WHEN Miss Theodosia Huntingdon, of Burlington, Vermont, concluded
to come South in 1870, she was moved by three considerations. In
the first place, her brother, John Huntingdon, had become a
citizen of Georgia--having astonished his acquaintances by
marrying a young lady, the male members of whose family had
achieved considerable distinction in the Confederate army; in the
second place, she was anxious to explore a region which she
almost unconsciously pictured to herself as remote and semi-
barbarous; and, in the third place, her friends had persuaded her
that to some extent she was an invalid. It was in vain that she
argued with herself as to the propriety of undertaking the
journey alone and unprotected, and she finally put an end to
inward and outward doubts by informing herself and her friends,
including John Huntingdon, her brother, who was practicing law in
Atlanta, that she had decided to visit the South.
When, therefore, on the 12th of October, 1870--the date is duly
recorded in one of Miss Theodosia's letters--she alighted from
the cars in Atlanta, in the midst of a great crowd, she fully
expected to find her brother waiting to receive her. The bells of
several locomotives were ringing, a number of trains were moving
in and out, and the porters and baggage-men were screaming and
bawling to such an extent that for several moments Miss
Huntingdon was considerably confused; so much so that she paused
in the hope that her brother would suddenly appear and rescue her
from the smoke, and dust, and din. At that moment some one
touched her on the arm, and she heard a strong, half-confident,
half-apologetic voice exclaim:
"Ain't dish yer Miss Doshy?"
Turning, Miss Theodosia saw at her side a tall, gray-haired
negro. Elaborating the incident afterward to her friends, she was
pleased to say that the appearance of the old man was somewhat
picturesque. He stood towering above her, his hat in one hand, a
carriage-whip in the other, and an expectant smile lighting up
his rugged face. She remembered a name her brother had often used
in his letters, and, with a woman's tact, she held out her hand,
and said:
"Is this Uncle Remus?"
"Law, Miss Doshy! how you know de ole nigger? I know'd you by
de faver; but how you know me?" And then, without waiting for a
reply: "Miss Sally, she sick in bed, en Mars John, he bleedzd ter
go in de country, en dey tuck'n sont me. I know'd you de minnit I
laid eyes on you. Time I seed you, I say ter myse'f, 'I lay dar's
Miss Doshy,' en, sho nuff, dar you wuz. You ain't gun up yo'
checks, is you? Kaze I'll git de trunk sont up by de 'spress
waggin."
The next moment Uncle Remus was elbowing his way unceremoniously
through the crowd, and in a very short time, seated in the
carriage driven by the old man, Miss Huntingdon was whirling
through the streets of Atlanta in the direction of her brother's
home. She took advantage of the opportunity to study the old
negro's face closely, her natural curiosity considerably
sharpened by a knowledge of the fact that Uncle Remus had played
an important part in her brother's history. The result of her
observation must have been satisfactory, for presently she
laughed, and said:
"Uncle Remus, you haven't told me how you knew me in that great
crowd."
The old man chuckled, and gave the horses a gentle rap with the
whip.
"Who? Me! I know'd you by de faver. Dat boy er Mars John's is de
ve'y spit en immij un you. I'd a know'd you in New 'Leens, let
lone down dar in de kyar-shed."
This was Miss Theodosia's introduction to Uncle Remus. One Sunday
afternoon, a few weeks after her arrival, the family were assembled
in the piazza enjoying the mild weather. Mr. Huntingdon was reading
a newspaper; his wife was crooning softly as she rocked the baby to
sleep; and the little boy was endeavoring to show his Aunt Dosia
the outlines of Kennesaw Mountain through the purple haze that
hung like a wonderfully fashioned curtain in the sky and almost
obliterated the horizon. While they were thus engaged, Uncle Remus
came around the corner of the house, talking to himself.
"Dey er too lazy ter wuk," he was saying, "en dey specks hones'
fokes fer ter stan' up en s'port um. I'm gwine down ter Putmon
County whar Mars Jeems is--dat's w'at I'm agwine ter do."
"What's the matter now, Uncle Remus?" inquired Mr. Huntingdon,
folding up his newspaper.
"Nuthin' 'tall, Mars John, 'ceppin deze yer sunshine niggers. Dey
begs my terbacker, en borrys my tools, en steals my vittles, en
hit's done come ter dat pass dat I gotter pack up en go. I'm
agwine down ter Putmon, dat's w'at."
Uncle Remus was accustomed to make this threat several times a
day, but upon this occasion it seemed to remind Mr. Huntingdon of
something.
"Very well," he said, "I'll come around and help you pack up, but
before you go I want you to tell Sister here how you went to war
and fought for the Union.--Remus was a famous warrior," he
continued, turning to Miss Theodosia; "he volunteered for one
day, and commanded an army of one. You know the story, but you
have never heard Remus's version."
Uncle Remus shuffled around in an awkward, embarrassed way,
scratched his head, and looked uncomfortable.
"Miss Doshy ain't got no time fer ter set dar an' year de ole
nigger run on."
"Oh, yes, I have, Uncle Remus!" exclaimed the young lady; "plenty
of time."
The upshot of it was that, after many ridiculous protests, Uncle
Remus sat down on the steps, and proceeded to tell his story of
the war. Miss Theodosia listened with great interest, but
throughout it all she observed--and she was painfully conscious
of the fact, as she afterward admitted--that Uncle Remus spoke
from the standpoint of a Southerner, and with the air of one who
expected his hearers to thoroughly sympathize with him.
"Co'se," said Uncle Remus, addressing himself to Miss Theodosia,
"you ain't bin to Putmon, en you dunner whar de Brad Slaughter
place en Harmony Grove is, but Mars John en Miss Sally, dey bin
dar a time er two, en dey knows how de lan' lays. Well, den, it
'uz right long in dere whar Mars Jeems lived, en whar he live
now. When de war come long he wuz livin' dere longer Ole Miss en
Miss Sally. Ole Miss 'uz his ma, en Miss Sally dar 'uz his
sister. De war come des like I tell you, en marters sorter rock
along same like dey allers did. Hit didn't strike me dat dey wuz
enny war gwine on, en ef I hadn't sorter miss de nabers, en seed
fokes gwine outer de way fer ter ax de news, I'd a 'lowed ter
myse'f dat de war wuz 'way off 'mong some yuther country. But all
dis time de fuss wuz gwine on, en Mars Jeems, he wuz des eatchin'
fer ter put in. Ole Miss en Miss Sally, dey tuck on so he didn't
git off de fus' year, but bimeby news come down dat times wuz
gittin' putty hot, en Mars Jeems he got up, he did, en say he
gotter go, en go he did. He got a overseer fer ter look atter de
place, en he went en jined de army. En he 'uz a fighter, too,
mon, Mars Jeems wuz. Many's en many's de time," continued the old
man, reflectively, "dat I hatter take'n bresh dat boy on a
counter his 'buzin' en beatin' dem yuther boys. He went off dar
fer ter fight, en he fit. Ole Miss useter call me up Sunday
en read w'at de papers say 'bout Mars Jeems, en it ho'p 'er up
might'ly. I kin see 'er des like it 'uz yistiddy.
"'Remus,' sez she, 'dish yer's w'at de papers say 'bout my baby,'
en den she'd read out twel she couldn't read fer cryin'. Hit went
on dis way year in en year out, en dem wuz lonesome times, sho's
you bawn, Miss Doshy--lonesome times, sho. Hit got hotter en
hotter in de war, en lonesomer en mo' lonesomer at home, en
bimeby 'long come de conscrip' man, en he des everlas'nly scoop
up Mars Jeems's overseer. W'en dis come 'bout, ole Miss, she sont
atter me en say, sez she:
"'Remus, I ain't got nobody fer ter look arter de place but you,'
sez she, en den I up'n say, sez I:
"'Mistiss, you kin des 'pen' on de ole nigger.'
"I wuz ole den, Miss Doshy--let lone w'at I is now; en you better
b'leeve I bossed dem han's. I had dem niggers up en in de fiel'
long 'fo' day, en de way dey did wuk wuz a caution. Ef dey didn't
earn der vittles dat season den I ain't name Remus. But dey wuz
tuk keer un. Dey had plenty er cloze en plenty er grub, en dey
wuz de fattes' niggers in de settlement.
"Bimeby one day, Ole Miss, she call me up en say de Yankees done
gone en tuck Atlanty--dish yer ve'y town; den present'y I year
dey wuz a marchin' on down todes Putmon, en, lo en behol's! one
day, de fus news I know'd, Mars Jeems he rid up wid a whole gang
er men. He des stop long nuff fer ter change hosses en snatch a
mouffle er sump'n ter eat, but 'fo' he rid off, he call me up en
say, sez he:
"'Daddy'--all Ole Miss's chilluns call me daddy--'Daddy,' he say,
''pears like dere's gwineter be mighty rough times 'roun' yer. De
Yankees, dey er done got ter Madison en Mounticellar, en 'twon't
be many days 'fo' dey er down yer. 'Tain't likely dey'll pester
mother ner sister; but, daddy, ef de wus come ter de wus, I speck
you ter take keer un um,' sezee.
"Den I say, sez I: 'How long you bin knowin' me, Mars Jeems?' sez
I.
"'Sence I wuz a baby,' sezee.
"'Well, den, Mars Jeems,' sez I, 'you know'd 'twa'nt no use fer
ter ax me ter take keer Ole Miss en Miss Sally.'
"Den he tuck'n squoze my han' en jump on de filly I bin savin'
fer 'im, en rid off. One time he tu'n roun' en look like he
wanter say sump'n', but he des waf' his han'--so--en gallop on. I
know'd den dat trouble wuz brewin'. Nigger dat knows he's
gwineter git thumped kin sorter fix hisse'f, en I tuck'n fix up
like de war wuz gwineter come right in at de front gate. I tuck'n
got all de cattle en hosses tergedder en driv' um ter de fo'-mile
place, en I tuck all de corn en fodder en w'eat, en put um in a
crib out dar in de woods; en I bilt me a pen in de swamp, en dar
I put de hogs. Den, w'en I fix all dis, I put on my Sunday cloze
en groun' my axe. Two whole days I groun' dat axe. De grinestone
wuz in sight er de gate en close ter de big 'ouse, en dar I tuck
my stan'.
"Bimeby one day, yer come de Yankees. Two un um come fus, en
den de whole face er de yeath swawm'd wid um. De fus glimpse I
kotch un um, I tuck my axe en march inter Ole Miss settin'-room.
She done had de sidebo'd move in dar, en I wish I may drap ef
'twuzn't fa'rly blazin' wid silver--silver cups en silver
sassers, silver plates en silver dishes, silver mugs en silver
pitchers. Look like ter me dey wuz fixin' fer a weddin'. Dar sot
Ole Miss des ez prim en ez proud ez ef she own de whole county.
Dis kinder ho'p me up, kaze I done seed Ole Miss look dat away
once befo' w'en de overseer struck me in de face wid a w'ip. I
sot down by de fier wid my axe tween my knees. Dar we sot w'iles
de Yankees ransack de place. Miss Sally, dar, she got sorter
restless, but Ole Miss didn't skasely bat 'er eyes. Bimeby, we
hear steps on de peazzer, en yer come a couple er young fellers
wid strops on der shoulders, en der sodes a draggin' on de flo',
en der spurrers a rattlin'. I won't say I wuz skeer'd," said
Uncle Remus, as though endeavoring to recall something he failed
to remember, "I won't say I wuz skeer'd, kaze I wuzzent; but I
wuz took'n wid a mighty funny feelin' in de naberhood er de
gizzard. Dey wuz mighty perlite, dem young chaps wuz; but Ole
Miss, she never tu'n 'er head, en Miss Sally, she look straight
at de fier. Bimeby one un um see me, en he say, sezee:
"'Hello, ole man, w'at you doin' in yer?' sezee.
"'Well, boss,' sez I, 'I bin cuttin' some wood fer Ole Miss, en I
des stop fer ter worn my han's a little,' sez I.
"'Hit is col', dat's a fack,' sezee.
"Wid dat I got up en tuck my stan' behime Ole Miss en Miss Sally,
en de man w'at speak, he went up en worn his han's. Fus thing you
know, he raise up sudden, en say, sezee:
"'W'at dat on yo' axe?'
"'Dat's de fier shinin' on it,' sez I.
"'Hit look like blood,' sezee, en den he laft.
"But, bless yo' soul, dat man wouldn't never laft dat day ef he'd
know'd de wukkins er Remus's mine. But dey didn't bodder nobody
ner tech nuthin', en bimeby dey put out. Well, de Yankees, dey
kep' passin' all de mawnin' en it look like ter me dey wuz a
string un um ten mile long. Den dey commence gittin' thinner en
thinner, en den atter w'ile we hear skummishin' in de naberhood
er Armer's fe'y, en Ole Miss 'low how dat wuz Wheeler's men
makin' persoot. Mars Jeems wuz wid dem Wheeler fellers, en I
know'd ef dey wuz dat close I wa'n't doin' no good settin' 'roun'
de house toas'n my shins at de fier, so I des tuck Mars Jeems's
rifle fum behime de do' en put out ter look atter my stock.
"Seem like I ain't never see no raw day like dat, needer befo'
ner sence. Dey wa'n't no rain, but de wet des sifted down; mighty
raw day. De leaves on de groun' 'uz so wet dey don't make no
fuss, en I got in de woods, en w'enever I year de Yankees gwine
by, I des stop in my tracks en let un pass. I wuz stan'in' dat
away in de aidge er de woods lookin' out cross a clearin', w'en--
piff!--out come a little bunch er blue smoke fum de top er wunner
dem big lonesome-lookin' pines, en den--pow!
"Sez I ter myse'f, sez I: 'Honey, you er right on my route, en
I'll des see w'at kinder bird you got roostin' in you,' en w'iles
I wuz a lookin' out bus' de smoke--piff! en den--bang! Wid dat I
des drapt back inter de woods, en sorter skeerted 'roun' so's ter
git de tree 'twixt' me en de road. I slid up putty close, en
wadder you speck I see? Des ez sho's you er settin' dar lissenin'
dey wuz a live Yankee up dar in dat tree, en he wuz a loadin' en
a shootin' at de boys des ez cool es a cowcumber in de jew, en he
had his hoss hitch out in de bushes, kaze I year de creetur
tromplin' 'roun'. He had a spy-glass up dar, en w'iles I wuz a
watchin' un 'im, he raise 'er up en look thoo 'er, en den he lay
'er down en fix his gun fer ter shoot.
"I had good eyes in dem days, ef I ain't got um now, en way up de
big road I see Mars Jeems a comm'. Hit wuz too fur fer ter see
his face, but I know'd 'im by de filly w'at I raise fer 'im, en
she wuz a prancin' like a school-gal. I know'd dat man wuz
gwineter shoot Mars Jeems ef he could, en dat wuz mo'n I could
stan'. Many's en many's de time dat I nuss dat boy, en hilt 'im
in dese arms, en toted 'im on dis back, en w'en I see dat Yankee
lay dat gun 'cross a lim' en take aim at Mars Jeems I up wid my
ole rifle, en shet my eyes en let de man have all she had."
"Do you mean to say," exclaimed Miss Theodosia, indignantly,
"that you shot the Union soldier, when you knew he was fighting
for your freedom?"
"Co'se, I know all about dat," responded Uncle Remus, "en it
sorter made col' chills run up my back; but w'en I see dat man
take aim, en Mars Jeems gwine home ter Ole Miss en Miss Sally, I
des disremembered all 'bout freedom en lammed aloose. En den
atter dat, me en Miss Sally tuck en nuss de man right straight
along. He los' one arm in dat tree bizness, but me en Miss Sally
we nuss 'im en we nuss 'im twel he done got well. Des 'bout dat
time I quit nuss'n 'im, but Miss Sally she kep' on. She kep' on,"
continued Uncle Remus, pointing to Mr. Huntingdon, "en now dar he
is."
"But you cost him an arm," exclaimed Miss Theodosia.
"I gin 'im dem," said Uncle Remus, pointing to Mrs. Huntingdon,
"en I gin 'im deze"--holding up his own brawny arms. "En ef dem
ain't nuff fer enny man den I done los' de way."