pag32iloTHAT'S RANDALL'S SONG
pag32ilo
THAT'S RANDALL'S SONG
And then there were the reapers, the men who cut the oats and the wheat, and the binders that followed after. At the head of the reapers was Randall, tall, black, and powerful. It was fun to see the blade of his cradle flashing in the sun, and hear it swing with a swish through the golden grain. He led the reapers always by many yards, but when he was making the pace too hot for them he had a way of stopping to sharpen his scythe and starting up a song which spread from mouth to mouth until it could be heard for miles. Aaron, hiding in the wildwoods, could hear it, and at such times he would turn to one of his companions—the White Pig, or Rambler, or that gay joker, the Fox Squirrel—and say: "That's Randall's song. He sees the Little Master coming."
The White Pig would grunt, and Rambler would say he'd rather hear a horn; but the Red Squirrel would chatter like mad and declare that he lost one of his ears by sitting on a limb of the live oak and singing when he saw a man coming.
But the reapers knew nothing about the experience of the Fox Squirrel, and so they went on singing whenever Randall gave the word. And Little Crotchet was glad to hear them, for he used to sit on the Gray Pony and listen, sometimes feeling happy, and at other times feeling lonely indeed. It may have been the quaint melody that gave him a lonely feeling, or it may have been his sympathy for those who suffer the pains of disease or the pangs of trouble. The negroes used to watch him as they sang and worked, and say in the pauses of their song:—
"Little marster mighty funny!"
That was the word,—"funny,"—and yet it had a deeper meaning for the negroes than the white people ever gave it. Funny!—when the lad leaned his pale cheek on the frail hand, and allowed his thoughts (were they thoughts or fleeting aspirations or momentary longings?) to follow the swift, sweet echoes of the song. For the echoes had a thousand nimble feet, and with these they fled away, away,—away beyond the river and its bordering hills; for the echoes had twangling wings, like those of a turtle-dove, and on these they lifted themselves heavenward, andfloated above the world, and above the toil and trouble and sorrow and pain that dwell therein.
Funny!—when the voice of some singer, sweeter and more powerful than the rest, rose suddenly from the pauses of the song, and gave words, as it seemed, to all the suffering that the Little Master had ever known. Aye! so funny that at such times Little Crotchet would suddenly wave his hand to the singing reapers, and turn the Gray Pony's head toward the river. Was he following the rolling echoes? He could never hope to overtake them.
Once when this happened Uncle Fountain stopped singing to say:—
"I wish I wuz a runaway nigger!"
"No, you don't!" exclaimed Randall.
"Yes, I does," Uncle Fountain insisted.
"How come?"
"Kaze den I'd have little Marster runnin' atter me ev'y chance he got."
"Go 'way, nigger man! You'd have Jim Simmons's nigger dogs atter you, an' den what'd you do?"
"Dat ar Aaron had um atter 'im, an' what'd he do?"
"De Lord, He knows,—I don't! But don't you git de consate in yo' min' dat you kin do what Aaron done done, kaze you'll fool yo'se'f, sho!"
"What Aaron done done?" Fountain was persistent.
"He done fool dem ar nigger dogs; dat what he done done."
"Den how come I can't fool dem ar dogs?"
"How come? Well, you des try um one time, mo' speshully dat ar col'-nose dog, which he name Soun'."
"Well, I ain't bleege ter try it when de white folks treat me right," remarked Uncle Fountain, after thinking the matter over.
"Dat what make I say what I does," asserted Randall. "When you know 'zactly what you got, an' when you got mighty nigh what you want, dat's de time ter lay low an' say nothin'. Hit's some trouble ter git de corn off'n de cob, but spozen dey want no corn on de cob, what den?"
"Honey, ain't it de trufe?" exclaimed Uncle Fountain.
Thus the negroes talked. They knew a greatdeal more about Aaron than the white people did, but even the negroes didn't know as much as the Little Master, and for a very good reason. They had no time to find out things, except at night, and at night—well, you may believe it or not, just as you please, but at night the door of the Swamp was closed and locked—locked hard and fast. The owls, the night hawks, the whippoorwills, and the chuck-will's widows could fly over. Yes, and the Willis Whistlers could creep through or crawl under when they returned home from their wild serenades. But everything else—even that red joker, the Fox Squirrel—must have a key. Aaron had one, and the White Grunter, and Rambler, and all the four-footed creatures that walk on horn sandals or in velvet slippers each had a key. The Little Master might have had one for the asking, but always when night came he was glad to lie on his sofa and read, or, better still, go to bed and sleep, so that he never had the need of a key to open the door of the Swamp after it was closed and locked at night.