THE FOURTH OF JULY
“The glorious Fourth” was always a holiday on every Southern
plantation, and, of course, Major Waldron’s was no exception to the
rule. His negroes not only had holiday, but a barbecue, and it was a
day of general mirth and festivity.
On this particular “Fourth” the barbecue was to be on the banks of the
creek formed by the back-waters of the river, and was to be a
“fish-fry” as well as a barbecue.
All hands on the plantation were up by daylight, and preparing for the
frolic. Some of the negro men, indeed, had been down to the creek all
night setting out their fish-baskets and getting the “pit” ready for
the meats. The pit was a large hole, in which a fire was kindled to
roast the animals, which were suspended over it; and they must commence
the barbecuing very early in the morning, in order to get everything
ready by dinner-time. The children were as much excited over it as the
negroes were and Mammy could hardly keep them still enough to dress
them, they were so eager to be off. Major and Mrs. Waldron were to go
in the light carriage, but the little folks were to go with Mammy and
Aunt Milly in the spring-wagon, along with the baskets of provisions
for the “white folks’ tables;” the bread and vegetables and cakes and
pastry for the negroes’ tables had been sent off in a large wagon, and
were at the place for the barbecue long before the white family started
from home. The negroes, too, had all gone. Those who were not able to
walk had gone in wagons, but most of them had walked, for it was only
about three miles from the house.
Despite all their efforts to hurry up Mammy, it was nearly nine o’clock
before the children could get her off; and even then she didn’t want to
let Cherubim and Seraphim go, and Uncle Snake-bit Bob, who was driving
the wagon, had to add his entreaties to those of the little folks
before she would consent at all; and after that matter had been
decided, and the baskets all packed in, and the children all
comfortably seated, and Dilsey and Chris and Riar squeezed into the
back of the wagon between the ice-cream freezer and the lemonade
buckets, and Cherubim and Seraphim in the children’s laps, and Mammy
and Aunt Milly on two split-bottomed chairs, just back of the driver’s
seat, and Uncle Snake-bit Bob, with the reins in his hands, just ready
to drive off—whom should they see but Old Daddy Jake coming down the
avenue, and waving his hat for them to wait for him.
“Dar now!” said Mammy; “de folks done gone an’ lef’ Ole Daddy, an’ we
got ter stuff ’im in hyear somewhar.”
“They ain’t no room in hyear,” said Dumps, tightening her gasp on
Cherubim, for she strongly suspected that Mammy would insist on leaving
the puppies to make room for Daddy.
“Well, he ain’t got ter be lef’,” said Mammy; “I wuz allers larnt ter
’spect ole folks myse’f, an’ ef’n dis wagin goes, why den Daddy Jake’s
got ter go in it;” and, Major and Mrs. Waldron having gone, Mammy was
the next highest in command, and from her decision there was no appeal.
“How come yer ter git lef’, Daddy,” asked Uncle Snake-bit Bob, as the
old man came up hobbling on his stick.
“Well, yer see, chile, I wuz er lightin’ uv my pipe, an’ er fixin’ uv
er new stim in it, an’ I nuber notus wen de wagins went off. Yer see
I’m er gittin’ er little deef in deze ole yurs of mine: dey ben er
fasten’t on ter dis ole nigger’s head er long time, uperds uv er
hundred years or mo’; an’ de time hez ben wen dey could hyear de leaves
fall uv er nights; but dey gittin’ out’n fix somehow; dey ain’t wuckin’
like dey oughter; an’ dey jus sot up dar, an’ let de wagins drive off,
an’ leave de ole nigger er lightin’ uv his pipe; an’ wen I got thu, an’
went ter de do’, den I hyeard er mighty stillness in de quarters, an’
bless yer heart, de folks wuz gone; an’ I lookt up dis way, an’ I seed
de wagin hyear, an’ I ’lowed yer’d all gimme er lif’ some way.”
“Dem little niggers’ll hatter stay at home,” said Mammy, sharply,
eyeing the little darkies, “or else they’ll hatter walk, caze Daddy’s
got ter come in dis wagin. Now, you git out, you little niggers.”
At this, Dilsey and Chris and Riar began to unpack themselves, crying
bitterly the while, because they were afraid to walk by themselves, and
they knew they couldn’t walk fast enough to keep up with the wagon; but
here Diddie came to the rescue, and persuaded Uncle Bob to go to the
stable and saddle Corbin, and all three of the little negroes mounted
him, and rode on behind the wagon, while Daddy Jim was comfortably
fixed in the space they had occupied; and now they were fairly off.
“Mammy, what does folks have Fourf of Julys for?” asked Dumps, after a
little while.
“I dunno, honey,” answered Mammy; “I hyear ’em say hit wuz ’long o’
some fightin’ or nuther wat de white folks fit one time; but whedder
dat wuz de time wat Brer David fit Goliar or not, I dunno; I ain’t
hyeard ’em say ’bout dat: it mout er ben dat time, an’ den ergin it
mout er ben de time wat Brer Samson kilt up de folks wid de jawbone. I
ain’t right sho _wat_ time hit wuz; but den I knows hit wuz some
fightin’ or nuther.”
“It was the ‘Declination of Independence’,” said Diddie. “It’s in the
little history; and it wasn’t any fightin’, it was a _writin’;_ and
there’s the picture of it in the book: and all the men are sittin’
roun’, and one of ’em is writin’.”
“Yes, dat’s jes wat I hyearn,” said Uncle Bob. “I hyearn ’em say dat
dey had de fuss’ Defemation uv Ondepen’ence on de Fourf uv July, an’
eber sence den de folks ben er habin’ holerday an’ barbecues on dat
day.”
“What’s er Defemation, Uncle Bob?” asked Dumps, who possessed an
inquiring mind.
“Well, I mos’ furgits de zack meanin’,” said the old man, scratching
his head; “hit’s some kin’ er writin’, do, jes like Miss Diddie say;
but, let erlone dat, hit’s in de squshionary, an’ yer ma kin fin’ hit
fur yer, an’ ’splain de zack meanin’ uv de word; but de Defemation uv
Ondepen’ence, hit happened on de fuss Fourf uv July, an’ hit happens
ev’ry Fourf uv July sence den; an’ dat’s ’cordin ’ter my onderstandin’
uv hit,” said Uncle Rob, whipping up his horses.
“What’s dat, Brer Bob?” asked Daddy Jake, and as soon as Uncle Bob had
yelled at him Dumps’s query and his answer to it, the old man said:
“Yer wrong, Brer Bob; I ’members well de fus’ Fourf uv July; hit wuz er
man, honey. Marse Fofer July wuz er _man,_ an’ de day wuz name atter
him. He wuz er pow’ful fightin’ man; but den who it wuz he fit I mos’
furgot, hit’s ben so long ergo; but I ’members, do, I wuz er right
smart slip uv er boy, an’ I went wid my ole marster, yer pa’s gran’pa,
to er big dinner wat dey had on de Jeems Riber, in ole Furginny; an’
dat day, sar, Marse Fofer July wuz dar; an’ he made er big speech ter
de white folks, caze I hyeard ’em clappin’ uv dey han’s. I nuber seed
’im but I hyeard he wuz dar, do, an’ I knows he _wuz_ dar, caze I
sho’ly hyeard ’em clappin’ uv dey han’s; an’, ’cordin’ ter de way I
’members bout’n it, dis is his birfday, wat de folks keeps plum till
yet caze dey ain’t no men nowerdays like Marse Fofer July. He wuz er
gre’t man, an’ he had sense, too; an’ den, ’sides dat, he wuz some er
de fus’ famblys in dem days. Wy, his folks usen ter visit our white
folks. I helt his horse fur ’im de many er time; an’, let erlone dat, I
knowed some uv his niggers; but den dat’s ben er long time ergo.”
“But what was he writin’ about Daddy?” asked Diddie, who remembered the
picture too well to give up the “writing part.”
“He wuz jes signin’ some kin’ er deeds or sump’n,” said Daddy. “I dunno
wat he wuz writin’ erbout; but den he wuz er man, caze he lived in my
recommembrunce, an’ I done seed ’im myse’f.”
That settled the whole matter, though Diddie was not entirely
satisfied; but, as the wagon drove up to the creek bank just then, she
was too much interested in the barbecue to care very much for “Marse
Fofer July.”
The children all had their fishing-lines and hooks, and as soon as they
were on the ground started to find a good place to fish. Dilsey got
some bait from the negro boys, and baited the hooks; and it was a
comical sight to see all of the children, white and black, perched upon
the roots of trees or seated flat on the ground, watching intently
their hooks, which they kept bobbing up and down so fast that the fish
must have been very quick indeed to catch them.
They soon wearied of such dull sport, and began to set their wits to
work to know what to do next.
“Le’s go ’possum-huntin’,” suggested Dilsey.
“There ain’t any ’possums in the daytime,” said Diddie.
“Yes dey is, Miss Diddie, lots uv ’em; folks jes goes at night fur ter
save time. I knows how ter hunt fur ’possums; I kin tree ’em jes same
ez er dog.”
And the children, delighted at the novelty of the thing, all started
off “’possum-hunting,” for Mammy was helping unpack the dinner-baskets,
and was not watching them just then. They wandered off some distance,
climbing over logs and falling into mud-puddles, for they all had their
heads thrown back and their faces turned up to the trees, looking for
the ’possums, and thereby missed seeing impediments in the way.
At length Dilsey called out, “Hyear he is! Hyear de ’possum!” and they
all came to a dead halt under a large oak-tree, which Dilsey and Chris,
and even Diddie and Dumps, I regret to say, prepared to climb. But the
climbing consisted mostly in active and fruitless endeavors to make a
start, for Dilsey was the only one of the party who got as much as
three feet from the ground; but _she_ actually did climb up until she
reached the first limb, and then crawled along it until she got near
enough to shake off the ’possum, which proved to be a big chunk of wood
that had lodged up there from a falling branch, probably; and when
Dilsey shook the limb it fell down right upon Riar’s upturned face, and
made her nose bleed.
“Wat you doin’, you nigger you?” demanded Riar, angrily, as she wiped
the blood from her face. “I dar’ yer ter come down out’n dat tree, an’
I’ll beat de life out’n yer; I’ll larn yer who ter be shakin’ chunks
on.”
In vain did Dilsey apologize, and say she thought it was a ’possum;
Riar would listen to no excuse; and as soon as Dilsey reached the
ground they had a rough-and-tumble fight, in which both parties got
considerably worsted in the way of losing valuable hair, and of having
their eyes filled with dirt and their clean dresses all muddied; but
Tot was so much afraid Riar, her little nurse and maid, would get hurt
that she screamed and cried, and refused to be comforted until the
combatants suspended active hostilities, though they kept up
quarrelling for some time, even after they had recommenced their search
for ’possums.
“Dilsey don’t know how to tree no ’possums,” said Riar, contemptuously,
after they had walked for some time, and anxiously looked up into every
tree they passed.
“Yes I kin,” retorted Dilsey; “I kin tree ’em jes ez same ez er dog,
ef’n dar’s any ’possums fur ter tree; but I can’t _make_ ’possums, do;
an’ ef dey ain’t no ’possums, den I can’t tree ’em, dat’s all.”
“Maybe they don’t come out on the Fourf uv July,” said Dumps. “Maybe
’possums keeps it same as peoples,”
“Now, maybe dey duz,” said Dilsey, who was glad to have some excuse for
her profitless ’possum-hunting; and the children, being fairly tired
out, started back to the creek bank, when they came upon Uncle
Snake-bit Bob, wandering through the woods, and looking intently on the
ground.
“What are you looking for, Uncle Bob?” asked Diddie.
“Des er few buckeyes, honey,” answered the old man.
“What you goin’ ter du with ’em?” asked Dumps, as the little girls
joined him in his search.
“Well, I don’t want ter die no drunkard, myse’f,” said Uncle Bob, whose
besetting sin was love of whiskey.
“Does buckeyes keep folks from dying drunkards?” asked Dumps.
“Dat’s wat dey sez; an’ I ’lowed I’d lay me in er few caze I’ve allers
hyearn dat dem folks wat totes a buckeye in dey lef’ britches pocket,
an’ den ernudder in de righthan’ coat pocket, dat dey ain’t gwine die
no drunkards.”
“But if they would stop drinkin’ whiskey they wouldn’t die drunkards
anyhow, would they, Uncle Bob?”
“Well, I dunno, honey; yer pinnin’ de ole nigger mighty close; de
whiskey mout hab sump’n ter do wid it; I ain’t ’sputin’ dat—but wat I
stan’s on is dis: dem folks wat I seed die drunk, dey nuber had no
buckeyes in dey pockets; caze I ’members dat oberseer wat Marse Brunson
had, he died wid delirums treums, an’ he runned, he did, fur ter git
’way fum de things wat he seed atter him; an’ he jumped into de riber,
an’ got drownded; an’ I wuz dar wen dey pulled ’im out; an’ I sez ter
Brer John Small, who wuz er standin’ dar, sez I, now I lay yer he ain’t
got no buckeyes in his pockets; and wid dat me’n Brer John we tuck’n
turnt his pockets wrong side outerds; an’ bless yer soul, chile, hit
wuz jes like I say; DAR WAN’T NO BUCKEYES DAR! Well, I’d b’lieved in de
ole sayin’ befo’, but dat jes kin’ter sot me on it fas’er ’n eber; an’
I don’t cyar wat de wedder is, nor wat de hurry is; hit may rain an’
hit may shine, an’ de time may be er pressin’, but ole Rob he don’t
stir out’n his house mornin’s ’cep’n he’s got buckeyes in his pockets.
But I seed ’em gittin’ ready fur dinner as I comed erlong, an’ you
chil’en better be er gittin’ toerds de table.”
That was enough for the little folks, and they hurried back to the
creek. The table was formed by driving posts into the ground, and
laying planks across them, and had been fixed up the day before by some
of the men. The dinner was excellent—barbecued mutton and shote and
lamb and squirrels, and very fine “gumbo,” and plenty of vegetables and
watermelons and fruits, and fresh fish which the negroes had caught in
the seine, for none of the anglers had been successful.
Everybody was hungry, for they had had very early breakfast, and,
besides, it had been a fatiguing day, for most of the negroes had
walked the three miles, and then had danced and played games nearly all
the morning, and so they were ready for dinner. And everybody seemed
very happy and gay except Mammy; she had been so upset at the
children’s torn dresses and dirty faces that she could not regain her
good-humor all at once; and then, too, Dumps had lost her sun-bonnet,
and there were some unmistakable freckles across her little nose, and
so Mammy looked very cross, and grumbled a good deal, though her
appetite seemed good, and she did full justice to the barbecue.
Now Mammy had some peculiar ideas of her own as to the right and proper
way for ladies to conduct themselves, and one of her theories was that
no _white lady_ should ever eat heartily in company; she might eat
between meals, if desired, or even go back after the meal was over and
satisfy her appetite; but to sit down with a party of ladies and
gentlemen and make a good “square” meal, Mammy considered very
ungenteel indeed. This idea she was always trying to impress upon the
little girls, so as to render them as ladylike as possible in the years
to come; and on this occasion, as there were quite a number of the
families from the adjacent plantations present, she was horrified to
see Dumps eating as heartily, and with as evident satisfaction, as if
she had been alone in the nursery at home. Diddie, too, had taken her
second piece of barbecued squirrel, and seemed to be enjoying it very
much, when a shake of Mammy’s head reminded her of the impropriety of
such a proceeding; so she laid aside the squirrel, and minced
delicately over some less substantial food. The frowns and nods,
however, were thrown away upon Dumps; she ate of everything she wanted
until she was fully satisfied, and I grieve to say that her papa
encouraged her in such unladylike behavior by helping her liberally to
whatever she asked for.
But after the dinner was over, and after the darkies had played and
danced until quite late, and after the ladies and gentlemen had had
several very interesting games of euchre and whist, and after the
little folks had wandered about as much as they pleased—swinging on
grape-vines and riding on “saplings,” and playing “base” and “stealing
goods,” and tiring themselves out generally—and after they had been all
duly stowed away in the spring-wagon and had started for home, then
Mammy began at Dumps about her unpardonable appetite.
“But I was hungry, Mammy,” apologized the little girl.
“I don’t cyer ef’n yer wuz,” replied Mammy; “dat ain’t no reason fur
yer furgittin’ yer manners, an’ stuffin’ yerse’f right fo’ all de
gemmuns. Miss Diddie dar, she burhavt like er little lady, jes kinter
foolin’ wid her knife an’ fork, an’ nuber eatin’ nuffin’ hardly; an’
dar you wuz jes ir pilin’ in shotes an’ lams an’ squ’ls, an’ roas’n
yurs, an’ pickles an’ puddin’s an’ cakes an’ watermillions, tell I wuz
dat shame fur ter call yer marster’s darter!”
And poor little Dumps, now that the enormity of her sin was brought
home to her, and the articles eaten so carefully enumerated, began to
feel very much like a boa-constrictor, and the tears fell from her eyes
as Mammy continued:
“I done nust er heap er chil’en in my time, but I ain’t nuber seed no
white chile eat fo de gemmuns like you duz. It pyears like I can’t
nuber larn you no manners, nohow.”
“Let de chile erlone, Sis Rachel,” interposed Uncle Bob; “she ain’t no
grown lady, an’ I seed marster he’p’n uv her plate hisse’f; she nuber
eat none too much, consid’n hit wuz de Fourf uv July.”
“Didn’t I eat no shotes an’ lambs, Uncle Bob?” asked Dumps, wiping her
eyes.
“I don’t b’lieve yer did,” said Uncle Bob. “I seed yer eat er squ’l or
two, an’ er few fish, likely; an’ dem, wid er sprinklin’ uv roas’n yurs
an’ cakes, wuz de mos’ wat I seed yer eat.”
“An’ dat wuz too much,” said Mammy, “right befo’ de gemmuns.”
But Dumps was comforted at Uncle Bob’s moderate statement of the case,
and so Mammy’s lecture lost much of its intended severity.
As they were driving through the grove before reaching the house it was
quite dark, and they heard an owl hooting in one of the trees.
“I see yer keep on sayin’ yer sass,” said Daddy Jake, addressing the
owl. “Ef’n I’d er done happen ter all you is ’bout’n hit, I’d let hit
erlone myse’f.”
“What’s he sayin’?” asked Diddie.
“Wy, don’t yer hyear him, honey, er sayin’,
‘Who cooks fur you-oo-a?
Who cooks fur you-oo-a?
Ef you’ll cook for my folks,
Den I’ll cook fur y’ all-l-lll?’
“Well, hit wuz ’long er dat very chune wat he los’ his eyes, an’ can’t
see no mo’ in de daytime; an’ ev’n I wuz him, I’d let folks’ cookin’
erlone.”
“Can’t you tell us about it, Daddy?” asked Dumps.
“I ain’t got de time now,” said the old man, “caze hyear’s de wagin
almos’ at de do’; an’, let erlone dat, I ain’t nuber hyeard ’twus good
luck ter be tellin’ no tales on de Fourf uv July; but ef’n yer kin come
ter my cabin some ebenin’ wen yer’s er airin’ uv yerse’fs, den I’ll
tell yer jes wat I hyearn ’bout’n de owl, an ’struck yer in er many er
thing wat yer don’t know now.”
And now the wagon stopped at the back gate, and the little girls and
Mammy and the little darkies got out, and Mammy made the children say
good-night to Daddy Jake and Uncle Rob, and they all went into the
house very tired and very sleepy, and very dirty with their celebration
of “Marse Fofer July’s burfday.”