dis mek de two time Gawd, een ’e mussy, sen’ mis’ry en’ water-moccasin
een dis fambly. Las’ week dem ’stroy’d Hol’fas’ (w’ich him wuz de bes’
rokkoon dog ebbuh git ’pun a trail) en’ now, please de Mastuh, de snake
gone en’ structid dis chillun gal, en’ ’e gwine to dead on my han’, en’
’e know berry well ’e ma gone town, en’, ef ’e _yiz_ dead befo’ ’e ma
git back frum town, him will lef’ me bidout a Gawd’ somebody fuh min’
bu’d out de cawnfiel’, en’ I nebbuh see, sence I bawn, shishuh hebby
gang uh woodpeckuh’, crow’ en’ all kind’uh annimel lukkuh dis same
Augus’ munt’. Gal! You ent gots no eye een yo’ head ’scusin’ fuh look
fuh blackberry, enty? You walk duh paat’ en’ tu’n yo’ gaze ’puntop de
sky, ’stead’uh quizzit de groun’ weh you duh walk! W’en you dead, who
gwine keep jaybu’d’ out’n dis fiel’? I good min’ to lick you!”
“Gran’puh,” whimpered ’Cindy, “I nebbuh step ’puntop no snake, suh,
’tis briah w’at ’cratch me foot.”
“Briah!” laughed old Ca’lina, derisively. _“Briah!_ Who’ebbuh yerry
’bout shishuh t’ing! Briah! I sway to Gawd, gal, you mos’ mek me laugh!
Weh de debble you ebbuh know briah kin ’cratch nigguh’ foot? You mus’
be t’ink you is buckruh, enty? You binnuh walk een briah en’ t’ing
ebbuh sence you bawn, ’tell de bottom uh yo’ foot haa’d same lukkuh
alligettuh’ back, en’ you gots de impedin’ to come’yuh en’ tell yo’
gran’puh dat briah ’cratch yo’ foot! Step fas’, gal. Slow walkin’ mek
quick lickin’, en’ fus t’ing you know briah will ’cratch you ’puntop
yo’ back ’stead’uh ’pun yo’ lef’ han’ feet. Mek’ace, gal, en’ come’yuh.
Ent you ’membuh dat, een de ’Postle Paul’ ’Pistle to de ’Feeshun’, him
resplain de wu’d dat ’long talk ketch run’way nigguh?’ Ent you know dat
dey ent uh Chryce’ hom’ny een de house fuh eat? De las’ fr’en’ I got
een dis wull’ wuz ole Hol’fas’, en’ snake gone en’ structid dat dog
en’ kill’um, en’ ebbuh sence ’e dead, de waa’ment en’ t’ing come en’
’stroy’d eb’ry Gawd’ fowl on de place, en’ las’ night wil’cat come en’
ketch de frizzle hen wat binnuh set onduhneet’ de cedar bush een de
fench cawnuh, en’ de hen ’low de cat fuh ketch’um, en’ t’ree uh de aig’
is duck aig’ en’ two uh de odduh’res’ is tuckrey aig’, en’ you bettuh
tek de aig’ to Mistuh Ram’ sto’ to de Cross Road’, en’ chaa’ge’um
seb’npunce fuh de aig’, ’cause I don’t t’ink de aig’ kin specify berry
well, ’cause de hen w’at bin seddown ’puntop de aig’ git ketch by de
wil’cat en’ de aig’ binnuh seddown een de jew en’ t’ing, but ef de
buckruh ’tarrygate you en’ quizzit you too ondeestunt ’bout de aig’,
you kin tell’um dat de aig’ kin specify, ’cause de frizzle hen w’at de
wil’cat ketch ent binnuh seddown ’puntop dem aig’ mo’n t’ree week, en’
you kin tell’um dat wehreas de hen aig’ oughtuh hatch’out een t’ree
week’ de duck aig’ en’ de tuckrey aig’ ent jue fuh hatch’out ’tell de
fo’ week done out, en’ tell’um dat wehreas de hen aig’ en’ de duck aig’
en’ de tuckrey aig’ all binnuh keep one’nudduh cump’ny, de hen aig’ is
too mannusubble fuh hatch’out befo’ de odduh’res’ aig’, so de hen aig’
keep ’e cyarrictuh f’um spile, ’tell all ’e cump’ny done hatch’out.”
AN INTERRUPTED OFFERTORY
Out at the edge of the woods that fringed a sea-island cotton field
in the lower part of Colleton County, stood a little bush church--a
primitive affair, constructed by setting four ten-foot stakes at the
corners of a square, laying ridgepoles in their forked tops, and
covering the whole with green boughs of the sweetgum. Humble as it was,
this summer sanctuary of the Rev. Nepchun Kinlaw’s congregation was
as dear to them as was ever minareted mosque to Moslem, or cloister
to Monk. Here, during the warm weather, when the more pretentious
clapboard church became unbearably hot, they assembled two or three
times a week to receive the pearls of theological thought that, clothed
in the Gullah dialect of the Carolina coast, fell from the thick
lips of their beloved “locus pastuh.” Here, sheltered from sunshine
and shower, they sat, like roosting chickens, on pine poles that,
upholstered only with the bark that covered them, rested upon upright
stakes sawed square at the top and driven into the ground. When these
“pews” were filled to the ends, the overflow found lodgment on the
stumps and logs that lay within sound of the preacher’s voice in the
environing forest.
On a night in the early summer, an unusually large congregation had
gathered at this trysting place of the faithful, for the news had
spread that “Pa Kinlaw” was going to say something sensational on
the subject of pastoral ways and means. The night was dark, the sky
overcast, and now and then the low rumble of distant thunder and a
fitful gust of wind from the south-east, that soughed through the
tops of the pines for a moment and then died away, betokened the
coming storm. Around the place of worship, two or three pine-knot
fires blazed brightly, furnishing, at once, light for the comfort of
the congregation, and smoke for the discomfiture of the gnats and
sandflies that swarmed about the church. Around and between the fires,
the negroes, men and women, moved, avoiding the smoke and sparks that
the wind, from time to time, sent among them, the firelight falling
on their dark faces recalling the “hot-pot” scene in Rider Haggard’s
“She.” While they awaited the advent of their preacher, they discussed
their daily pleasures, trials, hopes and fears--the reduced cost of
bacon or calico at the country store, the demand for labor, and the
increased price therefor, at the rice plantations along the river, the
destruction of the early corn by the cutworms and the crows, etc.
“I yerry,” said one old woman to another, “I yerry dat Mistuh
FitzSimmun done tek de sprout flow off ’e rice, en’ ’e gwine hoe’um
nex’ week, T’ursday.”
“Dat so?” said her companion. “Den, I gwine dey sho’ ez Gawd lemme go.
Ef my juntlemun kin git uh hawss, eeduhso uh oxin, fuh knock de middle
out’n ’e crap, I will mek she go ’long too, alldo’ ’e gots de mis’ry
een ’e back ’tell ’e cyan’ specify wid ’e hoe lukkuh ’e nyuse to do.”
“I ’spec’,” said old Ca’lina Manigo, “I ’spec’, I mos’ sho’, rokkoon
duh walk duh paat’ dis berry night! Please Gawd, ef Him didn’ mek
dat snake ’stroy’d Hol’fas’ las’ yeah, I could’uh ketch one tenight,
tenight, duh de night!”
“Ef you so hongry fuh rokkoon meat, w’en de praise done gitt’ru, we
kin tek my dog Ring en’ tek a leetle dribe,” said Monday Parker, a
stalwart black fellow.
“_Ring!_” said Ca’lina, scornfully. “_Ring!_ Boy, ef you talk Ring’
name een de same bre’t’ wid Hol’fas’ name, you will mek me hab sin
right yuh tenight! I kin tek ole Hol’fas’ jawbone out’n de du’t weh de
buzzut done lef’um, en’ I kin pit dat jawbone ’puntop uh rokkoon track,
en’ him will mek de rokkoon git een de tree top, befo’ Ring kin ketch a
fleas out’n ’e own tail! Go’way, Paa’kuh, man, you know berry well yo’
dog cyan’ specify!”
“’Nuf t’ing, ’scusin’ dog, dey een dis wull’ w’at cyan’ specify,” said
a deep voice from the darkness without, and, in a moment more, the
long-looked-for pastor, mounted on a raw-boned brindled ox, rode into
the broad disk of firelight that filled the glade. A grain sack stuffed
with corn shucks was his saddle, and a long grapevine wound around and
around the unhappy ox, together with martingales and crupper of the
same, held it in place. A bridle and stirrups of frayed cotton rope
completed the extraordinary equestrian equipment.
“Cow iz shishuh ’ceitful t’ing fuh ride, dat I mos’ didn’ mek me
’p’int,” said the preacher, as he dismounted and hitched his animal to
a bush.
“Paul Jinkin’ got some shinny peas plant close by de road aige, en’
dis cow bin so hongry dat, w’en I git to weh de fench bruk down, ’e
tek ’eself en’ me en’ all, en’ gone een de fiel’ en’ staa’t fuh nyam
de peas, en’ I try fuh git’um out de fiel’, ’cause Paul ent b’long to
we chu’ch, but de cow haa’d-head ez a ’ooman, en’ I couldn’ git’um
fuh lef’ de fiel’, ontel we yerry Paul call to ’e lady fuh git up en’
he’p’um ketch de somebody w’at dey een de fiel’, en’ w’en I yerry
_dat_, I yent want’uh git de cow’ cyarrictuh spile, so I mek’um come
out’n’ de fiel’--en’ dat how I git yuh late.”
Taking his stand in the tall box of rough pine boards that served for
a pulpit, he looked askance at the contributions to his support that
various members of his congregation brought to the altar and laid on
the ground beside him. A quart of grist, a dozen eggs, a chicken, a
pint of “clean” rice, a nickle--ostentatiously brought forth from a
knot in the corner of an apron and placed by the proud donor “een de
Reb’ren’ han’”--such were the offerings of this simple people, but,
although representing more than a tithe of their possessions, they
found little favor in the pastor’s eyes.
“Sistuh Wineglass,” said he, as a bustling middle-aged woman smilingly
presented a chicken. “Sistuh Wineglass, chickin’ seems to sca’ceful een
dis congregashun ez debble sca’ceful een heab’n! Dis mek only de t’ree
chickin’ w’at bin contri_butes_ to dis chu’ch sence de las’ quawt’ly
preachin’, en’ I done tell oonuh one time ’ready dat dis pulpit cyan’
filfill’ bidout _bittle_. Ent de Scriptuh say een de fo’teen chaptuh
een Nickuhdemus, dat de lab’ruh wut’ ’e hire? I gots to lef’ my crap
kibbuh wid grass, en’ come yuh fuh ’rassle en’ agguhnize wid oonuh
sinful soul en’ t’ing, en’ you gots de nomannus to come een de Lawd’
house wid t’ree aig’ en’ one leetle fo’punce chickin een yo’ han’, en’
’spec’ fuh ketch salwashun, enty? Ef you saa’ch Nickuhdemus’ wu’d you
will fin’ dat ’e say ’sponsubble dat a fo’punce chickin cyan’ specify
fuh seb’npunce’ wut’ uh salwashun! You tell me week befo’ las’ dat you
couldn’ git no chickin’ ’scusin’ you git aig’, en’ you cyan’ gots no
aig’ ’cep’n’ de hen lay’um, but de Lawd’ wu’d say, ef yo’ right han’,
eeduhso yo’ right han’ feet, refen’ you, you mus’ cut’um off, en’ ef de
hen cyan’ specify, you mus’ cut off him head same fashi’n en’”--
The pastor’s prelude was brought to a sudden close by a deafening peal
of thunder that echoed and re-echoed through the forest. A gust of
wind lifted the sweetgum thatch from the rafters of the little church
and scattered the boughs to leeward, and, as the big raindrops began
to fall upon the assembled worshipers, Pa Kinlaw gathered together his
prog, mounted his ox, and trotted off in the darkness, calling to his
flock as he went, “de Lawd en’ me alltwo cyan’ talk one time! De nex’
preachin’ will be to Sistuh Rab’nel’ house ’bout fus’ daa’k Chuesday
night!”
A FLAW IN THE “EENDITEMENT”
She came into the office of a Walterboro lawyer and engaged his
services to reverse, upset and “spile” the decision of a trial
justice who had just fined her “nine dolluh’ en’ de cawss’, suh,” for
obstructing a public highway.
Grace Rivers was her “eentitlement.” The color of her skin was so
deep that a piece of charcoal drawn across her face would have left a
pallid mark. Although literally on the “shady side” of seventy, she was
not regardless of the advantages of dress, and her costume was, like
Katisha’s left elbow, worth “coming miles to see.” The gray wool that
covered her head was snarled and tangled like a burry merino pelt, but
a man’s black straw hat, battered and weather-stained, was set upon
it as jauntily as was ever worn the rakish cap of Fra Diavolo! When a
fashion-plate had last been seen in her habitat near Ion’s Cross Roads,
bustles were “the thing.” Although these protuberances on the human
form divine had long since been called in and relegated to the rear
(?) they were still “the thing” for Grace. The balloon bustle of the
society actress, the oscillating bustle, the coiled-spring variety that
rebelled at being sat upon, and, when “crushed to earth,” like truth,
would “rise again,” having passed away, were not now obtainable at the
country stores; so the ingenuity of this dusky devotee of fashion was
called into play, and she had constructed as unique a “dress improver”
as was ever worn under the sun--or under a homespun skirt, either, for
that matter. A rift in the rear of her gown disclosed the mechanism of
this work of art, which was merely a piece of an iron barrel hoop, bent
into a half-elipse, and wound with two or three thicknesses of cotton
bagging. Primitive as it was, it sufficed to elevate the hind part of
her skirt several inches above the level of the lower periphery of
the front breadth, which was hidden by an apron made of a rough-dried
guano sack, on which appeared in bold stenciled letters, “Ashepoo Acid
Phosphate, 200 pounds--privilege tax paid.”
Taking a seat in the counsellor’s office, she said: “Majuh, I come fuh
git jestuss yuh teday, teday! W’en my juntlemun, Mistuh Ribbuhs, dead
yeah befo’ las’, een Augus’ munt’ (en’ ’e dead ’cause snake structid’um
on ’e lef’ han’ feet w’en ’e binnuh gwine to praise meetin’ to Sistuh
Gibbes’ house on Hawss Shoe causeway) w’en him dead, ’e lef’ me t’irty
acre’ lan’ w’ich ’e buy frum Cap’n Gracy befo’ ’e dead. Now, w’en
my juntlemun binnuh lib, Cudjo Singletun en’ ’e fambly buy a piece
uh groun’ close to weh we lib, en’ likeso Sambo Hawlback buy groun’
eenjinin’ de same lan’. ’Long ez my juntlemun binnuh _lib_, dem berry
well sattify fuh trabble ’longside de aige uh my groun’ w’en dem duh
gwine chu’ch, eeduhso to de sto’, but soon ez my juntlemun _dead_, de
eegnunt nigguh’ git so swell’up en’ ’laagin’, dem come en’ cut paat’
t’ru my pinelan’, en’ call’um pulblic road. W’en I see de ’ceitfulness’
en’ de ondeestunt gwinin’ en’ gwinin’ uh dese nomannus nigguh’, I git
disgus’ wid de nigguh’, en’ I mek a fench ’cross de road, ’tell de road
couldn’ specify. Now, w’en Sunday night come, Sambo tek ’e lady een ’e
oxin cyaa’t, en’ staa’t lukkuh him duh gwine chu’ch, but ’e nebbuh git
to chu’ch, suh, ’cause ’e oxin ent gots good eye duh night time, en’
de oxin git tanglety’up een de fench, befo’ Sambo ruckuhnize weh ’e
duh gwine, en’ de oxin t’row Sambo’ lady out’n de cyaa’t, en’ de lady
fuhgit de ’lij’un w’at ’e staa’t fuh tek to chu’ch, en’ ’e git bex,
en’ Sambo git bex, en, fin’lly at las’, dem didn’ gone chu’ch, but dem
tu’n back home, en’ nex’ mawnin’ Sambo gone to de Trial Jestuss en’
swayre out warrant fuh ’res’ me en’ my groun’ fuh twis’up en’ obstruck
de pulblic highway, en’ de Jestuss sen’ a mufflejaw’ nigguh counstubble
to my house, en’ him tek me off befo’ I gitt’uh chance eb’nso fuh pit
on me shoesh, en’ I tell’um dat ’e yent deestunt, no, suh, fuh ’res’
a lady en’ tek’um to co’t, bidout ’e shoesh ’puntop ’e foot, but dat
counstubble raise’ by po’ buckruh en’ ’e yent gots uh Chryce’ mannus to
’e name!”
“Well,” said the attorney, when he had stemmed this torrent of speech,
“did you tell him that you were not ready for trial; that you wished
time to secure counsel and to summon witnesses to testify in your
behalf?”
“I _baig’um_, I tell’um, ‘Mistuh Awkuhmun, I want to quizzit you on
dis p’int, how de debble you kin ’res’ a lady fuh obstruck uh highway,
w’en you know berrywell de road w’ich de nigguh’ mek t’ru my lan’, run
t’ru _low groun’_! How, een de name uh Gawd, kin I eentuhfayre wid de
pulblic _highway_ w’en de road so _low_ dat ’e full uh watuh ’tell
limus cootuh en’ t’ing duh swim een’um! No, suh! ’scusin’ you kin ansuh
me dat parable, yo’ eenditement cyan’ specify’.”
“What was his reply,” asked the lawyer.
“’E didn’ reply _nutt’n’_, suh. ’E jis’ tell me I gots fuh specify wid
nine dolluh’ en’ de cawss’, ’scusin’ I want’uh leddown een Walterburruh
jail ontell de t’ree Sat’d’y een June. I didn’ gots no money fuh g’em,
so I g’em mawgidge on my cow en’ t’ing ’tell I kin come yuh to you,
suh, en’ git you fuh see me t’ru, ’cause dis ondelicate buckruh ’res’
me’, en’ try me en’ all, een one en’ de same day. ’E wouldn’ eb’n gimme
time fuh go home en’ reconstruck meself, en’, please suh, Majuh, w’en
my juntlemun dead, ’e tell me fuh fin’ out w’at you will chaa’ge me fuh
tek care uh me en’ my cow en’ my groun’ en’ t’ing by de yeah--eb’n so
ef I duh sleep--I want you fuh see how much you will chaa’ge fuh keep
nigguh, en’ counstubble, en’ po’buckruh en’ all kind’uh waa’ment en’
t’ing off my groun’, ’tell I _dead_, suh.”
The lawyer told her he would consider the matter, and, Ashepoo’s “Nada,
the Lily,” with a curtsy to the stranger within the attorney’s gate,
drifted out into the brilliant sunlight that lay like a golden mantle
on field and woodland.
OLD WINE--NEW BOTTLES
He lived in Spartanburg, and was the proud valet (pronounced “valley”
in the up-country) of a young physician. Whether the charcoal hue of
his face, or his employer’s profession, prompted a clever woman to
bestow upon him the appellation of “the valley of the shadow of death,”
I do not know, but it certainly seemed, to every one acquainted with
him, a peculiarly appropriate “eentitle_ment_.”
Whence he came was a mystery. He tramped into the town one day, with
his kinky wool full of the red dust of the up-country roads and his
mouth full of the Gullah dialect of the coast, and asked for work.
Although not more than thirteen years of age, his hardened muscles and
pinched face indicated that he had known both toil and starvation.
“Gran’puh lick me en’ I run’way en’ lef’um,” was all he said, and,
as he proved industrious and reasonably honest, there was no further
inquiry into his antecedents.
One day, soon after he had established himself in his Spartanburg
sanctuary, I chanced, while on a visit to the low-country, to learn
something of his history. Passing through a plantation, formerly the
home of a distinguished South Carolina family, but now abandoned to the
occupancy of a few negro squatters, whose slovenly agricultural methods
extracted but a scanty subsistence from the naturally fertile soil, I
came to a miserable cabin, half a mile away from the main settlement.
On its site had once stood a comfortable frame house of the type in
general use on Southern plantations for ante-bellum negro quarters,
but the woodwork had long since been destroyed by fire, and the brick
chimney alone remained. Among the negroes of the coast, where brick are
scarce and the cabin chimneys are generally made of clay or mud, the
possession of a brick “chimbly” is a sort of badge of aristocracy and a
passport to high position in colored society, and old Scipio Smashum,
having been a house servant before the war, and, retaining through all
the hardships that had come to him with freedom, a profound contempt
for the coarser-fibred “field hands,” preferred to live apart from
them, and had reared around the isolated brick chimney a habitation
which, even when new, was never weatherproof, and was now in a pitiable
state of dilapidation.
From the pine saplings, of which the walls were constructed, the
rotting bark had fallen away, disclosing the perforations of the wood
borers or “sawyers,” whose industry had almost honey-combed the sappy
logs. The clapboards which covered the house were falling to pieces
with decay, and here and there on the weather-worn roof lay, like oases
in a desert of gray, patches of green mould.
The surroundings of the cabin were as unkempt and unattractive as the
building itself. Dogfennel and “Jimpson” weed grew almost up to the
threshold. A few rows of corn and beans in a garden nearby were choked
with grass and had been abandoned soon after the plants were up. The
“wattled” fence of clapboards surrounding it was tumbling down, and
through the fallen panels the neighbors’ cows and pigs roamed at will.
On the top of a little log chicken coop, a young Dominique rooster
cackled loudly while he awaited the coming of his partner, who was, at
the moment, busied with domestic duties within.
On a bench near the door sat old Scipio. The wool which covered his
head was as white as the back of a Cotswold sheep, and the face, in
which his bleared and jaundiced eyes were deeply set, was seamed with
care.
As I approached, he was upbraiding the boastful rooster. “You so
’laagin’. Soon ez yo’ lady git on ’e nes’ you biggin fuh cackle same
lukkuh _you_ duh specify, ’stead’uh _him_. You stan’ dey wid yo’ back
speckle’ lukkuh one dese red-head’ woodpeckuh’, en’ t’ink you gots mo’
eentruss’ een dat aig den de hen ’eself.--Mawnin’, maussuh, t’engk
_Gawd_ I see you teday. De time so berry haa’d, maussuh; ef you didn’
bin come soon, I ’spec’ you wouldn’ uh fine’ yo’ ole nigguh yuh teday.
I mos’ t’ink de big Maussuh gwine to call me putty soon, ’cause de
mis’ry een de back git mo’ wuss den ’e nyuse to be, en’ bittle git so
sca’ceful dese day’, en’ I cyan’ hol’ de hoe like I could’uh do one
time, en’ I cyan’ git no cow, needuhso no mule, fuh plow de groun’,
’tell I cyan’ raise no crop, en’ eb’nso w’en de crop done plant, I yent
gots no chillun en’ t’ing’ fuh keep de waa’_ment_ out’n’um, en’ I mos’
t’ink ef you didn’ come teday, _Stepney_ would’uh git dis po’ ole body.
Trouble come sence you bin yuh las’, sho’ ez Gawd! Dat boy Joe run’way
en’ gone to de up-country jis’ ’cause I lick’um, en’ soon as _him_
gone, old Sancho Haywu’d’ lady dead, en’ Sancho come en’ tek’way my
gran’daa’tuh ’Riah, en’ tek’um home fuh wife. I t’aw’t dat ole nigguh
had mo’ sense, but w’en I peruse ’e cyarrictuh close, I see ’e cyan’
specify ez uh sensubble man.”
“When did his wife die?” I asked.
“’E dead een Fibbywerry, suh. ’E binnuh cook supper, en’ ’e gone to
de shelf fuh git salt fuh pit een de hom’ny, en’ ebbuh sence ’e gots
catt’rack’ een ’e yeye ’e cyan’ see berry well, en’ ’stead’uh tek de
can wid de salt, ’e tek de can wid de consecrate’ lye, en’ ’e pit de
consecrate’ lye een de hom’ny, en’ fus’ t’ing ’e know, ’e yent know
_nutt’n’_ ’cause ’e dead! Oh yaas’suh, ’e git relij’un jis’ befo’ ’e
dead, en’ ’e dead beautiful, yaas’ suh, en’ ’e had de biggis’ fun’rul
you ebbuh see, en’ ole Pa Sancho pit ’e lady een de groun’ lukkuh
teday, en’, please Gawd, ez ’e gwine home frum de fun’rul dat same
berry day, ’e come by my house en’ tek my gran’ ’Riah en’ tek she home
fuh wife! Ef I had’uh bin home, I wouldn’uh let’um tek de gal befo’ de
munt’ done out, ’e would’uh look mo’ _deestunt_, yaas’suh. But I don’
min’ ’bout Sancho, ’cause dat gal gwine to mek’um t’ink t’unduhsnake
got’um befo’ dis yeah gone, yaas’suh. I tell’um, ‘Sancho, you better
min’! Tek care bettuh mo’nuh baig paa’d’n[4], en’ Paul’ wu’d to
Buhrabbus een de Scriptuh specify puhtickluh dat you cyan’ pit uh nyung
grapewine een uh ole killybash, en’ you cyan’ pit a nyung ’ooman een uh
ole ’ooman’ frock, ’cause dem alltwo will buss’. Sancho, you know berry
well you cyan’ specify, en’ you ent gots de strengk fuh lick dat nyung
’ooman, en’ likeso Buhrabbus say dat ef you don’ lick yo’ lady you will
spile ’e chile,’ but I sway-to-Gawd, suh, dat gal tu’n Pa Sancho staa’t
fool, en’ ’e nebbuh had my exwice een de back’uh ’e head! En’ now,
maussuh, sence de gal gone, I ent gots nobody fuh do nutt’n’ fuh me.
Dese nigguh’ w’at grow up sence freedom come een ent gots no mannus,
en’ dey would’uh lemme dead een dis house, ef de w’ite people didn’
see me t’ru. W’en ole Missis binnuh lib, bress Gawd, ’e always ’membuh
de ole nigguh, but now, sence him dead en’ de grass duh grow obuh ’e
grabe out yonduh onduhneet’ de libe-oak tree, en’ all de w’ite people
w’at I raise lef’ de ole plantesshun en’ scattuh all obuh de wull’,
en’ all kind’uh low-down buckruh, w’at couldn’ ’sociate wid we w’ite
people’ fambly een ole time’, come fuh lib on de place, please Gawd, I
yent gots nutt’n’ much fuh lib fuh now, dese days. T’engk you, nyung
maussuh, t’engk you, suh, Gawd bress you!”
A GULLAH GLOSSARY
The Glossary included in this volume, while making no pretense to
absolute accuracy, is offered as a workable list of the words in
common use by the Negroes of the South Carolina coast. It is doubtful,
however, if the vocabulary of any single individual comprises more
than half the list, for many words in everyday use about Georgetown
or Charleston occur rarely at Beaufort, or on the Combahee. Then,
too, many terms and expressions have only a local significance.
On the seacoast and along the lower reaches of the tidal rivers,
“trus’-me-Gawd” (I trust my God) is the common name for the cranky,
unseaworthy dugout canoe, the hazard of whose use on the rough waters
of the coast implies faith in the watchful care of a divine Providence.
Higher up the same river, however, where smoother waters exact smaller
faith, the coffin-like craft is merely a “coo-noo,” a “cun-noo,” or a
“con-noo.”
He who adventures into Gullah and would “make head or tail” of its
queer phonetics, must keep in mind the sounds “uh,” “e,” “ran,” and
“a.” In no other tongue, perhaps, can so much be expressed with so
little strain upon brain or lips or glottis as by the Gullah’s laconic
use of these grunting jungle-sounds.