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THAT OLD-TIME CHILD, ROBERTA
Her Home-Life on the Farm
by
SOPHIE FOX SEA
Louisville
Printed by John P. Morton and Company
1892
[Illustration: "Must I look so when I die? Boo-oo!" "I'll cross my heart,
Lil Missus, 'twuz dem drefful men dat sed 'Boo-oo!'"]
TO MY REVERED AND BELOVED FRIEND,
Mrs. Preston Pope,
I DEDICATE THIS CHILD'S STORY. IT WAS SHE WHOSE LOVE OF
CHILDREN FIRST SUGGESTED IT, AND WHOSE WORDS OF
KIND APPRECIATION AND ENCOURAGEMENT HAVE
BEEN TO ME "AS APPLES OF GOLD IN
PICTURES OF SILVER."
Roberta Marsden, or Lil Missus, as the negroes called her, for the opening
of my story dates back several years before the Civil War began, lived on
a country place in Kentucky. She was a beautiful child, and despite a few
foibles that all flesh is heir to, such a really lovable one that she was
fairly worshiped by mother, aunt and uncle, and every one of the negroes,
from old Caleb, the testy and ancient coachman, to the veriest pickaninny,
who thought it a great feat to catch hold with grimy fingers to the
fluttering strings of the little girl's white apron when she came among
them at Christmas and on other occasions to distribute sweets and more
substantial tokens.
It was a great wonder that the child was not utterly spoiled. But it
seemed that her nature reflected the love lavished on her as a mirror the
face that looks into it.
Aunt Betsy declared she did not have one selfish bone in her whole body.
I think the reason of that was, there were so many about her looking to
her for comfort in some way, that when little more than a baby in years
she fell into the habit of thinking of and caring for others almost as a
woman would.
Aunt Betsy was a rheumatic, and always ailing, and the child could not
remember the time when her beautiful, patient mamma was not very, very
sad. Although she smiled often on her little daughter, it seemed as if
there were tears right behind the smiles, just like rain-drops shining
through the rays of the sun. And when she crept close to her at night she
could feel the long lashes sweep her cheek, and they were so often wet.
The negroes on the place, especially the older ones, would grumble out
their aches and pains to the child, as if they thought she had the gift of
healing. And indeed she had, in her way.
For when old Squire split his foot open with an ax, they lived so far in
the country they couldn't get a physician every time it needed attention,
and her kind, brave mamma undertook to dress the wound herself every
morning. She would let the deft little fingers squeeze a sponge full of
tepid water over the cut as many times as it was necessary, then hold the
scissors and bandages, and help in other ways. And old Squire said the
tender, compassionate little face "ho'ped 'im as much as Miss July did."
Those that need sympathy intuitively know where to get it. It's just like
the flowers reaching out for sun and dew.
I expect the city children who read this story feel very sorry for
Roberta because she lived in the country. But they needn't be, for she was
never lonely and scarcely ever idle. The older negroes on the place said
she was like "ole missus" (that was her grandmother) in her ways. And
among other things they told about the old lady, to show how stirring she
was and what a manager, was her method of arousing the household to their
duties in the beginning of the week: "Wake up! wake up! I say. To-day's
Monday, to-morrow's Tuesday, next day's Wednesday, next day's Thursday,
then comes Friday, and Saturday will be here before you know it, and
nothing done."
Roberta didn't belong to any "mite society" nor the "little busy bees,"
where city children are trained to think of and help the poor, and she
didn't wear the badge of the "Society for Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals," as many children do nowadays. Indeed I don't expect she ever
heard there was such a society. But she was instrumental nevertheless in
doing a great deal of real practical good. O, how her eyes did flash when
she saw animals mistreated. She made beds for the cats and beds for the
dogs; and when any of the milkers struck the cows while they were milking
them, if she was near about, she would say, "Mamma says good milkers are
always gentle with the cows, for they won't give down their milk unless
you treat them kindly. And anybody can tell by the quantity of milk you
get whether you are good to them or not. If I was a cow I wouldn't give
down my milk if you struck me and hollered at me."
So she made the cruel milkers ashamed of themselves often. And she
practically established a foundling asylum for little motherless lambs and
calves; raised them herself on the bottle just like they were babies.
"O, you tootsey weetsy darlin'," I've heard her say to a bright-eyed,
gentle lamb, her especial delight. The little creature would run to her
and bleat by way of telling her it was hungry, and when she had fed it it
would rub its pretty head against her knee and look love at her, just as I
have seen babies look love at their mothers.
And, my! how she did fuss over the little negro children when they were
sick! It just kept her busy bringing them gourds of fresh water from the
spring and watching the well ones to see that they didn't purloin the
dainties she brought the sick. She actually learned how to sew, making
clothes for the pickaninnies.
And you just ought to have seen her when any of the fathers and mothers
whipped their children severely. She would fly down to the cabin, tear the
pickaninnies away and trot them up to the big house, and pet them until
they were willing to take another whipping to get the good things she gave
them.
"She's jes de very spi't ob her par," old Squire would say on those
occasions; "Dat's jest de way hees eyes useter flash out at Mis Betsy
when she cum 'twix' him an Mis July."
O, I wish I could make the little children who read this story see, as I
have seen it, the country place where Roberta Marsden was raised.
On either side fields of golden-tasseled corn, rustling in the breeze and
shimmering in the sunlight, many of the stalks so entwined with
morning-glories, pink, white, blue, and variegated, one could almost
believe fairies had been there and arrayed the yellow silken-haired corn
babies for some festival, so crowned and garlanded they were. In front of
the house were wooded slopes, where the birds sang their love songs and
chattered noisily in bird language all the day long. Those woodlands might
have been called a primeval forest, for the trees were truly there in the
earliest memory of the oldest living resident of the county.
It used to puzzle me to understand how the birds knew when it was time to
wake up and begin their matin songs, for it was so like night there.
Roberta, who was an early riser and withal a child of poetic imagination,
used to say "that the fairies woke them up." She declared she saw a little
glittering thing, with wings and wand of silver, alight on the tops of the
trees and peep through at the Darbys and Joans of the bird tribe. And she
was sure it must have told them it was time to wake up; for soon would
begin a low twitter that swelled louder and louder, as bird after bird
joined in until every family of birds was represented. From the back porch
of the house could be seen a range of blue misty hills, that Roberta
called brides. They were often enveloped in white filmy folds, like bridal
veils, and one might catch glimpses of the river from there also gliding
along between banks of green.
A giant's great glittering eye she called that; the trees on the hills
above the giant's brows, and the ferns and grasses growing on either bank
were upper and lower lashes. With a little encouragement Roberta would
have been a genuine poet.
But Aunt Betsy took such a literal view of things, she was constantly
saying to Mrs. Marsden:
"That child's imagination will get away with her, Julia, if you don't
check it. It will, indeed."
And she had a way of making the child repeat over and over again
descriptions of things that had struck her fancy, and cutting here and
there until the description didn't seem applicable at all to the places
she had seen.
"I feel just like the old woman in Mother Goose, Auntie," Roberta would
say, her eyes full of vexed tears, "when she woke up on the king's highway
and found her petticoats were cut off."
"But truth is truth, child," said Aunt Betsy.
Aunt Betsy's intensely realistic temperament could not understand that
fine, exquisite perception God had given the little girl, which enabled
her to see beauty that others, differently organized, would never see,
nor, believe was there.
The house, where four generations of Mrs. Marsden's family had lived, was
home-like, but quaint and unpretentious. It had a very solid look and was
in thorough repair, for the family were thrifty and well-to-do always.
Luxuriant vines of the Virginia creeper grew on the sides of the house and
around the pillars of the porches. Wandering tendrils hung from the eaves
and crept in the second-story windows. There was a wild-brier rose there
that had been planted by Mrs. Marsden's grandmother. It partook somewhat
of the nature of the old lady; nothing could keep it from doing its duty.
It filled the air with fragrance in its season, and was a mass of delicate
pink flower cups.
Inside of the old house were many little nooks, and each nook haunted by
the spirit of some legendary story. As is the case in all houses where
successive generations of the same family have lived and died, ghostly
visitants came at certain times, so the negroes said, rang bells softly at
dead of night, tipped across the floor with but the echo of a step,
jostled medicine bottles together and did many curious things. Roberta,
brave as she was and sensible as she was, would actually cover up her head
with the bedclothes, and nearly smother for fear she would hear the bells
and ghostly steps.
Mam' Sara was the only one of the negroes who didn't believe in ghosts.
"No, indeed, honey," she would say to Roberta, "daid fo'ks don' never cum
bak. If they gits ter Heaven, they don' wan'er, and if they gits ter de
udder place they can't. The devil won' never let 'em git away frum him,
kase he's wuk so hard ter git 'em."
The part of the house of most interest to Roberta was the parlor, where
were stored the heir-looms of the family, a spinet with all the ivory worn
off the keys, two pier-glasses with brass claws for feet, and a clock so
tall and big she actually hid in it once when she was playing "hide and go
seek" with some little visitors, who said they had seen a clock "larger."
Roberta was a very amiable child, but old Squire said she "wuz techus
erbout sum things." And the old clock must have been one of the things.
The chairs were brought from Virginia on the backs of mules, and the
covers on them embroidered by the little girl's grandmother. The same busy
hands that superintended the manufacture of those piles of linen sheets
stored away in the presses above stairs, and the counterpanes woven with
the American eagle in the center, bunches of hollyhocks and sweet pea in
the corners, and trumpet vines running along the edges.
The paper on the walls of the parlor was a curiosity. It was imported from
England many, many years before Roberta's mother was born, because her
grandfather saw a room somewhere, I think in Baltimore, that had similar
paper, and he took such a fancy to it he ordered some from the same place.
The paper was wrought in great panels, with life-size figures of orientals
in the center. They were terrible looking men, the children thought. They
had swarthy skins and beards down to their waists, and fierce eyes that
flashed out beneath their turbans with a fe-fo-fi-fum look.
Those fierce eyes were the cause of no little alarm, I can assure you,
when darkness swooped down upon Roberta and Polly and Dilsy, playing
Lady-come-to-see in the old parlor in childlike unconsciousness of the
passage of time. Polly, the imp, would always insist upon singing "Lady
Jane Grey," as they tiptoed backward out of the room. They did not dare to
look away, for fear those terrible men would fly at them when they were
not looking and throttle them with their long, bony fingers, so they
joined hands and sung as they tiptoed backward:
Lady Jane Grey, she went to church for to pray;
She went to the stile and there rested awhile;
She went to the door and there rested a little more;
She went up the aisle and there rested awhile;
She looked up; she looked down;
She saw a corpse lie on the ground;
She said to the sexton, must I look so
When I die? Boo, boo!
Now when they came to the last part it was always Polly who stretched open
her eyes till they looked like an owl's great round eyes, and jumped at
Roberta and Dilsy and hollered "Boo, boo!" Although they knew it was
coming they were awfully scared, and would break loose and run, screaming
like mad things, into the sitting-room, really believing the orientals
were after them. They had made believe it so many times, and Polly had
said so many times, "I'll cross my heart, Lil Missus, 'twuz dem drefful
men dat sed 'boo-oo'; I seed thar lips muven; you don' ketch me in thar no
mo'," they had come to really believe it. They had heard the story of the
children who played wolf, and a wolf did sure enough come and devour them.
As many times as they had played Lady Jane Grey they were always worse
scared the last time than ever before. The sitting-room was a cozy place
when they got there, panting for breath after their fright in the parlor.
In one of the deep window recesses Roberta had set up her entire doll
family to housekeeping. She was very fond of her dolls. The mother
instinct in her was developed very early. She had wax dolls and china
dolls and rag dolls. Mrs. Marsden painted features on the rag dolls, and
they looked very natural. There was Miss Prim and Miss Slim, Mrs. Jolly
and Mrs. Folly, Miss Snappy and Miss Happy, named from their different
expressions. Roberta had the quaintest way of talking to her dolls. She
had caught some of Aunt Betsy's old-time ideas:
"Straighter, my dears, straighter. One's spine should never touch the back
of a chair," and, "Don't rest your elbows on the table while you are
eating; my great-grandmother used to keep cushions stuffed with pins to
slip under the children's elbows," etc.
Her favorite dolls were the figures cut out of the fashion plates of
Godey's Lady's Book. She was an artist with her fingers, if there was a
pair of scissors in them. So she took sheets of different colored
tissue-paper, cut dresses, and fitted them nicely on her dolls. Each doll
had a variety.
I believe she thought her dolls looked cosier at the dinner-table than
anywhere else, and she kept them sitting there a great deal. Sometimes
Polly, who seemed born to make trouble, would roll her eyes at the dolls
and say, "You iz de greedes' things. Whar iz you gwiner to put it?"
Then, of course, Roberta would feel obliged to take some notice of their
sitting at the table so long: "Come, get down now, dears. Little ladies
should _not_ appear greedy."
Roberta was very much like some mothers of real children, who will wink at
what their little ones do at one time, and, if a neighbor drops in at
another, who is not of the same way of thinking, scold the poor children
for doing those very things they had winked at before. But Roberta did not
have it in her heart to scold anybody much, not even that impish Polly,
who would go around after she had provoked her little mistress beyond
endurance, sniffling and singing in a dolorous tone,
Whar she goes en how she fars,
Nobody knows en nobody kyars.
and invariably wind up by getting the very playthings she wanted from
Roberta as a peace offering.
I must not forget to tell you about Roberta's Sunday School for little
negro children. If the child didn't always keep perfect order and make the
headway she would have liked, it wasn't because she didn't try. Her whole
heart was in the work. She really was very intelligent, and Aunt Betsy
said, "If there was such a thing as anybody being born in this world a
Christian, she believed Roberta was." I think she must have had the germ
of object teaching--that is the fad now--in her nature, she could paint
such vivid mental pictures to convey an idea. Once she was telling Polly
about God's punishment of sinners, and Polly said, "Lawdy, Lil Missus, I
feel dem blazes creepen' all over me dis minit." She had a great deal to
contend with, almost as much as Mrs. Marsden had, in getting the older
negroes to come in to prayers. Nine times out of ten, when she rang the
bell for them Sunday morning, Squire would put his head in the door and
say:
"Mis July, dat deviles hoss dun played me dat same trick ergin. He dun
lade down in de mud en roll ober en ober. 'T will take me clar up ter de
time to start ter chech ter git dat mud orf him, en hard wurk at dat. Dat
hoss knows ez well when Sad-day night comes ez you duz. Jes' de way he dun
las' week when I hetch him in de plow: lay down en groan lak he sick enuff
ter die, ter keep fum worken'; en half hour arfter I turn him luse
frolerken lak er colt--jes' kicken' up his heels, I kin tell you."
"Why not drive some of the others, Uncle Squire, so you can come in to
prayers?"
"I dun turn em all out, en dey's gorn, de Lord unly knows whar. If I'd
unly know'd it en time now. But I'll show 'im--I'll show 'im. I gwiner be
mity solid wid 'im, en mebbe heel larn arfter while dat he aint his own
master."
At other times it was a mule.
"Mis July, dat mule dun tore down dat rock fence ergin. I bounter fix it
or de stock will git out en go orf, you knows dat ez well az I duz. Dat
mule's yours, en you kin do what you please wid him, but ef he 'longter me
I'd sell him de fus chance I git. Dat mule nuff ter mek er man strike hees
gran-daddy."
Now, it was a well-known fact that Mrs. Marsden had tried several times to
sell the mule, and old Squire had always declared "the mule was the most
valuable animal on the place, and it was just giving him away to sell him
at the price offered."
Polly was Squire's granddaughter, and inherited his want of reverence for
sacred things. She was very, very trying, especially on one occasion I
will tell you about.
Roberta gathered the children together, took her Catechism and primer,
and went down to the summer-house. She noticed that Polly's expression was
sulky, and that she was rolling her eyes at Dilsy. But Polly was always
tormenting Dilsy. Dilsy was a little hunchback negro, that everybody but
Polly felt sorry for and tried to turn the soft side of life to.
Roberta was not much discouraged by Polly's actions, still she knew it was
a great deal pleasanter to teach her when she was in a good humor, and
concluded to resort to a strategy to mollify her.
The child was a close observer of nature, and knew how indispensable to
germinate seed was a mellow, rightly prepared soil, and what service
sunshine and timely rainfalls were to growing crops. So she intuitively
drew an analogy in her childish way between the soil the plow-man turns
over and the human heart.
Now, if there was one thing that Polly delighted in more than another it
was the game of "Chick-a-mie, chick-a-mie, craney-crow."
So the children joined hands and moved around and around in a circle,
singing:
"Chick-a-mie, chick-a-mie, craney-crow,
Went to the well to wash my toe,
When I got back my chickens was gone.
What o'clock is it, old Buzzard?"
Then they would fly around looking for the chickens. At least all of them
but Polly would. Polly always took the part of old Buzzard, so she could
flop down in Dilsy's seat, although she knew she would have to get right
up.
Somehow, that evening Roberta's strategy did not seem to have accomplished
its object, judging from Polly's expression. Still she hoped for the best.
Polly was the biggest, so she always begun with her.
"Who made you, Polly?"
No answer immediately; then,
"Dunno fur sarten, spec' 't wuz Gord."
A lump gathered in the child's throat. Her bump of reverence was so
largely developed it distressed her to see a want of it in others; she
said "it hurt her feelings."
She passed it by, however, and ventured on another.
"What else did God make?"
"Dunno fur sarten, never seed 'im wuken'."
"For shame, Polly! God made all things. Say 'God made all things.'"
"No, never. Never made Dilsy thar. Dilsy nuffin' but er scrap he throw'd
erway when he got fru cutten' out de grow'd-up ones."
"For shame, Polly! Don't you know everybody has to be little and grow up."
"No, never! Adam and Eve wuz born'd grow'd up."
"Well, that was because they were the first people on earth, and there was
nobody to be papa and mamma for 'em, and take care of 'em, when they were
little."
"Dat's like Dilsy thar. Dilsy never had no daddy."
"Well, Polly, you haven't answered my question yet. Say 'God made all
things.'"
"No, never! God never made mammy's twins--no mo' dan he made Dilsy thar.
Dey iz prezak like dem monkeys I seed de time I went en town ter de
circus."
Now Polly was not an impartial judge of the twins, for she had been
installed as their nurse, and she hated to nurse.
"For shame, Polly! Those nice little babies. And then, besides, as God
made all things, he made monkeys too, of course."
"No, never! You can't make me berleeve dat. Gord nerver wase hees valerbel
time maken' monkeys."
That was the "last straw that broke the camel's back." After trying so
hard to be patient, and especially as she knew it was nothing but pure
contrariness in Polly, for only the Sunday before she had answered every
question correctly, and added some pious interpolations exceedingly
gratifying to her young teacher.
So she got up, went to her refractory pupil, and lifted her forefinger by
way of giving emphasis to her words.
But Polly, recognizing that her little mistress's temperature was rising,
felt a proportionate rise in her own, rolled her eyes till nothing but the
whites were visible, and stuck her lower lip out.
It would be impossible to conceive of a creature uglier or more
aggravating looking than Polly, when she did that way.
In a flash, down came Roberta's little soft pink palm on her cheek.
Mrs. Marsden happened to be passing on her way to the quarters to visit a
sick servant, and witnessed the performance. She was amused, but worried
too, that Roberta had allowed herself to be so provoked, for it almost
made a farce of the whole thing; and she knew how much in earnest her
little daughter really was. The child's flushed cheeks and flashing eyes
brought back, O so vividly! another face and another pair of flashing orbs
so like hers. There were tears in Mrs. Marsden's eyes when she went in the
summer-house and took her seat on the bench that circled around it.
"Did you strike Polly, daughter?"
"Yes 'em, Mamma."
"What did you strike her for, daughter?"
"She wouldn't say her lesson, Mamma, and she knew it all the time. And she
rolled her eyes at me so, and stuck out her lip and looked so ugly, I just
couldn't help it, that's all."
"I am sorry, daughter, that you gave way to your temper so. For remember,
you are only the sower that plants the seed, and God takes care of all the
rest. If you really try to teach Polly, and she won't be taught, you
mustn't make a personal thing of it, but just leave it with God. Then,
again, daughter, unless you practice self-control, teaching others is a
farce. I know Polly has been very trying, indeed. But I want you to show a
real forgiving spirit, as one should always show when one is working for
the Master. I want you to tell Polly you are sorry you struck her. For you
are sorry, I know--I see it in your face."
A kind of staccato snuffle was heard in the direction of Polly.
Roberta gave another look at the surly, unprepossessing countenance, then
said, in a low voice:
"I will, Mamma, if you will let me hide my face in your lap while I am
saying it."
"But why hide your face in my lap, daughter?"
"Because--because--Mamma--I am afraid--if she looks at me as she did
before, that I will slap her again. I don't believe I could keep from it
this evening; I am all out of sorts."
Afterwards that observation of Polly's, "Dilsy never had no daddy," caused
Roberta no little thought. Really, she was no better off than Dilsy, she
reasoned, for of course the child did not take in the full significance of
the imp's meaning. Nobody ever told her that her papa was dead. Indeed she
had been taught to pray for him every night. She felt sure he was living.
But, where? Why did he not come home and pet her, like other little girls'
papas she knew--pet her, and make her beautiful, sad mother smile
sometimes. For it seemed to the child that she grew sadder and sadder all
the time. There was nobody she could talk to about him, for her mamma's
eyes filled with tears at any chance allusion to him. Aunt Betsy nearly
snapped her head off when she asked her a question, and Uncle Squire,
chatty as he was upon every other subject, would squint his eyes in a
knowing way, puff out his cheeks, and answer, "Lay o'ers ter ketch
meddlers." Yes, there was one person she was sure she could coax into
telling her why her papa never came home to see them all, and that was
dear, good Mam' Sarah, the weaver. When Aunt Betsy scolded Mam' Sarah, she
would get down on the floor by Aunt Betsy and hug her tight around the
knees and say, "God love you, Mistiss," to show her she wasn't mad at her
for scolding her. That was "religion," mamma said. Aunt Betsy would cry,
and say:
"Get up, Sarah, you make me ashamed of myself."
Yes, she would go to Mam' Sarah at the loom-house. It was considered a
great treat by Roberta to go down to the loom-house. That was where the
wool, cotton, and flax was carded, spun, and wove, then manufactured into
winter and summer clothes for the negroes on the place. Yard upon yard of
beautiful red and black flannel, blue and brown linseys, and blue and
white striped cottonades, for the women, jeans for the men, and that
coarse fabric called tow-linen made from the refuse of flax. The
wonderful counterpanes, I have mentioned before, were manufactured there
and the linen for sheets and towels. Let me tell you something curious
while I am on the subject of the loom-house: Roberta's grandmother raised
silk-worms in the room adjoining. She fed them on mulberry leaves. Mam'
Sarah told Roberta they made a noise like wind while they were feeding.
Those worms spun fluffy balls of silk, called cocoons, that the old lady
reeled her silk thread from. She had all the silk thread and embroidery
floss she needed.
There were no silk-worms raised in Roberta's time, and the room was given
up to other uses.
There was kept the huge iron mortar where the grains of corn were crushed
to make the delicious hominy Kentuckians are so fond of. When rightly
prepared each grain stands out like the beautiful white-plumed corn
captains and colonels that dance up so gaily over beds of live coals.
There were made also the tallow dips, almost the only light used in the
old days on the farms in Kentucky. Pieces of cotton wick were cut the
required length and fastened at regular intervals to sticks of wood. One
of the rows of wicks was dipped in the melted tallow, taken out and
suspended over a vessel to drip. Then another was dipped, and another,
till the same process was gone through with all. That was repeated many
times before the wicks held enough tallow to be used for candles. An
improved method was to run the wicks through tin molds, the required size
and shape, and fasten them at one end with a knot; then pour in the melted
tallow, and set the molds aside for the tallow to harden. The candles were
put in brass, silver, and bronze candlesticks, accompanied by quaint
little waiters that held snuffers, used to nip off the charred wick, as
the tallow melted away from it. Very primitive that, compared with the
brilliant luminaries we have now.
Well, there were hanks of different colored yarns and strings of red
peppers hanging from the ceiling of the loom-house. Great beams ran
through, called "warping bars," where the various warp threads were
measured and cut for the loom. There were scutchens for dressing flax,
carding combs, spinning wheels, and the great wooden loom with shafts
reaching almost to the ceiling.
It was prime fun for Roberta to go down to the loom-house in the long
winter evenings, and, sitting down before the open fire-place, help Polly
and the others card the wool in long, smooth "curls," and pile them in
even layers, ready for the spinner.
It required deft fingers, too, to gather together all the bits of wool
caught on the many sharp teeth of the carding comb, and that, by working
the two parts of the comb up and down, like a see-saw, then turning them
over and smoothing the rolls with the back.
Those were busy days on the farms in old Kentucky, and happy days,
besides. The very best days for many, both white and black. That
afternoon I will tell you about especially, Mam' Sarah had a
bright-colored rag carpet in the loom. There she sat, her eyes fixed
intently on the pattern before her, shuttles carrying the black, red, and
orange filling flying in and out under her deft, busy fingers. Many a
strip of that gay filling had the little girl cut, sewed, and wrapped.
Mam' Sarah raised her eyes and smiled at the child, but didn't stop
working.
"Don't it tire you Mam' Sarah?" Roberta once compassionately asked.
"No, indeed, honey! Pear-lak I got sumfin' in my elbers en sumfin' in my
knees that keeps on goen, sumfin' like springs. I never gits tired. I
likes it."
That was the secret, Mam' Sarah liked it. One can keep on forever when one
"likes it." "A merry heart goes all the day, a sad one tires in a mile."
Roberta climbed upon a stool and sat there watching Mam' Sarah. She was a
nice person to watch. She had such kind eyes and such a pleasant mouth.
Roberta thought Mam' Sarah's mouth was just made to say "honey." Just like
a "prune" and "prism" mouth I've read of somewhere. Her skin was the color
of coffee, with a little cream in it. She always wore a head-handkerchief,
generally white, and one similar, folded over the bosom of her dress. Mam'
Sarah was very tall, and she had the best lap in the world to coddle down
in, Roberta thought.
[Illustration: MAM' SARAH. "Sumfin' in my elbers en knees keeps on goen.
I never gits tired--I likes it."]
Presently Mam' Sarah took her foot off the treadle, went to the
fire-place, lit her pipe, returned to her seat and puffed away in peaceful
silence. Roberta waited for her to get through, for she knew how dearly
she loved her pipe. After a little Mam' Sarah laid her pipe aside and
looked at the child.
"What's de matter, honey?" she asked. "Your putty eyes full of tears.
Ennybody hurt your feelens?"
The touch of sympathy coming at that tender moment, like a rose-leaf upon
a full vessel of water, caused the pent-up emotion to overflow.
Roberta climbed in Mam' Sarah's lap, put her head down on her shoulder and
sobbed like her heart would burst. The old woman caressed the golden head,
and droned out a quaint lullaby, accompanying it with a kind of swaying
motion of her body as though soothing an infant to slumber:
"Who's dis, who's dis, er coddlen down here?
I spec dis iz black mammy's gyurl;
Her skin so white iz mammy's delite.
And her long golden ha'r in kyurl.
Shoo-oo-oo, shoo-oo-oo--
Rest, white chile, rest, on black mammy's breast.
"Who's dis, who 's dis, er coddlen down here,
Wid her eyes full of greeven' tears?
Fru de chink of the do', let de lite po',
De shadders, my little gyurl skeers.
Shoo-oo-oo, shoo-oo-oo--
Rest, white chile, rest, on black mammy's breast.
"This iz the way I useter nuss you when you wuz er baby. You wuz warken'
about fo' you know'd who your mammy wuz. You see, your mar wuz so troubled
after your par went erway, she diden' take no entres' in enny thing much;
po' thing! po' thing! You'd axel cum enter this wurl' with out a rag ter
your back, if I haden' hunted up sum baby cloze your mar wo', en git em
ready."
"What made my papa go away, Mam' Sarah?" asked the child, quickly.
"I dunno fur sarten, honey, wot did make him go erway. You see, he wuzen'
lak our fo'ks. Cum frum the Norf. Pear-lak he cuden' take ter our ways,
sumhow. Mars Robert was razed in town, en he diden' lak it out here in the
country. I heered him say he wuz so tired of the country, hee'd be glad
never ter see another blade of grass grow. Mis Betsy tho't that was orful.
He wuz allers arfter your mar ter sell all of us, en sell the place en go
Norf with him ter live. Sumhow he diden' lak culured peepel ter wate on
him. Jes lak hees sister, who cum down here to visit Mis July, en bro't
her little gal with her. When enny of us wud go ni the child, shee'd draw
bak en say, 'och-y,' jes lak our black skins wuz nasty. She seed Judy with
her hans en the biskit do', and she wuden' eat the biskits. She said the
blak rubbed orf in 'em. Shee'd never heered of worfles 'til she cum out
here, en she wuden' tech 'em, cors she tho't we made the holes in em with
our fingers. Yer mar felt mity bad cors de chile wuden' eat nuffin', for
she wuz a po' little wite-face thing ennyhow.
"Well, you wanter know erbout your par en your mar. It ain' nuffin' but
natchel, en I'll tell you the best I know how. One day I wuz cleneen' your
mar's room. Your par en your mar wuz en de setten' room, en I heered him
say:
"'It's unly a queshun of er little time, en they'll all be free. Sell 'em
now wile you kin en put the money en your pocket. Ef you wate, they'll be
er dead loss ter you. You made one fulis mistake en not selling Squire;
don't make another.'
"Lemme tell you wot he mean by that, honey. Squire's mammy, Free Fanny,
cum down here fum the city, en tried ter buy Squire fum yer mar. She
orfered her er big price fur Squire; she wuz rich, en mity keen ter git
her unly son. But Squire, he jes' went on so, got down on his knees ter
your mar en begged her not to sell him ter his mammy. Axel cried, en got
your mar ter cryen', en Mis Betsy en Mars Charley. You never seed enny
thin' lak et. En your mar tole Free Fanny she wud leave it with Squire, en
do jes' ez he sed. Yer par wuz jes' out-dun. Pear-lak he cuden' git over
your mar payen' mo' tenshun ter Squire then ter him.
"I nerver know'd why Squire diden' want your mar ter sell him ter hees own
mammy. It looked unnatchel. Free Fanny, that's hees mammy, wuz mity rich,
en owned six colored peeple hersef. Shee's liven' yet en the city, en
when she dies Squire will get her money.
"Well, when yer par sed that, your mar sed:
"'I cuden' sell them ef I wanter; you know that, Robert, en I don'
wanter.'
"Then your par, he spoke up sharp:
"'It's nonsense, it's wuss than nonsense fur the liven' ter be so bound by
the dead. Sarcumstances are allers changen'. I say you've got no rite ter
think of everbody fo' you duz me. En its jes' cum ter this pass, you've
got ter chuse twixt them en me. You've got ter sell 'em en sell this place
en go with me, war I kin make the liven' I wuz eddiketed for, or I'll
brake luse mysef, en go. I can't stan' this life no longer.'
"Then your mar sed:
"'I wud be miserbel, Robert, ef I broke my father's will. It would kill
me, I do believe. Besides, I wuden' sell em, ef I diden' have er cent ter
buy er crust of braid with, even ef I wuzen' boun' by the will. En ez fur
sellen' this place, war I wuz born'd en raze, I never spec' ter. I wan'er
live en die rite here. Besides, there's Aunt Betsy. She wud never consent
ter go away fum here, en I cuden' leave her by hersef.'
"Yer par git up then, en slam the do, 'en I never heerd no mo'. 'Twuz the
fus' out-en-out quarrel they ever had; but they had menny er one arfter
that. Pear-lak one led ter ernuther; en thar wuz nobody ter take hold en
help. Mis Betsy wud pitch in en say things that made 'em madder en
madder. Well, one mawnen' early, Squire went ter the stable ter feed, en
he sed Mars Robert dun took the horses en buggy, en er wagin fur hees
trunk, en gorn. Erbout dinner time the men cum bak with the buggy en
wagin, but no Mars Robert. Fum that day ter this he never cum bak."
"Did he never write to mamma?" asked the child, her cheeks burning.
"I berleeve he did, unct; sent her sum money or sumfin'. I heered Mis
Betsy say, 'Put it en bank fur your unborn'd chile,' en your mar sed, 'I
don' want it; I have enuff.'
"Tempers iz er mity bad thing, honey," continued Mam' Sarah. "Now, I don'
mean that nasty sperit that makes er dog snap hees teef at you, cors your
mar en par never had no temper lak dat, chile. Mo' lak spile chillen, that
dun had ther way so long they cuden' give in, speshly your par. If your
par haden' gorn so fur erway, your mar en him wud made up when you cum.
Chillens teeches fo'ks er heep. But you see, honey, they never had no
chance ter make up. My ole man en me haz menny ups en downs. Sumhow, when
he gits sick, or I haz ter do sumfin' fur him, I furgit erbout bein' mad
at him.
"Pear-lak, ter me, honey, en I've stidded on it er heep, the mo' you do
fur fo'ks the better you laks 'em. 'Twud bin the same with your mar en
your par, ef your par haden' gorn so fur away. When you marry, honey, you
marry one of the nabor boys."
"I never mean to marry anybody," said Roberta, getting down from Mam'
Sarah's lap, and shaking out the creases in her muslin dress. She was a
dainty creature. "I am going to be an old maid and take care of mamma. May
be I can make her laugh and sing, after a while, like Aunt Betsy says she
used to. I'll never leave her, never, never. And then there's Aunt Betsy
to take care of, and you, and Aunt Judy and all."
"Bless your sweet mouf. But we've gotter die fo' long, honey, en be put
erway in the cold groun' fur the wurms ter make meals of; sum of us
cheaten' the grave rite now. What iz you gwiner do then, honey?"
"Then," said the child, and her face was sober indeed, "when that comes to
pass I shall be very, very sorry for a long time; but I will try to make
others happy, as mamma does, and may be that will comfort me a little. I
will get all the little girls together, like me, that haven't got any
papas and mammas, and all the little hunchback darkies like Dilsy, and all
the sorrowful people like mamma, and I'll love 'em and take care of 'em
until the angel comes for us, the angel that God sends."
Thus the years rolled by until the war came. Peaceful, happy years they
were to Roberta on the old farm; golden years, in which the child's
character grew and strengthened, with no unkindly influence to warp it,
and her nature, it seemed, became more responsive all the time to the love
that was lavished upon her.
Mam' Sarah told Roberta that she was going down to the tobacco fields,
early Sad-day morning, July 4, '63, and Roberta coaxed her mamma to let
she and Polly and Dilsy go with her. Although Federal cannon were planted
along the bluff overlooking Green River, their presence occasioned no
especial uneasiness, nor suspicion of impending warfare. Mrs. Marsden as
well as everybody else had grown accustomed to them. Almost during the
entire civil war that point was thought important on account of the
bridge; army stores were constantly shipped South that way.
So the three children started off, merry as larks, with their trusty
companion.
On either side of the turnpike road were green fields flushed with light.
The morning air stirred about them, redolent in sweet scents and attuned
with the many voices of summer. They heard the drowsy hum of bees; and
butterflies were there, thick as motes in the midday sun. Roberta's
observant, nature-loving eyes roved delightedly from one point to another
of the sunny landscape, while she repeated gaily to Mam' Sarah a little
couplet. The child's memory was stored with quaint rhymes:
"A country lane between fields of clover
Rippling in sunshine over and over.
There the whirl of gay revelrie,
Butterflies waltzing mad with glee,
Honey-bees, powdered in dust of gold,
Chassezing around like gay knights of old,
Clad in silken doublet and hose;
Lookout, lookout, if you tread on their toes."
Suddenly Polly broke away, pulled up an iron-weed growing on the
road-side, and fell to whipping a large purple thistle. Her thirst grew;
she left the thistle and fell to whipping the rank grass. Then was heard
an angry buzz, as the assaulted bees swarmed out of their defenses and
literally stormed her.
They settled all over her. Head, face, bare feet and legs were attacked
all at once. They stung her terribly. The death of their comrade was
summarily avenged. She rent the air with her cries, and backed toward Mam'
Sarah, fighting them off as she went from different parts of her body.
Mam' Sarah covered up her retreat as well as she could, saying:
"I natchel hate ter see fo'ks in trubble, but I ain' er bit sorry fur you.
I never seed ennybody fo' that wuz allers on the war-paf. Them bees haden'
dun nuffin' ter you. They is prezak lak humans. Ef you let 'em erlone you
won't hear from 'em; but fite 'em en they'll fite you back, erver time."
At the same time that Mam' Sarah and Roberta were fussing over Polly, a
line of glittering points were coming up the rise near the bend of the
river. A column of Confederate soldiers appeared, marching shoulder to
shoulder, their arms shining in the morning sun. On they came, crossing
the fields with the springing step of hope and the steady step of high,
dauntless courage, making directly for the works the Federals had thrown
up and protected with the bodies of felled trees.
Well-nigh impregnable, those works, from their vast advantage of
position, but in their line of march it was the policy of their leaders to
fight every thing of like nature that came in the way, to hide, if
possible, their real weakness in numbers. So they were told to take those
works, and take them they would. Knowing not the hesitancy of doubt, nor
the trammels of fear, what recked they of danger or of death, as they
sprung to their work?
Alas! the awful death-trap that caught them, held them, while that deadly
fusilade opened upon them, reddened with their warm, young blood the soil
of their native State--mowed them down, ruthlessly, those hapless
Kentuckians. For ruthless it ever seems, when youth and hope and glorious
promise are offered in vain. At last they fell back, the living; what
flesh and blood could do otherwise? Fell back, but undismayed, and
fighting stubbornly inch by inch, as they bore off their wounded. O, those
darlings of old Kentucky! whose light went out on that July morning nearly
thirty years ago, those eager souls that God sealed with His eternal peace
ere aught had ruffled them, other than the zest of a hurdle-race or quail
hunt on their native bluegrass; many of them scarce passed the mile-stones
of boyhood, fresh from the classroom and tender home circle. Yet, they
plunged into the awful fire of that needless sacrifice, like veterans, to
whom the smoke and crash of charging squadrons is a pastime.
No braver souls than they ever perished; none more loyal to the land that
gave them birth. Well may Kentucky embalm their worth in enduring tablets
of brass and marble. Let her see to it that she keeps their memory green
in her heart, for they loved her with a love passing the love of woman.
When Mam' Sarah heard the firing she caught hold of Roberta's hand and
started to run, calling on the others to follow. She heard voices shouting
to her, in reality the voices of the negroes who had gone down to the
tobacco fields, calling to her to turn back. But, in her excitement she
thought they were war cries, and ran as fast as she could away from them.
"Let's go to the play-house under the hill, Mam' Sarah," said quick-witted
Roberta.
That play-house was a rocky recess, once the bed of some subterranean
stream, and protected from view by a sycamore's gnarled, knotted branches
extending down, and hung with matted wild grape tendrils. Mam' Sarah had
often gone down there and spread her linen on the grass to bleach, and she
generally took the children along for company. That's how they happened to
find out the rocky recess or cave, for it ran under the hill a
considerable distance. They hadn't been in there long before a shadow
darkened the entrance to the recess. A figure crept toward them with the
muzzle of a gun pointing straight at them.
"O, don't shoot!" they cried in terror.
"I won't," responded a boyish voice, and when their tears subsided they
saw it was a mere lad, wounded and bleeding.
"Are you much hurt?" asked Roberta.
"O, no; just a scratch."
His chin fell on his chest. A dry sob burst from him.
"I wish now I had been killed with the rest of 'em."
"Have you got a mother?" Roberta asked.
"Yes, I've got a mother; but what will she say when I tell her I left Bert
lying yonder in that death-trap? That's what's the matter. I wanted to
find Bert and take him away with me. I hunted for him all along among
those trees, and I got cut off from our boys. I think I must have lost my
head, for I forgot which way they went."
"Who is Bert?" asked Roberta.
"Bert was my brother, and the best boy that ever lived. Curse them!" he
cried, shaking his clenched fist; "curse the Yankees. What right have they
on Kentucky soil, anyhow?"
"O, don't curse them," said the child; "my papa is a Yankee."
"Is he?" He stopped short and looked at her with a kind of pity. "I am
sorry for you, that's all; sorry from my heart. I'd rather be a negro
trader."
"I'm sorry too," said Roberta. There was a droop about the corners of her
mouth. "But don't you worry about your brother. Mam' Sarah and me will
find him and do all we can for him."
"Will you?" said the hoy eagerly; "will you, really? O! that will be too
kind for any thing. I can never forget it, never."
"But how am I to know him? Is he like you?"
"Yes, he is like me; we were twins; but ten million times better looking.
He looked like an angel, as he is, as he is."
Great throes convulsed his chest in his efforts to control himself.
"I don't want to be a baby, but I was never away from Bert a day in my
life. Say, I can tell you how to know him. He has a picture of mother and
a Testament in his pocket, with his name written on the fly-leaf, 'Albert
Kurl.'"
"Well, we will find him," said Roberta.
There was a whispered consultation between the three, Mam' Sarah, Roberta
and the soldier. It seemed entirely satisfactory. And then Mam' Sarah told
Roberta they must hurry home on account of her mammy. "We kin cum back,
honey, en find him."
And come back they did. They found him and washed the blood away from the
poor mangled features, straightening out the twisted limbs as well as they
could. Roberta took charge of the little pocket Bible with his name
written on the fly-leaf, and the picture of his mother, such a stately,
beautiful lady. Albert Kurl's body was not the only one they looked for.
Mam' Sarah's tears fell like rain, as she went from one to another
searching for curly-haired Mars Charley, the little boy she nursed. She
would have known him, she was sure, no matter how he looked. But, thank
God, he was not there. She remembered so well the morning he rode off on
his prancing horse, with the bands playing Dixie.
"Charlie," called Aunt Betsy, "take this Bible with you."
"O Auntie," laughed the merry young fellow, "I can't, but I'll promise to
say, 'Now I lay me down to sleep' every night."
"O, what duz make fo'ks git so mad with ech other?" said Mam' Sarah. "It
will all cum rite, if they'll only hol' back en trust God."
Just before tea, Roberta ran down to uncle Squire's cabin, on the hill
back of the spring-house. She told him she had a secret for his ears
alone, made him look under the bed, the cup-board, chairs, and every
place, to be sure there were no eaves-droppers. Then she sat down on a
stool and slided it along towards him. He edged his chair a little closer
towards her, so by the time she began her communication their heads almost
touched. It was comical to see the old man's various facial expressions
while the child talked. He would squint his eyes like he was trying to
sight something away ahead of him, puffed out his cheeks till they
resembled an inflated bellows. Finally, slapped his thigh vigorously,
blurting out, "You iz er sharp one, Lil Misus, you won' never 'go fru er
thicket en pick up er 'oop-pole', he-he-he."
"Can you manage it for me, Uncle Squire?" asked the child anxiously.