yer pappy was erway from home all th' week, 'cept from Sat'day evenin' tell
'fore day Monday monrin'. Melindy White staid wi' me; she was Zekle's
great-aunt, 'n' er ole maid, 'n' people did say she was monst'ous cross 'n'
crabbed, but she warn't never cross ter me. I mind me of er Sat'day, 'n'
I'd be spectin' of yer pappy home. I'd git up at th' fust cock-crow, 'n' go
wake Melindy, 'n' she'd grumble 'n' laff all in er breath, 'n' say: 'Ann
Elisabeth Tyler, ye're th' most onreasonablest creeter that I ever seed!
What in natur' do ye want ter git up 'fore day fer? Jest ter make th' time
that much longer 'fore Jim Tyler comes? I know ef I was married ter th'
President I wouldn't be es big er fool es ye air.' But, la! she'd git up
jest ter pleasure me, 'n' then sich cleanin' up, 'n' sich cookin' o' pies
'n' cakes 'n' chickens, 'n' gittin' ready fer yer pappy ter come!” And the
placid old face fairly glowed with the remembrance. “'N' I mind me,” she
crooned on, “of th' time when ye fust begun ter talk; I was er whole week
er-teachin' yer ter say two words; I didn't do much else. Melindy allowed
that I'd gone clean daft; 'n' when Sat'day come, 'long erbout milkin'-time,
I put on er pink caliker frock. I 'member it jest es well! it had little
white specks on the pink; he bought it at Miggs's Crossroads, 'n' said I
allers looked like er rose in it. I tuck ye in my arms 'n' went down ter
th' bars, where I allers stood ter watch fer 'im; he come in er boat ter
th' little landin' 'n' walked home, erbout er mile; 'n' when I seed 'im
comin', 'n' he'd got nigh ernuff, I whispered ter ye, 'n' ye clapped yer
little han's, 'n' fairly shouted out, 'Pappy's tumin'! pappy's tumin'!'
Dearie me, dearie me; I kin see 'im now so plain! He broke inter er run,
'n' I stepped over th' bars ter meet 'im, 'n' he gethered us both in his
arms, like es of he'd never turn loose; then he car'ied ye up to th' house
on one arm, the other one roun' my wais', 'n' he made ye say it over 'n'
over--'Pappy's tumin', pappy's tumin';' 'n' Melindy 'lowed we wer' 'th'
biggest pair o' geese'; but we was mighty happy geese jest th' same.”
There was a pause. They were all listening. Then she went on. “Somehow
ter-day I felt like I use ter of er Sat'-day then, kinder spectin' 'n'
light-hearted. I dun'no' why; I ain't never felt so befo' in all these
years sence he died--forty-one on 'em; 'n' fifteen sence th' Lord shet down
th' dark over my eyes, day 'n' night erlike. Well, well; I've had er heap
ter be thankful fer; th' Lord has been good ter me; fer no mother ever had
er better son than ye've allers ben, Jeems Henry; 'n' of Malviny had er ben
my own darter, she couldn't er ben more like one; I've alleys ben tuck keer
on, 'n' waited on, 'n' 'ain't never ben sat erside fer no one. Ya'as, th'
Lord's ben good ter me.” She began to fumble for her handkerchief.
“But, mother, ye don't say nothin' o' what er blessin' ye've ben to us,”
said her son. “Ye've teached us many er lesson by yer patience in yer
blindness.”
“Ya'as, but, Jeems Henry, I had no call ter be nothin' else but patient; I
had no call ter be onreasonable 'n' fret 'n' worry 'n' say that th' Lord
had forsakened me when He hadn't. I knowed I'd only ter bide my time, 'n'
I'm now near seventy-two year old. Dear, dear, how th' time goes! Seems
like only th' other day when I was married! Was that nine the clock
struck?”
“Ya'as, 'm.”
“Well, I b'lieve I'll git ter bed.”
“Wait, mother, let me help yer,” said her daughter, hastily throwing aside
her knitting.
“We'll both help ye, mother,” said her son, putting one arm gently around
her as she arose from her chair.
“Well, well,” she laughed, with soft content. “I sh'll be well waited on
with two children 'stid er one; but none too many--none too many.”
Zekle White had made brave progress from the chair by the door to the other
rocker, drawn closely beside that of Mandy Calline; and he was saying, in
tones that suggested an effort: “I've seed other young ladies which may be
better-lookin' in other folkses' eyes, 'n' they may be more suiterbler ter
marry, but not fer me. Thar ain't but one gurl in this roun' worl' that I'd
ask ter be my wife, 'n', Mandy Calline, I've ben keepin' comp'ny wi' you
long ernuff fer ye ter know that ye air th' one.” He swallowed, and went
on: “I've got my house nigh erbout done. Ter be sho', 'tain't es fine es
this un, nor es big; but I kin add ter it, 'n' jest es soon es it is done I
want ter put my wife in it. Now, Mandy Calline, what yer say--will yer be
my wife?”
Mandy Calline looked shy--much like a young colt when it is going to break
out of harness. She rocked back and forth with short spasmodic jerks, and
twisted her handkerchief into all conceivable shapes.
“Yer don't know how sot on it I am,” he went on; “'n' all day long I'm
er-thinkin' how nice it 'll be when I'm er-workin', ploughin' maybe, up one
row 'n' down ernuther, 'n' watchin' th' sun go down, 'n' lookin' forerd ter
goin' ter th' house 'n' hev er nice little wife ter meet me, wi' everything
tidied up 'n' cheerful 'n' comf'ble.” Mandy Calline simply drooped her head
lower, and twisted her handkerchief tighter. “Mandy Calline, don't yer say
'no,'” he said. “I love yer too well ter give yer up easy; 'n' I swear ef
ye don't say `yes,' I'll set fire 'n' burn up th' new house, fer no other
'oman sha'n't never live there. I'm er-waitin', Mandy Calline, 'n' don't,
don't tell me no.”
“Well, Zekle,” she began, with much hesitation, “bein' es how I don't see
no use in burnin' up er right new house, 'n' it not even finished, I guess
es how--maybe--in erbout two or three years--”
“Two or three thunderations!” he cried out, ecstatically, seizing both her
hands in his. “Yer mean two or three weeks! Mandy Calline, do ye mean
ya'as, ye'll marry me? I want ter hear ye say it.”
“Ya'as, Zekle,” she said, shyly. “Whoopee! I feel like I'd like ter jump up
'n' knock my heels tergether 'n' yell!”
“Yer'd better try it er spell.” she said, smiling at him shyly, “'n' jest
see how soon ye'd ha' th' hull fambly er-rushin' in ter see what was the
matter.”
Hereupon came the ominous sound of Father Tyler winding the clock in the
sitting-room; Zekle knew 'twas a signal for him to depart.
“Well,” slowly rising, “I guess I got ter go, but I do mortally hate ter.
Come ter th' door wi' me, Mandy Calline”; and taking her hand, he drew her
up beside him, but she stood off a bit skittishly, and he knew that it
would be useless to ask the question which was trembling on his lips, so,
quick as a flash, he dropped one arm around her waist, tipped up her chin
with the other hand, and kissed her square on the mouth before she fairly
knew what he was about.
“You Zekle White!” she cried out, snatching herself from his arm and
bestowing a rousing slap on his face.
“I knowed ye wouldn't give me one, so I tuck it jest so. Good-night tell
ter-morrer, Mandy Calline; I'm goin' home 'n' dream erbout ye.”
The next morning dawned bright and soft. A perfect September morning.
Father Tyler and the boys were at the lot feeding and milking. Mandy
Calline was cleaning up the house, her comely face aglow with her new-found
happiness. Susan Jane attended to the baby, while Ann Elisabeth helped her
mother “get breakfast.”
“Gra'mammy was sleepin' so nice when I got up,” said the girl, “that I
crep' out 'n' didn't wake 'er. Had I better go see of she's erwake now,
mar? Breakfus is nigh erbout done.”
“Not yet. Go tell Mandy Calline ter git th' milk-pitcher 'n' go to the
cow-pen 'n' fetch some milk fer breakfus. No tellin' when they'll git thoo
out there. Then you hurry back 'n' finish fryin' that pan o' pertaters. No
need ter 'sturb gra'mammy till breakfus is ready ter put on th' table; 'n'
yer pappy 'n' th' boys'll ha' ter wash when they come from th' lot.” And
Mother Tyler opened the stove door and put in a generous pan of biscuits to
bake.
Mandy Calline, with the milk-pitcher in her hand, hurried out to the
cow-pen, which adjoined the stable lot. Her father was milking, Jim holding
the calves. Zachariah was in the lot feeding the horse and pigs. She had
just stepped over the bars into the pen, when who should appear, sauntering
up, but Zeke White! He assumed a brave front, and with hands thrust in his
pantaloons pockets, came up, whistling softly.
“Good-mornin', Zekle,” greeted Father Tyler, rising from his stooping
position.
“Good-mornin', Mr. Tyler. Fine mornin'.”
“Ya'as; but I'm erfeared we're goin' ter hev rain in er day er two. I feel
ruther rheumaticky this mornin', er mighty shore sign that rain ain't fur
off. Want milk fer breakfus, Mandy Calline? Well, fetch here yer pitcher.”
A shy “good-mornin”' had passed between Mandy Calline and Zekle, and he
sauntered up beside her, taking the pitcher, and as they stepped over the
bars Father Tyler, hospitably inclined, said: “Take breakfus with us,
Zekle? I lay Malviny 'll hev ernuff cooked ter give yer er bite.”
With assumed hesitation Zekle accepted the invitation, and he and Mandy
Calline passed on to the house, he carefully carrying the pitcher of milk.
He cleared his throat a time or two, and remarked again on the beauty of
the morning, to which she rather nervously assented; then suddenly, the
words seemingly shot out of him: “Mandy Calline, I'm goin' ter ask th' ole
folks ter-day. What yer say?”
Mandy Calline was red as a turkey-cock, to which was now added a nervous
confusion which bade fair to overwhelm her.
“It's too soon, Zekle. Whyn't yer wait er while?” she replied, tremblingly.
“No, 'tain't too soon,” he answered, promptly. “I want it all done 'n' over
with, then I sh'll feel mo' like ye b'long ter me. I'm goin' ter ask 'em
ter-day; yer needn't say not. I know you're erfeared o' th' teasin'. But ye
needn't min' that; ye won't hev ter put up wi' it long; fer th' way I mean
ter work on that house ter git it done--well, 'twon't be long befo' it 'll
be ready ter put my wife in it.”
“Well, Zekle,” said the girl, hesitatingly, “ef ye'd ruther ask 'em
ter-day, why--I guess es how--ye mought es well do it. But let's go 'n'
tell gra'mammy now; somehow I'd ruther she knowed it fust.”
“We will,” replied Zekle, promptly.
* * * * *
Mother Tyler was putting breakfast on the table. She suddenly paused and
listened. Something was the matter. There were cries that betokened
trouble. She hastened to the house, followed her husband and the boys on to
gra'mammy's room, and there on the bed, in peaceful contrast to all this
wailing and sorrow, lay dear old gra'mammy, dead. The happiest smile
glorified the kind old withered face, and the wrinkled hands lay crossed
and still on her breast. She had truly met the husband of her youth, and
God had opened in death the eyes so darkened in life.
My Fifth in Mammy
By William Ludwell Sheppard
I never knew a time in which I did not know Mammy. She was simply a part of
my consciousness; it seems to me now a more vivid one in my earliest years
than that of the existence of my parents. We five, though instructed by an
elder sister in the rudiments of learning, spent many more of our waking
hours with Mammy; and whilst we drew knowledge from one source, we derived
the greater part of our pleasure from the other--that is, outside of our
playmates.
The moments just preceding bedtime, in which we were undergoing the process
of disrobing at the hands of Mammy, were periods of dreadful pleasure to
us. As I look back upon them, I wonder that we got any sleep at all after
some of her recitals. They were not always sanguinary or ghostly, and of
course when I scan them in the light of later years, it is apparent that
Mammy, like the majority of people, “without regard to color or previous
condition of servitude,” suffered her walk and conversation to be
influenced by her state of health, mental and bodily. Her walk--I am afraid
I must admit, as all biographers seem privileged to deal with the frailties
of their victims as freely as with their virtues--her walk, viewed through
the medium already alluded to, did not owe its occasional uncertainty to
“very coarse veins,” though that malady, with a slight phonetic difference,
Mammy undoubtedly suffered from, in common with the facts. She was a great
believer in “dram” as a remedial agent, and homoeopathic practice was
unknown with us at that period.
Mammy's code of laws for our moral government was one of threats of being
“repoated to ole mahster,” tempered by tea of her own making dulcified by
brown sugar of fascinating sweetness, anecdote, and autobiography.
The anecdotal part consisted almost exclusively of the fascinating
répertoire of Uncle Remus. Indeed, to know the charm of that chronicle is
reserved to the man or woman whose childhood dates from the _ante bellum_
period, and who had a Mammy.
In the autobiographical part Mammy spread us a chilling feast of horrors,
varied by the supernatural. Long years after this period I read a protest
in some Southern paper against this practice in the nursery, with its
manifest consequences on the minds of children. It set me to wondering how
it was that the consequences in my day seemed inappreciable. I do not
understand it now. Some of Mammy's stories would have been bonanzas to a
police reporter of today; others would have bred emulation in Edgar Poe.
And yet I do not recall any subsequent terrors.
An account of the execution of some pirates, which she had witnessed when a
“gal,” was popular. She had a rhyme which condensed the details. The
condemned were Spaniards:
Pepe hung, Qulo fell,
Felix died and went to ----
Mammy always gave the rhyme with awful emphasis.
She had had an experience before coming into our family, by purchase, which
gave her easy precedence over all the mammies of all our friends. To be
sure, it was an experience which the other mammies, as “good membahs of de
chutch,” regarded as unholy; one which they congratulated themselves would
never lie on their consciences, and of which poor Mammy was to die
unshriven in their minds; for she never became a “sister,” so far as I ever
learned.
But to us this experience was fruitful of many happy hours. Mammy had been
tire-woman to Mrs. Gilfert, the reigning star of that date, at the old
Marshall Theatre--the successor to one burnt in 1811.
The habit of the stock companies in those days was to remain the whole
season, sometimes two or more, so Mammy had the opportunity to “assist” at
the entire repertoire. It is one of the regrets of my life that I am not
able to recall verbatim Mammy's arguments of the play, her descriptions of
some of the actors, and her comments.
For some reason, when later on I wished to refresh my memory of these,
Mammy had either forgotten them or suspected the intention of my asking.
She ranked her experiences at the theatre along with her account of the
adventures of the immortal “Mollie Cottontail” (for we did not know him as
“Brer Rabbit”), and the rest of her lore, I suppose, and so could not
realize that my maturer mind would care for any of them.
When I had subsequently made some acquaintance with plays, or read them, I
recognized most of those described by Mammy. Some remain unidentified.
Hamlet she preserved in name. Whilst she had no quotations of the words,
she had a vivid recollection of the ghost scenes, and “pisenin' de king's
ear.” She also gave us scenes in which “one uv them kings was hollerin' for
his horse”--plainly Richard. Julius Caesar she easily kept in mind, as some
acquaintance of her color bearing that name was long extant. I can still
conjure up her tones and manner when she declaimed “'Dat you, Brutus?' An'
he done stick him like de rest uv um; and him raised in de Caesar fam'ly
like he wuz a son!”
The ingratitude of the thing struck through our night-gowns even then.
The period when Mammy's sway weakened was indeterminate. We boys after a
while swapped places with Mammy, and made her the recipient of our small
pedantries. I do not recollect, however, that we were ever cruel enough to
throw her ignorance up to her.
At last the grown-up sisters absorbed all of Mammy's spare time. Sympathy
was kept up between them after her bond with us was loosened, and they even
took hints from her in matters of the toilet that were souvenirs of her
stage days.
In the course of time reverses and bereavements came to the family. The
girls had grown to womanhood and matrimony, and had begun their new lives
in other places. Then came the inevitable to the elders, and it became
necessary to convert all property into cash.
We were happy in being able to retain a good many of our household gods,
and they are the Lares and Penates of our several homes to this day. We had
long since ceased to think of Mammy Becky--she was never Rebecca--as
property. In fact, we younger ones never thought of her as such. By law we
were each entitled to a fifth in Mammy.
This came upon us in the nature of a shock at a family consultation on ways
and means, and there was a disposition on the part of every party to the
ownership to shift that responsibility to another.
I must do ourselves the justice to say that such a thing as converting
Mammy into cash, and thus making her divisible, never for a moment entered
our minds. It seemed, however, that the difficulty had occurred to her.
We all felt so guilty, when Mammy served tea that last evening, that we
were sure she read our thoughts in our countenances. It would be nearer the
truth to say that it was rather our fears that she should ever come to the
knowledge that the word “sale” had been coupled with her name.
The next day we were to scatter, and it was imperative that some
disposition should be made of Mammy. The old lady--for old we deemed her,
though she could scarcely have been fifty--went calmly about the house
looking to the packing of the thousand and one things, and not only
looking, but using her tongue in language expressing utter contempt for all
“lazy niggers” of these degenerate days--referring to the temporary “help.”
The eldest sister was deputed to approach and sound Mammy on the momentous
question.
The deputy went on her mission in fear and trembling. The interview was
easily contrived in the adjoining room.
We were exceedingly embarrassed when we discovered that Mammy's part of the
dialogue was perfectly audible. As for the sister's, her voice could be
barely heard. So that the effect to the unwilling eavesdropper was that
which we are familiar with in these days of hearing a conversation at the
telephone.
“Don't you bother yo'self 'bout me, Miss Frances.”
Interval.
“No, marm. I'd ruther stay right here in dis town whar ev'body knows me.
Doan yawl study 'bout me.”
Several bars' rest, apparently.
“Yes'm, I know hit's yo' duty to look after me, an' I belongs to all of
you; but Ise concluded to let yawl off. You can't divide me into five
parts, an' they ain' nah one uv you 'titled to any partickler part if you
could; most uv me ain't much 'count nohow, what with very coarse veins an'
so fothe. Oh, yes'm! I done study 'bout it plenty, an' I done concluded
that I'll let yawl off an' do fur myself. You know I'm a prime cake-maker,
bread-maker, an' kin do a whole pahcel uv other things besides; an' dress
young ladies for parties, whar I learnt at the ole the-etter, which they
built it after the fust one burnt up and all dem people whar dey got the
Monnymental Chutch over um now; an' any kind of hair-dress-in', curlin' wid
irons or quince juice, an' so fothe. No, don't you bother 'bout me.”
So Mammy was installed in a small house in a portion of the city occupied
by a good many free people, and, as we subsequently ascertained, not
bearing a very savory reputation.
We had heard it rumored that there were some suitors for Mammy's hand. She
had always avowed that she had been a “likely gal,” but we had to take her
word for this, as she had very slender claims to “likelihood”--if the word
suits hers--in our remembrance. She was nearly a mulatto--very “light
gingerbread,” or “saddle-colored”--and a widow of some years' standing.
Still, there was no accounting for tastes amongst the colored folks, any
more than there was amongst the whites in this matter. We surmised that
some of the aspirants suspected Mammy of having a _dot_, the accumulation
of many perquisites for her assistance on wedding occasions. It may be
remarked that she had no legal right to demand anything for such services.
One of the sisters approached Mammy timidly on this subject, and was
assured positively by her that “they ain't no nigger in the whole
university whar I would marry. No, ma'm. I done got 'nough of um.”
We knew that Mammy's married life had been a stormy one. Her husband,
Jerry, had been a skilful coach-painter, and got good wages for his master,
who was liberal in the 'lowance that was made by all generous owners to
slaves of this class. Jerry was a fervent “professor,” who came home drunk
nearly every night, and never failed to throw up to Mammy her dangerous
spiritual condition. Jerry was so vulnerable a subject that Mammy was
prepared to score some strong points against him. He invariably met these
retorts with roars of laughter and loud assertions of his being “in grace
once for all.”
* * * * *
Left the sole representative of my family in the city, I had to start a new
establishment, just as Mammy did.
I made a visit to hers a few days after our separation, and came away with
my heart in my mouth at the sight of some of the familiar objects of
Mammy's room, and such of our own as she had fallen heir to, in strange
places and appositions. I also felt that Mammy's room had a more homelike
aspect than my own.
There was no doubt that Mammy enjoyed her new conditions and surroundings.
She had been provided with a paper signed by some of us, stating that it
was with our permission that she lived to herself. This secured her free
movement at all times--the privilege of very few of her race not legally
manumitted.
Her visits to me were quite frequent, and she never failed to find
something that needed putting to rights, and putting it so immediately,
with fierce comments on the worthlessness of all “high-lands,” which was
_negroce_ for hirelings--a class held in contempt by the servants owned in
families.
I think that Mammy must have discovered the fact that my estate was
somewhat deteriorated.
I was painfully conscious of this myself, and saw no prospect of its
amelioration. The little cash that had come to me was quite dissipated, and
my meagre salary was insufficient to satisfy my artificial wants--the only
ones that a young man cannot dispense with and be happy.
In spite of the opinion prevailing in those days, that when a young man
embraced the career of an artist it was a farewell to all hope of a sober
and prosperous career, my father had been willing for me to follow my
manifest bent, and I was to sacrifice a university career as the
alternative. But the last enemy stepped between me and my hopes, and there
was nothing for it but to go to work.
I had an ardent admirer in Mammy, who, in her innocence of a proper
standard, frequently compared my productions to a “music back” or a tobacco
label. That was before the days of chromos.
Mammy turned up Sunday mornings to look after my buttons. Those were days
of fond reminiscence and poignant regret on my part.
“Seems to me hit's time for you to be getting some new shirts, Mahs
William,” she said, one Sunday morning. Mammy touched me sorely there. A
crisis was certainly impending in my lingerie.
“Oh, I reckon not. You must have got hold of a bad one, Mammy.”
“I got hole uv all uv um what is out uv wash; and them gwine. The buttons
is shackledy on all uv um, too. I wish I wuz a washer; then you wouldn't
have to give yo' clothes out to these triflin' huzzies whar rams a iron
over yo' things like they wuz made uv iron too.”
“I suppose that you are getting along pretty well, Mammy,” I remarked,
irrelevantly.
“Oh, I kain' complain. I made two dollars an' five an' threppence out'n the
Scott party last week; an' I hear tell uv some new folks on Franklin Street
gwine give a big party, an' I'm spectin' somethin' out uv dat. Lawdy,
Lawdy, Mahs William,” she added, after a pause given to reflection, “hit
certainly does 'muse me to see how some 'r dese people done come up. But
they kain' fool me. I knows what's quality in town an' what ain't. I can
reckermember perfick when some uv these vay folks, when dey come to your
pa's front do', never expected to be asked in, but jess wait thar 'bout
their business ontwell yo' pa got ready to talk to um at the do'. Yes, sah.
I bin see some uv dese vay people's daddies”--Mammy used this word
advisedly--“kayin' their vittles in a tin bucket to their work; that what I
bin see.”
I was shaving during this monologue of Mammy's, with my back to her. A
sudden exclamation of the name of the Lord made me start around and
endanger my nose. I was not startled at the irreverence of the expression,
however, as sacred names were familiar interjections of Mammy's, as of all
her race.
“Ev'y button off'n these draw's,” Mammy answered to my alarmed
question--alarmed because I anticipated some disaster to my wardrobe.
“Hit's a mortal shame. I'll take 'em home, an' Monday I'll get some buttons
on Broad Street an' sew um on.”
This was embarrassing. I had twelve and a half cents in Spanish silver coin
which I had reserved for the plate at church that day. I was going under
circumstances that rendered a contribution unavoidable. I hated to expose
my narrow means to Mammy, and said, carelessly, as I returned to my lather:
“Oh, never mind. Another time will do, Mammy.”
“Another time! You reckermember my old sayin', don't you, 'a stitch in time
saves nine'? An' mo'n dat, bein' as this is the only clean pah you got, you
'bleest to have um next week fer de others to go to wash.”