talkin’ ’bout, Sis’ Tempe, ain’ nothin’ cuncernin’ me. You better ’zamine
yo’ own cawnshunce, an’ see w’at de sperret o’ Gawd goin’ bring to light
to ’cuse you wid yo’ own-self.... An’ don’t you try to drag me in de
thing either.... ’Cause you know w’at you know. An’ I know a heap mo’ on
de subjec’ w’at you ain’ never thought over.... So dey got two’v us to
git up an’ talk on de queshtun, w’en de time come for provin’ who got to
stan’ de blame.... So you better cunsider long an’ careful, befo’ you go
’roun hyuh talkin’ so broadcas’.... You hyeah w’at I tell you?”
His tone was severe and emphatic; and she sat looking at him in subdued
silence. He felt sorry for her, and wanted her to know that he was
willing to help her any way he could.
“You ain’ got to be ’fraid o’ me, Sis’ Tempe,” he told her feelingly.
“Don’t you know ’tain’ nobody but you an’ me kin tell anything ’bout de
needle?... Put de thing out yo’ ’membunce, an’ stop worrin’ ’bout it.
Talkin’ too much on de thing only goin’ make people mo’ suspicious; an’
dat ain’ goin’ help you none.”
Tempe contemplated his face in the moonlight for a few seconds before
answering.
“But Peesah de one don’ wan’ lemme res’,” she faltered. “Evvy night, w’en
I be sleepin’, ’e comes to me des like ’is natchal self, an’ tawments my
po’ soul ’bout dat needle so, till I has to git up out de bed an’ walk
’roun’ de room, an’ try’n fin’ somh’n to do to ease my min’.”
Chester told her of several charms he was sure would help her. The old
folks said they were the only protection against ghosts and spirits, and
they couldn’t fail if you did them the right way.—A pan of water on the
door-step in the moonlight: Death won’t cross water while the moon is
shining on it.—A mirror placed by the side of the bed: Death don’t want
to see himself in a looking-glass.—Leave a dog in the room when you go to
bed; dogs can see spirits in the dark, and Death don’t like to hear a
dog howl in the night-time.
Tempe said she had tried them all, and none of the charms had helped her.
He told her about putting nettles on the floor; scattered over the
threshold and sprinkled around the bed: Death wouldn’t walk on
“stingin’-nettles” in the house, because he had to walk on them in the
graveyard. But the nettles had to be picked at midnight, when the heavy
dew was on them.
Tempe told him she was glad to know the new charm, and would try it
that night. She knew where some nettles were growing alongside Miss
Collamore’s fence by the corner. Maybe white-folks’ nettles would be
better. She would wait until midnight, and go pick them, and sprinkle
them on the floor before she went to bed.
Chester assured her that the charm would work; and he felt pleased that
he was able to give her something that would divert her attention from
the mysterious needle, and the accusing thoughts that disturbed her mind.
He wished her good luck, and arose to go; saying that he would pass by in
the morning to hear what happened.
Tempe followed him to the door and said good-night. Just as he was
leaving, Nat came along; and stopping in front of the door-step, saluted
them cheerfully.
“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’, Sis’ Tempe!” He exclaimed. “It done took me so
long to walk way down hyuh to see you tonight, I feel like I bin trav’lin
de road since day-break.... W’at make you wan’ live so further away like
dis, anyhow?... An’ how you do dis evenin’?... An’ boy, I’m sho glad dey
got somebody hyuh to help me wid dat mule I come after. Hitchin’-up a
strange mule in de moonlight by yo’-self ain’ no fun, lemme tell you.
’Cause I know Sis’ Tempe ain’ none too handy w’en it come to handlin’
harness an’ things, an’ backin’-up a sleepy mule in a dump-cart shaf’,
long aft’ hours like dis is.... Ain’ da’s right, Sister?”
“I was lookin’ for you to come hyuh in de day-time,” Tempe told him. “Aft
I see de night fell, an’ you ain’ sont no word one way o’ nother; somh’n
tol’ me maybe you done change yo’ min’ ’bout buyin’ de mule.”
“But you see me hyuh now, don’t you?” Nat argued. “Anybody ever told you
’bout Nat goin’ back ’is word, aft’ he done promise somebody he goin’ buy
somh’n from ’um? An’ de thing be somh’n w’at he need?”
“Unc’ Nat, w’at make you wan’ was’e time dis way, an’ bring up a
onnes’sary wrangle?” Chester asked him. “If you wan’ hitch-up de mule to
take home wid you tonight, you better come on an’ lemme help you; ’cause
I gotta go back ’cross de pastur to Lizzie house befo’ it git too late.”
“Boy, you sho talkin’ gospel,” Nat answered. “Come on, Sis’ Tempe, an’
show me whah de mule at; an’ lemme git thoo an’ go ’way from hyuh.”
“De mule dis way in de yard,” said Tempe, coming out of the house and
leading them through the side gate. “But you gotta fetch a bucket o’
water from de well, yonder to de cawnder; ’cause de po’ critter ain’ had
no water to drink all day. I ain’ able to tote no water.”
She hunted about the yard until she found a bucket with a rope tied to
the handle. She gave it to Chester and he went to fetch the water from
the well at the corner. The children had ended their singing and playing
for the night and were gone home; and the deserted street seemed to be
wondering at the untimely silence coming at an hour of such marvellous
moonlight.
Getting down on his knees, Chester tugged with the cover of the well
until he lifted it out of its groove. Then he let the bucket down through
the narrow opening, dangling and swinging it about until it sank. When
it was filled with water he pulled it up; got up on his feet, and made
ready to get back to Nat. He deliberated for a second whether or not to
close the well.
“Might be I gotta come git a yuther bucket,” he said to himself. “De
dev’lish lid so tight to git loose, I’m goin’ leave it stay open till I
come back agin.”
Whereupon he took up the bucket of water and went back to the yard.
Nat had finished hitching the mule and was standing by the dump cart
talking to Tempe. Chester put the bucket of water before the mule and he
drank it greedily, and seemed eager for more. Chester wanted to go for
another bucketful, but Nat was impatient to get away, and told him not to
go.
“One bucketful enough to hol’ ’im till we git up yonder on the coas’; den
he kin lap de whole ditch dry if he like, w’en I turn ’im loose in de
lane.... Come on, lemme go ’way from hyuh,” he said, climbing up on the
seat of the cart. “An’ Sis’ Tempe, I’ll see you ’bout de secon’ payment
aft’ I done tried de mule out wid de harrow in de fiel’ tomorrow.... An’
boy, lemme thank you for givin’ me a han’ wid de mule nice like you did.
An’ I’ll sho think to bring you somh’n from de g’yarden, nex’ time I come
down to Gritny.... Peace an’ hap’ness to y’all.... Come on, ole mule.
Nat’s gone.”
The cart went bumping up the street, and Tempe closed the gate and
walked with Chester towards the front door. As she went into the house,
he reminded her to go for the nettles at midnight; and to be sure that
nobody saw her when she stooped to pick them. Tempe said she would
remember to do all he told her; bade him good-night and closed the door
as he walked away.
Eager to get back and tell Lizzie the outcome of his visit to Tempe,
Chester took the short cut across the pasture. The moonlight was so
brilliant, he could trace the entire length of the worn pathway through
the shining dew-dripping weeds along its edges. A cool breeze was blowing
from the woods, and the dampness of the grass causing him to feel chilly,
he pulled up his coat. As he walked along, singing, he was conscious of
being pleased that he had accomplished something. He had spoken his mind
and felt satisfied that Tempe would stop talking, and no blame would be
attached to his name. Lizzie would be glad to know how he straightened
things out with Tempe, and she would stop worrying about his getting
into trouble.
When he reached home, the door was closed and the house was in total
darkness. Lizzie had gone to bed; and he knew he would have to go in
quietly, because if he wakened her, she would be cross and make a racket.
Disappointed that he would have to wait until morning to tell her about
his visit, he undressed quietly and got into bed. The sound of snoring in
the next room told him that Lizzie was in her “first sleep”; so he knew
that it would be a long time before she would awake. Thinking he might
forget his disappointment, he began to pray.
However short and simple of form his sincere appeal may have been,
it served him as might any formula of cabalistic worth. Bringing to
his childish mind not only quiet forgetfulness; but quick, conquering
somnolence, with a myriad train of fantastic visions; tantalizing his
superstitious soul, and holding him in helpless captivity until the
mystic hour of midnight came to break the spell.
A rooster, high up on a branch of the persimmon tree in the side yard,
looking out across the pasture, and seeing the moon slipping down the
heavens, flapped his wings lustily and gave a ringing salute that floated
off on the wind to tell his fellow-fowls that morning was on the way to
greet the sleeping world.
Chester heard the clarion sound in the tangle of his dream, and awaking
with a start, he jumped out of bed and ran to Lizzie’s room, calling to
her excitedly:
“Lizzie! You ’wake?” He shouted, going to the bed-side, and shaking her
roughly. “Wake up, for Gawd sake; an’ lemme talk to you!... Did you hyeah
dat noise jes’ now befo’ I come in de room?”
Lizzie sat up quickly and answered in an angry tone:
“Boy, you mus’ be losin’ yo’ min’, ain’t you? W’at you mean, comin’ hyuh
an’ wakin’ me out my slumbers, axin’ me ’bout any noise, like somebody
done gone crazy?... Go back to bed, yonder in yo’ room. An’ damn you an’
dis kind o’ humbug; way in de middle o’ de night like dis!... You ain’
walkin’ in yo’ sleep, is you?”
“Lizzie, for Gawd sake lissen at w’at I’m try’n to tell you,” he pleaded.
“Ain’t you hyeah’d de noise,—like somebody callin’ for help?... Callin’
an’ moanin’ so pitiful, it woke me out a heavy sleep.... Gawd knows. I
could hyeah it plain as day.... An’ ’long wid de moanin’ I could heayh de
soun’ like water splashin’.... Gawd knows, Lizzie.... An’ I dunno w’at
make you ain’ bin able to hyeah it, loud an’ natchal as dat thing was
soundin’.”
Becoming suddenly aware of the humor of the situation, Lizzie began
laughing with keen enjoyment.
“Nigger, you mus’ bin had de night-mare,” she told him. “You better go
look an’ see if you ain’ knocked over dat bucket o’ water on de table
yonder.... Talkin’ ’bout hyeahin’ water splashin’.... Go back to bed,
boy, an’ lay down. An’ quit dis foolishness, an’ lemme git some mo’
sleep.”
Determined to convince her that what he heard was no imaginary sound, he
persisted:
“Lizzie, w’at make you think I wan’ joke on somh’n seerus like dis thing
is?... I tell you de noise I hyeah’d was a reel, _natchal_ noise. An’
it kep’ up de whole time I was gittin’ out o’ bed till I got hyuh an’
shuck you ’wake. An’ w’en I commence walkin’ ’cross de room, it look like
all my laigs was stingin’ me, same as if somebody bin switchin’ ’um wid
stingin’-nettles.”
“Chester, git out o’ hyuh, wid yo’ lyin’ self!” Lizzie commanded, with a
show of irritation. “Hyuh you done laid up in yo’ bed half de night in a
crooked position, till yo’ blood done gone to sleep; an’ come tellin’ me
’bout somebody switchin’ yo’ laigs wid stingin’-nettles!... Git out o’
hyuh.... ’Cause I know if I raise up out dis bed an’ shove you thoo dat
do’, you sho Gawd will go lay down, aft’ my han’s done fell on you....
You hyeah w’at I’m say’n?”
“I hyeah you,” he answered forlornly. “But you watch if you don’ hyeah
bad news tomorrow mornin’.... A callin’ noise like dat noise I hyeah’d,
sho do puhdick somh’n.... An’ Jesus goin’ be my witness I ain’ lissen at
nothin’ on-natchal dis night o’ my good Lawd.”
Leaning over the side of the bed, Lizzie trailed her hand along the floor
until she found one of her shoes. Suspecting her intention, Chester
started to leave the room, when she fired the shoe at him, shouting:
“Git out o’ hyuh, I tell you! An’ don’t you lemme hyeah you say another
word tonight.”
Unable to sleep, he lit a candle on the mantelshelf, and sat down on the
side of his cot, trying to calm himself. He tried to pray, but he could
not concentrate, his mind was so disturbed. The room was cold, and the
dim cheerless light of the candle made him uncomfortable. Maybe if he lit
a fire and made some coffee he would feel stronger, he thought.
Taking some dried leaves and chips from the box in the corner, he put
them on the hearth between the andirons; laid a few branches over them
and lighted the fire with the candle. As the bright flame leaped up the
chimney, brightening the room with a cheerful glow, and streaking the
floor and ceiling with long quivering shadows; he sat down before the
hearth and began humming softly.
Seeing the reflection through the open door, and hearing the low rumble
of his voice, Lizzie called to him impatiently:
“Chester, if you think you goin’ hol’ a all-night swaree yonder in dat
kitchen wid nobody but yo’ fool-self, you better come close dis do’, so
dat light won’ keep me from sleepin’.”
He got up and closed the door quietly; went over to his cot and took the
quilt; and after wrapping it about him, he drew a chair before the fire
and sat down. The genial warmth and the soothing crackling of the burning
branches set his mind to thinking of other things; and very soon he found
himself tranquilly sinking into utter forgetfulness; snugly enfolded by
the “fifty revelashuns of de forty-seven wonders.”
The season for growing things being almost over, only a few vegetables
were left in Nat’s garden. Several beds of sweet potatoes and pumpkin
vines told that a few yams and cashaws remained to be gathered; and
there was still a small supply of succulent spinach, bordered with rows
of bright green parsley; and plenty of glossy red peppers on the sturdy
bushes growing along the side fence.
Before seven o’clock in the morning, with a warm sunshine falling over
everything, Nat was at work with Tempe’s mule hitched to the harrow;
trying to get the ground ready for lettuce planting before the first
frost fall.
Up and down the long rows of lumpy ground he followed the harrow, singing
pleasantly to amuse himself; apparently satisfied with the mule for the
work he had in mind. The sunshine was bright and comforting; and nothing
disturbed his meditations except the playful sniffing and barking of his
three dogs, Leave-it-lay, Scawl and one-eye Companyun, following at his
heels, hunting out toads and ground-puppies under the newly-broken clods.
At length, the click of the iron latch on the front gate attracted Nat’s
attention; and looking up, he saw a woman with a _marchande_ basket
coming down the grassy path. As she came nearer, Nat recognized Scilla,
coming to buy vegetables to take to the City to sell. She was walking
hurriedly, and seemed to be excited. Before reaching him, she called out
breathlessly:
“Lawd, Unc’ Nat! W’at you reckon done happen?... An’ had to fall on me,
to be de firs’ one to see de thing; an’ go spread de news, yonder in
Gritny.”
Unmoved, Nat looked at her, and answered quietly:
“Ooman, take yo’ time; an’ don’ trip ove’ yo’ words so fas’. W’at
excitement dis is, you done brought hyuh so soon in de mawnin’?”
“Unc’ Nat,” Scilla continued with growing animation, “ain’t you hyeah’d
’bout Tempe gittin’ drownded in de street well, yonder by Miss Collamo
cawnder?”
“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’! gal,” Nat exclaimed. “Is you come hyuh jokin’?
Or is you tellin’ somh’n w’at happen for-true?”
“I ain’ play’n, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla assured him. “Tempe drownded yonder in
de well. An’ nobody ain’ know nothin’ ’tall ’bout it, till I comed along
soon dis mawnin’; an’ seen Tempe body floatin’ on top de water, hol’in a
bunch o’ stingin’-nettles, tight-shet in one ’uh han’s; like she mus’ bin
grabbed ’um off de side de well w’en she was fallin’ in.”
Nat contemplated her face for a second, still doubting the information.
“Gal, go ’way,” he said to her. “I bet you ain’ seen nothin’ but a bunch
o’ weeds, or somh’n-nother floatin’ on top de water, made you think ’twas
Tempe body; dark like it mus’ bin w’en you peeped in de well.”
But Scilla was positive about what she had seen, she told him. Saying
that she had started away from home very early, on her way to Nat’s
garden after vegetables; and seeing the well uncovered when she reached
the corner, and fearing that someone would meet with an accident; she
stooped to cover it. As she was putting the wooden lid in place, a ray
of sunlight, slanting through the opening, attracted her attention to a
strange-looking object in the water. Getting down on her knees to look at
it more closely, she discovered that it was Tempe’s body; with one arm
pointing upward, and the hand clutching a bunch of nettles.
“I was so sk’yeard, Unc’ Nat, I start to run an’ holler for help,” Scilla
went on, with dramatic effect. “W’en jus’ ’bout dat time, I seen Mr.
Gully baker wagon come ’roun de cawnder, an’ I call him to come see.
“Mr. Gully got down off de wagon, an’ looked in de well. An’ w’en he seen
for hisself ’twas Tempe body, he tol’ me go call somebody. So I went got
two or three mens; an’ dey all fetched a rope an’ things from Tempe
yard; an’ dey commence strug’lin wid de rope, till dey got it hitched
roun’ Tempe body. An’ aft’ a li’l w’ile, dey pulled ’uh up.
“Den dey all took Tempe to ’uh house; an’ I went got some wimmins livin’
close-by, to look aft’ ’uh an’ fix ’uh nice for de burryin’.... So aft’
I had did all I could, I lef’ ’um all yonder, an’ come hyuh to git my
vegetables to carry over to New Leens to sell.”
Nat looked at her in thoughtful contemplation.
“Nobody ain’ said nothin’ ’bout how Tempe come to fall in de well?” He
asked her.
“Some de people say ’twas a accident. An’ some say Tempe bin so bad-off
for so long, she was jus’ natchally weak-minded, an’ mus’ bin commit,”
Scilla advised him.
“I gotta go yonder dis evenin’, an’ see ’bout de funeyun,” Nat murmured
softly, as if talking to himself. “Tempe ain’ got nothin’. An’ she bin
too good a ooman to leave dem don’-care-fied niggers lay ’uh away, yonder
in potter’s fiel’.”
“Tempe got life-in-sho-ince, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla informed him. “One de
wimmins foun’ de paper in Tempe berow draw. An’ dey done sont word ’cross
de river to de Met-luh-policy man, to come see ’bout it befo’ dey take
Tempe to de church.”
“Dat ain’ got nothin to do wid me,” Nat answered abruptly. “Dis Tempe
mule you see hitched to dis harrow I’m fol’rin behin’ dis mawnin’. An’
de secon’ payment ain’ made yet; an’ de money still owin’ to ’uh. So Nat
gotta go yonder to Gritny an’ do de right thing; an’ see dat Tempe laid
away like people. Not dumped in a hole like no-count cattle.”
“Dey say dey lookin’ for de Met-luh-policy man to git dah ’bout twelve
o’clock,” Scilla told him. “So Unc’ Nat, if you goin’ take charge de
in-sho-ince money, you better go yonder soon’s you kin.”
Nat looked at her with a scowl of annoyance.
“Gal, stop tellin’ me ’bout de Met-luh-policy man,” he told her, sharply.
“I ain’ got no business wid none o’ Tempe in-sho-ince money. I’m goin’
yonder wid Nat’s money.... Money w’at b’lonks to Tempe, for dis mule you
see stannin’ hyuh.... Money w’at goin’ puhvide de carriage for all dem
niggers to ride in; an’ give Tempe a good-lookin’ funeyun like people....
Da’s w’at Nat goin’ for.”
“Well, I sho wan’ try be dah w’en you come, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla assured
him. “So come on, an’ gimme my vegetables, an’ lemme go yonder an’ sell
’um, an’ git thoo soon’s I kin.”
Scilla selected the vegetables she wanted, arranged them in her basket,
gave Nat the money for them, and put the basket on her head and left. As
soon as she had gone, Nat went back to his work.
“Come on hyuh, ole mule,” he called, taking up the reins from the harrow
and giving the mule a light slap. “You gotta make quick tracks, an’ lemme
git thoo dese las’ few rows. ’Cause I wan’ hurry yonder an’ take Tempe
out de han’s o’ dem searchin’ niggers, befo’ night come.... Git up hyuh,
now. An’ lemme see you move like you un’stan w’at you doin’; an’ got yo’
min’ on w’at Nat talkin’ ’bout.... You hyeah me?”
Carmelite had finished another patch-work master-piece,—a “Jacob ladder”
pattern of many-colored gingham and calico scraps; and being in need
of money, she was giving a “raffle meetin’” at her house. She said she
was sure to “take up five dollars ’munks all de members w’at say dey
was comin’.” Because cold weather was not very far off; and people
never could have too many quilts. And ten cents a chance was so little,
she knew none of the members would overlook the inducement. Besides,
everybody was bound to have a good time at Carmelite’s raffle, “singin’
an’ jokin’ an’ drinkin’ coffee an’ eatin’ cake.” And rich cake, at that.
The same kind Carmelite made for the white folks’ table.
Duck eggs always made a cake taste better, she declared with authority.
They gave it such a fine yellow color; and kept it from looking like
“cheap grocery-sto’ cake.” And Carmelite enjoyed hearing her friends talk
about it; and liked to hear them “give ’uh de praise for ’uh cookin’.”
Nobody’s duck eggs were like Aunt Fisky’s. They were always so big and
fresh. And Carmelite knew that she could get as many as she needed, in
exchange for anything she had to offer. Aunt Fisky was too old to bend
over and beat brick to sprinkle on her floor; and Gussie was so busy
running around with the women, he never had time to stop and sit down and
pound it for her. So a bucket full of brick dust was always a desirable
article of barter. A bundle of fat pine splinters for lighting the fire
was another thing to be desired; scarce as fat pine was most of the time.
And a pan of Carmelite’s hot cornbread, almost as good as the cake she
made, was a thing Aunt Fisky would accept gladly, in exchange for a half
dozen duck eggs.
Having finished nearly all the preparations for the evening raffle,
Carmelite wrapped a newspaper around a pan of hot cornbread just out of
the oven, and started away, after the duck eggs for the cake she was
going to make for her guests. She would hurry back, she told herself; and
the cake would have time to get cool after she finished baking, and it
would “cut nice” for the frolic.
Half way across the green she met Aunt Fisky, driving home her ducks from
the pool of water near her house. It was a wide stretch of ground in the
open green, where the earth had been dug away during high water time,
and carried off and banked against a weak spot in the levee. Being near
the river, the pool was always filled with water and crawfish; and it
became a favorite resort of the ducks, geese and colored children of the
neighborhood.
Coming up near the old woman, Carmelite greeted her with a pleasant
smile, saying:
“Aun’ Fisky, yo’ ducks sho look w’ite an’ healt’y today.”
“Dey ain’ jew to look no yuther way, daughter,” the old woman answered.
“Plut’rin in de water like dey is all day long from soon in de mawnin’.”
“You sho lucky to live so close by de pool out hyuh whah de crawfish
an’ bugs so plennyful,” Carmelite went on. “It keep you from buyin’ a
whole lot o’ cawn an’ things for yo’ ducks. High as chicken feed is dese
days.... Dey sho is a fine flock o’ ducks, for being nothin’ but plain
puddle ducks. Ain’ dey?”
“Yas, daughter. Dey is healt’y an’ nice,” Aunt Fisky answered. “But de
ole ooman gittin’ too feeble to be worry wid raisin’ ducks much longer.
You can’ keep ’um from stray’n off. An’ de crawfish so temptin’ to ’um;
dey looks like dey fo’gits to come back home. So I has to go fetch ’um.
An’ hyuh lately, I bin feelin’ so po’ly, it mos’ plays me out to walk
even fur as dis pool hyuh, ’cross de green.”
“You ain’ got de rheumatism, is you?” Carmelite asked, sympathetically.
“I ain’ sho, daughter,” Aunt Fisky replied, dubiously. “But I bin rubbin’
my back an’ my two knees wid some ni’ntment Unc’ Bendigo gimme; try’n to
see if it goin’ ease de miz’ry. But I ain’ notice no change yet, since
day-befo’-yistiddy.”
“Some kind o’ drug-sto’ n’intment?” Carmelite inquired.
“No. ’Tain’ nothin’ bought,” Aunt Fisky advised her. “Somh’n Unc’ Bendigo
bin makin’ to rub wid, way yonder since Reb-time. Somh’n he say ain’
miss cu’in nobody ever bin use it. An’ so simple, too,” she went on to
explain. “’Tain nothin’ but plain inch-worms out de groun’, mixed wid
chop pa’sley an’ a pinch o’ smokin’ tobacco, fried altogether in hog
lard. An’ you gotta rub wid it in a downwuds direction, to’ads de feet;
so de miz’ry pass out thoo de toes.”
“Sho soun’ like it mus’ be some kin to hoo-doo,” Carmelite remarked,
laughing.
“No it ’tain’,” Aunt Fisky corrected her. “Unc’ Bendigo don’ play wid no
hoo-doo. It des a natchal n’intment he say de ole folks learn ’im how to
make.”