The other day I was whistling that coon song:
“All coons look alike to me.”
The old man was poisoning potato bugs on our second crop of Irish
potatoes. It was getting along “t’wards de shank of de ebenin’,” as I had
heard him so often express it, and I have noticed about that time that
the old man is always hunting for some excuse to stop working. “Dar am
jes’ two sho’ nuff fools in dis wurl,” I have heard him say—“one am de
man dat wucks all de time an de yudder am de ’oman dat don’t wuck at all.”
I was not surprised, then, to see the old man set down his can of Paris
green and water and give vent to a prolonged laugh. I have learned that
the way to catch the old man is to get him when he is “fit and ready”—the
same as a horse when he is expected to break the record—and I might carry
it further and say you can’t always tell when he is ready. But there are
certain signs you can go by.
And so the old man has signs, too—that he is ready to go a heat in an
old time yarn—and one is when the sun gets low and the bugs high—when
a watermelon is waiting in the spring trough and the sheep on the hill
begin to come out from the shaded woods for their evening meal in the
meadow—now cooling with the condensing shadows of a setting sun.
The sign he gives is a furtive glance around and a big, chuckling laugh.
I had cut around the melon with my pocket-knife, and broken it open on a
big rock, which left the jagged, juicy heart bulging out in a tempting
lump. But I divided as equally as I could, under the circumstances, and
as we sat in the shade of the elm by the big spring I shoved him his half
and said:
“Now that’s for what you were laughing at just now—out with it.”
“I doan’ blame white folks fur sayin’ all coons look alike, fur I tried
it onct and I thou’t I knowed my own kid—thou’t ef it cum to de scratch
I cu’d do lak a hoss an’ tell ’im by hees smell, ennyway. But when I wus
put to de test I foun’ dey not only all look alike, but smell alike,
too—an’ dar’s whar I cum mighty nigh gittin’ into de wuss scrape I eber
got into.”
“Way back in slabery time, when a young p’ar ob niggers ’ud marry, de
rule wus dey was to lib wid de gal’s muther ontwel de fust chile was
bohn. Ole marster useter la’f an’ wink an’ tell me it wus a trick ob
de white folks to mek ’em hurry up wid de fus’ chile! Jinerally we
didn’t need no hurryin’ for ole Daddy Stork is mighty kind to young
folks, ’spesh’ly niggers, which wus p’uffectly nat’ul, you know—rangin’
all de way in his visertachuns frum a few weeks arter de suremony to
es menny months—fur no nigger dat had enny manhood an’ independence
wanted to be pendin’ on his wife’s mammy enny longer den he cu’d h’ope
it! Den arter de chile wus bohn de marster ’ud gib a log-rollin’ an’ a
house-buildin’—jinerally on a Sad’dy arter de crop wus laid by—an’ all de
niggers frum de joinin’ farms ’ud cum ober, fetch dey wives an’ babies,
an’ whilst de men cut logs an’ put up de cabin, de wimmen and gals ’ud
quilt de young p’ar a quilt or two an’ cook a big dinner ob gumbo soup
and green cohn an’ bakin an’ greens. An’ if de baby dat de young fo’ks
had was a boy de rule was dat Marster had to fling in a good big lam’, es
er kind ob a free gratis prize fur ’em gittin’ a boy, an’ den Lord, boss,
de barbycue an’ de stew we did hab! In dem days enny man in Tennessee
cu’d ’still de fruit ob his own orchard and not pay no rivernew, an’
Marster had a nigger named Pete Gallerway dat cu’d beat de wurl’ makin’
apple-brandy. Ebery fawl he’d ’still Marster twenty gallons an’ it ’ud
stay in de cellar twell de naixt fawl, an’ Lord, boss, by dat time it wus
dat kind o’ stuff dat es you drunk it in dis wurl’ it seem ter kinder
tel’fone to de angels in de naixt! It was so ra’ar an’ ripe you cu’d jes’
put de stopper outen de bottle in yo’ boot-legs an’ cudn’t keep from
cuttin’ de pigeon-wing to save yo’ life an’ er singin’ dat song we sung
den—
“‘Cum down ter Tennessee—
(Ride er ole gray hoss)—
Yaller gal’s de gal fur me—
(Ride er ole gray hoss)—
Kiss her under de Mulberry tree—
(Ride er ole gray hoss)—
O my, nigger, don’t you see
Better cum ter Tennessee!’
“I tell you, boss, dey kin preach all dey please agin good licker an’ de
famblys it busts up, but I’ve knowed menny a man to git a drink jes in
time ter keep outen a divorcement. I don’t see how sum men cu’d lib wid
de wives dey got ef dey cud’nt tak a drink an’ furgit dey mizz’ry now an’
den! Wal, in erbout three moons it was my time to hab a house-buildin’
an’ I was mighty proud ob de job. Dinah was kinder dissociated kase she’d
sat her h’art on de fus’ baby bein’ yaller. Er ’oman, ob course, ain’t
got no reason fur enny thing—dey jes’ goes by instinct, I reckin—an’ de
onlies’ reason she had for spectin’ an’ wantin’ a yaller baby was dat she
was allers mighty fond ob sorrel hosses an’ she natur’ly hoped her fust
child ’ud be a sorrel. It cum black, of course—jes’ lak me, an’ arter
I opened his mouth an’ seed he hed one tooth already cum an’ ernudder
comin’ an’ wus reddy fur eatin’ de fus’ day, I knowed he wus Bre’r
Washingtun up ter the thu’d an’ fo’th jinerashun. But Dinah she tuck it
mighty hard an’ lowed she’d nurver git over he’s not bein’ a sorrel wid
black p’ints!
“I say he was black, but did yo urver see a right young nigger? A
buzzard, you kno’, is hatched white an’ turns black, an’ so er nigger is
bohn red an’ turns black. It’s funny but it’s so. A simon-p’wore nigger
when bohn is red with a leetle bunch of woolly h’ar on his head, an’ five
holes in his face, de two leetle ones in de center bein’ whar his nose
gwineter be. Dey ain’t no mistakin’ his mouth, fur dat’s de bigges’ part
of his vizerbles, an’ in jineral lang’widge you mout say it curls up on
de north an’ is bounded by hes h’ar, an’ curls down on de south an’ is
bounded by his belly-ban’. He’s red, ’ceptin’ de skin of his head, which
is sorter yaller, but on the thu’d day he gin ter turn black jes’ above
de eyes, and in a few weeks he’s all black ’ceptin’ de bottom of his
hands an’ feet, his wottles an’ hock fethers, de tip ob his stomach an’
de spot whar he sets on all day.
“Wal, arter de cabin was put up an’ de sun had set, de big stew wus
sarved wid apple brandy an’ den, Lord, de fun sho’ started! Course I
c’u’dn’t be in it much—de dancin’ an’ juberlashun under de trees—case
I was de keeper ob de lams, it bein’ my house-raisin’ an’ my fus-bohn.
Now de keeper ob de lams is dis: de wimmin folks allers bring dey babies
along ter de dance an’ de house-raisin’ an’ when de house is up an’ de
floor laid an’ night cums an’ de games begins, de babies is all suckled
an’ laid out, ebry one on his own sheepskin, on de flo’ of de new house
fur ter go to sleep, an’ de daddy ob de new-bohn kid is called de keeper
ob de lams an’ must set dar an’ watch ’em an’ nuss ’em whilst de yudders
eat an’ play. It’s hard, but it’s de onwritten law, an’ de objec’ am
to give de new daddy a lesson in pashents an’ nussin’ an’ keerin’ fur
chilluns.
“Wal, dey was forty on ’em, mighty nigh de same age, wid a fair
sprinklin’ of sorrels an’ browns, whilst sum look lak dey mouten be
made outen new saddles an’ jinger cakes. It went agin me mightily to be
pestered wid all er dem new colts wid dey projeckin’ ways, but I had a
big bottle of apple brandy an’ tuck a little consolashun frum it now an’
den myse’f, an’ eb’ry time a kid ’ud wake up, I’d jes gin ’im a stiff
drink ob apple brandy an’ stick de big toe ob de kid jes’ above him in
hes mouth ter suck on twell he dosed off. Dey was three long rows on
’em. I’ll sw’ar, boss, ef onct I didn’t hab ’em all konnected dat away
lak links in a sausage. Dat an’ de brandy focht ’em eb’ry time an’ I was
jes’ chucklin’ ter myse’f at whut a fine nuss I was, an’ dat I c’u’d soon
be able to go out an’ hug de gals, too, when dey all commence to hab de
jim-jams in dey sleep—seein’ snakes an’ things an’ howlin’ an’ wigglin’,
an’ frum de way some on ’em’s eyes bulged out dey must er had ellerfants
an’ rinocerasses arter ’em, too. Wal, suh, I broke fur de stable an’
got a quart bottle ob stuff we gin de mules fur de colic—asserfedity an’
h’artshorn, ladernum an’ tu’pentine, all mixed—an’ den I got de vinerger
funnel to git it down, an’ I drenched eb’ry one on ’em wild dat mule
medercine, stuck eb’ry one’s toe in de naixt one’s month an’ put ’em ter
sleep ergin.
“Sum on ’em didn’t wake up fur a week, but dat ain’t de tale I’m tellin’
now.
“I tuck ernuver drink outen de bottle an’ den I happen ter see one ob
de lam’s dat struck my eye. He was de preacher’s kid, whose daddy, a
yaller feller, ole mistis had l’arned ’im to read an’ write an’ he tuck
to preachin’, and his lam’ wus a bright sorrel wid flax mane an’ tail,
an’ as he was erbout de size ob my little coon I thou’t I’d play a joke
on de wimmin folks, bein’ es how Dinah was sot on habin’ a yaller kid. So
I ups an’ changes de clothes an’ puts de yaller preacher’s lam’ on our
sheepskin an’ ourn on de yuther’s pallet. Wal, suh, de mo’ I thort of it
de funnier it seemed, an’ den I laffed twell I nearly wake ’em up again
an’ tuck ernuver drink an’ went in ter swap ’em all off. I’d pick out two
erbout de same size an’ sex an’ changed dey clothes an’ bed, an’ when I
got through dere wa’nt nary one on’ em dat u’d know hisse’f from de naixt
one, an’ es dey all smelt erlike I didn’t see how dey mammies was eber
gwine ter git ’em straight ergin. Course I ’spected a lot ob fun when de
games broke up an’ I tuck ernuver drink an’ fix fur ter see it. But hit
seems de niggers played on twell one o’clock an’ forgot all erbout time
ontwell one ob de patteroles—de mounted poleece dot kept niggers from
prowlin’ at night in dem days—rid up wid a hickory whip an’ tole ’em it
wus time fur to go to bed. Dis skeered ’em so dey all lit out an’ eb’ry
’oman jes’ bundled up her baby an’ left, an’ not one ob ’em knowed de
difference. Es dey all libbed from one ter ten miles aroun’ on de farms,
thinks I, dar’ll be lots ob fun in de mawnin’! Dinah tuck ernuver look
at hern befo’ she went to sleep, an’ den I heurd her whoop: ‘Glory,’ she
said, ‘my chile is done turned yaller—glory—glory!’ She heard of it
bein’ done onct befo’ an’ b’leeved it. Wal, I seed she had her h’art sot
on it so bad I ’lowed I’d let it go at dat, ’specially es dey nurver had
been a preacher in de family, but all er mine hed tuck to hoss racin’ an’
Dinah was so happy over it she c’u’dn’t sleep.
“I sed dar ’u’d be a time in de mawnin’, but bless you’ soul, honey, it
started befo’ day. Lights was seen flashin’ eb’rywhere an’ niggers was
runnin roun’ wailin’ an’ weepin’ an’ wonderin’. De black uns had yaller
babies an’ yaller ’uns had black ’uns, de upper crust had scrub babies
an’ de leetle black cohn fiel’ scrubs wus in de highes’ nigger socshul
swim—wid de house gals an’ maids an’ qualerty niggers. Wuss en all, de
chilluns jes’ slept rat on an’ didn’t seem to keer whar dey wus an’ who
dey b’longed to. I tell you, boss, ef you eber gits bothered ’bout yo’
chap not goin’ to sleep, jes’ gin ’im a good dose ob hoss medercine!
“It ’u’d been all right, an’ jes’ a joke, ef dey hadn’t stirred up ole
Voodoo Jake, de witch doctor. He ’lowed de babies was all right but dey
had been voodooed an’ de culler changed, an’ he’d hafter rub ’em all wid
de ile ob a black cat killed in de full moon on de grabe ob a man dat hab
been hung fur murder, an’ dey’d be all right. A nigger jes’ nachu’lly
b’leeves all dis, ’specially all dem dat had de yaller babies an’ not one
on ’em ’ud gin ’em up.
“An’ dat’s hu’cum I got a yaller offspring in my family ter-day, I am
sorry ter say. But arter awhile it got sorter mernoternous, an’ I thort
I’d lak ter git my own black baby back, an’ I tole ole Marster whut I
done, an’ sum of de niggers raised sech a stir dat de white folks hilt
a meetin’ an’ did git sum on ’em back ag’in, but dey’s jes’ about ha’f
of ’em now in dat community dat don’t kno’ who dey daddies is. But dat’s
nachul, you kno’. But Dinah hed got stuck on de yaller baby, an’ de
preacher’s wife on de black one, an’ tho’ I kicked about it I c’u’dn’t do
nuffin’. I tole eb’rybody how I dun it fur a joke, but dey all sed I wus
sech a liar dey wouldn’t b’leeve me. Ole Marster laff, an’ say he hated
to swap off a good black colt for a yaller one, but ef it suited de
wimmin folks it suited him, an’ so dar I was.
“Wal, dey soon found I was right, for when de boys growed up a leetle,
an’ big ’nuff fur dey pedergree to sho’ up, whut you’ reckin my black un
dun ’fore he ten yeahs ole? De preacher tuck ’im ter campmeetin’ an’ he
got up a mule race on de outside an’ broke up his daddy’s campmeetin’
one day by ridin’ ole Marster’s gray mule cl’ar over a bunch of mourners
an’ spite of punishment an’ pra’ars arter dat, he tuck to ole Marster’s
stable an’ dey ain’t nurver got him out of it yit.
“An’ dat yaller dog I got, he warn’t long showin’ de mettle er his
pasture an’ de proof er his pedergree,” and the old man sighed and looked
troubled.
“How?” I asked.
“Boss,” he said sadly, “befo’ he was ten yeahs ole he stole eb’ry yaller
legged chicken in de na’borhood.”