talk ’bout hab fuh wife. ’E nebbuh see ’e Ma, ’e nebbuh shum fight. Da’ gal’ Ma iz de debble! W’en da’ ’ooman fight da’ gal’ Pa, ’e run’um ’long hoe en’ hatchitch alltwo! Da’ nigguh run ’tell ’e cross Jacksinburruh. ’E nebbuh stop’ ’tell ’e gone spang Ti Ti! W’en ’e bog up to ’e crotch ’mong dem waa’ment’ en’ t’ing ’e git sattify een ’e mine’. No, suh! Pa ent study nutt’n’ ’cep’ hab wife fuh sweep ’e house en’ patch ’e britchiz. Bumbye, w’en da’ gal’ maamy’ sperrit git een’um en’ ’e bex fuh true! Ki! Da’ gal gwine tek de ’tail off Grumpa’ house en’ none uh we gwine shum ’gen! W’en Pa duh bog up to ’e crotch een Ti Ti, wuh saa’bis den fuh hab patch ’puntop ’e britchiz? No, suh!”

His daughter sought to comfort Abram, who, in the short space of 36 hours, had loved and wooed, and won and lost. “Nemmine’, Pa, you got yo’ Two-Chimbly House.”

“Yaas, but uh cyan’ seddown befo’ alltwo de chimbly one time.”

AT THE CROSS ROADS STORE

For many years after freedom came to the negroes of the low-country, they were cruelly and ignobly cheated by the tradespeople who set up little Cross Roads stores in every community. Many of these were German corner-shopkeepers from the cities. Others were wandering Jews, whose predatory instincts took them wherever there were pickings to be had. Yet others, to their shame, were certain low-class South Carolinians that did not scruple to take advantage of the ignorant freedmen who, a wasteful and improvident people, whose needs had all been supplied under slavery, squandered the money they were unaccustomed to handling and unable to compute.

Imitative as monkeys, however, it is to the credit of their intelligence, if not of their morality, that they soon learned to retaliate, and many a brick and rusty plowshare was weighed in their bags of seed cotton and paid for by the tricky shopkeeper who, knowing that in many cases the cotton was stolen from the planter for whom the negro worked, and brought stealthily by night to the sophisticated merchant, did not scan his purchase too closely, and many an ancient nest egg, too, was sold to the shopkeeper as a new-laid “yaa’d aig” and shipped away to city customers.

The marks upon the brass beams of the counter-scales with which the negroes’ purchases were weighed, were so obscured and tarnished that they could not be deciphered, even by customers who could read, but the wily shopman knew exactly where to put his weight to give a twelve-ounce pound, which is what the negro usually got. Always suspecting “de buckruh” of cheating him, and being unable to do even the smallest addition, the negro soon learned to protect himself, if not from short weights, at least from short change, and it was interesting to observe a shopper making her week’s purchases on Saturday nights at one of these neighborhood stores. The women, commonly more alert, and always more suspicious, than the men, were usually charged with the buying. If a customer had a dollar to spend, she would first price the various commodities under consideration.

“Hummuch you ax fuh sugar?”

“Ten cents a pound.”

“Ten cent’ uh poun’?”

“Yes.”

“Hummuch fuh fibe cent’?”

“Half a pound.”

“Gimme fibe cent’ wut.”

The short-weight sugar wrapped up and handed out, the customer would draw it to her bosom and, leaning on the counter, put her protecting arms around it. The dollar, ceremonially unwrapped from a corner of her apron, would be handed over, and ninety-five cents in change returned, which she would count over carefully before proceeding with her next purchase.

“You got any bakin’?”

“Yes.”

“Wuh kind’uh bakin’?”

“Side meat and shoulder meat.”

“Hummuch fuh him?”

“Ten cents for the shoulders and twelve and a half cents for the sides.”

“Gimme ten cent’ wut uh side meat.”

When that was delivered, ten cents would be slowly taken from the little pile and paid over.

“Wuh kinduh clawt’ you got?”

“Homespun, gingham, calico. What kind you want?”

“Lemme shum.”

Bolts of each would be placed before her.

“Hummuch da’ speckly kin’?” (pointing to the gingham).

“Ten cents a yard.”

“Gimme ten cent’ wut.”

A thirty-three-inch yard would be torn off.

“You got any salt?”

“Yes.”

“Hummuch fuh him?”

“Five cents a quart.”

“Gimme t’ree cent’ wut.”

“You got any flour?”

“Yes.”

“Hummuch you ax fuh him?”

“Five cents a pound.”

“Gimme ten cent’ wut.”

The flour and the salt would come within the encircling arms, fifteen cents be counted out, and all transactions suspended until the two cents change was returned to her.

“Wuh kinduh tubackuh you got?”

Two or three samples of plug tobacco, the only sort in common use, would be offered for inspection, and perhaps the advice of a colored sister asked before deciding upon a selection.

By the time the dollar was expended, the clerk had walked a hundred yards or so, had used up lots of brown paper and paper twine and had had his patience sorely tried, but he charged liberally for his time and trouble, and the poor darkey got far less than she paid for.

In the funny columns of Northern periodicals, and in the immemorial minstrel jokes and songs, the negro not only steals chickens, but eats them. The low-country negroes, however, while all of them keep chickens, seldom, if ever, eat them, the coarsest fat bacon being far more to the negro’s taste than the juiciest broiler. Then, too, eggs and chickens are currency in most negro communities and can always be converted into cash at the country store or at the back door of the nearest white family.

The country negroes on the coast still speak of “fo’punce” chickens and “seb’npunce” chickens, meaning the sizes that were sold for four pence and seven pence respectively before the Revolution, when British coinage was the currency of the country.

“Gal, ketch da’ seb’npunce chickin en’ dem t’ree fo’punce chickin’ en tek dese’yuh six aig’, en’ tek’um to de Cross Road’, en’ buy de six aig’ wut’uh tubackuh en’ de seb’npunce chickin wut’uh flour, en’ one de fo’punce chickin’ wut’uh sugar, en’ norruh one uh de fo’punce chickin’ wut’uh side meat, en’ de todduh fo’punce chickin wut’uh muhlassis, en’ tek dish’yuh bucket fuh fetch’um een, en’ don’ ’low de buckruh fuh cheat you, en’ tie de aig’ een yo’ hengkitchuh, en’ tie all fo’ de fowl’ foot so dem cyan’ git’way, en’ hol’um een yo’ ap’un, en’ don’ stay duh sto’ too long, en’ w’en you tek de chickin’ out de ap’un, hol’um by ’e two foot fuh mek ’e head heng down, so ’e wing’ kin ’pread out fuh mek’um look big so de buckruh t’ink suh de fo’punce chickin’ duh seb’npunce chickin’, en’ w’en de buckruh po’ out de muhlassis, mek’um fuh po’rum ’tell de muhlassis stop run out de medjuh, ’cause ef you ent watch’um ’e sho’ fuh lef’ some een de quawt cup, en’ w’en you come back duh night’time, walk middle’uh de paat’, ’cause ’e rain’ teday en’ toadfrog does jump ’bout w’en de ground en’ t’ing wet, en’ moccasin does folluhr’um fuh ketch’um, en’ uh yent wan’ you fuh git ’structed by no snake duh paat’.”

The little girl leaned on the counter, slowly unrolled an old bandanna handkerchief, and spread the six eggs before her, carefully keeping the unhappy chickens concealed in her apron.

“Ebenin’, suh. Ma tell me fuh git uh plug’uh tubackuh wid dese aig’.”

“You can get only half a plug for half a dozen eggs. Eggs are ten cents a dozen!”

“Yaas’suh, but Ma tell me fuh git’uh whole plug,” said the shrewd little trader. “Ma tell me fuh ax you ef you ent g’em uh whole plug uh tubackuh fuh de six aig’, please, suh, fuh gimme uh gunjuh--tengky, suh,” as the obliging clerk handed her a big scalloped molasses cake and short-cut the plug of tobacco enough to pay for it.

The tobacco trade consummated, the girl fumbled furtively in her apron, and, feeling about deftly, located and drew forth the “seb’npunce” chicken. That adolescent fowl, a rooster whose voice was changing, alternately peeped and squawked, as the seller with outstretched arm dangled him by the legs high over the counter, his outspread wings making him look a full size larger, but the shopkeeper was country-bred, and felt the rooster’s breastbone. “Fifteen cents,” he said.

“Ma tell me fuh git twenty-fibe cent’ wut uh flour ’long dish’yuh one,” she fibbed.

“I’ll give you twenty cents’ worth,” he countered, and, as she nodded in acquiescence, jubilant at the thought of having outwitted him, he plunged his scoop into a barrel and weighed out twelve cents’ worth of flour. When this had been wrapped and delivered, the clerk, knowing by her expectant look that further commercial transactions were imminent, stood at attention, while the girl abstracted the first of the three “fo’punce” chickens from her apron and held the noisy fledgling, naked and unashamed, at arm’s length above the counter. “Ma tell me fuh git dis seb’npunce chickin wut uh side meat,” she ventured, craftily watching the face of the Caucasian whom she sought to overreach.

“Why, that’s a fo’punce chicken. He ain’t half the size of the other one.”

“Yaas’suh, alltwo come out de same nes’ en’ alltwo hatch out de same time. Da’ todduh one duh dish’yuh one bubbuh, en’ dish’yuh one duh da’ todduh one tittie. Him look big mo’nuh dish’yuh one ’cause him duh roostuh en’ him hab comb, en’ dish’yuh one duh pullet en’ him ent hab no comb, en’ de roostuh greedy mo’nuh de pullet, en’ him nyam de mor’is’ bittle, en’ dat mek ’e stan’ so,” she prevaricated unblushingly. These earnest asseverations had no effect on the purchaser, however, and, appraising the gallinaceous juveniles at ten cents each, he stood pat, and one by one they were withdrawn from the apron and exchanged for bacon, sugar and molasses. Upon the pouring of the latter commodity, however, Aryan and African again locked horns. The weather was warm, and as even the thick “blackstrap” molasses flowed freely, the careless shopman very nearly gave his customer the full quart for which she had paid--an inadvertence which, it should be said in justice to his commercial acumen, he very seldom committed. Realizing too late that nearly all the molasses had run into the tin bucket out of the quart measure (false-bottomed as it was) he gave it a quick upward flirt to save what he could, and started back to the barrel, but was checked by the girl’s scream of protest. “Ma tell’ me fuh tell you ’sponsubble fuh mek you fuh po’rum out ’tell eb’ry drop done dreen een de bucket,” she cried excitedly, and, in shame-faced compliance, he let her hold the measure till the uttermost drop had been “dreened” out. With a sideswipe of a very questionable finger, she garnered the dulcet drops that clung to the curved lip of the cup and, sucking the sweetened digit greedily, she grinned with satisfaction. And now, with the packages carefully tied up in the bandanna in one hand, and the covered tin bucket in the other, she dropped a curtsy, for she was a polite little darkey, and went her ways homeward, sweetened in soul and saliva.

The night was dark, and the path traversed a small bay, where the sweetgums spread their limbs above the track, and their heavy foliage hid the stars and deepened the shadows along the way. Along the edge of the bay, in the sodden soil, grew lush water-grasses, and they were very sweet to a vagabond ox, as he cropped them, undisturbed by flies, in the cool night air. But the peaceful ox, playing truant, poor wretch, from his negro master, was full of tragedy, for the ox was white, and no solitary negro in the low-country, where the forests are full of little negro graveyards, can bear the sight of anything white in the woods at night. The fear of ghosts is always with them, and a white cow, grazing in or near a graveyard, will often stampede a road full of worshipers returning from a prayer-meeting.

As she reached the shadowy places along the way, the child heard a rustling sound in the bushes that suggested snakes. She instinctively jumped to the other side of the path, at the same time looking over her shoulder in the direction of the sound. One glance was enough! The pallid ox loomed gigantic in her affrighted eyes, and, with a scream of terror, she fled homeward and was soon, wide-eyed and trembling, before her mother. Faithful to her trust, she had held on to bundle and tin bucket, but the molasses was spattered liberally over her bare legs and had soaked her homespun skirt and apron.

“_Wuh ’smattuh, gal?_ You done t’row’way half de muhlassis! Wuh de debble mek you duh trimble?”

“Ma, w’en uh binnuh walk t’ru de branch, een da’ daa’k t’icket onduhneet’ dem gum tree, uh yeddy sump’nurruh duh shake de bush, en’ uh t’ink ’e duh snake, en’ uh jump en’ look ’roun’, en’ uh see uh sperrit, one big w’ite sump’n’ high mo’nuh dis house, en’ de t’ing groan’ at me, en’ uh dat ’f’aid’um, uh run’way, en’ ’e nebbuh ketch me, en’ uh mek de buckruh gimme twenty cent’ wut uh flour fuh de seb’npunce chickin, en’ ’e gimme uh gunjuh!”

“Tell yo’ bubbuh fuh git da’ hom’ny spoon en’ ’crape da’ muhlassis off yo’ two knee, en’ pit’um een da’ pan, en’ tek off yo’ ap’un, en’ you en’ yo’ bubbuh alltwo kin chaw’um, so de muhlassis ent fuh t’rowway.”

MINGO, THE DRILL MASTER

At the close of the war, thousands of disbanded negro troops, how many, only the Lord knows and the pension roll shows, swarmed over the Coast Counties comprising the South Carolina Black Belt. Swagger in their new-minted freedom, and resplendent in the light blue trousers and dark blue coats of the Federal uniform, with ridiculous little forage caps perched aslant upon the sides of their kinky heads, like chickens roosting on leaning poles, girdled with great brass-buckled U. S. Belts, and shouldering army muskets, full of insolence and of ribaldry, they took the highways and the by-ways for their own. Their former masters, however kindly they had been to them before and since freedom, were frequently spoken of behind their backs as “de rebel,” and the days of slavery were referred to as “rebel time” (times). Some of these soldiers had served for years, perhaps, others for months or weeks, few of them had smelt powder, all of them had smelt and fattened upon the bad--wickedly bad--bacon with which the loyal sutlers had supplied the invading army. (And, by the way, thousands of tierces of that same sutler’s bacon of the years ’64 and ’65 were still at large for full five years thereafter, supplied by the Charleston and Savannah factors to the low-country planters for their plantation commissaries.)

In addition to the disbanded troops, thousands of other negroes, who had never seen service, wore cheaply bought Federal uniforms and long, light blue overcoats, and sported caps and belts and condemned muskets, so that the whole countryside was black and blue, and they were constantly drilling, while the women, peahens that they were, worked for them and admired the strutting of their lordly peacocks. Often at night, from the quarters of a distant plantation, instead of the peaceful “tap, tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap,” of the sticks which the negroes beat on the floor to mark time for their dancing and “shouting,” there would come the rattle of a snaredrum, and one knew that an awkward squad was being put through awkward evolutions in the compound or “nigguhhouse yaa’d” for the edification of the quarters.

It was a psychological study to watch one of these squads or companies drilling or parading on the public highway, when a white man of a former slave-holding family approached. Neither stern disciplinary eye, nor sharp command, could keep the lines straight until after “de buckruh” had passed. There were sure to be some members of the squad whose hereditary respect--stronger far than the fear of the drill master--would impel them to scrape a foot or pull wool, till the alignment was as wabbly as a swimming moccasin.

One August day in the early ’70s, Prince Manigo, captain of the Adams Run Company, ordered his command out for drill, inspection and maneuvers. Sixty-five men reported; these were of all ages from 17 to 70. Some of them belonged around the village, but most of them came from about Toogoodoo, “down on de Salt,” as the inland negroes designate the sea coast and the contiguous lands lying along the salt rivers and creeks.

The place of assembly indicated by Captain Manigo was about a mile south of the village on the way to Toogoodoo. Once a member of Col Thomas Wentworth Higginson’s negro regiment, the “First South Carolina Volunteers,” organized at Beaufort in 1862, he had known picket duty about Port Royal Ferry during the war, and wished to familiarize his dusky outfit with service in the field. The road ran along the edge of a deep swamp, or bay. The growth on the rich lowlands was heavy, and beautiful magnolias, close-limbed and tall, as is their habit of growth in thick places, rose to a height of sometimes a hundred feet, the sunlight flashing from the curved backs of their dark and glossy leaves. Under these great trees, sweet bay, red bay, beech and maple grew in a tangle, and below these, tall canes and great sword ferns, with riotous vines of bamboo and wild grape, thickened into an almost impenetrable chaparral. In these woods, dimmed to a twilight darkness, Captain Manigo established his picket posts. Fifteen or twenty men were selected for this dangerous duty, for, at this season, the swamp was full of rattlesnakes and some of those picked for outpost duty objected. “Man, I cyan’ go een da’ t’icket. Snake dey dey tummuch.”

“Snake cyan’ see fuh bite now,” said another. “Ent you know suh rattlesnake’ hab skin ’puntop ’e yeye een Augus’ munt’? ’E bline’. ’E cyan’ see fuh bite.”

“Uh dunkyuh ef ’e yiz bline’, ef uh ’tep ’puntop’um ’e gwine bite me.”

“Go ’way, man, snake ent gwine bite you w’en you hab muskick een you han’ wid dat shaa’p bay’net en t’ing ’puntop’um.”

So all objections were overruled, and the posts established at intervals of a few hundred yards, the password “raccoon” was given to the corporals, and the captain and his inspectors, dismissing the remaining members of the company for a rest period, prepared to test the line of outposts. Making a wide detour they sneaked through the woods almost noiselessly. The dead leaves, fallen during the preceding winter, had softened long ago and were rapidly settling into the thick mold that covered the damp earth. Sneaking up on the farthest sentinel from the rear, Prince was almost upon him before the startled negro challenged “Halt! Weh oonuh gwine? Gimme de passwu’d!”

“Raccoon,” Prince responded.

“Oonuh cyan’ go t’ru ’puntop dat wu’d.”

Prince expostulated. “Raccoon” was the password he had given the corporals to pass on to their men, and having been selected as a word of singular appeal to the negroes, should have been one of the easiest to remember, so he repeated petulantly “_Raccoon, raccoon, raccoon_.”

“_’E yent wut_,” insisted the sentinel, as the long bayonet projected threateningly through the gum bushes. “Dat passwu’d cyan’ specify. Da’ longmout’ nigguh f’um Slann’ Ilun’, name Mingo, him dull de cawprul en’ him done tell me de wu’d two time, en’ ’scusin’ oonuh hab dat wu’d, oonuh yent fuh pass.”

As the corporal was several hundred yards away, Prince retired grumbling, and attempted the line at another point. He approached a wary old picket, a noted ’coon hunter, whose experienced ear detected even the soft footfalls of the inspectors, and he hailed them at a distance of 50 yards, in most unmilitary language. “Haw, buck! Oonuh try fuh sneak ’puntop me, enty? Uh binnuh hunt rokkoon en’ dem todduh waa’ment en’ t’ing ’fo’ you bawn! Come out, bubbuh! Uh yeddy you’ foot en’ uh see bush duh shake alltwo. Come out de t’icket. Exwance en’ gimme de passwu’d!”

But they couldn’t give it; not at least intelligibly to the ear of old Cæsar. Prince spoke with only a slight taint of Gullah, and when he had given “raccoon” to his Toogoodoo corporals, who understood him only after several repetitions, he didn’t realize that they would pass it on as “rokkoon” and that as “rokkoon” the “open sesame” of the countersign must be given. Again, therefore, with his own password correctly pronounced, the Captain had reached an impasse, and as Cæsar truculently stuck out both his mouth and his bayonet, the Corporal of the guard was demanded.

“Cawprul uh de gyaa’d! Pos’ number t’ree!” he bellowed. “Mek’ace en’ come’yuh! T’ree mans dey yuh duh try fuh git t’ru bedout no passwu’d. Ef dem got’um dem cyan’ call ’e name. Uh dunkyuh ef one is de cap’n, oonuh done tell me ’sponsubble suh ’e yent fuh pass bedout ’e got de wu’d.”

The thick-lipped corporal came.

“’Smattuh, Unk’ Cæsar? Yuh fuh call me?”

“Yaas, uh fuh call you fuh true. Mek dese’yuh man fuh gi’ we de sign.”

“Raccoon!” bellowed Prince.

“You shum, enty! Enty uh tell you ’e yent hab’um!”

“Yaas, man, da’ duh him! ’Rokkoon’ duh de passwu’d wuh Buh Prince gi’ we, but him ent call ’e name lukkuh we call’um, ’cause him bin Beefu’t rebel time ’long dem Nyankee en’ t’ing, en’ duh so dem call’um.”

“Uh dunkyuh how dem eegnunt Nyankee call rokkoon’ name, demself cyan’ pass dis t’icket ’scusin’ dem call’um lukkuh we call’um ’puntop Toogoodoo. En’ ’cause dis nigguh bin Beefu’t, him fuh ’spute ’long me en’ tell me how fuh call rokkoon’ name w’en uh binnuh ketch rokkoon befo’ ’e daddy hab ’e maamy! Ef ’e cyan’ call rokkoon’ name, uh keep’um yuh ’tell t’unduh roll!”

“_Rokkoon!_” conceded the chapfallen captain, and he passed, somewhat chagrined at the outcome of his picketing experiment.

The outposts were recalled, the other negroes aroused from among the roadside bushes where they had been resting, and the full company assembled for drill. The outfit was heavily officered, and the captain allowed them to take turns at putting the men through their paces. At last they were turned over to Mingo Brown, a pompous corporal, so puffed up with “a little brief authority” that most of the negroes grinned in his face, and some openly guffawed, “eh, eh, Buh Mingo swonguh fuh sowl!” The men, a ragged line, were ranged on one side of the road, and, facing them on the other, Mingo drew a great cavalry sabre and began to cut such anthropoidal antics before high heaven, that three gentlemen, returning from a successful hunt, reined in their horses a few yards away and paused to see the fun.

“’Tenshun! ’Tan’up ’traight, oonuh man! Oonuh stan’ crookety sukkuh wurrum fench w’en dem staa’t fuh t’row off ’e riduh fuh tayre’um down fuh moobe cowpen!

“Shoulduh, _aam!_ Pit oonuh muskick ’puntop oonuh shoulduh en’ hol’um ’traight. You mus’be t’ink dem duh hoe, enty? Fo’ man fuh stan’ side en’ side fuh mek one t’ickness. Faw-wud, _maa’ch! ’Top!_ Weh de debble oonuh gwine? Uh done tu’n oonuh head fuh face Toogoodoo Bridge, en’, please Gawd, oonuh w’eel sukkuh mule hab cucklebuhr een ’e yez, ’en fuh gone Adam’ Run billage!” Sure enough, as the execution of the command would have taken them over hunters and pack, they had reversed the order and started in the opposite direction.

“Fuh true, bubbuh, enty you see Mas’ Rafe en’ Mas’ Tom en’ dem duh paat’? Nigguh fuh maa’ch obuh buckruh, enty?”

“Buckruh, de debble! Enty de Freedmun Bruro mek we fuh free? Uh free tell uh fool! Prizzunt, _aam!_”

Some were shouldered, others ordered, a few “presented” with the butt of the piece against the waist and the bayonet sticking out at right angles to the body. “’Tenshun! Da’ man f’um Slann’ Ilun’ wuh duh ’tan’up close da’ ’tump fuh hol’ ’e gun een alltwo ’e han’. Him mus’be t’ink suh gun duh oshtuh rake! Groun’, _aam!_” And the whole perspiring line squatted and laid their pieces on the ground, rising just as the hunters gathered up their reins and rode along the line, while the hounds, with lofty tails, trotted after them, sniffing scornfully at the warriors’ legs as they passed.

“Huddy, Mas’ Rafe. How ole Missis en’ dem?”

“Mas’ Tom, you look nyung mo’nuh Mas’ Rafe.”

“Yaas, suh. Phyllis him well, suh, tengk Gawd.”

“Mas’ Dick, you sho’ hab uh hebby buck,” as the great velveted horns of a fine buck tied behind the hunter’s saddle brushed against him. And all down the line, their hands being free, men touched their little monkey caps or tugged at their kinky forelocks and scraped their feet, in token of the kindly respect in which, spite of freedom and franchise, muskets and uniforms, and the poisonous propaganda of the Freedman’s Bureau, they yet held those known throughout the countryside as having been kindly masters to their slaves, and just and liberal employers of the freedmen.

“Mas’ Rafe, please suh, gimme some tubackuh,” and the outstretched hand received a generous share of the contents of the donor’s pouch.

“Da’ duh my maussuh,” said the recipient proudly, filling his pipe as the hunters rode away.

“Cump’ny fawm two t’ickness’ een de rank,” shouted Mingo savagely. “_Don’ look at de buckruh, look at yo’ officer!_” and, turning to the smoker, he added: “Me yent hab no maussuh. _Uh free ez uh buzzut!_”

“Yaas, bubbuh. Buzzut free en’ buzzut black, but buzzut ent free ’nuf fuh light ’puntop nutt’n’ ’cep’n’ ’e dead, en’ nigguh ent free ’nuf fuh mek buckruh fuh bex!”

“OLD HARRISON”

A few years after the war old John Harrison came into the coast country from somewhere beyond Caw Caw Swamp. He boasted a strain of Indian blood, and he showed it in his pigeon-toed walk and the red, coppery tint that stained his bronzed face. Six feet tall and powerfully built, he carried his fifty-odd years lightly, although his high, heavy shoulders were somewhat hunched from the heavy burdens to which they were accustomed for, a noted “pot hunter,” he thought nothing of “packing” a hundred and fifty-pound buck five or ten miles through the forest. During the close season for game he was not averse to working, and had quite a local reputation as a shingle-maker and rail-splitter. His speech was the ordinary “cracker” dialect of the low-country with a suggestion of the Gullah, but he clipped his words, and when excited, his sentences ran into a quick crescendo, almost unintelligible and defying reproduction in print.

When he came to Pon Pon he was allowed to clear a small field in a distant part of the plantation, a mile away from the “big house,” now only a beautiful ruin, with ivy, woodbine, and Lamarque roses clambering 50 feet in the air over the 200-year-old chimneys of English brick. On his “new ground,” old Harrison built a large and trim-looking log cabin, and here he took up residence with his motherless children, two small girls and a straight and strapping son of 18, who helped his father with his work, but not in the chase, for Harrison hunted alone, sometimes, with a single well-trained hound, disappearing for two or three days at a time, to return laden with venison or wild turkeys which were sold at the railway station. His dog, like those of most of the “pot hunters” who follow the chase on foot, was trained to silence, and never gave tongue. A small bell was attached to his collar and he was seldom out of sight of his master, who could tell by the movement of his ears and tail when the animal had found a trail, and when the lifting of the ears and the more rapid wagging of the tail indicated the near approach to the myrtle thicket where the deer lay in his bed, both barrels of the muzzle-loader were cocked and Harrison usually got a shot as the deer “jumped.”

Ben Summers, a large black negro in late middle-age, was a “locus” preacher in the neighborhood and, a jackleg carpenter, worked as well as preached. Throughout his life he had been partial to wives, having been more or less affiliated with six or seven, whom he put away and took back again, with no more ceremony than his change of mind. Unruly and insubordinate as a slave, he became “swonguh” with freedom, and was more or less insolent, save to his former master’s family. He was regarded as a rascal by whites and blacks, and when a calf or a shoat was missed in the community, Ben was not infrequently suspected of having shared the meat, either as a participant in the slaughter, or as a welcomed guest at the banqueting board of the thief.

One of Ben’s wives had achieved a son by a former husband, before Ben took her over, and this stepson had acquired a wife, a husky, cornfed wench, an Amazon in strength and fierceness. Soon after her marriage, old Ben, a rough-talking, brutal fellow, who tyrannized over the women of his entourage, undertook to discipline this step-daughter-in-law with physical chastisement. Cutting a hickory, he proceeded to manhandle her as he had been accustomed to use his wives. She accepted two or three blows, and then turned upon him so swiftly that he was swept off his feet and mauled almost into unconsciousness. After he had been patched up and rehabilitated, and the first bitterness of defeat had worn off, he really liked to tell the story, laying the unction to his soul that only his Christian spirit had stayed his hand and saved the life of the virago.

“Ben, you are a big strong man, why did you let that woman beat you?”

“Gin’ul, lemme tell you de trute, Gawd bin wid me dat day. You know, all me life uh bin uh strong man. Uh nebbuh hab no man fuh outdo me fuh wu’k, eeduhso fuh fight, en’ uh bin nyuse fuh lick ’ooman en’ t’ing all me life. W’en ’ooman ent sattify me wid ’e wu’k, eeduhso ’e mannus, uh lick’um fuh mek’um mannusubble. W’en my wife Sarah’ son John’ wife come een my house dat day, ’e sassy ’tell ’e mek me bex. Uh nebbuh tek sassy f’um no ’ooman, uh dunkyuh ef ’e big ez cow, en’ da’ gal big ’ooman fuh true. So uh cut one ’tick en’ uh graff’um by ’e sleebe en’ biggin fuh lick’um. Gin’ul, de ’ooman tu’n on me en’ box me same lukkuh him duh man. Blood bin een me yeye! Uh ’membuh de time w’en uh could’uh box’um en’ kick’um alltwo one time, en’ ef uh ebbuh leh de _foot_ folluh de _han’_, uh would uh kill’um _dead_. But Gawd hol’ me han’ en’ me foot, alltwo, Gawd tell me fuh peaceubble, en’ spayre de ’ooman life. Gin’ul, me don’ want no ’ooman life ’pun me han’. Enty you know, suh, ef uh had uh kick dat ’ooman ’e would uh dead? Gawd tek’care uh ol’ Ben dat day. Da’ ’ooman t’ink suh him lick me, Gin’ul, but enty you know suh him oughtuh tengk Gawd fuh sabe’um? Ef uh didn’ bin hab ’lij’un, da’ ’ooman’ cawpse would’uh gone Jacksinburruh een one oxin cyaa’t weh ’e come f’um. All de time ’e binnuh box me, uh bin study ’bout how da’ ’ooman’ cawpse would’uh look ef uh had uh hit’um like de time w’en uh nyuse to be uh Ben! En’ uh study ’pun him husbun’, my wife Sarah’ boy John, en’ uh study ’pun John’ maamy, en’ uh t’ink ’bout how dem will mo’n ef uh kill dis ’ooman, en’ wid Gawd’ help uh hab strengk ’nuf fuh hol’ me han’. Gin’ul, w’enebbuh uh look ’puntop de’ dead ’ooman een me mine’, uh tengk Gawd eb’ry day fuh hol’ me han’!”