DIDDIE IN TROUBLE
Diddie was generally a very good and studious little girl, and
therefore it was a matter of surprise to everybody when Miss Carrie
came down to dinner one day without her, and, in answer to Major
Waldron’s inquiry concerning her, replied that Diddie had been so
wayward that she had been forced to keep her in, and that she was not
to have any dinner.
Neither Major nor Mrs. Waldron ever interfered with Miss Carrie’s
management; so the family sat down to the meal, leaving the little girl
in the schoolroom.
Dumps and Tot, however, were very indignant, and ate but little dinner;
and, as soon as their mamma excused them, they ran right to the nursery
to tell Mammy about it. They found her overhauling a trunk of old
clothes, with a view of giving them out to such of the little negroes
as they would fit; but she dropped everything after Dumps had stated
the case, and at once began to expatiate on the tyranny of teachers in
general, and of Miss Carrie in particular.
“I know’d how ’twould be,” she said, “wen marster fotch her hyear; she
got too much white in her eye to suit me, er shettin’ my chile up, an’
er starvin’ uv her; I an’t got no ’pinion uv po’ white folks, nohow.”
“Is Miss Carrie po’ white folks, Mammy?” asked Dumps, in horror, for
she had been taught by Mammy and Aunt Milly both that the lowest
classes of persons in the world were “po’ white folks” and “free
niggers.”
“She ain’t no _rich_ white folks,” answered Mammy, evasively; “caze efn
she wuz, she wouldn’t be teachin’ school fur er livin’; an’ den ergin,
efn she’s so mighty rich, whar’s her niggers? I neber seed ’em. An’,
let erlone dat, I ain’t neber hyeard uv ’em yit;” for Mammy could not
conceive of a person’s being rich without niggers.
“But, wedder she’s rich or po’,” continued the old lady, “she ain’t no
bizness er shettin’ up my chile; an’ marster he oughtn’t ter ’low it.”
And Mammy resumed her work, but all the time grumbling, and muttering
something about “ole maids” and “po’ white folks.”
“I don’t like her, nohow,” said Dumps, “an’ I’m glad me an’ Tot’s too
little ter go ter school; I don’t want never to learn to read all my
life. An’, Mammy, can’t you go an’ turn Diddie erloose?”
“No, I can’t,” answered Mammy. “Yer pa don’t ’low me fur ter do it; he
won’t do it hisse’f, an’ he won’t let dem do it wat wants ter. I dunno
wat’s gittin’ in ’im myse’f. But, you chil’en, put on yer bunnits, an’
run an’ play in de yard tell I fixes dis chis’ uv cloes; an’ you little
niggers, go wid ’em, an’ tuck cyar uv ’em; an’ ef dem chil’en git hut,
yer’ll be sorry fur it, mun; so yer’d better keep em off’n seesaws an’
all sich ez dat.”
Dumps and Tot, attended by their little maids, went out in the yard at
Mammy’s bidding, but not to play; their hearts were too heavy about
poor little Diddie, and the little negroes were no less grieved than
they were, so they all held a consultation as to what they should do.
“Le’s go ’roun’ ter de schoolroom winder, an’ talk ter her,” said
Dilsey. And accordingly, repaired to the back of the house, and took
their stand under the schoolroom window. The schoolroom was on the
first floor, but the house was raised some distance from the ground by
means of stone pillars, so none of the children were tall enough to see
into the room.
Dilsey called Diddie softly, and the little girl appeared at the
window.
“Have you said your lesson yet?” asked Dumps.
“No, an’ I ain’t ergoin’ to, neither,” answered Diddie.
“An’ yer ain’t had yer dinner, nuther, is yer, Miss Diddie?” asked
Dilsey.
“No; but I don’t care ’bout that; I sha’n’t say my lesson not ef she
starves me clean ter death.”
At this dismal prospect, the tears sprang to Tot’s eyes, and saying,
“I’ll dit it, Diddie; don’ yer min’, I’ll dit it,” she ran as fast as
her little feet could carry her to the kitchen, and told Aunt Mary, the
cook, that “Diddie is sut up; dey lock her all up in de woom, an’ s’e
neber had no dinner, an’ s’e’s starve mos’ ter def. Miss Tawwy done it,
and s’e’s des ez mean!” Then, putting her chubby little arms around
Aunt Mary’s neck, she added, “_Please_ sen’ Diddie some dinner.”
And Aunt Mary, who loved the children, rose from the low chair on which
she was sitting to eat her own dinner, and, picking out a nice piece of
fried chicken and a baked sweet potato, with a piece of bread and a
good slice of ginger pudding, she put them on a plate for the child.
Now it so happened that Douglas, the head dining-room servant, was also
in the kitchen eating his dinner, and, being exceedingly fond of Tot,
he told her to wait a moment, and he would get her something from the
house. So, getting the keys from Aunt Delia, the housekeeper, on
pretence of putting away something, he buttered two or three slices of
light bread, and spread them with jam, and, putting with them some thin
chips of cold ham and several slices of cake, he carried them back to
the kitchen as an addition to Diddie’s dinner.
Tot was delighted, and walked very carefully with the plate until she
joined the little group waiting under the window, when she called out,
joyfully,
“Hyear ’tis, Diddie! ’tis des de bes’es kine er dinner!”
And now the trouble was how to get it up to Diddie.
“I tell yer,” said Chris; “me ’n Dilsey’ll fotch de step-ladder wat
Uncle Douglas washes de winders wid.”
No sooner said than done, and in a few moments the step-ladder was
placed against the house, and Dilsey prepared to mount it with the
plate in her hand.
But just at this juncture Diddie decided that she would make good her
escape, and, to the great delight of the children, she climbed out of
the window, and descended the ladder, and soon stood safe among them on
the ground.
Then, taking the dinner with them, they ran as fast as they could to
the grove, where they came to a halt on the ditch bank, and Diddie
seated herself on a root of a tree to eat her dinner, while Dumps and
Tot watched the little negroes wade up and down the ditch. The water
was very clear, and not quite knee-deep, and the temptation was too
great to withstand; so the little girls took off their shoes and
stockings, and were soon wading too.
When Diddie had finished her dinner, she joined them; and such a merry
time as they had, burying their little naked feet in the sand, and
splashing the water against each other!
“I tell yer, Diddie,” said Dumps, “I don’t b’lieve nuthin’ ’bout bad
little girls gittin’ hurt, an’ not havin’ no fun when they runs away,
an’ don’t min’ nobody. I b’lieve Mammy jes makes that up ter skyeer
us.”
“I don’t know,” replied Diddie; “you ’member the time’ bout Ole Billy?”
“Oh, I ain’t er countin’ him,” said Dumps; “I ain’t er countin’ no
sheeps; I’m jes er talkin’ ’bout ditches an’ things.”
And just then the little girls heard some one singing,
“De jay bird died wid de hookin’-coff,
Oh, ladies, ain’t yer sorry?”
and Uncle Snake-bit Bob came up the ditch bank with an armful of
white-oak splits.
“Yer’d better git outn dat water,” he called, as soon as he saw the
children. “Yer’ll all be havin’ de croup nex’. Git out, I tell yer! Efn
yer don’t, I gwine straight an’ tell yer pa.
It needed no second bidding, and the little girls scrambled up the
bank, and drying their feet as best they could upon their skirts, they
put on their shoes and stockings.
“What are you doin’, Uncle Bob?” called Diddie.
“I’m jes er cuttin’ me er few willers fur ter make baskit-handles
outn.”
“Can’t we come an’ look at yer?” asked Diddie.
“Yes, honey, efn yer wants ter,” replied Uncle Bob, mightily pleased.
“You’re all pow’ful fon’ er dis ole nigger; you’re allers wantin’ ter
be roun’ him.”
“It’s ’cause you always tell us tales, an’ don’t quar’l with us,”
replied Diddie, as the children drew near the old man, and watched him
cut the long willow branches.
“Uncle Bob,” asked Dumps, “what was that you was singin’ ’bout the jay
bird?”
“Lor’, honey, hit wuz jes ’boutn ’im dyin’ wid de hookin’-coff; but yer
better lef’ dem jay birds erlone; yer needn’ be er wantin’ ter hyear
boutn ’em.”
“Why, Uncle Bob?”
“Caze, honey, dem jay birds dey cyars news ter de deb’l, dey do an’ yer
better not fool ’long ’em.”
“Do they tell him everything?” asked Diddie, in some solicitude.
“Dat dey do! Dey tells ’im eb’ything dey see you do wat ain’t right;
dey cyars hit right erlong ter de deb’l.”
“Uncle Bob,” said Dumps, thoughtfully, “s’posin’ they wuz some little
girls l-o-n-g _time_ ergo what stole ernuther little girl outn the
winder, an’ then run’d erway, an’ waded in er ditch, what they Mammy
never would let ’em; efn er jay bird would see ’em, would he tell the
deb’l nuthin erbout it?”
“Lor’, honey, dat ’ud be jes nuts fur ’im; he’d light right out wid it;
an’ he wouldn’t was’e no time, nuther, he’d be so fyeard he’d furgit
part’n it.”
“I don’t see none ’bout hyear,” said Dumps, looking anxiously up at the
trees. “They don’t stay ’bout hyear much does they, Uncle Bob?”
“I seed one er sittin’ on dat sweet-gum dar ez I come up de ditch,”
said Uncle Bob. “He had his head turnt one side, he did, er lookin’
mighty hard at you chil’en, an’ I ’lowed ter myse’f now I won’er wat is
he er watchin’ dem chil’en fur? but, den, I knowed _you_ chil’en
wouldn’t do nuffin wrong, an’ I knowed he wouldn’t have nuffin fur ter
tell.”
“Don’t he never make up things an’ tell ’em?” asked Dumps.
“I ain’t neber hyeard boutn dat,” said the old man. “Efn he do, or efn
he don’t, I can’t say, caze I ain’t neber hyeard; but de bes’ way is
fur ter keep ’way fum ’em.”
“Well, I bet he do,” said Dumps. “I jes bet he tells M-O-O-O-R-E
S-T-O-R-I-E-S than anybody. An’, Uncle Bob, efn he tells the deb’l
sump’n ’boutn three little white girls an’ three little niggers runnin’
erway fum they teacher an’ wadin’ in er ditch, then I jes b’lieve _he
made it up!_ Now that’s jes what I’ b’lieve; an’ can’t you tell the
deb’l so, Uncle Bob?”
“Who? Me? Umph, umph! yer talkin’ ter de wrong nigger now, chile! I
don’t hab nuffin te do wid ’im mysef! I’se er God-fyearn nigger, I is;
an’, let erlone dat, I keeps erway fum dem jay birds. Didn’ yer neber
hyear wat er trick he played de woodpecker?”
“No, Uncle Bob,” answered Diddie; “what did he do to him?”
“Ain’t yer neber hyeard how come de wood-pecker’s head ter be red, an’
wat makes de robin hab er red bres’?”
“Oh, I know ’bout the robin’s breast,” said Diddie. “When the Saviour
was on the cross, an’ the wicked men had put er crown of thorns on him,
an’ his forehead was all scratched up an’ bleedin’, er little robin was
sittin’ on er tree lookin’ at him; an’ he felt so sorry ’bout it till
he flew down, an’ tried to pick the thorns out of the crown; an’ while
he was pullin’ at ’em, one of ’em run in his breast, an’ made the blood
come, an’ ever since that the robin’s breast has been red.”
“Well, I dunno,” said the old man, thoughtfully, scratching his head;
“I dunno, dat _mout_ be de way; I neber hyeard it, do; but den I ain’t
sayin’ tain’t true, caze hit mout be de way; an’ wat I’m er stan’in’ by
is dis, dat dat ain’t de way I hyeard hit.”
“Tell us how you heard it, Uncle Bob,” asked Diddie.
“Well, hit all come ’long o’ de jay bird,” said Uncle Bob. “An’ efn yer
got time fur ter go ’long o’ me ter de shop, an’ sot dar wile I plats
on dese baskits fur de oberseer’s wife, I’ll tell jes wat I hyear
’boutn hit.”
Of course they had plenty of time, and they all followed him to the
shop, where he turned some baskets bottomside up for seats for the
children, and seating himself on his accustomed stool, while the little
darkies sat around on the dirt-floor, he began to weave the splits
dexterously in an out, and proceeded to tell the story.