Mildred, dressed in her pretty brown traveling suit, off to Iowa; the
last slipper and handful of rice thrown; the last lingering guest
departed; daylight passed and the moon well up; and at last Mrs. Brown
and Judy and Molly were free to sink on a settle on the porch, realizing
for the first time how tired and footsore they were.
"Oh, my dears, I feel as though I could never get up again! It is a good
thing I am so tired, for now I shall have to sleep and can't grieve for
Mildred all night. I begged Professor Green to stay, but he had to go
back to Louisville. However, he is coming out to Chatsworth to-morrow to
pay us the promised visit. We shall have to pack the presents in the
morning to send to Iowa, and glad I'll be to get them out of the house.
Did I tell you, Molly, that Aunt Mary, Ca'line and Lewis are all going
off to-morrow to Jim Jourdan's basket funeral? We shall be alone, you
and Judy and I. Sue goes to your Aunt Clay's for a few days, and Kent
starts back to work, the dear boy. Such a comfort as he has been! Ernest
has to look up some friends in town, but will be out in time for supper.
I fancy he will drive Professor Green out from Louisville. Good night,
my dear girls, I know you are dead tired."
So they were, so tired that Judy overslept in the morning, but Molly was
up betimes to help the servants get off on their gruesome spree.
"Now ain't that jes' like my Molly baby? She don' never fergit to be
he'pful. Th' ain't no cookin' fer you to do to-day, honey; they's plenty
of bis'it lef' from the jamboree las' night; they's a ham bone wif 'nuf
on it fer you and yo' ma an' Miss Judy to pick on; they's a big bowl er
chick'n salid in the 'frigerater that I jes' bodaciously tuck away from
that black Lewis. I done tol' him that awlive ile my'naise ain't no
eatin's fer niggers. If his insides needs a greasin' he kin take a good
swaller er castor ile. Tell yo' ma I made that lazy Ca'line churn fo'
sun-up 'cause they wa'nt a drap er butter in the house, an' the
buttermilk is in the big jar in the da'ry. They's a pot er cabbage
simperin' on the back er the stove, but that ain't meant fer the white
folks, but jes' in case we needs some comfort when we gits back from the
funeral. I tried to save some ice cream fer my honey baby from las'
night an' had it all packed good fer keepin', but looked like in the
night I took sech a cravin' fer some mo' I couldn' sleep 'thout I had
some, an' by the time I opened up the freezer an' et some, it looked
like the res' of it jes' melted away somehow."
"Well, Aunt Mary, I am so glad you got some more. Have a good time and
don't worry about us. We shall get along all right. You see there are no
men on the place to-day, and women can eat anything the day after a
party. You know my teacher, Professor Green, is going to be here for a
visit. He is coming this evening in time for supper, and I do hope you
won't be too tired after the basket funeral to make him some waffles."
"What, me tired? I ain't a-goin' to be doin' nothin' all day but enjyin'
of myself; and if I won't have the stren'th myself to stir up a few
waffles fer my baby's frien's, I's still survigerous 'nuf to make that
Ca'line do it. I allus has a good time at funerals an' a basket funeral
is the mos' enjyble of all entertainments."
Judy came on the scene just then and begged to be enlightened as to the
nature of a basket funeral.
"Well, you see, honey, when a member dies at a onseasonable time, or at
the beginning of the week an' you can't keep him 'til Sunday, or in
harvestin' time when ev'ybody is busy an' the hosses is all workin', why
then we jes' bury the corpse quiet like. And then when work gits slack
an' there is some chanst to borrow the white folks' teams, we gits
together an' ev'ybody takes a big lunch an' we impair to the seminary
an' have a preachment over the grave and then a big jamboree." The old
woman stopped to chuckle, and such a contagious chuckle she had that you
found yourself laughing with her before you knew what the joke was.
"I 'member moughty well when this here same Jim Jourdan, what is to be
preached over an' prayed over an' et over to-day, was doin' the same by
his second wife Suky Jourdan, an' that was after I had buried my Cyrus
an' befo' I took up wif my Albert. It was a hot day in July when
fryin'-size chick'ns was jes' about comin' on good an' fat, an' I had a
scrumptious lot of victuals good 'nuf fer white folks. Jim looked so
ferlorn that I as't him to sit down an' try to worry down some eatin's
with us. He was vas'ly pleased to do so, an' look like he couldn' praise
my cookin' 'nuf; an' befo' we got to the pie, he up an' ast me to come
occupy Suky's place in his cabin. I never said one word, but I got up
an' fetched a big pa'm leaf fan out'n the waggin an han' it to him.
'What's this fer, Sis Mary?' sez he, an' sez I, 'You jes' take this here
fan an' fan you' secon' 'til she's col', and then come a seekin' yo'
third.'"
The girls laughed until the tears rolled down their cheeks over Aunt
Mary's unique courtship. The red-wheeled wagon came up driven by Lewis
with Ca'line sitting beside him, dressed within an inch of her life.
Molly got a box for Aunt Mary to step on to climb into the vehicle, but
the old woman refused to budge until Lewis took out the back seat and
got a rocking chair for her to sit in.
"You know moughty well, you fergitful nigger, that I allus goes to
baskit funerals a-settin' in a rockin' cheer! Go git the one offen the
back po'ch, the red one with the arms to it. Sho as I go a-settin' on a
back seat some lazy pusson what can't borrow a team will come a-astin'
fer to ride longside er me, an' I don' want nobody a-rumplin' me up, an'
'sides ole Miss never lent this waggin fer all the niggers in Jeff'son
County to come a-crowdin' in an ben'in' the springs. Then when we gits
to the buryin' groun', I'll have a cheer to sit in an' not have to go
squattin' 'roun' on grabe stones."
"Good-by, Aunt Mary, good-by, Ca'line and Lewis."
The girls waved until they were out of sight and then went laughing into
the quiet house. It seemed quiet, indeed, after the hub-bub of the day
before.
"Everything certainly stayed clean with all of the guests out of doors.
I have never had an entertainment with so little to do when it was
over," said Mrs. Brown. "It was a good day for the servants to go away,
with the house in such good order and enough left-overs from the wedding
supper for three lone women to feed on for several meals. I wonder how
your Aunt Clay is getting on with her harvesting? She is so headstrong
not to borrow my cutting machine! Why does she insist that flour made
from wheat cut with a scythe makes better bread than that cut with
modern machinery?"
"She declared yesterday, mother, that she was not going to feed her
hands until they got through mowing, if it took them until nightfall.
She says you spoil all darkeys that come near you, and she is going to
show them who is boss on her place. Kent infuriated her by telling her
she would get herself into trouble if she did not look out; that her
wheat was already overripe, and if she attempted to make her hands work
over dinner hour they would leave it half cut; but advice to Aunt Clay
always sends her in the opposite direction."
"I wish I had not let Sue go over there. Most of those harvesters are
strangers from another county, and they might do something desperate if
Sarah antagonized them."
"Don't worry, mother, Cyrus Clay is over there, and he is sure to take
good care of Sue."
The morning was spent with much gay talk as they packed the presents.
Mrs. Brown was the kind of woman who could enter into the feelings of
young people. She seemed to be of their generation and was never shocked
or astonished when in their talk she realized that things had changed
since her day. She usually made the best of it and put it down to
"progress" of some sort. They worked faithfully, and by twelve o'clock
had tied up and labeled the last parcel to go in the last barrel.
"Come on, girls, let's have an early lunch and then we can have our much
needed and hard-earned rest. A good nap all around will make us feel
like ourselves again."
How good that lunch did taste! Molly had been so excited that she could
not swallow food the evening before, and Mrs. Brown had been so busy
looking after guests that she had forgotten to eat. Judy was the only
one who had done justice to the supper, but, having tested it, she was
more than willing to try the chicken salad again.
"Never mind washing the dishes; put them in a dish-pan for Ca'line. Get
into your kimonos and take a good nap. I am sick for sleep," yawned Mrs.
Brown.
In five minutes they were dead to the world, lost in that midsummer
afternoon sleep, the heaviest of all slumber. Everything was perfectly
still except the bees, buzzing around the honey-suckle. A venturesome
vine had made its way through Molly's window, ever open in summer, and
as Judy lay, half asleep, she amused herself by watching a great bumble
bee sip honey from the fragrant flowers, and his humming was the last
sound that she was conscious of hearing. It seemed like a minute, so
heavily had she slept--it was really several hours--when she was awakened
with a nightmare that the bee was as big as a horse and his humming was
that of a thousand bees.
"Molly, Molly, listen, what is that noise?"
Molly, ever a light sleeper, was out of bed in a trice and at the front
window. What a sight met her eyes! Coming up the avenue was a crowd of
at least forty negroes, all of them carrying scythes and whetstones, the
sweat pouring from their black faces and bared necks and hairy chests,
their white teeth flashing and eyeballs rolling, the sun glinting on the
sharp steel of their scythes, menace and fury darkening the face of
every man and coming from them a mutter and hum truly like the buzzing
of a thousand bees.
Judy, although she was weak with fear, could not help thinking, "That is
the noise on the stage that a mob tries to make."
"Aunt Clay's hands have struck work, and to think there is not a man on
this place! I believe the blackguards know it! Load your pistol, Judy,
and let us go to mother."
Mother was already up, hastily gowned in her wrapper, and opening the
front door when the girls came down the stairs. The intrepid lady walked
out on the porch with seemingly no more fear than she had had the day
before when she came forward to meet the wedding guests. Head erect,
eyes steady and piercing, with a voice clear and composed, she said,
"Why, boys, you look very tired and hot, and I know you are hungry. Sit
down in the shade, on the porch steps and under the trees, and I will
see what we can find for you to eat. Molly, go get that buttermilk out
of the dairy. The jar is too heavy for you to lift, so take Buck and let
him carry it for you."
Mrs. Brown, with all of her courage, was never more scared in her life.
All the time she was talking she had been looking in the crowd of black
faces for a familiar one, and was glad to recognize Buck Jourdan, a
good-natured, good-for-nothing nephew of Aunt Mary's. At her command
Buck stepped forward, and then a dozen more of the men came to the
front, unconsciously separating themselves from the rest. Mrs. Brown saw
that they were all negroes belonging in her neighborhood. At her calming
words and proffer of food such a change came over the faces of the mob
that they hardly seemed to be the same men. Their teeth showed now in
grins instead of sinister snarls; they stacked their murderous looking
weapons against the paulownia tree and sat down in the shade with
expressions as peaceful as the wedding guests themselves had worn.
Molly and the stalwart Buck were back in an incredibly short time with
the five-gallon jar of buttermilk and a tray of glasses not yet put away
from yesterday's feast. Mrs. Brown herself dipped out the smooth,
luscious beverage, seeing that each man was plentifully served, while
Molly went into the house to bring out all the cooked provisions she
could find. Mrs. Brown beckoned the trembling and wondering Judy to her
and whispered, "Go ring the farm bell as loud as you can. All danger is
over now, I feel sure, but it is well to let the neighbors know that we
are in some difficulty; and I fancy I heard a horse trotting on the
turnpike, and whoever it is might hasten to us at the sound of a farm
bell at this unusual hour."
Judy flew to the great bell, hung on a high post in the back yard. She
seized the rope, and then such a ding-dong as pealed forth! The bell was
a very heavy brass one, and at every pull Judy, who was something of a
lightweight, leaped into the air, reciting as she jumped, "Curfew shall
not ring to-night."
"That is enough, my dear. There is no use in getting help from an
adjacent county, and I fancy every one in Jefferson County has heard the
bell by this time," said Mrs. Brown, stopping her before she had quite
finished the last stanza, which Judy said was like interrupting a good
sneeze.
Molly had found all kinds of food for the hungry laborers, who were more
sinned against than sinning. They had gone in all good faith to the Clay
farm to harvest the wheat according to the antiquated methods of the
mistress, with scythes and cradles. When twelve o'clock, the dinner hour
everywhere, came, they were told that they could not eat until they had
finished. They had worked on until two, and then, infuriated with hunger
and goaded on by the thought of the injustice done them, they had struck
in a body and gone to the mansion to try to force Mrs. Clay to feed
them; but they had been held back at the point of a pistol, by that lady
herself. Then they had determined to get food where they could find it.
Mrs. Brown gathered this much from the men as, their hunger assuaged,
they talked more connectedly.
"Th' ain't nothin' like buttermilk to ease yo' heart," said Buck Jasper.
"Mis' Mildred Carmichael kin git mo' outen her niggers fillin' 'em full
er buttermilk than her sister Mis' Sary kin fillin' 'em full er
buckshot."
Mrs. Brown was right; she had heard a horse trotting on the turnpike.
The men were wiping their mouths on the backs of their hands and coming
up one at a time to thank the gracious lady for her kindness in feeding
them, when Ernest and Edwin Green came driving into the avenue.
"Mother! What does this mean? I thought I heard the farm bell when I was
about two miles from home, and now I find the yard full of negro men.
Have you had a fire?"
Mrs. Brown explained that Aunt Clay had made things pretty hot for her
hands, but so far there had been no other fire. She welcomed Professor
Green to Chatsworth and called the grinning Buck to take his suitcase to
the cottage porch. Judy wondered at her calm manner and at her saying
nothing to Ernest about their being so frightened, not realizing that
one hint of the trouble would have sent Ernest off into a rage, when he
might have reprimanded the negroes and all the good work of the
buttermilk have been undone. Molly was pale and Professor Green, ever
watchful of her, asked Judy to give him an account of the matter, which
she did in such a graphic manner that he, too, turned pale to think of
the danger those dear ladies had been in. He made himself at home by
making himself useful, and helped Molly to carry back into the kitchen
the empty glasses and plates from the feast of the hungry darkeys. She
laughingly handed him a great, iron pot in which cabbage had been
cooked.
"I am wondering what Aunt Mary will say about her cabbage. Mother sent
me into the house to get all available food, when she realized that the
hands were simply hungry and that food would be the best thing to quell
their rage. Aunt Mary had this huge pot of cabbage on the back of the
range; she said in case Lewis jolted down the lunch she was going to eat
at the basket funeral she would have it cooked in readiness. The poor
dogs will have to go hungry, too, or have some more corn bread cooked
for them. I found this big pan full of what we call dog-bread, made from
scalded meal and salt and bacon drippings, baked until it is crisp. The
men were crazy about it with pot liquor poured over it. You can see for
yourself how they licked their platters clean."
"The Saxon word 'lady' means bread-giver, but I think that you and your
mother have given it a new significance, and the dictionaries will have
to add, 'Dispenser of cabbage and buttermilk and dog-bread.'"
More wheels, and Aunt Mary and Lewis, with Ca'line much rumpled and
asleep on the front seat, her shoes and stockings in her lap and her
bare feet propped gracefully on the dashboard, had returned. Aunt Mary
was much excited.
"What's all dis doin'? Who was all dem niggers I seen a-streakin' crost
the fiel's? Buck Jourdan, ain't that you I see hidin' behine that tree?
I thought I hearn the farm bell as we roun'ed the Pint, but Lewis lowed
'twas over to Miss Sary Clay's. Come here, Buck, an' he'p me out'n dis
here waggin. You needn't think you kin hide from me, when I kin see the
patch on yo' pants made outen the selfsame goods I gib yo' ma to make
some waistes out'n, two years ago come next Febuway." Buck came
sheepishily forward to help his old aunt out of the vehicle. "Nex' time
you wan' ter hide from me you'd better make out to grow a leettle
leaner, or fin' a tree what's made out to grow some wider so's you won't
stick out beyant it. What you been doing, and who's been a-mashin' down
ole Miss's grass, and what's my little Miss Molly baby a-doin' workin'
herself to death ag'in to-day?"
Buck endeavored to explain his appearance, and told the story of the
strike at Mrs. Clay's and how they were just passing through Mrs.
Brown's yard when she had come out and invited them all to dinner. His
story was so plausible and his voice so soft and manner so wheedling,
that Professor Green, who overheard the conversation, was much amused,
and had he not already got the incident from Judy might have believed
Buck, so convincing were his words and manner. Not so Aunt Mary, who had
partly raised the worthless Buck and knew better than anyone how he
could use his silver tongue to lie as well as tell the truth, but
preferred the former method.
"Now, look here, you Buck Jourdan, you ain't no count on Gawd's green
yearth 'cep to play the banjo. What you been doin' hirin' yo'self out to
Miss Sary Clay, jes' like you ain't never know'd that none of our fambly
don' never work fer none er hern? Yo' ma befo' you an' yo' gran'ma befo'
her done tried it. Meanin' no disrespect to the rest er the Carmichaels,
der's the ole sayin', 'What kin you expec' from a hog but a grunt?' I
knows 'thout goin' in my kitchen that Miss Molly done gib all you
triflin' niggers my pot er cabbage an' the dog-bread I baked fer those
houn's an' bird dogs what ain't no mo' count than you is, 'cept'n they
can't play the banjo."
"Buck Jourdan, is that you?" said Ernest, coming forward and
interrupting Aunt Mary's tirade. "I am going to get Miss Molly's banjo
and you can sit down and give us some music. I haven't heard a good tune
since I went West."
Buck, glad to escape any farther tongue lashing from his relative, and
always pleased to play and sing, tuned the banjo and began:
"'Hi,' said the 'possum as he shook the 'simmon tree,
'Golly,' said the rabbit; 'you shake 'em all on me.'
An' they went in wif they claws, an' they licked they li'l paws,
An' they took whole heaps home to they maws."
After several stanzas sung in a soft melodious voice, Buck, at Molly's
request, gave them, to a chanting recitative the following song,
composed by a friend of Buck's, and worthy to be incorporated in
American folk-lore, so Professor Green laughingly assured Mrs. Brown.
THE MURDER OF THE RATTAN FAMILY.
"One evening in September, in eighteen ninety-three,
Jim Stone committed a murder, as cruel as it could be.
'Twas on the Rattan family, while they were preparing for their bed.
Jim Stone, he rapped upon the door, complaining of his head.
The first was young Mrs. Rattan. She come to let him in.
He slew her with his corn knife--that's where his crime begin.
The next was old Mrs. Rattan. Old soul was feeble and gray.
Truly she fought Jim Stone a battle till her strength it give way.
The next was the little baby. When he, Jim Stone did see,
He raised up in his cradle. 'Oh! Jim Stone, don't murder me!'
Next morning when he was arrested--wasn't sure that he was the one.
Till only a few weeks later he confessed to the crime he done.
They took him to Southern Prison, which they thought was the
safetes' place.
When they marched him out for trial, he had a smile upon his face.
And after he was sentenced, oh! how he did mourn and cry.
One day he received a letter, saying his daughter was bound to die.
Next morning he answered the letter and in it he did say,
'Tell her I'll meet her there in Heaven, on the sixteenth of Februway.'
They led him upon the scaffold with the black cap over his head.
And he hung there sixteen minutes 'fore the doctors pronounced
him dead.
Now wouldn't it have been much better if he'd stayed at home
with his wife,
Instead of keeping late hours, and taking that family's life?"