the forest undergrowth, and the silver stars of the dogwood gleamed
from the chaparral, he mended his nets and lines in preparation for
the summer campaign, and, later, when the woods were odorous with the
blossoms of the elder and the wild grape, he commenced his nocturnal
forays against the finny tribes. On dark nights, when the piping of the
marsh hens apprised him that the tide was out, he took with him a boy
to paddle his cranky little craft, and, standing in the bow, threw his
cast-net with a “swish” far out into the schools of shrimp and “finger
mullet.” His catch, together with an occasional string of whiting and
yellowtail taken with the hook and line, he converted at a distant
village into the necessaries of life.
For many years there had scarcely been a ripple on this placid life of
June’s, save when a “puppy-shark” would occasionally make away with his
bait, sending the whiting line whizzing through his fingers and almost
upsetting the little craft with his impetuous rush, or when, two or
three times a year, the itinerant preacher would visit his cabin to
swap ecclesiastical platitudes for fresh fish.
On a bright day in early summer, old June sat at his doorstep basking
in the sun and watching the glistening waters as they hurried by.
Occasionally, a kingfisher would leave his station on a dead limb and,
zig-zagging in his flight, would swoop down on some small fish that
showed on the surface, and, having swallowed his prey, would leisurely
return to his perch with a harsh note of triumph. The “preechuh on de
sukkus” had just arrived to pay his periodical visit, and, scattering
a group of half-naked children who were playing around the door, June
brought out another three-legged stool and extended the hospitalities
of the establishment.
“Reb’ren’,” said he, “I berry glad you come teday.”
“Why, bredduh, ’smattuh mekso?”
“Well, suh,” said June, whose philosophical patience and faith might
put to the blush many who quarrel with their lot, “I yent min’ ’bout me
myself, suh, ’cause I tengk Gawd fuh life en’ de bre’t’ w’at Him lef’
een dis body. My lady, w’ich dead een las’ Augus’, had de consumpshus
en’ de remonia alltwo, en’ him en’ me alltwo nyuse to smoke de same
pipe befo’ him dead, en’ I berry ’f’aid dat I gwine likeso fuh ketch
de consumpshus en’ de remonia frum dat same berry pipe, en’, den, I
got mis’ry een de back, en’ I sen’ dat leetle gal ’Riah--dat is my
gran’--to de cross road sto’ fuh git fibe cent’ wut’ ub tup’mtime,
but de buckruh tek de fibe cent frum de gal en’ t’row water een de
tup’mtime, en’ w’en I rub de back wid de tup’mtime de tup’mtime couldn’
specify, en’ de mis’ry keep on jes’ de same, en’ I git so po’ly now dat
I kin sca’cely git een de crik fuh ketch swimp en’ t’ing, en’ bittle
git berry sca’ceful dese days, suh; but tengk Gawd fuh life, suh, tengk
Gawd fuh life, en’ I berry glad you come, ’cause I want’uh ax yo’
’pinion ’bout my gran’, Sooky. You know’um, suh, him is uh ’leben yeahs
ole gal chile, en’ ’e git sick een de two week een las’ Jinnywerry
done gone mek one yeah, en’ Doctuh Baa’nwell t’row one dollar en’
sebenty-fi’ cent’ wut’ uh med’sin een de gal, but somehow I don’t t’ink
de Doctuh exceed so well wid de gal, ’cause, een de fus’ week een dis
same Jinnywerry--befo’ de yeah well out--de gal tek wid mo’ mis’ry
een ’e lef’ han’ foot, en’ w’en I sen’um back to de Doctuh ’e want’uh
chaa’ge anodduh dolluh en’ sebenty-fi’ cent’ fuh t’row mo’ physic’ een
de gal, en’ dat mek me bex, ’cause eb’rybody know ’tis too soon fuh
t’row’way anodduh dolluh en’ sebenty-fi’ cent’, en’ likeso eb’rybody
know dat Doctuh Baa’nwell couldn’ be exceed so well wid de gal, en’ ’e
med’sin couldn’ specify, elseso ’e wouldn’ haffuh cyo’ one en’ de same
gal two time een one en’ de same yeah!”
THE LADY COULDN’T “SPECIFY”
The Rev. Nepchun Kinlaw, the “locus pastuh” of a Colleton County flock,
sat in the sunshine at the door of his cabin, drawing from the sights
and sounds around him inspiration for his next Sunday’s sermon.
Although he could not read, an open Bible was on his knee, and his head
was bowed reverently over the well-thumbed pages. His only knowledge
of their contents was acquired from the circuit preacher whose
quarterly sermons furnished the “class-leaders” and local preachers
with scriptural data wherewith to conduct the campaign against Satan
until his next round. These Bible truths “Pa Kinlaw”--as the female
members of his charge delighted to call him--instilled into his flock
by homely illustrations. Out in the yard before him, a little ridge of
earth, which gradually increased in length, indicated the presence of a
ground-mole that was burrowing through the hard ground. “Dat gru’mole
hab fait’,” said he. “’E yent gots no eye een ’e head, en’ ’e cyan’ see
de wurrum een de eart’, but ’e hab fait’, en’ de Lawd lead’um ’long to
weh de wurrum does lib, en’ de gru’mole ketch de wurrum en’ eat’um.
Same fashi’n, man en’ ’ooman gots to hab fait’ een de Lawd, elsehow dem
ent able fuh _specify_ w’en Gabrull blow ’e hawn en’ de great day come.
Ef you ent got _fait’_, please Gawd, oonuh nebbuh ketch de wurrum ub
Salwashun!”
His reflections were rudely interrupted by the advent of Jim Green,
the colored constable of a neighboring trial justice, who, mounted on
a razor-backed rat of a Texas pony, rode up to the door and, in the
name of the State of South Carolina, demanded from the “Reb’ren’” a
dollar and a quarter, the balance due on a two-dollar marriage ceremony
performed in October last by the aforesaid trial justice, “who did then
and there, at the time and place aforesaid, unite one Nepchun Kinlaw to
one Minda Manigo.”
Not a red flag flaunted before a bull--nor a rival’s becoming Easter
bonnet before a society woman--could have been provocative of more
wrath than was the constable’s demand upon “Pa Kinlaw.” Rising from his
seat, with the natural color of his face deepened by anger until it was
as dark as the hinges of Hades, he said: “Green, you kin go back to de
Trial Jestuss en’ tell’um dat de lady, w’at him renite me to een de two
Chuesday een las’ Octobuh, cyan’ specify. Tell’um dat de only reason
w’ymekso I hab dis lady is bekasew’y my fus’ wife dead een las’ June.
Dat ’ooman w’at dead wuz de fait’fules’ ’ooman I ebbuh come ’cross een
dis wull’. I g’em praise fuh _dat_! De only fau’t I had wid’um, is
’cause ’e gone en’ dead een _June_! Ef de ’ooman had’uh dead een de
fall w’en de crop done lay by, I wouldn’ uh min’ summuch, but ’e gone
en’ leddown en’ dead een June, please Gawd, een _June_ munt’, w’en de
grass duh grow, en’ w’en de time haa’d, en bittle berry sca’ceful, en’
’e lef’ seb’n chillun een de house, en’ lef’ de cawn een de fiel’ befo’
’e gitt’ru hoe’um two time, en’ de jaybu’d flew een de fiel’ en’ nyam
de cawn, en’ de redbu’d flew een de fiel’ en’ nyam de cawn, en de crow
en’ de rokkoon en de ’possum en’ all de odduh’res’ waa’ment nyam de
cawn, ’cause I yent gots nobody fuh min’um out’n de fiel’, en’ stillyet
dat ’ooman gone en’ dead een _June_! Now, w’en I see all dese chillun,
wid ’e mout’ open same lukkuh chuckwilluh’ mout’, en’ I yent gots no
bittle fuh pit een ’um, I mek up my min’ dat I gots to git anodduh
lady, en’ sistuh Minda en’ him fus’ husbun’ paa’t, en’ I quizzit de
fus’ husbun’ ’bout’um en’ ’e gib de lady uh berry good cyarrictuh, so
I tek’um to de trial jestuss en’ marri’d’um, but w’en I marri’d’um I
t’aw’t ’e could _specify_, so I pay de jestuss sebenty-fi’ cent’, en’
owe’um dolluh en’ uh quawtuh on de ’ooman, en’ I tek de ’ooman home
en’ t’row’um een de fiel’ fuh done lay by de crap en’ plant peas een
de cawn, but, please Gawd, soon ez I lef’ de ’ooman ’e leddown flat
’puntop ’e back en’ gone ’sleep een de sunhot, en’ ’e ’low de crow
en’ t’ing fuh spile eb’ry Gawd’ crop een de fiel’ eenjurin’ de week
day, en’, w’en Sunday come, de lady put one high brustle ’puntop ’e
back en’ gone chu’ch same lukkuh him duh buckruh! En’ w’en I fin’ all
dese gwinin’ en’ gwinin’ bout de ’ooman, I kinduh git disgus’ wid, de
’ooman, en’ I yent feel like pay out no mo’ money fuh de ’ooman w’en
’e cyan’ speci_fy_. W’en I ’gree fuh pay de jestuss two dolluh’ fuh
marri’d dis lady, I t’aw’t ’e could speci_fy_, en’ I didn’ min’ ’bout
payin’ two dolluh’ fuh uh smaa’t ’ooman, but sence I tek de ’ooman home
en’ try’um, I fin’ dat de ’ooman cyan’ speci_fy_, en’ ’e yent wut’ mo’
den de sebenty-fi’ cent’ w’at I done pay on’um; en’, ef de jestuss ent
sattify wid dat--befo’ I pay de odduh’res’ ub de money--befo’ I pay’um
de dolluh en’ a quawtuh w’at I still jue on de ’ooman--_him kin tek de
lady back_!”
A QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE
The Republican State Convention was in session in the hall of the
House of Representatives at Columbia. There was a contest between two
rival delegations from Berkeley County, the one representing the “old
line” Republicans, the other the younger element which had recently
affiliated with the conservative Democrats. The fight came up on the
seating of the delegations, and it was agreed that five minutes should
be allotted to the chairman of each delegation for the presentation of
his claims to the convention.
A young African, fancifully arrayed in a spotless white flannel suit,
rose in behalf of the younger delegation and arraigned his opponents in
an “impassioned” speech.
Before his five minutes had expired, Mr. Thompson, the ape-like
chairman of the elder statesmen, interrupted him with an appeal to the
chair.
“Mistuh Chair,” said he, “I rise to uh squeschun ub priblidge.”
The Chair--“Does de juntlemun rise to de priblidge, eeduhso de
squeschun?”
“Great Gawd,” said the thoroughly aroused delegate, “I rise to de
priblidge en’ de squeschun, alltwo one time, en’ I also rise to uh
squeschun ub _inflummashun_, ’cause I bin pussonully _attacktid_.
Mistuh Chair, dis ondelicate nyung juntlemun w’ich pusceed me has
prizzunt to dis augus’ body de credenshul ub de contestuss delegashun
frum Bucksley County to Mount Pleasant presinck fuh sen’ one delegashun
to Cuhlumbia, fuh sen’ anodduh delegashun to Chicagyo fuh nominashun
de Prezzydent uh dese Newnited State! Mistuh Chair, de ’Publikin
paa’ty een Bucksley County is gots fuh speci_fy_, en’ I will likes
to quizzit dis immaculate nyung juntlemun frum Bucksley County en’
ax’um a few cumposhashun! I will likes fuh ’tarrygate’um en’ ax she
weh _him_ bin een de yeah sebenty-stree, w’en I bayre my breas’ to
de bullet uh de Dimmycrack frum de mountain to de sea_boa’d_! I will
like, suh, fuh peruse de min’ uh dis ondeestunt nyung juntlemun
en’ ax’um how de debble him kin specify en’ ruppezunt de ’Publikin
paa’ty een Bucksley County to Mount Pleasant presinck, w’en him
binnuh lib een Mistuh Puhshay Smit’ yaa’d, en’ binnuh nyam buckruh’
bittle ebbuh sence ’e farruh gone penetenshus fuh t’iefin’ hog een
de yeah sebenteen-eighty-stree! I will likes to ax dis ondelicate
_chillun-nigguh_ how him kin come yuh wid ’e jaw teet’ full uh Puhshay
Smit’ hog meat en’ onduhtek fuh seddown him contestuss delegashun ’pun
dis historicus _flo’_!
“W’en, Mistuh Chair, dis meetin’ wuz hol’ to Bucksley County to
Mount Pleasant presinck, fuh sen’ dis delegashun to Cuhlumbia fuh
sen’ anodduh delegashun to Chicagyo fuh nominashun de Prezzydent uh
dese Newnited _State_, dis immaculate juntlemun, Mistuh Dannil T.
Middletun, repose heself ’gense de conwenshun plan fuh nominashun, en’
adswocate de primus ward[2] _plan_. Now, w’en de juntlemun fin’ dat
de conwenshun plan is wictoria obuh de primus ward plan, de juntlemun
git disgus’, en’ de juntlemun lef’ de flo’ uh de conwenshun en’ gone
down de step, follow’ by he cohort, Mistuh Gibbes! Now, Mistuh Chair, I
punnounce shish ondeestunt behavior, on de paa’t uh Mistuh Middletun,
uh disgustuss splotch ’pun de ’Publikin paa’ty’ cawpsus politicksus,
en’ ef de juntlemun will contuhdix de wu’d w’ich I nyuse, I will
punnounce she to be a _lie_! Mistuh Chair, de juntlemun’ mout’ is too
black for she to be a Dimmycrack, en’ ’e yeye is too red fuh he to
be a ’Publikin, en’ I punnounce’um, on de flo’ uh dis conwenshun, uh
monstrosity politicuss _muffledice_!”[3]
CONDUCTOR SMITH’S DILEMMA
Is there one, among the thousands that have traveled on his train, who
does not know and, knowing, does not esteem, Conductor Smith--“Billy”
Smith of the Blue Ridge Railroad? Surely not, for like his prototype,
Baines Carew, the sympathetic attorney of the Bab Ballads, who was so
overcome by the recital of his clients’ woes that he “had scarcely
strength to take his fee,” Billy, the embodiment of courtesy and
kindliness, never collected a fare or punched a ticket without a
deprecatory smile and look of sympathy, as tho’ it grieved him very
much. This accommodating disposition has made him an easy prey to an
exacting public. Other trains have passed over his road, but the cream
of the travel has always been reserved for Billy. His the happiness
of looking after tow-headed boys sent to visit distant relatives; his
the honor of escorting to and from boarding-school, grown girls who
have been provided with half-fare tickets by their thrifty mothers;
his the privilege of hauling to and fro, ladies who have been blessed
with twins by a prodigal Providence, ladies with birdcages, ladies with
baby-carriages, ladies with cats in baskets, ladies with geraniums
in pots, ladies with home-made jams and pickles in jars, ladies with
bundles and bandboxes, ladies with an overweening desire to pour into
his sympathetic ear divers family secrets--the exact number of teeth
the last baby but one has cut, the number and variety of fashionable
ailments considerately diagnosed by their family physicians, etc., etc.
With these and like confidences the patient conductor’s time is not
infrequently whiled away between stations.
Thus for years has Billy Smith trod--or rather joggled along--the path
of duty between Walhalla and Belton. In the spring-time, when rill and
river are swollen by heavy rains, and the tawny waters rush down the
hillsides, gullying the plowed lands and scattering the rich soil “out
among the neighbors,” when the pale blue wild violet and the waxen
Easter lily peep from dell and dingle, and the peach and plum trees,
clustering around the farmsteads, open their pink and white petals to
the sunshine and the dew; in the summer, when the golden bees swarm
over the clover blooms and the ripe grain falls before the sweep of
the scythe; in the autumn, when the chestnut burrs lie on the sod and
the dead leaves swirl in the blast; in the winter, when the Blue Ridge
is wrapped in a slumber-robe of snow and the frost crystals, forced
out of the icy earth, sparkle on the sides of the deep cuts--in all
seasons and in all weathers--Billy Smith plods on. Time and toil have
streaked his beard with gray, and deepened the lines in his face,
but his smile is as sweet and his hands and feet as willing as ever
they were in his younger days, and, until he shall run his last train
through the golden gates of the new Jerusalem and pass in his manifests
to be checked up by the Almighty Auditor, he will doubtless be seen at
the termini of the Blue Ridge Railroad, loaded to the gunwales, like a
lighter at a coaling station, with babies, pug dogs, flowering plants
and all the miscellaneous paraphernalia apparently inseparable from
itinerant femininity, and will still take a commanding position in the
centre of his coach and diurnally sing, alas! “that old sweet song:”
“Belton, Belton! Junction Columbia and Greenville Railroad! About
fifty minutes, fifty minutes, before the train comes for Columbia!
Passengers going in the direction of Columbia will have to git off now,
you’ll have to git off, as this train leaves in about ten minutes,
ten minutes, for Greenville, for Greenville--which is in the opposite
direction from Columbia!”
There are moments in every life when flowers are no longer sweet, and
women no longer fair; when there is no music in the song of birds, no
merriment in the laughter of children, and all the world seems dark.
One of these moments came to Billy Smith the other day, when Conductor
Fielding of the main line unloaded at Belton, Diana Hawlback, an
elderly black woman from Beaufort County, who, with her grand-daughter
“Lizzybet’,” a spotted pig in a bag, two barnyard roosters and a hen,
tied by the legs, four quarts of roasted peanuts, a bushel of “Crazy
Jane” sweet potatoes, a large bundle of bedding, and divers and sundry
other belongings, was on her way to Pendleton to visit relatives. “The
fight came up,” as the Congressional reporters say, “on the recurrence
of the previous question,” which was, in this case, an emphatic demand
for the payment of full fare for Diana’s “gran’,” “Lizzybet’,” a leggy
girl of apparently fourteen years of age. “Cap’n,” said Diana, “dat gal
is a ’leben yeahs old gal, en’ wehrebbuh I does tek’um on de train,
de buckruh nebbuh does chaa’ge me mo’ den chillun money fuh de gal.
Enty you ’membuh, suh, de yeah w’en de dry drought come? Well, dat gal
bawn een dat same berry yeah een de middle paa’t ub de summuh, ’cause
I ’membuh berrywell de dry drought dry up all de swamp en’ backwatuh
en’ t’ing een Augus’, en’ all de man on de plantesshun gone out een
de swamp en’ ketch de alligettuh out’n ’e hole, en’ dis gal Lizzybet’
ma--him name Benus--eat too much alligettuh w’en Lizzybet’ wuz a t’ree
weeks’ ole gal, en’ de ’ooman dead en’ lef’ dis gal on my han’. De
gal’ pa wuz my nyoungis’ son, Pollydo’, en’ alldo’ de scriptuh say,
‘Paul kin plant en’ Pollydo’ kin water, but Gawd duh de man w’at gib
de greese,’ stillyet Pollydo’ en’ him bredduh Paul plant de crap en’
watuhr’um alltwo ’tell de dry drought come, but Gawd nebbuh sen’ de
greese ’tell Pollydo’ ketch de alligettuh en’ bile’um, en’ stillyet,
alldo’ ’e folluh’ de scriptuh’ wu’d en’ gib ’e lady de alligettuh
greese w’at de Lawd sen’, yet de lady dead, so I don’t t’ink dat tex’,
w’at my locus pastuh resplain, could be specify, elseso I don’t t’ink
Pa Kinlaw could be onduhstan’ de scriptuh berry well, or de greese
nebbuh would’uh ’stroy’d de ’ooman. Stan’ up gal, en’ ’low de buckruh
fuh look ’puntop yo’ foot. Cap’n, you ebbuh see, sence you bawn,
shishuh feet lukkuh dat on a fo’teen yeahs ole gal? Ent you know,”
said she, as Conductor Smith’s eyes opened at the size of the pedal
extremities exhibited, “ent you know dat a ’leben yeahs ole gal gots
bigguh foot den a fo’teen yeahs ole gal? Dis gal nebbuh had a shoe ’pun
’e foot, en’ ’e foot gots nutt’n’ fuh stop’um frum grow. Befo’ you
tek’way all my money fuh tek dis gal to Pendletun, I wish you, please,
suh, kin eeduh go yo’self, elseso sen’ uh ansuh to my sistuhlaw, Miss
Frajuh, w’at lib to Mistuh Brissle place to Cumbee, en’ ax’um wedduh
dis gal Lizzybet’, w’ich him is my gran’, is mo’ den ’leben yeah ole.”
ONE WAS TAKEN--THE OTHER LEFT
On the hot white sand of a cart road that wound along the edge of
a ricefield in lower Carolina, lay the stiffened body of a yellow,
crop-eared cur. By his side, a companion in death, was a cottonmouth
moccasin, beaten almost to a pulp.
The road was flanked on either side by a canal half filled with
stagnant water, dotted here and there with water lilies and shaded by
the feathery foliage of the pond willows, while, among the clumps of
rushes that fringed the edges, blue flags nodded. Over all, the July
sun glared fiercely, and up on the willow branches, where, here and
there, his rays penetrated the dense foliage, lay a water snake basking
in the golden light. Now and then a blue heron--the “Po’ Joe” of the
plantation negro--rose lazily from his fishing station out in the
ricefield, and, trailing his long legs after him, moved on to another
“drop.” The whole world seemed to be asleep in the warm sunshine--all
the world save old Ca’lina Manigo, who sat on a cypress log by the side
of the road and gazed sorrowfully at the dead dog, and the snake that
had caused its death, while he muttered to himself:
“Po’ ole Hol’fas’ dead, yaas, suh, dead en’ gone! Ketch ’e de’t’ en’
git ’structed by uh debble’ub’uh snake! De preechuh say dat w’en de
Lawd tek’way good man en’ good ’ooman frum dis wull’ ’tis bekasew’y
Him lub ’um en’ gots nyuse fuhr’um, but I wunduh w’y mekso Him tek’way
Hol’fas’? Cyan’ be dem does ketch rokkoon en’ ’possum en’ t’ing een
Heben! I nebbuh yerry ’bout no shishuh t’ing, but, my Mastuh! ef
dem _is_ got’um dey, Hol’fas’ will tree’um befo’ dayclean tomorruh
mawnin’, ’speshly ef ’e got sense ’nuf fuh fin’ Bredduh Cudjo, my
class-leader, w’at de Lawd tek las’ Fibbywerry, ’cause B’Cudjo nyuse to
lub fuh folluh de waa’ment’ track een de swamp same lukkuh ’e nyuse to
lub fuh folluh de ’Postle Paul’ en’ Nickuhdemus’ track een de Scriptuh,
en’, I tell you, suh, w’en B’Cudjo git on a hot trail, wedduh’so ’e duh
trail ’possum or ’postle, ’e berry haa’d fuh t’row’um off!
“Dat mek me ’membuh ’bout de las’ time me en’ him en’ Hol’fas’ ketch
de hebby rokkoon een de Cypress swamp close to Beabuh dam. Yaas’suh,
dat dog couldn’ _tu’ndown_ fuh rokkoon! ’E wuz jes’ ’bout fus’
fowlcrow; de mawnin’ staar climb up de sky ’tell ’e stan’ ’puntop de
treehead, en’, ’way obuh de swamp een de big dribe, we yerry de owl
‘whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo,’ en’ bimeby pres’n’ly, we list’n good en’ we
yerry Hol’fas’ comin’ ’pun one hot trail, en’, bimeby ’gen, we know by
’e baa’k dat ’e done tree; so, w’en we come to de dog, ’e bin at de
biggis’ sweetgum tree een de swamp en’ duh gib ’e tongue berry rappit.
Now, w’en we pit de light’ood junk behin’ we fuh shine ’e yeye, we
see de rokkoon ’puntop de berry top uh de gum tree, en’ we yent gots
no gun fuh shoot de rokkoon, so B’Cudjo staa’t’ fuh climb de tree fuh
t’row down de rokkoon, en’ ’e git’long berry well ’tell ’e git mos’ to
de rokkoon, en’ B’Cudjo so hongry fuh ketch de rokkoon, dat ’e nebbuh
quizzit de limb w’at him binnuh seddown ’puntop, en’ w’en ’e _graff_
at de rokkoon, please Gawd, de limb couldn’ specify, en’ de limb bruk,
en’ w’en B’Cudjo graff de rokkoon by ’e tail, him en’ de rokkoon
alltwo drap out de tree, en’ hit de groun’ ‘_bim_!’ De rokkoon dead,
but B’Cudjo, een Gawd’ mussy, fall ’puntop ’e head, en’ dat hukkuh ’e
didn’ bruk ’e back!
“Well, praise de Mastuh, Him tek’way Hol’fas’. I yent grudge’um de dog,
ef Him want’um, but I wish ’E had uh bin tek my lady Bina en’ lef’ de
dog, ’cause de dog nebbuh lie, en’ de ’ooman _fuhrebbuh_ duh lie, en’
de dog wuz a fait’ful dog, en’ de ’ooman is a ’ceitful ’ooman, en’
w’en you feed de dog, de dog wag ’e tail, but de _’ooman!_ him nebbuh
tengkful fuh _nutt’n’_. You nebbuh kin sattify _him_!”
EGG-ZACTLY
“Come’yuh, gal, en’ lemme look ’puntop yo’ foot. W’en I call you, yo’
foot hebby ez i’on, en’ w’en I tu’n you loose, ’e light ez uh fedduh.
Wuh ’smattuh? Yo’ two foot’ mus’ be tie togedduh, enty? Befo’ de Lawd,
you stan’ same lukkuh yo’ maamy en’ yo’ gran’maamy alltwo. You is
tarrypin w’en time come fuh wu’k, en’ bu’d w’en time come fuh play!”
Old Carolina Manigo sat on a three-legged stool at the door of his
cabin, as he thus addressed his grand-daughter, Lucinda, a scrawny
negress of twelve or thirteen years. With reluctant feet, the girl,
a pitiful object, approached him. Her dress and appearance were in
keeping with the wretched poverty of her grandfather and all his
surroundings, and evidenced the utter incapacity of the average negro,
thrown by “freedom” upon his own resources, to care decently for his
family. The frowzy wool on her unkempt head had been plaited weeks
before into little pigtails that bristled all over her crown like
black caterpillars. Her face was gray with dirt, around her thick lips
lingered the encrusted remnants of her sweet-potato dinner of the day
before, while down her cheeks lay, like the rills of resinous gum that
streak the bark of the pine tree “boxed” for turpentine, the tracks
of recent tears. Through the rifts in the ragged cotton dress that
constituted her sole attire, her scraggy limbs showed as she walked,
or limped, rather, toward her grandfather. Around her left foot was
wrapped a piece of burlap bagging, and, whenever she stepped upon it,
her pinched face contracted with pain.