Chapter VIII: Foreword (7)

“Mas’ Rafe, uh bin ketch cootuh een me time, uh bin ketch alligettuh, but uh yent fuh ketch no t’unduh en’ no lightnin’, en’ da’ t’ing oonuh call Ole Pickett, him duh t’unduh en’ lightnin’ _alltwo one time_! Uh gone een de pastuh en’ alltwo me han’ full’up wid bittle fuh da’ mule fuh eat. Uh hab uh kin’ feelin’ een me h’aa’t fuh da’ mule ’tell uh fin’um out, but now, uh nebbuh fuh trus’um ’gen no mo’! Mas’ Rafe, da’ mule ’ceitful ez uh ’ooman! ’E nyam de bittle out me han’, en’ w’en uh graff ’e yez fuh ketch’um, please Gawd, ’e head en’ ’e yez gone, en’ me han’ duh graff ’e two hin’ foot! Uh nebbuh see shishuh swif’ hin’ foot lukkuh da’ mule got. Ef me Jedus didn’ bin tell me fuh fall flat ’puntop me belly, sukkuh alligettuh, uh would’uh dead; but w’en uh do dat, een Gawd’ mussy, de mule kick obuh me, en’ de du’t en’ t’ing wuh ’e kick up out de pastuh, gone ’way up een de ellyment, en’ w’en ’e fall ’puntop me ’e kibbuh me up same lukkuh dem t’row du’t ’puntop’uh man een ’e grabe! Mas’ Rafe, uh tengkful fuh you fuh len’ me da’ mule fuh ride, but ’fo’ uh try fuh ketch’um ’gen, uh redduh walk on me han’ en’ me foot frum yuh _spang_ Caw Caw Swamp!”

Old Pickett had now passed her twenty-fifth year, and day by day became sadder and wiser. She accepted her daily tasks with resignation, but not with enthusiasm. The sockets above her weary eyes grew deeper, and white hairs thickened among the tawny pelage about her brow. Her ears, once so erect and responsive to all the sounds of the world about her, now flopped dejectedly like an unstarched “cracker” sunbonnet. Her lips, as pendulous as those of the bull moose that once tried to bite the Faunal Naturalist, hung lower and lower, and the hour drew near when she must shuffle off the mortal harness she had worn so long. Her eyes had looked upon smiling Peace, upon grim War, and--under Reconstruction, the once proud planters on foot and their quondam slaves on horseback--it was time to go. Turned out in the pasture to spend her last days in idleness, she walked listlessly about, cropping here and there a bunch of tender grass, while she waited for the summons. When it came, and she lay down to rise no more, a black spot, slowly circling in the sky, stooped, and, on a lower level, sailed again in narrowing circles. The keen eyes of other questing vultures, miles away, watched the drop, and followed. From the four corners of the heavens they came, and, alighting on rail fence and blasted pine, or hovering low on shadowy wings, they watched and waited, until at last Old Pickett’s glazing eyes told them that her heart and her heels were stilled forever.

A month or two later in the Autumn, when the family returned to the plantation from the pineland village, the boy indignantly reproached the negroes for not having given Old Pickett decent sepulture, and two of them were induced to gather up her whitened bones and bury them in a shallow grave at the edge of the ante-bellum “horse burying ground,” where the old family horses rested under the live-oaks. The negroes could not understand the boy’s emotion as the clods fell on the bones of the faithful old mule. “Eh, eh, buckruh boy too commikil. Him duh cry ’cause mule dead!” They did not know that the passing of Old Pickett severed a link with the golden past, and that into her grave went something of The Lost Cause!

THE LOST BUCK

An hour after sunrise, hunters and pack assembled at the appointed rendezvous, a centrally situated plantation. There was the usual exchange of pleasant badinage as to the relative speed, stamina and other qualities of the different hounds, who, now united in an imposing pack of twenty, combined almost every type known to the deer hunter, and each had its admirers. The older men preferred the native low-country stock, a blend, perhaps, of the blood of fox hound and beagle, bred for a hundred years or more from dogs brought from England long, long ago. These were fine, high-bred looking animals, mostly “blue speckled,” flecked with patches of black and fawn, whose twisted ears, soft as velvet, were long enough to tie under their wearers’ throats--very aristocrats of the dog world, from their long muzzles to the tips of their slender “rat” tails, not very fast, perhaps, but with noses so “cold” that they could follow a deer trail more than twenty-four hours old. Then, too, their cry! “Rolling tongues,” all of them, sweet and sonorous, whose blending of deep and high-pitched tones sent the blood tingling through the veins. The hard-riding youngsters, however, preferred the recently imported “English” dogs--thick-set, powerful creatures, white, with great patches of black and tan, broad-eared and “feather-tailed.” Their noses were not cold, nor was the music of their yelping “chopped” tongues inspiring, but they had great speed, and their feet were so hard that they could be run day after day without becoming footsore. Here and there, a somber spot in the pack, was a black and tan and--a touch of flame--a big “red-bone” of a western North Carolina strain, a rangy fellow, bred to speed and endurance in a rough, red-fox country. So each type and each individual had special qualities and special advocates, and all were gathered--Countess, Echo, Music, Harper, Lead, Luck, Modoc, Rowser, Blueman, the panther-like Huntress, and many younger dogs--into a pack whose all-round efficiency could not have been matched between Ashley River and the tawny waters of the Savannah!

At last the horns were sounded, and horsemen and hounds passed up the Cypress road. Soon after crossing the two bridges a mile or so away, a short consultation was had, and the “Elliott Big Drive” was decided upon. The elder huntsmen directed the standers to their positions and, after allowing sufficient time for those who had been assigned the more distant passes to reach their stands, the two expert and daring riders who had been designated as the “drivers” put in the eager pack and they spread fanlike among the myrtles.

The old buck, whose trophies were the special object of this day’s hunt, had long baffled the Nimrods of the neighborhood. Unusually large and with a magnificent head of “basket” horns, his resourcefulness had always enabled him to escape his pursuers. He varied his tactics as occasion required. In the early fall and winter, while lying with does and yearlings in the myrtles, or on the sunny side of some broomgrass field, he would cunningly keep his place upon the approach of hounds and hunters, allowing his companions to spring up and lead the cry off on a long run for the river. Then, when the danger was over, he would sneak away and take sanctuary in some distant thicket. Later on, in February and March, when the bucks, having dropped their horns, herded together like timid sheep, he pursued the same course, allowing the younger and less experienced to “jump” at the approach of the pack and lead it away while he remained in safety. In his bachelor days, however, he changed his methods, and, at the first cry of a distant dog opening upon the trail, the wary buck would “sneak,” and, by the time the pack reached his erstwhile bed, they found only the outline of his burly body in the petticoat grass where he had made his luxurious couch, while the old fellow would be perhaps six or seven miles away in the Ti Ti across the Edisto, or in some remote and inaccessible fastness beyond the Toogoodoo. In summer, when his great antlers in the “velvet” were tender and sensitive to the slightest touch of twig or foliage, he avoided thickets and tangled places, skirting the ridges that rose like shoulders on either side of the narrow bays that intersected the great forests of long-leaf pine.

But on this crisp November day, the woods were clean and clear, with no tangle of summer foliage, and the big buck, now carrying iron-hard horns, was as free to run through swamp or thicket as on the higher knolls and ridges, and, cunning and deceitful, he changed his tactics from chase to chase, and kept his pursuers guessing as to whether he would “jump” or “sneak,” whether his course would be east, south or west. Northward he never ran, for thither lay the railway and the flat woods, with no rivers beyond whose waters lay sanctuary.

One of the standers, well-mounted, took up a distant pass at Elliott’s Wells, the site of a settlement abandoned many generations ago. Concealing his horse in a thicket at the rear of the stand, he returned to the knoll, stood in front of a great pine, a giant among its lofty fellows, and listened for the cry of the pack. But listening was difficult and no cry came to his ears. The wind was high, and, singing among the pine tops like æolian harps, rose and swelled and softened and died away, now whispering of the wold with its peaceful sheep, and quiet meadows where cattle grazed, now thundering of stormswept mountain tops and the break of ocean surges on rockbound coasts, and again softened to the lap of sluggish wavelets on the shining shores of placid bays, and sighing told of those that grieved, and shrieked with the anguish of those that suffered, and softened again with the laughter of little children, and told the myriad stories and waked the thousand memories that the weird and mysterious songs of the wind among the pines bring to those whose hearts are attuned to nature. More than once the stander stood at attention, thinking he heard the cry of a distant hound, but, with a lull in the wind, the aural will-o’-the-wisp was gone, so misleading are the wind-sounds to even the trained ear. An hour passed. Two hours--but only the wind was heard, no bay of dog, no blast of horn betraying the presence of hunter or hound anywhere in the great expanse of forest.

Not far away was an old graveyard, one of the Colonial villages of the dead occasionally found in the low-country forests. The lettering on the marble slabs that covered the eternal sleepers revealed them as members of important families, many of them children who died of fever during the summer months before the days of quinine, deep wells and wire screens. The stander, while listening for the cry of the pack, read the lichen-covered inscriptions on the tombs and mused like Gray and Omar. With a whimsical smile, he looked at the towering crown of a great water-oak deep-rooted in the mould of a stout-hearted 17th century squire--a “five-bottle man” perhaps, and marveled at the alchemy of nature that could, from Madeira, Port and old Jamaica Rum, resolve a dew to nourish a Water Oak! Then, with ineffable sadness, he read the brief life-stories of God’s little children, “Mary,” “Anne,” “William,” “beloved daughter,” “beloved son” “of ---- and ---- his wife,” “died August 171-,” “died September 172-.” A cherub deep-carved in the marble, the line “Suffer little children to come unto Me”--no more! Seven, eight generations of men and women had lived their lives and passed since these little children were taken home 200 years ago! Yet, how near the tragedy seemed! The father returning from field or forest to find the mother in agony over the stricken child, no doctor, no ice, no effective medicines. The brilliant eyes, the burning cheeks, delirium, the end. The little mound in the woodland, wet with a mother’s tears, the graver’s chisel in the marble--and that was all. So men and women lived, and little children died--two hundred years ago!

At the end of the fourth hour of waiting, the stander, hearing only the wind-harps among the pine-tops, and realizing that, either the pack had jumped and been led by the chase out of the drive--a cunning old buck sometimes running contrary to all precedent--or that, striking no trail, the drivers had “blown out” of the Big Drive and called the hunt together for exploitation elsewhere, mounted his horse and rode due west through the woods for the Willtown road, which, running north and south, and nearly parallel with the Edisto and its tributary Penny Creek, would be crossed by any deer making for the river. Just as he reached the road, he accosted a negro walking toward Parker’s Ferry X-Roads, and asked if he had heard horns or hounds.

“Maussuh, uh binnuh stan’ een Willtown road close to Mas’ Edwu’d Baa’nwell’ Clifton place, w’en uh yeddy de dog duh comin’ fuh me, en’ uh stop fuh liss’n. Bimeby, uh see de mukkle duh shake, en’, fus’ t’ing uh know, de deer jump out de t’icket en’ light een de big road en’ look ’puntop me! ’E foot fall saaf’ly ’pun de groun’ same lukkuh cat duh sneak ’puntop’uh bu’d. ’E tu’n ’e head en’ ’e look ’puntop me lukkuh somebody, ’cep’n’ suh ’e yeye big lukkuh hawn owl’ eye. ’E look at me so positubble, uh t’ink mus’be ’e duh haant, en’ uh dat ’f’aid ’e gwine t’row one spell ’puntop me, uh tu’n ’way me head. W’en uh look roun’ ’gen, ’e gone! Yuh come de dog’! Uh nebbuh see summuch dog’! Dem full’ de road, en’ dem woice’ roll ’tell you nebbuh yeddy shishuh music. Dem cross’ de road, en’ dem gone! Attuh leetle w’ile, uh yeddy’um duh gib dem toung een de gyaa’d’n uh ole Maussuh’ Clifton house wuh dem Nyankee bu’n down eenjurin’ uh de wah. De gyaa’d’n big ez uh cawnfiel’, en’ ’e full’uh high rose bush duh climb up ’pun de tree, en’ all kind’uh briah en’ t’icket dey dey. Uh yeddy de dog’ mek uh sukkle roun’ de gyaa’d’n, den dem stop. Bimeby, yuh come de ole buck duh run puhzackly ’pun ’e back track, en’, w’en ’e git to de big road weh him lef’ me duh stan’up, uh t’awt at de fus’ ’e bin gwine jump ’puntop me, but ’e tu’n shaa’p roun’ en’ light down de road gwine Paa’kuh’ Ferry Cross-road’. ’E run ’traight een de big road, en’ uh’ spec’ ’e gone ’way todduh side Allstun’ Abenue befo’ de dog’ git back to de big road on ’e trail. De dog’ comin’ so fas’ uh git out ’e way fuh l’em pass, en’ dem so hasty, dem nebbuh ’top fuh smell weh de deer tu’n off down de road, en’ dem gone uh bilin’ t’ru de mukkle t’icket on de back track weh dem come f’um, en’ dem run ’bout uh mile befo’ dem fin’ out sun dem bin ’puntop de back track, den dem tu’n roun’ en’ come back fuh weh uh binnuh stan’ up. One leetle blue speckle’ toad bus’ out de pack en’ tek de fresh trail weh de buck jump off de back track, en’ gone! Soon ez dem todduh dog’ yeddy him woice, dem lef’ de ole trail en’ bu’n de win’ down de big road on de fresh track. Da’ duh de las’ uh shum, en’ uh nebbuh yeddy’um no mo’ attuh ’e done gone.”

Sure enough, the veteran Echo, the most intelligent dog in the pack, was running wide when she reached the road for the second time and detected the old buck’s maneuver. With a roar, the pack followed her at top speed down the open road, but, by the time the cry reached the Allston place on Penny Creek, the buck, with two or three miles the start of them, had run directly through the negro quarters, causing general consternation in the settlement, and had taken the water at the landing. Instead of crossing, however, he swam rapidly up stream and, aided by the flood tide, was a mile away before the pursuing pack reached the water’s edge. True to their usual practice, they crossed the creek and spread over the swamp on the other side in search of the trail, but trail there was none. The puzzled hounds ran up and down the bank for several hundred yards, whimpering with disappointment, but, for them that day, the buck was lost as completely as though the brown waters had swallowed him up, and one by one the disappointed dogs reluctantly recrossed the stream, and, as there was no sound of horn to summon them, singly and in groups they made their way to their respective homes.

Realizing that the buck had run far out of the chive, and, by giving all the passes a wide berth had lost the hunt, the sometime stander of Elliott’s Wells followed the spreading slot of the deer in the “big road” as far as Allston’s, and, riding up to the quarters, sought information of hounds and quarry from an old negress who was seated on the steps of her cabin, trying to loosen, with a tough horn comb, the kinky wool of a little black girl who sat on a lower step between her knees.

“Mauma, have you seen anything of a deer or dogs?”

The old woman, true to her training, tried to rise to drop a curtsy before replying, but the wide-eyed imp of darkness between her knees sat stolidly on the hem of her homespun skirt and prevented her rising.

“Git up, gal, ent you hab sense ’nuf fuh mek yo’ mannus w’en you see w’ite people? Uh bin agguhnize ’long all dem fowl’ fedduh en’ t’ing you hab een you head, en’ dem tanglety up ’tell uh cyan’ git ’um out, en’ you hab no bidness fuh gone en’ creep t’ru da’ fowlh’us’ winduh fuh git dem aig’. Git up en’ gone!”

But long before she reached the end of her sentence, the girl was up and gone, and, with a deep curtsy, the old woman answered the hunter.

“Maussuh, ’bout two hour attuh middleday, dish’yuh nigguhhouse yaa’d bin full’uh nigguh’, ’cause duh Sattyday, en’ all dese’yuh ’ooman duh wash dem clo’es. All ub uh sudd’nt, uh yeddy’um holluh same lukkuh roostuh holluh w’en ’e see hawk’ shadduh ’puntop de groun’, en’ eb’ry Gawd’ nigguh, ’ooman en’ chillun alltwo, drap eb’ryt’ing wuh dem got een dem han’ en’ run fuh dem house. Uh look ’roun’ fuh see wuh ’smattuh mek’um fuh holluh, en’, ef you b’leebe me, suh, one deer duh comin’ down de paat’, big same lukkuh ole Baa’ney, Mas’ Rafe dem bull! ’E hawn big ’nuf fuh hol’ bushel tub, en’, w’en ’e jump, ’e rise een de ellyment high mo’nuh dem house ebe’. W’en ’e look ’puntop me wid alltwo ’e yeye, uh ’f’aid suh de debble dey een’um, en’ uh drap ’pun me knee een de du’t en’ uh pray! Bimeby uh look ’roun’, en’ uh yent see nutt’n’ but ’e tail. De pyo’ tail dat big ’e kibbuhr’um, en’ ’e ’pread out w’ite lukkuh buckruh’ shu’t buzzum duh Sunday w’en ’e yent got on no weskit! ’E gone duh crick, ’e jump een, en’ nobody shum no mo’! All de nigguh’ come out dem house fuh look, en’ attuh w’ile dem yeddy de dog’ duh comin’, en’ dem run back ’gen. De beagle’ tayre up de street ’long dem foot, en’ dem mek shishuh woice de fowl’ fly up ’puntop de roof, en’ dem jis’ leely w’ile come down. Tengky, Maussuh, Gawd bless you, suh!--Come’yuh, gal! Yo’ head full’uh fedduh’ ’tell ’e stan’ same lukkuh frizzle’ hen! Come’yuh!”

Meanwhile, the big buck’s sensitive ears told him what had happened. He knew that the pack, at fault and silent, a mile behind him, was out of the running for that day, at least as far as he was concerned, and, touching bottom on a little wampee-covered spit of land that thrust itself into the creek, his dun and dripping body rose from the waters as he leisurely walked to shore, landing conveniently near a dense canebrake, within whose safe seclusion he found a dry bed until nightfall. With the rising of the moon soon thereafter, he slowly fed his way homeward through the forest, pausing, first near the edge of the Baring backwater, and then on every knoll where he could find a grove of the beautiful swamp white-oaks, for his favorite autumn food, the great over-cup acorns. At last, as the morning star blazed in the east and the far off roosters--long before Maude Adams won her spurs and her tail-feathers in Edmond Rostand’s Chanticler--heralded the coming of the dawn, the old fellow returned to his bed among the myrtles in the Big Drive, and, full of acorns and the satisfaction of having again outwitted his pursuers, lay down to his well-earned rest, undisturbed by dreams of horn or hound.

JIM MOULTRIE’S DIVORCE

The tail of a cold, blustering February day. In the creeks and leads of the Jehossee marshes the ducks sought protection from the wind until flushed by the hunter. Since early morning he had successfully explored every promising hiding place in the great marsh, under the guidance of Jim Moultrie, a skilled negro hunter and paddler, who pushed the nose of his clumsy dugout canoe up every little run that looked like a likely shelter for the wary game. As the sun sank below the horizon, staining the sky a dull red, the hunter quitted the marshes, and the bow of the canoe was turned toward Willtown, five miles away. Crouching low in the stern, Jim paddled silently and strenuously against the current for an hour. Like birdshot “patterns” thrown against the red sky, flocks of belated blackbirds hurried to their roosts.

Gradually the shadowy mantle of the dusk shrouded marsh and headland and the shimmering waters that slid by the struggling canoe; then night fell and healed the blood-red wound in the West. The dugout crept along the shore where the current was less swift. Now and then a raccoon hunting in the marsh sprang away affrighted. The whistling wings of a swift-flying teal cut through the icy air. Far up the river, like low-hung stars, twinkled the watchfires of a great timber raft outward bound for the estuary of the North Edisto. From a distant plantation came the sweet lu-la-lu of a happy negro freed from work. The raft, borne upon the bosom of the strong ebb-tide, neared rapidly, and, around its fires built on earth-covered platforms, the negro raftsmen talked and laughed as they cooked their supper, and the flames lighted the face and magnified the figure of the black steersman who stood by the great sweep oar with which, at the stern of the raft, he guided its course down stream.

For an hour Jim had silently bucked the tide, impelling the boat under the powerful strokes of his paddle, alternately left and right.

“What are you thinking of, Jim?”

“Study ’bout ’ooman, suh.” (A short silence.)

“’Ooman shishuh cuntrady t’ing, dem nebbuh know w’en dem well off. You kin feed dem, you kin pit clo’es ’puntop dem back, you kin pit shoe ’puntop dem foot, you kin pit hat ’puntop dem head, you kin pit money een dem han’, en’ still yet oonuh nebbuh know de ’ooman, nebbuh know w’en dem min’ gwine sattify. Dem fuhrebbuh duh lookout fuh trubble. Ef dem ent meet trubble duh paat’, dem gwine hunt fuhr’um duh ’ood. I dunkyuh howsoeb’uh fudduh de trubble dey, dem gwine _fin’um_. Ef dem cyan’ see ’e track fuh trail’um, dem gwine pit dem nose een de du’t en’ try fuh smell’um, but dem gwine _fin’um_! I duh study ’pun dat wife I nyuse fuh hab, name Mary. Look how him done, w’en him hab no cajun! You yeddy ’bout me trubble, enty, suh? Lemme tell you. One Sat’d’y night I gone home frum de ribbuh. I tek two duck’, bakin, flour en’ sugar en’ tea, den I pit fibe dolluh’ een Mary’ lap. Enty you know, suh, dat is big money fuh t’row een nigguh’ lap? W’en I binnuh boy en’ you t’row uh ’ooman uh fifty cent, ’e t’ink ’e rich, but I bin all dat week wid one cump’ny uh dese yuh rich Nyankee buckruh’ dat Mr. FitzSimmun hab yuh fuh shoot, en’ dem buckruh’ t’row me fibe dolluh bill same lukkuh dem bin dime’! W’en I t’row de money in de ’ooman’ lap, en’ pit de todduh t’ing wuh I fetch ’pun de flo’, Mary nebbuh crack ’e teet’. I ax’um ’smattuh mek’um stan’ so? ’E mek ansuh, ’nutt’n’. Nex’ day de ’ooman keep on same fashi’n. ’E nebbuh crack ’e bre’t’. I quizzit’um ’gen. I ax’um ’smattuh ’long’um. Him say, ’nutt’n’. Den I say ’berry well den.’ Monday mawnin’ I tek me gun, I call me dog en’ den I talk to de ’ooman. I say, ’Mary, I gwine duh ribbuh, en’ I gwine come back Sat’d’y two week’. I dunno ’smattuh mek you stan’ so, but I know suh de debble dey een you. No ’ooman ’puntop dis ribbuh hab mo’ den you, no ’ooman got so much, but I yent able fuh lib dis way ’long no ’ooman wuh tie’up ’e mout’, en’, w’en I come back las’ Sat’d’y two week’, I gwine ’tarrygate you one mo’ time, en’ I gwine ax you ’smattuh mek you stan’ so, en’ ef oonuh still een de same min’ ez now, den me nuh you paa’t.’

“Well, suh, Sat’d’y two week’, I gone back en’ I say, ‘well, Mary, I come, how ’bout’um, wuh you got fuh say?’ Him mek ansuh: ‘Ent nutt’n’ ’bout’um. Yent got nutt’n’ fuh say.’ Den I tell’um ’berry well, den, I gone my way, en’ you tek you’n. Now, Mary, I yent no Wanderbilt fuh gi’ you fibe t’ousan’ dolluh’ allimunny fuh lib off, so you is free fuh lib ’cawd’n’ to yo’ own min’, en’ I is free fuh do ez I please.’ Den I tek me gun, I call me dog, en’ I _gone_!

“De nex’ week, I bin comin’ out de maa’sh on Mr. Rab’nel’ place, w’en I meet Mary. Him binnuh wait fuh me. I say ‘hello! dat duh you?’ Him say: ‘Jim, I come fuh tell you dat all dem t’ing I bin yeddy ’bout you, I fin’ out dem is lie, en’ I want you fuh come back to me.’ I say, ‘enty I tell you dat de finull wu’d would be talk w’en I come back fuh me ansuh Sat’d’y two week’, en’ ent dat time done pass? You bidness fuh fin’ out ’bout dat lie een dem twelbe day’ time wuh I done gib you. ’E too late now.’ En’ I walk off en’ lef’um!”

“Have you another wife, Jim?”

“I hab dat gal you see wid me dis mawnin’ een Mr. FitzSimmun’ yaa’d. _Him_ ent wut’!”

“BUH ALLIGETTUH EN’ BUH DEER”

One time, w’en nutt’n’ cep’ de bu’d en’ de annimel en’ de Injun bin yuh, buh deer en’ buh alligettuh ain’ bin fr’en’, en’ buh alligettuh blan does kill buh deer en’ nyam’um w’enebbuh ’e git uh chance, en’ buh deer does ’f’aid fuh swim ’cross ribbuh, en’ w’enebbuh ’e go down to de ribbuh’ aige fuh drink, ’e does cock ’e yez en’ squint ’e yeye fuh buh alligettuh befo’ ’e pit ’e mout’ down fuh drink; but, bimeby, yuh come de buckruh, en’ bimeby ’gen, de buckruh fetch de nigguh, en’ bimeby ’e fetch houn’ dog, en’ den de Injun gone, en’ de buckruh’ biggin fuh hunt buh deer wid dem English houn’, en’ de dog’ so swif’ en’ dem blan push buh deer so close, de only chance ’e hab fuh git’way is fuh tek de watuh ’spite uh buh alligettuh, so, w’edduh de ribbuh dey close uh fudduh, buh deer mek fuhr’um w’enebbuh de dog jump’um.

Now, de fus’ time de buckruh’ run buh deer wid houn’, buh deer ain’ ’quaintun’ wid’um, en’ ’e leddown een ’e bed een one mukkle t’icket on de aige uh de broom grass fiel’ duh tek ’e res’, ’tell de dog mos’ git up tuhr’um, den ’e fin’ him ain’ able fuh hide, en’ ’e buss’ out de mukkle en’ lean fuh de ribbuh fuh who las’ de longes’! Yuh come de ole buck, yuh come de English houn’! Buh deer ’f’aid. ’E jump. ’E run. ’E git dey fus’. Jis’ ez ’e ketch de bluff fuh jump off een de ribbuh, buh alligettuh’ two eye’ rise out de watuh duh wait fuhr’um! De alligettuh hongry. Bittle berry sca’ceful. ’E belly pinch’um. Buh deer fat. ’E fat fuh sowl. Buh deer dey een one hebby trouble. Alligettuh dey befor’um, beagle’ dey behin’um, en’ dem toung duh roll t’ru de swamp en’ dem comin’ _fas’_. Wuh buh deer gwi’ do? ’E yeye dey ’pun de alligettuh, ’e yez dey ’pun de beagle’. ’E mek uh sudd’n twis’ jis’ befo’ de dog’ sight’um, en’ bu’n de win’ down de ribbuh bank ’bout seb’n acre f’um de bluff and tek de watuh ’cross weh buh alligettuh nebbuh shum.

Yuh come de beagle’ uh bilin’ fuh de bluff. Dem come so fas’ ’pun buh deer track dem nebbuh stop, en’ two’t’ree gone obuh de bank en’ drap een de watuh close buh alligettuh’ snout. Buh alligettuh reason wid ’eself. “Wuh dis t’ing? I nebbuh see shishuh annimel befo’, but, duh bittle!” en’ ’e graff one de beagle’ en’ pull’um onduhneet’ de water. Todduh dog’ swim out en’ tek dem foot een dem han’ en’ gone home.

Buh deer git’way dis time. ’E gone! W’en ’e ready fuh tu’n back ’cross de ribbuh, ’e walk easy to de bank duh skin ’e yeye fuh buh alligettuh, en’ bimeby ’e shum ’tretch out ’pun one mud bank een de sunhot. ’E belly full’uh beagle. ’E sattify. ’E duh sleep. Buh deer sneak close to de ribbuh fuh tek a chance fuh git ’cross, but befo’ him kin wet ’e foot, buh alligettuh shum, en’ ’e slip off de bank fuh meet’um. Yuh de debble now! How buh deer kin git ’cross to ’e fambly? Him biggin fuh study, but befo’ him kin crack ’e teet’ fuh talk, buh alligettuh op’n de cumposhashun.

“Budduh,” ’e tell buh deer, “dat t’ing wuh I done eat, wunnuh call’um beagle, berry good bittle. Me lub um berry well. ’E easy fuh ketch, en’ ’e ent gots no hawn fuh ’cratch me t’roat. Me _done_ fuh lub’um!”

“Ef you lub’um, mekso wunnuh don’ ketch’um, en’ lef’ me en’ my fambly ’lone?” buh deer ax’um. Buh alligettuh mek ansuh: “Me cyan’ ketch de dog ’cep’n’ wunnuh fetch’um t’ru de ribbuh, so leh we mek ’greement fuh las’ long ez de ribbuh run. Wunnuh tek de ribbuh, me tek de beagle’. Me fuh you, en’ you fuh me, en’ alltwo fuh one’nurruh.”

Dat w’ymekso ebbuh sence de’ ’greement mek, w’enebbuh dog run’um, buh deer tek de ribbuh en’ buh alligettuh lem’lone, en’ w’en de beagle’ come ’e ketch’um, but ef buh deer ebbuh come duh ribbuh bidout dog dey att’um, him haffuh tek ’e chance.

BUH HAWSS EN’ BUH MULE

A FABLE

Buh Hawss’ tail long sukkuh willuh switch,
Buh Mule’ own stan’ lukkuh t’istle.

One time Buh Hawss en’ Buh Mule tu’n out duh pastuh duh Sunday. Dem alltwo blonx to high buckruh. Buh Hawss binnuh dribe een buggy, en’ Buh Mule binnuh wu’k duh plow. Dem alltwo glad fuh git out en’ dem alltwo kick up dem foot en’ play ’bout de fiel’. Buh Hawss cantuh. ’E bow ’e neck sukkuh gobbluh duh strut, en’ ’e tail heng sukkuh willuh switch. Buh Mule trot. ’E ’tretch ’e neck out ’traight sukkuh Muscoby duck duh fly. ’E step high en’ ’e tail stan’ up sukkuh t’istle. Buh Mule tail oagly, fuh true, but da’ duh all de tail wuh ’e got en’ ’e berry well sattify ’long um. Buh Hawss biggin fuh brag. “Look ’puntop oonuh tail,” ’e say. “Mekso oonuh ent hab tail lukkuh my’own?” ’e ax’um. “Oonuh yent kin switch fly ’long’um ’cause ’e shabe. Shishuh no’count tail ent wut’,” ’e tell’um. “Me duh buckruh, you duh nigguh!” Buh Mule biggin fuh shame. ’E yent sattify ’long ’e tail no mo’. Buh Mule cyan’ switch fly, fuh true, but ’e skin tough, en’ fly don’ bodduhr’um, but Buh Hawss git’um so agguhnize’ een ’e min’ ’e fuhgit fuh tell’um suh ’e yent hab cajun fuh switch fly ’long ’e tail, en’ ’e heng ’e head en’ ’e tail alltwo, en’ ’e lef Buh Hawss en’ ’e gone off todduh side de fiel’ en’ ’e study. Bimeby, ’e look obuh de pastuh, en’ todduh side de fench ’e see one las’yeah cawnfiel’ weh de nigguh lef’ ’nuf sheep buhr duh stan’ ’long de cawnstalk. Buh Mule biggin fuh laugh. ’E op’n ’e mout’. ’E blow ’e hawn. “_Aw-e-Aw-e-Aw-e!_” Buh Hawss cantuh. ’E come close. ’E ax’um ’smattuh mek ’e duh laugh. Buh Mule say ’e laugh ’cause Buh Hawss ent smaa’t ’nuf fuh jump de fench en’ run’um uh race t’ru de cawnfiel’. Buh hawss tek’um up. ’E jump de fench. ’E behin’ foot ketch de top rail en’ knock’um off. Buh Mule tumble t’ru. Yuh dem come! Buh Hawss cantuh, Buh Mule trot, up en’ down de fiel’ t’ru de sheep buhr. Buh Mule tail shabe ’tell ’e slick. ’E switch’um roun’ en’ roun’ ’mong de buhr but none nebbuh stick. Bimeby, Buh Hawss’ tail biggin fuh hebby. ’E ketch full’uh buhr. Dem tanglety een ’e tail ’tell ’e stan’ sukkuh timbuh cyaa’t rope. ’E duh drag. Eb’ry time ’e switch’um roun’ ’e hanch, de buhr sting’um. ’E say to ’eself, “wuh dis t’ing? Me fuh lick me own self! Me fuh hab spuhr een me own tail! De debble! Me dey een trubble, fuh true!” ’E talk trute. ’E tail lick’um en’ spuhr’um alltwo one time.

Buh Mule pass’um. ’E look ’puntop Buh Hawss’ tail, en’ ’e yent shame no mo’. “Tengk Gawd,” ’e say, “fuh shabe tail. Low tree stan’ high win’!”

LISS “BIN EENSULT”

From Olar, that favored spot in a fruitful section of the State, where, under the guidance of a Carolina Burbank, the amorous Iron pea, loving the “Shinny” despite her freckles, wooed and won her to wilt-resistance, where quiet farmers are classical scholars and hermits are hospitable, comes a story of Liss, a character as noted in local colored circles for oddity as for ugliness. A white neighbor, who recently met her, noticing that she was swelling with wrath, and, seeking to get a rise out of her, asked:

“What’s the fun today, Liss?”

“No fun een dis t’ing; I done bin eensult.”

“Who has insulted you?”

“Mimy’ yalluh gal Clara eensult me, suh. Dat gal en’ ’e maamy mek crap fuh Cap’n Willie. I bin to Mimy’ house, en’ one bale uh cotton bin fuh haul town fuh sell. Clara tell ’e maamy, ‘Ma, lemme go town wid dat bale, en’ lemme git a spo’tin’ suit out dat bale uh cotton?’

“Now, Mimy swell up bex, same lukkuh bullfrog. ‘Spo’t suit de debble!’ ’e say. ‘You binnuh do nutt’n’ but spo’t de Gawd’ blessed yeah. You don’t git a shimmy out dat bale uh cotton.’

“Den de gal mek ansuh en’ say:

“‘Ma, ef you don’t lemme git dat spo’tin’ suit, I gwi’ do eb’ry bad t’ing I know ’bout. I gwi’ do bad right now.’

“Clara hab on one deseyuh newfanglety kinduh t’ing dem call ‘_middle-blouse_.’ You know um, suh. ’E stan’ same lukkuh man shu’t, wid ’e shu’t tail heng out, excusin’ ’e got one kind’uh shoe string tie onduhneet’ de gal’ buzzum. _My Gawd, w’at a gal!_ Alldo’ t’ree man dey een ’e ma’ house, Clara staa’t fuh tek off ’e middle-blouse. I tell’um:

“‘Gal, ef you tek off dat middle-blouse een dis house befo’ dese mans, you will sho’ hab sin.’

“‘Sin, _nutt’n’_! I gwi’ strip nakit ez a jaybu’d befo’ ’e fedduh’ grow! I gwi’ do bad!’ W’en de gal say dis wu’d, ’e ketch ’e middle-blouse by ’e shu’t tail wid alltwo ’e han’ en’ hice’um obuh ’e head! Befo’ ’e kin git’um off, all t’ree de man jump out de do’, en’ w’en I look out een de yaa’d, I shum duh roll obuh en’ obuh een de du’t same lukkuh hawss roll, en’ duh buss’ demself wid laugh. Now, w’en I see de gal’ yalluh skin biggin fuh shine lukkuh dese yuh yalluh-belly cootuh, myself git eensult, en’ I lef’ ’e ma’ house, ’cause I is a _lady_, suh, en’ dat is a _ondeestunt gal_!”

THE RETORT COURTEOUS

Her name was Patty. She was as black as a tar baby, as oleaginous as a cotton oil mill and--like Captain Merrimac in Olivette--as broad in the beam and as square in the rig as a Dutch brig, when she appeared before a tidewater trial justice as the prosecuting witness _in re_ the State of South Carolina _vs._ Cudjo Manigo, charged with malicious mischief.

Taking the stand, she put her head on one side and complacently smiled until the corners of her mouth--evidently designed for the wholesale trade--approached dangerously near her ears. Twisting his amber imperial, his Honor began:

Q. “What’s your full name?”

A. “Mis’ Wineglass, suh.”

Q. “Where’s your residence?”

A. “’E yent come teday, suh.”

Q. “I mean where do you live?”

A. “Yaas, suh. I lib on Mass Kit FitzSimmun’ plantesshun, w’ich’n ’e jis’ done buy’um de Chuesday een week befo’las’ mek six munt’ done gone, en’ I glad ’e buy’um, too, bekasew’y jis’ ez soon ez ’e buy’um ’e run dat las’ husbun’ w’ich I marry een Augus’ off de place, w’ich’n me en’ dat nigguh nebbuh could ’gree, ’cause, een de fus’ place, ’e too lub fuh lick ’e lady; en’, een de two place, ’e too oncommun lazy en’ no’count, en’, een de t’ree place, ’e fus’ wife en’ me nebbuh could git ’long, en’, een de fo’ place, him is a class-leaduh een de Baptis’ chu’ch, en’ eb’rybody know berry well dat wehreas class-leaduh mek a berry po’ kind’uh husbun’ fuh ’e own wife, en’--”

His Honor--“That will do. What is your charge against the defendant?”

A. “Bredduh Cudjo, suh?”

Q. “Yes. What’s your charge?”

A. “I nebbuh chaa’g’um nutt’n’, suh.”

Q. “Well, what did Cudjo do?”

A. “B’Cudjo is a berry nomannus nigguh, suh. Him is de class-leaduh een my chu’ch, en w’en eeduhso de preachuh on de sukkus, elsehow de locus preechuh, onable to filfill de pulpit, den B’Cudjo does hol’ saa’bis een de chu’ch, en’ w’en B’Cudjo done resplain de Lawd’ wu’d, ’e berry lub fuh talk sweetmout’ talk to all ’e freemale sistuh een de chu’ch, en’ eb’ry time ’e meet me een de road ’e baig me fuh kiss’um, en’ I yent wantuh kiss no shishuh oagly, twis’mout’ nigguh lukkuh B’Cudjo, en’ I tell’um so, en’ den ’e does cuss at me berry nomannusubble, en’ de las’ time I meet’um een de paat’, ’e quizzit me berry rappit, en’ I tell’um ‘go’way, B’Cudjo, bekasew’y I ent wantuh yeddy no shishuh cumposhashun’, en’ yet B’Cudjo keep on peruse ’long de paat’, en’ ’e keep on ax’me shish squeschun, en’ fus’ t’ing I know ’e cuss me a berry bad cuss.”

Q. “What did he curse you?”

A. “’E tell me dat my mout’ does wide same lukkuh Ashley ribbuh!”

Q. “What else?”

A. “Dat all ’e had chance fuh tell me, ’cause I tell’um, ‘Haa’k’ee at me good fashi’n, B’Cudjo, ’fo’ de Lawd, ef my mout’ _is_ stan’ lukkuh Ashley ribbuh, _you cyan’ paddle yo’ boat cross’um’_, en’ den ’e git bex en’ knock me wid ’e hoe handle, en’ dat w’yso I fetch’um yuh.”

At this stage of the proceedings, the Toogoodoo trial justice adjourned court to measure the Ashley River.

THE CAT WAS CRAZY

On a recent Sunday afternoon, an itinerant evangelist with a throat of brass was stationed at the corner of Richardson and Plain Streets in Columbia, singing hymns in the laudable endeavor to save a soul or two.

From an upper window of the Grand Central Hotel a fair face looked out to the westward, while a child tapped upon the pane.

At a club window opposite, a young bachelor banker sipped his Sunday cocktail while he eyed critically the passers-by on their way from church. How many of their financial secrets did he hold in his keeping! How many of their obligations were locked in his vaults! The note of that jauntily dressed young man, who held his head so high as he spurned the dust from his patent leathers, had gone to protest but yesterday. The extravagance of yonder portly lady, who, with silken sails spread to the breeze, towed after her, as a tug tows a coal barge, one of the fashionable fourteen-inch trains, scattering in her wake banana peel, cigar butts and other miscellaneous wreckage of the street, had cost her husband another mortgage.

The banker was of a thrifty mind, and he wondered why, in the name of Saint Peter--why, in the name of the patron saints of cleanliness and all the gods of common-sense, fashion should exact of its devotees the performance of the unæsthetic work of the street-sweeper and the scavenger! Thinking, with a sigh, that shorter skirts might have permitted longer bank accounts, he turned his eyes to the wooded hills of Lexington above which hung the setting sun, a great disk of gold. With his mental coupon shears, the speculative financier quickly clipped the “orb of day” into gold treasury certificates, put them out at interest--compounded, of course--and, with one more Vermouth cocktail to aid his imaginative computation, he was, in a twinkling, possessed of the wealth of Monte Cristo. And now the world and all beyond was his! On fancy’s wings he sailed away, away to Arcadie. Instead of herding bulls and bears, a shepherd now was he. Like Strephon, he played upon a pipe, while at his feet the lambkins played, or huddled together in the sunshine “so warm and sleepy and white.”

Garlanded with roses, the shepherdess led him through leafy bowers into an open glade, where, among the buttercups and daisies, he fell asleep, and dreamed. _Ay, Dios!_ How few of us realize, until all too late, that the simplest pleasures are the best, that in home and friends we may make for ourselves happiness far above that which must be sought beyond our circle. How few of us realize that there is more exhilaration in a five-mile spin than in a quart of champagne, that ’tis more blessed to swish the briefest cotton skirt in Arcadie--if in Arcadie we belong--than to drag a satin train in a Paris salon!

But the banker dreamed, and the strains of the Santiago waltz were in his ears, and the houris of Mahomet glided along before him wreathed in--smiles. One, fairer than the rest, beckoned, and he followed on and on. Out into the darkness he followed the golden gleam of her beautiful bi-carbonated hair, followed through tangled forest and treacherous fen--alas! the will-o’-the-wisp!

With a start, he awoke from his reverie to find--like the market girl who stumbled and smashed the basket of eggs from which she had hatched out all her hopes--that his gold was gone, for suddenly the sharp edge of the horizon was drawn like a scimitar across the throat of the sinking sun, and in an instant the western sky, away up to the zenith, was stained as with his life blood!

With a shudder, as though chilled from sitting in the overdraft of his imagination, the banker took his hat and went out into the street, where the evangelist, having closed his song service, was exhorting the little group clustered around him.

Suddenly, on the edge of the gathering, an old negro, bent with age and with a face furrowed by grief, appeared. He led by the hand a little black girl about ten years old. Her eyes were round with fright, and about her thin legs a ragged red calico skirt flapped like a weather-stained flag at half-mast.

The old man skirted the group, eagerly scanning each face as though looking for a sympathetic ear into which to pour his sorrows. Not finding what he wanted, he hurried on toward the State House, dragging the child after him, until, in front of a newspaper office, he saw a round-waisted gentleman with a priestly look talking to a tall, long-bearded one of the old school. Detecting benevolence in the faces of both, he approached the shorter of the two, and, in an anxious voice, inquired--“Maussuh, please, suh, tell me ef cat kin git crazy?”

“Do you mean is it possible for a cat to have rabies?”

“No, suh, ’taint rabbit, ’tis cat.”

“I apprehend,” said the English purist, “that you desire to ascertain whether it is possible for a cat to have the rabies. I may say, for your information, that there are, literally and mathematically speaking, 18 phases of insanity to which humanity is subject, ranging from the emotional insanity of commerce, to the popular _mania a potu_, vulgarly called _delirium inebriosa_. I do not care to give an off-hand opinion as to whether or not a cat may have one or more of these kinds of insanity, unless you will accurately describe the symptoms and put your questions categorically. It is manifestly a work of supererogation--”

“Great Gawd, maussuh!” said the old man, turning appealingly to the tall gentleman. “Please, suh, tell dis juntlemun dat my cat nebbuh had no rabbit, ’e only had kitten’. Yaas, suh. My cat name Jane, en’ ’e b’long to dis leetle gal chile w’ich is my gran’, en’ him (dat is de gal) name Jane, en’ Jane (dat is de cat) b’long to Jane (w’ich is de gal) en’ Jane does use to folluh Jane eb’ryweh ’e go, en’ Jane does berry lub Jane, en’ w’enebbuh Jane does ketch rat, ’e fetch’um een de house, en’ w’enebbuh Jane does git ’e bittle fuh eat, ’e always keep some uh de bittle fuh Jane, en’ w’en Jane (dat is de cat) had nine kitten’ een Mistuh Claa’k’ smokehouse on de t’ree Chuesday een dis same berry munt’, den Jane (dat is de gal) set up all night fuh nuss Jane (dat is de cat) en’, please Gawd, maussuh, jis’ as soon as de nyung kitten’ eye’ biggin fuh op’n, one shaa’pmout’ black dog, wid ’e tail stan’ like dese bu’d fedduh buckruh ’ooman does lub fuh pit on ’e hat w’en Sunday come, dis dog jump obuh de fench en’ bite’um, en’ Jane (dat is de cat en’ de gal alltwo) git berry agguhnize en’ twis’ up een alltwo dem min’, en’ Jane (dat is de cat) him jump obuh de fench en’ run’way, en’ de dog en’ Jane (dat is de gal) run attuh Jane (dat is de cat) ’tell w’en Jane (dat is de cat) staa’t fuh run down de lane, Jane (dat is de gal) see ole Unk’ Bill Rose--w’ich’n him is de Gub’nuh’ Claa’k, walkin’ good fashi’n down de lane. Now, de gal holluh att’um fuh ketch de cat, but eb’rybody know dat Unk’ Bill Rose is leetle kinduh bowleggit, en’, alldo’ him hol’ alltwo ’e foot togedduh, ’e foot couldn’ specify, en’ Jane (dat is de cat) jump clean t’ru Unk’ Bill Rose’ britchiz, en’ ’e git’way en’ gone, please Gawd, en’ lef’ Jane (dat is de gal) en’ lef’ ’e nine kitten’, w’ich all dem eye’ ent done open, een Mistuh Claa’k’ smokehouse, en’ gone en’ jump obuh de fench w’ich run roun’ de ’Sylum yaa’d--en’ dat de reaz’n w’ymekso I know berry well Jane (dat is de cat) mus’ be gone crazy, ’cause he gone _spang_ een de ’Sylum!”

A CONGAREE WATER-COLOR

During the last freshet in the Congaree river, three negroes living on the Childs plantation five miles below Columbia took advantage of the high water to go rabbit hunting in a boat. Paddling about between the tree trunks, they scanned the knolls and tussocks that, rising above the flood, afforded sanctuary to the cotton-tail refugees.

So intent were they upon the chase, that the carelessly managed skiff struck a cypress “knee” and was instantly swamped. Fortunately, the trees were thick, and the wrecked crew climbed into a tall gum, where, far above the swelling flood, they spent the entire day, sending out from time to time across the waste of waters a piteous cry for help, until, late in the evening, their voices were heard from the highlands, and a boat was sent to their rescue by Mr. Childs.

Mingo Singletary, one of the treed nimrods, was in the city yesterday, and gave the following account of the adventure:

“Yaas, suh, me en’ Silus Smit’ en Hacklus Rab’nel, w’ich Hacklus is my niece, ’cause _him_ gran’ en’ _my_ gran’ alltwo is de same man, en’ _him_ farruh en’ _my_ farruh is two twin; so, berrywellden, me en’ dese two mans gone out een de bateau fuh hunt rabbit, ’cause w’en de ribbuh high, rabbit is a berry easy t’ing fuh ketch, ’cause dey berry ’f’aid fuh git dem foot wet, en’ dey does climb high ’puntop de tussock. So we paddle ’long en’ quizzit all de tussock, en’ de same time w’en me en’ Silus binnuh peep onduhneet’ one briah bush weh rabbit does hide, fus’ t’ing we know, we ain’ know _nutt’n’_, ’cause my niece Hacklus, w’ich dat nigguh nebbuh did hab a Gawd’ piece uh sense, him paddle de boat ’puntop de snag, en’ de boat’ bottom couldn’ specify, en’ de boat’ bottom buss’, en’ lef’ we een de water. Now, Silus had a fight wid he lady las’ week, en’ he lady strong mo’den Silus, en’ Silus’ lady lick’um en’ mos’ bruk ’e back, so w’en Silus try fuh swim ’e back couldn’ specify, en’ jis’ ez ’e biggin to drowndid, my niece Hacklus ketch’um by ’e britchiz, but de britchiz buss’, en’ Silus gone down onduhneet’ de water fuh de two time, en’ w’en ’e rise ’gen I graff’um by ’e lef’ han’ foot en’ hice’um up close to one big gum tree, en’ all t’ree uh we climb de tree ’tell we git ’puntop de limb, en’ den, please Gawd, we seddown, en’ seddown, en’ seddown; en’ we all t’ree berry well sattify fuh seddown, ’tell hongry biggin fuh ketch we, en w’en _him_ come, den we staa’t fuh holluh’ en’ holluh’ en’ holluh. But de mo’ we holluh, de mo’ we hongry, en’ bimeby we see Silus’ lady walkin’ by de ribbuh’ aige wid dat yalluh boy Sam, w’ich lib to Mistuh Hamptun’ place, en’ Silus holluh at ’e lady en’ scole’um, but you know berry well, suh, ’ooman is de debble, en’ dat ’ooman nebbuh had Silus een de back uh ’e head. So, we stillyet seddown, en’ seddown, ’tell we mos’ ready fuh drap off de tree limb; en’ Silus is a class-leader, en’ him biggin fuh praise de Lawd, en’ bimeby him tell we ’bout how de rab’n feed ’Lijah, en’ we look high een de ellyment en’ we see ’nuf buzzut flyin’ high obuh de tree top, en’ Hacklus call to de buzzut fuh fetch de bittle, but de buzzut keep on flew high een de ellyment, en’ nebbuh bodduh ’e head ’bout Hacklus. Den, bimeby ’gen, Silus resplain de Scriptuh ’bout how Noah’ dub fetch tree branch en’ all kinduh t’ing een ’e mout’ w’en de water high; en’, fus’ t’ing we know, we see one dub fly t’ru de swamp, en’ de sun shine on ’e breas’ en’ mek’um look like gol’, en’, likewise also, we call to _him_, but ’e didn’ hab nutt’n’ een ’e mout’, en’ _him_ fly ’way en’ gone, please Gawd! Den, w’en de sun biggin fuh lean ’cross de tree top ’en staa’t fuh walk down de sky fuh go to ’e res’, we git mos’ skaytode’t’, en’ we staa’t fuh sing sperritual’ en’ praise de Lawd, en’ Silus ketch ’e tex’ f’um de fo’teen chaptuh een Nickuhdemus, en’ him tell we ’bout how de Lawd tu’n Nickuhdemus eento cow w’en him hongry, so ’e could git grass fuh eat, but I tell’um dat tex’ couldn’ specify, ’cause how de debble--een de fus’ place, man cyan’ eat grass w’en him dey high een de tree top.

“En’ den de sun gone down, en’ one leetle cat squerril come out ’e hole een de gum tree en’ tu’n ’e tail obuh ’e back en’ say ‘_paak, paak, paak_’, en’ one big owl fly close to we en’ seddown een we tree en’ say ‘_whaak, whaak, whaak, whaak, whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo!_’ en’ den I know de Lawd tek pity on we en’ sen’ we cump’ny, en’ we git mo’ fait’ een de Lawd, en’ we biggin fuh holluh ’gen, en’ dis time, suh, Mistuh Chile yeddy we woice en’ sen’ ’e boat en’ tek we off, en’ w’en we git back to de nigguhhouse yaa’d, eb’rybody on de plantesshun sing praise en’ glad we come back--eb’rybody ’scusin’ Silus’ wife, en’, you b’leebe me, suh! Silus’ lady him bex ’cause ’e husbun’ britchiz buss’, en’ ’e lick Silus ’cause ’e didn’ drowndid.”

WAITING TILL THE BRIDEGROOMS COME

On a hot June day a year or two ago, a tall, pumpkin-colored negro was leisurely plowing an unambitious mule in a cornfield in Lower Carolina. Minzacter Singleton was his euphonious name, and he was about 55 years of age.