Aaron is sho got mo’ time fer ter fool wid you dan what I got. An’ dar’s
dat ol’ dog settin’ up dar big ez anybody. What you want, honey?” turning
to Buster John. “Talk quick. I ain’t got no time ter th’ow way. I got
ter go up yonder,” indicating the big house, “and set my mornin’s bread
ter rise.” Then she turned to Aaron, “Did you call me sho’ nuff, er is
deze yer chillun des runnin’ on wid der foolishness?”
Aaron nodded his head and brought out a stool for himself, giving Jemimy
the chair in which he had been sitting.
“I ’clar’. I ain’t got no time fer ter be settin’ down here gwine on wid
deze chillun. Time yo’ Unk A’on know much ’bout you ez what I does he
won’t be settin’ down here worryin’ ’long wid you.”
Jemimy said this, laughing in an embarrassed way. She stood in awe of
Aaron, but she sat down. “What you grinnin’ at, I like ter know?” she
cried, turning suddenly on Drusilla, to hide her own confusion. “Whar yo’
manners?”
Aaron shook his head and Drusilla made no reply.
“Aunt Mimy,” said Buster John, “we want you to tell us about the time you
went into the woods with mamma—when Uncle Aaron was a runaway, and when
Mr. Gossett was running him with dogs.”
Jemimy laughed, and then she looked serious. She looked first at the
children and then at Aaron. At last, her eye fell on Rambler, who had
crossed the hearth and was sitting between Aaron and the chimney-jamb.
“Ef I ain’t mighty much mistaken,” said Jemimy, “dat ar very dog dar is
one er de dogs what wuz runnin’ atter you.” Aaron nodded his head. “He
gittin’ ol’, mon. Why, dat ar dog ain’t fur frum twenty year ol’.” Jemimy
paused, but nobody said anything. Finally she went on:
“I never is ter fergit dat day, ef I wuz ter live ter be older dan ol’
man Methusalem. I speck I wuz ’bout fourteen year ol’, an’ Miss Rachel,
she wuz ’bout eighteen or nineteen—some’rs ’long in dar. Soon one mornin’
she sont me out ter tell ol’ Unk Aberham fer ter saddle de pacin’ filly.
She low she gwineter go out in de woods atter some wil’ flowers, an’ she
says she want me ter go ’long wid ’er. So dey done saddle de filly, en
put Miss Rachel on ’er, an’ den Miss Rachel, she rid up side de fence
an’ tuck me on behine ’er, bein’s ez de filly done been trained to tote
double. I had er basket on my arm, an’ dat ar basket sholy did worry dat
hoss. She danced an’ she pranced, an’ twuz e’en’bout all I could do ter
set up dar, her back wuz so slick.
“But bimeby de filly done git usen ter de basket, an’ atter dat I ax
Miss Rachel whar she gwine. She say she gwine atter some wil’ flowers.
I ax her wharbouts. I ’low’d dey wuz plenty right whar we wuz at. She
up ’n say dey want ’nuff ter suit her. We rid on an’ rid on, an’ bimeby
I say, ‘Miss Rache, you know you ain’t gwine atter no flowers.’ She ax
me wharbouts she gwine den. I say, ‘You er gwine over yon’er in de big
woods.’ She ax what she gwine over dar for. I say”—
Here Jemimy straightened herself up and looked at Aaron curiously.
“I ’clar ter gracious, I oughtn’t ter be tellin’ dis ’fo’ deze yer
chillun,” she said.
Aaron made no reply one way or another, but seemed to be surprised, and
the children protested loudly.
“You’ll run right straight an’ tell Miss Rachel!” exclaimed Jemimy, as
indignantly as if the children had already told their mother.
“Why, mamma knows it already—if it’s true,” said Buster John scornfully.
“She’d run me off’n de place ef she know’d I wuz runnin’ on ’bout ol’
times right here ’fo’ you all. La! niggers is fools, mo’ speshually when
dey er wimmen folks.”
“I reckon she’s about right,” said Rambler, yawning and stretching
himself.
“What kinder cu’us fuss is dat dog makin’?” asked Jemimy, seeing Aaron
and the children laughing. “I ain’t never see no dog make fuss like dat.
You all better watch dat dog. He so ol’, dey ain’t no tellin’ when he’ll
go ravin’.”
“You told mamma she was going to the big woods,” said Buster John, by way
of a reminder.
“She wa’n’t yo’ ma den!” remarked Jemimy. “I say, ‘You ain’t gwine atter
no flowers. You er gwine over yon’er in de big woods.’ She ax me what she
gwine over dar fer. I say, ‘You er gwine dar kaze you speck you’ll strike
up wid dat ar Dave Henry Wyche.’ Man, suh! She blush up twel it look like
you kin see plum thoo her ears, dey got so red. Atter while she ax me who
tol’ me dat, an’ I say, ‘How come my eyeballs ain’t big nuff fer me ter
tell myse’f?’
“We rid ’long, an’ rid ’long, an’ den bimeby she low dat Mr. Wyche des
ez good ez anybody else, ef he ain’t got ez much prop’ty ez some er de
res’. I say, ‘I ain’t’ sputin’ dat, but how come you call ’im Mr. Wyche
now, when you been callin’ ’im Dave Henry yever since he toted yo’ school
bucket when you wa’n’t knee-high to a goslin’?’ Den she say it’s kaze dey
done got older dan what dey useter wuz.
“We rid on, an’ rid on, an’ bimeby we come ter whar de big poplar grows
dar in de woods. Right dar she w’o’d de filly, an’ tol’ me ter jump down,
kaze right dar whar she gwine ter git some wil’ flowers. I hilt de hoss,
I did, an’ she lipt down same ez a bird off’n de bush, an’ den she tuck
de basket an’ went sa’nterin’ ’roun’.
“I ’low, ‘Ef you gwine ter git any flowers right roun’ here, you’ll
hafter dig in de groun’ atter ’em,’ an’ she say I better be ’tendin’ ter
my business, an’ hol’ dat ar filly so she won’t break loose an’ run away.
Well, dat sorter brung me ’roun’, kaze I skeerd er hosses anyhow, but I
hilt on ter de bridle reins, an’ I kep’ one eye on Miss Rachel, an’ de
udder one on de filly. Miss Rachel, she went on thoo’ de woods, sorter
hummin’ one er dem ar ol’ time chunes, an’ I foller’d ’long atter de
bes’ way I could, kaze I skeer’d dat ar filly gwine ter walk up behine me
an’ tromple me. Bimeby, I see somebody gwine ’long thoo de woods wid a
gun. I look right good, an’ den I know’d ’twuz Marse Dave Henry Wyche.
“Well suh! you dunner how quare folks is. Miss Rachel she seed ’im ’mos’
time I did, an’ den she stopped and fetched a little squall, des like
she didn’t know all de time he wuz gwine ter be dar, an’ den Marse Dave
Henry, he stopped like he wuz ’stonished, an’ tuck off his hat like he
ain’t seed Miss Rachel in a mont’ er Sundays. Den dey shuck han’s an’
stood dar an’ talked an’ talked. I dunner what dey say, but one time
Marse Dave Henry would laugh, an’ look down at his foots, an’ den Miss
Rachel, she’d snicker an’ blush. Dey wuz gwine on dat way when I feel de
filly pullin’ on de reins, an’ den when I look at ’er, she had her ears
sot forrerd, like she wuz lis’nin’ at sump’n. Den I hear houn’s a-bayin’,
an’ des ’bout dat time I hear de bushes shakin’, an’ somebody come
chargin’ ’long hard ez he kin come.
“Dis make de filly jerk back and r’ar, but I swung on ter de bridle rein,
an’ holler w’oa, an’ den, bimeby, she w’oad. Well, suh, dat ar somebody
chargin’ ’long wuz yo’ Unk A’on dar. De dogs was a-gainin’ on ’im eve’y
jump. He seed Miss Rachel an’ Marse Dave Henry stan’in’ dar, an’ he went
up ter whar dey wuz, an’ say: ‘You see what I git fer tellin’ you las’
night.’ Marse Dave Henry ’low, ‘I wish ter God I could help you!’ Miss
Rachel riz on her tiptoes, an’ stretch out her han’ an’ say, ‘Take dat
filly dar an’ ride her home fer me!’ She looked lots bigger dan what
Marse Dave Henry did. I tell you now, when you git de Abercrombie blood
stirred up you better go off som’rs twel it cool off.
“Well, Unk A’on dar, he fetched a jump er two an’ jerked de reins out’n
my han’, an’ lipt on de filly’s back—behine de side-saddle, now, mind
you—an’ hit her wid his heels a time er two, an’ wuz done gone ’fo’ I
could git up offin’ de groun’ whar I fell at. Den Marse Dave Henry flung
his gun ’cross his lef’ arm an’ put some fresh caps on it, an’ dar he
hilt it.
“Bimeby, here come de dogs. Dey sailed ’roun’, an’ sailed ’roun’, but
dey couldn’t go no fudder. Den here come dat ol’ Mr. Gossett. I hope
he’ll go ter heaven, but I never shill b’lieve it twel I see ’im dar. He
come a-follerin’ long atter de dogs. He rid up an’ tuck off his hat when
he see Miss Rachel. But na’er one un um do like dey know he’s a-livin’.
Miss Rachel she look at Marse Dave Henry, an’ Marse Dave Henry, he look
right straight at ol’ Mr. Gossett. He sot dar on his hoss an’ look at
um, an’ thump de pummel er his saddle like he studyin’ ’bout sump’n ’way
off yon’er—an’ den he spied me. He lif’ his hat agin, like he tellin’ um
good-by, an’ den he rid up by me. He say, ‘Gal, is you seed any nigger
man runnin’ ’long by here?’ I look at Miss Rachel, an’ she drapt her
eyeleds. I say, ‘Yasser.’ He say, ‘Which away wuz he gwine?’ I look at
Miss Rachel, an’ she thow her eyes over ter de lef’, an’ I pint dat way
an’ ’low, ‘Cross yon’er.’ He sot dar, dat ar white man did, an’ look at
me n’ thump de pummel er his saddle, en den he broke out in a big laugh
an’ rid on. I tell you now, ol’ Nick wa’n’t no sharper dan dat ar white
man.
“Marse Dave Henry made a motion like he wuz gwine ter foller on atter
ol’ Mr. Gossett, but Miss Rachel, she laid her han’ on his arm, an’ den
we all walked back home. De las’ word I say ter Miss Rachel—an’ she’ll
tell you so herse’f—wuz, ‘I tol’ you you wa’n’t huntin’ no flowers;’ an’
she ’low, ‘How kin anybody hunt flowers when de woods is full er runaway
niggers an’ dogs?’ an’ I say, ‘You ain’t call de name er all what de
woods wuz full uv;’ an’ she ’low ef I don’t hush up, she’ll be mad wid me
all de balance er de week, an’ den I hushed up.”
Jemimy paused, looked all around, and then turned to the children:—
“Don’t you dast ter tell yo’ ma dat I been gwine on wid all dish yer ol’
time foolishness, kaze ef you do, she’ll take me out’n de kitchen an’
sen’ me ter de cotton patch, an’ I’m doin’ mighty well whar I is.”
Then, after telling Drusilla not to be sitting up all night, she went
out.
VII.
RAMBLER, THE TRACK DOG, CONCLUDES HIS STORY.
“Where did you go when you rode the filly off?” Buster John asked Aaron.
“He came right here,” said Rambler; “I know it, because when old Grizzly
whistled to me and my companions and started home, I went back, picked up
the scent of the filly, and followed it here. At the lot, the Son of Ben
Ali took the saddle off, hung it under the shed, and then came to this
house.”
“That is so,” remarked Aaron; “an old man by the name of Abe lived here.”
“Why, I remember old Uncle Abe,” said Buster John. “He used to sit in the
sun and make horse collars and baskets, and tell tales.”
“He was a great hand for that,” assented Aaron.
“I followed him here,” continued Rambler, “but found the door shut. I
scratched at it and whined. The man named Abe opened it, and I came in,
but I didn’t see anything of the Son of Ben Ali. But I knew he was in
here. My nose told me so. I noticed some planks across the rafters—they
are there yet, as you can see—and I looked up and whined. The man named
Abe looked around until he found his axe. ‘So you are Gossett’s nigger
dog,’ he said. ‘Well, you’ll never hunt any more niggers for him.’
“‘What is that?’ said the Son of Ben Ali from the loft.
“‘Gossett’s nigger dog,’ said the man named Abe. ‘He has followed you
here. What shall I do with him?’
“‘Give him something to eat,’ answered the Son of Ben Ali, and this made
me glad, for I had had a long, a hot, and a hard chase.
“‘What shall I do then?’ asked the man named Abe.
“‘Give him a drink of clean water,’ replied the Son of Ben Ali.
“‘What then?’
“‘Then let him alone.’
[Illustration: I LOOKED UP AND WHINED]
“Now, I was very glad of that,” continued Rambler, licking his chops, and
keeping one eye on the sputtering pine knot that gave out a flickering
light, “for I wanted bread, and I wanted water, and I wanted to lie down
and rest somewhere, where I wouldn’t have to fight the flies.
“So the man named Abe went into his cupboard—that same cupboard there—and
gave me a big chunk of ash cake, and placed a pan of water close by. Then
he sat in the door and began to weave his baskets. I ate all he gave me,
drank as much water as I wanted, and crept under a low bedstead that
stood in the corner yonder.
“I don’t know how long I slept, but when I woke I knew it was night, for
I heard the man named Abe frying his bacon, and the smell of it crept
under the bed where I was, and made me as hungry as I had been before I
ate. After a while I heard voices. The Son of Ben Ali was asking the man
named Abe if he would have to stay in the loft on the planks all night.
The man named Abe said no, that he had a snug place for the Son of Ben
Ali.
“Now, at that time there was a sort of closet or something near where the
chimney juts out here. The man named Abe had nailed some planks across
from the wall to the edge of the chimney, and in between the wall and the
planks there was room enough for a man to stand up, or to lie down, if he
lay on his side.
“After a while, when everything was quiet, the Son of Ben Ali clambered
down the wall, but when he touched the floor he stumbled and fell over,
groaning. The man named Abe was scared nearly to death, but it was
nothing. I had been running hard, and I was stiff and sore. The Son of
Ben Ali had been running hard, and he was stiff and sore. Besides, he
had been lying on the planks in the loft in a cramped position, not
daring to move, for fear he would be discovered, and this made the matter
worse. But it was nothing, after all. The Son of Ben Ali raised himself,
laughing, and limped into the closet.
“But he didn’t stay there long. He came out to stretch himself. This made
the man named Abe uneasy, and then he became angry. But the Son of Ben
Ali simply laughed at him. This made him still angrier, and he threatened
to go to the white folk’s house—that’s what he called it—and tell them
that a runaway negro had taken possession of his cabin. The man named
Abe started out. I don’t know whether he would have gone if he had been
let alone, but he was not let alone. The Son of Ben Ali seized him by the
shoulders and jammed him down on his stool, and then stood over him. The
man named Abe would have cried out, but the Son of Ben Ali placed his
hand softly on the man’s mouth and spoke one word—‘Listen!’—but that was
enough.
“The man named Abe quieted down at once. But he said he would be killed
if the white people caught him hiding a runaway. At this, the Son of Ben
Ali called me to him and said:—
“‘Go out and stand by the door there. When you hear any one coming, say
so.’
“I limped out from under the bed the best I could, for I was stiff, and
scratched at the door and asked to be let out. The man named Abe opened
the door, and watched to see what I would do. I only went a few steps
away from the door, and then sat down, turning my head in all directions
and listening. When the man named Abe shut the door again, I went and sat
on the steps. I heard the man ask the Son of Ben Ali if he was a witch,
and the reply he got was that the Son of Ben Ali was witch enough not to
be caught any more. Then the man named Abe wanted to know if the Son of
Ben Ali was angry with him, and the answer he got was that the Son of Ben
Ali was the friend of those who were his friends and was never angry with
them.
“Well, they had their supper in there, for I could hear them chewing,
and presently the man named Abe came to the door and gave me mine, the
biggest half of a warm hoe-cake, and I don’t know that plain bread ever
tasted better than it did right then.
“Not long after that I heard some one laughing and talking in the
direction of the big house up yonder, and the sounds seemed to get
nearer. I gave the warning, and I soon heard the Son of Ben Ali go into
the closet. The voices came nearer, and I soon knew one for the Young
Mistress, whom I had heard talking in the woods that very morning. The
other seemed to be the voice of a child, but I heard thump—thump—thump—as
of some one walking with a heavy cane. So I said to myself the Master is
with them. But, no; it was the little boy, who walked with the crutches,
as I soon saw. He was pleading with his sister to come to the house of
the man named Abe and get him to tell a tale, such as he used to tell her
when she was a little girl. She said she was too large for that, but the
Little Master declared that he was small enough for both of them. And so
they came to the door.
“The Young Mistress called out ‘Uncle Abe!’ and the man named Abe opened
the door. He looked out cautiously, and with a frown on his face, as I
could see; but when he found who it was he danced around, and opened the
door as nimbly as if he had been a young man. I try to be polite myself,
and sometimes I shake my tail pretty hard, but the man named Abe shook
his whole body, he was so polite, and bowed nearly to the floor. And it
wasn’t put on, neither, as I found out afterward, for every one on the
place loved the Young Mistress and Little Master. These two went in, and
I followed them. I wanted to see what would happen.
“After a while, in bustling around, one of them stepped on my foot. Of
course this hurt my feelings, and I cried out.
“‘Poor doggie!’ said the Little Master. ‘Come here!’ He looked at me
closely, and exclaimed:—
“‘Why, this is one of the Gossett track dogs! What is he doing here?’
“But the man named Abe said he didn’t know. Then the Young Mistress
wondered if I was one of the dogs that had been running after a negro in
the woods that morning, and she asked the man named Abe, looking at him
hard, if he had seen a strange negro bring the filly home. But the man
named Abe shook his head and fumbled with the splits which he wove into
baskets.
“The Little Master said he had come to hear a story, one of those old
stories about Brother Fox and Brother Rabbit. I thought to myself that
if all the rabbits I had caught could talk, they would have more stories
to tell than the Little Master had time to listen to. The man named Abe
shuffled around and coughed and excused himself, but it was no use. I
knew he wanted the Young Mistress and the Little Master to go away. He
was uneasy about the Son of Ben Ali—afraid that they might discover the
runaway. But nothing would satisfy the Little Master but a story, and
so the man named Abe sat down and told him one. And then nothing would
satisfy him but another story, and so they went on, until finally I fell
asleep by the hearth. I could hear the story-telling going on in my
dreams, and I remember I said to myself that if the man named Abe, or any
other man, was as willing to work as he was to talk, a good many things
would be different.
“While I was lying there dozing, I heard the Son of Ben Ali begin to
snore. The Little Master heard it too, for he asked what the noise was.
The man named Abe said it was the dog—meaning me—and then he went on with
his story, moving his feet about on the floor and talking loud. I dozed
off again, and was getting ready to go to sleep sure enough, for I was
tired, when suddenly I heard a noise outside, as of two or three persons
creeping around the cabin. I jumped up and ran to the door and smelt
under it. The scent that came under the door was the scent of strange
persons, and of white people at that. Just as I was about to cry out my
discovery I got a whiff of another scent. I knew at once that George
Gossett was with the strange persons, and that they were patroling the
settlement searching for the Son of Ben Ali.
“I gave one whine, and ran under the bed, for I didn’t want young Grizzly
to see me there.
“‘What is the matter with the dog?’ asked the Young Mistress, in some
alarm.
“‘Sh-h!’ said the man named Abe, softly.
“Then some one struck the door with a cane, following it with a loud
demand:—
“‘Hello, here! Open this door!’
“Peeping from under the bed, I watched to see what would happen. The man
named Abe looked hard at the Young Mistress. She, rising, swung the chair
behind her, leaning on it with her left hand. She lifted her right arm
and waved it toward the door.
“‘Open it!’ she said.
“The man named Abe did as he was bid. He threw it open suddenly and stood
behind it. Young Grizzly must have been leaning heavily against it, for
he stumbled into the room and came near falling.
“‘What are you trying to do? Why you’—Then, looking up, he caught
sight of the Young Mistress standing there with anger in her face.
Young Grizzly took off his hat and bowed low. There were pieces of
sticking-plaster on his forehead and cheek bones. He caught his breath
and stammered: ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, I’—
“‘Uncle Abe,’ said the Young Mistress, ‘go to the house and tell father
that Mr. Gossett—Mr. George Gossett—has called to see him on business,
but has missed his way.’
“‘Not at all, Miss Rachel! Not at all! I beg ten thousand pardons! I was
hunting a runaway nigger in the settlement, and I thought perhaps—maybe—I
might find him here. A runaway nigger you know, Miss Rachel, is just as
apt to be in one place as another.’ In this way spoke young Grizzly, as
he backed out at the door, still bowing.
“‘Then, Uncle Abe, tell father that Mr. George Gossett believes one of
his runaways is hid on his place, and wants to find him.’
“‘By no means, Miss Rachel—by no means! Not for the world. You know me
too well not to know that I never intended any disrespect to you. Not the
least bit in the world.’ So said young Grizzly.
“‘Who are your companions, sir?’ asked the Young Mistress, going toward
the door.
“‘Just some of the neighbor boys, ma’am. I asked them to come with me.
None of us meant the least harm, and certainly no disrespect to you.’
Thus spoke young Grizzly.
“By this time his companions had taken to their heels, and young Grizzly
was quick to follow their example as soon as he got out of reach of the
Young Mistress’s eyes. So said the man named Abe, and he was standing
where he could see, having pretended to go after the White-haired Master.
Never have I seen a white man more frightened than young Grizzly was.”
“What was he afraid of?” asked Sweetest Susan.
“Buckshot,” replied Aaron.
Rambler yawned and then continued:—
“The Little Master was even angrier than the Young Mistress, but he had
said nothing. When the door was shut he struck the floor with his crutch
and cried out:—
“‘Oh, I hope it is Aaron they are after, and I hope they will never get
him.’
“‘Aaron is his name,’ said the man named Abe.
[Illustration: YOUNG GRIZZLY BOWED LOW]
“‘He rode my filly home to-day,’ the Young Mistress said.
“‘Did he? Did he? I’ll kiss you, sis, for that!’ So spoke the Little
Master, and he was as good as his word. He hopped nearly across the floor
on his crutches and smacked the Young Mistress right in the mouth.
“I was wondering whether the Son of Ben Ali was sleeping all this
time, so I went and sat by the closet. I could hear the Son of Ben Ali
breathing very hard, and I said to myself, if he is not asleep, he is
sitting in there crying.”
Sweetest Susan looked at Aaron, and her beautiful eyes were full of
tears. Aaron shook his head and smiled, and then pretended to be gazing
at something in the fireplace.
“He may have been laughing,” continued Rambler, licking his foreleg,
where a briar had scratched it, “but as there was nothing to laugh at,
that I could see, I thought maybe he was crying. But maybe he wasn’t. I’m
never certain of anything until I get my nose on it, and there was a wall
between the Son of Ben Ali and me.
“The Young Mistress and the Little Master were very angry, but before
they could say much a very curious thing happened. The door of the closet
flew open, and the Son of Ben Ali tumbled out in a heap on the floor. The
Young Mistress fell back a step or two and gave a little scream, but the
Little Master stood his ground and lifted his crutch in a threatening
manner. But the Son of Ben Ali simply fell out of the closet in a heap.
He was still stiff and sore, and by the time he had gathered himself
together the Young Mistress knew who he was, and in a moment, too, the
Little Master knew him.
“‘Why, it’s Aaron!’ he cried, though nobody ever told me why any one ever
called the Son of Ben Ali Aaron.
“Then he seized the Son of Ben Ali’s hand, and stood leaning against him
for support, as he did many and many a day and night after, as I have
seen. The Little Master’s head came no higher than the Son of Ben Ali’s
shoulder, though the child was standing on his feet, and the Son of Ben
Ali on his knees.
“The Young Mistress said: ‘If you stay here they will catch you, sure.’
“The Son of Ben Ali shook his head, and the man named Abe made this
reply: ‘No, ma’am, they’ll not come back here in a hurry, after hearing
what you said.’
“At this, they all laughed, except the Son of Ben Ali. ‘You may be
certain,’ he said, ‘that I’ll not stay here where I can be seen. The
Gossett negroes go hungry every day in the year, and for an extra pint of
meal they would tell everything they know and more too. And I would be
the last to blame them.’
“Then suddenly the Little Master spoke: ‘Can you climb a tree?’
“‘By this time I ought to know how,’ said the Son of Ben Ali.
“‘Then come, I’ll show you.’ So saying, the Little Master swung himself
on his crutches and went hopping to the door as nimbly as if his legs
were sound and whole. And the Young Mistress went too, and I followed.
“But by the time the Little Master had reached the door the Son of Ben
Ali was out and before him.