motions, an’ he seed dat trouble er some kind wuz on han’. He walk up, he
did, an’ atter he cut his eye at Marse Tumlin, he turn ter me an’ laugh
ter hisse’f—he had de purtiest front teef you mos’ ever is see, suh—an’
he ’low, ‘Well, dang my buttons, ef here ain’t ol’ Minervy Ann, de
warhoss fum Wauhoo! Wharsomever dey’s trouble, dar’s de ol’ warhoss fum
Wauhoo.’ Wid dat, he lock arms wid Marse Tumlin, an’ dey march off down
de street, me a-follerin’. You ain’t kin fin’ two men like dem anywhar
an’ eve’ywhar. Dey wa’n’t no blood-kin—dey married sisters—but dey wuz
lots closer dan br’ers. Hit one an’ you’d hurt de yuther, an’ den ef you
wa’n’t ready ter git in a scuffle wid two wil’-cats, you better leave
town twel dey cool off.
“Well, suh, dey ain’t took many steps ’fo’ dey wuz laughin’ an’ jokin’
des like two boys. Ez we went up de street Marse Tumlin drapt in a sto’
er two an’ tol’ um dat ol’ Joshaway Gossett vow’d dat he ain’t got fifty
cash dollars in de bank. Dish yer money news is de kin’ what spreads, an’
don’t you fergit it. It spread dat day des like powder ketchin’ fire an’
’twa’n’t no time ’fo’ you could see folks runnin’ ’cross de squar’ des
like dey er rabbit-huntin’, an’ by dinner-time dey wa’n’t no bank dar no
mo’ dan a rabbit. Folks say dat ol’ Joshaway try mighty hard ter ’splain
matters, but dem what had der money in dar say dey’d take de spondulix
fus’ an’ listen ter de ’splainin’ atterwards. ’Long to’rds de noon-hour
ol’ Joshaway hatter fling up his han’s. All de ready money done gone, an’
folks at de do’ hollin’ fer dat what dey put in dar. I dunner how he ever
got ’way fum dar, ’kaze dey wuz men in dat crowd ripe ter kill ’im; but
he sneaked out an’ went home, an’ lef’ some un else fer ter win’ up de
shebang.
“De bank wuz des ez good ez any bank, an’ folks got back all dey put in
dar des ez soon ez dey’d let ol’ Joshaway show his head in town; but he
drapt dat kinder bizness an’ went back ter farmin’ an’ note-shavin’.
An’ all bekaze he want skyority fer Marse Tumlin, which his word des ez
good ez his bon’. He mought not er had de money when de clock struck de
minit, but what diffunce do dat make when you know a man’s des ez good ez
gol’? Huh! no wonder dey broke ol’ Joshaway down!”
Aunt Minervy Ann’s indignation was a fine thing to behold. Her scorn
of the man who wanted Major Perdue to put up security for his note was
as keen and as bitter as it had been the day the episode occurred. She
paused at this point as if her narrative had come to an end. Therefore, I
put in a suggestion.
“Was this what you call frailing out the Gossett boys?”
“No, suh,” she protested, with a laugh; “all deze yer gwines-on ’bout dat
ar bank wuz des de ’casion un it. You bleeze ter know dem Gossett boys,
suh. Dey had sorter cool down by de time you come here, but dey wuz still
ripe fer any devilment dat come ’long. Dar wuz Rube an’ Sam an’ John
Henry, an’ a’er one un um wuz big ez a hoss. Dey use ter come ter town
eve’y Chuseday an’ Sat’day, an’ by dinner-time dey’d be a-whoopin’ an’
hollin’ in de streets, an’ a-struttin’ ’roun’ mashin’ folks’ hats down on
der eyes. Not all de folks, but some un um. An’ all fer fun; dat what dey
say.
“Tooby sho’, dey had a spite ag’in Marse Tumlin and Marse Bolivar atter
de bank busted. Dey show’d it by gwine des so fur; dey’d fling out der
hints; but dey kep’ on de safe side, ’kaze Marse Tumlin wa’n’t de man fer
ter go ’roun’ huntin’ a fuss, ner needer wuz Marse Bolivar; but fetch a
fuss an’ lay it in der laps, ez you may say, an’ dey’d play wid it an’
dandle it, an’ keep it fum ketchin’ col’. Dey sho’ would, suh. When dem
Gossett boys’d come ter town, Marse Tumlin an’ Marse Bolivar would des
set’ ’roun’ watchin’ um, des waitin’ twel dey cross de dead-line. But it
seem like dey know des how fur ter go, an’ right whar ter stop.
“Well, suh, it went on dis away fer I dunner how long, but bimeby, one
day, our ol’ cow got out, an’ ’stidder hangin’ ’roun’ an’ eatin’ de grass
in de streets like any yuther cow would ’a’ done, she made a straight
shoot fer de plantation whar she come fum.
“Miss Vallie tol’ Marse Tumlin ’bout it, an’ he say he gwine atter her.
Den some er de niggers in de nex’ lot tol’ me dat de cow wuz out an’
gone, an’ I put out atter her, too, not knowin’ dat Marse Tumlin wuz
gwine. He went de front street an’ I went de back way. Ef de town wuz
big ez de streets is long, we’d have a mighty city down here; you know
dat yo’se’f, suh. De place whar de back street jines in wid de big road
is mighty nigh a mile fum de tempunce hall, an’ when I got dar, dar wuz
Marse Tumlin polin’ ’long. I holler an’ ax ’im whar he gwine. He say he
gwine atter a glass er milk. Den he ax me whar I gwine. I say I’m gwine
atter dat ol’ frame dat nigh-sighted folks call a cow. He ’low dat he’d
be mighty thankful ef de nex’ time I tuck a notion fer ter turn de cow
out I’d tell ’im befo’han’ so he kin run ’roun’ an’ head ’er off an’
drive ’er back. He wuz constant a-runnin’ on dat away. He’d crack his
joke, suh, ef he dyin’.
“We went trudgin’ ’long twel we come ’pon de big hill dat leads down ter
de town branch. You know de place, suh. De hill mighty steep, an’ on bofe
sides er de road der’s a hedge er Cherrykee roses; some folks calls um
Chickasaw; but Chicky er Cherry, dar dey wuz, growin’ so thick a rabbit
can’t hardly squeeze thoo um. On one side dey wuz growin’ right on de
aidge uv a big gully, an’ at one place de groun’ wuz kinder caved in, an’
de briar vines wuz swayin’ over it.
“Well, suh, des ez we got on de hill-top, I hear a buggy rattlin’ an’
den I hear laughin’ an’ cussin’. I lookt ’roun’, I did, an’ dar wuz de
Gossett boys, two in de buggy an’ one ridin’ hossback; an’ all un um full
er dram. I could tell dat by de way dey wuz gwine on. You could hear um a
mile, cussin’ one an’er fer eve’ything dey kin think un an’ den laughin’
’bout it. Sump’n tol’ me dey wuz gwine ter be a rumpus, bekaze three ter
one wuz too good a chance for de Gossett boys ter let go by. I dunner
what make me do it, but when we got down de hill a little piece, I stoop
down, I did, an’ got me a good size rock.
“Terreckly here dey come. Dey kinder quiet down when dey see me an’ Marse
Tumlin. Dey driv up, dey did, an’ driv on by, an’ dis make me b’lieve dat
dey wuz gwine on ’bout der bizness an’ let we-all go on ’bout our’n, but
dat idee wa’n’t in der head. Dey driv by, dey did, an’ den dey pulled
up. We walkt on, an’ Marse Tumlin lookt at um mighty hard. Rube, he was
drivin’, an’ ez we come up even wid um, he ’low, ‘Major Perdue, I hear
tell dat you slap my pa’s face not so mighty long ago.’ Marse Tumlin say,
‘I did, an’ my han’ ain’t clean yit.’ He helt it out so dey kin see fer
deyse’f. ‘I b’lieve,’ sez Rube, ‘I’ll take a closer look at it.’ Wid dat
he lipt out er de buggy, an’ by de time he hit de groun’, Marse Tumlin
had knockt ’im a-windin’ wid his curly-hick’ry walkin’-cane. By dat
time, John Henry had jumpt out’n de buggy, an’ he went at Marse Tumlin
wid a dirk-knife. He kep’ de cane off’n his head by dodgin’, but Marse
Tumlin hit a back lick an’ knock de knife out’n his han’ an’ den dey
clincht. Den Rube got up, an’ start to’rds um on de run.
“Well, suh, I wuz skeer’d an’ mad bofe. I seed sump’n had ter be done,
an’ dat mighty quick; so I tuck atter Rube, cotch ’m by de ellybows,
shoved ’im ahead faster dan he wuz gwine, an’ steer’d ’im right to’rds
de caved-in place in de brier-bushes. He tried mighty hard ter stop, but
he wuz gwine down hill, an’ I had de Ol’ Boy in me. I got ’im close ter
de place, suh, an’ den I gi’ ’m a shove, an’ inter de briers he went,
head over heels. All dis time I had de rock in my han’. By de time I turn
’roun’ I see Sam a-comin’. When de rumpus start up, his hoss shied an’
made a break down de hill wid ’im, but he slew’d ’im ’roun’, an’ jumped
off, an’ here he come back, his face red, his hat off, an’ ol’ Nick
hisse’f lookin’ out’n his eyes. I know’d mighty well I can’t steer him
inter no brier-bush, an’ so when he run by me I let ’im have de rock in
de burr er de year. ’Twa’n’t no light lick, suh; I wuz plum venomous by
den; an’ he went down des like a beef does when you knock ’im in de head
wid a ax.”
Aunt Minervy Ann, all unconscious of her attitudes and gestures, had
risen from the floor, and now stood in the middle of the room, tall,
towering, and defiant.
“Den I run ter whar Marse Tumlin an’ John Henry Gossett had been
scufflin’; but by de time I got dar John Henry squalled out dat he had
’nuff; an’ he wa’n’t tellin’ no lie, suh, fer Marse Tumlin had ketched
his cane up short, an’ he used it on dat man’s face des like you see
folks do wid ice-picks. He like to ’a’ ruint ’im. But when he holla dat
he got ’nuff, Marse Tumlin let ’im up. He let ’im up, he did, an’ sorter
step back. By dat time Rube wuz a-climbin’ out’n de briers, an’ Sam wuz
makin’ motions like he comin’-to. Marse Tumlin say, ‘Lemme tell you
cowardly rascals one thing. De nex’ time a’er one un you bat his eye at
me, I’m gwine ter put a hole right spang th’oo you. Ef you don’t b’lieve
it, you kin start ter battin’ um right now.’ Wid dat, he draw’d out his
ervolver an’ kinder played wid it. Rube say, ‘We’ll drap it, Major; we
des had a little too much licker. But I’ll not drap it wid dat nigger
dar. I’ll pay her fer dis day’s work, an’ I’ll pay ’er well.’
“Well, suh, de way he say it set me on fire. I stept out in de middle er
de road, an’ ’low, ‘_Blast yo’ rotten heart, ef you’ll des walk out here
I’ll whip you in a fa’r fight. Fight me wid yo’ naked han’s an’ I’ll eat
you up, ef I hatter pizen myse’f ter do it._’”
Once more Aunt Minervy Ann brought the whole scene mysteriously before
me. Her eyes gleamed ferociously, her body swayed, and her outstretched
arm trembled with the emotion she had resummoned from the past. We were
on the spot. The red hill-side, the hedges of Cherokee roses, Major
Perdue grim and erect, Sam Gossett struggling to his feet, John Henry
wiping his beaten face, Rube astounded at the unwonted violence of a
negro woman, the buggy swerved to one side by the horse searching for
grass—all these things came into view and slowly faded away. Aunt Minervy
Ann, suddenly recollecting herself, laughed sheepishly.
“I ain’t tellin’ you no lie, suh, dat ar Rube Gossett stood dar like de
little boy dat de calf run over. He mought er had sump’n ugly ter say,
but Marse Tumlin put in. He ’low, ‘Don’t you fool yo’se’f ’bout dis
nigger ’oman. When you hit her you hits me. Befo’ you put yo’ han’ on ’er
you come an’ spit in my face. You’ll fin’ dat lots de cheapes’ way er
gittin’ de dose what I got fer dem what hurts Minervy Ann.’
“Well, suh, dis make me feel so funny dat a little mo’ an’ I’d a got ter
whimperin’, but I happen ter look ’roun’, an’ dar wuz our ol’ cow lookin’
at me over a low place in de briers. She done got in de fiel’ by a gap
back up de road, an’ dar she wuz a-lookin’ at us like she sorry. Wid me,
suh, de diffunce ’twixt laughin’ an’ cryin’ ain’t thicker dan a fly’s
wing, an’ when I see dat ol’ cow lookin’ like she ready ter cry, I wuz
bleeze to laugh. Marse Tumlin look at me right hard, but I say, ‘Marse
Tumlin, ol’ June lis’nin’ at us,’ an’ den _he_ laughed.
“Dem Gossett boys brush deyse’f off good ez dey kin an’ den dey put out
fer home. Soon ez dey git out er sight, Marse Tumlin started in ter
projickin’. He walk all ’roun’ me a time er two, an’ den he blow out his
breff like folks does when dey er kinder tired. He look at me, an’ say,
‘_Well, I be dam!_’ ‘Dat would ’a’ been de word,’ sez I, ‘ef ol’ Minervy
Ann hadn’t ’a’ been here dis day an’ hour.’ He shuck his head slow. ‘You
hit de mark dat time,’ sez he; ‘ef you hadn’t ’a’ been here, Minervy
Ann, dem boys would sholy ’a’ smasht me; but ef I hadn’t ’a’ been here,
I reely b’lieve you’d ’a’ frailed out de whole gang. You had two whipt,
Minervy Ann, an’ you wuz hankerin’ fer de yuther one. I’ll hatter sw’ar
ter de facts ’fo’ anybody’ll b’lieve um.’ I ’low ‘’Tain’t no use ter tell
nobody, Marse Tumlin. Folks think I’m bad ’nuff now.’
“But, _shoo!_ Marse Tumlin would ’a’ mighty nigh died ef he couldn’t tell
’bout dat day’s work. I ain’t min’ dat so much, but it got so dat when de
Gossetts come ter town an’ start ter prankin’, de town boys ’ud call um
by name, an’ holla an’ say, ‘You better watch out dar! Minervy Ann Perdue
comin’ ’roun’ de cornder!’ Dat wuz so errytatin’, suh, dat it kyo’d um.
Dey drapt der dram-drinkin’ an’ spreein’, an’ now dey er high in Horeb
Church. Dey don’t like me, suh, an’ no wonder; but ef dey kin git ter
hev’m widout likin’ me, I’d be glad ter see um go.
“Well, suh, I call de ol’ cow, an’ she foller long on ’er side er de
briers, an’ when she got whar de gap wuz, she curl ’er tail over ’er back
an’ put out fer home, des for all de worl’ like she glad ’kaze me an’
Marse Tumlin frailed out de Gossett boys.
“I say, ‘Marse Tumlin, I’m a member er de church an’ I don’t b’lieve in
fightin’, but ef we hadn’t er fit wid dem Gossetts we’d ’a’ never foun’
dat ol’ cow in de roun’ worl’.’ He ’low, ‘An’ ef we hadn’t er fit wid um,
Minervy Ann, I’d ’a’ never know’d who ter take wid me fer ter keep de
boogerman fum gittin’ me.’
“Dat night, suh, Marse Bolivar Blasengame come rappin’ at my do’. Hamp
wuz done gone ter bed, an’ I wuz fixin’ ter go. Marse Bolivar come in, he
did, an’ shuck han’s wid me like he ain’t seed me sence de big war. Den
he sot down over ag’in’ me an’ look at me, an’ make me tell ’im all ’bout
de rumpus. Well, suh, he got ter laughin’, an’ he laughed twel he can’t
hardly set in de cheer. He say, ‘Minervy Ann, ef dem folks say a word ter
hurt yo’ feelin’s, don’t tell Tumlin. Des come a-runnin’ ter me. He done
had his han’s on um, an’ now I want ter git mine on um.’
“Dat ’uz de way wid Marse Bolivar. He wa’n’t no great han’ ter git in a
row, but he wuz mighty hard ter git out’n one when he got in. When he
start out he stop on de step an’ say, ‘Minervy Ann, I didn’t know you wuz
sech a rank fighter.’ ‘I’m a Perdue,’ sez I. Wid dat he got ter laughin’,
an’ fur ez I kin hear ’im he wuz still a-laughin’. He b’longed ter a
mighty fine fambly, suh; you know dat yo’se’f.”
VII
MAJOR PERDUE’S BARGAIN
When next I had an opportunity to talk with Aunt Minervy Ann, she
indulged in a hearty laugh before saying a word, and it was some time
before she found her voice.
“What is so funny to-day?” I inquired.
“Me, suh—nothin’ tall ’bout me, an’ ’tain’t only ter-day, nudder. Hit’s
eve’y day sence I been big ’nuff fer to see myse’f in de spring branch. I
laughed den, an’ I laugh now eve’y time I see myse’f in my min’—ef I’ got
any min’. I wuz talkin’ ter Hamp las’ night an’ tellin’ ’im how I start
in ter tell you sump’n ’bout Marse Paul Conant’ shoulder, an’ den eend up
by tellin’ you eve’ything else I know but dat.
“Hamp ’low, he did, ‘Dat ain’t nothin’, bekaze when I ax you ter marry
me, you start in an’ tell me ’bout a nigger gal’ cross dar in Jasper
County, which she make promise fer ter marry a man an’ she crossed her
heart; an’ den when de time come she stood up an’ marry ’im an’ fin’ out
’tain’t de same man, but somebody what she ain’t never see’ befo’.’
“I ’speck dat’s so, suh, bekaze dey wuz sump’n like dat happen in Jasper
County. You know de Waters fambly—dey kep’ race-hosses. Well, suh, ’twuz
right on der plantation. Warren Waters tol’ me ’bout dat hisse’f. He wuz
de hoss-trainer, an’ he ’uz right dar on de groun’. When de gal done
married, she look up an’ holler, ‘You ain’t my husban’, bekaze I ain’t
make no promise fer ter marry you.’ De man he laugh, an’ say, ‘Don’t need
no promise atter you done married.’
“Well, suh, dey say dat gal wuz skeer’d—skeer’d fer true. She sot an’
look in de fire. De man sot an’ look at ’er. She try ter slip out de do’,
an’ he slipped wid ’er. She walked to’rds de big house, an’ he walkt wid
’er. She come back, an’ he come wid ’er. She run an’ he run wid ’er. She
cry an’ he laugh at ’er. She dunner what to do. Bimeby she tuck a notion
dat de man mought be de Ol’ Boy hisse’f, an’ she drapped down on her
knees an’ ’gun ter pray. Dis make de man restless; look like he frettin’.
Den he ’gun ter shake like he havin’ chill. Den he slip down out’n de
cheer. Den he got on his all-fours. Den his cloze drapped off, an’ bless
gracious! dar he wuz, a great big black shaggy dog wid a short chain
roun’ his neck. Some un um flung a chunk of fire at ’im, an’ he run out
howlin’.
“Dat wuz de last dey seed un ’im, suh. Dey flung his cloze in de fire,
an’ dey make a blaze dat come plum out’n de top er de chimbley stack. Dat
what make me tell Hamp ’bout it, suh. He ax me fer ter marry ’im, an’ I
wan’t so mighty sho’ dat he wan’t de Ol’ Boy.”
“Well, that is queer, if true,” said I, “but how about Mr. Conant’s
crippled shoulder?”
“Oh, it’s de trufe, suh. Warren Waters tol’ me dat out’n his own mouf,
an’ he wuz right dar. I dunno but what de gal wuz some er his kinnery. I
don’t min’ tellin’ you dat ’bout Marse Paul, suh, but you mustn’t let on
’bout it, bekaze Marse Tumlin an’ Miss Vallie des’ ez tetchous ’bout dat
ez dey kin be. I’d never git der fergivunce ef dey know’d I was settin’
down here tellin’ ’bout dat.
“You know how ’twuz in dem days. De folks what wuz de richest wuz de
wussest off when de army come home from battlin’. I done tol’ you ’bout
Marse Tumlin. He ain’t had nothin’ in de roun’ worl’ but a whole passel
er lan’, an’ me an’ Miss Vallie. I don’t count Hamp, bekaze Hamp ’fuse
ter b’lieve he’s free twel he ramble ’roun’ an’ fin’ out de patterollers
ain’t gwine ter take ’im up. Dat how come I had ter sell ginger-cakes an’
chicken-pies dat time. De money I made at dat ain’t last long, bekaze
Marse Tumlin he been use’ ter rich vittles, an’ he went right down-town
an’ got a bottle er chow-chow, an’ some olives, an’ some sardines, an’
some cheese, an’ you know yo’se’f, suh, dat money ain’t gwine ter las’
when you buy dat kin’ er doin’s.
“Well, suh, we done mighty well whiles de money helt out, but ’tain’t
court-week all de time, an’ when dat de case, money got ter come fum
some’rs else ’sides sellin’ cakes an’ pies. Bimeby, Hamp he got work at
de liberty stable, whar dey hire out hosses an’ board um. I call it a
hoss tavern, suh, but Hamp, he ’low its a liberty stable. Anyhow, he got
work dar, an’ dat sorter he’p out. Sometimes he’d growl bekaze I tuck his
money fer ter he’p out my white folks, but when he got right mad I’d gi’
Miss Vallie de wink, an’ she’d say: ‘Hampton, how’d you like ter have a
little dram ter-night? You look like youer tired.’ I could a-hugged ’er
fer de way she done it, she ’uz dat cute. An’ den Hamp, he’d grin an’
’low, ‘I ain’t honin’ fer it, Miss Vallie, but ’twon’t do me no harm,
an’ it may do me good.’
[Illustration: “Dat money ain’t gwine ter las’ when you buy dat kin’ er
doin’s.”]
“An’ den, suh, he’d set down, an’ atter he got sorter warmed up wid
de dram, he’d kinder roll his eye and ’low, ‘Miss Vallie, she is a
fine white ’oman!’ Well, suh, ’tain’t long ’fo’ we had dat nigger man
trained—done trained, bless yo’ soul! One day Miss Vallie had ter
go ’cross town, an’ she went by de liberty stable whar Hamp wuz at,
leastways, he seed ’er some’rs; an’ he come home dat night lookin’ like
he wuz feelin’ bad. He ’fuse ter talk. Bimeby, atter he had his supper,
he say, ‘I seed Miss Vallie down-town ter-day. She wuz wid Miss Irene,
an’ dat ’ar frock she had on look mighty shabby.’ I ’low, ‘Well, it de
bes’ she got. She ain’t got money like de Chippendales, an’ Miss Irene
don’t keer how folks’ cloze look. She too much quality fer dat.’ Hamp
say, ‘Whyn’t you take some er yo’ money an’ make Miss Vallie git er nice
frock?’ I ’low, ‘Whar I got any money? Hamp he hit his pocket an’ say,
‘You got it right here.’
“An’ sho’ ’nuff, suh, dat nigger man had a roll er money—mos’ twenty
dollars. Some hoss drovers had come ’long an’ Hamp made dat money by
trimmin’ up de ol’ mules dey had an’ makin’ um look young. He’s got de
art er dat, suh, an’ dey paid ’im well. Dar wuz de money, but how wuz I
gwine ter git it in Miss Vallie’s han’? I kin buy vittles an’ she not
know whar dey come fum, but when it come ter buyin’ frocks—well, suh,
hit stumped me. Dey wan’t but one way ter do it, an’ I done it. I make
like I wuz mad. I tuck de money an’ went in de house dar whar Miss Vallie
wuz sewin’ an’ mendin’. I went stompin’ in, I did, an’ when I got in I
started my tune.
“I ’low, ‘Ef de Perdues gwine ter go scandalizin’ deyse’f by trottin’
down town in broad daylight wid all kinder frocks on der back, I’m gwine
’way fum here; an’ I dun’ner but what I’ll go anyhow. ’Tain’t bekaze
dey’s any lack er money, fer here de money right here.’ Wid dat I slammed
it down on de table. ‘Dar! take dat an’ git you a frock dat’ll make you
look like sump’n when you git outside er dis house. An’ whiles you er
gittin’, git sump’n for ter put on yo’ head!’”
[Illustration: Trimmin’ Up de Ol’ Mules.]
Whether it was by reason of a certain dramatic faculty inherent in her
race that she was able to summon emotions at will, or whether it was
mere unconscious reproduction, I am not prepared to say. But certain it
is that, in voice and gesture, in tone and attitude, and in a certain
passionate earnestness of expression, Aunt Minervy Ann built up the
whole scene before my eyes with such power that I seemed to have been
present when it occurred. I felt as if she had conveyed me bodily into
the room to become a witness of the episode. She went on, still with a
frown on her face and a certain violence of tone and manner:
“I whipped ’roun’ de room a time er two, pickin’ up de cheers an’
slammin’ um down ag’in, an’ knockin’ things ’roun’ like I wuz mad.
Miss Vallie put her sewin’ down an’ lay her han’ on de money. She
’low, ‘What’s dis, Aunt Minervy Ann?’ I say, ‘Hit’s money, dat what
’tis—nothin’ but nasty, stinkin’ money! I wish dey wan’t none in de worl’
less’n I had a bairlful.’ She sorter fumble at de money wid ’er fingers.
You dunno, suh, how white an’ purty an’ weak her han’ look ter me dat
night. She ’low, ‘Aunt Minervy Ann, I can’t take dis.’ I blaze’ out at
’er, ‘You don’t haf’ter take it; you done got it! An’ ef you don’t keep
it, I’ll rake up eve’y rag an’ scrap I got an’ leave dis place. Now, you
des’ try me!’”
Again Aunt Minervy Ann summoned to her aid the passion of a moment that
had passed away, and again I had the queer experience of seeming to
witness the whole scene. She continued:
“Wid dat, I whipt out er de room an’ out er de house an’ went an’ sot
down out dar in my house whar Hamp was at. Hamp, he ’low, ‘What she say?’
I say, ‘She ain’t had time ter say nothin’—I come ’way fum dar.’ He ’low,
‘You ain’t brung dat money back, is you?’ I say: ‘Does you think I’m a
start naked fool?’ He ’low: ’Kaze ef you is, I’ll put it right spang in
de fire here.’
“Well, suh, I sot dar some little time, but eve’ything wuz so still in
de house, bein’s Marse Tumlin done gone down town, dat I crope back
an’ crope in fer ter see what Miss Vallie doin’. Well, suh, she wuz
cryin’—settin’ dar cryin’. I ’low, ‘Honey, is I say anything fer ter hurt
yo’ feelin’s?’ She blubber’ out, ‘You know you ain’t!’ an’ den she cry
good-fashion.
“Des ’bout dat time, who should come in but Marse Tumlin. He look at
Miss Vallie an’ den he look at me. He say, ‘Valentine, what de matter?’
I say, ‘It’s me! I’m de one! I made ’er cry. I done sump’n ter hurt ’er
feelin’s.’ She ’low, ‘’Tain’t so, an’ you know it. I’m des cryin’ bekaze
you too good ter me.’
[Illustration: “She wuz cryin’—settin’ dar cryin’.”]
“Well, suh, I had ter git out er dar fer ter keep fum chokin’. Marse
Tumlin foller me out, an’ right here on de porch, he ’low, ‘Minervy Ann,
nex’ time don’t be so dam good to ’er.’ I wuz doin’ some snifflin’ myse’f
’bout dat time, an’ I ain’t keerin’ what I say, so I stop an’ flung back
at ’im, ‘_I’ll be des ez dam good ter ’er ez I please—I’m free!_’ Well,
suh, stidder hittin’ me, Marse Tumlin bust out laughin’, an’ long atter
dat he’d laugh eve’y time he look at me, des like sump’n wuz ticklin’ ’im
mighty nigh ter death.
“I ’speck he must er tol’ ’bout dat cussin’ part, bekaze folks ’roun’
here done got de idee dat I’m a sassy an’ bad-tempered ’oman. Ef I had
ter work fer my livin’, suh, I boun’ you I’d be a long time findin’
a place. Atter dat, Hamp, he got in de Legislatur’, an’ it sho wuz a
money-makin’ place. Den we had eve’ything we wanted, an’ mo’ too, but
bimeby de Legislatur’ gun out, an’ den dar we wuz, flat ez flounders,
an’ de white folks don’t want ter hire Hamp des kaze he been ter de
Legislatur’; but he got back in de liberty stable atter so long a time.
Yit ’twan’t what you may call livin’.