WHILE at the Tishomingo in Corinth we acquired a boy 17 years old, black
and raw-boned. His name was Dan Weaver. I do not know how we got him,
but having once gotten him we had him. Having learned that where we were
he was always sure of something to eat, he was determined to stay with
us. We took him to Jackson and he became a part of us. He made himself
useful about the hotel, and assisted my mother in taking care of the
baby. He would sit with her in his arms and sing by the hour, and
sometimes in his earnestness the big tears would flow down his black,
shiny cheeks. His favorite song was “Dixie” and over and over and again
he would sing,
Away down south in the land of cotton,
Cinnamon seed and sandy bottom,
Look away, away, away.
In Dixie’s land
I’ll take my stand.
And live and die a “secesh” man.
But the “secesh” part of it was a huge joke with Dan, and was but a bit
of ironical humor on his part. There was nothing Dan wouldn’t do for
“Little Missy,” as he always called me. I had developed a mania for
collecting empty cigar boxes, and he would scour the town and camp to
secure them for me. I was very proud of my collection, and I had them of
every size and shape, stacked up on either side of the bureau until they
reached the top of the looking-glass. I fully expected to bring them
home with me, and was bitterly disappointed when emphatically informed
that I could not do so. Since then an empty cigar box has always had a
peculiar charm for me, and I never see one or inhale the pungent odor of
cedar and tobacco combined but the interior of No. 19 appears before me,
and I wonder who fell heir to my beloved boxes.
Dan was a good boy in the main, but in an evil hour he learned to play
cards. He came home one day very angry with a colored comrade, who had
not played fair with him, as he thought. He took “Little Rosebud” up and
began to sing to her as usual, when suddenly the song ceased, his anger
was too much for him, and he almost hissed forth the words, “I’ll eat
him up blood raw widout a bit o’ salt.”
Poor, ignorant, black Dan’s roaming about town and card-playing were
suddenly cut short. He was attacked with inflammatory rheumatism, and
lay helpless and suffering on a cot in our room many days and nights, my
dear, patient mother caring for him as best she could, until so worn out
that she was compelled to have him removed to the negro quarters. His
groans were piteous to hear, and sleep was almost unknown while he
remained in our room.