Mammy Delphy was sitting out under the vines that climbed over the
kitchen gallery, picking a chicken for dinner, and singing. And such
singing! Some of the words ran this way:
"Aldo you sees me go 'long _so_,
I has my trials here below,
Sometimes I'se up, sometimes I'se down,
Sometimes I'se lebel wid de groun;
Oh, git out, Satan
Halla_lu_!"
And these words sound queer to you as you read them, perhaps, but they
did not sound queer when Mammy Delphy was singing them. I don't believe
that a song out of heaven could be sweeter than this and other songs
like it that dear old Mammy sings, with her turbaned head bobbing up
and down and her foot softly keeping time to the melody. There is a sort
of plaintive--what shall I call it?--_twist_ in her voice that makes you
choke up about the throat, if you are a boy, and sob right out if you
are a girl. And it makes you, somehow, remember, in hearing it, all the
sweet, sad little stories that your mother has told you about your
little baby sister who died before you were born; or, if you have stood
in a darkened room, holding fast to some tender and loving hand, and
looked at a face that was dear to you lying upon its coffin pillow, you
think of that strange and sad time. And with these thoughts come, as you
listen, other thoughts of flying angels and shining crowns, and
wide-opened gates of pearl. A sweetness mixed with pain--that is, the
feeling which Mammy Delphy's singing brings to you, though you could not
describe it, perhaps, if you tried--at least that's the feeling it
brings to me.
"I'll take my shoes from off'n my feet,
And walk into de golden street,
Glory, Halla_lu_!"
sang Mammy. Sam and Jim and Joe came filing in. They had been--well,
where _hadn't_ they been! They had been down to the Bayou, which ran a
good quarter of a mile back of the place, "fishin for cat," and
chunking at an unwary rabbit that had taken refuge in a hollow tree;
they had been out in the field, cutting open two or three half-grown
watermelons to see if they were ripe; they had been across the prairie
to a _mott_ of sweet-gum trees, where they had stuck up the cuffs and
bosoms of their shirts with gum and torn their trousers in climbing a
persimmon tree to peep into a bird's-nest. And they were rushing across
the yard in chase of a horned-frog when they caught sight of Mammy
Delphy under the kitchen shed.
"Let's go and get Mammy Delphy to give us some meat and go a
crawfishin', boys," suggested Sam.
"And I'm hungry, for one," added Joe.
Accordingly they filed in, as I said, and stood for a moment listening
to Mammy Delphy's song.
"Give us somethin' to eat, Mammy, please," said Jim.
"An' some craw-fish bait and a piece of string," put in the other two in
a breath.
"I ain't a gwine to do it, chillun," replied Mammy Delphy, giving them a
gentle push with her elbow, for they were leaning coaxingly against her
shoulders, "I ain't a gwine to _do_ it. Yer ma's got comp'ny for dinner
and dat sassy Marthy-Ann done tuk herself to 'Mancipation-Day, an' Jin,
she totin of Mis' May's baby to sleep, an' I ain't got _no_ time to
_wase_ on yer. _Go_'long!" And as she spoke Mammy arose, chicken in
hand, and went into the kitchen to get whatever the boys wanted, as they
were perfectly aware she would, from the beginning.
"Lawd o' mussy! Jest look at dat lazy nigger! Grief!" she exclaimed as
she entered, "Grief, yer lazy good-for-nuthin' nigger, is yer gwine ter
let dem sweet-taters burn clar up?"
And seizing the collar of a negro man who sat nodding by the stove, she
gave him a sound shaking. He opened his eyes, grinned and got up slowly,
looking a little sheepish as he did so. At that moment the woolly head
of Jin, the baby's little black nurse, was poked in at the door.
"Daddy," she cried, "Miss May say as how she want you to come an' tie up
her Malcasum rose, whar dem boys is done pull down."
And Jin bestowed a withering look upon the culprits, who were already
digging their fingers into the remnants of a meat-pie, and disappeared,
followed by her father.
"Mammy Delphy," said Joe, when they were out under the vines again and
Mammy had recommenced her work, "what made you name Uncle Grief,
_Grief_? That's a mighty funny name, _ain't_ it, boys?"
"Well, chillun," said Mammy, plucking away at the chicken, "dat's so; it
_is_ a curus name like; me'n de ole man--he dead an' gone, chillun, long
fo' you was born;--me'n de ole man 'sulted long time 'bout dat chile's
name an' he war goin' on six months old fo' we name him at all."
"Well, how _did_ you happen to call him Grief?" insisted Joe.
"Yes, honey, yes. 'Twar a long time ago, chile, when Mas' Will--dat's
_yer_ pa (she nodded towards Joe) war a little fellow, heap littler'n
you, heap littler, an' Mas' Charley--dat's _yer_ pappy (to the other
two) war a baby. I war nussen _him_ long o' Grief an' Grief warn't name
yet. Miss May--dat's yer all's Gramma whar died las' year--she use to
come out to de back steps an' watch dem two babies nussen', Grief an'
Mas' Charley bof at de same time in my lap; an' Mas' Will an'
Jerry--dat's my little boy what war jes' 'bout his age--a-playing in de
back-yard, an' sometime she laugh an' cry all at de same time an' she
say: 'We is all one fam'ly, Delphy!' she say. Law's, chillun, dem _was_
times! _You_ don't know nuthin' 'bout dem times. Disher house was full
up all de time wid comp'ny; gran' comp'ny, what dress all de time in
silk an' go walkin' 'bout under de trees an' ridin' 'bout over de
prairie in de day time; and mos' every night dey call my ole man in to
play de fiddle an' den, laws, how dem young folks dance! An' ole Mas'
an' ole Mis' an' all de young ladies an gentlemen use to come down to de
cabins--_dey_ was all burnt up, time o' de war--an' sakes, honey! de
hosses an' de cayages an' de niggers an' disher big plantation, all
shinin' wid corn an' cotton! Dem _was_ times!" And Mammy's old eyes
lighted up as she went back to her youth and the glory of her family,
for she still speaks with pride of her "fam'ly."
"But Grief, Mammy?" said Jim.
"Yes, honey, yes. Yer pappy and Grief war babies, an' Grief warn't
named, an' Mas' Will an' Jerry was little boys, littler'n you. 'N one
day Miss May, she come to the back do' an' call me. I was sittin' in
disher very place dat day, nussin dem two babies, an' my mammy (she de
cook), gittin' dinner in de kitchen. 'Delphy,' Miss May say, 'Delphy,
does you know whar Will an' Jerry is? Dey ain't been seen sence
breakfast dis mornin'.
[Illustration: "YER PAPPY AN' GRIEF WAR BABIES, AN' GRIEF WARN'T
NAMED."]
"I felt curus-like dat minit, an' I jump up an' run all over de place
lookin' for dem boys. 'Rectly all de house gals an' everybody--Mas' and
Mis' an' everybody--commence to hunt for dem chillun. We look
everywhere--in de hay-top, in de cotton gin-house, out on de
prairie--_everywhere_. Den I saw Miss May--dat's yer granma, turn
white-like, an' she say, 'Oh Delphy, oh James'--dat's yer grandpa--'de
ole well in de field! de ole well in de field!'
"Over in de bayou-field--it done full up now, ole Mas' had a well dug to
water de hosses out in. It war kivered up wid some bodes.
"I don't 'zactly 'member 'bout goin' over to de field, but when I got
dar wid dem two babies in my arms an' stood 'long side o' Miss May--"
Mammy Delphy spoke more and more slowly. She had stopped picking the
chicken, and great tears were rolling down her cheeks. The boys stood
stricken and silent.
--"Stood 'long side o' Miss May, fus thing I hear war Jerry sayin'
weak-like an' way down in de well: 'Don't you cry, Mas' Will! Hol' on to
my neck, Mas' Will! Hol' tight, Mas' Will! I kin hol' you up. Don't you
be feerd Mas' Will, I kin hol' you up! Don't you be feerd Mas' Will; I
kin hol' you up!'
"Ole Mas' lean over de well an' look in. Mas' Will he warn't as high as
Jerry, an' Jerry he war standin in de water up to his neck an' hol'in'
Mas' Will up out'n de water. An' dem chillun had been in dat well all
day, honey, 'all day, an' my Jerry holdin Mas' Will out'n de water; an'
dat water col' as ice! Den ole Mas' let down de rope dey fotch an' tole
Mas' Will to ketch hol'. An Mas' Will--dat yer pappy, honey--he say,
weak-like, 'Take Jerry too, pappy, take Jerry too!'
"'We'll get Jerry next time,' says ole Mas'. An' Jerry help Mas' Will fix
de rope roun' him an' dey pull him up out'n de water. He done fainted
when dey got him out, an' he tuk de fever, an' dat chile war sick mos'
six months, an' all de time he had de fever, he say: 'Take Jerry too,
pappy, take Jerry too!' And when he come to hisself, he say right off:
"'Where's Jerry? I want Jerry.'"
Mammy Delphy stopped.
"And where _was_ Jerry, mammy?" cried the boys, breathless.
"'Where war Jerry?' Ole Mas' let down de rope an' say right loud: 'Ketch
holt, Jerry my boy!' But Jerry couldn't ketch holt, chillen. Jerry war
dead."
"_Oh mammy!_"
"Yes, chillun, yes. Dey rub him an' rub him, an' do everything to fotch
him to life. But, my Jerry war dead. An' when me'n de ole man come home
from de funeral--dey buried him in de white folks' buryin'-groun,' long
side o' Miss May's little gal what died--an' put a tombstone at de
head--when we come home from de funeral dat night, de ole man look at
de baby on my lap an' he say, 'Delphy, honey,' he say, 'I think disher
baby mout be name _Grief_.' An' we name him Grief."
Mammy Delphy wiped her eyes and resumed her work. Then, looking up to
the blue sky which shone between the vines, she began singing again:
"Call me in de mornin' Lord,
Or call me in de night,
I'se always ready Lord,
Glory Halla_lu_!"
And the boys, subdued and silent, and for a moment forgetful of
horned-frogs and crawfish, went away softly, as if leaving a grave.