With Old Wash.THE EXAMINATION.
“Boss,” said Old Wash the other night, “I have got ter hol’ a zamination over in my deestrick for skule teecher, an’ I wisht you’d write out de questions for me.”
I knew that the old man was the moving spirit in educational and religious matters in his end of the county and that he holds an examination now and then among the colored applicants, and none of them may teach or preach unless the old man passes on their papers.
After much work I wrote a list of questions suitable, as I thought, for such an occasion and read them to the examiner.
“Deys all right, boss, ’cept one thing. Jes write de answers dar, too. It’s a po’ teecher dat ain’t got his ansers as well as his questuns. An’ I’d lak for you ter go along, too, jes ter see me squelch dem smart Ike niggers dat think dey kno’s it all.”
On the day appointed there were three applicants. One was a pompous looking darky with a knack of saying things grandly and using big words. I named him Pompey. Number two was a sanctimonious looking fellow who knew it all. He was a newly fledged preacher. Number three was a knowing-looking, sly soon, with less book sense, but more mother wit than the others. He looked like a slick one.
Nothing pleased the old man more than to show off his own learning and he quickly caught on to Pompey’s gait—going him, in fact, one better. Slowly and with great dignity he pulled out his roll of manuscript, adjusted his big, iron-rimmed spectacles, and squelched them all in the beginning with the flow of language:
“Now, I’m gwine ax you all a few supernumerous questions, calk’lated to disembody de fundermentalerties of yore onderstandin’ an’ de posserbilerties of yore interlects for impartin’ informashun. An’ I want you all to chirp right out as peart as jay-birds on a Friday.”
There is a negro superstition to the effect that all jay-birds go to a place unmentionable on Friday and carry sand to his Satanic majesty. I wondered If it was a hint of what the old man had coming for them.
Adjusting his glasses again, the old man said to the preacher:
“Whut is jog’erfy?”
The answer came back glibly and without a flaw:
“Jog’erfy is de science of de earth an’ de art of navergashun.”
This was said in such a matter of fact, positive tone that I almost caught my breath. But I soon learned that all their answers, right or wrong, came with the same assurance and without a quiver. The old man squinted one eye and said:
“Den I s’pose you’d say a coon-dog was de science ob coon-killin’ an’ de art ob barkin’. I turns you down on dat. Nex’!”
“Jog’erfy,” said Pompey, “Jog’erfy! Brer Washington, ain’t dat got sumpin’ to do sorter lak a narrer neck jinin’ two dem-johns of lan’, sorter lak an’ so forth or sumpin lak it?”
“Wal, it may smell ob de jug a leetle,”said the old man, “but it don’t gine de demi-john to de extent ob pullin’ out de cork. Nex’.”
“Jog’erfy,” said the Slick One, “is de art ob joggin’ and de science ob gwine round circles.”
This set the old man to thinking. He scratched his head and inspected the candidate closely. “Ain’t you de nigger dat use ter swipe old Hal P’inter when he went to de races?”
“Yassir.”
“Wal, dat ain’t zactly right, but it’s got mo’ sense in it dan anything dat’s been sed, an’ I’ll give you ten, as you seem to have sum hoss sense in yore make-up.”
Fortunately I was where I could lean back behind the blackboard and save the dignity of the examination. For all this had been said with a dignity and earnestness that was appalling, and not the slightest trace of humor appeared in their voices.
“How am Tennessee bounded?” he asked Pompey.
“She’s bounded by straight lines makin’ a parallellogram inclinin’ in a right angle,” said Pompey, knowingly.
The old man scratched his jaw and passed it to the Preacher. The answer came back glibly:
“Tennessee am bounded on de north by Kaintucky an’ de rory-bory Alice, on de east by de Great Smoky mountains, on the west by Mt. Pelee an’ on de south—”
The old man brought his fist down indignantly. “Ef we’re bounded on all dem sides by de things you say dar ain’t but one thing dat can nachully bind us on de south an’ dat am hell! You may know a whole lot about dat place but you don’t kno’ a little bit about jog’erfy. Lemme see whut you all kno’ ’bout hist’ry.”
He slowly studied out the next question:
“Relate de causes leadin’ to de Riverlushunary war.”
“De circumnavigatin’ cause ob de Riverlushunary war,” said Pompey glibly, “was de extenshun ob de Equater too far into de Gulf stream, endangerin’ de tail ob de British Umpire.”
The old man sadly shook his head and passed it to the Swipe.
“I can’t jes zactly spress it kordin’ to book larnin’,” said the Swipe, “but it was sorter lak dis: We drawed de pole an’ axed for a squar race, but England fouled us on de fus’ turn an’ got us in a pocket on’ de half. We run into her, cut her down an’ won as we pleased.”
“Go head,” said the old man proudly. “Hal P’inter sho’ done lamed you sumpin’.”
This put the Swipe at the head. He scratched his chin, made eyes at the others and licked out his tongue.
“Who was Maj. Andre?” slowly spelled out the old man.
The Preacher thought he was one of the Disciples and Pompey, after much thought, said he was the man who went over Niagara in a barrel. The Swipe wasn’t sure, but after a while his face lit up with a broad smile and he said:
“Unc. Wash, wan’t he a British ringer dat got unkivered an’ ruled off at de West P’int meetin’? ’Twas a close heat an’ he lost by a neck.”
“De very man,” said the old man enthusiastically. “I tell you, sonny, if you keep up dis clip, you’ll break in all de colts in dis deestrick.” The Swipe smiled and sat up higher in the sulky. The old man studied his manuscript carefully and propounded:
“Describe de battle ob Shiloh.”
“Dat’s easy,” said the Preacher smiling. “It was a hard-fit fight in which Shiloh got killed.”
“Oh, he did,” said the old man, wrathfully. “I guess de nex’ thing you’ll be tryin’ to teach de ole man dat at de battle ob de Nelson, de Nile fell offen his hoss. Nex’, whut you say?”
“Dat ar battle wus a dead heat ’twixt Gen. Grant an’ Johnsing, wan’t it, Unc. Wash?”
“Sonny,” said the old man proudly, “I’m beginnin’ to think I orter resign an’ let you ax dese questions. I didn’t kno’ dar was so much hoss sense in hist’ry.”
“What am de princerpal organ ob circulation?” spelled out the old man.
Pompey thought a long time and thought it was the liver. The Preacher threw up his hand and a knowing smile went over his face.
“What am it, den?” asked the teacher.
“De hat,” shouted the candidate.
“Es dat’s de fust time you’ve comenigh it I’ll give you ten on dat,” said the old man, “but I think de P’inter boy can do better yet.”
“De princerpal organ ob circulashun,” said the Swipe, “am de little silver cartwheel dat is stamped wid de eagle.”
“Sunny,” said the old man, “you have sho’ been in de hoss bisness for some good. Now you Preacher man, whut was de greatest trade of England?”
“De trade-wind,” came back promptly.
“Trade yore grandmammy’s black cat,” said the old man, wrathfully. “What wind got to do wid dis deestrick skule? You ’pear to be mighty windy yo’se’f. Nex’.”
“Wan’t dat de Pennsylvania whisky resurrecshun’?” timidly asked Pompey.
The old man glared at him. The Swipe held up his hand, and when the old man nodded, he said:
“De princerpal trade, Unc. Wash? ’Pears to me it was when ole Richard tried to trade his kingdom for a good hoss.”
“Wal,” said the old man, “tain’t down zactly dat way in my book, but I’m gwine give you de certificate, fur it ’pears lak you de only nigger on dat bench dat’s got enny hoss sense an’ dat’s de main thing in skule teachin.”
TROTWOOD.