Marse Lawrence and Trouble.
Marse Lawrence and Trouble.
“Is dem putty fas’ houn’s, Marse Lawrence?” asked Uncle Simon Bolick, as Mr. L. A. Williamson, of Graham, Alamance county, came up with his pack of noted fox dogs.
“Yes, Uncle Simon, they are the best in the country,” was the answer.
“Yes, sir; I spec’ dey is now, since ole marster’s stock ’s all died out. But when Marse Billy wuz livin’ he had de steppin’ dogs. Dey wuz de swiftes’ in de lan’. Yo’ daddy’ll tell you dat. Dey don’t have houn’s lak his’n now. Ef I coul’ git some uv de ole Bolick breed I sho’ would git on ole Beck an’ go wid you arter Big Sandy, dat sly ole red dat uses in de Big Crick woods. But de las’ uv de stock’s gone. When Marse Tim lef’ here he sont Buck an’ Bell, de onlies’ ones livin’, to ole man Bob Bolick, his no ’countuncle, up in de Souf Mountins. Ole Bob he never know’d how to care for nothin’, much less er fine houn’. All my fo’ks is lef’ dis section. De war broke dem up an’ mos’ uv dem’s in de fur Wes’, unless dey’s all daid. But ef I had one uv dem old Bolick houn’s I woul’ show you how to ketch ole Sandy. Dat’s de gospel truf!”
The old darkey was in earnest. His memory carried him back and he lived in days gone by, and scoffed at the things of the present. Life was not as sweet to him as it had been when he served his owner, Colonel William Bolick, the famous old farmer-sport of Piedmont, North Carolina, for then every day was a holiday. He hunted and traveled with his master, who kept fine wines, blooded horses and fast dogs. Truly, those were glorious days for Simon, and he has never become reconciled to the prosaic life of freedom. The Bolicks were prominent in North Carolina, and came from a good old English family. Robert, however, never did well and, to get rid of him, his father purchased a fertile mountain valley farm andsent him there to live. That suited him, for he had no pride and but little ambition.
Colonel William Bolick did well until the civil war. Like many men of his class and day, however, he could not change with the times. The freeing of the negroes destroyed him financially, and he was never able to rally his fortunes. He died soon, leaving an encumbered estate and a family of boys; the former was sold and the boys went West.
Old Simon, the aristocratic ex-slave, took up the burden of life, and went from place to place doing odd jobs here and there until two years ago, when he moved to Graham to live with a daughter who had saved money and bought a home. There he made the acquaintance of Mr. Williamson, and never tired of telling him about the Bolick hounds.
A fortunate thing happened for Simon last fall. He was wrong in his conjecture about the passing of the Bolick stock. It had not all perished. The breed had been kept pure and improved by the sons of Bob Bolick. Some profitable crosses had been made, and the Bolick hounds of South Mountain wereeven better than the ones formerly owned by Colonel William Bolick. They had not been hunted after foxes, but had run deer, bear, coons and wild cats.
Zeb Bolick, the most promising son of Bob, heard of the old family negro at Graham. He found out that the Bolick hound was the hobby of Uncle Simon, and determined to box up one of the best young ones in his pack and send her to the old darkey. Therefore, on a fine day in October, he shipped Dinah, a well-built bitch, to Graham, at the same time sending the following letter to Simon:
“Simon, I have just sent you a hound of the old Bolick stock. I heard that you wanted one. She is untrained for foxes, but will run anything that leaves a scent. Accept her as a gift for the sake of by-gone days. I never saw you, but if you were raised by Uncle William, you are all right. I have named the black and tan lady Dinah. She looks just like old Bell, her great-great-grandmother, except that she is larger. She has raced all the flesh off of her bones, but that is a small matter.”
Simon Bolick was the happiest negro in the county. He rejoiced for two reasons; the promise of the dog made him happy, and the receipt of the letter, the first one of his life, pleased him. He told the town of his good fortune, going from store to store showing his letter. It was like a dream to him, and he could not realize that the dog was actually on the way. He ran around until he was almost prostrate.
For some cause Dinah was two days late in showing up, and it began to look as if somebody had been joking the old man.
Simon had described her as a beautiful, gentle animal, full of life and well-bred looking, but his imagination had been too active. Hence, when Dinah arrived, the old darkey was sorely disappointed, for she was skinny, raw-boned and dirty, her ribs prominent and her back too sharp. The boys laughed and jeered as Simon led her along the street. She seemed half-starved and tried to put her nose into everything. If she found a morsel to eat she gulped it down so greedily that the spectators roared with delight. Butwhen safely within his own yard, the old negro made a thorough examination of his dog, and, after looking her over from nose-tip to tail, he spoke to himself as follows: “Dat ain’t no bad dog ef I’m a jedge. She’s got de same marks dat de ol’ houn’s had. I laks dem thin years, dat hump-back an’ dat long, keen tail. All she needs is somefin’ to eat an’ er little res’. Me an’ ole Suckie ’ll fetch her out. By de time de race arter Big Sandy comes off I’ll have her des right, an’ ef I ain’t mightily mistaken she’s gwine to sho’ dem yudder dogs de bottom uv her feets es she flies. Des es soon es she gits rested, I’s gwine to slip her off down to de crick an’ hear dat mouf. Ef it soun’s lak ole Bell, den I’ll bet on her sho’ nuff.”
The tongue proved right. It was loud, clear and horn-like and could be distinguished in any pack. Simon was happy. His cup of joy was brimful when Mr. Williamson sent him word that he could join him for a chase the first good opportunity for a night hunt. The old darkey could hardly wait—he was so anxious for the hunt.
When the eventful hour came, Simon, mounted on his trusty mule, Beck, with his master’s old horn on his back, and Dinah trotting behind, with head and tail down, overtook the other hunters just out of Graham, on the Haw River road. The night was fine, and the ground in first-class condition. The atmosphere was fresh and sweet, after a light shower, and the weeds and grass sufficiently damp to hold a scent. As Simon rode up, Mr. Williamson remarked: “Well, old fellow, if Dinah has the proper stuff in her, and we hit old Sandy, she will have an opportunity to do her best to-night, for the weather is ideal.”
“Yes, sir; dat’s so; Mr. Fox’ll smell mighty good arter de little sprinkle. I ain’t sayin’ much erbout my dog yit, ’cause she ain’t never run but one or two foxes in her life, but I feels lak she wuz des gwine to fall in wid de res’ an’ do her part.”
Some of the mischievous chaps in the party twitted the old negro about his hound, calling her “skinflint,” “meat-catcher,” “rabbit-chaser,”and the like, but he laughed and advised them to wait and see.
The hunters had not gone far when Trump, a young dog, routed a rabbit, and drove him flying across the road. Five or six puppies joined in and hurried old mollie-cotton-tail to the thicket of a near-by stream. Soon a turn was made and all came back. The dogs were close behind Brer Rabbit, and a new mouth carried the lead. Uncle Simon, with much joy in his heart, cried out: “Listen at dat horn-mouf! Dat’s Dinah, an’ she’s in front!”
Mr. Williamson was charmed with the deep bark of Skinny Dinah. It was wrong to encourage the rabbit hunters, but the boys could not refrain from galloping ahead to see the race. Dinah was literally splitting the wind. She did not tarry or linger, but picked up the scent here and there and hastened on. Simon blew his horn and all of the culprits, except Dinah, came in; and her tongue ceased. It was surmised that she had caught the rabbit and was eating a secondsupper. Soon she overtook her proud owner, her mouth blood-stained and her sides sticking out. The laugh was on the darkey.
Far to the right came the melodious note of Trouble, the faithful old strike dog. He had ranged toward Bull Nose Creek and struck a hot scent. Mark, Mr. Williamson’s colored valet, declared, “Dat’s where dey strikes ole Sandy, an’ Trouble knowed where to hit him!”
The hunters struck a gallop and the dogs were “harkened” in—Jerry, Jude, Kate, Sing, Music, Flora, Black Bill, Red Ball, Trumpet and Flirt. Strive, a big, deep-mouthed, bob-tailed hound, opened some distance in front of the rest. He was a fast trailer, making time and ground by sighting logs and wet places ahead and hitting here and there. He had good dog sense and knew the ways of Reynard, and, under his leadership, the pack soon had a running trail.
Mark dismounted and examined the track. “It sho’ is ole Sandy, Mr. Lawrence,” said he. “If you don’t believe it, come here an’ look.” And so it turned out.
The dogs moved across Cedar Hill toward Holt’s Bay and Drowning Creek. The young hounds, all but Dinah, were chiming in at the rear. Dinah seemed interested, but lazy. However, she kept nibbling at the track. As the hounds went in on the north side of Holt’s Bay, old Sandy slipped out on the other side. Red Ball, the famous leader of the pack, got a live scent of the cunning fox as he set out, and rushed through the thicket, bawling as he went, and picked up the hot track. There was consternation among the dogs for a moment, but in a jiffy every last mouth, even that of Dinah, was giving tongue behind Red Ball.
As was the custom of Sandy, he took a short round to try the quality of the pack. He raced three miles and back over level country, entered the bay where he went out, dodged through and started for the swamps of Big Creek, five miles away, to the north. The hounds were in hot pursuit, Red Ball in the lead, closely followed by Trumpet, Sing and Flirt.
About every fourth leap Ball would cry,“Yock! Yocky-yocky yock!” It was sweet music to the ear. He did not bark often, but his voice was strong and piercing. Dinah brought up the rear, but was now thoroughly aroused, though the rabbit had made her heavy and slow. Simon was delighted to see her sticking to it so well and showing such interest.
The hunters rode to the top of the hill, dismounted and waited patiently for the fox and the dogs to return. It might be an hour, or it might be four, but Sandy always came back to Drowning Creek, and the faster the race the quicker the return.
Mr. Williamson and his companions did not have to loiter long that night, for within three-quarters of an hour after the hounds went out of hearing, Mark, with his keen ear, heard the tongue of Red Ball. It was coming back, “Yock! Yocky-yocky yock!”
The men hurried to a road crossing to see the pack as it passed. Dogs had changed places. Some of the short-winded runners had dropped out and others fallen back. But Simon’s Dinah had performed the mostwonderful feat; instead of bringing up the tail-end, she was pushing Ball. Her tongue was mingling with his, and the old negro could not constrain himself. He just had to yell, and yell he did, at the top of his voice. “As sho’ es de Lawd,” he shouted, “she’s one uv de ole stock!”
But it was no time to shout. The dogs were flying on, and any inopportune whoop might bother them, so Simon was rebuked by the captain of the party.
Sandy covered his three-mile circuit again, and returned to Holt’s Bay. By that time he saw that his life was in danger, for the hounds were racing him faster than he ever had to go before. If the gait continued death would be staring him in the face, so he determined to put forth his best efforts in a run to Buck Hill and back, a total of sixteen miles, but by foiling several miles he would have ample time to dodge in Holt’s Bay. The dogs were close after him when he left for Buck Hill, with Red Ball and Dinah cheek by jowl. Ball was running wild, while Dinah seemed to be getting better. To thewest the flying pack went, the tongues of Ball and Dinah blended in one sound. Simon was so elated that he could not be still, moving about like a crazy man.
When the music ceased, Mr. Williamson turned to Uncle Simon and said, “Old man, I’ll give you fifty dollars for her.”
“Marse Lawrence, I needs de money, but I wouldn’t swap dat dog fer yo’ cotton mill; no sar, dat I wouldn’t.”
After that there was no sound for more than two hours, though the hunters listened with strained ears. Mark was the first to hear the returning music. He cried: “Hush! There they come! Dinah’s in the lead!”
“Yoo-it yoo-it yoo-it! yoo-it!” came the sound rending the air. Ball had fallen back ten feet or more. Again the hunters hastened to a place where they could view the dogs. That time they saw the fox, Big Sandy. He was but thirty yards ahead, with tail dragging the ground and tongue hanging out.
His last race was run. The fatal day hadcome. But he had pluck to struggle on. Dinah and her mates came on, tired but strong. Sandy was pulling for Holt’s Bay, where he could turn and double about, and worry the dogs. But the sight of the men and the horses seemed to urge Dinah on. They gave her courage and she gained on the fox. As she crossed a hillock in the edge of the woods and turned down the opposite side, she caught a glimpse of Big Sandy. Her heart beat with joy and she went forward with renewed vigor. The other dogs and the hunters were close in her wake. They had noted the change in her tongue and knew full well what it meant. It was a sight race from there to the thicket, and Dinah had the advantage. Big Sandy dodged and twisted, but his last moment had arrived. Dinah pounced on his back just as he entered the edge of the bay, and it was all over.
Dinah had proved her mettle, and Big Sandy was dead. Uncle Simon was so happy that he could not speak. He fell upon hisdog and embraced her, while the boys patted him on the back and rejoiced with him. Dinah rolled and groaned in the broom sage, the idol of the hour.
When in Charlotte, I make my home at 411 North Tryon street, in a private family. My hostess, Mrs. Barringer, widow of General Rufus Barringer, owns an owl of the Asia Accipitrimus or short-eared species; her name is Minerva and she is a very common bird. Hundreds like her dwell along the wooded streams of Mecklenburg and adjoining counties. None of them are beautiful. The one of which I write has but one redeeming feature. She is grateful to her mistress who, alone, has fondled and petted her. In this she acts well and shows a trait that but few men have.
Where did this strange, quaint and curious creature come from? Why did she become a thing to be domesticated and cared for like the beautiful little canary or the sweet-tongued mocking bird? Is she the apple of any person’s eye, or the pride of any home?To the last question I should say: “No; she is nobody’s darling.”
The owner of Minerva was not looking for her when she came nor did she especially desire to become the possessor of such a charge. A friend sent her as a present from a neighboring town. She had been lifted from her nest, a tiny, awkward, helpless birdie, and dropped into our home suddenly.
What was to be done?
Had she been given her liberty in Charlotte, either by night or by day, a violent death would have been her fate. Hungry cats were ready to crack her delicate bones, and the street urchin, with his never-failing sling shot, or air-rifle, was eager to try his skill on just such a mark.
Truly, the ugly, dirty, drab-colored little bird was far from enthusiastic friend or kindred. None of her kind are within several miles of the town. But if she could have been taken to the woods and set free she would have died from starvation and loneliness, for she was young, innocent and inexperienced.
Indeed, she must be fed, housed and cared for as an object of charity, for, truly, she lacked lovable characteristics. At first she had but one friend and that, her owner, and to her she owes life and what happiness she has had.
For twelve months of her existence, after she arrived, Minerva lived in a large wire-screen chicken pen, situated beneath my room window. It was there that she grew into the dignified old lady that she is. The pen was built and is used for cooping chickens for the table. At times it was well filled with a fine lot of hens and then, again, empty. Minerva watched the daily slaughter of her strange companions with apparent concern from the highest perch she could find. She would not associate with them. However, she soon discovered that they were afraid of her. Those direct from the country, sought the farthest corner from her. All this she did not understand, for having seen none of her peculiar family, she must have felt that she was of the same blood as her fellow creatures. She tried diligently tounravel the mystery. Her thoughts were along the line of these questions, I imagine, from the serious look she always wore upon her face: “Why do they avoid me? Will that dreadful tall creature from the kitchen come and wring my head off like he has done others? What does it all mean? Have I but one friend, the sweet old lady who raises the window every morning and greets me?”
The only trouble Minerva had in her early captivity was given by Osmond, the son of her mistress, who set Jack, his fierce bull terrier, after her. The dog could not get inside the enclosure, but would frighten her into hysterics by charging against the wire and barking viciously. Under this excitement she took the only exercise she got, flying from pole to pole and snapping her bill. What the bull dog and his master did for her Minerva did for the timid chickens. She amused herself daily by chasing them around. By instinct an owl captures a fowl by pushing it off of a perch and catching it on the wing. Minerva would drop on thepole by the side of a frightened hen and shove her off, just to see her squirm and hear her squall. She kept this sport up for months. Every time a new chicken was turned in she would haze her, much to the delight of those who could watch the game.
But, now, Minerva is too much of a lady to engage in such youthful pranks. She sits on her perch and keeps tab on the sons and daughters of our neighbors. She announces the time of night that Colonel Willie Harty comes in and sings a funeral dirge out of respect for Fritz, the deceased dog of Mr. John Oates. In her more cheerful moods, she warbles after this manner: “Toot, oot, hoot, toot!” “Toot, oot, hoot, toot!!” That is very owlish and I have found no one who could translate it into English.
Mrs. Barringer, being a woman of noble heart, decided, not long ago, to give the bird her freedom. William, the man servant, was instructed to turn her out and see that no enemy harmed her. We all believed that she would be glad to leave the place for good at the first opportunity, for she did not seemto care for or even trust any one but her mistress, to whom she would go when called or notice when spoken to. But we had reckoned wrong. She did not desire to depart from us. Her hours are whiled away in such cozy nooks and corners as she elects to occupy in the back yard. She is growing fat and familiar with mankind and beast.
But, with liberty, protection and free-lunch, Minerva is not permitted to be contented and happy. She has a swarm of unrelenting feathered enemies that make her life a burden. The blue jay, the red-headed peckerwood, the harsh catbird, and the cruel English sparrow are her fiercest foes. They annoyed her no little while confined in the chicken pen, by railing at her through the wire, but now they dare to pluck feathers from her back and puncture her body with sharp bills. The mischievous old jay lands in the morning before the servants come or the occupants of the house begin to stir, delivers an inflammatory speech and urges his hearers to fight for their rights, their homes, their wives and their little ones.
It was my fortune, good or bad, to see one of these crowds assembled, to hear one of the addresses and witness an onslaught, one fine Sunday morning, several weeks ago. I had retired early the night before and slept well. The first call of Mr. Blue Jay waked me. I sat up in bed and looked on through the window blinds. The jay, feigning great indignation, sat in the top of an elm tree, not ten feet from the window. His voice rang out loud and shrill through the light morning air. It was harkened to by all the winged kind for several blocks. The red-headed woodpecker quit his hammering on the steeple of the Lutheran church across the street, and flew in all haste to join in the outcry with his rasping voice. The catbird sailed out from a neighboring fig bush and came tumbling and screaming across the garden. English sparrows poured in by the score from all directions until the tree was alive with their nervous little bodies.
All was consternation and fuss at first, but soon the jay got the floor and made this very bitter and impressive speech: “Fellowcreatures: Here we are defied by the vilest bird that left the ark. She lurks about and seeks to do murder to you and to me, to yours and to mine. Our homes, our wives and our children are in danger! What shall we do? Must we stand quietly by and see our loved ones killed and their flesh defiled by this designing old night-assassin? I answer: ‘No!’ Why, she was despised and hated by the people of old. Hear what the Great Book says about her! When Job’s honor was turned into extreme contempt and his prosperity into calamity, he cried: ‘I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls.’
“Babylon was threatened: ‘It shall never be inhabited, etc.
“‘But wild beasts of the desert shall lie there, and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures; and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there.’
“Yes, we must slay the detested creature. She is an imposition. I command you to rise in your might and drive her out of our paradise!
“The English sparrow will lead the charge.
“All together!
“Charge! Bite! Scratch! Squall! Poise the head!”
Off they went in a body to wage war on old Minerva, who had seen the antics and heard the words of the indignant meddlers from her comfortable seat on a wheelbarrow-handle, just under a thick circle of a grape vine. It is useless to say that she was badly frightened, for she dreaded the sharp beak and the fury of the courageous little sparrow; he was so swift and determined in action that his onslaughts were to be feared. The bombastic jay, the timid catbird and the blatant woodpecker gave her no concern.
The fight was in earnest when William, the servant, hove in sight. Minerva had lost several batches of feathers and her back was sore where the sparrows had billed her. At the flight of her assailants and the appearance of William, she chirped: “Toot, toot, toot!”
This is a brief sketch of Minerva’s life.She is shunned, despised and distrusted by all the Charlotte feathered tribe. She is alone in the world. Her appearance is against her and she has no accomplishments. She can neither sing nor dance. Truly she is “the bird with the hoe.”
It was the week after Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States, had Booker Washington, a famous negro educator, at the White House for dinner with him, and the press of the land had sent the news broadcast.
“Good morning, Uncle Derrick, where are you off for to-day?” asked Dr. F. L. Smith of Concord, of his fellow-townsman, Derrick Alexander, the old colored wood-chopper, as he trudged along the street.
“I’s gwine to de Big House at Washington, where de President lives,” said the old darkey.
“Yes, sir, I’s on my way to see President Roseanfelt.”
“What are you going to see him for?” inquired Dr. Smith.
Uncle Derrick at Home.
Uncle Derrick at Home.
“Why, ain’t you been readin’ in de papers ’bout dem big festerbuls dat Mr. Roseanfeltan’ his fine lady’s been havin’ spechully fer de niggers? Dat’s it, sir! Dere’s where Uncle Derrick’s goin’.”
The old fellow was in earnest. He wore his best shoes—a new pair of number fourteen brogans—a weather-beaten stovepipe hat and an antiquated suit of livery. In a bandanna handkerchief, swung over the end of a stout cane across his shoulder, he carried a few odds and ends of dress.
“Well, Uncle Derrick, how much money are you taking with you? Can you go in good style?”
“Boss, dat’s de weak p’int ’bout my trip. De ole nigger’s des got ernuff to git to Salisbury, but ef he can’t fine er frien’ dere to hep him on he’ll walk. I’s gwine to go ef de Lawd lets me live. De time dat I’s been waitin’ fer is done come. It sho’ is. All de niggers in my part uv de town is talkin’ ’bout goin’. President Roseanfelt (dat’s what de Dutch folks uv Keebarrus county calls him) sho’ is de frien’ uv de nigger. Think uv it! Niggers wid deyer shinin’ clothes on eatin’ wid de rich white folks uvde lan’! I ain’t got no fine clothes, but ef de ole nigger kin des git dere he’ll be all right; some good white gem’man frum de Souf will hand me out er thanky-suit. No, sir, I ain’t ’spectin’ no trouble arter I git dere fer de ole nigger’s mighty handy ’bout de house. Ef I can’t git in at de fust table I kin at de secon’.”
“But, Uncle Derrick, they won’t let a cornfield negro go in the White House; it’s high-toned negroes, like Booker Washington and John Dancy, that attend the receptions of the President.”
“What? Dem yaller niggers! Dey ain’t fitten to go wid de quality. It’s de right black nigger dat’s got de ’ristocrat blood in him. My ole marster uster say dat a light-skin nigger an’ er roan mule wuz de wust things in de worl’.
“No, sir, I ain’t skeered uv no nigger wid er yaller skin. Ef I des kin git to de Big House dat’s all I ax; I’ll do de rest.”
Dr. Smith, seeing that Derrick was serious, furnished him with money to buy a ticket toWashington and urged him to go forth and be merry.
But, a week later, Derrick returned to Concord, ragged and bruised. His clothes had been rent in many places and his head badly wounded. He hobbled up town and called on Dr. Smith, to whom he told the story of his visit to Washington, and recited the fearful tale of woe that follows:
“Marster, I ’clare ’fo’ Gawd dat I’ll never leave home ergin while I live. Dere’s mo’ good foks in Concord dan anywhere else. I’ll die right here. Dem Washington foks is de meanes’ people dat I ever seed. De niggers is bigity an’ de white men don’t pay no ’tention to you, an’ dat’s one place de poleesmens don’t take no draggin’ fer dey’ll knock you down fer lookin’ mad. I sho’ did think that judgment day had come when I got dere.
“De trip up dere on de train wuz fust-class. I seed lots uv fine people on de way. But no sooner dan I lit on de groun’ at Washington my trouble started.
“I followed de yudder travelers f’um de train out to de street, where I met a big buck nigger, wearin’ uv a beaver. I know’d dat he was fixin’ to go to de festerbul. He had on er Jim-swinger coat an’ high-top boots. I step up to him an’ say: ‘Is dis de day fer de President’s big blow-out to de niggers an’ de big white foks?’ De rascal look me up an’ down an’ all over an’ ax: ‘What is you talkin’ ’bout, ole Rube? What do you know ’bout de President’s functions?’ I stop right dere fer I seed de kinder nigger I wuz talkin’ to. He was too highferlutin’ fer me, talkin’ ’bout functions; when er nigger quits sayin’ festerbul it’s time to let him erlone. I axed him de way to de Big House an’ he sed, ‘Go to de yavenue an’ up.’ I say, ‘What’s dat?’ He answer, ‘It’s de bigges’ street in de town.’
“I move on till I meet er pleasant lookin’ white gem’man who say dat he’s frum Alabam. I knowed dat he wuz uv de bes’ stock in de country, fer he had on good clothes an’ er big wide brim hat, one la’k ole master useter wear. I pull off my hat an’ say,‘Boss, does you live here?’ ‘No,’ he say, ‘why?’
“I seed dat he wuz all right, so I pop er few questions to him. ‘Boss, is dis de day uv de festerbul at de Big House fer de culled peoples an’ yudders?’ Well, sir, he smile way down to his Adam’s apple, des la’k de question do him good, and say, ‘Is you thinkin’ ’bout ’tendin’ one uv de White House to-do’s?’
“‘Yes, sir, dat’s what I come up here fer; I lives in Concord, North Caroliny, wid Marse Jim Cannon, Marse John Wadsworth an’ de rest. I sho’ do wish dat you’d hep me git in. I’se des as good as dem yaller niggers dat’s been ’vited.’
“He des chuckle when I tol’ him ’bout my bizness up dere. He reach in his pocket an’ fetch out a ticket wid his name on it an’ when he write, ‘Let dis nigger in de White House to de festerbul,’ he handed it to me an’ say, ‘Dat’ll git you in.’
“‘But, uncle,’ he say, ‘dey don’t call de to-do’s festerbuls, la’k dey do down Souf, but dey is functions an’ ceptions.’
“‘Well,’ I say, ‘des so dey have good things to eat, dat’s all dat I care ’bout. We calls ’em festerbuls.’
“‘Why,’ he ’clare, ‘dey don’t have nothin’ to eat. You des go up dere an’ shake hands wid de big fo’ks. Dat’s all you do. Dere ain’t no eatin’ ’bout it.’
“Dat didn’t suit dis nigger an’ I wuz hot under de collar, fer Marse John Wadsworth tolt me, ’fo’ I lef’ dat dey woul’ have er ’possum as big as er sheep an’ sweet-taters an’ gravy by de gallun. Dat wuz what I went fer. I kin shake han’s wid folks at home. I thought de gem’man wuz tryin’ to fool me, but I didn’t tell him so. He look at me an’ laugh, an’ den go on ’bout his bizness.
“I go on up de yavenue an’ meet all de fo’ks. I didn’t know dat dere wuz so many people in de worl’. I step in front uv a nice lookin’ man an’ ax, ‘Boss, is chuch out?’ I seed de crowd an’ thought dat wuz de trouble. But de man hain’t answer my question yit. He look me in de eye, stick out his han’ to shake wid me, an’ say, ‘Jones is my name. What did you say yourn wuz?’Dat wuz somefin’ else. I wuzn’t uster shakin’ wid white fo’ks, but I thought he might be kin to de President, so I ketched his han’ an’ ’clare, ‘My name is Derrick Alexander, frum Concord, North Caroliny.’ Well, de bref lef’ me when he say, ‘What kin I do fer you, Mr. Alexander?’ I’se ninety years ole, but dat’s de fust time dat er white man ever calt me ‘Mister.’ I slip erway fum de man quick fer I knowed dat he wuz one uv dem Yankees dat ole marster uster cuss so hard. I went on up de yavenue, but kep’ lookin’ back to see ef he wuz arter me. Frum dat time on it seem to me dat all de fo’ks dat I see wuz Yankees. Dey la’k ter driv’ me crazy. Dat’s de truf.
“Dat wuz de longes’ street dat I ever seed, for it took me er half er day to git to de Big House yard. I wuz des wile fer all de niggers dat I seed wuz bigity an’ de white fo’ks wuz mean. De little niggers look at me an’ laugh. Ef I had been back in Concord I’d busted some uv deyer noggin’s, but I wuz skeered to do it up dere. By de time I got to de Big House gate I wuz mad an’’stracted. It ’peers dat everybudy wuz ergin me. As I started to step up in de gate er man wearin’ er uneeform an’ brass buttons come out frum behint er bush an’ say, sassy la’k, ‘Don’t come in here, ole man! Dis’s no place fer niggers!’
“Well, sir, dat raised my dander. I des made up my mine to go in dere anyhow. So I say, ‘I’m goin’ to see de President ef I have ter lick you.’ He grin back at me an’ ’clare, ‘Dere’s de President now. He an’ his boy, goin’ fer er ride.’
“I turnt my head an’ looked roun’ an’ sho’ ’nuff, dere wuz er man an’ er boy ridin’ bob-tail horses. I yell out, ‘Hello, Mr. President! Dis ole Derrick, frum Concord. He’s come to yo’ festerbul.’ I don’t know why, but dat peered to make him mad an’ his upper lip histed up lack er winder shade an’ his lower lip fall down. I ’clare fo’ de Lawd dat I never seed sich a mouf full uv teef in my life. Dey shine so dat dey look la’k dem new tombstones in Red Hill graveyard. An’ he ain’t stop at grinnin’, fer he say to de plesman close to me, ‘’Rest dat crankuv er nigger an’ lock him up!’ Dat wuz de las’ straw. I des square mysef fer to fight. But dat’s all dat I know den, fer de man wid de uneeform whack me over de head wid his billy-stick an’ put me ter sleep. Dat’s what made de hole in my foid. As I wuz on de way to de gard house wid de officer, I hearn somebudy say, ‘Why, dat’s ole Derrick Alexander. What’s he bin doin’, Mr. Officer?’ ‘Tryin’ to git to de White House.’ ‘Well, des as soon as he gits able to travel I’ll send him home.’
“I didn’t know who it wuz den, but I hearn later dat it wuz Congressman Theo. Kluttz, from Salisbury. I had fetched water fer him ter drink at er speakin’ at Concord one day.
“Dey took me ter de lock-up an’ put me in er iron cell an’ it wuz late in de day ’fo’ I knowed er thing. Den I waked up an’ looked ’round me. I seed niggers in all de cells, an’ mos’ uv dem had sore heads. Dey had been tryin’ to git in de White House. I cried des la’k er chile an’ wish dat I wuz back at Concord wid de people dat I know.I imagined dat I seed all de good fo’ks here.
“Early de nex’ mornin’ de bossman uv de place come to me an’ say, ‘Ef you’ll git outen dis town des as fas’ as you kin hustle, we’ll let you go. A gem’man lef’ er ticket home fer you. Take it an’ git!’
“Dat sho’ was sweet music to my ears. I wuz ready to go right den. I went out de do’ an’ almos’ skip to de depot.
“Thank Gawd dat de ole nigger’s back home ergin. Dat’s where he’s goin’ ter stay. Dem niggers what want to go to de White House ’ceptions kin go, but give me my ole fryin’ pan, er big fat ’possum, a peck uv taters an’ er pint uv gravy. Dat’s what suits dis nigger. I ain’t hankerin’ arter shakin’ nobudy’s han’.”
Preparing for the Guest.
Preparing for the Guest.
“Shhoo, shhoo, shhoo, you good-for-nothing thing, we don’t want any company to-day,” shouted the large, ruddy-faced lady of the Parks Big House, to a handsome, red and black game cock that jumped upon the walk in front of the porch, flapped his glossy wings and started to crow.
“Who you reckon’s comin’ here dis time uv de week, an’ we so busy, Miss Jule?” asked old Matt Miller, the family servant, as she came around the corner of the house, from the kitchen, on her way to the well, carrying two water buckets, with her sleeves rolled to her elbows, showing a pair of lithe, black arms, well muscled and hard.
“I don’t know, Matt, but that rooster persists in crowing in front of the door, and that is a mighty good sign that some stranger’s coming for a meal,” declared Miss Jule.
“Yes’m, an’ I’se done drap de dish rag twice dis mornin’ an’ dat’s er sign dat don’t fail, an’ de pusson whut comes is mos’ lakly to be hongry, too.
“Maybe hits de new preacher?”
“No, Matt, I don’t think so, he’s never said anything about coming, and he will go and see all of the elders and deacons before he starts around among the common folks. He hasn’t been to see the Graves yet, and they are pillars in Sharon.”
“Humph, Miss Jule, you don’t know dese young preachers lak I doos. Hit ain’t de elders an’ de deekins deyer arter so much as hit’s de mens wid de money.
“Leastwise, dat de way hit is wid our people, an’ human natur’ is ’bout de same whether de skin’s white or black. I knows dis, ef you hain’t gut de spondulicks you don’t git de preacher.
“Ef hit ain’t de rocks hit’s de weemens dat de young preachers is gut on deyer minds dese days. Dat sho’ is de truf.
“Dat young feller, he’s done heered dat Marse George’s gut las’ year’s cotton in deshed, dat ain’t never been sold, an’ he’s des ’bout comin’ to spend de day.”
“What about our new preacher, Matt, do you like his looks?” asked the lady of the house, as she knitted.
“I ain’t seed ’im right good, but I don’t lak de lef’ eye.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“Yo’ maw, Miss Nancy, an’ she wuz er pow’ful smart ’oman too, used to say: ‘Matt, don’t you marry no cock-eye man, ef you do you’ll git cheated.’”
“And you believe it?”
“’Cose I do. Look at Marse George, one uv de bestes’ horse traders in dese parts! Whut do he say? ‘Don’t buy no white foot horse or trade wid er cock-eye man.’
“But, Miss Jule, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ergin yo’ preacher. I don’t lak to think bad ’bout de men uv de pulpit, but I ain’t gut de faith dat I used to have. No, chile, de older I gits de wuss I is.”
Matt moved on, leaving her mistress to think over what she had said.
Mrs. George Parks, although corpulent,and misshapen, had pretty white hands, neat and dainty feet and small, aristocratic ankles, pretty soft, iron-gray hair, and bright, keen gray eyes. Her every feature bespoke a warm heart, a gentle and refined nature. As she sat there that morning, in her own low rocking chair, knitting away at a cotton sock, she was a perfect picture of health and happiness. She had put her house in shape for the day, fed the early biddies just from the eggshells, looked over her garden and was resting on the long, cool front porch, overspread by the limbs of two magnificent white oaks.
After Matt had drawn the water and returned to the kitchen, Charlie, the baby boy of the Parks home, came running in from the shop with a hoe in his hand, and dashed up the steps, intending to go through the house to the field in the rear, but was halted by his mother, who said sharply: “Child, don’t bring that hoe in here, it is bad luck to carry a hoe in a house where one lives.”
The boy hurried back down the steps and around the house.
The reader may imagine that he is at this prosperous country home, in the Piedmont region of the South, where cotton is king, and hog and hominy the staff of life, and view the scene.
It is springtime, a beautiful fair morning in early June, and the grandfather clock, one that had been in the family for several generations, had just struck nine. Mrs. Parks was at peace with the world. She had helped to red up the house, to feed the poultry, strain the fresh milk, churn and put away the butter and written a letter to her oldest son, who was off at college.
Old Matt, who served as cook, chambermaid, milkmaid, dairymaid, and errand runner, was preparing dinner.
“Have you put on your greens, Matt?” asked Mrs. Parks, throwing back her head, and calling over her shoulder.
“Yes’m, long ’go,” responded the faithful Matt.
“What do you think about killing a chicken? Do you reckon we’ll have company?”
“Des as shore, Miss Jule, as I’se livin’; I’se done drap de dish rag ergin. Ef I wuz you, I’d be skeered to risk it.”
“Well, I think so myself, for George took butter this morning when he had butter on his plate, and that is a pretty sure sign. When the rooster crows in front of the house, and the cook drops the dish rag three times, and the head of the family takes butter when he’s got butter, all of the signs point one way.
“I expect you had better call Charlie and catch that little red rooster that stays in the Irish potato patch, back of the garden.”
Mrs. Parks continued to knit, and ponder. Her mind went from one thing to another. One moment she was thinking of her dear Tom, who would soon be home from the University, and the next of Ned, who had gone to Charlotte to get a new mowing machine. Most of her thoughts were of her children.
Matt and Charlie chased the little red rooster through Marse George’s prize cotton patch, under the barn and out again, over the fence, around the carriage house, finally hemming him in a corner and catching him.Matt put him in a pie and Charlie went to carry water to the field hands, in response to Big John Ardrey’s call: “Sonny, sonny, sonny, ain’t you gwine to fetch de ole nigger no water to-day? He’s so thirsty!”
The cotton and corn were beginning to show well in the more fertile fields. Every available man and woman on the place was at work, either plowing or hoeing, thinning the young truck to a stand, and making war on General Green, the farmer’s faithful enemy. Many fields were green with waving grain. Here and there wheat was turning yellow and would soon be ready for the reaper.
To the right of the Big House, far out in the twenty-four acre field, eight plows, drawn by as many sturdy mules, still thin from hard spring plowing, breaking lands, and brown from the first scorching rays of the sun, manned by lusty negroes, black and glossy from eating rich Western-grown meat, were going, running around the cotton, thinned to a stand.