in III.
B E E 73 E. E. F.


ŁIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
DAVIS


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UNDER THE COTTONWOOD





THE
COTTONWOOD
A SAGA OF NEGRO LIFE IN WHICH THE HISTORY,
TRADITIONS AND Folklore of THE NEGRO
of THE LAST CENTURY ARE VIVIDLY
PoRTRAYED.
By
Katheryn Campbell Graham
sº
{4) &
º º
§ UNDER §
WENDELL MALLIET AND COMPANY
Publishers - • New York
* . . . . A RY
JN.VFR. TY OF CALiFORMA
}}* VIS


UNDER THE COTTONWOOD
Copyright, 1941, by
KATHERYN CAMPBELL GRAHAM
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any form without permission in writing from the pub-
lishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages
in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper.
F I R S T E D I T I O N
Printed by Theo. Gaus' Sons, Inc., New York, N. Y.


DEDICATED
TO
MY DARLING DAUGHTER
BENZELL





[HAPTER I
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * v- a vava wºº va vava vava wavº • * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
WHEN NOTIFIED that the President of
the United States had signed the Emancipation Proclamation,
Jake Stearns, a slave for twenty-five years, was washing
woolen socks for a battalion of Confederate soldiers.
Since the feet were as stiff as boards, he had made a red-
hot fire under a big black iron wash kettle and dumped the
socks into boiling water, seasoned with strong lye soap.
With a big wooden paddle, he stirred and stirred the
contents until they disintegrated into small clumpy masses.
When he saw this his short stocky frame shook violently and
greasy sweat hurried down his round brown face, for he knew
or imagined the consequences.
Just in time to relieve this unpardonable situation, a tall
man with a sallow bearded face galloped up on a swift steed.
With excitement in both his voice and eyes, he jumped from
his saddle, waved both hands frantically over his small shaggy
head and shouted, “All you blacks is free; we jes' got the
news. Don't know what'll happen. We ain't got orders frum
headquarters yit.”
No sooner said than he swung himself back into the saddle,
kicked the brindle steed furiously in the flanks and sped away
to the next crowded camp.
Stunned by the sudden news, the score or more of black
men that were cooking dried beans and corn bread, for fear
of criticism, exchanged only furtive glances at odd moments.
Many things ran through their puzzled minds, but before they
were able to express their approbation, Uncle Neb, the oldest
one among them, said advisedly, “Boys, be kerful; you
ain't free yit. Don't make no sho'. Jes' let you' hearts jump;
you be ca'm. We's been prayin' fuh dis thing fuh yers and it's
hyer. Free, free, thank God O'mighty, free at last.”
By this time, Jake, with his old hat under his arm, stood
7


in the crowd, panting. He had scrambled up the steep incline,
for he had seen the messenger and heard the news. Every
muscle in his round face punched out and every tooth in his
head was visible. Before the others were conscious of his
presence he yelled, “So Ah’m uh man.” These words thun-
dered in their ears and the neighboring woods sent them rush-
ing back to him. “Abe Lincoln said so an’ it must be true.
With an ol' fiddle an' two dollars in mah jeans, Ah’m free.”
Very little dinner was eaten that day. Soldiers with
worried looks on their already tired faces gathered in small
groups and spoke reluctantly in low muffled tones. The black
men moved nervously around. The only audible sound was
the dishes that now and then fell from their unsteady fingers.
Being in such a confused state of mind the submissive slaves
washed some of the dishes several times.
At five o'clock a big husky fellow thrust his head in at the
kitchen door; it was the captain. Every nerve in their bodies
tightened. The rigid frown on his face caused them many
apprehensions. He stood with his right forearm resting on
his round hip and his fingers flitting at his back. With a deep
bass voice he gave this injunction, “Boys, we're leaving to-
night. Have all baggage packed and ready to move by nine.”
“Yas suh ! Cap'n,” they answered in chorus.
The restless blacks snatched and grabbed the well worn
baggage and pushed it into old army boxes. A foot often
assisted in mashing the contents into corners. By a quarter
of nine, all wagons were loaded and tense drivers sat in their
SeatS.
No moon came out to guide them. The mules and horses
pulled long and hard before reaching the main road. The
squeaky old wagons, aided by the sound of pounding hoofs,
grew monotonous, and by midnight every man and animal
longed for rest.
It was a warm night for that time of year; the earth was
as dry as powder. Some of the boys threw blankets on the
hard ground and rolled up in them. Uncle Neb and Jake
found a little mound fit for a bolster and rolled up together.
They needed no one to lull them to sleep. Their heavy eyelids
soon closed and they were at peace with the world; but the
mules and horses, tied to near-by trees, snorted and stamped,
making so much noise that Uncle Neb, harried by
8


uncertainties, got up. Looking in the direction that the light
was peering, he couldn't belive his eyes. They had camped in
an old grave-yard. In his fright, he grabbed Jake by both
shoulders and stood him on his feet. “Jake, wake up, boy; dese
hosses and mules is been seein’ ghoses all night. Ah knowed
sump'n wuz wrong wid 'em. Look, boy, we'se in a graveyard.
Hosses sees ghoses, jes' lak dey sees duh win’.”
This confusion awoke those sleeping on the ground; seeing
was believing.
While the teams were being harnessed, the groggy soldiers
climbed into the big smelly wagons to finish their naps, and as
the yellow sun crawled lazily behind the distant azured hills,
the long procession moved on silently.
They travelled for several days before Jake or any of
the cooks heard more news. They worked as if nothing had
happened, but silent prayers were being sent up to their
Maker.
A courier finally overtook them and delivered the vital
message.
It was hard for Jake to think of separating from his
Master Jim. When a lad of thirteen years, he had been given
to him as a Christmas present. Jim had always been kind to
him, yet the urge to be a man of his own mind had constantly
haunted him. He wanted a wife and family and to be able to
go to his own house at night, as he'd seen free men do.
After supper, he sat on an old tin lard can turned upside
down, waiting for his master. He'd never been free but he
knew he could work and take care of a family; he'd taken
care of Master Jim and his horses a long time.
Some of the slaves threw brushwood on the bonfire, and
through the flame Jake saw several men coming toward him.
One he recognized as his Master Jim. He was a handsome
silvery blond, raw-boned, nearly six feet tall and wore his
cap low, just over his eyes; so he had to raise his head a little
in order to see well.
“Where's Jake?,” he inquired of the first slaves he en-
countered.
“Hyer Ah is Moster Jim.” Jake rose and met him.
“You’re all through with your work?”
“Yas suh, Ah is.”
“You’ve heard the news, I'm sure. This seems to be
9


our parting. You've been with me for years. I'm not going
home, but I've made arrangements for you to go.”
Jake had been staring at the ground all this time, but
when Master Jim said he wasn't going home, Jake quickly
raised his eyes; these words seemed to stab him.
“Whut you go do, Moster Jim? Yo' pappy will be lookin'
fuh you.”
“Yes, Jake, but my friend here and I are going to travel
about for a few weeks. I don't know where.”
“Ah know, Moster Jim,” came the quick reply, “but you
cain't go 'bout dat way. Duh Yankees is uvry whurs; dey
still kin git yuh. Ah don't want tuh go home 'thout you.
Whut will Ah tell yo' pappy?” Jake said pleadingly. “He’s
spectin' me tuh bring you back.”
Master Jim had to smile, but as he spoke he patted Jake.
“Don’t take it so hard, Jake; I'll soon be there and you
can take care of me as you always have, and I'll pay you.
There's a bunch of soldiers going your way early in the
morning. I've arranged for them to carry you to Nashville.
That's ten miles of home; you can walk the rest of the way.
You've served me well, I only wish I had something to give
you,” Master Jim said somewhat pathetically.
Jake didn't want his master to have a feeling of remorse.
He knew he had a kind master and that counted with him
more than gold. The few times Master Jim and Jake had
discussed freedom, Master Jim had expressed a desire to have
something to give his most faithful and grateful servant when
the time came, as he believed it surely would.
Master Jim fixed his eyes on the ground and held his
unshaven bearded chin between his thumb and forefinger.
Jake knew he was worried and tried hard to console him.
Whenever he tried hard enough, he'd always been able to
convince his master; but this time his most prized arguments
seemed to fall short. The truth about the whole thing was
that neither was prepared for the parting.
“Dat's all right; don't you worry 'bout dat. You'se nuver
raised yo' han' tuh hit me one time, an' God will bless you.
Very few kin say 'bout dey moster whut Ah kin. When you
come home, Ah'll be dah an' will kere fuh you.”
“Good bye, Jake. Get your things together.”
“Good bye, Moster Jim. Ah’ll sho' miss you.”
10


“We'll miss each other; look for me in a month or two.”
Master Jim walked away. His slender straight form soon
faded in the heavy darkness; but Jake, his faithful servant,
nervously separated their belongings and stuffed his into an
old knapsack, then stretched out on his pallet and dreamed of
the many happy days he and his master had spent together
driving through the country or visiting neighboring towns to
enjoy the courtesy of friends and strangers.
During the long journey home with the discharged
soldiers, he never spoke unless spoken to; his thoughts were
wandering like a fleecy morning cloud.
When Jake Stearns stepped in the back door of his
mother's cabin, it was the beginning of an early spring. In
the green fields that extended for miles, he saw hundreds of
slaves chopping cotton and each head was keeping time with
the hoe as it danced in a rhythmic swing between the stalks.
New life was in evidence; the barns had been whitewashed,
the flowers and trees were re-robing, the birds and chickens
were singing noisily to their broods, and the new frisky colts
and calves were exhibiting shiny colorful coats.
As he sat in a profitless frame of mind, gazing at and
admiring the many changes on the old farm, the brass dinner
bell, hanging high between two oak poles, rang. Immediately
the big field seemed to be moving forward. The swarming
throng ran to the ends of their unfinished rows, dropped the
hoes, and made for their dingy cabins, from which the odor
of cabbage, turnip-greens and cornbread was exuding.
At the sight of his mother and brothers, Jake stepped in
the doorway with both hands bracing the narrow frame that
held an old plank door and shouted, “Dair's uh man in duh
house.” Tossing their heads a little to the back and then to
the side, they caught every word; instantly their bare feet
were slapping the hard earth faster.
“It's Jake, it's brother Jake,” cried out Zeke almost
breathless. “Mammy, he's come, our oldest brother is come
frum war.”
With blubbered faces they sat, prisoners of hope, listening
to the horrible description of the paralyzing fear of war.
With inexpressive countenances, they stared into space.
“Yas, Ah’m hyer. Ah’m duh man in dis cabin. Abe
Lincoln said so, an' it sho' is true. Moster Jim turnt me
11


loose an' tole me good bye; he went travellin' wid uh fren',
but will come home in uh munt uh two. Some say he's goin'
tuh git married, but Ah got mah doubts. It wuz hard fuh
me tuh leave Moster Jim, he's been so good tuh me. I'se
drew his fine hosses frum town tuh town uh long time.”
Jake took the old fiddle from the wall, eyed it as he put
it gently in his lap, and continued, “I’se played dis ole fiddle
at meny uh dance an' he give me duh money, an’ Mammy,
Ah brung hit nearly all tuh you. I'se free but Ah'll allus
take kere uv Moster Jim. Ah got mah free papers; all duh
work Ah do now Ah gits pay fuh it, yas indeed.”
As a result of this unexpected situation, fear gripped the
poor Negroes. They had talked of freedom as long as they
could remember talking about anything, but now it was a
bigger word than they could comprehend. What was its real
meaning? How would the slave owners interpret it?
With her eyes fastened on “The Pride of the Family,”
Aunt Mamie wiped her wet face on the corner of her old blue
cotton apron.
“Son, mah chile, is we free? We ain't heerd nothin' 'bout
it, but ef you sez so, Ah knows we is, fuh you'se allus been
uh truf-ful boy; Ah knowed dis wuz comin' by my feelin's but
Ah couldn't tell when. Where's we goin' at?”
“Jes be ca'm, Mammy; dey all knows it but dey's jes
goin' tuh make yawl work 'til dey have tuh let you go. We
kin hire ourselfs tuh Mr. Stearns. You jes worry 'bout gittin'
loose frum dese white fo'ks. Dat's uh big uhnuf job.”
Whispered conversations were prevalent in every cabin.
Struggling hearts beat with another rhythm. Slave owners
were cognizant that the news had spread over every planta-
tion, because the returned blacks had frequent opportunities
to remind them.
Spring passed and nothing eventful happened; summer was
in full sway when strained anxiety and bored patience were
relieved by the long expected news.
Si Stearns, master of the plantation was a tall lanky man,
six feet; his forehead was as a rigid as a rub-board and
the splenetic frown that was stamped on his face caused every-
one a little uneasiness. He was never peremptorily sure him-
self of his next move. With a quick step, a nervous and dis-
dainful air, he entered each cabin and in a few well selected
12


words, delivered reluctantly the pressing message. He had
decided himself to move his family to Texas, and as he'd
always found happy coöperative faces in Aunt Mamie's cabin,
he asked them to go with him. To this request they con-
sented gratefully.
This was a triumphant hour for the slaves. At first they
were filled with ecstasy and bewilderment, but when they
revived sufficiently, they cried, prayed, shouted, and gave
thanks to their Maker for weeks.
Throughout the entire South, four million started on their
perilous journey, homeless and without a cent, yet happy and
always showing patience, a virtue that is characteristic of the
Negro.
Some of Si Stearn's slaves hired themselves to him, but
most of them left. Some hired to other planters, some
camped in empty barns and others, being excited, took to the
woods, not knowing where they were going or what to do.
For weeks the woods were full of the homeless creatures that
had gathered from near-by plantations. Some had only a
little clothing and food that was given them by their masters.
The timid ones had nothing; but a few who were thoughtful
took whatever necessities they managed to escape with. They
didn't consider it stealing but simply taking a few things that
they'd help to earn.
In several places the woods caught on fire and caused many
of them, as well as people living near, to fear for their safety.
It was May of the next year when the caravan started for
the Lone Star State. Heavy rains had washed out most of
the dirt roads and this made the journey long and strenuous.
The agony of labor stole many pounds from both men and
animals.
After reaching Texas, it took a month or more to find
a good location. Land was a bit higher than they had ex-
pected it to be, either for renting or buying; however, Si
Stearns bought a plantation of two hundred acres. Their
crops were successful and the seasons began to slip by.
The third year of their freedom found Zeke married;
their only sister, Chloe Ann, engaged; Tim big enough for a
good field hand; and Jake had saved a little money and was
desperately in love.
Their nearest neighbors, the Carters, had always lived in
13


Texas. Old Luke Carter had taken a beautiful slave girl for
a wife and had reared a large industrious family, three boys
and six beautiful girls, of the Creole type. He was ever mind-
ful of these girls; many nights he sat up with a shotgun across
his lap to protect them. He owned a large plantation, but
worked only enough of it to keep his family living comfort-
ably.
Sunday afternoons, Jake was seen wearing his best and
calling on Nancy, cream of the bunch, as he styled her. On
his return one night he wanted to discuss the subject of
marriage with his mother, but he got cold feet, and it was put
off for weeks. One day, as she was sputtering round in the
back yard stirring lye hominy in the family wash pot, gather-
ing up eggs and whatnot, he thought this an opportune time.
Sidling up to her with both hands in his front pockets and
spasmodically jerking up his trousers, he mumbled; “Mammy,
I’se worked hard, saved uh little money and now I'se thinkin'
'bout axin' Nancy tuh marry me. You knows Moster Jim
learnt me how tuh read some. Ah knows Ah kin take kere
uv uh wife. You kin live wid sister; Ah'll help you; dat is, ef
Nancy haves me. Ah'll nuver fergit you, Mammy; Ah nuver
have. Ole man Trimble is divided some land up an' is sellin'
it to us cullord folks. Ah'd lak mighty well tuh have some
uv it.”
With a broad smile stealing over her plump face, Aunt
Mamie nodded in approval. “Yas son, I'se willin'. You is
been uh good chile an' you'se plenty ole. Nancy is ez purty
ez uh speckled pup and Ah'd lak mighty well tuh be her
mammy too. Don't be shame; all gals wants tuh marry an'
Nancy cain't find uh smarter husban'.”
She stood akimbo, tossed her head to one side then quickly
to the other, showed her pearly teeth as she continued, “You
ain't bad lookin' yo-sef; you'se lak yo' mammy.” Jake, dis-
playing his ivories in response said, “Thanks, Mammy, Ah'm
glad you'se pleased.”
Light-hearted, he swaggered down the Ashford road to
see old man Trimble. He felt he'd stand a better chance
with Nancy if he were buying land. He found the old man
branding cattle. Twisting his old hat almost in half and dig-
ging a hole in the ground with the toe of his right boot, Jake
eyed the old man and said cautiously, “Mister Trimble, Ah
14


hyers you'se sellin' lan' an' Ah'd lak tuh git sum frum you.
I'se saved uh little money.”
The old man rubbed his eyes in amazement when he saw
the young Negro standing before him. He spat ambier
through his teeth several times before answering.
“Why-er yes, boy, and I hear you and yo' mammy is got
some good lookin' corn. I'd ruther have it than money,
mine's go be short. How much land do you want?”
“Ah'd lak mighty well, sur, tuh have uh half block on
duh street you named after yo-sef an' on duh north side uv
dat street, so's duh north win’ won't blow in mah front do'.
Ah kin cut mah kitchen do' in duh west side. How much
money will dat be, Mister Trimble?”
He cleared his throat huskily, squinted one eye and slowly
growled, “Well, a half block's wurth, let me see, 'bout one
hundred seventy-five dollars, that's right.” He paused to see
how Jake would take it and branded another calf.
This was very high, especially when land was selling in
some parts for fifty dollars an acre. Jake hardly knew what
to do; but at that, it was the most desirable land offered at
that time to colored folks for residence.
“Well, boy, that land is cleared off and it's rich ground.
You can't git no better ground here. How much money you
got?”
“Ah got twenty-five dollars fuh you now; when we gether
duh crop, Ah'll have mo', cain't say how much,” drawled Jake.
“I’ll take that and you pay as much as you kin in corn.
When you pay all of it, I'll give you the deed. That's a
good start, boy.” He scribbled a few words on a dirty piece
of paper he found in his pocket, and handed it to Jake.
“Here's your receipt.”
“Thanks, thanks, Mr. Trimble; Ah’ll see you dis fall.
Kin Ah plant winter greens on it?”
“Yes, Jake, I'll have it staked off by the last of next week.
I'll sell you them green seeds too.”
Happy-hearted again, Jake put both hands in his pockets
and whistled all the way down to the bottom where a dozen
or more men were making sorghum and selling it for two-bits
a gallon.
In the fall the greens were planted and in a short time
15


they were half a hand high and the whole place looked like
an emerald velvet carpet.
“Mammy, Nancy's goin' down tuh see mah green patch.
Hope she'll lak it.”
“Son, Ah speks she's seed it already, but anyhow you take
her. She'll think you'se uh smart boy an' you is. Jes' be
yosef, she ain't had no beau like you. No use 'pologizin', go
long an' ax her whut you wants too. She might make you
wait uh day ur so, but she'll say yas; Ah’ll bet my boots tuh
dat.”
As the anxious lover entered Nancy's gate that afternoon,
the dogs in the cow lot wagged their tails and began their
usual howling and barking to announce the coming of a visitor
and when Jake stepped on the porch, the front door slowly
opened to welcome him.
Nancy was dressed, her black hair brushed back as sleek
as a peeled onion and her calico dress stiff enough almost to
stand alone.
Their two mile walk ended at Jake's gap.
“Jake, dis is duh bes' green patch in town. I'se seed
'um all. You'll make lots o' nickels an' dimes, an' you know
dey counts up. Did you say you'se buyin' dis groun' tuh
build uh house on?”
Jake gave himself a little twist and a broad smile that
lighted his countenance stole across his face. He looked
at the ground and answered slowly but convincingly.
“Yas, Nancy, Ah is. You see, Ah give Mr. Trimble some
money, an’ late dis fall Ah’ll give him some mo', an' some
cawn too. It won't take long tuh pay fuh it.”
Satisfied that he had made a hit, he thought it best to
change the subject as quickly as possible.
“We kin go frum hyer down to duh big sto', Nancy. Ah
wuz dair yistiddy. They's got lots o' good sweets.”
Jake was never happier in his life. After taking Nancy
home that evening, he went to his cot and dreamed till
morning.
The family got up at four o'clock; Chloe-Ann was having
her quilting party. The hog hocks and greens had to be
boiled and corn pones made. The ginger bread, sweet potato-
pudding and fried pies had been made the day before. The
16


men were to do the barbecuing and chop the winter wood while
the women quilted.
By seven o'clock, the cow lot was filled with wagons,
buggies, and hacks of all descriptions, and the pasture full of
stock. There was plenty rope for the children to make swings
and jump-ropes. The women sang all the songs they knew
as they worked; Jennie, having a high soprano voice, led them.
The men talked of good times ahead as they slapped the hot
sauce on the delicious barbecue.
In the early afternoon, the feast was spread. Wooden
horses with long boards laid on them served as tables. They
ate until they were full up to the neck; even the dogs, cracking
the tasty bones, wagged their tails in appreciation.
Jake and Nancy put their dinner in large tin plates and
sauntered down to the creek. Jake hadn't eaten since early
morning but he wasn't hungry. He was trying hard to think
of suitable words to ask Nancy to be his wife. Nancy had
noticed that he was a little nervous and sensed his predicament.
They sat under the tall oak, looked into the clear cool
water and minced with the food. Jake looked far into space
and felt for Nancy's hand. He played with it idly as words
stumbled from his lips.
“Nancy, you listenin'? Uh-uh-you know, we's been sweet-
hearts long uhnuf fuh us tuh know dat we loves one uh-
nudder. Ah wants you fuh mah wife. Ah kin take good kere
uv you. Ah’m buyin' lan' an’ tryin' tuh be somebody.”
Nancy blushed and her voice was husky as she tried to
answer. “Ah hopes we kin git uhlong bein’ man an' wife ez
well ez we did bein’ sweethearts.”
A pair of mating robins flew near them and Jake took
Nancy into his arms and covered her pretty face with kisses.
At the close of the day, a dozen quilts and six heavy
comforters that were made from discarded coats, pants and
woolen dresses were finished; and too, the wood was stacked
high.
Many of the young folks married that fall. These new
families with a brighter future than their ancestors' promised
to be worthy citizens and help in the making of a great nation.
As this was a prosperous year, many families were able
to make a down payment on a little spot of ground or buy
some sort of an old nag and a wagon.
17


On his way one day to take another load of corn and to
make a payment on his place, Jake saw coming toward him a
man riding a white mule that seemed to have springs in his
sway-back. The man bounced up and down like a jumping-
jack and was hitting the mule, first on one side then on the
other, with rope lines. The sun being in his face, it was
impossible for him to identify the rider until he was in
speaking distance.
“Hello, Jake, that's good corn. Sell me that load, will
you?”
“Oh, it's you, Mr. Sims. Ah guess it's all duh same. Ah
tuk Mr. Trimble fo' loads. He jes as soon have duh money,
Ah reckon.”
“Yes, yes, turn round and empty up in my barn. Jes'
been to the gin. Cotton is up three points and we'll git good
money. I'se saved mine back for several weeks. I knowed
it would rise.”
That afternoon when Jake went for Mr. Trimble to
balance his little book, he found the old man fuming. News
in Penhook travelled fast. Someone had seen him emptying
corn in Mr. Sim's barn and had wasted no time in informing
Mr. Trimble.
The mean-spirited crank looked at Jake like a savage bull.
His evil mind, ever pregnant with cowardly ideas, took little
time to mete out Jake's punishment.
“So you let that rotten cuss have my corn, did you?”
snorted the old man. “I told you I wanted corn; not money.
Old Sims is my worst enemy. Now, I'm going to cut a
triangle piece off the south side of your lot, and the point is to
be on Trimble Street. I'll spoil your only corner; you'll learn
after this to stick to your trade.”
Thus his irritation being vented, he put the money Jake
had given him into his pocket, made a few figures in the book,
and strode off.
Jake went home broken-hearted, but didn't tell his mother.
“For Lor's sakes, who is dis? Come hyer, Jake; hyer is
yo’ Moster Jim an' he's lookin' good too,” said Aunt Mamie
as she stood akimbo in the doorway.
Jake was seated comfortably at the little kitchen table,
eating his favorite dish of turnip greens, corn-meal dumplings,
18


and hog jowl; but when his mother said, “Moster Jim,” he
lost his appetite.
“Why, Moster Jim, whut uh purty span uv hosses, an'
you drew 'em all by yo-sef.”
“Yes, Jake, I had to learn to drive. I came for you to
drive me to Dallas. We won't be gone long.”
“Yas, sur, hit seems natchul tuh drive you roun’. When
you goin’?”
“In the morning.”
“Ah'll be ready, Moster Jim; Ah feels lak travellin'
mah-self. Mammy, git mah shirts ready.”
As usual, Master Jim had no special mission, but being as
restless as a healthy cub, the urge to wander struck him and
he had to obey. The morning sun caught them ten miles from
Penhook.
“Jake, we'll stop for dinner at Lewis Miles' farm; he's
got some pretty girls. I like to talk with Miss Emily.”
“Yas, Moster Jim; she is uh purty gurl. Ah'd love tuh
see you marry her. You need uh wife an' some chillun tuh
take kere uv you. Ah worries 'bout you,” answered Jake as
he jerked the lines nervously.
“Well, I'm a rover and it seems I can't be satisfied to do
anything else. When I'm teaching school I can hardly wait
for the last day. Guess I'll always be like this,” said Master
Jim as he stared idly in the neighboring woods.
Jake stretched his eyes and answered quickly, “Not ef you
make up yo' min'. You'se uh smart man an' alluz wuz, but you
got tuh make up yo' min' an' stick to it. I'se been tellin' you
dis all duh time.
After a three weeks uneventful trip, Jake and Master Jim
returned for the winter.
19


EHAPTER II
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
M R. STEARNS HIRED JAKE to haul his
winter wood from Pine Creek bottom. It was a long way and
hard pulling for four oxen, but having a sympathetic and
understanding driver, Mr. Stearns felt they could make it.
When Jake put the last quarter of a cord on the long
wagon, he gave a sigh of relief. The oxen also seemed to
understand. It had been raining and the red clay hill a mile
away was slippery. Jake knew this and intended to be careful,
but just before reaching there, he fell asleep. He always rode
old Ned, the left rear oxen, because he thought him sure-
footed; but as they began their climb, Ned stumbled over a
rock and Jake fell under the front wheel of the wagon; his
right collar bone was broken.
Mr. Stearns got the best doctor in town to attend Jake, but
the best one knew very little about fractures. Jake was unable
to work for a year; but the following fall, he began building
his two-room house and finished it in time to move his bride
in for her Christmas baking. Cookies, gingerbread, and fried
pies were stacked high on the kitchen shelves.
This was the most enjoyable Christmas since freedom.
In every house it was evident that the “Horn of plenty” had
descended.
At four o'clock Christmas morning, the little community
had awakened; by five, heavy raps on doors or the cheerful
shouting, “Christmas Give,” was heard outside.
It is a Southern custom that if anyone catches your
“Christmas Give” before you catch his, you must respond with
a gift of some sort; so everyone keeps on the lookout.
At the Baptist Church on Christmas Eve night, presents
for the children were hung on the tall cedar tree, and a big
turkey dinner with all the trimmings was served Christmas
day to its members.
20


Elder Bivens, a heavy set dark man with a magnanimous
soul, was pastor of the flock. Since he could read and write,
he taught his congregation bible verses that helped them to live
in the fear of the Lord.
His little church was crowded every Sunday morning and
night, and the people contributed freely; many tithed.
You could always hear good singing at his church and
whenever the Spirit moved them the congregation shouted to
their heart's content. A race that knew scarcely anything but
sorrow, on hearing appealing scriptures and beautiful songs
that touched on their past experiences or spoke of a brighter
future for them, would naturally be moved to tears. Many
people fail to understand this and enjoy making fun of their
worship.
For a number of years at odd times, Jake had served as
an apprentice under John Travis, who owned the largest
saddle-tree shop in the county.
As his family had increased, Jake felt he should spend his
leisure profitably, so he built a little store on the southwest
corner of his lot and began making saddle-trees. His trade
grew more rapidly than he had expected, and three years went
by before he returned to the farm. He had helped to supply
nearly every farmer in the county with a good saddle.
He also bought a supply of shoe repairing tools, and in
one corner of his shop he mended shoes during the winter
season. On Saturdays, housewives sent their butcher knives
for him to sharpen on the big grindstone. Little Sam, his
oldest child, was large enough to pour the water while his
father turned the heavy stone and held the blades tightly
against it until the edges were shiny and sharp.
Jake bought a good span of mules and rented the old
Curtis farm; Chester, Abe, and his wife, Lizzie, moved into
the only log cabin on the place, and helped him. Lizzie
planted watermelon seeds between the young stalks of cotton
and corn and watched them diligently. She knew just what it
meant to find a sweet, cool melon smiling under the thick vines
at harvest time.
When their crop was laid by, they began chopping out a
field of cotton for Mr. Stearns about a mile and a half from
town.
Nancy carried them hot boiled dinner. One day near
21


noon, they were attracted by the sound of pounding hoofs;
at a distance they could see a figure leaning forward on a
fast running pony. They knew it was Nancy; Jake threw
down his hoe and ran to meet her. He heard a piercing
howl. This told him that she was being chased by a hungry
panther. He grabbed his shotgun as he passed the wagon
and, when they neared him, he fired into the foaming mouth
of the beast that was ready to spring on the back of the pony.
Children now seemed to come almost as fast as the years.
Nancy was expecting a new baby within a few months. This
incident proved exciting.
When her breathing became normal, she mumbled, “He’s
followed me fuh two uh more miles; mah pony almost give
out, but Ah kept talkin' to 'im.”
Jake made a pallet for her under the wagon in the shade
and left Lizzie to see after her while the men went back to
the field.
Jake's crop got a good stand before the hot weather set in;
it was waist high and full of squares by the middle of August
and the second week of September they began their picking.
The white and green patch with human heads bobbing up
and down seemed much alive. The singing of cotton pickers
in the broad fields was strikingly impressive. As the crew
worked, they kept time to their singing by a slight nod of the
head, sway of the body, and with their fingers as they nimbly
pinched the white locks from the pointed boles; but Abe's
loud clear voice could be heard above them all as it floated like
a white cloud through the crystal air. The waves and stops
he made in singing “O Lord, What a Mornin’” gave the birds
in the neighboring woods a challenge.
Saturday at noon, when the first week's picking was over,
Jake and Abe took two long wagons full of cotton to
Hancock's gin. Tony, the chunky little gin hand, jumped into
Jake's wagon, unhooked the big black pipe and with it sucked
all the cotton out of the wagon. He then put the pipe into
Abe's wagon and the same process followed.
Monday morning Jake took two bales of cotton to the
square located in the center of the business district where
cotton samplers and buyers make quick work of it. He knew
what each field hand would receive and the amount Mr. Curtis
22


expected, so out of his first money there was a little left to be
put in Mr. Joe's bank.
That fall, Jake sold six bales of cotton and two hundred
bushels of corn. With all of his debts paid and a larger
bank account than he had ever possessed, his most sanguine
hopes had been realized. Like a grizzly, he turned in for
winter. Since success had smiled on many Negro share-
croppers, it was easy for them to borrow money. Each year
more ventured in farming.
Several little grocery stores and three or four barber-shops
were opened. The freedmen began to feel that they too were
destined for a great future. Saturdays the little barber-shops
were full of customers getting ready for Sunday. The town's
gossip was well washed out there.
Aunt Mamie, Jake's mother, quit field work and spent
all of her time as mid-wife.
She had little or no competition because the few white
doctors in the community didn't care to be bothered with
delivering Negro babies. She was also an expert root-doctor
for such things as cholic, cholera-morbus, fever, and children's
diseases.
The little town welcomed many homeseekers that fall.
The good news of fertile soil, and favorable climate had been
heralded in several states and the newcomers tried to get
settled before the winter set in.
Jake and old man Si Stearns were curing meat in the huge
smokehouse when Alice, Mr. Stearns' niece, called from the
door.
“Uncle Si, a messenger's here who says he was sent by
Mr. Hal Smith to see father.” Mr. Smith and her father
were friends but they differed on secession, Mr. Smith being
in favor of the Union. “I wish you'd come over and hear
what he has to say.”
“Yes, Alice, I'll come.”
The two cut across the cornfield with Alice and walked
into the back door in time to hear it all. The messenger was
speaking excitedly. “Mr. Gordon, Mr. Hal Smith has learned
from military authorities the names of men who have been
active in defending the state against secret enemies living in
communities nearby, namely, the “Bushwhackers” and your
name is among the number. I was sent with instructions to
23


flowers were loaded with blooms, the crops were good and the
whole place seemed enchanted; but this was too good to last.
Trouble began brewing again and George Gordon's friends
sent a messenger from Penhook to tell him that it was unsafe
for him to remain in Texas.
His darkest hour was at hand he thought; truly this was
his Gethsemane.
Trusting that his brother-in-law, Si Stearns, and friends
could stay the apparent danger and provide the safety he so
much needed and desired, he hid in a dense forest west of
Dallas for eight long weeks; this period seemed years to
him. All of this time he was alone except when some friends
secretly carried him food. This could not be done by members
of his family for they knew they were being watched, so two
of his friends performed that service. Had he not maintained
his faith in God, he would have become a raving maniac.
George Gordon's children often visited the two friends
who lived near this forest and when the servants were well
out of sight they strolled down the road and slipped into the
woods where they usually found their father sitting on a stump
reading the Bible.
With only a canopy for a shelter, this once robust man,
at the sight of his children, would fall on his knees in
supplication to his Maker.
Their hearts were so rent upon parting, the children would
wish that they hadn't come.
Following one of those visits from his children, Gordon
decided he could no longer live in this way, so one dark night
he left again.
Shortly after he left, a garrison of federal soldiers were
stationed in Dallas. Many men for slight offenses were
thrown into prison until they were able to pay what the officers
demanded.
Si Stearns took Jake and serveral other field hands to his
brother-in-law's farm and remained until it was in good
shape. The Gordon children decided to rent the farm as it
proved too much of a task for them. Jake was glad when the
work was over because his family was large and he was much
needed at home. His children were stair-steps but Sam, Jim,
Oscar and Lena were large enough for good field hands; the
smaller ones were left home.
25


CHAPTER III
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“P
APPY, PAPPY, Sister's done cut my
belly,” said a whiny little voice on the outside.
Jake found little Saul at the back door of his shop, holding
up his apron and pointing to his round brown “tummy” that
had a few scratches on it.
“Where's yo' sister?”
“Pappy, I didn't, I didn't do it; he done it his-sef 'cause I
wouldn't give him my black-eyed peas,” said Lena as she came
running out of the house.
“Come, Saul, Pappy'll put sump'n on it. Lena, you run,
honey; git yo' basket an' pick up dese eggs layin' over dis
yard. Dese lazy hens won't go to duh nests in hot weather.”
“Yes Pappy, but Mama wants you. Sam is having trouble
with his pony,” said Lena as she jumped up and down.
Nancy was in the kitchen cooking dinner and mumbling to
herself.
“Whut's wrong, Mama?” Jake asked as he slowly walked
in the door.
She shook her forefinger violently as she rattled off, “Ah
tol’ you not tuh buy dat wile pony frum Bill Scales. Uh hoss-
trader is no man tuh buy uh good hoss frum. Dey's hyer
tuhday an' gone tuhmorrer. Sam's pony is got duh botts an'
whilse he went tuh duh sto' fuh uh nickel's wurth uv lard duh
wile thing run off. He's gone lookin' fuh 'im; po’ little feller.”
“Hol' you' hosses, Miss Nancy, dat pony cain't git fuh.
After Ah feeds mah mules, Ah’ll go look. Mah cawn's low.
Ah gotta go to duh country an' buy up some. Well, hyer's
Sam wid his pony. Whut you cryin' fuh, son? Tie him up
an' come in.”
Sam had them close all doors and windows before he'd
talk. He showed more excitement than they'd ever seen in
26


him before. He whispered, but eyed the doors and windows
suspiciously.
“Pappy, ole man Simmons wuz goin' up red hill in his
buckboard buggy and my pony run so hard and fast up the hill
by him that it scared his hoss and it runned away and turned
the buggy over. I don't know if it kilt the ol' man or not.”
This gave Nancy more reason to reprimand Jake for
buying the sick pony. “Yes, Ah guess dese white foks will kill
mah whole family,” groaned Nancy.
“Ah! You worry too much, Mamma. Sam, who saw him
fall P”
“Noboby, Pappy; I kept runnin' after my pony. I didn't
stop to see how bad he wuz hurt; I wuz too scared.”
“Well, you jes keep still. Ef nobody seen you, Ah know he
didn't; he wuz too busy fallin'. Ah'll go up town an' see
whut Ah kin hyer.”
Jake threw a rope over his mule's head and rode off. He
purposely went by old man Simmon's house and happened to
see Aunt Mag coming out of the big side-gate. Anxious to
tell the news she hailed him.
“Jake, did you hyer 'bout ole man Simmons gittin' hurt?”
asked Aunt Mag in a loud whisper.
“Naw Ant Mag. When?”
“'Bout uh hour uhgo, Ah recken. He will drive uh frisky
hoss, tryin' tuh act lak he's young an' duh fool thing run off,
turnt dey buck-board buggy over on him an' broke some ribs.
He's in duh horspital.”
“Dat's too bad. Who seed him fall?”
“Nobody, it happened his son wuz comin' home an' fount
him rollin' in duh dirt. He jes won't be his age. Now, Ah
got tuh come back an’ milk dese cows, he allus done dat.”
Aunt Mag threw the small hoop over two palings to fasten
the big gate.
This was all Jake wanted to hear. He rode a few blocks
farther and turned for home.
The bright pleasant summer, with picnics and barbecues,
did not last long enough. Jake kept busy, especially on
Saturdays, selling stove-wood; the wood-yards would not sell
less than four-bits' worth, but he sold from two-bits' worth up.
Nancy's Elberta peach tree was late-bearing, but the
peaches were unusually large. She called her young sons, Jim
27


and Oscar, to gather them. Both were eager to climb the tree,
but Oscar, being more agile, ran faster and was up in the tree
shaking it when Jim ran up.
Quickly the tree was stripped except for one large rosy
peach far out on a small branch that extended over a paling-
fence. No amount of shaking or throwing would move it.
Oscar became impatient and ventured out a little too far on
the limb. It broke and he fell in a whirl, snagging his throat
on one of the sharp palings of the fence as he hurled to the
ground. Jim ran for help.
When Jake reached the boy, he was unconscious. Dr.
Haymond, the oldest white doctor in town, was immediately
summoned.
“Jake, I've never seen or heard of such an ugly snag in
anybody's throat. This boy is dying. Get me some cold
water, he's 'bout bled to death anyway. All you darkies will
have sharp paling fences, they're dangerous; some morning
you'll find a colt or calf hanging up on them. Get me some
more water, I've about stopped the blood. Look here, this
boy's got his eyes open, looking at me. Hello, boy. Can you
talk?—No,-he's injured his vocal chord. He's sure looking,
don't quite understand what's happened. Don't let people
crowd the house or make him talk. I'll be back the first thing
in the morning. If he frets, give him these tablets.”
“Yes, Dr. Haymon', yo’ orders will be carried out, sur.
Do you think he'll git well?”
“Frankly, Jake, no. But I can't tell how things will turn
out. I'll do my best.”
Little Oscar grew pale and thin. Sinking spells that almost
sapped his life out occurred frequently, and for months there
was a battle for existance.
Dr. Haymond wasn't much of a doctor; one could see that
he was guessing what next to do. Oscar was a brave little
snipe and passed through the ordeal uncomplainingly. Dr.
Haymond himself said that Providence was taking care of
him; it was the little fellow's perseverance and determination
to win that saved him. After months of suffering, new life
crept back and he slowly regained his strength.
His high pitched voice was gone; he spoke strainingly in
a loud harsh whisper that grated on ones nerves.
He could whistle. A succession of quick brilliant chirps
28


was his signal of distress; a long loud whip notified them that
he was near or had heard them calling him.
Barefoot time was welcomed. The old swimming pool,
picnics, and barbecues offered many temptations.
The Stearns had as big a time that summer as the last.
Jake bought a hack and they went about more than ever, to
help their little son gain strength.
Late one night, heavy, deafening raps on the front door
awakened Nancy. She shook Jake vigorously. “Jake, Jake,
somebody's knockin'; wake up.”
He gave a lengthening stretch, turned over, and then
called, “Who's it? Whut you want dis time o' night?”
A miserable victim of anxiety and fear answered, “It's
me, it's Zeke, brother Jake. Annie is having labor pains an'
she wants Nancy to come hep Ant Zilphy. She's mighty sick
dis time; Ah sont Dr. Moore on. Ant Zilphy is uh little
scared somehow.”
Jake and Nancy's feet struck the floor almost at the same
time. “Yas,” they both answered. “We'll go. Come in til
we gits dressed. Jake kin set in duh kitchen wid you an’ keep
duh fiah hot an' water boilin,” said Nancy.
Extremely distressed, Zeke sat with his right fist under his
jaw, holding up the weight of a heavy head. “Ah sho don't
need dis baby. Ah got fo' an' cain't hardly feed 'um. Wurk's
scace an' Ah ain't been doin' much lately.”
“Zeke, don't cumplain; duh Lord will hep you feed 'um
somehow. You see how he heps me. Come on, we's ready.”
Before they reached the gate, they heard Annie's agonizing
groans.
“Zeke, dat you?” came a shaky voice from within.
“Yes, Ant Zilphy; Jake an' Nancy is wid me.”
“Shet up so much foolish talk an' come in hyer. Don't
you yit realize dat yo' wife is in laboh? Git dat coffee pot on;
duh doctor says Annie's mo' scared dan she's sick.”
The little hut was in a flutter. Zeke was still ‘down in the
mouth.’ His mind seemed to function backwards. Shortly,
the doctor stuck his head in the kitchen door and announced
the arrival of a four-pound boy.
Nancy took the tiny red squiring creature, washed, greased,
and dressed him, as Jake and Zeke looked on. The baby let
out several more jerking squals and Elsie, the oldest child,
29


rolled off her sagging, rickety cot and ran over to welcome
him.
Nancy was a good hand with babies. She gave it a few
drops of sweetened water on a little rag that made him lick
out his little red tongue for more. Aunt Zilphy came in and
sat down to drink her black coffee and to admire the little
stranger as Annie brushed its thick black hair with her hand.
As they were enjoying the little fellow, a choking cry,
followed by fast, jerky, muffled squalls from Annie's room,
announced the arrival of another newcomer. Aunt Zilphy
threw up both hands and ran into the room. “Lorzy, Doctor,
it ain't uhnudder one is it? Whut is dese chillun go do wid
so many babies?”
The doctor wrapped it in swaddling clothes and handed it
to Aunt Zilphy and she in turn passed it on to Nancy, as she
had laid the other one on the cot.
A heavy jarring of the house and rolling stove-wood caused
all eyes to look in that direction; behold, there was Zeke,
stretched out in a manner dead. Both arms were extending
outward and his eyes were closed. The doctor had to leave
the care of Annie to Aunt Zilphy while he attended Zeke.
Dr. Moore soon saw that Zeke had fainted. A few simple
drugs brought him around to his senses. The sight of two
babies was too much of a shock.
A third time all eyes were inquiringly turned. It was
Elsie, standing in the corner and crying for dear life.
“Whut on earth is wrong wid you, Elsie?” demanded Jake.
Between hysterical sobs, she stammered, “One baby's
uhnuff; I won't nuver git tuh play. I cain't see atter two
whilse Ma works; I hope dat ole doctor man won't fetch
uhnudder one.”
Jake had a large family of six boys and two girls. He
didn't have much time to give Master Jim; nevertheless, their
friendship remained the same.
Jake had named his second boy for Master Jim; the other
boys were a little jealous because Master Jim would give his
little namesake a big quarter and to the others he'd give only
a nickel. Little Jim would poke out his chest and walk about
like a bantam rooster.
Circus posters were all over town and the children had
seen them. They served as a stimulant for work. The
30


children picked the long rows of cotton uncomplainingly, with
the thought of seeing the circus as a reward.
Bright little faces saw the sun as it came up that Saturday
morning. Helter-skelter they ran from room to room, putting
on their bright calico shirts.
“Uncle Tim is here to go with us to the circus, Pappy.”
“Yes, Lena; he'll be lots o' hep. We promised tuh buy
our feesh frum duh church stand tuhday. Some uv duh
brothers stayed on Pine Creek feeshin' all night an' Sister
Zilphy is cookin' it in her wash pot;” said Jake as he filled the
water keg.
“But Pappy, Mrs. Givens is our neighbor. She kilt
twenty chickens and two hogs, and I want some of her
barbecue. They wuz cookin' potato pies las' night, an' this
mornin' they made ice-cream.”
“Come on, chillun, an' eat yo' breakfast. You don't
want much dis mornin'; you'se too filled up wid goin' tuh duh
circus.”
“Whut you got, Mama?,” asked Jake as he put the chairs
and boxes up to the table.
“Ah got biscuits, 'lasses, meat, an' grease. You don't
need no eggs; dat's uhnuff,” said Nancy as she poured the thick
molasses into each little tin plate.
The children were so happy they could hardly eat. Jake
gave each one a slice of fried salt pork and poured grease
over the molasses. Then the sopping began. They had about
finished when Oscar came running in and jumped on his box.
When he looked in his plate, tears rolled from his soft brown
eyes down to his little primped mouth and dropped from his
chin. “Pappy, Pappy,” he whimpered, “my dreece is don tuh
sleep.”
This was a fine, cool fall morning; a playful breeze came
through the little kitchen window and blew across the table.
Oscar's grease had gotten cold and stiff. Nancy reached for
the big black skillet on the back of the stove and poured some
sizzling hot grease over his molasses. This warmed up his
plate and he smiled as he sopped away.
“Lena, run tell yo' mamma to hurry. Ah's hitched up and
everything is in duh wagun. We cain't be late; duh parade is
at ten o'clock. Hey Tim, where's uh good place fuh duh
childrun tuh see duh parade? Thought Ah'd go down Mill
31


Street near duh show groun’ in duh Chism fiel' an' dey kin
set in duh wagun, an' see it when it leaves an' when it comes
back.”
“Dat's jes whut Ah's go say, Jake. You cain't git uh
better place,” answered Tim.
“Say Brother Jake, Ah's been lookin' at dem cottonwood
an fruit trees me an' you sot out uh long time uhgo. Dey'se
growed so fast, duh cottonwood at duh gate spreads out lak
uh umbrella.”
“Yes, Tim, duh one at duh gate is beat all duh res' growin'.
Ah planted it fuh uh shade tree. Mammy comes over an' her
an' Nancy sets under it all afternoon an' sews an' duh childrun
simply lives under it. It's shade dair all day. Duh udder
trees is done well. Duh peach an' apple trees give us all duh
fruit we need fuh cannin' an' dryin'. Come on, childrun, it's
seven uh clock; we mus' have plenty uv time. Set down, Sam.
Don't ever stan' up in uh wagon; both dese mules is fools an'
is liable tuh start any minute.
Got yo' cookie bucket Mamma 2
You children set still. Yo’ uncle will be in duh back wid
you, an' me an’ Mama will do duh drivin'.
All ready?”
“Yes Pappy, we's ready,” they all shouted.
“Whut uh prutty day. Duh elephants ken sho' off dair
babies, duh clowns kin run over duh streets an' cut capers,
an' bes' uv all, duh cages will be opun an' green-eyed men an'
wimmin will be settin' in duh cages wid duh lions an' tigers.”
Jake jerked the lines briskly as he continued, “Came Pat,
git uhlong. Dan, you'se gittin' lazy; come on boys.”
They rolled along, waving, bowing, and hollering at
neighbors and friends. Saul and little Joe counted the tele-
phone poles.
“We mus' miss town, Brother Jake; duh crowd's too big.
Go Bonham Street tuh Mill,” said Tim.
The two fat mules rushed down the dusty street and were
first to pull their load into the vacant lot under a big oak tree.
Jake gave the children a drink of ice water out of the keg
and they had time to get out of the wagon and stretch their
legs before the parade.
“Pappy, the parade mus' be started; here comes the
balloon man. Kin we have one? We got money.”
32


“Yes Sam; you childrun have been smart. You picked lots
o' cotton fuh yo' pappy dis fall. Ah wants yuh tuh have uh
good time. Hey, Mister Balloon Man, seven balloons,
please.”
“Pappy, I want a red one that blows up,” chirped Lena
as she jumped about.
“I want a blue one on a stick,” Oscar whispered.
“I want a gween one,” lisped little Joe.
“Git off my new shoes,” shouted Sam as he gave Jim a
bustling shove. “I shined my toes so they look lak gold, so
don't spoil 'um.”
“They's no gold; they's jes brass-toed boots lak mine,”
squealed Jim.
“Boys, stop dat scrappin' 'bout yo' shoes. Don't git on
Sam's boots. He spent uh half-hour shinin’ dem toes yestiddy.
Hyer it comes, duh parade is comin'. Duh animals if furs.
Dem's duh camels; some have one hump an' some have two.”
“Look Pappy, way down the road, at the elephunts.
They's the best animals in the circus an' the strongest. I bet
that big rusty one there in front is as strong as Sampson,”
blurted out Jim.
“Oh I Look at the woman in the lion's cage. Gee, I wish
I could ride with a lion,” said Sam.
They discussed each animal and wagon that passed and the
clowns that made even the baby laugh.
“This is the las' uv it, childrun; when de ole kalio pipes
up, dat' all,” drawled Jake.
“Pappy, that's a steam piano; the teacher said so,”
Lena shouted gleefully.
“Well, whutever it is, it's allus las'. Ah'll take duh bucket
an' go get some red lemonade. Duh parade will be back by
hyer in uh hour; you childrun kin play uhbout.”
At two o'clock, Jake took the small children in the side
show and Tim took the four large ones in the big tent. Nancy
stayed at the church stand.
They walked around looking at the animals before the
circus started. They fed the monkeys candy and peanuts.
The elephants were the last.
Tim thought he'd have some fun, so he gave the largest
elephant a piece of chewing tobacco. Before the keeper knew
what had happened, Jumbo struck Tim with his long trunk
33


and knocked him tumbling on the ground. As the furious
Jumbo lifted his mighty trunk again, Tim scrambled to his
feet and ran through the frightened crowd. Jumbo tried to
break the chain on his big foot; he roared and bucked, but Tim
was gone. The children ran him a close second. He raced
down the path to the field and fell headfirst into the wagon.
“Well,” he said, “Ah'se through wid circuses.”
But, what a day for the children; they sat frightened stiff,
their money gone and they saw no circus.
It's said that elephants never forget; and it must be true,
for the next year when that same circus came to town Tim
went to the parade and sat on the edge of the sidewalk, he
and Jumbo spied each other about the same time. Jumbo
made a dash for him, but he crawled swiftly on his hands and
knees through the crowd until he found an open space, and he
didn't stop running until he fell in Aunt Mamie's back door.
He swore again he'd never go to another circus.
Hog-killing time was right around the corner; everybody
began stuffing their hogs with corn and more corn. They
expected a blizzard in three or four weeks, and their hogs had
to be ready.
The second week in December brought a heavy snow;
hogs were squeeling all over town.
Jake killed five and smoked the meat in his old corn crib.
Si Stearns had been dead a year, but he had taught Jake
all the tricks in curing meat. Mr. Joe, Master Jim's brother,
who was president of the bank, hired Jake to cure meat for
his mother; he said he knew it would taste like his father's.
Mr. Joe had not married, and Jake couldn't understand
why such a fine-looking smart man didn't want a family, and
he would tell him so whenever the opportunity came.
One morning the sparkling white snow filled the air and
soon the earth was carpeted. The snow remained for two
weeks; boys and men passed almost hourly selling big jack-
rabbits for a dime apiece.
Red crackling fires were kept going in the big fireplaces.
The old men sat in the corners cross-legged, smoking their
cobpipes, parching corn and roasting sweet potatoes in the
ashes, but Aunt Mamie preferred raising her flannel skirts
and warming the back of her legs before the warm fire.
The children looked like pictures in a frame, peeping
34


through the frosted windows, drawing figures with their
fingers on the moistened panes as they blew their breath
against them.
The children hated to miss school because the Board of
Education had sent to Nashville, Tennessee for two good
teachers.
The two big concerts that were given twice a year were
well attended. The boys met every Friday night and learned
to harmonize, and anxious parents attended the rehearsals.
Often dogs and cats on the outside misinterpreted their
harmony, and thinking they had some angry opponents on the
inside, turned up their tails and fled.
On cold nights, Jake allowed the boys' quartette to
rehearse at his home, as his son, Jim, though quite a young
lad, was the tenor. Jake enjoyed seeing as well as hearing
his son make the high tenor notes. Jim would toss his head to
one side, close both eyes, open his mouth one-sided, and begin.
The lead tenor had a strong nasal voice; he'd drag and slur
the tones, but everyone liked it. The favorite song in their
repertoire was “The Bull Dog on the Bank and the Bull Frog
in the Pool.” At whole or half notes, where they had the
opportunity, they'd hold the chord; often it was sour but it
Went OVer.
“Jake, dis is Christmas week an' you ain't brung nothin'
fuh duh childrun. You'se commenced drinkin' agin an' dat
means we'll have nothin’,” said Nancy piteously.
“Whut's wrong, Nancy; Ah'se allus give you an' dese
childrun plenty tuh eat an' wear. You cain't criticize me.
You'se go have yo' Christmas.”
“You could borrow money frum Mr. Joe,” she answered.
“Hey, jes hol' yo' hosses; wait ’til tuhmorrer, Nancy.”
The next morning, Jake arose with the sun as usual, fed
the stock and started toward town; but he stopped in the
saloon and swapped yarns with the staggering crowd until
it was too late to get in the bank. Nancy and the children
looked for him all day. At eleven o'clock that night a high
wind rose; tubs, tin buckets, and pans on the long bench out-
side were blown helter skelter over the backyard; whenever
the house creaked, Nancy would jump to the door.
About midnight, provoked at his own stupidity, Jake
imagined he had nerve enough to face a raging lion. He'd
y
35


go scrap it out with her. The sharp wind sprinkled bits of
silver snow in his face. He, with both hands in his pockets,
struck out in a pace across John's field. The bridge in front
of the big gate was rotten and he fell through it. In the dark
he pushed around in the slippery mud and, in scrambling to
his feet, he kicked a gunny sack that rattled as if there were
tin pans in it. The brisk air had sobered him up. He opened
the bag, quickly ran his hand about in it and felt toys and other
things. Someone had hidden it or a drunken man had lost it.
With his wonder bag across his shoulder, he went his way
with a merry heart. Nancy opened the door. Without a
word, he thrust the sack into her hands. Jake eyed her
carefully as she pulled out each toy or dainty and commented
on it, for he was as much surprised as she. Never had she
seen such expensive toys, delicious cookies, candies, nuts, and
raisins. He swore he'd never tell her where they all came
from.
Jake was a good provider, but when he was worried he'd
start drinking. The years seemed to skip by. His children
were obedient and industrious. They had about concluded
that Jim would study medicine.
One Sunday morning, the whole neighborhood was much
perturbed. Peter Smith, a neighbor's boy, had run away.
His father advertised for him in the Dallas news.
Weeks passed and the family heard nothing. Jim, now a
handsome brown lad, and as the family called him, their
“best looker”, had taken the matter of Peter's disappearance
seriously. He wondered after all if it wasn't a good thing to
leave home awhile, so one fine morning the neighborhood was
stirred about him. For months the family watched and
waited in vain for his return.
Jake looked at the almanac and counted the months.
“Jim is been away fuh six months. Ef he ain't dead,
he means tuh stay, Ah reckon. He could write us; Ah'se
been good tuh all mah childrun,” whined Jake, “an' he jes lef"
widout uh word. He nuver did sass me; none uv mah childrun
done dat. Somehow Ah got uh funny feelin' mah boy may be
in trouble. He won't bother nobody, but he'll do his darndest
if he's mistreated.”
“Pappy, you worry too much about Jim; he knows how
to write,” said Oscar. Jake and Nancy worried for weeks
36


door into a field; I set there for a while and the cool air helped
me. I got up and walked to a farmhouse. When I tried to
explain, they knowed more than me. I stayed there four days
and they put me on the train and sent me home; when I send
for my money I'm going to pay them for all they've done for
me, and when I leave home again, I'll be a man.”
Jim was soon able to do chores around the house.
“Pappy, I come through Tremble grove just now and saw
Jim standing there with an axe in his hand. I hollered, “Hey,
don't stand there; git to work'. He didn't say a word but
stared at me and when I get here I find him eating dinner. I
know I saw him,” cried Lena. “I know I saw him.”
“Oh no, Sister,” giggled Jim. “I haven't left this place
today.”
“Lena, wuz Jim standin' uh walkin’?” inquired her father.
“He was standing, leaning on his axe-handle,” Lena replied
quickly.
“Well, ef he wuz standin' he'll live uh long time; but ef
he wuz movin' he wouldn't be uh long liver. Nancy, you know
Jim wuz born wid uh veil, or caul, over his face an' he sees
ghoses. Ef Lena had one over her face, duh doctor didn't
tell us; but Ah 'blieves it. She seed her cousin Ed's wife after
she died. Duh difference between her an' Jim is she's scared
uv ghoses an' he ain't.”
Most of the neighbors' children were marrying, but Jake
thought his children too young to think of it, so he tried hard
to turn their minds in other directions. He was counted
among the wealthy Negroes in his community. For many
years his children worked hard on his farm, but just before
his farm was paid out his oldest boys began courting the girls
and he feared they would leave home before his debts were
all paid.
Jake had been working long hours mending old shoes he'd
bought from the white folks to sell during hard seasons.
“Come Mama; Pappy is done fell out in the shop,” called
Sam as he came running almost breathless. Nancy got there
in time to help the men bring Jake to the house. “He’s
unconscious,” said Elder Simpson, their next door neighbor.
“It happened so quick. We wuz talking. He complained uv
feeling dizzy, then he fell over; his pulse feels uh little weak,
better bathe his face.”
38


“Yes Elder. He's been workin' too hard duh las' few
weeks,” added Nancy.
They rubbed him with camphor oil to keep him warm until
the doctor arrived. The doctors always had to clear the room
before they could do anything. Whenever anyone in Penhook
had to send for a doctor all the neighbors came in to see
what he had to say.
“He’s had a stroke of paralysis on his right side,”
announced the doctor. “You say he's a fiddler, cobbler, and
farmer? All those occupations require the use of the right
hand extensively. This right side has been weak since his
collar-bone was broken and he has used it too much. He won't
be so active, I'm afraid. He's lost complete use of his side.
I'll do what I can for him.”
Jake lingered for ten weeks before he was able to be about
at all, and Nancy said he was as cross as a sore-headed bear.
His activity being suddenly snatched away gave him numerous
worries.
The boys looked after the crop as best they could, he
supervising while in bed. Before the season was over, Oscar
married Lucy Malory, a short, plump, brown-skinned girl,
weighing about two hundred and as lovable as she was fat.
They moved to Dennison. This upset the boys, as Oscar was
one of the best workers.
Jake could walk, but dragged his right foot and held his
right hand that had withered slightly close to his waist. He
put a stock of groceries in the little store, but liberal credit
soon had him on the rocks and too, the boys had big crowds
hanging around at nights that stole the sweets from the
showcases and boxes.
Uncle Jake was astonished to find that one boy named
Rob could suck nickels and dimes up through an aperture
where he dropped his money in the drawer, when no change
was to be made. Saul became manager and he kept it open
exactly six months.
The Longs then rented the store; they sold for cash.
About two o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Long, a little black
spindle-headed man, would walk from one side of the porch
to the other, throw his head back, cover one side of his mouth
with his slim hand, and shout about his wares. Soon he had a
crowd; they liked to hear him say, “Hyer’s yo' spare-ribs and
39


Kansas City sawshits, hoghocks, and black eyed peas, hot
stage planks—right hyer.” The children in the neighborhood
tried to have a nickel to buy a large hot ginger cookie
(stage-plank).
Lena married Jeb Cannon, a tall heavy-set brown-skinned
man that was a cotton sampler and Jim married Reesie
Hoggins, a pretty black girl; but she had asthma like her
daddy. Uncle Jake worried over his children's marrying, but
Zeke told him he couldn't keep them always. He had been
fortunate; he had reared six boys and two girls.
He had to sell his farm; the boys were unable to carry on
after Jim and Oscar left. Those who remained, except Sam
however, rated among the best cotton-pickers in the county.
Saul picked four hundred, Joe three hundred and fifty, and
Fred over three hundred pounds. They worked for farmers
who could bring them home at night.
The next year, poor Nancy began to droop around and
Jake sent her to Oklahoma City to stay with Lena awhile; but
she grew worse, came back home, and took to her bed. She
was a sensitive neurotic type, so was unable to help herself.
The children came, summoned the best doctors, but her disease
was stubborn and yielded not to medical treatment.
Her sallow skin clung tightly to her bones. She suffered
about two months, then lapsed into a coma. The children
took turns in sitting by her bedside; she was never left alone.
After a week's close vigil, the hour came when Lena could
scarcely feel her pulse. Jake held a small mirror to her nose
and a little moisture formed; he knew there was still life in
her body. The family gathered around her bed and in a few
minutes she gave a little yawn and the last breath slipped
softly out of her body like a shadow into the night. Nancy
Stearns was gone.
Most of the neighbors went to the circus the day after
her passing. The Hoggins family walked down on Mill Street
to see the parade leave and return to the circus grounds. Just
as they got seated, “Whoa, Min, whoa,” sounded a big voice.
They looked back and there was Uncle Jake seated on his nag.
He’d always gone to the parade, so evidently thought he'd
get into a place and hide from everybody, but everybody
seemed to see him. His neighbors were dumbfounded at seeing
him at the parade and his wife laid out on the cooling board;
40


however, it passed like a shadow. Uncle Jake mentioned it to
no one and no one spoke of it to him.
Nancy was laid to rest in the old Benevolent grave yard.
Lena stayed home a week to get the house in order for
the remaining family. Ellen, the baby, who was now thirteen,
took the place as housekeeper. One day after a hard day's
cleaning, Lena sat on the edge of the porch in deep thought;
suddenly she jumped up and ran to the old store where her
father and several men were sitting.
“Pappy, I heard Mama cough three times, just as plain,”
she said hysterically. The old men told her it was her imagi-
nation, but she continued sobbing out, “No, it was Mama's
voice.”
Many things happened to disturb Uncle Jake's frame of
mind. Often he and Ellen were left alone nights. When
she went to bed, poor Uncle Jake would cry as he thought of
Nancy and the happy times they had in rearing their large
family. He could depend on Sam's coming in before or about
midnight.
Uncle Jake grew more feeble with the years; the four-
room house had run down. It needed a new roof and his taxes
had to be paid, so the only thing left to do to straighten things
out was to sell two lots. The children promised to send money
but the boys always forgot and Lena had little to send.
Joe, a tongue-tied, carefree lad, never got any higher than
the fourth grade; he wouldn't tax himself long enough to
accomplish anything. Ellen said when she was in his grade he
acted as judge by deciding the boy or girl that read best.
However, he never entered the contest, himself. Ellen was
the only one of the family in school now. She was a smart
girl, but was becoming sensitive about her cheap clothing.
The people called her a “Mollyglasco girl,” (Madagascar)
meaning a pretty dark girl with straight hair.
Joe turned out to be a perfect nuisance. He hired himself
to Mr. Greer to carry groceries for two dollars a week and
board, but this amount didn't satisfy him; he'd come home
late nights, pull off his shoes at the door, tip in, and steal his
father's change out of his vest pocket. He ventured out a
little farther and stole a big red rooster from a neighbor and
was put in the calaboose. This was the first time any of
Uncle Jake's children had been incarcerated and it upset him
41


EHAPTER IV
* * * * *-* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
UNDER THE big cottonwood tree that
stood by the gate, old men would gather and sit for hours
telling of their happy and sad experiences.
Uncle Jake, a conversationalist of note, was a character
worth knowing. His daughter, Lena, moved back from
Oklahoma and brought her seven-year-old girl, little Mamie,
to stay with her father while she worked. These old men
thought little Mamie a very fine child, always smiling and
ever ready to run to the store and fetch their much prized
“Star-navy tobacco.” Often when she came running almost
out of breath and handed one his small parcel of tobacco she
would hear two or three of them sending up a sentence prayer.
Each pronounced a benediction of “good luck” upon her
because she was ever patient with old folks. She went to the
old well four or five times on a hot day to get them cool water,
and passed each person two or three gourds full; they'd stick
out their trembling tongues, smack their lips vigorously, and
make loud scraping throat noises and say—“Ah, dat's good
and cool, chile, thanky,” or “Dat's duh bes' water in town,
gimme uh nudder one, honey—yas, God bless you.”
This old well was one of the first dug after freedom, and
was known to contain the coolest water in town. On hot days
people who passed, stopped to be refreshed. Two gourd
dippers hung on nails on the posts.
Every year it had to be walled up with new planks. People
leaning against it as they drew up the heavy bucket, that
swung from side to side, pulled the planks apart.
Its water was as clear as a crystal.
On the first day in May, all the people in the neighborhood
gathered to read their fortunes for the ensuing year. At noon,
they'd get a mirror and throw shadows in the well; if they saw
43


scales a bit over a hundred, and she a two-hundred and fifty
pounder. With his big jet black felt hat pulled down low
over his eyes, he trudged slowly along, leaning on his cane and
now and then brushing his long white chin whiskers with his
left hand; and she, with a gingham dress, big gathered waist
apron, and a blue or white stiff bonnet, dipped in the same
pace by his side. Every fall he'd move up to Petty or High-
town; he and his wife would cook for the children while they
picked cotton. They'd come home whenever a circus came to
town. However, every two or three weeks old man Hoggins
came down to bank their earnings as he didn't feel it safe
to keep too much money out of the bank.
Just before Christmas they'd move back home.
If their money gave out before the next cotton season,
Mr. Henderson would let them have groceries on time, as
they'd traded with him for years, and were good pay.
Jess Bean, an eccentric old “Smart Alec", Uncle Jake nick-
named “Jack-ass” because of his conceit and ignorance. Of
all the men he was the most obnoxious. He was a farmer,
but kept his hair saturated with sweet bay rum that you could
smell a block away.
His wife died and in a few months he married a young
strapping black girl that held her body stiff to her waist, who
“Trilby walked” by swaying her plump hips from side to side.
When they passed, the neighbors peeped out of their doors
and windows to get a hearty laugh. Aunt Zilphy said, “Dat
darky is yaller and natchurlly he's got good hair. He slicks
it so a fly would slip and break its neck, puts dat durby hat on
one side his head, swings dat merhogney cane on his ahm and
prances lakuh Shetlun pony by dat gal's side.”
After his marriage he rented his little farm out and moved
on the west side of town and got a little job as janitor at a
grocery store down town. He then considered himself entirely
out of the old men's class.
Captain Sims, an excellent carpenter, was captivated by
a sense of his own importance, he considered himself much too
young to associate with the crowd, so he hardly ever sat down.
After his wife died, he tried to demonstrate his youth by
running most of the time, especially when he passed the bushy
cotton-wood where the old men with rheumatism and other
isms were sitting. They called him the “running fool.” He
45


claimed to be taking health exercise, but the old men had their
opinion.
Peter Moore, a club-footed mulatto, married a girl that
was half Mexican, and younger than his daughter by his first
wife. He was a butcher and worked at the slaughter pen.
They had six children that were stair steps. He kept them
round, fat and greasy on neck-bones, chitterlings, and scrap
meats that he brought.
He was so jealous of his wife that he didn't have much
time to visit with the crowd, but managed to make a weekly
round to inform them of the number of sheep, hogs and cows
the little town consumed that week.
Surely enough the neighbors admitted that his jealousy
was justified; one night when he went home, the children were
crying because their mother had run away with a strange man.
Reb Jones, a short squatty, kinky haired braggart whose
I. Q. was about fifty, spent most of his time giggling like a
silly fool. Uncle Jake said when it came his turn to tell a joke
he'd tell the same one every time and beat everyone laughing
at it. With his little one-horse hack, he'd haul the washer-
women's clothes for a dime a bundle; his speckled brown and
white mare did a fair cake walk up and down those narrow
dusty streets. He began collecting his bundles early and was
always on time, with eyelashes full of dust, looking like an
ash-cat, and cutting on a stick when the crowd gathered. They
said he never tried to whittle out anything, but would take
a piece of nice white pine and cut it away.
Another thing that perplexed the old man was that they
were never able to make him understand that he should talk
as little as possible to the tax-assessor. However, he usually
concluded by saying, “I’se no po’ man, Ah owns mah place,
Ah do. Me and Hetty bought it frum Mr. Gunner.”
He thought his wife a fine cook, so often on a flowered
dish he'd bring some heavy ginger cakes, pass them around
and spend too much time himself in complimenting them.
Harry Melon, a smooth-shaved, tight-mouthed, carefree
loiterer always had his mouth too full of tobacco to do much
talking. He was a good listener, a hearty giggler and a big
eater. His nickname was “Wolf” because he'd often tell
his family that he was as hungry as a wolf. He was thought
to have money, but as lazy as he was, sitting for hours in one
46


place, whittling idly on a stick, only raising his head now and
then to exude a gob of tobacco juice, you couldn't see how
anyone could associate him with money. He picked cotton in
the fall and cut a precious little wood in winter.
He had a carpenter make him a strong box about 5% ft.
by 2% ft. and fastened it with a pad-lock. His poor wife
spent hours when he was away trying to open it. She thought
it contained California gold. He could sit longer than any
of the old men, without talking or nodding.
He had a large sickly family, but his wife supported it.
Often in their presence was John Dumas, a half white,
curly haired Negro of Herculean statue that was a magnificient
liar. Some of his lies became famous, especially the one where
he successfully moved a well from a front yard to the back.
He told his tales so often and with such consummate skill that
he believed them himself. Crowds of school children would
stand on street corners and listen with wonder and admiration
at the rompings of his brain children. The old men began
giggling when they saw him coming. Not a one of them had
many teeth, and it was a show to look around at the different
mouths opened wide and displaying old snags of every descrip-
tion. All chewed or dipped and the brown juice dripped
from mouth corners and long grey chin whiskers and
mustaches. They were anxious to hear the new lie. Dumas
never failed them; he usually had several.
Tim Jenkins, an obstinate, queer sort of creature, at one
time was handsome—every feature nearly perfect. His
reddish brown complexion and black wavy hair mingled with
grey were attractive at the age of sixty. He was a chronic
drunkard, and never joined the crowd until thoroughly stewed;
then he'd come down the street gesticulating to them and
staggering every step as his clear high voice rang out singing
“Some Forty Years Ago.” He was a man of moods and
moments. With unflinching determination he insisted on
monopolizing the whole conversation by telling of his
escapades with women when young. If anyone tried to wedge
in on him, he'd raise his voice and corner him off. He was
“cock of the walk.” He bored the old men to the quick;
they'd squirm and spit, but they had to listen until he decided
to go elsewhere. He loved his two children dearly when
sober, but when tanked, he'd try putting the boy in the well
47


or else have his family running and hiding in neighbors' houses
as he looked for them with his shot gun.
Paul Otter, a tall dark man with high cheek bones, was
said to be part Indian. He'd been a hunter all his life, loved
the woods and its inhabitants, understood the habits of animals
and birds, knew where they hid themselves during all the
seasons and too, knew their usefulness to man. A long black
weather-beaten overcoat flapped religiously at his heels winter
and summer; whenever he pulled it off he said it would rain,
and it really did. People called him a human camel. Before
going on a long hunting trip he calculated the number of days
he'd be away, so would eat enough to last him those two or
three days; taking food was only a bother, he said. In the
afternoon he'd bring his game to town to sell. Whenever
he had a pole-cat and the east wind escorted him, you'd catch
the aroma an hour before his arrival. His wife declared he
grunted more than four sets of twins with the tummy ache.
His sore feet kept him limping. One day he had on new shoes
and said they didn't hurt when bought, but they were now,
“nigh killing” him. The children discovered that he'd been
too lazy to look down when putting them on and had them
on wrong.
He had four fat, sleek black hunting dogs that accompanied
him on every trip.
A rustic picture they made after a successful hunt. He
had rabbits, squirrels, and opossums hanging at his sides and
back, a string of fish in one hand and his guns fastened around
his neck with a leather strap, and steadied with his right hand.
The dogs trailed behind him with tongues out, tired eyes half
closed and walking in a slow dragging pace like their master.
All the town folks knew him, and enjoyed watching him as he
passed with his heavy catch.
Joe Hopkins, a thin nervous little man with soft white hair,
was the most unassuming person you ever met, but pathetic
because he was totally blind. His soft peaceful voice corre-
sponded with his mannerisms. He was a man of few words;
he’d sit for hours and only shake his head for or against an
issue. Little Mamie would go for him and some friend passing
would assist him in getting back home. He was Uncle Jake's
favorite.
From Professor Prosser, a stocky, black, muffled jawed
48


eyes in a twinkle, he'd begin his story. As he giggled and
glibbed along, wiping his slobbering mouth with first one hand
then the other, his voice would spasmodically modulate from
a high to a low pitch and vice versa. He'd ramble along and
if he happened to stagger to the end, he would give a loud
convulsive laugh that either amused or disgusted one.
They had a good joke on Uncle Meek. At one time he
became seriously ill and lingered for months, barely able to
creep around, so he decided to end it all. He went into his
old floorless privy setting about forty feet from the house,
wired the door tightly inside, and cut his wrist. The pain was
so severe, he didn't take time to unwire the door, but jumped
about violently, unloosening the old privy from the ground
and dragged it up to the house on his back where his good wife
released him. The doctor came and said he needed the
bleeding; afterwards he got well and strong. The old men
said he got well after all the “bad blood runned out.”
Henry Minter an aristocratic mulatto was known as “Free
Henry.” He was the wealthiest of Uncle Jake's pals. When
a young man he bought his freedom and when he married he
bought his wife. This was a puzzle to the old men. It
mattered not how many questions they popped to him, he'd
evade the answer to this puzzle. Uncle Jake was acquainted
with a few slaves from the Minter plantation; they said Henry
was their master's son and was more like him than any of his
boys. They were often seen in close conversations. Their
master, they said, gave him money and plenty of it. Free
Henry had twelve children and most of them had good homes.
One of Uncle Jake's boyhood friends was Clem Gillum,
a snappy little black midget of a man with a soft clear voice
and a laugh that rippled like a brooklet. He was now seventy
and almost blind, but a little of the old ginger still remained
in him. He wore his hat over his eyes and when addressed
would turn quickly, bow and smile when he responded. He'd
been married twice; the children by his first wife, Lizzie, had
many friends. Two of his daughters, Ann and Lill, lived
together on Levacca street. It was like going to a show to
visit these girls when they felt like talking. If they happened
to be listening, at interesting points Ann would twist herself
around, sit akimbo, stare surprisingly at Lill and drawl out, -
“Li-l-l, did you hear that?” Lill would drawl back, after
50


she'd opened her large eyes, and shaking her head, “A-n-n-,
no, never, um-um-u-m.” The inflection in their voices was
extremely comical and entertaining.
Uncle Clem had a brother, Tom; the two were “Wampas
cats” in their young days. Uncle Jake often made Uncle
Clem tell of their experiences as country preachers. Both
were good singers. Tom picked a guitar and Clem
remembered the Bible verses. On Sundays they'd go to
country churches, pose as preachers, then sing and preach a
little, tell hard luck tales and take up a collection. They'd
been quite successfull
In Biardstown they heard there were several wealthy
planters. Christmas was near, so they practiced their best to
go before this congregation. It was a clear bright day and
people had filled the church by I 1 o'clock. Their program
went over big and a heavy collection was given them. As
they were singing their closing number, a devout old sister
came in late, and pranced down the aisle keeping time to their
music. When she looked up, both hands went over her head,
“Deacons”, she screamed, “Dese ain't no preachers, Ah know
dese boys.” No sooner said, than Clem and Tom made for
the door, the deacons and men after them. As they went out
of the door Clem heard the old sister screech, “You devils
is go fall in duh jaws uv hell.” They cut across a field, the
men still chasing them, but the boys were a little too fast.
When they jumped the barbed wire fence and were going
across another field they could still hear the men calling for
them to bring back the money. The tall, dry weeds made an
easy place to hide themselves. They thought they were safe,
when Clem fell into an old well. He said he heard the words,
“You devils is go fall in duh jaws uv hell.” He just knew
he was falling in hell; the place even felt hot and he expected
the devil to come up to him. Tom called down, handed him
a pole and pulled him out. This ended their preaching.
These, and many other interesting characters presented
this lively picture; and during the long summers until late fall
for many years, people of different races and of many stages
of life hung over the rail fence or came inside and sat on a box
or the thick green grass and spent many happy hours
conversing with these old men who were peacefully enjoying
their freedom.
51


[HAPTEH W
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
66
Hey, IT'S you, Mr. Weatherly 1 Yas, dis
ole cotton-wood tree have been hyer fuh years. Ah raised
mah childrun under it an' dis hyer is mah little grand girl,
Mamie; she's smart, you bet. She kin read, write, an’ ciper.
Guess you keep busy dese days being Justice uv duh Peace?”
“Oh, yes, yes, I'm kept busy all right. I'm out now just
to get some fresh air and exercise—but I'm mighty glad to
see you; both of us are in our sixties, but you bet we haven't
always been.” Mr. Weatherly turned to Mamie, Jake's
pretty grandchild, and smiled at her kindly. “Say, girl, yo'
grand-pap here was the finest fiddler in Latimer County. He
played my wedding march and nobody nowhere's 'round could
of played a better one, no sirree.”
Rolling her big soft brown eyes first from her grandpa,
then to the speaker, little Mamie only nodded her head and
smiled.
“Yas, Mr. Weatherly, dat wuz uh big night wuzn't it?”
Jake said. Ah kin see you now in yo' fine black broad-cloth
an' yo' wife, Miss May, in her silks and laces.” “Dese young
folks now-a-days don't know nothin' 'bout purty dancin'. Dey
hug up too close; you cain't see duh winmen folks' fine
clothes.” Uncle Jake tried hard to please his white friend
and admirer, and certainly spared no pains in emphasizing
each point with hand, head and voice. He slightly pinched
that old Southern pride that always exists in old timers. Mr.
Weatherly swallowed audibly before answering.
“You’re right, Jake, and the waltzes you used to play
can't be beat; they had three or four parts to 'um. You could
tell a whole love tale to your best girl while dancing one piece.
These waltzes now are just too short. I can see myself now
with the tip of my index finger in the top of May's head, she
52


a-holding out her skirts, turning round and round like a top
and a-waltzing and me a-waltzing after her. Them was the
days.”
“Yas, yas, Mr. Weatherly, the waltzes now sound lak duh
owl's tune tuh me. You know his thribin-toe song dat's short
an' thumpity-bumpity.”
Uncle Jake gave a throaty laugh and slapped his left leg
hard and fast. Mr. Weatherly brushed his long grey whiskers
briskly with his hand while enjoying Uncle Jake's humor.
“My wife was a pretty girl. When I look at my daughter
now, so much like her mother, I can hardly keep back the tears.
Her mother left us years ago and I've—I’ve—well, I've never
been the same man. Sorry it wasn't me instead of her. I
wanted to go first because I feel that it would of been easier
for my family. Since I'm the head and was fortunate to see
my children of age in the sight of the law, I'd liked to have
died first, yes, to show them how to die, as I've shown them
everything else.” He sighed and then said, “Sorry you're
all crippled up, Jake. Cain't you walk at all?”
Shrugging his stooped round shoulders a little, and
brushing his long white beard with the clumsy fat fingers of
his left hand, he breathed deeply and finally answered in his
usual way, the question that had been asked him hundreds
of times.
“Cain't walk much, sur, but mah health's good.”
“Hello Mr. Weatherly.” A little twisted figure paused
to speak to the Justice of the Peace.
“Where are you going with such a load on your back?
You're too old a man for that, Mr. Mawbry,” answered the
Justice.
“It's feed fuh my chickens. My old hack broke down
and I must git the feed thar some way!”
As he spoke the last word he had walked to the big gate.
“Good day,” he mumbled.
Uncle Jake and Mr. Weatherly watched the decrepit
figure wobble down the street a long way before speaking.
“Now there's a white man I’ve known for years. He's
always been poor and always will be. His body is drawn in
a most peculiar shape, yet he can walk a longer distance than
I can,” said Mr. Weatherly.
53


“He’s crippled up worse then me, but he kin walk an' ah
cain’t,” replied Uncle Jake.
“Where's your Master Jim now?”
“Well, Mr. Weatherly, Ah jes don't know zackly. Ah
think he's teaching down in Brazos Bottom. He wuz hyer
last year dis time.”
“It's gettin' late. I'll be goin'. Here's a dime. Get that
girl to run and get you a chew of Star-navy tobacco.”
“Oh, thanks, thanks, sur, goodbye an' good luck to you,
Mr. Weatherly.” He watched the Justice start away and then
said, “Mamie, go fetch some cool water. Hyer comes Elder
Simpson. You know he's allus dry.”
“I’ll fetch out the boxes too, grandpa; I see Uncle Meek
a-coming they're both tired and will want to sit down.”
Both men, seeing the Justice of the Peace, tried to hobble
down to Uncle Jake's before he left. Both were too late,
but were bent on finding out his mission.
“W-e-1-1-, hello, Jake. Wuzn't dat ole man Weatherly
Ah seen leaving hyer?” asked Elder Simpson, his inquisitive
next door neighbor.
“Yas, Elder, it wuz, an' he's uh good man, too. Old
Big Tom lived on his plantation. Do you 'member him?
He nuver had tuh do no farm work. He made money fuh
his-self an' his moster too, wroppin' hair. In dem days white
an’ black men wore long hair you know, an' ole Tom
guaranteed to make yo' hair grow fuh uh dollar. Ah went
tuh one uv his Sadday night hair wroppin's. He called his
strings magic wonders an’ it tuck twenty minutes tuh wrop uh
head. Ole Tom sho had some grip. He pulled mah hair so
tight, Ah almost felt him wroppin' mah skelp. When he wuz
through Ah managed tuh stagger home somehow. Ah
crawled up in bed an' rolled an' tumbled till almost day. Mah
hair wuz wropped so tight Ah couldn't shet mah eyes. Ah
tried sleeping wid dem opun an' couldn't, so when Ah coudn't
stand it no longer, Ah got up an' after cussin' ole Tom an' his
magic wonders a-plenty, Ah snatched dem white rags off mah
head an' throwed dem in duh fiah place. Mah head wuz sore
fuh more then uh week. Dat ended mah cravin' long hair.”
After shuffling their feet, patting their thin thighs with
open hands and laughing hilariously at Uncle Jake's good joke,
both men wanted to match him. Elder Simpson, having had
54


many varied experiences during the dark days, took the next
turn.
“Ah jes knowed Mr. Weatherly wuz too good uh man tuh
'blong tuh dem Night Rider devils. Why dey broke up uv'ry
meetin' Ah ever had till we scared duh day lights out uv 'um.
One night when duh meetin' wuz hot an' sister Liza wuz
singin' one uv her good ole hymns, Ed come uh runnin' an'
told us dem Night Riders wuz uh comin'. We blowed out
dem candles, run out duh do' an' hid in duh bushes. Two
dozen uh mo uv dem devils on big fine hosses come uh ridin'
up an' jumped off at duh do'. Dey run inside duh ole hut an
made uh light. We had our pocket knives sharp ez razors an’
we wasted no time in cuttin' off duh right stirip from each
saddle. Duh furst man out tried tuh clamb in his saddle an
couldn't find his stirip. He give uh wile holler; his gang come
uh racing out. Each man after him found his right stirip on
duh groun’. Dis scared dem good. Dey thought God wuz
uh punishin' 'um.
Dey come dair laklions, but they left dair lak lambs, bless
you. Dey didn't git tuh beat nobody dat night—devils. After
dat we nuver wuz bothered no mo' at meetin's. Dese times is
hard now fuh us, but Ah’m glad our children wuzn't born in
dem days. Duh Lord pertects dem dat loves an' serves him.
Dem days had tuh go, Jake. Dey jes had tuh.”
By this time several old men had joined them and as the
Elder reverently finished his story their heads were bowed as
if they too were thanking the Great Almighty that the chains
and shackles that once bound them were broken—broken, they
hoped, forever.
“Yas, Elder, dem days had tuh go.
No man is fit tuh own uh nudder man.” said Uncle Jake
solemnly.
Elder crossed his legs and bowed his head as if praying
and answered: “Dis ole world is goin' tuh roll an' tumble.
Dair's goin' tuh be no peace in it till all dis hate is wiped out,
fuh Acts 17-26 say somethin' lak dis: “Out uv one blood
created He all races uv mankind to dwell on duh face uv duh
earth.”
The little crowd was silent for a few minutes until Jake's
Ellen came running across the street and said she saw her
brother Jim coming through Collin's big pasture with a satchel.
55


The old men looked at each other and sighed. Only Uncle
Meek spoke. “Jes uh day too late,” he whispered.
“Hyer is mah boy, Jim. Whut fetches you, son? Did
you know yo' wife Ressie wuz buried hyer yistidy?” said
Uncle Jake.
“Yes, I did, Pappy. I have a way of knowing all things
like that, that's why I'm here. Don't you remember I was
born with a veil over my face—well I see and converse with
ghosts like I do anyone else. Sometimes I speak to people
and I don't know whether they're ghosts or real folks. At
night I'm never sure unless I'm walking along with some one
and they ask me who I'm speaking to.”
“Some little gimlet headed nigger wid buck-shot hair
fetched her body hyer frum Roxton. She's got uh mont old
baby boy. Dis nigger tried tuh play high tone; he brung uh
ole lady uhlong tuh see after it. Dey say he pertends he's
so crazy 'bout it. Dey left las' night.”
“I know, Pappy, he broke up my home; when I was out,
he was in. One day I doubled back and caught him in my
house, and I give him a devil of a good beatin' and then swung
the first train out of there and went to Cado. His name is
Otto Smith.”
“All ah know son, is dat he tries his bes' tuh sho' out.
Who kers 'bout him uh his brat either ſ”
Uncle Jake put his big hand to his mouth and whispered,
“Duh winmen folks say duh baby looks jes lak little Mamie
an' all duh rest uv mah grand childrun. It's uh purty brown
boy wid curly hair. It's yours, dey say. No sich lookin' darky
could have uh good lookin' baby lak dat.”
“I don't know, Pappy, he was at my house as much as I
Uncle Jake shook his head knowingly and continued, “Ef
Ah could uv seed it, Ah could tole 'cause Ah know uv'ry chile
dat got ole Jake Stearns' blood running through its veins.
Son, Rev. Minter uv duh big Baptis' church wuz hyer
lookin' fuh you. Better go see him. You wuz sich uh good
han' 'round his place. He's got hundreds uv chickens, an'
two big orcheds. He's counted ez one uv duh rich white men
in duh county now.”
“I’ll go tomorrow, Pappy; where's my two children?”
inquired Jim.
WaS
56


“Old lady Hoggins is got 'um. Dey's got no money. You
won't have no trouble gittin' dem.”
Jim worked out to Rev. Minter's for nearly a year before
the big surprise came. About dusk one Saturday when every-
body had done their week's shopping and were sitting on their
front porches, a hack drawn by two large black horses stopped
at old man Hoggins' gate. A woman dressed in black with a
baby got out, and went inside. Such a noise over a baby you've
never heard. R. B., one of old man Hoggin's grand boys
passed Uncle Jake's and told them that a woman had brought
his Aunt Reesy's baby. The women in the neighborhood went
down to look it over and slipped back by Uncle Jake's to let
him know it was sure a Stearns' baby. Jim couldn't stand
the excitement; he went over to his Uncle Zeke's for the night.
The woman who brought the baby had some friends in
Penhook; the next day she went to visit them. Night came,
and she didn't return. They never saw or heard of her again.
Otto Smith could see plainly that the keen featured, brown,
bustling boy was really a Stearns.
“Oh! Mamiel Hyer’s another grey horse. Run, before
he passes. How meny have you spotted?”
Mamie came running around the house like a whirlwind,
“Thanks, Grandpal This is the eightieth one; I'll have
to spot a hundred before I'll get a surprise present.”
“Yas, childrun have been spottin' grey hosses ever since
Ah kin 'member. Dey say it's good luck an' Ah recken so,
fuh dey keep on doin' it,” said Uncle Jake to his companions.
To spot a grey horse or mule you touch your tongue with
the tip of your forefinger on the right hand, next touch the
palm of the left hand, then double up your right fist and hit
your left palm again. This must be done very fast. As you
do this you add one more horse to your number.
“Elder, don't Ah hear duh Missus callin' you?”
Turning quickly on his stool and holding his ear in a
listening attitude, Elder Simpson answered loudly:
“Yas, yas, Ah’m uh comin', Lucy.” He looked back as
he started. “Ah’ll be back, Jake.”
“Mamie, go git me some Star-navy terbacca. Dis is mah
last chaw; den you kin go play uhwhile.”
As Mamie ran out of the gate, James, Uncle Jake's
nephew, came in.
57


“Hello, James. Whut's on yo' min' son?”
“Hello, Uncle Jake, I'm jes a little up-set. You see, we're
soon to have a baby in our family and we can't decide on the
doctor. The two 'round here jes don't suit. The women think
Dr. Reems is too frush. He's always jokin' and most of the
time his jokes is vulgar and Dr. Simpson is too young. He
looks like a boy. He ain't got much strength, either. Last
week when Zula had her baby she kicked him in the belly and
he landed in the fireplace. The women had to help him out.
If fire had been in it he would of ruint his-self.”
Uncle Jake laughed until he cried. Wiping his eyes he
stumbled out:-‘‘Why James, dat gal Zula is ez strong ez
uh mule an her foot is ez big ez uh mule's; let her kick you
an' Ah'll bet you won't be standin’ either. It's natchul fuh
duh winmen folks tuh think Dr. Simpson is too young, but
he's thirty an' he's goin' tuh marry soon. Give him uh chance.
We have tuh patternize duh boy. He's studied in uh big
college an' he's put his-self in dat place, so try him out; he
knows duh upter-date way tuh do things—so-spose you do
try him. He wuz raised right up hyer wid all uv yawl an'
we have tuh make him uh success. Ah sho' hope you do.”
Chuckling again and wiping his running eyes, Uncle Jake
asked: “What did po' Doc say after dey pulled him out duh
ashes?”
James showed disgust both in his expression and voice as
he quickly answered:
“That's it, he didn't even say “dam;’ he jes grinned and
brushed his seat. They say he sho' kept a watchful eye on
both Zula's big feet afterwards.”
“James, you know Ah lak Dr. Reems, but he talks too
much. Ah know, when he's uh round wid wimmen. Some
good man is goin' tuh knock him in his big mouf an' he'll be
mo' respectful. He's fine wid men.”
“You’re right, ole Zula is strong. I'll give Dr. Simpson
a trial. Glad I come by, Uncle Jake; I knowed you'd ease
my mind. Good-bye.”
“Goodbye, James, and good luck. And Mamie you're
back, bless you. We's goin' tuh see mah Mammy in duh
mornin', you better git yo basket fixed up.”
Mamie jumped straight up and clapped her little hands
58


as she chirped, “Oh, Granpa, I'm so glad. Who's going to
take us this time?”
“Reb is coming by after church an' take us in his hack.”
“That's fine; it's such a nice long ride down Main Street.
The horses hoofs hit the paved street so hard and I like the
sound of it. And too, Granpa, your body sways with the
horses', it's so much fun. I'd like to go every Sunday.”
On Sunday morning, as you walked down the narrow
streets, the savory odor of beef-steak or liver and onions, ham
and eggs, or fried chicken and shoe string potatoes served
with hot biscuits greeted you from the kitchen windows and
doors. The children looked forward to Sunday breakfasts.
Uncle Jake was up early and sitting on the front porch
when Uncle Reb drove up. He had had his bath Saturday
night, and was feeling unusually good. He called little Mamie
as he reached for his crutch. “Come chile, Uncle Red is hyer.
Come, Sam an' hep me git in duh seat.”
Little Mamie, with her basket of goodies, was the first
one out and in her place. She always sat in the middle.
As the old mare trotted down the street, Uncle Jake was
bowing and speaking to friends on each side. He looked down
and smiled at little Mamie with her streamered hat pushed on
the back of her head and two braids hanging down. She held
her basket tight in her lap, for she wanted everything to be in
place.
The old mare walked up to the gate and stopped.
Uncle Jake called, “Hey, who's dair? Is brother Tim
inside?”
Twin boys about ten years of age cane running out of the
house.
Mamie piped, “Hello, Nid! Hello Nod!”
Then Tim peered out. “Oh, it's brother Jake and little
mamie. Mammy will be glad to see you.”
When he lifted little Mamie down she ran into the house
right into Grandmammy's outstretched arms. Still folded in
one of Grandmammy's arms she set the basket in the old
woman's lap and as she lifted one foot high off the floor, she
pulled the white cloth back and whispered in her great grand-
mother's ear; “See—here's soft candy, cookies, white rolls,
and sausage. You have no teeth, but you can eat it.”
Then she took the old lady's hand and pressed two nickels
59


in the palm. “And this is for your smoking tobacco,” she said
happily. Grandmammy patted the child and nodded her head.
“You is uh dear chile. You'll always have good luck. You
think uhbout me more den any uv mah great-grand-childrun.
Duh others seem tuh fuhgit uh 'bout dey old grandmammy.
A'm eighty-six an’ Ah ain't walked in five yers. Ah ain't got
much longer tuh live an’ Ah got uh lot tuh tell you. Ah use
tuh be uh kind o'doctor. Ah kyored babies an' dey mamas
an' Ah tuck off watts. Ah’m gonna tell you now how tuh take
off watts. After Ah tell you Ah cain't do it no more an' after
you tell it, you cain't do it no more. Shet duh do'.”
Little Mamie listened carefully as Grandmammy explained
the process. When she felt she was sure of it, she opened the
door and ran out to find her cousins Nid and Nod, happy in
the thought that she had a cherished secret.
Uncle Jake sat on the porch and waited until Tim dragged
his mother out in her old rocker and placed her beside him.
Two invalids, a mother and a son, reviewed their past and
prophesied for the future of their children and grandchildren.
Son, like mother, never spoke discouragingly of his
affliction, fearful lest someone might think he was ungrateful
for the many good fortunes that had been his privileges in life
to enjoy.
When they returned home that afternoon, Aunt Sophie, a
neighbor, had her paper and pencil ready. She came out on
the porch and called across the street to Uncle Jake.
“Oh, Jake, Jake, let little Mamie come over hyer an'
write me two letters.”
“Yas Sophie, hyer she is,” said Uncle Jake.
“Little Mamie, come hyer little credder, an write me two
letters,” called granny Sophie.
“Yes, Granny, I'm coming right now.”
After Mamie put her basket down she ran across the dusty
street to Granny's.
“Come on honey. I'se go give you some turnip green wid
corn meal dumplins' in 'um an' some sweet pertater puddin
an' uh cup uv lye homly. Go in duh little room an' git duh
geogify off'n duh wash stand.”
Little Mamie was in the fourth grade and she felt she
could correct her grand-aunt's English. “Granny it isn't
geogify, it's geography. We study it at school.”
60


Granny's pride was a little touched and she fairly went
up in the air.
“Chile, it's geogify. It's been dat all mah days. You
got dat frum yo' Cousin Minnie, teachin' over at dat school
house. She's been tuh Fishes' College at Nashvull, Tennessee;
if dey learns you lak dat, she better stay at home. Dey's jes
so proper up dare, dey'll be callin' God, Git, terreckley. Dese
white fokses comes round hyer fuh dey close, axin' fuh mah
baby chile an' dey calls her Arezonia. Dat's not her name.
Ah named her an Ah aught tuh know. Her name is Arzoney,
after duh place Arzoney, way out west, out younder by
Californey. Now go on honey chile an' write Callie. Don'
you say all dat foolishness,” said granny, as she patted little
Mamie tenderly.
Penhook, Texas,
August IO
“Dear Callie,
We is all well and hope's when you git dese few lines dey
will fin' all yawls duh same.
Yo mammy wants tuh see all uv yawl mighty bad. How is
duh chillun? I'ze done kot you two mokin' burds.
Sen' me uh little money uhlong tuh git uh little grub. Be
sho tuh come down at hog killin' time. We's got two big sows,
and one fat pig.
Put me up uh few glasses uv jelly an' some peach zerz an'
fetch 'um wid you.
Ev'ry body axis 'bout you.
Ah gits little Mamie tuh write; she is uh good chile. Ah
cain't git none uv my grandchillun tuh set still long uhnough
tuh write. Bring her uh little sump'n when you come. Dallas
is uh big town an' she wants sump'n frum up dair.
Write at once,
Yo' ole Mammy
Sophie Jones.
Thanky so much little Mamie. Come on now, an' git uh
pan.
“Can I take some of it to grandpa, Granny? He loves
your cookin' so much,” said little Mamie pleadingly.
“Yes, chile, take it over home but you bring duh pan back
when you gits through.”
“Thanky, granny, and good luck. Good bye.”
61


“Goodbye little Mamie. You'see a smart chile, writin'
'round here, and no bigger dan Tom Thum.”
Little Mamie and her grandpa just finished their meal
when several of the old men came in and sat down to hear
about his mother, who had lived to such a ripe old age.
“Come right in, Elder, you an Meek, Ah See Clem comin'.
Dis is been uh nice day.” said Uncle Jake.
“Yas, but it's too dry. Duh farmers say dat dey needs
rain bad. Ah cain't see why dey don't look fuh uh black snake.
Ah nuver seed hit fail. Ef you kill uh black snake an' hang
it high, it'll sho rain. Ef you hang uh gret big one, uh cyclone
will come.”
“You'se right, Meek. Er black snake will sho bring rain.
You know; Ah’m got some Injun in me. Mah granny wuz
uh full blooded Injun, an' dey allus hung up snakes when dey
wanted rain.
Hyer comes duh lodge sisters. Ain't dey dresses stiff an'
uh rattlin’?”
“Yas, Jake; dey's uh switchin' too,” chuckled Elder
Simpson.
All eyes were turned on the three sisters.
Uncle Jake always made some cute remark that caused the
ladies to blush as well as giggle a plenty.
“Hop light, ladies; duh cakes all dough. Don't min' duh
wedder since duh win’ don’ blo’,” blabbed out Uncle Jake, as
the women approached them.
“Good evening, good evening, genermens. How is yawl?”
said the women as they blushed, giggled and kept in the same
step as they pounded the hard side-walk with their broad
Cuban heels.
“Whut uh russel uv skirts. Dey knows how tuh hol'um up
high too, so you kin see duh lace an 'broadry on uv'ry petticoat.
Ole Millie wears six petticoats, so Ah hyers,” said Uncle Reb,
after discharging two gobs of well-chewed tobacco.
“Look at dem purty bois 'd arc blocks on dat wagun.
Who's buildin’ roun hyer, Jake?” asked Uncle Clem.
“Ole man Kinkade, down on Birmingham Street. He's
buildin' ten fo' room houses tuh rent. Ah hyers dat oles' boy
uv his ain't wurth ah barbee buttan, but dat's natchul, whar
dar's uh big family. Duh bad part is, he's named fuh his
daddy. Ah gits so disgusted when Ah thinks 'bout mah Joe
62


named fuh uh banker, and he's duh no countes' chile Ah got,”
said Uncle Jake, as he shook his head.
“Mr. Joe's uh courtin' now. He's head uv his Sunday
School, an' uh girl frum Norf is come tuh play duh orgun fuh
him.
Mah boys tells me when duh furs street car wuz put on
duh tracks las' Sunday dat him an' dis gurl had duh frunt seat.
Dey could look straight at dem mules' heels.
He's been banker in dis little town fuh twenty yers. It's
time he's uh marryin', an’ raisin' uh family; he's way past
forty.”
“You’re right, Jake, but Ah thought he wuz uh lakin'
one o' dem Nesbit girls.”
“No Elder, he won't marry in dat family.” Uncle Jake
said assuredly.
The picture that presented itself in this little town on
Monday mornings was striking. Women with bundles of
white folks' clothes on their heads; old men with worn out,
muscle bound or lame nags, (often called quilting frames)
hitched to rickety carts, and with white bundles stacked high
in them, plodded up and down the narrow dirt sidewalks and
streets. Women met on certain corners or under shade trees
and had their Monday morning's chat. Sunday's church
doings or the price of the bundle they happened to be carrying
usually furnished the topic of discussion. One dollar was the
price for washing and ironing a good sized bundle of clothes
belonging to a family of three or four persons. A bundle that
brought one dollar and a half was entirely too large for the
women to carry; the old men would gather those. Soap and
starch were in the bundles, but the women furnished lye for
boiling and fuel for ironing.
By twelve o'clock, the long clothes lines in the spacious
back yards were filled with clothes that seemed to be snow
white when the hot sun hit them.
Char-coal men, as the women called them, came around in
the late afternoons with charcoal put in bushel sacks; but about
half of the long wagons were filled with loose coal so the
women could buy from a nickel's worth up.
Uncle Jake lived on one of the main thoroughfares and he
and his old friends would have something to say to all the
passersby.
63


“Hyer comes lyin' Harry. Whut's duh matter wid him,
singin', ‘At duh cross' as loud as he kin?”
“Don’t know, Reb. Cain't 'magine why he's so all fired
happy, a liar; he's headed dis way, we'll soon find out. Look
at him, cryin' an wipin' his face wid his coat sleeve,” said
Elder Simpson. Harry had once lived in the neighborhood
and all the old men knew him to be a rogue.
He was stopping every one he met to tell them of his
conversion. He turned in the gate and began shaking hands
heartily with the old men, and tears hurried down his glum
face.
“Hello, Uncle Jake, Hello, all uv yawl. I jes mus' shake
yo' hands. I'see happy, my soul's konverted and duh devil
cain't do me no harm. I jined church las' night at duh revival.
Yes sir, bruthers, yes sir.
Elder Simpson, I knows how you feels when you gits
'ligion. I got it. I saw sump'n wrapped in white and I knows
I’se konverted. I'm happy; Ooooeee! Scuse me, bruthers,
I gotta holler. Somepin’ inside got tuh git out.
Uncle Jake, I'se fessin'. I wants all yawl to scuse me an
furgive me. I have tuck a many stick uv wood frum yo' wood
pile, Uncle Jake. Las' winter, I jes lived in yo' wood pile.
I knows you'll furgive me. I knows you will.”
“Yas, Harry Ah'ze glad you is got konverted an' 'cided
tuh do right. Ah been knowin' all duh time dat you thought
mah wood pile wuz yo's. It's good you'se 'fessin' when you is,
'cause mah wood pile is somewhut low an Ah’d lak mighty well
fuh yo' 'ligion tuh force you tuh bring some uv it back.
Money is skace an' mah married childrun is scattered, an Ah’m
tryin' tuh git in mah winner wood. Ah'd sho 'preciate it ef
you could see fit tuh pay uh little uv it back.”
Harry stared at the ground. If he heard Uncle Jake, no
one knew by his response. When he did speak, he continued
confessing.
“Yes, I'se sho’ been a bad nigger in my days; now I'se
turned 'roun’.” As he said this, he stuck his right heel in the
ground and turned himself swiftly around several times. “I’m
goin' tuh shout all over dis town. Good day, genermens, I
want yawl tuh pray fuh me.”
Harry went on down Tremble Street singing and
confessing.
64


“He’s a hard feller tuh handle. He's been at mah
meetin's. Ah’ve got atter him 'bout his sins fuh yers, but he
would't pay me no min’. I'se not tuh judge, but Ah'm skeared
his 'ligion ain't much,” commented the Elder.
The summer had been hot and short. The old men soon
left their arbor house and moved inside; most of them were
unable to go much during the cold days, but Elder Simpson
lived next door and he spent quite a bit of his time enjoying
the big fires in Uncle Jake's fireplace.
It was late in November and the weather was crisp. Sam
got up early and made things ready for killing hogs by
breakfast.
“Pappy, Uncle Peter is here to stick the hogs fuh us.”
“Go right ahead, Sam; Ah’ll hobble out dair time you
drag 'um up tuh scald.
Come out, Elder, we's jes killin' two tuhday an dey's
sho fine. Ah know duh biggest will tip duh scales fuh three
hundred.”
When Uncle Jake got outside, half the hair had been
scraped from both hogs and the snow white skin was spotless.
About four o'clock little Mamie came running into the
house and threw her books on the old marble top dresser.
“Grandpa, have they cleaned the hogs yet?”
“Yas, honey. You's jes in time.”
Her uncles had saved her some pieces to roast and she was
soon at work.
“Come sit near the fire, grandpa. I'm roastin' us the
melts and some liver.
Look at my two bladders. Will you lend me your new
pipe stem so I can blow them up 2"
“Finish yo' cookin' furs, den we'll fix duh bladders.
She's goin' tuh be uh good cook. Ah kin tell by her
seasonin'. Give Elder uh piece uv dat liver, it's good.
Don't git so nigh duh big blaze. Pull red coals frum
under duh pot wid yo' shovel—dat's right, put on some mo'
liver.
We'll git lots o' lard frum dese hogs, nigh uhnuff tuh las'
duh winner. We'll render it up tuh morrer. Elder, Ah'll sen'
yo' missus some cracklin's fuh bread.
Have yo' noticed how fat all duh folks git dis time o'
65


year? It's eatin' all dis good hog meat,” said Uncle Jake in
a satisfied tone.
“Yas, Ah’ve noticed it. Dey stay quite fat dis season uv
der yer,” answered Elder Simpson, after swallowing a hunk of
liver.
“Sam, you git tuh cleanin' dem chittlin's son, fore dark.
We'll soak 'um two days, den dey'll be fit tuh cook. Dere's
no better eatin' then chittlin's an cracklin' bread.
Fetch me a 'nudder piece uv liver, Mamie; Ah'll make mah
sepper off'n it. Fetch some corn bread too.
Dese hogs is prutty an' white. Dey's cawn-fed an' duh
meat is firm; we've crammed 'um wid cawn fuh uh mont now
an' it makes uh diffrunce. Slop-fed hogs is got soggy meat.
Saul will have tuh trim 'um close; he'll cut 'um up an we'll have
tuh make sawshits tuh night.”
Three of Uncle Jake's boys were kept busy until long after
dark. Several neighbors saw the big fire in the back yard, and
came to take a look at the hogs. Each offered a suggestion.
Uncle Jake wasn't the only one in the neighborhood killing
hogs. Big fires in the back yards had the street almost as
bright as day.
“Saul, go git yo' sister Ellen. She stopped by duh church
tuh hep decorate fuh duh sociable tuh morrer night. She's
young an' we have tuh be kerful wid her. She's duh baby
chile an' it's all yawls dooty tuh see atter her.”
“Pappy, here's Ellen now. Somebody's with her,” said
Saul.
“Who is it son?”
“It looks like Jim Gill.”
“Jim Gill ! Why dat dirty rascall He's thirty ef he's uh
day. Let him come in. Ah’ll fix him.”
Ellen was a little afraid to walk home with Jim, but she
had heard the older girls say there had to be a beginning.
They stopped at the gate to talk and this made Uncle Jake
furious. He had scrambled to the front door and jerked it
open. Clearing his throat, he leaned on his crutch and pointed
to them with his cane.
“Ellen! You come in hyer.
An' fuh you, Jim Gill, you git out quick. Ah'll git mah
fingers tangled in yo' dam gills an' tear 'um out. You're
nyerly ole uhnuf fuh Ellen's daddy. She's not courtin'
66


yit. Git out! Don't let me ketch you wid her agin.” When
he had finished expostulating, Jim was turning his second
COrner.
Poor Ellen was afraid to go in the house, for well did
she know that her father would keep her dodging behind the
kitchen stove pipe as he tried to hit her with his cane until
one of her brothers came to her rescue. As she passed him
he struck at her with his cane, but Ellen was too quick and this
peeved him. He almost fell as he turned to follow her, but
Saul interceded and assured him that she wouldn't see Jim
again.
“Uncle Sam, you'd better come fix up this fire in the
fireplace, it's low. Better bring a back log too. There's so
many good hot ashes and hot coals. I want to roast some
potatoes. Can I?”
“Yes, Mamie; bring your potatoes on. I’ll help you cover
them. Oh, you have them We'll dig a hole in the ashes in
the far corner. Now, put your potatoes in and cover them
with ashes first, then put the coals on top so they won't burn
before they cook. I hear somebody coming. Wonder who
it is P”
Little Mamie wasted no time in getting to the door and
unthumbolting it. It was her mother.
“Hey, Ellen, bring the big lamp in here. I can't see how
to cut up these hogs. This little lamp keeps smoking. Yaw'l
kin make out with it,” said Saul.
Sister Lena, you can season the sausage. They're ready.”
“We’re coming, Saul. Who all killed hogs today?”
“About six families; why?” answered Saul.
“Well, I was going to fix up plates to send around. We
don't need to send meat to them that killed, de we pappy?"
“No, daught', meat's meat.”
After Lena seasoned the sausage, she cooked some to see
how it tasted. Her daddy declared they were the best they'd
ever had. She then filled small tin pans with scrap meat and
sausage and sent them to neighbors who didn't kill that day.
“Wist you'd start dem livers an' lights ter cookin' tuh
night an' git duh seasonin' in. Ellen kin finish 'um; she don't
understand yit how tuh cook frush meats, but she's uh lurnin'.”
“Mamie have you forgotten your little speech 'bout, “It's
Hog Killin' Time?”
67


y
“No mother. I'll show you.” The child began reciting
almost before she got to the middle of the floor.
IT'S HOG KILLIN’ TIME
I
When duh weather's crisp an cole,
An all nature's fas' uh sleep,
Duh men foks git tuh-gether
But duh hogs begin tuh weep.
Duh big pots start tuh bilin',
Ev'rything is jes sublime,
'Cause we's go enjoy ourselves
It's hog killin' time.
2
Dey hang duh hogs up on uh pole,
High in duh air you know,
Den scrape duh thick hair off dair backs
Till dey is white ez snow;
No more hard luck stories,
Duh ole South's in her prime,
Ev'rybody's happy,
It's hog killin' time.
3
Duh chillun settin' 'roun duh fiah,
Roastin' melts an livers,
Makes no diffrence to dem,
Let fish stay in duh rivers.
Mammy cooks duh chittlins,
Foks stuff till its uh crime,
No one tries to diet
It's hog killin' time.
4.
Foks don't fuhgit dair neighbors,
Dey're lookin' fuh dat plate,
Stacked wid spare-ribs an sausage,
Why dey meet you at duh gate.
Pshaw Ez fuh chicken an shortcake
Ah wouldn't give uh dime,
When ev'rybody's friendly
An' it's hog killin' time.
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As she finished reciting, they heard blood curdling screams
on the outside.
“Whut's all that screamin' about? Who is it? See, Sam.”
“Yes, sister, it sounds like Sadie. She's the only one that
can holler that shrill around here.”
“Run, Sam, and stop talking. Oh, yes, it's Sadie, I
know it now. Listen how proper she's yelling and trying to
wave her voice when it's high. That's the way she sings;
all in ripples.”
In a few minutes Sadie's mother's yard was full of excited
folks. Sadie had been married to a fashionable gambler a
few months and he had committed suicide on Lee Street. The
crowd followed Sadie as she ran up the street screaming.
People joined them all the way and when they reached Lee
Street, the crowd was enormous. Uncle Ed's two-horse hack
was hired to take the corpse to his sister's home six blocks
away.
Since Sadie was his wife, she should have walked next to
the hack, but she was too grief stricken to walk fast.
Uncle Ed, being hard of hearing did not know that the
crowd wasn't right up with him. When he did happen by
instinct, he said, to turn around, he saw the crowd nearly a
block away. He forgot and called over the dead: “Say thar,
whut you boys and gals doin' back thar 2 Whut you think
I'see gwine do wid dis hyer dead man?”
He waited until the crowd caught up with him and made
one of the boys climb into the seat beside him. Then he
drove so slowly the crowd passed him and he had to show
disrespect to the dead again by driving fast to catch up with
them.
Since there hadn't been a suicide in the little town in five
years, this was the topic of discussion. On the day of the
funeral, there wasn't standing room in the yard. Eyes and
ears were wide open. They wanted to hear every word that
fell from Rev. Jenkins' lips. They knew he'd land him safe
in hell and surround him with tongues of fire. But his sister
was quite an intelligent woman, having lived in Chicago and
New York with the folks she worked for; so she gave them the
surprise of their lives. The ceremony was short. After a
prayer and two hymns, the funeral procession was on its way
to the graveyard that morning at IO o'clock. Those who were
69


speak a word from the time she left home until she returned,
only to say, “Good day” to Mr. Joe. Before she had hardly
gotten home, she began, “Grandpa, why did you grin so when
Miss Lucille said you look like Uncle Remus? I've seen
Uncle Remus' picture in a book, and you don't look like him.”
“Baby, you'se too fussy 'bout things.
Ah don't kere nothin' 'bout Uncle Remus. Guess he wuz
uh good story teller. Mos' ole men wuz in slav'ry.” said
Uncle Jake as he wriggled about in his wicked rocker to get
comfortable and hoping at the same time that little Mamie
wouldn't ask more questions.
“Don’t go on so, chile; go git yo' grandpap a cool drink
uv water.”
71


hands in her big gingham apron and slowly mumbled: “Mr.
Polices, it's mine. I don't know much 'bout the fight, only that
Uncle Jake's two boys wuz standing here drinking soda pop
when the two Jeffrey boys come in and started cuttin' on 'um.”
“Yes, yes, I see, just a little scrap,” said one of the officers.
“The Jeffrey boys live right next door. They've nearly
kilt Jim and Saul; don't know if they'll live or not,” whined
Callie.
“That's nothin', we don't want them; we just come to see
that no further trouble happens. Everybody that don't belong
in here an' ain't a-buying nothin' git out! ! !” commanded
the officers as they pointed to the door with their clubs.
Thus, their duty being performed, they left.—
After the doctor finished his butchery job, the boys were
taken to their little shack on Tremble Street where their
crippled father sat crying pitiously and friends and relatives
stood around trying to console him.
Seb ran ahead of the two hacks and kept the crowd back.
“Uncle Jake, they're bringing Jim and Saul home. The
doctor's just got through sewin' 'um up. Guess if I hadn't
happened up, both of yo' boys would of been done with. I
beat them Jeffreys off with an ole fence pallin'. They're
bringin' the boys in now.”
Uncle Jake reached for his crutch and some one helped
him to stand on his feet. With tears rushing down his fat
brown cheeks, he snuffled and talked between sobs as he
followed the boys to their cots.
“Fuh duh life uv me; whut's all dis? Mah boys don't
e'um carry pocket knives. Dey is called duh best boys in dis
town. Cain't see why dese Jeffreys tried tuh kill 'um. Ah
didn't know dey had any enemies. L-o-o-k at dis crowd l—
Don't let 'um all come in dis little room. Dey's uhnuf tuh kill
me an' duh boys too. Git 'um out uv duh yard, Seb, git 'um
out-out.”
At that moment a thin brown girl, dressed in a middy and
skirt elbowed her way through the crowd; she was almost
frantic. With a shrill voice she called out: “Let me through
this crowd Is Saul hurt? Where's he? Let me in here!
S-a-y, big boy, who're you? Let me in. Oh, git back—is
you folks crazy? Let me—in "
All eyes turned questioningly on her. Uncle Jake could
73


bear the shock of it all better than he could this, a strange
street woman tearing into his home at such a time. Being
humiliated is expressing it mildly. He knew this would start
tongues to wagging.
“Who is dat frush wench comin' in hyer, Seb? She's
orderin' folks uh round lak she lives hyer. Ah don't lak her
looks, Ah don't lak her voice, and Ah don't lak her. Fetch
her tuh me, Ah wants tuh fin' out whut she knows 'bout dis
trouble.”
Seb was a bully around men, but he confessed being a
coward in the presence of any woman. He thrust his long
hands in the pockets of his jeans and slow-dragged up to her
and whispered, “Say, girl, Uncle Jake wants you; come with
me.”
She straightened her bow tie, gave her middy several jerks
at the bottom, then turned and reluctantly followed Seb.
“Ah’m dese boys' daddy. Who is you an' whur did you
come frum?”
She looked straight at him and smoothed her hair in front
with both hands before speaking.
“I—I, sir? I'm Lilly.”
“Yas, you got uh mighty pyore name. Do you know mah
boys?”
Lilly opened her big, flashy eyes and breathed heavily, then
answered; “I-I know Saul, Sir.”
“Do you know duh Jeffreys?”
She turned quickly, looked straight at him again and
answered, “No-no sir, I don't.”
Uncle Jake scowled, gritted his teeth and in an undertone
roared: “Dat's uh bare face lie.”
Her whole body twitched; she shifted her weight first from
one foot then to the other; she stood before him looking
wherever her eyes happened to fall. He could see that she
was clever and he was forced to admire her for it.
His remarks were sharp and piercing, but she stood
unmoved; never did she show one sign of anger.
Uncle Jake continued: “Gurl, Ah think you'se at duh
bottom uv it all. Ah don't want mah boys runnin' 'round wid
no strumpets. Git out o' hyer an' git out quick, you alley
strumpet, or Ah'll crack yo' head wid mah crutch.”
Saul, though only a few feet away in the next room had
74


listened to the whole conversation and was wiggling
impatiently on his cot. He knew it was his time to speak and
he did so unhesitatingly.
“Pappy, Pappy, don't do that. Lilly's just a friend of
mine. She knows nothing about this trouble. Let her stay;
you know both my sisters and little Mamie are in Oklahoma.
She only came to help, I know.” -
The doctor had been washing his hands in a little tin wash
basin in the kitchen and came out wiping them. He knew his
patient must be kept quite and as comfortable as possible.
When Uncle Jake saw him rushing out, he called to him.
“Doctor l—Oh doctor, how bad is dey hurt? Can you
kyor 'um?”
“Not if you keep up all that racket, Uncle. Let the girl
go talk to Saul. She'll be of some service; you have no women
around here.”
The doctor, possessing a little strain of familiarity him-
self, gently patted the girl as he spoke, “Go, girl and see what
Saul wants.
Your boys are in bad condition. Jim is cut from the back
of his neck almost to the front. If the front was as deep as
the back, he would have been dead. Saul was fortunate in
having on a thick leather belt. He is cut from the middle of
his lower back, coming around his right side across his
abdomen to the middle of his left side;—well, almost clear
around his waist. Just missed by a fraction of an inch cutting
his intestines. When he walked into my office he was holding
them in his hands; don't see how he made it.
Now, old man, I don't know this girl, but it's clear that
Saul is in love with her. Do as I say; let her stay. I can see
that by her all-fired nerve that she'll see to it that my orders
are carried out.”
Uncle Jake wept bitterly; he nodded his hoary head and
answered, “Thanks, doctor, it's uh hard pill, but Ah'll try tuh
swaller it. It's duh furs' time uh harlot's hung uhround dis
house, and tuh think dat our smartest boy is duh cause uv it.
Ah wanted tuh make uh lawyer out uv him. Ah e'um bought
books, but he wouldn't study. Dis mus' o' been duh reason.
Ah’ve seen too many winmen, an Ah put mah stamp on her
when Ah furs' looked intuh her dancin' eyes.
Sam, it's nigh mornin', aint it? Yo' ole pappy is havin'
75


lots tuh go through in his ole days. Glad yo' mammy don't
have tuh stan' dis. Duh anguls tuck her uhway.”
Sam put his hand on his father's shoulder, sat down and
tried to console him.
“Pappy, I don't know this girl either, but I don't think she's
so bad. Let people talk; we must do what's best for our boys.”
“You'se right, son; Ah’ve lived long uhnuf tuh know dat
most folks have got uh skeleton in duh closet dey's hidin'.
Ah know 'bout some uv 'um mahself in dis hyer town.”
Uncle Jake didn't like to talk about his friends and
acquaintances. He'd been in Penhook for years and knew the
history of every family; but when push came to shove, he'd
explode, and folks knew it.
“Ole Molly's been hangin' round hyer fuh hours gittin'
news,” he continued. “Her Mammy had five childrun, all
different daddies an’ she wusn’t married to uh single one uv
'um. Let her start. Fetch duh lamp in hyer, son and write yo'
sisters tuh come home and you go tuh yo' uncle's farm an'
git yo' brothers, Joe and Fred, sometime tuhday.”
Everything calmed down in the little shack.
With morning came a gentle rap at the door. Lilly wiped
her eyes with her fingers, got up from the big rocker, stretched
several times and then went to the door. “Come in doctor,
come in; your orders have been carried out. I've set here
nearly all night; nobody got by me, either. Both boys have
rested nicely. Will you let the nurse off duty for a few
minutes? I must go for some clothes. Saul wants me to nurse
both of them, if you'll agree.”
“Sure, you're a faithful nurse, Lilly. I twice agree.”
“Boys, we're going to have some hot days. Too bad
we have no hospital here, but we'll do our best. Remember,
you're to have no company. That girl says she'll nurse you
and I believe she will; with the assistance of your brothers,
she'll be able to get along,” said the doctor.
Some one rode in the yard on horseback; Sam rushed to the
door and found Mr. Joe.
“Hello, Sam, what's happened to the boys 2 Just saw a
line or two in the morning's paper.”
Uncle Jake had heard his voice and was scrambling for his
crutch.
“Come in, Mr. Joe. Ah jes' knowed you'd come, when you
76


heard it. Mah boys have been nearly kilt by dem Jeffreys an’
Ah don't know whut uhbout. Rekin' Ah’ll nuver know. All
Ah know is dat Jim nearly got his head cut off and Saul nearly
got cut half in two,” Uncle Jake said weakly.
“That's very unfortunate, Jake, but don't you worry. The
doctor here, says they're doing fine. I've given him an order
to get anything he needs from our dry goods store; I’ve given
him another order to Nelson's drug store, and if it's money,
come to me at the bank. Get anything that will make the boys
comfortable. I know how you've raised them. They're good
boys. I'll be going now. I should be at the bank at 8:30.”
“Thanks, thanks, good luck to you, Mister Joe. Good
day, sur.”
The ever faithful Mr. Joe, whenever a Stearns, black or
white, was in trouble, always came to their rescue; not only
with consuling words, but with finance.
Lilly appeared in the door with a big bundle under her
arm.
“Was I gone long? Uncle Jake, I'll have your and the
boys' breakfast in a jiffy. Sam, make a fire in the kitchen
stove. Mush and milk for the sick boys; hot biscuits, bacon
and scrambled eggs and coffee for us. How's that?”
“Your fire is ready, Lilly, and the water's scorching,” said
Sam.
It wasn't long before the odor of fried bacon and coffee
filled the house.
“Sam, dat gal might be uh little hep, but she's so frush.
Wish she'd be uh little mo' ca'm; folks wouldn't notice it so
much. Ah hyers she's uh fine cook. Saul says so; guess he
knows.”
“Sure Pappy, we'll think she's all right for Saul's sake.
She handled that crowd last night better than a policeman.
Don't know what we'd done without her. You see what the
doctor says. It takes nerve to get by; don't think I can
criticize her about her nerve.
Saul loves that gal; he whispered to me last night that he's
going to marry her. I asked him if one of the Jeffreys liked
her and he didn't answer.”
“Son, mah reasoning hardly ever fools me. Ef he marries
dat gal, he's uh-doin' it to spite one uv dem Jeffreys. Nobody
seems tuh know her. Uver'ybody's axin' who she is. Ah’m
77


uh wonderin' mahsef where'd she stray frum. Duh doctor
says she's uh good nuss. She's had trainin' somewhar's. She
didn't jes grow; she's too smart. She won't answer no
questions 'bout hersef.
Somewhur's Ah speck she's got uh po’ pappy lak me dat's
uh prayin' fuh her.”
All the long hot summer the boys rolled on their cots;
when they were able, their cots were carried under the big tree.
Lilly kept the little shack clean. People changed their
criticisms to compliments. -
Mr. Joe and his brother, Leslie, came every week to see
that the boys were comfortable, as they always said.
Lena, Ellen and little Mamie came home, but Lilly still
remained the head nurse.
The trial was to come up in late summer, but the Jeffreys
got around, paid off some lawyer to fix up things and they
didn't go to jail or to trial either. Uncle Jake left it in the
hands of the Lord.
“Grandpa, I see Mr. Leslie coming on horseback.”
“Do you chile 2 Run, take dese knives and rines in duh
back fore he gits hyer. He knows Ah’m uh clean man.”
The child quickly threw the rines into the tin bucket and
ran to the hog pen.
“Whoa, Queen! Jake, this is the first time I've caught
you alone, and I'm glad. I want to tell you about brother Joe.
His Sunday school is having a picnic at Pine Creek and I'm
on my way out there. They left early this morning.”
“Dat's fine, Mr. Leslie. Do you belong tuh church yit?”
“Nope, but I'm thinking 'bout it.
That girl that come from up North to play the organ at
church is got her cap set for brother Joe and by golly, he's
got his set for her too.
We heard she's a poor girl. Her pa raised her. She
worked in the church all her life. When she got big enough to
go to college, the church up there, sent her. She learnt to
play the organ at college. She don't know nothing much but
church concerts, sociables and picnics, and Joe likes that
but the church folks is whispering about that a poor girl like
that won't know how to act in a wealthy man's house.”
“All winmen learns quick how tuh spen' muney, don't
78


bother uh'bout dat; and he needs uh wife bad,” broke in
Uncle Jake.
“He needs a wife and I believe she'll make a good one.
The church folks is jealous. They think he should marry Cilla,
but he somehow can't like her well enough to marry her. He
won't talk much about it, but I think he's about got his mind
made up on his girl. I'll go out there. My wife and children
are looking for me to be there in time to eat with them.”
Mr. Leslie kicked the mare lightly in the flank, as he waved
good-bye to Uncle Jake.
On his way, he overtook other men. They rode along
clucking to their horses and talking about conditions in
Penhook. The merry voices of the children penetrated the
woods and reached them a mile away.
They rode up near the crowd and tied their horses in the
shade. After speaking to his family, Mr. Leslie looked for
his brother Joe. Ethel, the girl from the North, was teaching
the children games.
He saw several men examining the trees. He joined them
and kept his eyes busy searching in every direction for his
brother.
They walked toward the creek where some were fishing
and others frying fish; a little to the right of them, under a
big oak, sat Joe and Cilla. Joe appeared a little restless, but
Cilla was rattling off like the wind as she pulled the petals
from a flower.
Mrs. James rang a little brass bell, calling those who had
wandered away from the crowd to come to dinner. Two
wagon loads of wooden horses and planks had been emptied
and as the men made tables with them, the women spread the
long white cloths.
Ethel dismissed the children and helped Mrs. Thomas,
a good old loguacious sister in the church, who was her land--
lady to spread her dinner. Mr. Joe had asked that they
spread next to his sisters.
Rev. Kelley asked the blessing and the hungry crowd began
reaching for the barbecue, chicken, hocks, vegetables and all
kinds of sweetmeats.
Little Hattie Barbour, a youngster about eight years,
jumped up from the table to give her doggie a good bone, and
fell on a hatchet that someone had carelessly left near their
79


kin walk uhroun', but Saul have got tuh be kerful. He sets up,
dough.”
“Here's a dollar. It'll help you some.”
“Yas indeed, duh boys kin eat mos' nigh anything now.
Little Mamie, run and git it, honey.
Thanky, thanky, Mr. Leslie.
How wuz duh picnic?”
“There was a big crowd and they had a good time. I've
heard them talking about brother Joe's Sunday school picnics,
but this is the first time I've ever been. Think I'll go every
year.
It's about six o'clock; I must be on time to supper. My
wife is a crank about that.”
“Yas, Miss Jessie is. She learnt mah Joe how tuh
wash dishes, an' he kin git uh job in any hotel.”
“Goodbye Jake, I'll see you next week. Hope the boys
will continue to improve.”
“Goodbye an' good luck, Mr. Leslie.” Uncle Jake smiled,
leaned forward, and watched Mr. Leslie and his pony fade
in the dust.
81


CHAPTER VII
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
FAINTLY THROUGH a cloud of dust a
one horse rickety hack could be seen approaching. The driver's
thin body swayed from side to side as his old nag trotted along.
“Hey, Mister, stop, this is the pla-place. This is Ja-Jake's
house.”
Uncle Jake and several of the old men were sitting under
his big tree; he caught the familiar voice. He squinted his
eyes and, with an inquisitive frown, leaned forward in his old
arm chair. Finding his voice at last he spoke:
“Who you got in yo' hack, Cap'n? Well, well, efit ain't
Moster Jim an' he's drunk ez uh biled owl. Mamie run tell
yo' Uncle Sam an' Saul tuh come hyer, quick.
Just uh minute Cap'n, mah two boys will take him out.
Where'd you git him?” Uncle Jake asked anxiously.
“He jes come in off'n that train; I seed him staggerin'
'round and he give me fo' bits to fetch him out here,” said
the driver.
Seeming a bit impatient because his boys hadn't shown up,
Uncle Jake lifted his crutch two or three times in an effort
to get up himself.
Though many years had passed since Master Jim owned
him, that same old tie that once bound them was just as strong.
He could say what most men of his race and age could not
say. His master had been kind to him.
“Sam l—Saull Come, boys. Take poor Moster Jim in
duh house an' git ez much sweet milk down his craw ez you
kin—yas, uh quart, Ah know he's drunk uh whole gallon uv
whiskey tuh be dis drunk. Dis is uh smart man, an' edicated
too; but he jes won't let whiskey be. It's duh ruination uv him.
Take him on in, boys; no use me cripplin' in. Ah can't see
atter mahsef.
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Elder Simpson, guess Ah ought'n complain, he's been so
good tuh me. His daddy give me tuh him fuh uh Christmas
present when both uv us wuz young. Ah've been taking kere
uv him ever since. Duh family thought since he wuz so fond
uv me dat Ah'd be able tuh hep him, but nobody have ever
hepped him fuhgit whiskey.
He's nuver been married, not because duh girls didn't
want him, but he's nuver had will power tuh stop drinking long
uhnuff tuh git serious 'bout uh girl.
Ah use to play duh fiddle fuh dances miles uh'round.
Most uv duh time Ah wore his white shirts an' other fine close.
He didn't take mah money neither, it wuz mine, yas indeed.
Ah mus' git in duh house now tuh see how duh boys is comin'
on. Dey's done dis so much an’ nuver complain.
Funny thing, when Moster Jim is sober he talks lak uh
Nue Yok banker, but when he's drunk he studders so bad you
cain't understand him.
Yawl don't have tuh go; jes stay hyer. Ah'll be back.
Dey's bringing Lena's husbun' in today on dat 4:00 uh
'clock train. He's been down at Clarksville working at duh
compress. Dey say somebody's done pisoned him in whiskey;
he's drunk uh lizard uh somp'n an' he's having fits. Ant Sue
Duck is sposed tuh kyore all kinds uv fits. She'll be hyer when
he comes.”
“Jake, dey don't kunjure now ez much dey use tuh; maybe
somebody got some uv his hair, if dey did, dat's bad, but Ant
Sue Duck kin git him straight,” said Elder Simpson, confiden-
tially.
“Yas, Ah think so too, Elder. Lena wrote dat he thinks
people is cats. Ef day's black, he calls 'um black cats. If
dey's yaller, he thinks dey's yaller cats. He tells everybody
tuh scat.”
Elder Simpson held his whiskered chin and chuckled out,
“Well, Jake, he'll think Ant Sue Duck is uh little black kitten,
won't he?”
“Saml come hep me in duh house, son,” called uncle Jake
as he whisked his old crutch in place.
“Yes, Pappy. Glad you're comin'. Master Jim's havin'
a whiskey fit. He says varmuts is after him.”
Staring into space, Master Jim's face quickly changed into
many caricatures. At the sound of a crutch thudding the
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naked floor and a lame foot dragging after it he jumped up
in bed and with a loud stammering voice yelled: “Ja-Jake,
it's you. Come get m-me, come g-get m-me. Take that big
snake off m-me, and the one- r-round my-wa-wa-waist, and
the one r-r-round m-m-my neck. H-help!”
Uncle Jake caught the thin white hand in his chubby left.
“Lay down, Moster Jim. Ah’m hyer. Ah won't let
nothin' bother you. Hold mah han’; hold it tight. Cain't you
see me; you'se lookin' in space. Don't worry. Ah got you.
Ah’ll see after you ez long ez Ah kin left dis ole lef’ han'.
Ah’ll nuver fuhsake you. Mah house is yo'se; me an' mah
childrun still loves you. Others kin turn dey backs on you,
but Ah'll fuhgive you fuh mistreatin' yosef; Ah knows you
cain't hep it.
Cain't you swallow uh little more milk?—All right, Ah
won't make you; you're uh sick man, but you'll feel better
when you vomuks.
Saul, where's little Mamie P. She's so scared when Moster
Jim comes drunk. Find her an' let her run an' play.
What's duh matter wid you, Sam? Why you runnin' so?”
“Pappy, Moster Jim's brother, Joe, is comin'. He's on
horse back.”
A cold silence filled the little room. A light from the
fire-place flickered and fell on the sleeping face of an old man
in the last of his sixties. The top of his bald head was shining
and the few strands of long hoary hair above each ear were
being wafted about by a gentle breeze that happened to be
passing. Too well did Uncle Jake know that some onry cuss
had betrayed him.
The sound of the horse's hoofs pounding the hard ground
in the front yard made his heart beat hard and fast.
“Hey Jake, where are you?”
“O, come in, Mr. Joe, come in,” said Uncle Jake
nervously.
“Mister Joe, please don't take him, mah boys don't min’.
Ah’m 'fraid no body understands lak me. He'll soon sober up
now. He's not jes drunk; he's sick. His stomach won't hold
nothin' an’Ah knows whut tuh do fuh him when he's lak dis.
It'll most nigh kill him ef you take him in dis fix,” pleaded
Uncle Jake.
Placing his trembling hand over that of his once Master's,
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Uncle Jake pled with both eyes and voice. “Please Mister
Joe, don't take him. Ah don't think Ah could stand tuh see
him leave me in dis fix. You know how he feels by me, he
knows Ah’m his friend. Yo' daddy tole me tuh see after him
an' Ah've done it fuh yers. Do let me be true to mah trus'.
Moster Jim's got uh world uv confidence in me an' jes fuh dat
Ah knows you'll let him stay.”
“Since you made the promise to my father, I'll let him stay.
Here's two dollars, Jake; you're just too honest,” said Mr.
Joe.
Uncle Jake squeezed the bills tightly in his good hand
and pressed the clinched fist to his chest. Tears welled in his
eyes, but he smiled through them in acknowledgement of a
victorious battle.
“Thanks, thanks, Mr. Joe, good luck tuh you,” whined
Uncle Jake.
His two boys stood also, pleading with their eyes to Mr.
Joe not to take him.
Ellen and little Mamie were in their little room door-
peeping and listening to the dialogue. Their eyes were big and
tearful. They too felt near to Moster Jim.
“Grandpa the old gray mare is in the corn patch.”
Turning quickly to one side and pushing his crippled leg
with his left hand, Uncle Jake answered:
“Mamie, come hyer chile. Moster Jim's sleep. Say,
baby, whose settin' in duh yard? Is Elder Simpson gone yet?”
“Elder Simpson and Uncle Dick are still out there
Grandpa.”
He shuffled his feet several times and rolled his eyes in
disgust and drawled out: “Just ez ah thought; dey heard
uv'rything. It'll be all over dis hyer town fore mornin'; but
neither uv dem kin hyer good, so maybe after all dey don't
know nothin'—ole buzzards.
Cain't see why folks don't stay home sometimes, specially
when dey sees you busy, just wants tuh be nosin' 'round. Ah’ll
cripple out and see whut dey knows,” growled Uncle Jake.
“Here, take your crutch, Grandpa. I'll hold your cane
till you pull up on the foot of the bed. Uncle Saul, come help
Grandpa off the porch.”
Uncle Jake held his head down and mumbled all the way to
the porch. He didn't want the family's business to get out;
85


in fact he didn't want any one to speak unpleasantly about
Moster Jim not even his own brother.
“Hey, genermens, genermens, how's it wid you? Have
duh city clock struck fo' yit, Elder?”
“Naw, Jake; it will soon. How's yo' Moster Jim comin'
on P’’
Looking down and frowning as if searching for the right
word, Uncle Jake muttered: “Well—he's sorter so;-sleep
now, he'll be better by mornin'. Guess you hyered whut his
brother Joe said?”
“No, no, we couldn't hyer him; dem men is making so
much noise uhcross duh street dair wid dat ole wood saw,
we couldn't even hyer oursefs talk. What did he say?” asked
Elder.
Uncle Jake stroked his whiskers in his usual way when well
pleased, cleared his throat wildly, then answered: “Oh, well,
he's always sorry tuh see him in sich uh fix;-he said jes 'bout
what he usually allus say when Moster Jim's drunk.
What 'bout duh 'lection, think ole man McCorklin will
win P”
“No chance fuh him uh 'tall. Stevens will be our next
mayor,” said Uncle Harry.
“Ah voted dis mornin'. Dey sont uh cab fuh me. Ah
nuver seed so meny drunk men in mah life. McCorklin had
bought two barrels uv beer an' uv'rybody dat voted fuh him
could drink uh belly full. Ah didn't want his old sour water,
so his men give me fo' bits. Ah kin use dat. It's dangus
fuh winmen folks tuh be on duh streets on 'lection days. Ah
do know ef dey would let winmen vote, duh polling places
would be decent, cause men won't lough winmen tuh see 'um
lolling round lak hogs.” said Uncle Jake.
Elder reached for a gourd full of water, wrenched out his
mouth and gulped down several swallows before speaking:
“Yas, and duh sooner dey let winmen folks vote, duh
sooner we'll have men in dese offices dat will mean something
to duh cullord man.
By duh way, ole whistlin' Alex passed hyer whilse you wuz
in duh house. Duh law showed him uh trick. He's an ole
brag dat Ah’ve nuver laked. He's jes duh bigges' nuisance
in dis town. Ah lak whistlin', but his sounds lak thunder claps,
nuver heard sich deafening sounds in all mah life. Dey jailed
86


him las' week. He wuz whistlin' up town an' showin' out, had
uh big crowd 'round him; duh officers called it disturbin' peace.
Now it's 'gainst duh law fuh him tuh whistle inside duh city
limits; he must go in duh woods.”
“Good, Elder, glad somethin' stopped dat ole fool.”
answered Uncle Meek.
“Look here, Granpa, I've picked two gallon buckets full
of beans. I'll go and sell them.”
“Mamie, bless you, chile. You'll sell 'um. Run uh long.
She's uh sweet little thing, don' know whut ah'd do
wid-out her. Elder, do you 'member dat ole white man
dat come hyer four uh five times to zamine her head when she
wuz uh baby? He wuz uh free-nol-o-gy. He said we could
make uh missionary uh somethin' big out uv her. We's nuver
had no trouble wid her; she loves school an’ she comes home
uv'ry day an' tells me uv'rythin' she's learnt in her books.
She's learnin' me too. Ah kin reason out uh lot o' things she
says.
When she furs' started talking, she studdered bad; she'd
hit her little thighs wid her hans. We done mos' nigh
uv'rything tuh stop her. Duh bes' thing Ah think wuz we made
her drink out uv uh brass bell; dat's uh shore kyore fuh
studderin'. We used so meny good remedies.
Duh dish-rag slappin' will kyore it too. You take uh wet
dish-rag an' slap 'um quick in duh face an' scare 'um but her
grandmammy wouldn't do it fuh she didn't want duh little
thing tuh be scared uv her, an' Lena wouldn't do it neither.
We broke her tho; nobody would ever think she studdered.”
“No dey wouldn't Jake, she's got uh nice voice,” answered
Uncle Meek.
Elder Simpson had a way of swinging his right leg across
his left knee with his left hand sticking between them,
especially when he approved of something. He had watched
little Mamie since birth, and was always ready to shower
compliments on her.
“Yas, yas, she is differunt frum most childrun. Ah’ve
nuver seen her frown; she's ez happy ez uh lark. When her
grandpa calls her she jumps ez she answers. Oh, she'll sell
her beans,” said Elder Simpson assuredly.
The child was four or five blocks away knocking on a door
when the dialogue ended.
87


“Whose knockin'? Come in 1”
“It's me, Lady; it's Mamie. I've got a big gallon bucket
plum full of string beans for a dime and Grandpa says he'll
give me a nickel for every gallon I sell. Won't you buy them,
please ma'am P” said little Mamie wistfully.
“No honey, we had beans today. Whose nice chile is
you?”
“My Mamma's name is Lena, my grandpa is Uncle Jake
and we live on Tremble Street.
These beans are nice and fresh, I just picked them. You
can keep them several days and they're only ten cents. Now
won't you buy them this time, good lady?” begged the child.
“Guess I'll have to buy them after such a fine speech. I
know yo' grandpa, I see him ev’ry time I’m up that way, settin'
under that big tree, but I never have time to stop. I do
remember you now. Here's yo' dime, come back again and
talk to me. You're a sweet little chile,” said the woman as
she smiled and wished she could kiss those little brown cheeks
and gently pull one of the long braids.
Little Mamie jumped straight up and held her dime tightly
in her hand; giving a big bow and smiling graciously, as she
said: “Thanks, thanks, lady and good luck to you Ma'am.”
The afternoon was dry and still and in a distance the old
men heard someone clucking to horses. All heads turned at
the same time as if on pivots. Two thin gray mules pranced
up to the gate and stopped. The driver's back formed a
perfect rainbow curve and his small head swung far out from
his shoulders. After unloading his tight mouth, by spitting
several gobs of ambier on the front wheel of his wagon, he
was able to speak: “Hello, thar, Jake, kin you sell these
watermelons? These is Georgia sweets, I counted 'bout
twenty ur more loads o' melons twix here and town; no use
me wastin' more time. Let me unload 'um; git whut you kin
fur 'um and take half the money. I'll be back in town Sadday
—my mules is tired, I live ten miles, it'll be midnight now
when I git home.”
“All right, unload 'um, Mr. Shipley. Ah'll do mah best.
“How's crops down yo' way?”
“Not much Uncle Jake, we's done wid choppin' cotton,
but it's so hot the corn's nigh burnt up. A good rain would
88


help lots,” answered Mr. Shipley as he pitched the melons
out of the wagon into Saul's big hands.
“Mamie you'se jes' in time. Git yo' book an' take down dis
load o' melons, see how much it will be if you git uh nickel fuh
duh little ones an' uh dime fuh duh big ones. You an’ me will
git half duh money an’ Mr. Shipley duh other half.
Come in, Reb; an' Clem have seats.”
“It's all counted now grandpa. Won't you let me cut a
big one so’s all of us can have a piece?”
She reached in the fork of the tree and got the butcher
knife.
“Ah—! Listen to her rip—she's a peach.-Grandpa,
you take this big piece so you can scrape the rind and drink
the juice. We'll take the slices.”
“Hep yo' selves genermens. Little Mamie is shame tuh
tell you, but ef you spit yo' seeds in uh pile, she kin git dem
up quick,' an' don't break yo' rinds in sich little pieces. She
takes dem to duh hogs. Me an' her keeps our little summer
arbor room clean; we cain't stand flies. She says she learnt
in school dat flies carry diseases.”
Uncle Jake had turned his big spoon over and was scraping
as he talked.
“Hey Grandpa, don't make such long hard scrapes; that
juice is flying all over me and everybody else.”
“Ah seen uh big load o' yaller meat melons down duh
street, duh seeds wuz jet black; dey showuz purty an' ez
sweet ez honey.”
“Yas, Reb, but Ah jes cain't git der satisfied taste out uv
yaller meats lak ah kin out ole reds, answered the Elder.
Elder, Ah see you'se puttin' in yo' winner wood, whut you
payin' fuh it?” said Uncle Jake, after spitting out a mouthful
of seeds.
Elder Simpson stretched his long neck, cleared his throat
lustily and spoke prosperously: “It’s three dollars uh cord,
but mah boy, Dr. Simpson, is takin it fuh uh debt; folks won't
have money now till fall an' duh country folks offers him
uv'rythin' but duh baby.”
With a basket of clothes on her head, one under her right
arm and a bucket in her left hand, sister Tinnie, a big lodge
member, stopped under the shade to rest.
89


“How's you men? Sees you enjoyin' dat good red
boneless ham.”
“Yas, Sister Tinnie, it's sweet too. We jes heard dat yo'
lodge is givin' uh hog-hock sepper at duh hall tonight. Is it
so P” -
“No, sir, it can't be, Uncle Reb, Ah’m duh foremost
leedenest member an' Ah don't know nothin' 'bout it. We's
to have dem hog hocks nex' week. We's to have pertater pies
and other things too. Dis sun am sho' hot but dem white
folks is spectin' dey rags an Ah gotta take 'um. You know
ole Bret Johnson is a po’ man now and dey ain't got meny
changing clothes. When dey set us free, he had three hundred
niggers; he los' plenty money. Reckon he'll make a good crop
dis yer. He's got two farms planted in cotton and cawn.
Ah’ll go long now. Good day, Genermens.”
“Good-day, Sister Tinnie,” they chimed together.
“Mamie hyer's two winmen wantin' melons. Wait on
'um an' be sho' tuh keep dat po' white man's money straight;
he needs it ez bad ez we do.
Me and Moster Jim drew all over dis county. We went
to uv'ry barbecue an' picnic we hyerd 'bout. Whenever we
passed uh church uh school house an' dey wuz havin' uh picnic
we allus stopped. Moster Jim didn't know whar he wuz
goin' noways. Sometimes uh farmer would ax him tuh stay
three uh fo' days. Country folks had plenty den. Dey yards
wuz full uv hogs, chickens an' turkeys. He wuz uh good
lookin' man an' duh girls wuz crazy 'bout him cause he could
use sich big wurds, but sir, do you know when we lef’ dem
houses he hardly ever spoke uv dem gurls.
He had uh rovin' min’. His daddy hated it but whut could
he do?
One time we wuz gone two monts. His daddy got oneasy.
We could uv come home, but we jes didn't.
Did you call, Sam?
Moster Jim's waked 2 Stay here ez long ez you please,
genermans. Mamie, ef Moster Jim is better, we'll go tuh see
Mammy, Sunday. Ah know she's lookin' fuh us.”
“I’m saving my nickels so I can take her some soft candy
and some other things too. She's my great-grandma and I
love her. She tells me many sad stories about slavery. I'm
90


glad her mistress wasn't cruel to her; I can't see how anyone
could mistreat her, she's so kind and sweet.”
“Be quiet chile. When you git to be a bigger gurl, you'll
read in yo' hist'ry book 'bout uh good man name Abraham
Lincoln dat set us free. We'll talk uhbout dis agin; Moster
Jim is uh-callin' me.”
Whenever Moster Jim got on a drunk, Uncle Jake said it
“simply tore him to pieces.”
The occupants of the little four room house welcomed
Moster Jim whenever he felt like coming. Uncle Jake had
only one bed to offer him and that was his own, but each time
he gave it up willingly.
He and his boys had worked two days before they could
get Moster Jim's stomach to acting anyways like right, but
on the third night his condition was so improved that Uncle
Jake had him move to the back of the bed and he took his
place on the front. When Moster Jim was at his worse, Uncle
Jake sat up all night in his old wicker rocker and nodded, or
lay across the foot of the bed whenever he could.
Early the next morning when Sam went to work he
slammed the old back door and little Mamie woke up. Every-
thing seemed so still she thought she'd peep to see how Moster
Jim was coming on.
As she tipped to the door that led from the little room
where she and Ellen slept, to her grandfather's big room, a
strange sight greeted her. There in the old wooden bed lay
two old men, both with white hair and long white chin
whiskers, one white, one dark brown, peacefully sleeping.
Once master and slave, now friends; but the tie that once
bound them was just as strong.
No one could manage Master Jim like his former slave.
When liquor dominated him, and vile words poured forth,
Uncle Jake had only to speak: “Now, now, Moster Jim, be
still—You be still, you'se sick, you'se jes sick, don't you talk
no mo', go to bed.”
He always spoke with the utmost kindness and patience
and if he were near him would take his hand and pat him with
his left. Moster Jim would respond in the same low tone:
“Yes, Jake I'll go to bed.” And he did. Neighbors who
happened in after he got better, thought it remarkable how
calmly they spoke to each other and more wonderful how they
91


obeyed each other; both had soft, musical, Southern voices.
Folks wanted to come to see him, but Uncle Jake positively
refused even to let his best friends see Master Jim when he
was very sick. Only the family were allowed and they tipped
about so he could sleep. Uncle Jake declared most folks,
it mattered not how nice they were, talked too much and all
his life he made it his business to give them as little as possible
to talk about. After Master Jim began to improve, he'd let
him sit in the yard and get a little fresh air; but if a crowd
began to gather he had the boys take him in the house.
Both white and colored in Penhook understood. Even the
officers of the law never meddled.
He remained one week. Lena washed and ironed his
clothes, pressed his suit, brushed his black felt Stetson, and
Sam shined his shoes.
“Moster Jim, you's goin' down in Brazos now. Ah wish
you'd be kerful. You'se uh ole man and can't do things you
use tuh. You nuver haves aches an pains lak Ah do, an you'se
older then me; you kin walk good, an you oughter be proud
uv it an thankful. Won't you promos me you won't git in
sich uh fix no mo'? It's too hard on yo' body.”
Uncle Jake begged Master Jim in such pathetic tones he
promised right away, as he usually did, that he'd never drink
another drop.
“Yes, I'm going back down home; I call Brazos Bottom
home as I stay there most of the time and I’m going to let
liquor alone.
Don't know when I'll be back, but I promise Jake, not to
come as I did this time,” said Master Jim.
Neither Uncle Jake, nor anyone else could understand
Master Jim. It mattered not how drunk he happened to be,
he never once forgot Uncle Jake's name or address, but as
soon as he got into the little shack, he'd often lose
consciousness.
Uncle Jake carefully watched the tall figure with unsteady
legs as it went slowly down Tremble Street and turned up
Birmingham to catch the old mule street car that would take
him to the station.
Master Jim had taken up so much of Uncle Jake's time,
he had almost forgotten poor Joe.
92


times around it and tied it tightly. This was one of their sure
remedies for lifting the palate. She then turned the handle
of the spoon over, put a little salt and pepper on the end of
it and touched the palate.
“Now, den, Joe, mah boy, you oughter feel better by now.
Go lay down; Ah'll gether some uv dem little red and yaller
termaters frum yo' pappy's garden an make yo' some soup.
He's got uh little fever.”
“Thanky Hannah—When you hyered frum yo' chillun on
duh prer?”
“Magnolia come down las' Sadday; she said ole man
Simon is got good heavy cottun. Dey picked out two bales
fuh him deysefs.
Her husban, Mike, is duh onres’ cuss Ah ever seed. He'll
wurkuh while an den he's got tuh play uh while. He claimed
he wuz sick one day an couldn't go to tuh fiel. She tol’ him
tuh see after duh dinner. When dey went to duh house at
twelve uh 'clock, he had uh gang dair an dey'd been gamblin';
he'd gambled uh way duh money he had in his pockets an'
evun had gambled off her pot uv green cookin' on duh fiah.
Dey makes good money uv'ry fall, but Mike throws uh
way haf uv it an' her an' her chillun haves tuh suffer.
Good day, genermans. Jake, sen' little Mamie fuh duh
soup dis s'evenin.”
“Baby chile, Grandpa's got uh head-ache. Mah coffee
Ah’m fred wuzn't strong uhnuf. Ah got uh nickel,-run down
to duh sto' an git some Arbuckle Coffee.”
“Can she make coffee, Jake?” asked Elder as he gave a
broad grin.”
“Yas, she'll come an' git duh coffee mill an grin' it an'
den she'll soon bring it out hot an' steamin'.”
“Mamie bring me uh dime bottle uv Garret snuff please,
mah teeth is all 'bout gone an Ah kan't chaw terbaccer.” said
Uncle Meek.
Most people ground their own coffee. Uncle Jake's little
coffee mill looked like a small box with a handle on top that
you turned round and round. The coffee fell below in a little
drawer.
“Elder, Ah wuz in duh garden early yistidy mornin' an'
Ah seed you takin' out duh big slop jar; whut wuz dat red
top you had on it?”
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“Joe, you git two stick uv wood fuh duh fiah. It's gitten
too low; Sam will put on uh back log when he comes.”
“Pappy, noise don't hurt little Mamie; she's playing
‘hully-gull.” She's cryin' 'cause she lost so meny pekons,”
cackled Ellen.
“You teases her too much. Yo' hans' is too big to play
wid her, you kin allus guess whut she's got in her little fis'.
Frum now on when you play 'ole grey hoss' uh ‘hully-gull' uh
whuever it is wid her, don't you have over six in yo' han’.”
“Pappy that's not fair. You ought not let her play if
she can't play right,” blurted Ellen, angrily.
“Hyer baby chile', take grandpa's pekons. Ah can't pick
'um out no way,” said Uncle Jake as he reached his big left
hand in his old coat pocket and got it full of large pecans a
neighbor had brought him from Mr. Moore's pecan farm.
Little Mamie smiled as they fell in her lap.
A heavy rap on the door caused all eyes to look in that
direction. Ellen jumped from her seat and unbolted the
door. It was Alvin with the long loose pockets of his old
over-coat bulging with fruit and peppermint candy.
He quickly stepped inside, shook the rain from his slouched
brown felt hat and sat down.
“We've had lots uv hard rain today. It's rainin’ out there
now,” said Alvin.
He handed little Mamie a big, red stick of candy.
“She gits duh furs'. How's yo' year? Yo' eyes is uh
little red.”
“I feel better Mr. Alvin, thanky sir, for the candy,” said
little Mamie, as she kept counting her pecans.
Alvin gave everyone around the glowing fire an apple,
a few English walnuts, or a piece of candy.
“Joe, git dat Betsy-bug out dat can an fetch it hyer. Ah’m
sorry Sam kotch jes' one. Little Mamie is so skerry Ah’m uh
fred she'll jump an it won't git in her year. Ah’ve hyerd all
mah days dat you'll nuver have year-ake no more ef you git
dat blood in it.
“Now Alvin, uh Betsy-bug ain't got but one drap uv blood
in his body an' dat's in his back. You opun his back an' let
dat one drap git in her year.”
“Ah’ll try, Uncle Jake.
“Lay yo' head on mah knee, chile; now be still, don't jump,
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it won't hurt; it'll feel lak duh medicine yo' mama puts in it
dat she got frum duh doctor. Yo' right year is duh one dat's
hurtin' wurse ain't it?”
“Yes, Mr. Alvin.”
She shut her eyes very tightly, gritted her teeth and
expected something strange to happen.
Alvin opened her ear with his little finger and broke open
the bug. Little Mamie heard it and jumped. She felt some-
thing hit the side of her ear; he had missed his mark. He
then took Uncle Jake's strong pipe and blew warm smoke in
her ear and stuffed it with cotton.
They ate their dainties and told stories for more than
half an hour before they noticed that Fred had gone to bed.
“Fred, when did you go to bed 2 Ain't you goin' to the
party? Lizzy Ann said you wuz to take her,” said Ellen
surprisedly.
“Not me, not if I kin hep it. I don't lak Lizzy Ann. Her
hair's too short,” said Fred, then covered his head.
“Yes, I heard her say myself that nothin' wuz short 'bout
her but her hair and that wuz growin; she thinks she's so
stylish,” snarled Ellen.
“Her hair grows too slow for me. I lak long haired
girls lak Minnie Mae.”
Before Fred had hardly finished speaking, someone ran
upon the shaky porch and thumped several times on the door.
Ellen ran and unthumbolted it. “Oh, it's Henry, Lizzy
Ann's brother. Come in.”
“Naw Ellen, I ain't got time; is Fred here?” asked Henry,
as he shook the rain from his old sleazy hat.
“There he is over there on his cot,” Ellen giggled, as she
pointed.
“Fred, Lizzy Ann is waitin' for you to take her to the
party.”
“Henry, it's been rainin’ nearly all day; I didn't think
she'd want to go on a night like this.”
“It's not rainin' now, it's jes sprinklin'. It'll be nice an
cool whilse you dance.”
“Son, did you promos tuh go wid Lizzy Ann? Ef you did,
git right up, sur.”
“Yes, pappy I did, but who'd have a party on such a night
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as this. Set down, Henry, and wait. I'll soon be ready,”
growled Fred.
Ellen giggled frantically as she played “old grey horse”.
Fred understood it all, and when he went out of the door,
he made a face and shook his fist at her.
“Pappy, Fred is scared to go down to Lizzie Ann's house.
She lives in ‘Frog Town' and he's got to go through them
hanted woods.”
“Ah know Ellen. Ah hated tuh see him go, but he had
no business tuh promos uh gal he's go take her somewhurs
den git in bed.”
“Guess Ah'll be goin', it's slacked up. Ah don't want tuh
git wet. Goodnight all uv yawl.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Alvin, come again,” they all shouted.
“Do yawl hyer dat dog uh howlin', he's been howlin' fuh
two nights. He's on Lee Street.”
“Yes, Reb; you know Tillie's mammy is low sick. Las'
night uh hoo-owl wuz hooing an' dey couldn't quiet Tille; she
jes knowed her manny would die, fuh duh dog wuz howlin' at
duh same time dat duh owl wuz hooing. Course both is duh
sign uv death. It don't mean her mammy, but somebody in
dat neighborhood. Tillie is allus been uh little pickeryunance.
Las’ week when it lightened an thundered, dat gal fell on
her knees and started prain'; lightenen' couldn't strack her
house; dey's got duh spensive kind uv lighten' rods runnin'
down uv'ry corner uv duh house an uh half-dozen rods over
five feet high wid bulbs on 'um on top uv duh house. Dey's
duh twisted kine. When lightnen' stracks dem it runs down
in duh groun.”
Heavy footsteps on the porch attracted their attention.
Uncle Jake smiled at little Mamie, “Wonder who dat is on
der gallry now?” -
“It's my mammal” shouted little Mamie.
Ellen opened the door, that was her job at night.
“You sho' late tuh night, Lena; you said Miss Lucas wuz
havin' uh big supper. Dat's why Ah sont Sam.”
Lena kissed her little girl and put the “thanky ma'm pan”
in her lap. She divided the fried chicken, biscuits, baked yams
and chocolate cake with those around the fire.
After Uncle Reb gobbled down his handful, he got his old
hat on the floor beside his chair and remarked:
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“Dat's sho' good eatin chillun, Ah'll be goin.”
“Come back again, Reb.”
“Yes, Ah will, Jake, if Ah lives and nothin' happens.”
The old timers felt they were very polite when they said,
“if I live and nothing happens.”
“Pappy, git Sam to fix our bed; last night nearly all the
slats fell out, didn't you hear them? They made so much noise
I thought they woke everybody up. We had to get up an pull
all the others out so we could sleep.”
“Ellen, when yawl git ready tuh turn, you mus' turn
together,” said Uncle Jake, jokingly. “Git some wire an'
pull duh sides closer, son; dem slats is uh little short, lak mine.
Ah don' see why you got up. Mine fell out las' week. Jes
duh ones frum duh middle on down to duh foot fell out.
Me an' Sam wuz settin' up. We jes sot dair.”
“Sister, Elder Brown is havin' a rivival at his church.
Las' night the mourners bench wuz full; the preacher that wuz
hepin’ went on the outside and tried to git all the foks dat
wuz hangin' in the winders to come in. They had lots uv
ConVertS.
Elder Sims is a 'vangelist. He's carrin' on the meetin'
fur Elder Brown; all he do is go' 'roun' havin' big meetins'.
I'll git the bed fixed an go down for a while.”
“Sam I'blieve I'll go too. I do love good singing,” said
Lena.
“We's late. I know we cain't get no seat.”
“We'll go see. If we cain't, we'll come back; it's slacked
up out there now.” answered Lena.


EHAPTER VIII
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
THE OLD MEN stretched their necks like
giraffes whenever they heard the roll of wagon wheels or the
sound of horses' hoofs, so eager were they for others to join
them.
A span of grey mules stopped at the gate and a husky
young man jumped off the front seat and reached for the
hand of his father, who had ridden to town with him.
“Howdy, yawl, how's you been up hyer?”
“Come in, Clem, we's tolerable. Don't see much uv you.”
“Nope, Jake, mah eyes is gittin' wurse. Ah kin see only
uh few feet uh head uv me, an dat's not clear. Ah gits tuh
come tuh town when mah boys come fuh grub.”
“How's crops down yo' way?” put in Elder.
“Bad, bad, duh boll-weevils is nigh ruint all duh cottun.
Duh furs' pickin' wuzn't ez good ez our scrap pickin' is allus
been. We won't make uh nuf dis yer tuh pay rent.
“All duh farmers dat pass, tell us duh same thing, an' dey
pass by hyer frum duh bes' farms in dis county,” answered
Elder Simpson.
“Hiram brung us some uv dem weevils in uh jar. Ah kin
see dey'll be hard things tuh kill. He said dey foun' sumpin'
tuh kill 'um, but it ruint duh cottun. Some smart man up Norf
will fin' uh killer fuh 'um,” continued Elder.
The boll-weevil had begun to destroy the young cotton.
The farmers were unable to find anything to stop them.
“Dis is go be duh hardes' yer we've seed since we've been
hyer,” complained Uncle Clem, as he shook his hoary head.
“We didn't have much luck wid hogs uh chickens. We's got
black-eyed peas an sweet an' 'ish 'taters.
Ole man Sims is uh hard man tuh rent frum. Ah don't
know whut he'll say uh'bout us not havin' all his money. He
didn't raise no cotton hissef, but he specks you tuh raise it.
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Mah boys is go cut an sell wood, but you cain't git but
two dollars an' a half a cord fuh it an' we live so fur, dey'll
have tuh leave home at 4 o'clock in duh mornin' tuh make it
hyer an' back, an' it's hard pullin' fuh duh mules.”
“Clem, we's got tuh face some lean yers, Ah reck'n.
Elder, kin you tell us duh tale uh 'bout duh lean yers in duh
Bible? Dat was seben; we's hopin' dis won't be dat long.”
“Yas, Jake, dey had hard times fuh seb'n long yers.”
Elder cleared his phlegmy throat wildly and began. The
old men had often heard him relate this story; it was one of
their favorites, but he seemed to tell it more effectively this
time. All of them felt that they were facing hard times and
only the Lord knew how things would come out.
After he had finished, each one commented on it; Uncle
Jake was last. He had been worrying over the situation for
weeks. He knew whenever North Texas failed in cotton,
the year would be hard.
“Mah chillun uhway from hyer is done promosed tuh
sen' me uh little money. Ah got three cords uv wood in, an'
Ah ordered mo'. We's got one hog an one jig, jes couldn't
feed no mo'. Sam is go get yams frum duh doctor's farm.
Ah thinks we go have plenty freezin' weather. Me an' Sam
will git uh apple box or ole tub an put dem taters down in
hay an' keep 'um under mah bed. Dat ole kitchen uv min'
is got so many cracks, dey'd freeze in dair; an it's nothin'
wurse den fros' bitten taters. Ah keeps fiah in mah fiah place
all duh time. Duh taters Ah keeps under mah bed ain't
nuver froze yit.
We's got uh gunny sack uv black-eyed peas, an fo' sacks
uv dried fruit—peaches an apples. Ef we's kerful, we kin
make it through, if we live an' nothin' happen.”
“Jake, duh Lawd takes kere uv all good folks; we don't
need tuh wurry too much.”
Elder tried to give wholesome advise to his friends when
they were perturbed. Most of these old men had passed the
age of usefulness, and had to depend on their children to care
for them.
“Hyer's mah Joe wid his gallun uv buttermilk. Dat boy
kin drink mo' buttermilk wid cawn-bread crumbled up in it
den uh little, he mus' uv been marked wid buttermilk.”
“Ah hyer's Mr. Johnny's whistle. Ah hopes he's got uh
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letter fuh me frum mah daughter in Arkansus. She said she
wuz goin' tuh sen' me uh ticket,” said Uncle Reb.
“How long is dat boy been our mailman, Jake?”
“Nigh on ten yers, Reb, but you 'member his daddy wuz
'fore him.”
While they were talking, Mr. Johnny's horse trotted up
to the gate; his little sulky swayed several times, after the
horse stopped.
Mr. Johnny was a poor white boy that everybody liked.
He knew everyone and had something to say that pleased
them.
“Howdy, howdy yawl; this is a pleasant day. Wisht I had
time to swap a few with you.”
“Howdy do, howdy-do, Mr. Johnny.” All grinned, waved
and shouted.
“Uncle Jake, here's a letter for Sam.”
“Yas sur, get it little Mamie.”
“Is you got uh ledder fuh me, Mr. Johnny?”
“Yes, I have, Uncle Reb. It's from your daughter in
Arkansas.”
The postman in small towns are very accomodating. Mr.
Johnny knew what Uncle Reb wanted to know.
“Git it chile. Dat's duh one Ah'm lookin' fuh. Ah'se
nuver rid uh train, but Ah’ve pintly made up mah min' to.
She says it's uh river down by her house an Ah kin feesh.”
“That'll be a nice trip.”
Mr. Johnny slapped the lines on his horse's back as he
spoke the last word.
Sam drove up behind him with Dr. Rogers' boys, one four
and the other one six years old. Their father was considered
the wealthiest and finest throat specialst in town.
“Hello little Mamie, hello Uncle Jake and Uncle Reb,
and-and” whenever they stopped, they were waiting for Sam
to tell them the names of the other old men.
They enjoyed coming down in the colored part of town.
They could make as much noise as they pleased. Sam told
them the names of people they passed on the streets and they
were calling aunts, uncles, and children by their names and
nicknames all the way. Old Maude, the big, lazy horse,
wanted to stop when they began shouting to folks, but one of
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the boys would shake the whip over one of her eyes and she'd
pull on slowly.
“Dem chinches lak to et us up las' night. We have scalded
duh bed wid boilin' lye water, an' we've put coal-oil on duh
mattruss, but it don't do no good. Sam got two big ones in
my coller. Dey het me so hot, Ah sot up in bed an fanned fuh
haf uh hour. Dis week we's go git uh new cotton mattruss.
Dem hay ones is chinch alters. Dey goes through dat thin
cloth an stays in duh hay an' at night ez soon ez you blow out
duh lamp dey begins tuh wurk an' dey do's uh good job uv
it too.”
“Jake, Ah thinks dem things gits in lumber uv ole houses,”
said Uncle Clem, “dey's hard things tuh gid rid uv.
Ah don' know which is wurse; chinches ur flees. Mah boys
is got so meny huntin' dogs 'roun', when you set in duh yard,
dey hops all over you. Some uv 'um is stick tights; dey's
little ones. Dem fellers git in yo' flush lak duh red chiggers
in duh cottun patch. You cain't hardly see 'um dey bore
right in you,” continued Uncle Clem.
“Ah sees Julie Mae settin' behin' duh house uv'ry Sunday
after dinner crackin' lice in her childrun's heads, and dey's
uh cryin' fuh dear life. She's got six and it takes some time
fuh her tuh git 'round tuh each head. Her sister, Sally, comes
down and heps her sometimes. Duh po’ childrun's heads is
white 'round duh edges wid nits. Dey loves little Mamie, but
we cain't lough her tuh play wid 'um. Ef dem things get in
her hair ez long ez it is, and in Ellen's thick hair, we'd 'bout
have tuh cut they's off. We put Mukkury's ointment on dey
heads once in uh while tuh keep 'um out.”
“All yo' chillun's got good hair, Jake. Dey oughter, yo'
wife had white fokes' hair,” put in Uncle Meek.
“You'se almost right. Oscar is got duh wurs' hair in
our family an' it ain't kanchy-donchy,” said Uncle Jake
proudly.
“Lena is pertickler 'bout little Mamie. She keeps her
clean and wid good shoes on. She buys Kudekura salves fuh
her hair; it's fo’t bits uh box an Kashie Bokays soap. Dat's
two bits uh bar.”
“Dat's right, Lena keeps her chile clean an' in school.
Duh whole town gives her credit fuh dat.” said Elder as he
reached for another drink the child had brought him.
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his Master Jim and his father speak of places being in
litigation and he used the word whenever he could stick it in.
“Ole man Hoggins is tried two times to dig a well on his
place. Dey struck water dis mornin', but hit's hard. Dey's
go cover it up an' dig near duh east corner uv his lot.
Jake is you seed all dem school teachers hyer tendem duh
normal school? Duh town's ful uv 'um. Dey stifikets is out.”
Uncle Reb had been to town and he was trying to tell all the
news he had heard.
“Yes, Reb, lots uv 'um pass hyer in duh mornin's. Dey's
gitten hard on 'um. Ole Kinkad's son went to college up
North, he's the superintender. Duh paper pintly said dat he
ain't go let nobody, black uh white teach, school in dis county
'thout duh right papers. He's go do duh zaminin’ hissef.”
Uncle Jake leaned over, whispered and giggled: “But Ah
hyers you kin buy one uv dem stifikets fuh twenty-five dollars.”
“Duh schools in duh county lasts only two uh fo’ monts;
he order do sumpin 'bout dat.
Ah brung you uh few watermelon seeds, Jake. Dey's duh
rattlesnakes. Soak 'um in water over night an' dey'll come
right up.”
“Thanks, Reb.
Emma lef’ word fuh you tuh go atter her washin' at ole
Miss Easter's. Ant Zilphy quit washin' fuh her las’ week.
She said when she tuck Miss Easter's clothes las' week, dey
looked so prutty an' white dat tuh compliment her, she said,
‘Zilphy, you'se sich uh good wash 'oman, when you die I'se
go put uh wash board at duh head an' one at duh foot uv yo'
grave.’
Zilphy wuz bilin'. She preached all duh way home,
swearin' she wouldn't put her foot in Miss Easter's house uh
gin.
Look at dat fine load uv chickens.”
Bowing and at the same time waving a hello to the white
farmer who had driven up to his gate, “You better come in
an' res' yo'sef, Cap'n ; you've drew uh long ways dis mornin'
ain't you?”
“Yes Uncle, I've been on my way since four o'clock.
Have you seen meny chicken wagons go by?”
“Nope Cap'n, Ah ain’t.
Whut yo's sellin' um fuh?”
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“I want fifteen cents fuh fryers an two-bits for these big
fat hens,” slowly replied the farmer.
“You want uh good price, don't he Reb?”
“Dat's uh big price, Cap'n,” answered Uncle Reb.
“I know, but they're corn fed Uncle.”
“Whut's yo' turkeys go be wurth?” inquired Uncle Jake.
“I must get fo' bits for my hens and six bits for the
gobblers to make anything.”
“You go down Church Street an' way out uh mung duh
rich whites. Mos' all dese foke's roun' hyer is got chickens
an’ few turkeys.
Duh big stores down on Bonham might buy some, but Ah
ain't tellin' you you'll git yo' price.”
“Pappy I'm coming with your dinner,” said Ellen as she
stuck her head out of the little window.
“Bring it on Sister, I'se good and ready fuh it. Did you
git duh buttermilk?”
“Yes, Pappy.”
“Ellen, break me uh little bush.
Ah kin fan duh flies ef dey bothers. Git dat bigges' box
an' put it ez close tuh mah cheer ez you kin, so Ah won't
have tuh reach so fur.”
“Here's a wet towel, so you can wipe your mouth, Pappy.
I hate to bring your buttermilk out here; you get it all in your
moustache and whiskers.”
“You'se too pertickler. Whut's dat, baby?”
Uncle Jake had almost finished, when Lena came up
walking slowly, holding a big black umbrella over her.
“Set down, daught an res' yo' sef. Me an Mamie is go
plant some seeds when duh sun gits uh little low. Elder is
been plantin' all dis week; Ah seed him early dis mornin'
scoutin' 'roun’.
Mah rumatisum is been botherin' me uh little. Ah thinks
dis copper wire I'se got 'roun' mah ankles is 'bout lost its
strength.
Mr. Leslie brung me sum good bug juice dis mornin.
Ah'll make me some bitters when Ah git some asafetidy an'
stuff; it'll hep me.”
“I hear the band playin' on the corner, Pappy. The lodge
is givin' a picnic on Buttermilk Branch tomorrow.” said Lena.
The children ran like rabbits and grown ups followed,
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hurrying to the corner to see and hear the band. Mr. Gillum's
big bass horn roared above all the other instruments. The
barefooted children danced the possum drag and other
familiar steps in the middle of the street. The heavy sand
didn't retard them. No one noticed the dust; when the band
stopped playing, the musicians as well as all the listeners
looked like ash cats.
“Uncle Jake, it's after seven. I come fuh Ellen and Little
Mamie to go to the church festibal.”
“All right, Miss Charidy; take good kere uv mah
childrun.”
The sisters had three long tables in the yard in front of
the church. They asked passersby to eat supper with them.
The moon shone brightly and they needed no lamps. The
large vacant space back of the church served as a playyard for
the children, Ellen and the older girls led the games.
Soon Miss Charity came out and made them come and
spend their nickels. Hot tamale loaf, a hot fish sandwich, a
hog hock, ice cream, or jelly cake were all five cents an order.
The children sat on the grass, took their time and enjoyed
every mouthful.
The next morning was Sunday. Rev. Hicks, a minister
from Oklahoma was to preach. At eleven o'clock, every seat
had been taken.
Rev. Hicks liked for folks to enjoy his sermons, and let
him know it by some a-mens now and then, but Sister Charity
went to the extreme. She began shouting early during his
sermon and continued to the end. At times he'd pause to let
her finish her loud screeching screams. Often members had
to lean forward and turn their ears toward the pulpit to hear.
After the services, the members came up front to shake
hands with Rev. Hicks and compliment him on preaching
such a soul-stirring sermon.
He kept his eyes on Sister Charity. She was busy talking
to those who were leaving. When he started home with
Sister Reesie for dinner, he saw Sister Charity standing near
the gate. He walked up, shook hands with her briskly, and
asked, “What might be the name?”
“I’m Charidy Hoggins,” she quickly replied.
“You enjoyed my sermon; I noticed you shouted most of
108


the morning. I'd like to know just what I said that touched
you most; I might want to use it again, sometimes.”
Charity looked at him in disgust. She stiffened her neck,
rolled her eyes at him, and answered, “Huh, man! Ah didn't
hyer a word you said, Ah wuz servin' my God.”
Rev. Hicks caught Sister Reesie by the arm and walked on.
The children had been rehearsing for weeks for a concert
that was to be Monday night. Professor Rucker, from Dallas,
moved to Penhook and had trained them. The program was
to be inside the church, but afterwards a big sham battle was
to take place on the outside.
Little Mamie liked everything but the sham battle. She
couldn't conceive of a thing like that being carried out without
someone getting hurt. She talked it over with her grandpa
and confessed that she was scared, but didn't want to be called
a coward. Professor Rucker had bought dozens of Roman
candles. He had arranged the children in two long lines,
facing each other, but she asked to be in the one near High
Street. She had noticed that the barbed wire fence had been
tied up, so people going to church could crawl under. Mamie
decided to take part in the concert and line up for the sham
battle, but when all were busy lighting the fireworks, she'd
slip under the wire fence and run home.
Monday night came too soon.
The concert proved to be quite entertaining, and the huge
crowd went outside to see the sham battle. The children were
jubilent. They grabbed for the longest and largest shooters,
but little Mamie was down-hearted. She could imagine
something terrible happening, all those kids running and
pointing those things at each other.
Benson Cook, police officer living on High Street, heard
the noise and saw the crowd. His wife had been ill for weeks,
so he came over and told the pastor and Professor Rucker
that they'd have to stop the noise. A white officer of the law
had spoken and the show was off. Little Mamie was never so
happy; she just knew the Lord had something to do with it.
She didn't have to run and no one ever suspected her of being
a coward.
The weather turned very warm. The hog pens and duck
holes were breeders for mosquitoes and other pests. Uncle
Jake and Sam put Beaumont oil around his pig pen, but some
109


neighbors wouldn't use it, and he declared that was the reason
they had to fight summer pests.
“Baby, git duh ole smokin' bucket. Ellen said she put a
pair uv ole raggity wool britches behin' duh kitchen do'. Cut
off one leg. Some red coals is in duh stove, git dem, put uh
few pieces uv kinlin wood on 'um an' den put on duh ole
britches leg. Dese muskeeders is so bad.” Uncle Jake had a
little green bush fanning and hitting at mosquitoes as he talked.
He didn't believe in using things the drug store sold for
keeping away pests; he had his own prescriptions.
“Gradpa, that makes such a bad smell,” she whined and
turned up her little nose.
“Huh, Ah'd ruther smell wool uh smokin' then be et up
by dese big things; dey's nearly big ez gallernippers.
Mose Tibbs is frum Lusana, an he says duh gallernippers
is so big duh fokes have tuh screen in dey beds. He could
be uh lyin', Ah ain't been dah.
Sam brung us uh sack uv Injun peaches. When you get
through wid yo' work, we'll eat some wid salt.”
“Grandpa,” said little Mamie with a joyful gasp, “this
will be a good night to tell us riddles and stories. I'll get
the children after while. Is Elder coming back?”
Uncle Jake wiggled his body and stretched his eyes as in
disgust before speaking. “You know he will ef he sees fokes
hyer.”
Little Mamie started her smoke. It wasn't long before
those mosquitoes who had been singing, “cousin, cousin”,
were far from the Cotton-wood tree and Mamie's gang seated
on the grass to hear stories and riddles.
Uncle Jake began, “Now childrun, Ah'll tell you whut
happened jes 'fore duh war wuz over.
Dey wuzn't many banks ez dey is now. Anyway, some
folks didn't want tuh risk dey money in 'um. Dey buried dey
gol' an' silver an' green back.
Dis cap'n Ah'se go tell you 'bout had fit uh battle an'
his men whupped out duh enemy an' tuck all dey muney an'
grub. He had some trusty men, ez all cap'ns do. Dey waited
till dark uv duh moon tuh hide dis money. Den dey tried tuh
fin' big trees dat dey wuz sho wouldn't be cut down tuh bury
money by, 'cause it would be easy anytime tuh fine.
Dese men foun' uh big oak tree an' at midnight dey went
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out wid duh cap'n tuh hide dey tresure.” Uncle Jake cleared
his throat and spit several times to let that soak in. He knew
at the word, “midnight”, just how the children would feel,
so he put strong emphasis on it.
He got what he expected. They shrugged their shoulders,
exchanged excited glances and moved closer together. At
midnight, they imagined ghosts of all kinds were walking
about.
Uncle Jake drew his whole left hand across his mouth to
dry it, and continued, “Duh men mesured uh foot an’ uh haf
frum duh norf side uv duh oak. Duh cap'n writ dat in his
little book. Den dey dug an' dug uh deep, deep hole—feets
deep, an' den dey put uh big irun pot uv gol' an' silver in dat
hole an’ kivered it up. Duh cap'n had uther marks tuh let
him know whar duh place wuz. He watched dis place hissef
an’ rid by uv'ry day.
It tuck weeks fuh things tuh settle. Dey had tuh be sho
dey'd have no mo' trouble wid duh enemy 'fore dey lef’ fuh
home. Dey sauntered 'roun', scourin' duh woods an' country
'bout um, til duh ordur wuz given tuh pack up.
Duh cap'n an' trusties den stol uh way frum duh cumpney
wid pick an' shovels tuh git duh money.”
Uncle Jake tore off a small piece of tobacco with his front
teeth and chewed a bit. He wanted to be sure each youngster
was paying attention before he made this crucial point.
“Now in diggin' fur muney, you cain't talk you mus dig,
an’ nuver udder uh soun’. Ef you do duh muney will sink
further in duh groun’.” To emphasize this point, Uncle Jake
opened his eyes their widest, and struck his knee with his
open palm.
The children flinched again and tried to move still closer
together.
“J-e-s”, he slurred out, “ez dey wuz ready tuh lif' it out,
uh man spoke up an said, ‘give me dat pick ax'; duh pot sunk
two feets in duh groun'. Duh men opened dey moufs, but duh
cap'n flapped his heavy arms up an down, tellin' 'um tuh hush.”
The children's mouths gapped wide open, but they put
their hands over them and gave audible sighs.
“Dey den started diggin' sum mo' an j-e-s when de wuz
'bout tuh lif' it out dis time, duh cap'n wuz too anxious. He
spoke, ‘Give me dat crobar'. Well sur, he wuz digusted wid
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wants back hyer?', he said, ‘What in duh hell an damnation
do you want back hyer?' At dese wurds duh house give uh
mighty shake. Pans, pots, an' cheers all fell on duh flo'.
Po' Rev. Miles throwed down dat Bible an' fairly flew.”
Elder Simpson had dramatized the last part of his story so
forcibly that he was standing when the last word was spoken.
The children sat waiting for more, but he left them as
usual, up in the air. He had started out of the gate.
“Why Elder,” they called, “did anybody ever get that
money?”
“Childrun, childrun,” broke in Uncle Jake, “you better go
3 y 3
play uh-while. Duh moon is shinin’.
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[HAPTER IX
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
THE SCHOOLS in Penhook were good.
The superintendent took pride in showing his friends and
visitors through them. Several of his friends came up from
Austin and he tried to get to his large Negro school before
it dismissed. He wanted the children to sing for them, but
he drove up to the gate a few minutes after four o'clock and
the children were coming down the stairs. His friends
complimented the children's orderliness in leaving the grounds,
but couldn't understand why they had so many books. It
was impossible to study so many in one day.
“I’ll go right in and see Buford,” said the Superintendent
hotly. “These Negro children are carrying so many books
under their arms it's making them bow-legged.”
The superintendent didn't know that the children brought
all kinds of books from home; old almanacs and everything.
They wanted people to think they were in high grades. Some
of those books were never opened at school.
The principal couldn't understand why the superintendent
was so enraged, because he knew his teachers used only the
texts that were on the book lists for each grade. He hadn't
noticed the children having too many books.
This one building housed all the children from the first
grade through the graduating class.
Little Mamie waited nearly every day at the gate until the
graduating class came out and begged to carry two or more
of the big thick books. Some of the children used geographies
to stack the books on; little Mamie found an old atlas around
home to stack hers. She could turn the books sideways and
have two large stacks, then they fitted nicely under her arm.
All the people they passed remarked about such little
children being in high grades and studying so many books.
They just knew they were smart.
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Little Mamie on this particular day happened to turn in
her gate loaded down. She dropped the heavy books on the
grass and began separating them.
“Lors, little Mamie chile, whut you doin' wid so many
books? You didn't leave hyer wid 'um.”
Holding up four books, Mamie said, “Grandpa, these
are your almanacs and these two big ones belong to Addie.
She is in the graduating grade. Wasn't it nice for her to let
me bring them this far?”
“But baby, you is too little tuh fetch sich uh big load. Yo'
little back will sink lak ole man Stacy's hoss. You'll be sway
backed.”
Addie came whirling through the gate while they were
talking.
“Thanks for bringing my books little Mamie.”
“You’re welcome, Addie. I hope you'll let me bring them
again.”
“Addie, whut is dat big black book uhbout?”
“Uncle Jake, that's my Latin book,” said Addie proudly.
“Hit's jes uhbout duh bigges' one Ah sees you got.”
“Yes, and it's the hardest one too, Uncle Jake,” she
answered arrogantly.
“Kin you read uh little bit fuh us out uv it?”
“Yes, uh–let me see.”
Addie turned and turned, but finally turned back to the
first.
Uncle Jake and a host of old men were patiently listening
and looking.
“Here's what it says, “Gallia est omnis divisa in partes
tres;” blundered Addie.
“Dat's prutty talk. Now tell us whut you said.”
Addie blared her eyes, swallowed a time or two and began;
“It says, “All Gaul is divided into three parts.'”
After this she shut her book and whisked out of the gate.
She didn't want them to ask her any more questions.
“I must be going; Mama's waiting for me.”
Uncle Jake turned his head, squinted both eyes and
frowned. “Elder, did you hyer whut she said? She said “All
galls is got three parts to 'um.' Ah'se killed many uh animal,
an' Ah’ve heped clean 'um too. Ah didn't know dat; all duh
galls Ah'se seed jes' had one part, Ah members dat.”
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Elder chewed and groaned and spit several times and
reflected a second or two. “Well, Jake, dey's talkin' 'bout
people's galls,” he responded advisedly.
This settled the question. There was no need for further
discussion. Elder Simpson was a well-read man and could
usually put them at ease on any subject.
When little Mamie came from school she was anxious to
tell the old men all she'd learned that day from the pretty red
book, “A Child's Book of Health.” They had been talking
about teeth, and the next day they were to study about tobacco.
None of the old men had many teeth, but they listened so as to
instruct those around who did have them. Mr. Snow, her
teacher, had also been talking to them for weeks about honesty.
The next morning the children were in their seats bright
and early. Every one had read the lesson over carefully
the night before. The teacher began by giving a short talk on
tobacco, then enlarged upon what the book had said by giving
many examples. This was all new to the children, because
nearly every grown person in their homes either chewed or
dipped. One of their daily chores had been to run to the store
for Star-navy tobacco or a five or ten cent box of Levi
Garrett's snuff. They bucked their cute eyes and gasped;
some of their hearts even beat a bit faster. What could be
more startling? Little Mamie had heard her grandpa and
the old men say that tobacco sweetened the breath and cleaned
the teeth. Others had heard this and more.
When he had finished, he asked all those who dipped or
chewed to be honest and stand up. Lucy May, a large fat
dark girl, sitting in the rear of the room stood up, but hung
her head down to one side, and stared at the floor.
“There's one honest one,” shouted the teacher with his
big bass voice. “Who'll be the next?”
He waited for awhile, looking over his glasses from one
side of the room to the other, like a minister seeking sinners,
and as no one else stood up, he walked a little toward Lucy
May. All the children in the front seats turned around to see
and hear it all.
“Now Lucy May, since I've explained to you as best I
know how, the harm of tobacco and snuff, I'm sure you're
willing to quit. Do you dip or chew?”
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Lucy May wiggled about a little and whined, “Ah dips,
'Fesser.”
“If you make up your mind to quit dipping snuff, you can.”
He talked and talked, until his tongue must have been tired.
Tears began to roll slowly down Lucy May's cheeks. The
teacher and children both knew by this, that she had been
converted.
“Now what have you to say about it, little girl?” the
teacher asked.
Lucy May began bawling and she twisted herself many
ways. When she quieted down a little, she blurted out,
“Fesser, Ah 'blieve if Ah quits dipping snuff, Ah'll die.” She
then flopped down in her seat and hid her face in her folded
arms. The children began giggling, but when the professor
tapped loudly on the desk with his long switch, they stopped
immediately. Professor Snow was a man of Herculean
stature, very dark, with a pleasant smile, but meant every
word he said, and the children knew he didn't “spare the rod.”
“How did you begin dippin’?”
She raised her head high enough to be heard: “When
Mama sont me fuh her snuff, she'd tell me to open it an scrape
off the top. She said the top wuz pison. It smelt good to me;
I begin tastin' it, an frum that I started dippin'. Mama gives
it to me, now.”
“Some day, Lucy May, you'll regret you ever started such
an ugly habit.”
Professor Snow saw that he hadn't put this lesson over
as he had hoped to, and thought best to end it right there and
then.
This discussion had made him a little warm, so he went
outside. Whenever he left the room, he trusted the children
to stay in their seats and work.
He drew himself a cool drink of water from the well.
The children listened to the old squeaking wheel as the rope
slipped through. Standing outside awhile, he looked in several
directions and wondered how and when next to tackle that
subject. He then walked around and went in his back door.
The children were facing the front, so their backs were to
him. He stood inside and watched them. Every little head
was down. Slowly, he swayed up front, each child looking
up as he passed his desk. They liked to see him walk as much
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They'd tried to please him, and caught the worst of it; all
were glad when school let out.
When little Mamie got home she found the old men
discussing hard times.
“Baby chile, you come? Ah didn't know hit wuz fo'
o'clock.”
“Yes Grandpa, it's after four; didn't you hear the city
clock strike?”
“Naw, baby; Ah didn't hyer it.
Aunt Tiny wants you tuh come an' see whut you kin do fuh
her chickens; Sam will go hep you.
Genermens, she is uh good little root an urb doctor. She's
lak mah mammy. Duh chickens 'roun' hyer is dying up wid
limber neck an she's kured her's an she is made over fo' bits
kyorin' other folks chickens. Tell 'um whut you do, baby.”
Little Mamie smiled at receiving such high compliments.
She walked over, sat on the arm of the old wicker chair, put
her arm around her grandfather's neck so's to feel at ease
while talking: “Uncle Sylvester passed, and I told him my
chickens had limber neck and he told me to pull a strong
feather from the wing or tail and ketch up the skin on the back
of the chicken's neck and run the sharp point of the feather
throught the skin, then jerk the whole feather through. This
cured all of mine; in a day or so their necks began to straighten
up. Uncle Sam goes with me and do what I tell him. I'm a
little scared.”
“She allus wuz uh little nervis 'bout sich things. She's
easy tuh git sick at duh stumock too. We don't have no
trouble wid her gittin' sick, only wid year-ache, an' ez soon ez
we kin git uh nudder betsy-bug we'll kyore dat. We tried it
once but duh blood didn't git in her year.
Clem's gran'-boy passed hyer, comin' frum duh doctor.
He had stuck uh rusty nail in his foot. She tole him whut
tuh do an' in uh few days, dat boy come back up hyer wid uh
shoe on dat foot an give her uh dollar. He didn't go to duh
doctor no mo'; she kyored it.
Cain't you tell 'um how you kyored his foot, Baby?”
She tucked her little head a bit and smiled.
“Yes sir, Grandpa. Aunt Magnolia told me how to cure
such things; she said nails were poison.
I told him to take a tablespoon of snuff and one of baking
119


soda, mix them together, then pour vinegar over it and make
a paste and put it on his foot about twice a day and a fresh
one at night. If it hurt, or began to draw, pour more vinegar
over it. If it's a finger, use a teaspoon full. It matters
not how much or little you make up, take an equal amount of
snuff and soda.
I write down all such things. Many times I have told
people what to do and they've come back and paid me.”
“Yawl knows it takes uh pison tuh kyor uh pison. Ah
hyered ole folks say long uh go dat when sody is mixed wid
snuff, it's pison.
Go on now, you and Sam; it's gettin' late.”
He patted her little hand tenderly, as she got up to go.
“Reb, you drives through town takin' white folks clothes
uv'ry day. Do you see meny bales uv cotton?”
“Not meny, Jake, an dey's duh littles', tightes' things Ah
ever seed. Ah didn't know dey could gin sich norrer bales.
Not much buyin' in duh stores on Sadday lak dey allus is
durin' duh cottun season.
Not much loud takin' an’ terbaccer spittin' on duh square
dey ain't got duh money. Mah wife wuz in town Sadday.
She said uh few farmer's wifes wuz dah, but not meny wuz
spendin' muney. Times is go be tight all right.”
“It's gittin' dark an' cool too; Ah'll git Fred tuh hep me
in. Let's set on duh porch, genermens.”
Ellen got the chimmeys cleaned and lamps lit early. When
little Mamie returned Ellen had cleaned her chimney. She
gave her a nickel because she never could be satisfied with
a chimney after cleaning it. It didn't sparkle like Ellen's.
Fred went in and began playing on the old box piano.
Saul had bought it for Ellen and little Mamie; it was the only
piano in the neighborhood. He paid fifty dollars for it and
the neighbors thought it was good as new. Whenever a piano
player passed, someone would grab him by the arm and take
him over to Uncle Jake's to play. Ham Johnson was the best
pianist in town; often he'd come down and entertain the good
folks. He'd play all the new pieces, but his favorites were,
“Maple-Leaf Rag” and “Kaldonia.”
Fred knew only two pieces—a waltz and a march. He
played so loud, you could hear it almost two blocks away when
the windows were open. He'd play the waltz for about an
120


hour, then turn to the march; it was simply nerve-racking.
The family didn't know how to stop him so his father
suggested taking the lamp out, but Fred didn't mind this. He
soon learned to manipulate as well in the dark as in the light.
The only thing that stopped him was freezing weather; his
fingers got too stiff.
That winter a number of new boys came from the farms,
as there was nothing to do, and went to school. Professor
Buford had the best school in the county. He knew Latin,
Greek, and everything a person should know to be educated;
the Superintendent said that.
These boys hired to white families and worked for room
and board and a very little money. At school, Ellen got
acquainted with one of these boys, Ned Jones. His friends
said he was fortunate, because he worked for Judge Kinkade,
one of the richest men in town.
After supper he and a friend would come down to sit by
the big red fire; each would bring Ellen something they had
left from supper. The “thanky-ma'm pan” was welcomed at
anytime.
Ellen would giggle nervously as she unwrapped the
packages; hot, buttered biscuits, juicy steak, or pork chops,
ginger bread or tea cakes and many other good things were in
them. She'd count the persons around the fire, then take a
biscuit, pull off a piece of steak or pork chop and give it to her
father, and a piece to little Mamie and to whoever else
happened to be there. She'd then mince on the other herself,
until it was all gone. These boys were frequent visitors during
winter.
The days were so short and cold that Uncle Jake saw very
little of his old friends except Elder Simpson, who lived next
door and Uncle Reb, who lived the second door from him.
Both were more active than he.
Christmas was nearing, but no one said much about it.
Some people had hams, preserves, nuts and other things they
managed to hide away, while others had very little or nothing.
Wood had gone up to three dollars and a half a cord and
people were going out to the north of town, trying to find coal
on the railroad tracks.
Christmas came on Friday, but the Sunday before when
the people of that little town awakened, the ground had a
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thick, white carpet of snow. It was the deepest Uncle Jake
had seen in Texas. His boys dug a path to the gate, then
shoveled what they could from the side walk; it was above
their knees. Their wood pile also had to be uncovered. They
couldn't find the old wash bench, the tubs, or black iron kettle;
they too were completely covered. Lena couldn't go to work;
it was too bad for a woman to try to plow through the deep
SnOW.
Little Mamie was glad, for so often when her mother
kissed her good-bye in the morning, she'd lie awake and cry;
she declared when she grew up, she'd stop her mother from
working so hard.
The little old stripped kitchen was colder than an ice box,
and anyway no one ever wasted wood during such tight times
by having two fires; they were happy if they kept one going.
They cooked on the fire place. Food tasted better, and more
seasoned, anyway.
After their good breakfast of fried salt pork, hot biscuits
and molasses, Lena sat wondering what she'd have for dinner.
There were eight of them; her father, four of her brothers;
Sam, Saul, Joe and Fred, little Mamie, Ellen, and herself.
If her brothers, Jim and Oscar, had been there, the family
would have been complete. Somehow she wished for them.
She knew these at home almost expected her to create some-
thing good to eat out of nothing.
Little Mamie went to the window and drew something
on every frosted pane with her finger, then looked for the
children who lived across the street.
“O Grandpal Here's some men with rabbits. The snow
comes up to their knees, but they have gunny sacks wrapped
from their thighs on down.”
Uncle Jake grabbed his stick and turned his chair toward
the window.
“Go Sam, and see how they sell 'um. That's just whut
I want to cook for dinner.”
“All right Sister, who's got the money?”
“You see how much they want a piece for them, we'll find
the money. Won't we pappy?”
“Yes daught, an' ef we fall short, duh baby will open her
snuff box she's got pasted up and let us have it. We'll pay her
all back an some tuh boot.”
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Sam rushed to the door and two brothers, Tom and Frank,
had two dozen or more big jack rabbits; they said they'd been
out since four o'clock.
“Whut they wurth a piece boys?”
“We must git fifteen cents. This snow is so deep, we've
been hours gittin' here. We kilt nigh fifty, an is sold 'um all
but these,” said Tom.
Sam opened the door and stuck his head in:
“Sis, they's fifteen cents a piece.”
“Here's the money. Git two, Brother.”
Sam took them out of the back door, skinned and cleaned
them in a jiffy.
Joe brought little Mamie's three legged study table near
the fire while Fred helped Ellen bring in the biscuit tray, the
three-legged iron skillet and other things Lena wanted. Saul
had roasted two dozen or more yams in the hot ashes. They
were done, and he raked them on the hearth to one side.
“There's no use frying peach pies. We can eat yams for
desert,” said Lena.
She first fried the rabbits good and brown, and stacked
them high on a big platter; then made a skillet full of gravy
and emptied it in a half gallon bucket and set it near the fire to
keep warm. Several times little Mamie had to take it up so
her grandpa could spit in the ashes in that corner. She always
jumped because it sounded like a glass of water being emptied
on the hot ashes and coals. He had a big wad of tobacco in
his jaw and she couldn't persuade him to throw it out.
Lena held the tray in her lap and made it full of dough.
Sam had the skillet the right temperature. He had raked out
a few red coals and put them under the skillet and loaded the
top of the skillet with the same kind. Lena pinched a small
piece from the dough, rolled it in her hands and put it in the
skillet; these were fist biscuits. When she had filled the skillet,
Sam put on the lid. He took care of them while his sister
made more and laid them on a pie plate. Whenever he lifted
the lid with the iron poker, little Mamie looked too, and let
everyone know how they were progressing.
The first skillet full was a golden brown. She pulled one
from the pack, opened it, dipped it into the gravy, gave one
piece to her father and the other to her little girl. The gravy
bucket had to be moved again so uncle Jake could spit out
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his well chewed tobacco. Three skillet fulls were baked; then
what a dinner | The rabbit tasted better than chicken and the
yams with hot gravy over them couldn't be beaten.
As they ate, they looked out the window, talked about the
scenery and enjoyed it. The long icicles hanging from the
porch made the picture ideal.
Little Mamie didn't have much to say. She had to have
the yam with the most syrup running from it. Everyone
laughed as usual when she did or said something cute. No
one had to go to work, so they took their time, cracked the
bones, and ate the marrow. A dog would have had slim
pickings.
They washed the dishes there on the hearth. As the last
pan was being carried out, Elder Simpson turned into the
gate; his boys had shoveled some of the snow from his side-
walk. He had suddenly become a little lonesome and thought
he'd see what the Stearns were doing.
“Ugh, jes' in time; glad we's through. Dese is hard times
tuh have tuh divide yo' little grub, an’ Elder sho' laks daught's
cookin'. He's got mo' money then we is; he saved muney
when he wuz preachin'. His members paid him well an' fed
him well an' he had sense uhnuff tuh save some muney.”
Heavy stamping on the porch to rid his shoes of the snow
was followed by several taps on the door with his cane. Ellen
opened it and invited him in. Saul got up and gave him his
seat, and went to the back of the room, got a box and brought
it near the fire.
“Well it smells good in hyer. Yawl's been eatin’.”
Uncle Jake giggled satisfactorily.
“Yas Elder, we bought rabbits frum duh Johnson boys.
We's havin' tough weather, as all uv us 'spected; dis is duh
wus' snow Ah’ve seed in dis part uv duh country.
Not meny travelin' tuh day.”
“Dey cain't travel. Dis is duh wurse weather Ah've seed
since Ah’ve been in Texas. º
Ah brung you folks some onions fuh seasonin'. Dey don't
keep so good an Ah don't want 'um tuh freeze when somebody
kin eat 'um. We don't use meny.”
“Thanky, Elder Simpson,” said Lena as she took the large
bag, “we love onions; I put them in lots of things I cook.”
“Grandpa, this is a good time for stories. Won't you and
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Uncle Jake shook his head, “Nothin—ole Mistruss said it
wuz her fault. Dat frunt do' should nuver been opuned.
She bought uh nudder one but she kep' dat do' shet.”
Little Mamie clapped her hands and jumped around.
“That's a good story, Grandpa; I like the way it ended.
Poor little boy, I'm glad they didn't whip him. Now Elder,
it's your time to tell one.”
“Ah don't know chile—a good story—let me see;—. Ah'll
tell you 'bout two boys on our plantation dat wuz partners.
Dey run tuhgether all duh time.
Dey wuz pickin' scrapcottun in duh bottom an' dey spied
uh sweet tater patch nex' tuh it. Dey dug some wid dey fingers
an' filled dey shirts full. Dat night when dey went home, dey
hid dey taters in duh bushes till dey went by Mammy Julie's
an' et dey beans an’ bread. Dey hurried to dey cabin, put duh
taters in duh hot ashes, an' talked till dey wuz done. Dey wuz
tired, so dey stretched out on duh flo tuh res' till duh taters
cooled. Me an Ike happened up an’ seed dem good cole yams
an' duh boys fas' uh sleep, so we et 'um all but one an' put duh
peelins' by dey feets. Duh one we didn't eat, we broke in two
an' rubbed it on dey moufs an' lef.”
Elder laughed, shuffled his feet about, spit and hee-hawed
as if it had hapened recently. Everybody waited, but it seemed
to be the end.
“Well Elder, what did the boys say? Did they ever know
who took them?,” inquired little Mamie anxiously.
Elder jumped, as if he'd forgotten he was telling a story.
“Yas, chile, we went in late. Furs' we peeped through duh
cracks an’ listened an' hyerd dem skussin' it; dey couldn't
understand. Dey rally though dey it 'um, but couldn't recollect
when; both wuz rubbin' dey heads. We walked in an' dey
rolled dey eyes at each udder an' stopped talkin'. Dey said
nothin' 'bout it, an' you know we didn't.”
“That's a good one too Elder Simpson,” little Mamie
shouted.
In a few days the snow had about gone. Sam and Saul
made a big snow man in the yard for their little niece. Things
moved along slowly, but Christmas came much too soon. They
had very little money to spend. The churches had Christmas
trees for the children.
Lena bought her little girl a small blonde two-bit doll, a
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small set of pewter dishes, a story book, nuts and candies.
The night before Christmas everyone smiled as little Mamie
busied herself hanging her stocking in a safe place. It was a
good stocking; her mother paid two-bits a pair for them, the
best lisle thread hose worn by children; little Mamie couldn't
stand holey or patched stockings.
She went to bed early so Santa would surely stop; the
others sat up late enjoying riddles.
Sam had just gotten his fire made Christmas morning when
someone knocked on the door. Little Mamie heard it and
jumped out of bed, hollering “‘Christmas Give', to everybody
in this house and on the porch.”
It was cousin Susie May. “‘Christmas give' tuh all yawl.
Here's uh orange I foun' on the groun'ſ Santa Claus must
of dropped it. I wonder who it 'blongs to ?”
“It's mine, Cousin Susie May. I know because I don't
see none in my stocking and I asked for one.”
“All right, chile, take it. I think's its yours, too.”
The whole house was soon astir. Cousin Susie May
handed Uncle Jake a bottle of hard cider. “Here's yours,
Uncle Jake.”
He gripped the neck of the bottle with his old left, “Whut
is it, chile 2–Ah jes knowed you'd think 'bout yo' ole uncle.
Dis is jes whut it takes on Christmas mornin' tuh make things
lively. Thanky an good luck to you.”
All day long Uncle Jake was the recipient of many presents.
No one was more complimentary or appreciative than he.
Aunt Zilphy and her daughter sent him some fine chocolate
cake and good wine.
That night they sat around the fire eating nuts and candies.
Some one tipped on the porch and knocked and yelled out:
“Hello, yawl in there, ‘Christmas give’.”
Ellen ran to the door. It was Alvin Buckner with a big
paper bag. He began handing out fruits, nuts, candies and
tobacco until it was all gone.
“Dat's fine, mighty fine mah boy. Ah didn't think you'd
fergit Uncle Jake dis Christmas. Dis is been uh good day fuh
me an Ah nuver expected it. Times is been hard, but it don't
look much lak it tuhday.
How's yo' white foks, Alvin?”
“Dey's fine, but dey didn't have much ez dey allus haves;
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duh turkey wuzn't ez big an' dey didn't have ez much
cumpney.” He reached way down in his overcoat pocket,
looked surprised as he only found a hole. He reached around,
caught his coat at the bottom and shook everything to the
corner and smiled, “Hyer it is. Ah knowed Ah put it in dis
pocket, but it slipped through dat hole.” He handed Uncle
Jake another package.
Many friends came in to wish Uncle Jake a Merry
Christmas.
“Hello, hello Uncle Jake. This is New Years day and I
come to eat some hog jowl and black eyed peas with you.”
“O, yas, Johnny mah boy; tell Ellen tuh give yuh some.
You ought tuh have good luck dis yer.”
“I’ve et peas at six places and befo' the day's gone I'll
make it to many more.”
“You'se been uh good boy tuhday, is you? On Noo Yers
day, try not spen' so much money an' allus have some in yo'
pockets. Ah tells mah chillun tuh try an' not lose dey temper
'cause whatever you do ur say duh furs day uv duh yer, you'll
do it all duh yer. Eat lots uv black eyed peas 'cause dey's
lucky beans.”
On New Years day nearly every Southerner cooks hog
jowl and black eyed peas. This has long been an established
custom; they are supposed to give you luck.
About nine o'clock they noticed the wind had changed to
the north. Sam kept putting on big logs and they kept moving
up closer to the fire. Few houses were under-pinned and the
wind whistled all under them, blowing old pans and everything
about. Sam had to chink a few cracks that were uncovered.
At eleven, Ellen crawled in bed. Little Mamie waited
awhile for her to warm it. They had a big feather bed and
nothing was prized more highly in such weather.
That night they had another heavy snow and were trapped
in again. Many people and animals suffered. The county
had to go to the rescue of some of its citizens. It was
considered a disgrace for the county to help anyone, so the
destitute families that received aid kept it a secret.
The children were kept from school almost a week, but
when they returned, pieces were given out for the oratorical
contest that was to take place the following April. Little
Mamie was chosen as one of the two speakers in her class.
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During the long nights she learned her piece and recited it so
much that even her grandfather knew parts of it. Her piece
was, “The Gambler's Wife.” Her mother trained her. Uncle
Jake said he could just see the whole thing; he'd seen men
gambling and knew they should be at home and he'd also
given money to buy food for their hungry children in such
cases. The most beautiful picture to him was where she got
on her knees and said the prayer. He just knew she'd get
a prize. -
Things moved along slowly, and at last April came in with
heavy showers, but the weather cleared off before the fifteenth,
the night for the concert.
Long before night, the people began passing. They had
to be early in order to get a good seat. Uncle Jake sat on the
porch and watched them; he'd often remarked that his grand-
child was more like him than any of his children.
All the contestants sat on the front row in order of their
appearance.
At 7:55 P. M. the first speaker, George Washington
Arlington, from the first grade hadn't arrived; his teacher had
given him up. He lived on the south side of town and his
mother, a listless sort of woman said it didn't matter about his
piece, he was too little to go about nights, but she put on her
best and sat on the back seat with the new style hat, “A brazen
heifer,” on the back of her head.
When the principal went upon the stage to call for order,
little George bounced in the back door. Seeing no one in his
seat, he ran and climbed into it.
He looked as he did when he left school that day, bare-
footed, bareheaded, and a pair of dirty overalls on, but he was
a cute little black boy, much too small for his six years. He
could hardly wait for his number to be announced. His piece
was a little reminder to grown-ups about saying “Dont”, so
often to children. His voice was just loud enough and his
pronounciation perfect. He smiled and also frowned in the
proper places. His mother sitting in the rear of the room was
shocked; she'd never heard his piece before, as his teacher
taught it to him. The crowd applauded wildly. He won the
first prize in his division and so did little Mamie. Both went
home as happy as larks; Uncle Jake was waiting with open
arms to congratulate their little girl.
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Sam came in the gate with both hands in his pockets and
spasmodically jerking them up and twisting himself as if his
trousers were falling off.
“Pappy, Uncle Stony Bracely is low sick an' his little old
wife, Aunt Sue Duck is so noisy she won't let him die in peace.
The house an' yard is full of foks; the doctor says he's dyin'.
She keeps runnin'up to his bed sayin’ ‘Bracely, Bracely, Stop
‘zistin' God. Stop ‘zistin' God.”
She says he's holding on to this sinful world. It seems
like she is too; she's older then he is. Nobody kin stop her,
so they sent for her preacher to come an try to set her down.”
“Is dat so Sam? Poor Bracely. Dat 'oman is partly
worried him whar he is now. She's uh smart little trick an’
good at kurin' kungured people, but Ah caint stan' no 'oman
dat talks ez much ez she do.
She allus wuz uh put on.
When she's in chuch, dey tells me she shouts all over it
an' ef she's mad at anybody, she's sho tuh set by dem, give uh
big yell, throw both arms out, an' give 'um uh back-hand lick
in duh mouf.”
“She do pappy. Ain't I seed her?
Nobody's got no faith in her shoutin’.”
All that week the children in the fifth grade were begging
relatives and friends to give them something for the dinner.
Nearly every year the children of each grade gave their
teacher a big dinner and invited the principal and all the other
teachers in the school. For many reasons, these dinners were
becoming very unpopular.
In little Mamie's room, there were many large girls who
came from the county; their fathers were farmers.
Queenie, one of the large girls whose mother worked for
some wealthy white folks, had heard about a new kind of
green ice cream. The name of it was “green ice” and it cost
$1.50 a gallon. None of the children had heard of it; Queenie
had no trouble collecting the money. Little Mamie gave
fifteen cents. A gallon sounded big to the children and too,
they were sure Queenie knew what she was doing. The teacher
had nothing to do with it; she left everything in the hands of
the big girls.
Friday morning the sixth grade children were there bright
and early. The big boys borrowed all the other teacher's
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tables, put them together in the front of the room and the big
girls put on the white cloths and dishes.
Some of the children went home at eleven to get the hot
roasted, and fried chicken and other meats. Some had hot
pies and cakes that had been baked that morning. Some of
them ran all the morning, going up town or to the store for
some things that had been forgotten.
Little Mamie went a little before eleven for her roasted
chicken, and dressing; she wanted to be on time.
There were fourteen teachers; two of them were men.
At twelve o'clock the teachers came in. The big girls
did the serving. The little children kept peeping in to see if
they could help, but the big girls shewed them back. Finally
a bigger girl was placed at the door to keep it closed so they
couldn't even peep. The teachers ate a good dinner and when
they left they thanked the big girls. Miss Jennie, their teacher,
went out with them.
When the little children were called in, nearly everything
had been eaten up. Little Mamie didn't really care for
anything but some of the green ice cream, but she nor any of
the little ones even got to see it. The big girls told them it
was just enough to serve the teachers. Those who insisted
on being given some were told they were fussy, and to hush,
else they'd be put out. Little Mamie was glad to go home, so
she could cry. That afternoon she hurried to tell her grand-
father all about it. She knew he'd sympathize with her.
Uncle Jake had been looking for her.
“What's duh matter, baby chile. You is cryin'.”
She ran and put her arm around his neck and sat on the
arm of the old wicker. “Grandpa, after I give Queenie more
money than anybody, I didn't even see the green ice cream.
The big girls didn't let us in the room while the teachers were
eating, so we don't know who ate it all up.”
He patted her hand gently, “Don’t cry. Tuhmorrer when
Sam gets paid, he'll give you two bits an' you kin go tuh town
an' git some. You know whar duh sto' is, don't you honey?"
She smiled contentedly, “Yes, grandpa, I know where it
is.”
She ran inside, took off her school dress, pulled out of the
pocket the first letter she'd ever received from a boy. She
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Dallas News an' some other papers. Wages is low in most
places.”
The boys listened as they sat on the grass with their
hands folded in front of their raised knees. They had decided
to go and nothing could stop them.
“We read the Dallas News,” said Ned, who acted as
spokesman. “We seen some men that had just come from up
there. They said wages wuz good.”
“Why did they leave, son?” inquired Elder.
“Well—I guess, well I think they are going back,” said
Ned when he found words.
Ellen came and the boys were glad; the old men were
making it too hot for them. They didn't value their advice; it
was a little pricking.
“Up Norf is no place fuh country boys.”
“Naw it ain't Elder, dey might suffer. Dey tells me it's
so meny people up dah, dey don't take time tuh speak tuh you,”
said Uncle Reb. “Mah son's wife she went up dah one time.”
That night the boys left on the eight o'clock Frisco. Ellen
and several friends went to the station to see them off. They
had an enjoyable trip, but when they got to St. Louis, only
a few miles from their destination, they heard that the work
had given out, but they went on.
That afternoon two homesick boys prowled the streets of
a small town with little money. Surely enough, the work had
given out; they went every place, even to the small churches,
but found nothing.
They bought fruit from a vegetable man. He told them
that work couldn't be found round town.
Their money soon gave out. All sorts of things ran
through their minds, especially Ned's. If they had money, of
course, they'd go straight back to Penhook. When the pangs
of hunger really struck them, Ned had a bright idea.
“Frank, that old vegetable man is always got a pocketfull
of money. If we got his bag, we'd catch a freight to St. Louis
and then go to Texas.”
“How kin we git it? He watches you so close; he has got
a roll of bills all the time.”
“We'll ketch him early when he leaves home around five
o'clock. One will buy and the other give him a dazing lick
with a club. We kin make a git away. If we git lost in dodg-
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“‘Filthy Lucre' I didn't earn it, and I won't have it.”
As these and many other things ran through his mind, it began
to rain, a light sprinkle, then a heavy downpour. He jumped
from side to side, but in a short while he was almost knee
deep in the water. His eyes often wandered near the money
sack; it was floating about.
After several attempts, he crawled from under the bridge
and started toward the railroad. At the thought of having no
money, he ran back and grabbed the floating bag, and after
relieving it of its contents, threw it far under the bridge. For
hours he had tramped around in mud and water. His feet
and legs were wet, and he shivered in the cool June air. He
hadn't walked far, before a freight came crawling by.
The next morning he bought some clothing at a second-
hand store in East St. Louis and caught a train for Oklahoma.
Before he left Penhook, he had gotten a letter from his
brother, Alfred. He had offered him a job in the hotel where
he worked, but big brothers always wanted to boss, and he
didn't much want to go, but now he had to. Alfred put him
right to work.
That next week a drummer came in and asked to see all
the help. The manager told him many were off that time
of day, but if he waited until after six o'clock dinner, he'd have
them come in.
At dinner, this drummer sat where he could see all the
waiters as they came in from the kitchen; Ned was among
them. One of the boys noticed him pull out a picture from
his inside coat pocket and managed to get behind his chair as
he looked at it. It was Ned. He rushed into the kitchen and
told Alfred. All the boys gave Ned what money they had in
their pockets, and told him to go.
This drummer kept watching for Ned to come in again,
and when he didn't show up, he asked for him. The boys
kept stalling him off by saying he would be in shortly, or he
had gone upstairs, and Ned got away completely. When
the detective made himself known and showed Ned's picture,
it was too late.
This scared Ned more than anything else. Where in the
world did he get his picture? He wished a million times he'd
never left Penhook. He went to Cleveland and spent the
135


winter. Ellen heard from him all the time, but wondered why
he had changed his name.
The following year, he ventured to Dallas, sent for Ellen
and they married. He had always been a healthy, strong
boy, but now he coughed all the time. Ellen couldn't under-
stand, until he told her of his wanderings and asked her to
forgive him. He just knew the hours he spent under that
bridge would be the cause of an early death. It would have
been better if he had worked it out like a man, as Frank did.
Ellen had been in Dallas two years when she went back
to see her father. Her baby boy, three months old, had a bad
cold, but she went on just the same, for she knew the old
women in the neighborhood knew exactly what to do for him.
When she arrived, the old men were swapping jokes as
usual. They shook hands with the baby and wanted to hear
about the big town, Dallas.
“Dat ole Dago 'oman who use tuh sell you things wuz
hyer las' week, Ellen. Ah bought dese galloses; dey's good
an' strong. Ah give her uh dime; she'll be back nex' week
fuh her fifteen cents. She had uh gret big new grey valise.
She tuck duh top off, an' stacked her goods in it ez she showed
um. She had uh little uv uv'rything. She tickles me uh-sayin',
‘Want some nice good puddies?' She axed fuh you.”
“Hyer’s Mister Johnny. Is Ah got uh letter?”
“Yes, Uncle Jake. It's from Hugo. Ain't Fred over
there?”
“Yas he is, an’ Ah hopes it's frum him. He's lazy uhbout
writin'. Ellen, come hyer an' git dis letter. Mr. Johnny,
how's Mr. Henry? Ah knowed dat boy's daddy, an' now
he's heddin' our post-office.”
“He’s fine, Uncle Jake, about the best we've had.”
Ellen waited until the old men left and read the letter.
“Whut is it, Ellen?”
“It's from Fred, and he's married Ada Lee.”
“Married dat ole 'oman? She's too ole; mah childrun
don't know how tuh pick nobody.
“All uv mah childrun is good lookin' but one an' dey
ought tuh be. Yo' mammy wuz ez putty ez uh April peach.
She wuz uh mulatter wid cole black hair. She had little keen
features.” Uncle Jake smiled before beginning on himself.
An' Ah wuzn't uh bad looker mahsef. Mah hairs not kinky
136


kids. She weighs nigh ontuh two hundred an' fifty pounds.
Big an' fat, an' got five childrun. Ah nuver would uv courted
uh 'oman lak dat.
“An' dat Joe uv mine won't nuver marry. He's duh
meanes' chile Ah got; he cain't git uhlong wid hissef. Hyer
comes Elder; put dat letter up. Ah don't want him tuh hyer
me talkin' 'bout mah childrun, but Ah sho’ don't lak none uv
dey pickin'. Ah’m uh high tone man mahsef.”
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Sam come tuh see her dat night, she had uh pot uv chicken
giblet soup fuh him.
“We had uh tough time, but still we wuzn't sad all duh
time. Dere wuz plenty gwine on tuh keep yo' laffin’,” con-
cluded Hiram.
“Dat's nothin’,” said Uncle Jake gingerly, “We's duh hap-
pes' race in duh woil. We kin fine fun in uv'rything an’ do you
know dat keeps our mines frum worrin' so. Guess we'd all
been nigh dead ef we hadn't been able tuh see duh funny side
uv life.
“Las’ week when Rev'rn Tibbs’ funeral passed, uv'rybody
wuz sad. Tears rolled down mah cheeks ez duh long per-
cession passed. Jes' in front uv duh las' wagun was 'Nappy
Tom', duh big, fat, black rascal. He wuz ridin’ dat jackass of
his'n an' his toes wuz draggin' in duh dus'. Genermens, Ah had
tuh hol' mah mouf, an' uv'rybody else did too.”
“Well, Ah had uh easy sort o' master,” said Uncle Harry
proudly. “He’d give us Sadday after dinner an' all day Sun-
day off. We had uh good time at our quarters nearly uv'ry
Sadday night; in duh summer, we had dances, an’ niggers
frum other plantations would slip off an' come over. Duh
big house wuz high off'n duh groun' an' Ah had tuh stack
wood under duh kitchen an' porch. One night Ah wuz stackin'
wood an' duh chimley felt so warm Ah laid down by it an’
tuck uh nap. Ah heard master talkin' an' Ah crawled further
under by duh fiah place an' listened.
“Master lak jokes, so Ah tol’ him Ah could tell him whut
he wuz talkin' 'bout dat night. 'Course Ah heard him an' it
wuz easy. He got so he axed me nearly uv'ry day whut wuz
he talkin' 'bout. It got so Ah had tuh go under duh house
mo' den Ah wanted tuh.
“He said Ah wuz smart, an’ bragged uhbout it. Ah wuz
his fortune teller. His frens went coon huntin' an' he bet
dem fifty dollars dat Ah could tell dem whar dey'd been.
When ole master called me, he said, ‘Harry, whut did dese
men do las' night?' Ah wuzn't no fortune teller. Ah didn't
know, so Ah twitched an' wriggled, an’ finely said, ‘Master,
you kot duh ole coon at las'.'
“Ole master yelled out, ‘Ah tole you he'd know you kot
uh coon.” Dey axed me all kinds uv questions, but Ah jes'
laffed. After supper Ah called Master outside an' tole him
140


all. Ah didn't want him tuh lose his money. Ah meant dey
kot me a-lyin'. He didn't see it 'till Ah splained it. Dat
settled mah listenin'.”
“Come on in, Ant Sophie, you an' Ant Betsy. Set down
an' res' uh while, we're hyer talkin' 'bout our mosters. Guess
you ladies wuz ole uhnuff tuh 'member dem days,” said Uncle
Jake, shyly.
“Yas sur,” both of them blurted.
“Well Ah wuz lucky,” said Ant Betsy. “Ah wuz quick an’
smart an' dey kep' me at duh big house, but Ah'd slip down
tuh duh cabin tuh see mah mammy. She'd kiss me an' sen'
me back.
Ah nuver shell fuhgit when mah mammy tuck sick. Ah
guess Ah wuz 'bout eight. Ah'd slip tuh duh cabin an' she'd
feel under her piller an' give me uh piece uv cawn bread. Ah
went one day an' she wuzn't on her bunk. Dey tol’ me she
wuz daid, but Ah thought she'd come back. Ah kep' slippin'
down dere, thinkin' an' hopin' each time Ah'd fine her. Ant
Tinnie, duh ole cook, seed me an' she said, “Chile, whure's
you been?” When Ah tole her, she said, ‘Lawdy honey, yo'
mammy nuver will come back. She's daid an' dey put her
in uh hole in duh cole, cole groun', she'll nuver come back tuh
her baby no mo'. Ah wuz hurt; Ah grieved fur days. Ah
had uh pappy dough, an' Ah begin tuh slip an' look fuh him
in duh fiel'.
Later somehow, Ah heard dem at duh house talkin' 'bout
Lincoln an' when Ah went down tuh duh cabins, Ah heard all
duh niggers in duh quarters whisperin' 'bout Lincoln. One
said, ‘Hurrah fuh Lincoln.” Ah caught it right uhway, it
sounded prutty tuh me.
Ah happened tuh think 'bout it one day when Ah wuz
doin' mah work 'roun' duh yard. Ah jumped straight up an'
down and yelled tuh duh top uv mah voice, ‘Hurrah fuh
Lincoln l Hurrah fuh Lincoln l' One uv duh cooks hurd me
an' run out an’ tol’ me tuh hush fuh ole master would whup
all duh hide off'n duh niggers on duh plantation. B'lieve me,
Ah quieted down.
Yawl, genermens, no doubt is heard dat Ah teached
school when Ah wuzuh young gal. After freedom when mah
pappy hired me out, he'd pintly say, ‘Give her uh dollar uh
mont, vittals, clothes an’ learn her in uh book.' Ah knowed
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Booker made. We had uh good time on Christmas. Moster
would let us have uh party; ef it rained, we had it jes' duh
same. We danced by duh light uv duh moon. Moster said
tuh use candles wuz wasteful. We invited darkies frum other
plantations.
Dere wuz uh boy name Jeb dat wuz bes' buck an' wing
dancer you could fine anywhur's. We'd sweep duh dirt flo'
an' he'd dance all over it. Moster made money off'n him:
we made his music by singin' an' pattin'. -
Ole mistruss died an' her own gurls wuz scared tuh sleep
by deysefs. Some uv us had tuh go uv'ry night an' sleep at
duh foot uv dair beds; dey wuz scared dey mammy wuz comin'
back an' hant 'um.
When freedom come, ole moster wuz worried anyway, an
he knowed he'd be broke when dem three hundred slaves
lef" him; so when he foun' out dat it wuz so, he tuck an' drunk
two bottles uv strick-nine. One wuzn't uh nuff, Ah guess. He
said he'd druther be dead an' in hell, an' Ah reckon he went
on, 'cause he sho' died.”
“Well Sister we's glad we kin talk 'bout sich times bein’
gone an' we hope nuver to return,” said Uncle Jake sympa-
thetically. “Give dem some frush water, Paul.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ah have tuh laff when Ah think uv
how tough Ah wuz,” said Uncle Paul. “Ole Henry Otter wuz
uh little consumpted man an' he hired uh big clumsy over-seer.
Ah wuz ez big ez he wuz, an' he wuz skeered uv me. To
punish me, he'd make duh winmen foks hol' me down face
up, an' pur col' water in mah nose. He done it so much Ah
learn't tuh hol’ mah breath uh long time an' it didn't strangle
me. Ah allus takes mah time. Ah nuver hurry, it's no use.
Ah nuver work uh walk fas'. Ah takes mah time now, an'
tuck mah time den, an’ dat sho' made dat ole over-seer mad;
he didn't know whut tuh do wid me. Now wuz Ah glad when
freedom come. Ah jumped fo' feet, an' clopped mah heels.”
“Hyer's Elder Simpson. Come in, it's so hot tuh day,
uv'rybody is makin' fuh dis shade. Han' Elder uh gourd uv
water, Paul,” said Uncle Jake in his usual welcoming voice.
“Jess, you'se allus had uh easy time. Yo' moster wuz yo'
daddy an' he treated you white. Ah allus heard dat you jes'
ez soon be uh slave ez free, would you?”
“No, Jake, Ah'd druther be free. Ah did have all Ah
143


wanted tuh eat an' wuzuh little stuck up—uh biggity sort uv
niggah, but I'se glad jes' duh same. Ah learnt tuh read some,
but brother Luke could uv learnt mo' then me, cause he tuck
young master tuh school an' he tried tuh learn him, but he
was too confounded lazy. Duh rascal nuver wanted tuh do
nothin' but hunt an' feesh. Ah 'member well, when duh con-
fedret soldiers drilled in front uv our house. It wuz where
duh ole depot is now. Ah wuz 'leven years ole.
When ole mistruss wanted me tuh do any work, she had
tuh give me uh big lump o' brown sugah', yas Ah wuz spoilt.
Yawl know ole Liza Jackson dat lives down by duh school
house. She b'longed tuh mah master's brother. She wuz
duh biggest liar on duh plantation; she wore dat belt. She
tol' duh white folks dat all duh slaves on jinin' plantations
wuz fixin' tuh rise up 'gainst 'um an' dey wuz goin' tuh steal
hosses an' guns an' go jine duh Yankees.
Some uv dem quick-tempered white men gathered up all
duh slaves tuh beat 'um, an' ole master an' his brother
come up. Dem wuz some mad white men. Dey cussed an'
tol' 'um day wuz bigger fools den duh slaves. Dey made
'um sen' uv'rybody back to duh cabins an' tuck ole Liza an’
made her say she wuz lyin'. She done dat, an’ Ah hates her
tuh dis day. She lied den, an' she's still uh-lyin'. Yes, gen-
ermens, A'm glad Ah kin set ez long under dis shade ez Ah
wants to, an' nobody calls. Yes, Ah's 'specially proud Ah'se
free.”
“Ah run in uh gret conversation, didn't Ah?” said Elder
Simpson in his ministerial tone. “Ah prayed fuh dis, night
an' day an’ nuver stopped. At work, at duh table, uh in bed,
Ah prayed tuh Almighty God tuh hyer duh prayers uv mah
uh-pressed people. Yas, Ah wuz prayin' tuh mahsef all duh
time. Many uh night Ah crawled out mah bunk an' prayed
till nigh day an' Ah knowed mah God would hyer an' ansuh
duh prayers uv uh ole preacher. Mah ole master wuzuh po'
man, who wanted tuh be rich bad; he didn't own many
slaves. He had two children, uh boy an' uh girl an' duh boy
thought duh sun rose an' sot in me. He slipped tuh mah
cabin at night an’ learn’t me tuh read and write. Ah could
read better dan ole master, but he didn't know it. All duh
white foks wuzn't mean. Some uv dem felt fuh us, but wuz
uh fred tuh speak up.
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Whenever Master Ed sont us tuh other plantations, he'd
grease our mouths wid meat skins tuh make slaves an' mas-
ters on other plantations think we had plenty meat.
Ah tell yawl, how foks started eaten' chittlin's. Sich po’
masters ez mine give dey slaves little meat. We'd kill duh
few hogs he had, an' all we got wuz duh feets en heads—
never hams. Dey tol' us tuh throw duh guts uh-way, but duh
darkies on Ole Johnson's farm tol' us tuh clean 'um, wash 'um
good, let 'um soak in salt an' water two days, den cook 'um.
We did. Dey had uhnuff fat on 'um tuh season 'um good.
Dey give us cracklin's frum duh lard an' we put dem in duh
bread tuh season it. Slaves enjoyed dem so dat white foks
started eatin' 'um too, an' soon darkies had little uv duh
chittlins. B'longin' to uh po’ man wuz hard. We wuz glad
fuh mo' dan one reason tuh git free.”
“Elder, Ah knows you is tellin' duh truff. Ah went 'bout
lots mahsef an' po’ slaves learnt tuh cook an' eat anything.
Dey eb'n begin cookin' danderlion greens dat grows in duh
woods. Ef yawl ain't et none, you've missed sumpin'. Git
some uv dese slav'ry winnin dat go out getherin’ dem on Sad-
day to git you uh nickel's wurth. Dey's duh bes' greens Ah
ever et, specially if dey's cooked wid meat skins,” said Uncle
Jake as he shook his head an' smacked his lips.
“Now Jake, you lived lak uh white man,” put in Peter
Moore. “You don't know duh life uv no slave. Ah b'longed
tuh duh Stearns too, but tuck mah wife's name at freedom
instead uv mine. She b'longed tuh ole Jess Moore.
Uv'rybody, 'cludin' ole moster, wuz glad tuh see you drive
yo' Moster Jim up in his fine buggy wid two fine steppin'
hosses. We called you uh big niggah, but not stuck up. Yawl
would leave an' we wouldn't hyer frum you in weeks. Ole
Jim Stearns wuz shouh spote.
When freedom come, ole Master Stearns give us uh little
grub an’ all our clothes an' sont us on. Some didn't give duh
po' slaves nothin', specially clothes. I'se bought uh little
place on Birmingham Street an' I'se glad tuh come in an' go
out when Ah wants tuh, an' set up ez late ez Ah pleases. No
runnin' an' hidin' now.”
“Ha, ha, Peter talks lak he's duh only one glad he's free.
Ah’m hyer,” shouted little old noisy Uncle Clem Gillum. The
old men laughed and yes'd him. They began spitting ambier
145


and clearing their phlegmy throats. It was some time before
Uncle Clem could continue; however, he was a little proud of
himself. He liked to throw in a little humor to give himself
as well as others time to cackle a little, before beginning on
the main part of his speech. Water was the next thing in
order. Little Mamie had brought a bucketful and they hastily
gulped it down.
“Well, genermens, ash cakes wuz mighty good den, but
batter cakes is better now,” continued Uncle Clem. “Ah wuz
duh little niggah dat knowed uv'rybody's business. Ah wuz
ez slick ez uh eel. Ah'd slip 'roun' duh back uv duh cabins,
peep through duh cracks, uh lay under one corner uv duh flo'
an' look an' listen. Dey called me smart, but Ah wuz jes'
uh run uh'roun'. Mammy nuver knowed whar Ah wuz at
night. Ah have got up out uv bed an' slipped out.
One night when Ah wuz under Mose an’ Matilda's house,
dey fotched out two dozen uh mo' aigs; two other wimmen
wuz dair. Dey kerefully cracked uv'ry aig uh little an'
wropped dem in wet paper an' put dem in duh hot ashes.
Soon dey wuz poppin' an' dey pulled dem out on duh harth.
Dey sho smelt good, an' mah mouth wuz watterin'.
Jes' ez all uv 'um got salt an' pepper an' pulled dey seats
close up, de do' opened an' in walked ole mistruss. Well sir,
dey wuz sho’ some sick an’ scar'd. Dey looked at each other
ez if dey wondered who had done it. When ole mistruss
axed 'bout it, Mose said Matilda stole 'um, an’ Matilda said
Mose stole 'um. Dey thought dey wuz goin' tuh git uh beat-
in', but ole mistruss went out laffin'.
It tuck dair appetites an' mine too. Dey et uh few uv 'um
an' lef' duh others on duh harth; Ah wuz sorry dey didn't
git tuh enjoy 'um.
We had two uh three big dances uh yer. Duh white foks
laked tuh hyer us sing an' see us dance. Ah wuz one uv duh
dancers; Ah could cut duh pigeon wing higher den anybody.
We'd put thick merlasses on our hair tuh hol’ it down.
It done vary well at our Christmas dance, but at our summer
dance when we got hot, dem merlasses run down our backs,
in our faces, an’ in uv'ry derection. Our shirts duh nex’ day
wuz ez stiff ez dey'd been starched. Dey had tuh be throwed
in water. You know we had no screens, an' duh flies swarmed
'um thick.”
146


“Our master wuz rich an' we had plenty,” spurted in Uncle
Reb. “Mam mammy nuver let us e'um play wid none uv dat
po' white trash 'roun' us, fuh dey wuz allus stealin' sumpin'
an' layin' it on little niggers. Ramon wuz our preacher. He
could tell you all uh about duh Bible an' could say uh lot uv
verses, but he couldn't read uh lick. Ah don't know who
learnt him the verses; he wouldn't tell us. Ole master didn't
want tuh ketch you readin' uh Bible uh tryin' tuh preach. He
wuz strict 'bout dat.
Ah worked in duh fiel'. We raised mo' cottun dan any-
body nigh us, an' tuck bales an' bales tuh duh gin. We made
our black sorghum uv'ry yer, kilt lots o' hogs, an' raised uh
big garden an' had uv'rything anybody else had. Did yawl
card yo' hair? Well we did. We didn't have com's. Duh
little gals' hair wuz kep' short too, fuh lice got in long hair.
None uv uz wuz sold frum our mammy's an' when free-
dom come we wuz all tuh gether.”
“Dis is uh fine meetin' tuhday. Glad Ah sot down on duh
grass an' lissened. Ah didn't 'tend tuh git loose, but Ah cain't
set still,” said Sister Jennie. “Mah mammy drew uh two
hoss plow in duh fiel' an' Ah tuck dinner tuh duh fiel' hans.
Duh cook packed haf gallun buckets in uh clothes basket an’
sot it on duh chilluns' heads. Uv'ry han’ got uh half gallun
bucket. Beans, peas, merlasses, cawn-pone, cabbage, crop-
collards an' sich things wuz in duh bucket. Me an' sum uther
chillun had tuh take uh meny load. Ole moster had so meny
slaves he didn't know 'um, but duh mean, low-down overseers
did. -
Ole mistruss wuz so big when Ah got her out uh clean
aprun, Ah'd give her one string. She'd hol' it 'roun’ tuh her
back. Ah'd take duh odder string an' go 'roun' her an' tie
it. Ah had tuh be quick, too, 'cause she walked wid uh stick
an' she'd use it.
Ole Susie, uh big 'oman, done duh washin' an’ all duh
chillun ez big ez me, brung duh water frum duh spring. Ole
mistruss tole her tuh give all duh little water-niggers uh beat-
in’ uv'ry week, so we wouldn't git imperdent, an’ dat nigger
done it too. Ole mistruss had uh boy name Buss 'bout mah
age an' dat little rascal tol' uv'rything he seed an’ dat he
didn't see.
We chillun had tuh go tuh duh cow lot an' fetch duh milk
147


too. When four uh five wimmens would milk uh piggin full
uv milk, dey would put it in uh bucket an' set it on our heads
an' ez soon ez we tuck it we'd run back. Slaves frum other
plantations called us stuck-up 'cause Master Smoot give us two
linsy dresses in duh winner an' two yaller cotton dresses in
duh spring an’ summer an' uh underpiece. We had plenty tuh
eat—we kilt plenty hogs. We got duh chime bones, uh flitch
uv baken an' all duh chittlin's an' livers an’ lights.
Shoes! Ah nuver wore uh shoe till surrender. In winner,
our feet cracked up so bad dey looked lak dey'd been cut opun.
Moster must uv been frum Englan', fuh Ah 'member when
three hogs-heads uv china wuz sont frum dere, an' his daugh-
ter's weddin' clothes come frum dair.
One Sunday when Patience had made some fis' biscuits an’
cooked fried chicken, Injun Joe, her sweetheart frum uh nud-
der plantation, wuz settin' in duh winder upstairs eaten’. He
wuz uh big thing, haf-nigger an' half Injun. Duh patter-roll-
ers come fuh him. It wuz seben on hossback. He tol' 'um
he didn't move fuh nobody when he wuz eatin’. When he
started downstairs, he picked up uh big stick uv wood out duh
fiah-place, it wuz haf burnt up. He went down an' throwed
fiah uv'ry way. Dey tuck out an’ nuver bothered him no more.
Anyway duh darkies tied grapevines on low tree limbs an'
down low in all duh roads an' paths, an’ dem patter-rollers
fell off hosses. Some hosses fell an' broke dey legs, so dey
stopped ridin' an' walked. Dey didn't git tuh whup meny
niggers den, cause dey couldn't ketch 'um.
Ole Rob on duh nex’ plantation called us dam spoilt nig-
gers.
Durin’ de war we heard cannons an' guns, Moster didn't
go; he sont uh man in his place an' tol’ him he'd take kere
uv his fam’ly. Duh man got kilt, an' when duh war wuz over,
duh 'oman come an' axed him fuh sump'n an' all he give her
wuz uh ole lousy ca'f. Ah reckon hit died—it looked sick.
After surrender, Moster Smoot tol’ us tuh work all duh
yer an' gether duh crop an' he'd give uv'rybody rations, jes'
lak he'd be doin'—food an' clothes, den we could leave. All
his slaves stayed. Mah mammy's husban' wuz one uv his
main han's.
Duh nex’ fall, mah step-daddy got kilt on uh tractor an'
Moster Smoot tol’ me he'd give me three dollars uh mont tuh
148


do duh milkin' an' cook fuh hired han's. Ah wurked uh whole
yer an' when he started tuh go tuh Richmon' tuh run in uh
'lection Ah axed fuh mah money an' he pintly said Ah'd stole
his chickens an’ needed no money. When ah tol’ him we had
chickens an’ Ah didn't haf tuh steal, he grabbed uh stick an’
tried tuh ketch me; Ah tuck tuh duh woods. He lef’ dat day
fuh Richmon' an' we moved.
So glad Ah'se free, Ah gits plenty tuh eat. Ah got chick-
ens an' uh garden an' bes' uv all, Ah got uh fedder bed; sum-
pin' Ah'se longed tuh sleep on. Ah'se seed 'um beat ole
mistruss' bed up so high, Ah wondered how she got up in it.
Well, Ah got duh same kine. In summer Ah puts it at duh
boddom an' duh mattruss on top. In duh winner, Ah puts it
on top, beats it high an’ Ah rolls over in it an' 'joys mahsef.
Lors, here comes little Peter, 'scuse me, but Ah mus' come
again an' finish.”
“Yes, sister Jennie, you do come some mo',” said Uncle
Jake, “Ah’m hyer uv'ry day duh sun shines.
Hyer comes Ant Zilphy. She kin fix up uh good 'un,” said
Uncle Jake, as he chuckled a bit.
“Whut's dat? Whut's all you lazy, good fuh nuthin' gen-
ermens doin’ hyer in duh cool? Swapin' jokes, jes' swapin'
jokes Ah reckon,” said Aunt Zilphy.
“You sho'lly wouldn't talk 'bout 'spectable genermens lak
dat, you'se too high tone. We use tuh be good waguns, but
we's 'bout broke down.” said Uncle Meek.
“Who did you b'long tuh in slav'ry f" said Elder Simpson,
inquiringly.
“Well, Ah'se been workin' duh live long day. Guess Ah
orter set down an' cool off. Ah'se uh good 'oman yit. Ah
wuz duh smartes' little nigger on Bill Jones' plantation, Ah
could out-smart eb'n dem parruts. White foks use tuh pay
big money fuh trained parruts. We had two uv 'um an' dey
sho could talk. One staid in duh kitchen an' one in duh
house. Duh one in duh kitchen would say, ‘Nigger eatin';
nigger eatin' chicken.” Dey would git louder an' louder when
dey talked. Oh, Ah hated dem things. Ah stole mah grub
an' put it in mah bosom an' munched on it. Ah kep' uh willer
tooth brush in duh corner uv mah mouf, an' dey thought Ah
wuz chewin' on dat.
149


Ole' Jones had plenty money, but wuz too stingy tuh live
decent hissef.
Now dey wuz 'sposed tuh be foks dat had uhligion. Slaves
on plantations fuh miles wanted tuh b'long tuh Mos'
Jones. Dey heard dat he let his white preacher preach tuh
us. Yas he did, but whut did dat lyin ' preacher say.
Dey called all us an’ tol’ us tuh sot down on duh groun’
'roun' him; ole Moster an' Mistruss wuz settin' dah wid him.
Ah kin see dat preacher now an' his fo' sons in bed-tickin suits.
He said, “all you niggers mus' be good niggers, obey yo'
moster an' mistress an' dey will give you plenty grub. Be
good niggers—stay home, marry on yo’ own plantation, hit's
got good strong darkies on it. When duh good Lord call
you, he'll let you set in duh hine seats an' some in duh kitchen
in heab'n.”
All uv us had tuh shake our heads, ‘yas', but not uh darky
dair 'bleved him. Ah’ll see fuh mahsef whose go git duh
frunt seats. Ah’m go hav' one o' dem frunt seats. Ah know
dat, yas sur.
When freedom come, Master give us uh little grub in uh
bundle. Mos' uv us went tuh ole Ned Roberson's planta-
tion an' hired tuh him. We stayed dair 'till we come hyer.
I'se 'joyed mahsef in dis hyer Texas. It's uh good town.
“You'se right, Sister Zilphy. We's all had uh good livin'
hyer,” answered Elder Simpson.
“Ah'se been uh sittin' hyer lissenin' tuh yawl, but none uv
you have went through wid whut Ah is,” said Uncle Ezrul, a
dark, tall lanky old man about six feet two, who always had
some sort of problem on his worried mind.
“Ah'se been sold twice on duh oxun block. Once when
Ah wuz uh boy ten an' once when Ah wuz eighteen. Ah
nuver will fuhgit dat las' time Ah wuz sol'. It wuz tuh ole
Judge Kinkade an' Ah wuz thar 'til freedom.
Uv'ry man wanted tuh have duh mos' money, own duh
mos' darkies an' duh bigges' plantation.
In dem days duh white foks went tuh church uv'ry Sunday.
After you driv' 'um up in dey fine carreges, you'd go home
an' come back efit wuzn't too fur. We knowed uv'rythin',
fuh somebody slept under dat church house uv'ry Sadday night
an' listened on Sunday. On Monday, we knowed it all.
Some run uh way on whut wuz called "duh undergroun’
150


railway'. Good Northern white genermens an' free slaves
would slip you off. You'd travel on dark nights. In duh day
you stayed at some good white man an' 'oman's house who
wuz helpin' you tuh excape, uh you'd stay in uh dugout ur
under uh bridge. You travelled 'til yo' got tuh uh Northern
state, ur Canada; ez much trouble wuzuh brewin' ez ale.
Ah ain't no edicated man, but Elder, Ah'se uh man uv
reasonin' power an' mother wit. Dese United States histry
books dey studies in school ain't right. Ah’ve had mah gran'
chillun read dem frum kiver-lid tuh kiver-lid.”
As Uncle Ezrul spoke, his right hand made a clean sweep
from as far as he could reach on his left side going to his
right.
“Dey ain't got all uh'bout duh battle uv Shiloh an' lots
uh things is out. Dey ain't one word uh'bout duh darky,
only dat he wuz uh slave, uv'rybody knows dat, but uv'ry-
body don't know how he hope at war time. All crops wuz
raised an' uv'rythin' done, dat we had tuh do.
Ah axed ole Gen'rl Kinkade tuh write uh book uh'bout
me an' other slaves dat stayed an' pertected dey fam’lies,
but he shooed me uh way an' say, 'Well, Ezrul you wuz
dependable an' Ah ain't go let yo' starve an' when yo'
die Ah's go bury you. Ah ain't got time now tuh write no
book, but maybe some day when Ah ain't so busy. Here's
fo' bits, go see mah ma an’ wife at duh house. Dey talk
uh'bout dey good niggers all duh time'. Dat's all I'se got
outen' him.
Ole massa said Ah wuz big an' strong, an' not scairt o'
nothin', so he wuz leavin' me tuh shoot anythin’ dat bothered
his wife an' three chillun. Ah’d uh done it too. Ant Cora an'
Susie slept upstairs wid dem, an’ Ah had uh bunk in duh
kitchen wid two guns. Ole Missus wuz uh scary, nervous,
little credder. She could hear mo’ dan uv'rybody else tuh-
gether. Ah had tuh make meny uh track uhroun’ dat house
especially on windy nights. A good brave slave was lef"
on uv'ry plantation. Ah ain't heard uv narry one betrayin'
dey trusses. Ah's been fussin' 'bout dis ever since Ah'se been
free. Duh mo' Ah talk, duh fudder uhway Ah gits.”
Poor Uncle Ezrul had talked until he was weak. Every-
one present had heard him tell this story as many times as
151


they'd had time to listen to him. It seemed to lie heavily on
his mind and heart.
“Who knows, Ezrul”, said Uncle Jake compassionately,
“Who knows; some day uh good southerner will write in
hist'ry whut you want, not only dat but perhaps duh monermont
you'se been speakin' uv to duh faithful an' hones'
servants fuh pertection’ dair fam’lies durin' war times will
be put up.”
“Maybe so, not in mah ole state but yo' 'ristocratic state
Tennessee, it is duh southern state dat Ah perdicts mought
do it,” said Uncle Ezrul.
“All yawl’s done tol’ yo' slav'ry time 'sperence, guess Ah'm
uh little late, but Ah wuz dah, yas sur, Ah wuz dah,” said
Aunt Hannah, who happened to be passing and heard the last
part of the story.
As she leaned on her folded arms that were resting on the
old plank fence, she began, “Chillun, Ah feel lak praisin' duh
Lord uv'ry time Ah think uh'bout bein’ free.
Elder, cain't yo' raise uh tune? Ef you cain’t, Ah kin.”
Aunt Hannah threw back her head and began singing, ‘Before
Ah'd be uh slave, Ah'd be buried in mah grave, an' go home to
mah Master an' be free.” Those present joined in the chorus.
When she finished, all were blowing their noses and wiping
their eyes.
Then she began, “Ah marr'd in slav'ry. Yawl knowed
how it wuz—we stepped backwards over uh broon handle an'
dat wuz all. Ah had fourteen chillun; some uv dem wuz sol'.
Ah'll nuver see 'um on dis side. Ah wuz uh fas' breeder an'
mos' duh work Ah done wuz tuh carry water. In two weeks
Ah wuz up an' wurkin'. Ah'd give dat baby uh sugar-tit an’
put it under duh wagun in duh shade an' ah'd go tuh wurk.
Ah wuz uh gret han’ tuh play uh Jew's-harp. Ah jes'
loved any kind uv music. Somebody give me one, an Ah set
out tuh learn it an’ Ah did. Ah learnt uh few tunes. Ah'd
set up late at nights tryin' tuh play it. All duh slaves in duh
quarters tol’ me dat duh devil wuz goin' tuh fix me ef Ah kep'
it up, 'cause it wuz duh devil's music piece.
One dark night Ah happened tuh be lookin' at uh big crack
in duh cabin ez Ah wuz playin' uhway. All at once, Ah seed
two big, rollin' eyes comin' up; dey got bigger an' bigger. It
scairt me so, Ah jes' knowed it wuz duh devil, so Ah jumped
152


off'n dat box an' throwed dat Jew's-harp so fur out dat do'
it nuver could be fount. In stepped Elex; he sho' laffed. He
said he didn't mean tuh skeer me, he jes wanted tuh see who
wuz in dah. You know dat wuz uh habit wid all uv us, tuh
peep through dem cracks. Some kep' 'um stopped up,
'specially in winner, but in summer it wuz cooler tuh leave 'um
Opun.
Dere wuz lots uv wimmen in our quarters an' slaves frum
other plantations would come to court 'um.
On dark nights you could see little lights bobbin' up an’
down ef you looked down duh big road. It wuz dem pine
splinter torch lights dem slaves had tuh light dair way over
to our plantation. Some uv 'um marr'd too.
Ah's in mah sixties, but Ah’m uh prutty good 'oman yit.
Ah 'member dem yankees duh furs' day dey come, an' wuz
Ah glad. Ah jes' called dem anjuls in men's clothes. Ah
didn't want dem tuh hurt ole master uh ole mistruss, uh take
dey things, but Ah wanted 'um tuh see it dat we wuz free.
No man orter own anudder man. Don't keer how he
looks uh who he bees. It ain't right, it's too much. Chris'
didn't own nobody. He didn't own uh place tuh eb'n lay
his haid.”
“Yas, Ant Hannah, we all knows yo' fellin's. Ah had uh
easy time. All Ah done mostly wuz tuh drive Moster Jim uh-
roun' tuh diff'runt towns,” said Uncle Jake in a melancholy
tone.
“Whoa, Maudie! Hello foks, we's jes' done widole man
Ricks' two-room house. He had money tuh pay fuh it all.”
“We's furs' straight, Tom. Dat's uh fine hoss you got,
an' uh good little sulky. You'se been ridin' tuh work in it
uh long time.
Yas, Ah wuz tol' dat ole man Ricks saved dat money in
slav'ry time an' is jes' spendin' it,” said Uncle Jake.
“Tom, Ah knowed yo' daddy, an' you git mo' an’ mo'
lak him uv'ry day,” added Elder Simpson.
“Yep, mah daddy tried tuh buy me. Ah wuz his only chile.
He nuver married, ez hit wuz 'ginst duh law fuh him tuh marry
mah mammy, an' her master wouldn't sell her ur me tuh him.
He offered him five hundred dollars fuh me when Ah wuz
jes' uh little feller.
Mah mammy's oldes' gurl wuz sold an' after freedom, we
153


wrote letters back tuh Tennessee, an' sont dem tuh duh
Baptist church an' Ah fount her. She come out hyer stayed
uh while an' went back.”
“Ah've heped uh meny mother fine her chile. Dem's called
enquirin' letters. Lots an' lots uv kinfolks is fount each other
through churches. They's still doin' it yit.”
“Dat's true, Elder Simpson. Tom ain't only uh carpenter,
he's uh fiddler,” said Uncle Jake.
“Ah'll take one uv dem watermelons, Jake. It'll eat good
'fore dinner.”
Little Mamie was on the job.
“Thanks, thank's Tom, come agin,” said Uncle Jake.
“Ah knows mo' dan would be good fuh me tuh say eb'n
ef it is freedom. Ah knows lots uv darky business an' lots
uv white foks' business an' it's too mixed up. Ah don't think
no man ought mistreat his own chillun, his own flush an’ blood,
an' some uv 'um didn't. Ah could tell yawl things dat would
make duh hair rise on yo' haids; yas sur, an' so fur ez niggers
wurkin', dey started little darky babies wurkin' ez soon ez duh
hippins wuz tuck off. First dey picked up chips in uh basket,
an' frum dair dey fetched wash water in little buckets an’
little gals had tuh rock babies in cradles an’ fan duh winmen
in duh summer time wid fans made out uv fedders.
Old man Goodrich stopped by las' week. He said dat
darkies couldn't take kere uv desefs an’ it wuz too bad dat we
wuz free. Ah can't see how he would think uv sayin' sich uh
thing when no nigger sot down; all uvum worked. Ah 'mem-
ber well, after surrender, white foks didn't know much uh'bout
wurk, 'specially winmen. Some darkies naturally stayed wid
dem, others dat had been mistreated, tuck tuh duh woods lak
rabbits. Dey had nowhars tuh stay; it wuz uh mess.
Moster Jim wuz good tuh me an' he is yit. 'Course Ah
don't hardly see him now. He's uh smart man in duh haid.
He don't want much. Ah nuver could understan' him, neither
could his pappy. He ain't got no mean nasty temper lak
some foks. Ah use tuh wear his clothes—course we slept
tuhgether when we went tuh uh place an' he couldn't git no
cot fuh me. He'd tell 'um Ah'd sleep on duh flo’ but bless
you, he'd say, ‘Jake, you'se tired; you'se drew' me uh long
ways tuhday. Come an' res' yo' tired bones on dis bed wid
154


me." Wuz Ah glad! Time Ah struck dat hay, Ah went tuh
sleep.
Somehow he had uh rovin' disposition. Goin' nowhere's
perticler, but jes' goin'. He didn't lak much cumpney, he'd
go in his room after sepper an' stay thar, 'les his daddy
called him out. He nuver had much money, 'cause he didn't
make much.
Well, Ah see some uv you is gittin' restless an' sleepy.
Little Mamiel Come chile, cut five uh six uv dem Georgia
sweets an' give uv'rybody uh big slish.
155


EHAPTER XI
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
64
HELLO UNCLE JAKE, and all yawl.
Dis is a fine day; you'se well, I hope.”
All the old men spoke at once, answering in their usual
way. Uncle Jake led most conversations.
“Hello, Simon, we's jes tolerable; come in, hyer's uh box,
set down. Ah hears you had uh mighty big weddin' mah boy;
tell us 'bout it.”
Simon possum-grinned, wiggled a little and started:
“Yes, Uncle Jake, I did. Susie had to have a church
weddin' cause she's been a little Sunday School girl all her life
and her Grandma Zilphy raised her and the ole lady wouldn't
stan’ fuh nothin’ else.
The church wuz decorated wid red, white and blue paper
and big sun flowers. When the music started the man waiter
walked wid Suzie and the woman waiter walked wid me. I
come in the back do' and Suzie in the front do”. When we
walked up to Elder Zemus, me and Suzie wuz standin’ together.
I wuz so scared my head seemed heavy; I had to try two or
three times befo' I could look up and when I did, I looked
straight at two rows uv white folks; the ones I work fuh and
the ones Ant Zilphy work fuh. One of my legs started
tremblin', I don’ know which 'n now an' the mo' I tried to
steady it, the mo' it shook, and too, Uncle Jake, I'se been uh
slippin’ roun' uh little wid Zula, you know how tough that
gal is and I heard she wuz goin' to reject when duh preacher
axed if anybody had any rejections; now you kin imagin the
fix I wuz in.”
The old men giggled, slapped their legs and began spitting
as usual. Simon had to wait a few minutes before he could
resume his story.
“When the preacher finally said “If anybody rejects, speak
now uh forever hold yo' peace; I nigh fainted; sweat rolled
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off me lak a bucket uv water had been pitched on my head,
an' it seemed to me that he wuz goin' to wait ferever; ever
secon' I'magined I heard Zula yell out. When that preacher
started talking again I sho' wuz a glad nigger. When the
weddin' wuz over me and Suzie and the man waiter and
woman waiter got in a surrey and went tuh my house. I
started payin' on that house you know a year ago. Everybody
followed us fuh Aunt Zilphy an’ Suzie's kin folks had cooked
hog foots, chickens, pies, cakes an' ice cream an' Lord knows
whut all an' they had tuck it there fuh the exception.” Simon
rolled his palms together and turned his head to one side as
he contiued.
“It wuz a big time. Everybody wuz congratulatin' us and
wishin' us luck. It wuz the biggest exception ever given after
a weddin' in this town—so they all says.
The lady waiter helped Suzie git the buttons and pins loose
and put on her gown, but I tol’ the man waiter I could take my
clothes off by myself.
The second night they stormed us. All kinds of pie pans
and other pans and groceries wuz piled high on the kitchen
table.”
“You two is good chillun an' Ah knowed you'd git lots uv
presents,” added Elder Simpson.
“Mr. Joe is building uh mension down uhmung duh rich
folks an’ Ah’m goin' down tuh see it. He's go marry dat girl
frum up Norf. Folks is uh sayin' she won't know how tuh act
in uh rich man's house but Ah tell 'um all she'll learn. Ah
never yit seed uh woman who couldn't spen' muney; he's lots
older den she is. He's go have uh big weddin', duh bigges'
folks in duh county is go 'tend, frum duh mayer on down. Ah
tol' 'um las' week Ah won't come; Ah's jes' too broke up in
mah limbs. Saul is go hep pass 'freshments.”
“Jake, dem Stearns don't fuhgit you; hits mighty fine,”
said Elder Simpson in a complimentary tone.
Uncle Jake looked Elder straight in the eye as he
remarked, “Ah don't fuhgit dem neither.” Uncle Jake always
called himself “’ristrocractic,” and a “somebody.”
“Mr. Joe is been uh big hep in dis town; he heps all, black
an' white farmers uhlak.
Mr. Leslie tol’ me yestidy dat Mr. Joe is been takin' dis’
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girl on all duh exkurzions down in South Texas. He tuck
her to duh Dallas fair.
His church folks is 'bout reconciled; she's uh smart little
trick, dey have to lak her. Dey tell me she don't talk much;
Ah say hits 'cause she's smart, ef she don't talk dey caint
criticize her. Uh still togue is allus in uh wise head.
Mr. Leslie had uh bad col’; Ah tol’ him tuh go home an'
make hissef some mullen tea an' put uh little bug juice in it.
He nuvver wuz too healthy, he's been thin an' pale all his days.
His mammy use tuh rub his ches' wid suet an’ liniment.
“Jake hyer's duh Rogers boys passin' wid cottun. They's
three wagons wid two bales on uh wagon,” said Elder.
Uncle Jake had his back to the street but he stuck his cane
in the ground; caught hold of the side of his rocker and with
the aid of his left foot turned himself around.
“Lors, whut fine cottun dese boys is got! Dey daddy
oughter git out uv debt dis fall. We'se seed lots uh big bales
pass, jes', uh few tight lookin' ones. Some uv dem bales will
fetch fifty dollars. Glad dis yer is better'n las'.
Duh streets is full uv peddlers; duh po' white folks dat
don't want tuh pick cottun is peddlin' uver thing dey kin. Dey
knows foks got money. Some uv 'um sets hyer fuh hours
talkin'; dey think Ah knows all duh cullered foks who'll buy
dey junk, but Ah don't.”
“I’se noticed dat sumbody is allus smart uhnuff to tell
you how to spen' yo' money,” said Elder as he laughed
heartily with his mouth wide open displaying his shiny tooth-
less gums.
All that day and many others the old men counted and
commented on the wagon loads of cotton that were either
going to the gin or to the square to be sold.
Uncle Jake was glad when Saul came home these nights as
he wanted to hear about the elaborate preparations that were
being made for Mr. Joe's wedding. Saul said he knew the
wedding would cost plenty of money because they kept him
and several others running to different stores with big orders,
even the flowers would run up into money.
Uncle Jake heard the patter of little Mamie's feet; he
knew one of his boys was coming. It was Saul and he'd been
away from home two nights and little Mamie ran to meet him.
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“Yestidy wuz uh prutty Sunday; did you get tuh Sunday
School.”
“Yes, Elder; I helped opun up.”
“Ah wuzn't feelin' good an' didn't go. What wuz duh
lesson 'bout?”
Charity looked surprised at Elder Simpson and quickly
answered.
“Why, I don't know; 'bout Jesus, I recken.”
“Very well, Charidy; Ah'll ask Sister Millie. Ah know
she wuz dair.”
“No, she wuzn't Elder, but she passed by duh church
when Sunday School wuz goin' on. I seed her fuh I wuz settin'
by duh winder. I always sets there and sees who pass duh
church an' don't come in.
I must be goin', I must do some washin'. Yawl have a
good time settin' here in the shade wid nothin' to do. You sho
have lots uv cumpney, Uncle Jake. Goodbye, genermens and
good luck.”
“Goodbye, Charidy,” they echoed.
Elder Simpson was disgusted; he sucked his gums and
snarled, “Dat gal is thirty-five if she's uh day, settin' by duh
winder watching folks pass, Ah wonder ef she counts 'um.
She's got uh gurl 'bout ten years old; ah know she's got more
sense then her mammy now. That scoundrel Hiram Davis
seduced po' Charidy an' left her an' dat chile fuh duh ole
folks tuh see after.”
“Little Mamie says sometimes she leans out duh winder
an' watches folks ez fuh ez she kin see 'um, an' her little gal
answers more questions 'bout duh lesson than she do,” said
Uncle Jake.
Long wagons drawn by strong mules and horses came to
town early every morning for cotton pickers. One morning
little Mamie was awakened by the heavy rolling of the wagons.
She peeped out of the window and saw two long wagons
filled with children and their parents; how she wished she
too could go to the white fields.
Their gallon tin pails held beans, potatoes and other good
things for their dinner.
She could scarcely recognize all of them, for on their
heads were wide flappy straw hats and around their necks
were either sweat rags or cotton sacks.
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This group of good natured happy folks entertained them-
selves by singing to and from the fields.
When the day was over the tired horses and mules with
strained muscles brought the drowsy field hands back to
humble homes, then around the supper table the cotton weights
were carefully summarized and after the food for the next
day's dinner was prepared, the smokey lamps were blown out
and they crawled in their hay beds for the night. It was
lonesome in Penhook these days; many of the large families
moved to the cotton patch so they could begin picking early.
On Saturdays the men would come to town for supplies.
They had a good time Saturday nights, for they would have
fish fries or dances.
Charidy came creeping in the gate and sat on a box.
“You come home sick frum duh cottun patch didn't you?”
“Yes, Uncle Jake; I had chills and fever. I had a chill
ev'ry other day. I shook so you could hear by teeth chatter.
Mammy brought me home so Dr. Simpson could give me some
medicine; he's the best doctor in town for chills and
pneumonie. I feel so much better today, I'm going up to Petty
tonight to see the folks; I'll be back Monday. I wonder,
Uncle Jake, if little Mamie will let me use her suitcase. I'll
take good kere of it.”
“Ah don' see why she can't; go ax her.”
Little Mamie had a new suitcase her mother paid $1.98
for so she could visit some relatives in Oklahoma; it was only
paper, but little Mamie thought it very fine. She let Charidy
have it willingly.
Charidy's folks had expected her, so they met her at the
station. That night they had a big fish fry and ice cream
supper; Mose, the banjo picker, was there and they danced
until daybreak. Whenever he played and sang his favorite
tune, “Ah’m My Mama's Oldest Chile, Ah’m too Young to
Marry, Marry,” the old floor rocked and popped under its
weight.
Sunday night an unexpected rain came, and Monday they
couldn't work; so Charidy stayed with them until Tuesday.
The next morning her brother took her to the station. The
black, gummy mud often held the mules in their tracks for a
second or two.
The train was two hours late and the three short benches
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Ah knows more uh'bout meat then all them teachers put
tuhgether. Dat calf ain't got no germs in him, Ah tell you,
an’ dat's dat an' you keep still. Ah tol' you he's too little.”
“Yes, Grandpa, I'm studying physiology and it says that
animals die from diseases like people. Meat should be
inspected before it's eaten.”
“Huh ! Guest you and dem teachers don't eat dead meat.”
“Not when the animals die, Grandpa.”
“Dat school is good fuh some things, but not fuh
uv'rything. Ef dey nuver eat nothin' worse then uh po' little
innocen' calf dey'll be all right. Foolishness—dey's jes' uh
bunch uv nice-nasty foks over dair. Hush uh'bout dat calf
an' git on over to dat high flutten school.
Somebody's knockin' Sam, go to duh do'.
“Oh, it's you, Zeke.”
“Mammy is sick an' duh doctor says she can't live. Ah
got uh buggy out hyer; she wants tuh see you, Brother.”
“How long she been sick?”
“Jes' since yistidy.”
“Git my clean blue shirt out duh little trunk an' hep me
put it on Son. Dig uh hole down in duh ditch after sun-down
an' bury dat calf. Ah’ll be back tuh night ef Mammy is better;
ef not, Ah'll be back when Ah kin.”
The doctor was leaving when they reached the house.
Uncle Jake inquired of his mother's condition. The little
room was dark, but he could see a smile steal across her face
as he entered.
Zeke helped him to the bed and he took the doctor's seat
and stroked her forehead tenderly with his left hand. He
knew it was cooling; she was unable to talk, but waved her
hand.
All day she lay in a coma and Chloe-Ann gave her medicine
as directed. She bathed her face in warm water and rubbed
her almost lifeless limbs with suet and soda. Near night she
seemed improved; but this didn't surprise Jake, as he
remembered all the signs that his mother had taught him.
“Sister, Ah'll go home; Mammy won't die tuhnight. Ah
'member her telling me meny times dat she wuz born in duh
mornin' an’ folks allus die 'bout duh same time o' day uh
night dey wuz born; dat is, ef it's uh natchul death.”
“Yes, brother Jake, dat's right; Ah 'member Mammy
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saying dat too. Ah got no place fuh you tuh sleep; dis shack
is little. Come back tuhmorrer ef you kin.”
Uncle Jake was unable to sleep that night. He turned
the scroll of his memory back to where he first remembered
his mother crying as she sang and tucked him in his little
bunk filled with hay which served as a matress, and how he
wondered why she always cried.
He thought of his boyhood days; of the Christmas that
he was given to Master Jim; the horrible war days, the news
of freedom, his return to his mother's cabin, his courtship
and marriage, his children, and his grandchildren. Had he
not been blessed? He realized that his mother was leaving
him and he was in his late sixties and had never joined church,
but she had had her name on the church roll since freedom
and had kept herself in good and regular standing. He knew
that he had been a good man and raised his children to love
and fear God, yet before man he made no confession; why
was this? The only excuse he could give was the disgusting,
rotten preachers.
One he had had confidence in had borrowed money and
failed to return it, another had seduced a girl, another he
thought of was a notorious liar, and still another was a
drunkard, and to cap it off, old Rev. Simon's wife caught him
slippin' in Elvira's house with a young gal that had a little
package under her arm and when she managed to snatch it
away from her and open it, it contained a white night gown
with a pretty lace yoke, a crochet edge at the bottom and was
smelling strong with “White Rose” cologne. Such carrying
on among the divines was just too much.
He wrestled with himself as did Jacob with the angel;
finally he came to the conclusion that after all he alone was .
responsible for his soul, and right then and there he was
converted and too, he had known some good preachers.
Sam came to wake him. He had never been asleep but he
felt new; yes, he felt that newness in life that never wears away
when a man chooses to walk in the footsteps of his Elder
Brother.
At the breakfast table Uncle Jake turned his coffee cup
down in the saucer so the grounds would settle on the sides
and he could tell his own fortune for the day. He turned
the cup around this way and around and around the other way
164


and so on until he was satisfied that every ground had settled
some place. He then turned the cup up and shaded it with
his thick clumsy hand; as he gently peeped under his raised
thumb he nearly jumped from his chair. “Look, look, bad
news.”
In less than an hour, Zeke stepped in the door. “Brother,
Mammy is gone; Ah jes' come to tell you.”
He expected it, yet it shocked him. Little Mamie among
others tried to console him as he hid his face in his weak arms
that were folded on the kitchen table, and sobbed.
With the aid of his crutch he scrambled to the floor; Sam
and Zeke caught him by the arms and led him to the little
front room. He tried to steady himself, but his grief was
too weighty; he let his crutch fall to the floor and leaned on
the old black box piano and wept bitterly. Between sobs he
gave out commands.
“Go tell all our folks; go tell Mr. Joe, he'll pay half uv
her funeral bill an' we have tuh pay duh udder. We'll have
duh funeral Sadday; Mr. Joe won't be workin'.”
On the day of the funeral, Aunt Mamie's house inside and
out was full of children, grandchildren and great-grand-
children. It took six two-seated hacks to take them to the
graveyard and they were packed in like sardines. The
procession slowly made its way to Olive Baptist Church; little
Mamie expected them to turn north on Church Street after
leaving Pine Bluff, but they turned Jordan, a street of lewd
women and saloons. She had never been down this block;
though she was just a little anxious to see how it all looked,
but she shut her eyes tight and hid her face in her hands to
keep from being contaminated. Uncle Jake felt himself
almost as a good a man as he'd ever been, so he looked from
side to side and thought of the days when he was a bit younger.
Aunt Mamie was eighty-six years old. She had been a
good old woman, so Elder Dumas soon preacher her to heaven
and the procession made its way to the old Benevolent
graveyard. At the grave songs were sung and the men folks
took turns in filling up the grave. Uncle Jake almost fainted
when he heard the hard lumps fall noisily on the wooden box
that held the black coffiin. His boys picked him up and put
him into the hack.
When he left he waved at her grave and between
165


convulsive sobs mumbled: “Goodbye, Mammy, goodbye.
Ah'll meet you, Mammy; yes, Ah'll meet you.” The old hack
moved slowly out of the big gate and Uncle Jake's head fell
on the shoulder of his oldest son.
The following day also held a big blow for Uncle Jake.
After breakfast Saul same in and said, “We’re goin' to
Arkansas, Pappy. Since Lillie had that fight with Sadie
Smith and the gal nearly bit her finger off, she says she can't
stay here. That finger pains her so at night she can hardly
sleep. The doctor don't seem to be able to cure it; it's two
months now and it's swelled as much as it ever was.”
Uncle Jake made a long scraping noise in his throat several
times before speaking. “Son, Ah knowed she'd have trouble.
Sally is got blue gums an' asthma besides. Her finger is jes'
pisoned. She's lucky dat duh doctor ain't all ready done tuck
it off. Lilly's bad temper goes 'gainst it too. People dat's
got high temper it takes dem longer tuh git well than it do
anybody else. Dey 'cites deysefs.
Dat gal Lillie is uh scrapper, she kin cuss, but she cain't
fight. She skares duh winmen so bad dat dey tries tuh kill her
'cause dey think he's goin' tuh kill dem.
You'll be kerful, won't you? Live lak yo’ ole pappy is
raised you; Lillie wuz raised in dat cuntry, you wuzn't. She
knows duh folks.”
Lillie's folks lived in Fayetteville; whenever she got tired
of working and wanted to dissipate a little with her sister
she'd tell Saul that she was pregnant and thought it best to
go to her mother and sister the last two months. Saul was
anxious for children so he'd consent. After having a romping
good time, visiting her old haunts and crowds a few weeks
just before the “blessed event” was to happen, she'd send poor
Saul a telegram stating that she had slipped and fallen and
lost the baby; he need not come as she was getting along nicely.
Lilly pulled two tricks like this on Saul and he believed them.
People in Arkansas hadn't forgotten Lillie. They hoped
she had changed. She went to church her first Sunday night
in town and put a dollar on the collection table and cried when
she shook the preacher's hand so they knew she had changed.
Saul got a job at the brick yard and rented a house next door
to one of Lillie's church sisters. Before a month's time Lillie
166


was throwing old tin cans and other rubbish over the fence;
she claimed the Russels insulted her.
Saul thought he'd reprimand Joe Russel for insulting his
wife and it ended with Saul in jail. The day the trial was set,
Saul sat in court all day, and they didn't have his trial; the
next day the sheriff led him into court again and the judge was
trying a murder case. When all attention was centered on
this case, Saul had an idea. He went in search of the toilet
and walked out of the door; no one noticed him.
Once outside he made his get-away up an alley; he left
town and Lillie followed the next day. She promised as
usually to do better. Both got jobs in another Arkansas town
and bought fine furniture. The neighbors were glad to have
such prosperous folks come in their community. Lillie visited
a little too much and began to tell outrageous lies.
A dispute arose over borrowed groceries with the Sims.
They fussed and cussed over the back fence. Lillie wanted
to show her superiority, so one Sunday afternoon when the
Sims were entertaining friends in their back yard, she started;
“You damn niggers better keep still over there; I know you're
talking 'bout me. I can't be strained up with such trash. I'll
give you a good cussin' out and tell you where you come frum
and where I'm goin' to send you.”
The Sims were humiliated. They never said a word; but
planned to get rid of her. They knew Saul was a good man
but he'd have to suffer because he was her husband. They
snooped around and located Lillie's bed and decided to blow
up that corner of the house.
A dark night was chosen. The dynamite went off about
II:00 p.m., and tore off a corner of the house. No one
ventured near until officers were summoned. A big crowd
had gathered in the street to see what had happened. The
officers finally came. When they threw their flash lights in the
far corner, they saw Lillie and Saul sitting on the side of the
bed; they hadn't realized what had happened to them.
That morning Lillie had given the house a good cleaning
and moved her bed. They had a narrow escape; Saul was
completely unnerved. He left this little town and went to
Fort Smith. He knew the old saying, “rolling stones gather
no moss” was true, but he knew he'd never be satisfied there.
They worked well together for several years. They
167


bought a home, then chickens, hogs, rabbits, and a buggy and
horse were added later. They got along fairly well
until “Shine” Morgan, one of Lillie's old friends came to rent
a room from them. He had met with a sad accident while
beating his way on a freight train, both legs were cut off.
“Shine” had traveled extensively and had learned much. He
taught Lillie how to make beer and they bootlegged while
Saul was at work. “Shine” discovered that he loved Lillie.
He knew they could make a good living; she was a good cook
and he was good at making beer and many kinds of wine.
Lillie was his wife by day and Saul's at night. He wanted
her all for himself so by his cunning, persuaded her to leave
Saul.
After a hard day's work, Saul went home expecting a good
hot meal, but instead the neighbors informed him that his wife
had run away with “Shine.” He reported it to the officers
and the next day, the morning paper carried a short article
headed:
“A Negro woman runs away with a legless man.”
Saul didn't write his father because he knew that neither
he nor any of his people had any confidence in Lillie. It
turned out just as they'd predicted.
Saul went to church every Sunday and took an active part
in the Sunday School. About this time he met a pretty brown
skin, neatly dressed widow and courted her about a year and
they married.
Lillie appeared about this time and tried to break them up,
but Saul was fed up on her and threatened her with the police.
Saul's people didn't know of his second marriage for two
years.
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[HAPTER XII
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ils THE FIRST Sunday in May the little
Christian church was full before eleven o'clock. Uncle Jake
was to be baptized.
He got up singing and talking that morning, and after
breakfast Peter Long, the barber, came over and gave him a
haircut and shave.
Everything pleased the old man. The sun came up
beautifully, he had a good breakfast, and Sam and Peter Long
dressed him. Now he asked for his hat, so's to be ready when
one of the members came for him.
As Sam and Joe walked with their father down the aisle
and sat with him on the front seat, Sister Lucy began singing.
“There's a Great Camp Meetin' in the Promised Land.”
Everybody joined in and the little church fairly rung. They
sang two more good songs, and Elder Givins prayed and then
preached a short sermon.
There wasn't a dry eye when they began singing, “Oh,
Carry Me to the Water” and Uncle Jake was led down the
ladder into the baptistry. Everybody knew him and every-
body wondered why such a good man had never had his name
on the church roll. Little Mamie, now in the Junior class
in High School, sat on the front seat too, with her grandpa.
Her head was bowed throughout the services. She was a
little embarrassed; how she longed for it all to be over. She
was hearing so much whispering. She understood an old,
foxy sister to say, “An old man over sixty, wid grandchildrun,
jes' givin' his heart tuh God; it's uh shame, chillun.”
She wished so much to tell the old sister that her grandpa
said some folks names were on the books, and that was all.
If a person's heart was right and God knew it, that was
enough. In fact, man's thoughts didn't count, for Romans
14-10 says: “But why dost thou judge thy brother? or why
169


dost thou set at naught thy brother? for we shall all stand
before the judgement seat of Christ.”
It mattered not; Uncle Jake was happy. He shouted and
cried and talked from the time they led him into the baptisry
until they took him out of the church to change his wet
clothing.
When the services were over, many people shook his hand
and congratulated him for his brave stand. Some of them
meant it, but many of them were false pretenders, and he
knew it.
This little church had communion every Sunday. Being
crippled, Uncle Jake was unable to go often, but the good
bretheren seldom forgot him. Some one often came, prayed
with him and gave communion.
When they shook hands with him, Mamie discovered that
they gave him a nickel or dime. She didn't like this, as her
grandfather was getting along as well as some of the members
who gave him; and too, he hadn't contributed regularly to
this church and she felt they shouldn't make a sacrifice and
give him anything.
Little Mamie wrote her uncles and told them of her
graduation the next year. They had made her many promises,
as she was the first in the family that had gone so far in school.
After all the letters were written, someone stepped upon
the porch. She opened the door and her Uncle Jim walked
in. He was married to Lizzie, a widow that lived on Sol
Tibbs' farm. He had lived there three years and was very
much discouraged.
“Pappy I've sho' had a taste of slavery, and I won't stand
it. I’ve made good crops every year and ole man Tibbs takes
all my money. He charges more than double for everything,
and when his bookkeeper straightens up with you, you are
still in the hole. I can count myself. I didn't go through the
eighth grade for nothin'.
Brother Oscar is in Cleartown, Washington and I am
going to ask him to send for me. Little Mamie, get your
pencil and paper and write this letter.”
“I’m ready uncle, what do you want to say?”
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chord. This meant for the children to turn their backs to their
seats. The second tap and chord meant to sit down and the
third meant to turn around straight in their seats. Then the
bell was rung again, which meant to begin work.
Professor Buford belonged to one of the small Methodist.
churches, he loved it and gave not only his time but his money.
He had his school children learn some of the Psalms.
One Monday morning, he felt quite religious, having had
a fiery sermon on Sunday, so he had his junior class turn to
page 163 in an English book. He wanted the selection read
well, so he called on Hettie, the best reader in the class. Being
jubilant over having been chosen to read first, Hettie jumped
up, hurriedly turned the leaves, found the page and began
reading very loudly. “Page '63, subject: “The Twenty-third
Spasm.”
The children yelled and laughed. A fresh little fellow
yelled out, “Oh, that's the “Twenty third Pslam'.”
Professor had to smile himself, but didn't intend for the
children to take the fun to an extreme. After such confusion
he thought the children's minds were far from religion, so
he changed the subject. After recess might be a better time,
so he gave them a written lesson.
During the recess period, so many things went wrong.
At least the principal thought so. He seldom frowned, but
his brow was closely knitted the whole period.
When the bell rang, the children were extremely noisy in
getting to their lines and when they marched in, the peppy
march Miss Landers played made them feel a bit lively. They
didn't march, they “stomped”; the old stairway swayed and
screeched. The last pupil swung himself through the door
with a twirl. Professor Buford was right behind him and
missed a step or two as he hurried on the platform. Some
one in the rear of the room was “out of order” as he termed it.
“Stop that noise, and stop it quickly,” he stormed.
All the pupils were seated by this time; those in front
jumped. They didn't know why he stormed as he did.
Lucius, a big, husky, light brown six-footer, weighing more
than the professor, but who had always had a soft, even
temper, jumped up from his seat in the rear and stormed back
at the professor, “You talkin' to me?”
Professor Buford was a good fighter, but he didn't want
175


to tackle big Lucius. Yet, he didn't want all those children
to think him a coward. The three High School classes sat
in his large room or the auditorium. He stood, eyed Lucius,
trying to see if he had any fight in him before speaking.
Finally he drawled, “Yes, I'm distinctly talking to you.”
“Well,” shouted Lucius, “that's all right then,” thus said,
he gently took his seat.
Every child had perked his ears and had turned around,
looking at Lucius. They wanted to see what would happen.
Such an unexpected climax! They laughed and giggled
until some fairly cried. Professor had to laugh himself; he
didn't fool some of those children. They knew he didn't want
big Lucius to jump him. Professor considered the whole
morning spoiled.
At noon the children were hungry. They hurried home
and partly forgot the morning's doings.
The one o'clock bell rang and they were more orderly after
marching in; the professor called his Cicero class to the front.
Little Mamie, like a number of others, had studied hard the
night before and hoped the professor would allow them to
read it. It seemed whenever the passages were easy and
musical, he liked them too, and often read all the beautiful
parts and left the difficult passages for his students.
Surely enough, after they stumbled over the difficult
paragraphs, everyone in class held up his hand, but just as they
had expected, the professor began with a high-pitched voice as
if he wanted every one in the room to stop, look and listen.
“O tempora, O mores! Senatus haec intellegit, consul videt
hic tamen vivit, vivit?”
Then with a sweeping drawl that he used when interpreting
Latin, “Oh the times, Oh the customs The senate—” before
he finished, three small boys came pacing in, one handed him a
note. This stopped the class. The professor reached in the
chalk trough and got a switch as he went down from the
platform.
“Well, Sammy, what's wrong?”
Snatching his little hand from his pocket, he pointed
defiantly at Mack. “This here boy tuck my 'simmons.”
“Where did you get the persimmons, Sammy?” asked the
professor properly.
Sammy wiggled, twitched and swallowed.
176


bought a hat and they insisted that she wear it to school one
morning. This is what she expected, so the next morning she
was later than usual. They had about given her out. Devo-
tional exercises nearly over, they were arranging their books
in their arms for passing to rooms. The door opened and in
popped Nettie with her hair puffed in large curls all around
her head, and a very small, dark, cheery-red felt hat with two
feathers sticking on the side, sitting right on top of her head.
Her little face looked lost. The students sniggered, and
nudged one another. Professor Buford stared interroga-
tively. Don was about the only person who did not laugh.
At recess, Nettie wanted to whip all the girls. She said
they didn't know style, her hat came from Chicago. The girls
said they knew one thing; Don's money had been thrown away.
That spring, Nettie and Don began to spat. He didn't
care, for he'd been watching Mamie a long while, and had de-
cided that she had grown enough to go with him.
His club gave a dance and he invited Mamie. He didn't
know she could dance so well; she could even make the run,
when two-stepping or waltzing.
Mamie didn't take Don seriously; she considered him too
big a flirt. She knew four girls who said they went with him,
and had heard one grabbed his hat one night and he had to go
home with her before she'd give it to him.
One afternoon when Mamie and Elsie were returning
from town, they were passing Jones' corner. It was crowded
with boys and men as usual. Don crossed the street in front
of them. He had on one of the latest tan high roller hats;
Mamie thought she'd never seen such a handsome lad in all
her life. She'd just seen the hats marked five dollars in win-
dows downtown. She decided then and there that she loved
Don.
The people of Penhook looked forward every year to at-
tending Professor Buford's graduating exercises. Mrs. Tibbs
had honored the present class by inviting them to her wedding.
Neighbors and friends loved Mrs. Tibbs, and they planned an
elaborate affair.
Torch lights were hung in the yard and all the big lamps
in the neighborhood were borrowed and placed in the rooms.
The big, swinging lamp hanging from her parlor ceiling had
been shined, and a new number two fancy chimney had been
179


bought for it. The windows were raised high so those stand-
ing outside could see.
Lo, they had forgotten to ask someone to play the wed-
ding march, and Rev. Sims was standing in the middle of the
floor, ready to tie the knot.
The high school students had assembled at one end of the
porch, Mrs. Harris came rushing out and asked who could
play the wedding march. Tom hadn't arrived; little fat Hat-
tie, a neighbor of Mrs. Tibbs and a good musician, sat on
the porch with her class mates. She tried with perceptible hes-
itation to explain that she couldn't play the wedding march
without the music, and no one had told her to bring it, but
Mrs. Harris not only insisted, but pulled the timid girl up
from her seat and escorted her to the piano and commanded
her to play.
Hattie, shaking from head to foot, looked around and
Rev. Sims waved his hand for her to begin. Without further
hesitancy, she pounded out three heavy chords, then struck up
“Fred Douglass’ Funeral March.”
“Oh, that's a funeral march,” giggled Mamie.
The bride came switching through the door smiling, with
chin up, leaning coquettishly on her brother's arm, and the
stocky groom, with his face knotted as if he recognized the
music, supported by a friend, whisked through another door.
His eyes were blinking and Mamie just knew that he sensed
something wrong. Mrs. Tibbs, still calm, smiled blushingly,
as she stopped in front of the minister.
Hattie played softly as the minister spoke. The moaning
strains were anything but pleasing to a musical ear. The
students on the porch giggled all during the ceremony. When
Hattie joined them, they teased her good. Her round, chubby
face, covered with beads of perspiration, expressed disgust
as well as embarrassment. It didn't matter; Mrs. Tibbs
smiled through it all.
The following Friday night, Mrs. Price invited the gradu-
ating class to a dance at her farm. Her husband had built a
new house.
An orchestra of four pieces from Dallas was in town play-
ing very reasonably for parties, so the men and boys collected
enough money to pay them and the girls and women were to
take the eats.
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At the scheduled time, six two mule teams stood in front
of Mrs. Price's door, ready for the nine mile jaunt.
All the way out to the farm, the musicians played and the
boys and girls sang; the night was ideal. The full moon gave
forth a bright light, and the slight breeze that escorted them,
made everyone comfortable. People for miles around heard
the music. The saxaphone's weird notes, and the tricky com-
binations of the clarinet forced some of the farmers to get up
from their beds and come to see who and what it was. The
musicians were in the second wagon; some of the boys rode
with them.
They reached the farm at nine o'clock and the crowd was
good and hungry. The women and girls opened their baskets
and put the food on the long tables. Mrs. Price had baked
three country hams. Others brought fried rabbit and chicken,
biscuits, salads of different kinds, cakes, pies, canned fruit, and
condiments. The men stretched out on the long porch and
harmonized until the old gong was sounded.
They ate awhile and danced awhile. Mamie declared she
was having the best time of her life; others sanctioned her re-
marks. About eleven-thirty, the violinist broke his “E” string.
The crowd thought their fun over, as he'd forgotten to bring
any strings, but Jack Fulton, a grocerman who came with them
had been to Dallas, had met these musicians there, and knew
their tricks. He produced a handful of strings of all kinds for
the violin and bass. The musicians, convinced they couldn't
work their small town trick on the Penhook gang, played un-
til one o'clock.
On the way back, they sang until everyone except the
drivers fell asleep.
At seven o'clock, Mr. Price woke Mamie up and told her
to run home and go to bed. Uncle Jake and Sam were ex-
pecting her. She fell across the bed, too tired to talk. Sam
removed her shoes and she slept far into the afternoon.
When she awoke, she went over to her Cousin Lucy's.
The preacher had been by, and said some of the deacons had
told him about the dance, and he was going to turn all of his
members out of church, as it was against the rules and regu-
lations of a Baptist church for its members to go to a dance.
He didn't blame the children so much, but Mrs. Price, being
superintendent of the Sunday School, should know better than
181


to lead his flock away from the fold. Mamie only laughed.
She said she knew that was just big talk; Mrs. Price raised
more money for the church giving concerts, carnivals and pic-
nics than all the other members put together, and she knew
they weren't thinking of turning her out. They'd find some
way to wiggle out of it, furthermore, if she did have a little
argument about it, she wouldn't mind, for she'd had just
“one scrumptious time.”
Uncle Jake had little to say about it. He used to play for
dances and he couldn't see any harm in it as long as the young
folks had some old heads along.
182


[HAPTER XIII
w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w a w w w w w w w w w w w w w
THERE WERE eighteen members in the
graduating class — fifteen girls and three boys. Professor
Buford selected six as class speakers and asked them to hand
in subjects early in March. -
Mamie got Mrs. Price, a member of her church and one
of the teachers, to help her. Mrs. Price graduated in Nash-
ville and was considered the best in town for writing orations.
Mamie and Mrs. Price chose, “Something Yet to be At-
tained” as her subject. The first week in April the oration
was finished and in the principal's hands. He read and re-
read it—cut out here and there. He cut out every part that
Mamie and Mrs. Price thought beautiful. When spoken to
about it, he'd put it in again in such stiff language, that it
didn't sound like the same thought. Mamie was a good speak-
er, but her piece had been cut and changed so much every time
she spoke it, that she became quite discouraged.
Mrs. Price at last found a solution. She told her to prac-
tice it as it was first written at home, and as it had been cut
when at school. This made her learn two orations, but she
did it.
The songs that year were beautiful. The whole program
had been carefully arranged.
The invitations were ordered early, and gotten out in
plenty of time for everyone to decide on the presents they
were going to send the graduates.
A week before hand, Mamie began to receive gifts. Her
Uncle Saul sent her shoes and a silk slip. The other Uncles
must have forgotten, for they sent nothing. Her mother in
Cleartown, Washington with her brother Jim, sent money for
her dress and other things, the last of April.
The superintendent and principal secured the City Arena
183


it from his hip pocket. She knew it was a forty-five, so she
threw both hands over her ears and screamed for Tom to let
the cur go. He wasn't worth it. But in the skirmish he was
tripped and his gun sailed against the pot-bellied stove in the
corner. Candy beans flew in all directions. It was a glass
pistol.
He saw that Tom meant business, so he sneaked into the
next compartment and remained until the train pulled up to
the next squatty station, his destination.
The next day they ate dinner in Memphis, on Beale street.
Tom wished for a piano so he could play the “Memphis
Blues.”
The sidewalks were crowded that Saturday. Mamie grew
tired and went back to the station, but Tom met several roust-
abouts from Penhook who knew him because he was the “Fes-
ser's son” and felt he had to let them show him the city. They
told the gang about his piano playing, so when he left them,
he'd spent most of his change and the little that Mamie had
given him to keep for her.
On arriving at Freed University, a complimentary and
inquisitive teacher informed them that she'd been there for
years and had discovered that all Texas students could do one
of three things well: Sing, play the piano, or dance. She was
anxious to know just what category they came under. Mamie
politely replied, “Tom’s an efficient pianist, but I-I’m just a
listener.”
Sunday, Mamie didn't see Tom at all. He didn't come
to a single meal and she feared to ask for him. She knew it
was easy for piano-players to get acquainted and she knew
too, that Tom would just as soon sit up all night and play for
a dance and stay through part of the next day if the dance con-
tinued—too good natured to say “No.”
How she wished she could boot him all the way back to
the university It would meet with the approval of his father
she knew, but his mother usually found an excuse for his mis-
takes.
Mamie had never been away from home before, so she
cried all day. The cook offered her sweet-milk, the girls gave
her candy, but nothing sufficed. So many things ran through
her mind. She wondered if she did right to leave Don Greer,
or her old grandfather who had always needed her. She won-
187


Don't listen to the tales they tell you,
Don't you weep or sigh;
For I love you, my Virginia,
Love you 'til I die!”
How Mamie wished she were as demonstrative as Virginia.
She wondered if she'd have many beaux while at college. She
just couldn't write mushy love letters. She loved Don, and
she believed he loved her. He was an intelligent lad and
understood her; she didn't have to say silly things in letters
like Virginia did.
Mamie and Virginia worked hard Saturday, beautifying
their room. After sweeping and dusting, Mamie cleaned the
lamp chimney, while Virginia polished the brass lamp. The
old whatnot proved too small for their postcards and photo-
graphs; the window panes were too small to dry all their
hankies at once.
On the outside of Jorry Hall on Saturday mornings, the
window panes with white hankies pasted on them had the
appearance of a peace station.
That night two tired girls gladly tumbled between white
sheets. -
“I’m sure glad I got away from that Texas gal”, slowly
drawled out Virginia. “Do you know she even made me let
her read my letters from home. I wanted to see some Texas
gals, but I didn't want to roost with one. None of them
are lady-like. They're as wild as bucks; all they need is
horns.” Virginia blibbed and glibbed about Texas trash.
When she'd finished, Mamie reached upon her own head and
felt carefully.
“What's the matter, chum ? Got a headache?” asked Vir-
ginia compassionately.
“No, Virginia, but I do think I feel horns sprouting.”
Poor Virginia jumped out of bed before speaking, “You're
not a Texian l’” shouted Virginia.
“Texan, dear,” corrected Mamie. “Now, little girl, don't
‘bus yo' pants’; yes I'm a Texan, but I'm a girl like you. I
can love and I can hate. All your information about my state
is bunk. A Texan, Virginia, is a noble character, has initia-
tive. There's something captivating, or fascinating, I should
190


Henry running a close second to some of them. Mamie and
Virginia were the first to leave. When they thought the coast
clear, out they ran, whirled around the corner and Mamie ran
into Miss Henry; both fell. Mamie scrambled to her feet,
ran into her room and jumped in bed with her shoes on. So
many doors slammed at once, they confused Miss Henry.
Nellie Gray ran out with a pair of night pajamas on, and
Miss Henry knew she saw a man in the bunch. It was Ma-
mie's first time to see a girl in sleeping pants; she marvelled
at it, too.
When the hall matron came up, all the girls were gotten
out of bed, the rooms searched. Nellie had changed her pants
to a gown and they didn't find the “man.” What a joke.
Poor Miss Henry had a headache for three days.
Things were happening in Penhook too.
Ned started coughing in November and nothing seemed to
do him any good. Dr. Simpson told Uncle Jake he had T. B.
and should go to Oklahoma to his father, as Ellen's child
would be born in eight or ten weeks. She couldn't do for
herself, and Ned too. She had lost her first child with whoop-
ing cough.
Later he had to quit work, and sitting around the house
peeved him. He fussed and fumed about every little thing.
It was during this time, that Uncle Jake felt he discovered
Ned's dirty intentions.
Before his illness Uncle Jake noticed at times he'd come
into the house and refuse to speak to him. If he brought
Ellen some dainties, he'd sit by until she ate them up, and
wouldn't let her give her father any. He, nor Ellen could
quite understand his actions, so Uncle Jake became suspicious
and refused to eat anything that he, at times, felt his duty to
give him.
Ned's father sent for him.
A few days before he left, he gained courage enough to
say, “Well, old man, I'm going to my father. I hope I'll get
well up there drinking fresh milk and eating good food.
Ellen is your baby child and this place belongs to us. The
law in the state of Texas says that. We could fix this place up,
and live happy with our children.”
Uncle Jake only listened to the young man as he outlined
his plans for the future. He so much wanted to ask him if he
192


wouldn't appreciate a home he'd bought himself more than
one some other person had labored for.
At nights when he came from work, Ellen and Uncle Jake
observed how he'd run to his little trunk, slip something from
his pocket to the tray and lock it. They couldn't find a key or
borrow one that would fit.
While he was talking, all these things ran through Uncle
Jake's mind, and he came to the conclusion that Ned had been
trying to think of an easy way of getting rid of him; perhaps
poison him.
When he went to his father he took only a suit case and
the key to his little trunk. Ellen and Uncle Jake tried more
than ever to open the trunk. Finally a locksmith passed, and
they got him to open it. It was just as Uncle Jake had sus-
pected; in the tray were a number of small bottles and boxes
with the skeleton head and cross-bones on them. Only a few
were written on. One had strychnine, another a kind of ar-
senic, and a large bottle of iodine. Ellen threw up both hands.
“Pappy, with all this, he must of intended poisoning both
of us.”
“No, Ellen, he wanted tuh use duh one dat he felt might
do duh wurk wid-out anybody findin' it out. He wanted tuh
know duh easiest an' quickes' killer dat would make duh doc-
tor say it wuz natchul. Duh Lawd showed me dis thing, so
Ah could be kereful, an' Ah wuz. Ah ain't et nothin' he
fotched hyer fuh uh long time. He's got duh gallopin' kon-
sumption, an' cain't las' long. He coughs too hard; he's 'bout
wore hissef out. He'll nuver git back tuh sen' his soul tuh
hell fuh killin' me; at least dis sin won't be on him. Ah don't
know, he might have meny mo'. Po' chile, Ah hopes he re-
pents 'fore he die.”
“Pappy, I didn't want to tell you, but he cut up all my
good clothes; when I'm able to wear them I won't have a de-
cent dress. I don't know why he'd do such, unless he doesn't
want me to go any place, and I can't imagine when he had time
to do it, as I haven't left the place lately. I discovered it the
other day when I went in the drawer for a silk handkerchief
to wipe my eye when I got something in it. I haven't found
my silverware and I almost know he didn't take it.”
“Well Ah’m glad we're out uv it. It's bes' fuh bof uv us;
dat feller didn't mean nobody no good.”
193


i. it was late in the afternoon before they arrived at the
arm.
Ellen could see that Ned had only a short time to live.
He smiled and talked to the baby, but wouldn't let her name
him Ned, nor would he name him, as he'd heard it bad luck
to name a baby after a sick person or have a sick person
name it.
In a few days Ned died, and Mr. Jones paid Ellen's fare
to her brother in Tulsa. She stayed there a week and her
brother sent her on to Penhook.
She wondered about his name. Her husband had sug-
gested letting little Mamie name him; then she'd feel she
should help care for him. This Ellen did, and little Mamie
gladly sent back William Rex as the name.
Mamie loved the Negro spirituals that were sung at chapel
every day before noon. Many visitors came to hear the
students sing. Most white visitors asked for, “Swing Low,
Sweet Chariot.”
Mamie took piano lessons only one term. Her mother
couldn't pay for them, and Miss Yabber, a coarse, clumsy,
heavy-jawed woman who had charge of funds solicited for
students, paid no attention to her pleas. She had her to write
letter after letter, and Mamie knew they were correct, be-
cause her English teacher looked them over. She must have
thrown each one in her waste-paper basket. No results ever
Carne.
During her four years around college, she thought Miss
Yabber the only unfair official; she had pets. She let a cer-
tain girl take music lessons who couldn't even keep step to a
march.
The first months passed swiftly. When Mamie received
the money for her seventh month's bill, her mother wasn't
able to send it all. She went over to the treasurer's office to
pay what she had. Many students were there, paying bills,
so she went in the book room and stood around and kept
peeping in to see if they had gone.
Mr. Fairmont, the treasurer, couldn't hear very well and
seemed to think everyone was like himself, for he shouted his
words instead of talking. She peeped in for a third time and
Dean Bright, the chorister, stood at the far end; she didn't
fear him. He had heard many hard luck tales.
195


She whisked in and pushed her money quickly under the
iron bars of the little window.
“I haven't all my money, Mr. Fairmont and—and my
shoes need to be half-soled,” said Mamie hesitatingly.
“Oh, your feet are on the ground !” came the loud re-
sponse, just as someone pushed the door open and three well
dressed girls walked in.
“Keep out enough to have your shoes mended,” continued
the gruff speaking treasurer. Too embarrassed to hold her
head up, she took the money and pushed it deeply into her
coat pocket.
“You’d better come over and join the Mozart Society,
little girl; I know you can sing, by the way you open your
mouth,” said a kind, soft voice. Mamie turned, and Dean
Bright stood near her.
“I—I don't think I can read notes well enough, but I'd
just love to join,” she answered modestly.
“You come over Saturday night. If you can't read notes,
I'll have someone teach you.”
“Thanks, Dean Bright.”
The three high-brows were listening. They heard what the
loud mouthed treasurer said, but he spoke that way to every-
one. They too heard what Dean Bright said, and she knew
they were jealous. All the way over to the Hall she repeated,
“I know you can sing by the way you open your mouth.”
What a compliment As soon as she got inside her room,
she locked herself in, went straight to her mirror, opened and
closed her mouth a dozen or more times to see if she under-
stood what he meant.
Saturday evening at 6 p.m., Mamie and two others ap-
peared before the examining committee. All three were
scared stiff. The committee, consisting of two boys, struck
up a lively conversation; then the one seated at the piano
began playing familiar songs. The bunch joined in the sing-
ing; a short test followed. All three passed, and were given
seats in the Mozart Society that night.
Mamie's friends wondered how she got in so quickly; even
her room-mate couldn't understand.
Because of their lateness to meals, the matron took the
girls' Saturday night dancing privilege from them. Nell, a
foxy-headed good timer, took the law in her hands. She
196


rounded up a crowd of girls, and went in the music room on
the first floor and started a lively tune. The room was soon
too crowded to turn in, but everyone swayed to the rhythm of
the jazz in some way, until the matron came as usual and
stopped the fun. The girls couldn't understand why they were
never able to carry out just one impromptu affair. Some went
grumbling to their rooms, while others followed Nell on the
second floor to another music room. Mamie and Virginia
went to their room and made fudge over the big lamp.
Just as things were going good and the girls thought
everyone had forgotten them, the matron of the second floor
eased up to the door and locked them in until the girls' matron
came. What scrambling! Only one way to escape, and that
by a window. Nell had had a good rearing, but wanted her
way in all things. She jumped out the window, landed on the
concrete walk and broke her leg. What a furor this created;
Nell's leg broken and a dozen girls with privileges taken for
months.
The next Sunday when the girls sat on the lawn talking
about the trouble, a half dozen handsome student doctors
went into the drug-store across the street. They thought the
girls were looking for four-leaf clovers, so they bought a box
of chocolate bon-bons and threw them one at a time to the
girls.
The last day of school rolled around and Mamie started on
her way to her mother in Yakima, Washington. She had
never ridden such a long distance before. On the fourth day
she gave the big, ugly porter money to send her mother a
telegram, but he put the money into his pocket.
No one came to the station to meet her, but the town being
small, and it having been announced at church that Sister
Lena's daughter was coming from college, she had no trouble.
A brother of the church saw a strange girl get off the train and
went to assist her.
Early next morning Lena started to work, Mamie got up
too and after a hearty breakfast, she walked up town. In a
window beautifully decorated with wedding regalia for June
brides, she spied a light pink frock that attracted her. Some-
one tapped her on the shoulder.
“Oh it's you, Mamie. You must be Lena's daughter.
197


My, your skin looks as soft and smooth as gingerbread,” said
a richly dressed white woman.
“Yes, and you must be Mrs. Sears. Thousands of thanks
for your kindness to my mother, and for the many needful
things you sent me,” answered Mamie.
“You must come out tomorrow with your mother. I want
the children to see you. You'll let us see how long your pretty
hair is too, won't you?” Mamie blushingly replied, “I’ll come
tomorrow with mother, Mrs. Sears.”
Mamie's Uncle Jim lived in Cleartown near an Indian
reservation. The squaws, with chubby, dirty-faced papooses
on their backs, had made a path across his back yard. They
were on their way to the railroad station where they sat on
the platform and begged, while others plodded lazily from
store to store in search of food. When they received govern-
ment checks, their ponies galloped many times to town and
other places, looking for firewater.
She went to visit her uncle, and he bought her several nice
dresses for school. She enjoyed hearing him tell of tramps
and ghosts. He declared he couldn't at night tell live people
from ghosts. The only way he knew, was when someone with
him informed him that they had passed no one.
Tramps came to his house for water, salt, matches, sugar
and other small necessities. Jim said tramps had all houses
marked near railroads. If you were kind to them, they never
disturbed your place; but if your place bore an unfriendly
mark, you should never leave home.
Six tramps dressed in new overalls came for water about
dusk, one Saturday; Mamie noticed one didn't talk. When
they started away, she said, “Oh, the one that stood back
and didn't talk is a girl!”
“Why do you say that?” asked one of the boys.
“She doesn't know how to walk in pants, and her face is
too soft and smooth,” answered Mamie.
The girl laughed, nodded her head ‘yes’ and went lag-
ging behind. Every day, as long as they were in the town,
she came and talked with Mamie and her aunt. She had run
away with a neighbor sweetheart, but she looked as if she'd
like to be home again with Mama.
Mamie said Cleartown seemed to be imprisoned. The
giant mountain walls made her sad.
198


The hop fields out from Yakima, with women, men and
children in them, were different from the large cotton farms
in Texas. It made her nervous to see them cut the winding
vines from the frame racks with long jack knives. They
stripped the hops and leaves in baskets and the foreman was
kept busy running over the field to check the baskets, for the
contents soon withered very low.
When Mamie returned to college in the fall she joined the
Tanner Art Club and the Temperance Society. She won a
medal in the Temperance Oratorical Contest.
This year passed uneventfully—hard work, but everyone
expected it.
Her third year, she succeeded in getting six dollars a
month aid by washing or wiping dishes in the pantry twice a
day. Whenever a girl didn't want to work, she'd give Mamie
or some other industrious girl fifteen cents, the standard price
for washing dishes after any meal. Mamie was always avail-
able after supper. Fifteen cents would go a long way. You
could buy good sandwich at Richford's for a nickel; five
pieces of pinochi at Myrtie's for a nickel, and carfare down
town, only a nickel.
Her third summer was spent in Cleveland, Ohio, working
out in service. Lena had gone there with a wealthy family.
Jubilant over the thought of only one more year in col-
lege, her little trunk was soon packed and set in the hall; the
sight of it constantly reminded her of the long, hard year
ahead.
A friend had invited her to spend a few days in Louis-
ville on her way to school. A club had an elaborate dance for
visitors. Mamie had heard that Kentucky often raved about
her pretty women, fine horses, blue grass, and good “likker.”
She had hoped to be able to get a peek at the first three on
the list, so at the dance she met the beautiful ladies, and at the
Fairground the next day she saw the fine horses.
Miss Henry, matron of the fourth floor, had asked for
Mamie to be monitor on that floor. Mamie also received aid
her last year, so with this assignment, she only worked in
the pantry once a day. She was now available twice a day to
work for someone else. The year rocked along, she hardly
having clothes enough to get through.
Ellen, living on the home place with her invalid father,
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took seriously ill and her indolent husband as usual had no
money to get medical aid. Ned Jones, her first husband, had
had a violent temper, but he did provide for her. A year
after his death she married Norris Green, a little, lazy, talk-
ative fellow who went to school only a few years; Ellen said
he thought he knew more than the teachers.
Lena and Mamie both away made it hard for Uncle Jake.
He had to ask the women in the neighborhood to come over
at their spare time and help out. Dr. Simpson, a neighbor,
and about Ellen's age, went once and found out they had no
money so he wasn't at home when they went for him again.
Dr. Simpson couldn't be blamed too much, for so many people
in Penhook owed him; he grew tired of promises.
A Dr. Williams who had just come to town came too
late. Poor Ellen looked up at the enlarged picture of Mamie
hanging on the dingy wall and told the doctor if she were
there, she'd run all over Penhook to get someone to relieve
her. All the people in that little town were sympathetic until
it came to putting out a little change. The neighbors knew
Ellen needed immediate attention, but no one offered assist-
ance until too late. They knew Lena would see to it that they
got their money back, but no one could spare a few dollars,
so Ellen passed. A few hours before her passing, she asked
the neighbors to help her invalid father and Sam see after her
two boys until Lena and Mamie came to stay with them.
Uncle Jake cried from the beginning of her illness. He
felt she would never recover. Neighbors and friends poured
in and cleaned up the place. Uncle Jake couldn't go to the
funeral; besides being crippled, he had a weak bladder. He
sat on the porch in his old wicker rocker to receive sympathies
and the little change the good folk dropped into his hand.
When the pall bearers brought the casket out of the house
to put it into the hearse, the men stopped on the porch for
Uncle Jake to see the last of his baby—the first of his eight
children to die. He had to talk to her and call her his baby.
When the hearse drove slowly away, he almost swooned; it
was too much for an old man. From that moment his
strength began to fail. “Jes' sick ten days,” he kept whisper-
ing to himself.
As the old sexton began to toll the bell, the Greer's low-
ered the shade in their father's bedroom, but he made them
200


raise it. Mr. Greer had been ill for a year or longer; Don
had to discontinue his law course and come home. Two fun-
erals that week had passed. The Greers were anxious for the
people to get inside the church, because they knew the sexton
would toll that bell as long as he saw a person coming. Noth-
ing seemed to excite Mr. Greer; he often remarked that when
a man panted for breath like a dog as he did, he wasn't for
this world long.
Fred came from Hugo and took Ellen's older boy, Willie,
home with him and Ellen's shiftless husband took the baby
to live with his sister, who had two children of her own and
didn't want him.
Ellen died in March. Uncle Jake said that it seemed that
June would never come. Early in April, Uncle Jake began
receiving company under the big tree. The women in the
neighborhood took turns in taking him dinner. Sam and Uncle
Jake had planted a good garden, and the women got vege-
tables to help out. Often some friend gave him a nickel or
dime and this bought his milk and tobacco.
Late one Saturday afternoon, Ellen's husband came and
demanded his wife's belongings. Uncle Jake protested, be-
cause he knew Ellen bought them by washing and ironing.
To show his authority, he took the tablecloth, tore it in halves,
then dragged the old leather davenport out the door and put
it in a wagon he had hired. The neighbors begged him to
leave the things for the children, but this made him worse.
He went back into the little shack and cleaned it of every-
thing he thought belonged to Ellen. This caused Uncle Jake
more grief; he started in crying all over again.
Ellen's death had completely unnerved him, and he asked
nearly every passerby the day and date of the month. He had
them tell him just how many days before Mamie would be
home. Zeke even got out the almanac and figured it for him.
Lena in Cleveland, and Mamie at college were both wor-
ried almost sick about conditions on the old place.
Every day now, Mamie expected her graduation expenses.
Mail was brought to the girls' dormitory twice a day. She
watched patiently for her name to appear on the long list
posted outside the matron's door, but to no avail. Two weeks
passed, and no letter from her mother. She knew illness
201


would only keep her from writing; it caused her a thousand
apprehensions.
The first day of the last week, her name appeared on the
list. She whisked in and had the letter half read before she
left the room. Instead of forty dollars, the letter contained
four. What could she do? Not enough to pay her board
bill. Too broken-hearted to hold her head up, she rushed
into her room and fell on her knees. This was time for
earnest prayer, not idle tears.
She began, “O merciful Father, I thank you for all your
goodness to me. Please make my mother well and strong,
and too, send a friend at once to help me. . . .”
She didn't go down to dinner, and at supper she ate very
little. Her heart wreathed in sorrow; she had to struggle to
keep the tears back.
Miss Henry, matron of the fourth floor, complimented
Mamie for her work as monitor; the girls on that floor liked
her too. During the study hours between seven and nine p.m.,
they'd run out to Mamie's table and give her candy, fruit,
sandwiches and other dainties. Mamie's table and lamp were
in the hall every night at least ten minutes ahead of time.
As she sat down at her table this night with many per-
plexing questions before her, her head fell on two clasped
hands and she sent up a silent prayer. So absorbed was she
in her thoughts, she didn't hear Miss Henry's soft tread.
“Are you ill, Mamie P” said a soft, sweet voice.
“I—I—well I don't feel so well, Miss Henry,” she slowly
answered, with head half-raised.
“You’d better let me make you a glass of limeade.”
Mamie raised her head and tried to smile.
“Thanks, Miss Henry, but I don't want to trouble you.”
“You're worried, Mamie. Tell me about it. I may be
able to help you,” said Miss Henry calmly. There was some-
thing in Miss Henry's voice that wouldn't let her hesitate.
Before she realized it, she had told her the whole story.
“You needn't worry any longer about money, only about
your mother. I have money I made while teaching in Africa.
You come to my room tomorrow at noon and I’ll have money
for your board, photographs, ring, diploma, and fare home.”
Mamie smiled through her tears, though her lips quivered
as she spoke.
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“Well, you're the friend I've just been praying for. The
Lord is good; I shall never forget this experience. I hadn't
finished my prayer.”
Mamie snapped her eyes quickly until they were clear.
“I’ll just need money for my board, diploma and fare home.
I'm too happy not to receive a dummy for a diploma. You
know that's what happens when your bills aren't paid, “Mamie
explained quickly.
No dear, you'll have everything. I wouldn't have you to
relive unpleasant experiences of your commencement. You
could never speak of your graduation without a feeling of sad-
ness,” said Miss Henry advisedly.
“You're right; I'd never thought of that. One would
dislike to have unpleasant memories of her graduation, just
as you say Miss Henry, and you're the woman who shall
have the place in my heart next to Mama's.”
“That's sweet of you, Mamie; I'll appreciate it. Come
to my room tomorrow at noon. Oh, I'd better go make your
limeade.” Miss Henry quickly opened her door.
Saturday before commencement, the janitors brought the
trunks from the attic. Some of the girls' trunks were as large
as those used by drummer's; some were of medium size, but
Mamie's was a small man's trunk that her cousin in Cleveland
gave her. She was ashamed of it. Her room-mate under-
stood, but she couldn't explain to everyone. Anyway, few
people sympathize with a person when he has nothing; she'd
heard her grandpa say that. She hoped the janitor would
leave hers near the corner, as her door was the first around
the corner of the hall after leaving the freight elevator. She'd
hoped lots of things about that trunk. She kept a steady look-
out for it. Some girls are so glib-mouthed and unladylike,
and too, their words hurt so.
One janitor, a sleek, little, black, loud mouthed fellow,
happened to bring it down. As plainly as her name was writ-
ten, he could not read it, or else wanted to be fresh and talk
to some of the girls—rather the latter. She heard him ask
some girls to read the name. Two or three shouted, “Mamie
Cannon” and pointed to her door. She could have just brained
the little dumb cur.
When everything seemed quiet, Mamie stuck her head out
of the door and intended to drag the little trunk inside, but
203


meddlesome Luttie swung her big self around the corner,
“Mamie is that your little trunk? I couldn't put my under-
wear in that little thing. Haven't you got another one?”
growled the fluffy-mouthed girl.
Mamie never said a word, but gave her the “eyeball roll”
that most women are noted for, and slammed the door. Again
she wished she had that little pin-headed janitor by the nape
of the neck and so far as old Luttie was concerned, she con-
sidered her a dummox. She knew she wouldn't have that little
trunk always, for her superintendent in Penhook had given her
a job for forty-five dollars a month, so she poked her chest
out, but locked the door as she carefully folded her few clothes
and put them into the trunk. She knew she had less than
anyone in her class, but not one was happier; she'd been able
to stay four years, had a degree and a job.
Mamie went down into the laundry to press a few pieces.
The girls were busy ironing and pressing commencement
clothes. They had a good time in the laundry, especially on
Saturdays. The janitors kept the big brick furnace red hot,
and each girl had two irons. It was fun tying strings on your
iron, and when they caught fire and burned, the irons got
mixed up. All the girls tried to get boards near the windows
so they could see the boys as they passed.
During the last week, the girls sang gleefully as they
packed for home. On the night before leaving, they gathered
on Jorry Hall steps and sang spirituals and the few popular
songs that were allowed. Many of the girls cried as they
sang. The program ended with a dance in the dining room.
Commencement morning brought a bright, cheerful sun,
but Mamie had an honest-to-goodness headache. She couldn't
even drink her coffee at breakfast, but at Io:45 she and her
classmates were on their way to chapel. Every minute she
thought she'd have to leave her graduation program, but
somehow she managed to sit through it all. When she stepped
upon the rostrum to receive her diploma, she almost staggered.
She reached for her diploma, smiled graciously and turned the
tassel on her cap with it. She felt strong and happy that sec-
ond, but when she sat down, her hard thudding headache
started again.
The last number on the graduation program is always the
“Hallelujah Chorus” and all former members of the Mozart
204


Society are asked to come in the choir stand. Mamie knew
it would be a long while before she'd come to a commence-
ment; how she wished she felt able to enjoy it.
After the program, mothers and friends rushed up to
congratulate the graduates. Mamie knew no one came to see
her; she smiled and thought, “as poor as Job's turkey.” She
began elbowing her way through the crowd. Miss Henry
caught her just before she had gotten across the street.
“Mamie, your mother isn't here, but I’m acting in her stead.”
She gave Mamie a big hug and a round kiss on her cheek,
“Congratulations,” she said joyfully.
“You've been wonderful, Miss Henry. I'll have to try
and tell you how I appreciate your kindnesses when I feel
better. I have a sick headache; I’m sure I've worried too
much about Mother. I'll get a letter today, if she felt like
writing. She always sends letters to arrive at opportune
times,” said Mamie.
“It's just a nervous headache. Go over to the nurse's
room, she'll give you something,” added Miss Henry.
Miss Henry was a white teacher who had spent Io years
in Africa as a missionary and Mamie loved her dearly.
The trunks were taken to the station the next morning
and at seven o'clock that evening the long bus rolled up and
the students piled in. Students going to and through Mem-
phis crowded in the dingy coach. By nine o'clock Mamie had
curled up in her seat and was fast asleep. Some students
talked and giggled all night.
Crops in that section of the South had been laid by, and
the next day at every station, Negroes and poor whites awaited
the arrival of every passenger train and swarmed inside,
drinking up the ice water. As the train rolled off, hats
waved in the air to accompany the yells.
No one met her at Penhook. She rode on the street car
to Leroy street and took a short cut home across Downey's
field. She had to crawl under two low barbed-wire fences, but
she only weighed ninety-seven pounds and didn't mind.
Someone in Aunt Sophie's back yard saw her rolling under the
last fence and called Uncle Jake. His eyesight had always
been good; he'd never worn glasses; he could see her.
She ran across the narrow dusty street with tears dropping
from her chin. She embraced her dear grandpa, and both
205


cried bitterly; neither called Ellen's name. It was the first
time Ellen hadn't met Mamie when she returned from any
trip.
That evening she went to see Ellen's baby, little Pete. The
aunt began to look about, she didn't know exactly where he
could be. Mamie helped look for him. He'd crawled up on his
mother's old davenport and gone to sleep. Mamie wanted
the aunt to keep him a few more days, but if she was that
careless with a child two years old, anything could happen, so
she took him home and he slept with Uncle Jake and Sam.
The four-room shack had to be papered and new furniture
bought, before Mamie could even stay one night. Mr. Joe
let her have money. She had three rooms papered, but the
kitchen she papered herself with old newspapers.
The old privy had tumbled over. She and her Uncle Sam
tried to prop it up one night, but it fell over again. Mr.
Amos, a carpenter friend of Uncle Jake's, came and straight-
ened it up for them.
The scavengers had a new wrinkle in Penhook. Instead
of cleaning the out-houses at night as of old, they had certain
days on each street to put big galvanized buckets, sprinkled
with strong disinfectant, under each open seat. If the out-
house had one hole cut in the seat, they left one bucket; if it
had two holes, they left two buckets. The property owner
paid accordingly. They distributed and collected buckets on
Thursday on Tremble street. As there were few alleys, the
men would come through your front gate, throwing the heavy
buckets from hand to hand, and on reaching the big truck,
pitch them in place. The odor remained most of the day.
Mamie invited her company to come any day except Thursday,
as she could never tell what time the “old wagon” would be
around. l
The cleaning all done, and everything in order, she began
asking remedies for whooping cough for little Pete, as he
didn't get any better. His braids were long and thick and
he wouldn't allow them to be combed. One hot day Mamie
gave him a warm bath, oiled him with olive oil, gave him a
piece of bread in each hand and had his hair cut off, before
Uncle Jake, busy entertaining some friends, looked around.
“Lorzy, honey, whut is you doin'? Duh chile will sho'
206


there was a pin on the floor between the chairs where they sat
and the point turned toward them. He said that's a sure sign
of good luck to both. These things and more ran through
her mind as they sat and chatted. Both had been successful so
far; both were college graduates and had jobs. She wondered
about their marriage. -
Don knew Mamie had an independent disposition and he
admired her for it. She'd never tell him of their financial
struggles.
Sam and the little boys returned. Don gave the children
a nickel apiece. Mamie was so afraid they'd spend that money
when they needed both meat and lard, she found an excuse to
follow them into the house. Both of the children loved her,
so they put their nickels up to buy a good breakfast. Don
and Mamie resumed their college chatter. Sam had helped
Uncle Jake on the porch.
Two shots next door attracted their attention; someone
screamed. Mamie and Don ran inside and peeped out. Old
man Alexander shot at his young wife; he told officers he
caught her in devilment.
He shot her through the upper arm, only a flesh wound.
The officers took him to jail, and after the doctor treated her
arm, she ran away with her young lover.
Don was sorry all this happened; however, he had an ex-
cuse to get inside the house, and once inside he'd straighten
everything and he and Mamie would be as they once were. It
didn't take much to kindle the old flame, as each were anxious
to be with the other; so after that Sunday, Don was Mamie's
“steady” and both were happy.


always pulls her dress up to her knees, showing her crooked,
knotty legs. Her neighbors say she brags about her pretty
big legs; she gave a good show.
And last night when we went to church, Rev. Hodge told
the members that he'd leave if they paid him his two hundred
dollars. How he fussed and fumed. Uncle Abe Smith didn't
wait until he had finished, but when he said, ‘I’d leave
tomorrow,' Uncle Abe jumped up, leaned his little spindly
head to one side, and pointed his long, thin fore-finger at him,
and with his high wiry voice, answered; “Well, Elder, ef yo'
means dat, we'll see whut we kin do 'bout it in duh mornin'.'
He nearly broke up church; the people surely laughed. I know
one thing, Rev. Hodge didn't answer him; neither did he say
any more about money. Everyone knew he was bluffing.
Uncle Abe has a good job and Rev. Hodge knew he could get
up his money. Uncle Abe's oldest daughter got so angry. She
said her father always spoke out of turn. He had embarrassed
them so much by answering a minister in the middle of his
Sermon.
When Mamie asked for lying Dumas, the old men laughed.
“He’s in Shee-kaigo, a big town. He lied out hyer; he's
got plenty territory up thar,” said Uncle Reb.
Poor Uncle Reb seemed to be brooding most of the time.
He had lost his wife and now lived with his son. He didn't
like his daughter-in-law's cooking. She couldn't make good
gingerbread. He got Mamie to write to his daughter in
Arkansas to send him a ticket. He was too feeble to gather
up the white folks clothes for the wash-women, and this made
him more miserable. He liked Arkansas, he'd been there once.
Uncle Jake loved music, and often spoke of the old songs.
Uncle Reb had been a good singer in his time, so whenever he
came, they sang, if the spirit moved them. One of their old
favorites was,
“Boggy, Boggy—Boggy boy's Boggy.
Prettest gals ever Ah seed wuz—
In Boggy, boys—Boggy.”
Another one:
“Rabbit up the gum stump,
Coon up in the holler
Ef yo' git him out duh holler
Ah'll give yo' silver dollar.”
213


two small places on Tremble street. In one house he moved
his little shoe shop; the other he rented.
Alvin Buckner startled her more than anyone; he had quit
visiting the old men. After Ellen's death, big Mary came
to live with Uncle Jake and the two boys, Sam and Joe. She
was to keep the house clean and cook for them for a place
to stay, but Alvin fell in love with her, rented a house on the
west side of town, and moved her into it. Never had Mamie
seen the time when Mr. Alvin didn't come to their house every
day. The only time he missed was when it rained or snowed
too much to travel.
Her grandfather's eyesight and hearing were about the
same, but he'd grieved over Ellen and had gotten thinner and
more feeble.
She talked to her friends about the great change in the old
men. There never were more than three or four of them
there at one time and she'd seen as many as a dozen; she
remembered, because they kept her running into the house for
chairs and boxes and bringing water.
Little Willie and Pete, Ellen's boys, now played around
their grandpa's old wicker chair, combing his hair, sharing
goodies people brought him, and asking questions.
215


[HAPTHH XV
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
IluriNG THE long summer days, Mamie
and Uncle Jake found it difficult to take care of their expenses.
Sam jobbed about making a few cents some days, but most
days made nothing. Mamie wrote her uncles, but as Saul
expressed it, he had taken care of his father and since she had
a job teaching, she should look after her grandfather, who
had always given her a home. They seemingly couldn't
realize that Mamie's work began in the fall and she couldn't
draw any money until she made it.
Many parents were anxious for Mamie to teach summer
school, both to keep their children off the streets and to help
them in subjects that they were weak. At first she refused,
but so many insisted, and too, she and her grandfather and
Ellen's children were hungry at times; so she decided to teach
a few weeks.
The parents secured the Green Hill Methodist Church, as
it wasn't used very much. The congregation was small and
had services every two weeks. The minister, Rev. Botts, a
single man, lived in the old parsonage next door when in
town and ate with one of the members.
The first Monday in July, Mamie and her assistant, Lula
Belle, enrolled thirty children. Each child had his twenty-five
cents which paid for a week. Every day one or more new
students enrolled. Many friends came to visit; people in
Penhook felt it their duty to put in a visit as soon as possible
to encourage the teacher. The first week went off smoothly.
Monday morning of the second week, the children came
filing in. About one-third of them gave her notes instead of
the promised two-bits. Most of the notes stated that the
mothers would pay as soon as they washed and ironed the
white folks' clothes, others said when Papa gets paid, and
many other excuses.
216


him. It was his summer home, and I think nothing would be
more appropriate, the weather's ideal,” she added snappily.
“Whut yo' go do fuh seats?” asked Sister Luvenia.
“Oh, we have boxes and the neighbors will bring chairs.
The men can sit on the grass.
And Elder Rivers, I'd like for you to preach from II
Timothy, 4-7, which reads, “I have fought a good fight, I have
finished my course, I have kept the faith.’”
“Yes, Mamie, I think that quite suitable. We'll be goin';
I'll see you again before the funeral.”
The sisters were disappointed, they went out grunting;
when out of hearing distance, Sister Tiny had to speak or burst.
“Lors, dat gal out uv college, she's got mo' supersticions
'bout her den I is. I ain't nuver heard sich. College didn't
cure her foginess.”
“She is full o' foginess”, Sister Luvenia commented,
“College didn't hep her none. Her grandpappy's funeral
should be at duh church.”
“So, so,” answered Sister Lutetia.
“Well, sisters, the child has been in the old man's care
most of her life. He's taught her to be obedient and truthful.
If she wants to carry out her grandpa's wishes, I don't think
we should criticize her too much,” said the pastor moodily.
“Since I’ve thought the matter over, I think it would be
the right place to have it; so many people remember the old
man there.”
Elder Rivers went home, but the committee of women
stopped at Sister Lutetia's house still to express their
disapproval of a funeral in the yard.
Willie, Ellen's boy, asked his cousin, Mamie not to make
him go to the funeral, because he got sick when he went to his
mother's. Little Pete, only two years old, didn't understand.
Nearly everyone is Penhook tried to come to Uncle Jake's
funeral. Before two o'clock, people had gathered in the
spacious yard. The undertaker and some of the men of the
neighborhood brought the big black casket out of the house
and placed it on the silver stretchers. The women brought out
the flowers.
Frank, the young embalmer, about six feet two, dressed in
his black broadcloth Prince Albert, sat at the head of the
casket. He brought this style from Chicago. Undertaker
221


Walker had a hard time getting business. Everyone wanted
undertaker Garner, mostly to see Frank officiating. His long,
black coat swung gracefully from side to side as he stepped
briskly about seating folks before the funeral started. Then
the way he directed them to view the body afterwards by
making gestures with his long arms and large white gloved
hands, was a little out of the ordinary. Folks in Penhook
prided themselves about keeping up with the styles.
The ministers sat facing the people. On the first row in
front of the casket, sat Mamie, four of Uncle Jake's six sons,
his sister, Chloe-Ann, and his brother, Zeke. On the second
row, sat Mr. Joe and Leslie Stearns and Uncle Jake's nieces,
nephews, and other relatives. Friends and neighbors were
sitting on boxes, but most of them sat on the grass.
After two hymns and a prayer, Elder Rivers took his text
from II Timothy 4-7 as Mamie had requested. He read it
twice, “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.-”
Each minister present spoke of Uncle Jake's patience. He
never seemed to tire; he didn't complain about his affliction;
he only asked the Maker to give him food, raiment and
shelter. He had a sunny disposition, a kind word and thought
for everyone.
Elder Luke's short talk was a good moral lesson. He
said, “If a man could smile, live without complaint with an
affliction like Uncle Jake's, how should others live who were
more fortunate?”
At the close of the services, Sister Luvenia led, “Shall we
Gather at the River?” After everyone passed around and
had a last look at their old friend; the family cried, bent over
the casket and spoke of their love for him.
On the way to the cemetery, they passed several neighbor-
hood stores. The store keepers closed the doors when they
saw the procession coming; it was an old custom in that little
town to close all business places when a funeral procession
passed to show respect for the dead.
Uncle Jake at one time kept a little store; so well did all
of them remember that whenever a funeral passed, his store
door was always closed and his head uncovered.
People living near the cemetery were standing around the
open grave when the procession arrived. At the singing of
222


for his four or five dollars as other men did for sixteen or
more. Mr. Jenkins promised to pay Sam of he'd get him
more cotton pickers, as he wanted to gather his crop before
cold weather or rain set in.
When Mr. Jenkins came to pay Sam one morning, they
went on Jone's corner. The noisy crowd looked around as
the big team stopped. Sam appeared a little uneasy; he didn't
know how things would turn out. He knew too, that mostly
vags and the gamblers hung out here; the working class hardly
tarried, but Mr. Jenkins felt hopeful, so he began without a
word from Sam, “Well boys, I wants cottun pickers. How
meny kin I git fur Monday morning?” he drawled out.
“Cap'n, hits jes' lak dis. Ef you fetch yo' cotton patch on
dis corner here, we'll pick it fuh you,” shouted loud-mouthed
Alex.
“Yas sir, Cap'n, mah mama's name is Wurk, an' Ah
promised ma-sef never tuh hit her,” giggled wide-mouthed
Seedy.
That was enough for Mr. Jenkins. He slapped his mules
on the back with the lines, and drove off. The crowd
hee-hawed and applauded. Mr. Jenkins drove two blocks
before he spoke, “Sam, them dam' niggers don't wank to work.
Sumthin' ought to be done 'bout it. Here's two-bits for yo'
trouble.”
Sam held out a cupped hand and when the mules stopped
at the corner, he slid off the seat and said shyly, “Thanky,
thanky, sir, Mr. Jenkins,” as he sheepishly cast an inquisitive
glance at the farmer.
Christmas came and went without much fussiness. People
had little money, they killed hogs, had plenty of meat. Only
a few bought turkeys from country wagons for 75 cents
apiece. The children's cheap toys were soon broken up and
forgotten.
March came rollicking in, the chickens' drinking pans, old
tin slop-jars and other junk rolled noisily over the spacious
back yards.
Mamie came home from school and laid down on the
living room floor. Her mother became uneasy. She'd never
seen her do this before, but Mamie assured her that the heavy
wind had made her a little sleeply and tired. It was Tuesday,
March 2 I ; trees were putting on a little greenery, robin red-
224


Don started down the street with her, but swooned to the
ground. He had tried hard to save their house and had
gotten too warm; the night's working and walking were tak-
ing effect.
By noon, food wagons filled with pickled hog feet, ba-
loney, cheese and bread, went through the streets where
Negroes were located. Mamie had found her trunk, put on
a clean dress, brushed her hair, and started on Shiloh Street
to a friend's home. She would have looked nice, but her
only little hat had been mashed flat and it just wouldn't look
right. At the corner of Tremble and Twenty-seventh Streets,
she saw a food wagon standing. The men refused to give her
food, stating that dressed up niggers must have money.
Friends standing around the wagon pointed to the place where
Mamie's house had stood and after much persuasion, one of
the men softened up enough to give her a half hog foot and
a loaf of bread. Mamie had to cry; if she had had money,
where could she even buy anything, and why was it so no-
ticeable when a colored girl tried to clean herself up and look
decent—“well,” she said “why couldn't people be sympa-
thetic, regardless of color?”
The next morning, volunteer investigators came around.
They wanted to know the number in families and where they
expected to be located, so food and clothing could be sent.
Lena's visitor refused her aid, because Mamie had a job.
She wouldn't even give her anything for Ellen's two children.
She tried to explain that they had nothing, and school wasn't
in session. It would be at least three weeks before Mamie
could draw any money, if then.
When the visitor, a young college graduate, who asked
more questions than necessary, started away, Lena asked why
such an intelligent-looking person had no sympathy. Evi-
dently this last statement struck the visitor, for the next
morning she returned and gave Lena a half-order for gro-
ceries but nothing else.
Mamie had gone up to the “Thanky ma'am house,” as
they called it, a large building on the west side of town that
remained standing, and used for supplies that were sent in
daily from other towns. Mr. Joe had been chosen by the
Chamber of Commerce to be chairman of supplies.
229


The small crowded room of people were chatting merrily
in spite of their condition. When Mamie asked to see Mr.
Stearns, the man at the desk informed her that he could an-
swer all questions. She finally persuaded him to take a note
in to Mr. Stearns, and soon he came back and pointed to her
to go into his office.
Mr. Stearns wasn't too busy examining the mail on his
desk to smile, ask her to sit down, and listen patiently to
what she had to say.
“Well, I see you've had a little difficulty in getting sup-
plies,” he said sympathetically. "Don't worry, I'll write your
order myself. Let's see, five in family. I'll give you two
beds with mattresses and blankets, one cot, two wash-
tubs and a rub-board, and three chairs. Mamie let the little
boys use boxes until we get more supplies—and let's see,_a
cooking stove—.”
“But Mr. Joe, please pardon me for interrupting, but I've
seen those little stoves the colored people are getting. I
didn't know they made cooking stoves so little—er, er, er—
must be a number 5, er, er—.”
Mr. Joe threw back his head and laughted heartily be-
fore she could find her words.
“What kind of stove do you want, Mamie P” he asked.
“We want the largest stove you're giving away. And
the tubs, we need three-a large one for washing, and two
small ones for rinsing, please, if it is possible.”
“You’ll get all that, Mamie—I’ll send a large stove, large
utensils to go with it, and a double grocery order. When
you take this grocery order to Ferris Grocery Company, tell
Mr. Ferris he's giving a fifty pound sack of flour with a
half order instead of a twenty-four pound sack.”
“Thank you a thousand times, Mr. Joe,” said Mamie
happily.
“Glad I can help you.
“What about your house? Have you seen about it?”
“No, we have no money. We'll have to wait and see
who's putting up houses for folks on time.”
“Come up to the bank when we move in our temporary
quarters and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good day, Mr. Joe, and thanks again.”
230


Mamie knew Mr. Joe would help them.
As she walked down the street, her mind was busy think-
ing fine thoughts about Mr. Joe. In all her life, she had
never seen him show one bit of prejudice. He was president
of the largest bank in town, president of a large department
store and what not, but he was polite to everyone. When-
ever she went in the bank, he shook her hand and had her
to sit down and tell him about the family. Whenever she
met him in his big store, or on the street in the main part of
town, he shook her hand just the same, and had a little chat.
If people tried to walk in the footsteps of Christ as did
Mr. Joe, truly, this would be a world of happiness and
plenty because prejudice and everything akin to it will destroy
or disrupt a great people or nation.
As she stepped into the door of the grocery store, Mr.
Ferris was going out. “Mr. Ferris, I have a message for
you. You're giving a fifty pound sack of flour with a half
order and—.” Before Mamie could finish her statement,
Mr. Ferris reddened and shouted to her, “Don’t tell me
what to do! I don't take orders frum niggers I”
“Very well, I was simply delivering a message from Mr.
Joe Stearns,” Mamie answered hotly. At the name of Mr.
Stearns, he became anxious to accept the message. He soft-
ened a bit, and inquired, “Well, I didn't understand what
you meant, girl, what did Mr. Stearns say?”
“I'm afraid you'd better call Mr. Stearns or go see him,
Mr. Ferris,” she replied, and walked away.
Friends and acquaintances admired Lena's stove; in fact,
her family had more than any colored family in town. It all
explained itself when they learned that Mr. Joe Stearns man-
aged the supplies. He never forgot the Stearns, black or
white.
After two weeks, school opened. The warm, spring days
proved very helpful. The children could go to school, for
they needed little clothing. People planted gardens on every
available spot. Tents and temporary houses were erected.
Lena rented a tent for fifty cents a week from a man who
lived in the country, but Saturday, after school had closed
for the year, a lumberman came down Tremble Street in-
quiring for Lena and Mamie. How surprised they were
231


when they were told that Mr. Joe Stearns had sent him to
see the kind of house they wanted
Mamie spent a week drawing plans for a five-room cot-
tage, and getting carpenters to figure on it.
Saul came from Oklahoma and helped build the house.
It was shapely and attractive when finished. Fred sent the
paint, a light buff. Lena and Mamie planted shrubbery and
flowers; Mr. Sims, a jack-leg carpenter, built the hog-pen,
wood, and chicken houses.
They were to pay Mr. Joe twenty-five dollars a month
when Mamie was teaching, but during the summer they didn't
pay anything. Mr. Joe wanted only the principal; he didn't
charge them any interest on the money.
Attorney Harrison, a sympathetic, Christian white gentle-
man, put up many beautiful houses for the poor colored
people and charged a very small monthly payment. The
people loved him; they declared the Lord had sent him and
at such an opportune time. With a broad smile that light-
ened his face, he'd walk or drive through the colored section
and listen patiently to their complaints and tried as far as
possible to make them happy.
Things rocked on; crops for two years barely paid for
planting them.
Lena cooked at a boarding house, Mamie taught school
and Sam jobbed around at whatever he could find. Willie,
Ellen's older boy, went to school, but little Pete was left
with Mrs. Hervy, a cripple woman who charged five cents
a day for keeping him. He kept her company during the
cold winter days; she didn't want to charge anything, but
she needed thread to make her quilts.
The school boys ran little Willie in home every day after
school. He would run home and call for his aunt to open
the door, and he'd run in her arms and cry.
His aunt got tired of this, so she told him the next day
he came running, she was going to lock the door so he
couldn't get in, and after the boys licked him good, she'd
let him in and she would give him a good licking herself.
Willie knew she meant this, so the next day when Jimbo
stepped by his side and called him “fatty,” he surprised him
by opening his chubby hand and slapping him in the eyes.
.” 232


[HAPTER XVI
*-*-* * *-*-*-*-* * *-*-* wa - wavº º va -- *-*-- - - - - - - - - - wave wave-va vA va vA wavº vº-va - vav- * v-
THE WORLD WAR had the country in a
confused state; volunteers were rushed to training camps.
When men were drafted into service, Don and his friends
had to go to the city hall to be examined.
The last question asked them was if their mothers were
able to earn one dollar a year. Most of them hummed and
hawed and mumbled “yes”, or made long explanations.
Don, being the last in line, noticed that all the boys
were sent into the same room. When he was asked if his
mother could earn a dollar a year, he politely answered, “No,
sir, she cannot.” Don knew this was a foolish question.
Anyone who could get about at all could earn that, so he
thought he'd answer it foolishly.
All were sent to camp except Don, but he volunteered to
do “Y” work in Pennyman, Virginia, where a shell-making
plant had been erected.
A few of Penhook's boys went over-seas, but most of
them were in training camps when the Armistice was signed.
The little churches prayed night and day. Of the many
colored boys who went from Penhook, only one didn't return.
The little town attributed this to prayer; all the boys who
had graduated, or attended a college, returned.
The people in Penhook became more and more interested
in civic improvement and everyone seemed to be contented
until a sad catastrophe fell upon them.
Strong men wrung their hands and cried. Some fright-
ened citizens moved away, never to return, while others re-
mained to help Penhook stage a comeback.
Both white and colored citizens speak in low, almost
restrained tones, when referring to this catastrophe. It's
true that some things cannot be forgotten, but one feels bet-
234


in something old, something new, something borrowed, and
something blue, according to the old custom.
Mrs. Jacobs, a neighbor who had always been interested
in Mamie, made plans for the wedding. Assisted by her
husband, who had a general knowledge of everything and
another neighbor, Mrs. Dalton, the decorations were made
simple and beautiful.
Mamie did not like a big church wedding and if she had,
she didn't have money enough to have one. Mr. Jacobs
built an arch on the porch and put electric lights around the
rim. Mrs. Jacobs, with her deft fingers, assisted by Mrs.
Dalton, decorated it with white flowers and maiden hair fern.
That Monday night as the victrola sent forth a marvelous
voice singing “O Promise Me,” Mamie, beautifully gowned,
came out of the living room door on Seth Hamon's arm and
Don and his sister Rose, came through the bedroom door.
They met on the porch and Rev. Hamon, Seth's father,
married them with an elaborate ceremony. They didn't have
a ring ceremony, for Mamie would not let Don get a ring
on credit, but Reverend Hamon had them kneel while he read
a long passage. That was new in Penhook, and more talked
of than a ring ceremony would have been.
Don wanted so much to get Mamie a diamond ring. He
liked to show off a little, but Mamie told him no one should
wear a diamond who couldn't pay cash for it. Furthermore,
she didn't need a diamond; she'd never had any finery, so
such things didn't bother her. She often remarked that some
folks kept miserably strained up trying to pretend they had
more than they did. She thought it very foolish.
They taught one year in Penhook and the president of
an insurance company for whom Don had been working, on
the side, for three years came to Penhook and asked him to
go to Los Angeles and acquaint the West with the company.
Mamie had gone to summer school in Nashville. Don wired
her and she came home. When she arrived, Don had de-
cided that he'd go alone; if he succeeded, he'd send for her;
if not, he'd come back. Mamie listened patiently, then an-
swered, “Don, you can't succeed without me. You are more
easily discouraged than I am and to make it short, if you
still want me for your wife, I'm going with you.”
237


Tuesday morning, the nurse went out of the room and
left Mamie standing at the foot of her mother's bed. As
she stood there thinking of the prayer her mother had al-
ways prayed, “Lord, please let me live to see my little Mamie
old enough to take care of herself”—her mother slowly
opened her eyes, though at first she seemed to be peering
through a fog, then her eyes blinked fast as she stared at
Mamie. She sat up in bed, smiled and said, “Well, it's
Mamie, my baby! How are you?”
“I’m fine mother, and how are you this morning,” an-
swered Mamie.
“I’m just fine,” she answered in her high pitched tone.
Before Mamie could get around to the side of the bed,
she had lain down and was back in a coma.
“How wonderful! How wonderful! Mother did speak
to me ! I know now as I've always known that “There is a
God’,” she said to herself. “He answered my prayer.”
When she told several friends about it, they listened with-
out commenting. They knew they had to raise Lena up to
give her water from a spoon. Mamie had either been
dreaming, or it surely was a miracle.
Early Wednesday morning, Lena passed quietly away.
When the news was broken gently to Mamie, she fell on her
knees and sent up a silent prayer. Before she had finished,
someone interrupted, “Who you go git tuh come fuh yo'
mammy, Mamie 2 Whut undertaker is you go have?”
When Mrs. Dalton, her faithful neighbor, lifted her to
her feet, the same question was asked again. She didn't look
around to see who it was; she didn't want to know.
“Mother isn't cold yet; I'll send for an undertaker in
time,” she answered slowly.
In Penhook, the undertakers had runners, or persons who
tried to get funerals for them. They began to annoy a fam-
ily too soon; relatives often wished they were more discreet.
Poor Sam could hardly be consoled. He said he didn't
know what would become of him, so when Mamie told him
he and little Pete were going to California with her, this
relieved him. Willie was in Oklahoma with his Uncle Saul.
Mamie sent telegrams to all her uncles. Saul and Fred
came; Jim wired he couldn't come.
240


Mr. Garner, the undertaker, came for the body, but
brought it back to the house Friday afternoon. Neighbors
and friends sat up all night; the funeral was Saturday. Just
before going to the church, Mamie stood by the casket with
her uncles, her mother looked so natural. Someone caught
her hand and began speaking words of comfort. She turned,
and it was Mr. Joe. How faithful, always on hand, espe-
cially in time of sorrow or trouble of any kind.
It was a beautiful day and Mamie knew that both her
grandfather and mother were pleased. Don sent his sister,
Rose, a telegram to have Dr. Simpson attend the funeral to
see after Mamie.
Mrs. Dalton, their neighbor, a large and strong woman
sat with her. Mamie remained until the sermon was half
over; she could stand no more. Dr. Simpson met her at the
door and had her to remain outside in the cool November
air. Her pulse, of course, beat a little fast, but that was
to be expected.
She didn't get out of the car at the cemetery, for she
couldn't stand to hear the hard clods falling on the box.
When the grave was filled, flowers arranged on top of it, she
looked and spoke of the beautiful flowers.
In two days, with her business settled, she, Sam, and little
Pete left for Los Angeles. After teaching a short while she
had to resign because she hadn't been teaching long enough
to get a leave of absence.
The doctor teased Don a bit. She told him to expect
twins. He seemed much alarmed, so she asked him to give
her one of the babies.
Poor Don didn't intend to create the impression that he
didn't want his children. He knew it would be much work
for Mamie and too, his salary was inadequate. However, he
planned to help at spare moments. All smiles at the thought
of having two children to call him “Dad,” Don made prepa-
rations for twins.
A few weeks later old Doc Stork brought him one little
baby girl; he had to express his disappointment.
Don sent the following message to his mother and sisters:
“Just arrived. I am a girl. Weight 7% pounds. Mother
and I are fine. My name is Donna. Signed, Baby Greer.”
241


Donna's sister, Rose, answered the telegram and addressed
it to “The dearest baby in all the world.” A letter followed
stating that she and her sister, Pinkie, had covered the town.
She took one side of nearly every street and Pinkie the other,
announcing the arrival of their baby.
A few weeks after the baby was born, Mamie wrote
these lines:
Two ANGELS
Two angels visited our home.
One was garbed in a mid-night robe,
It came, it took a soul away.
But within seven score days
Another angel garbed in a snow white robe
Came, and brought a soul.
One took; one gave;
Was this not fair,
Since we couldn't have the pair.
Mamie took little Donna to Penhook to visit the folks
soon after her first birthday. Nearly everyone came to see
Don and Mamie's baby. She was a pretty, cute and friendly
child, and always willingly went through all her little tricks
for them.
On their return to California, they visited their Uncle
Saul and wife who lived in Oklahoma. Ellen's older boy,
Willie, lived with them. Don's sisters and mother wanted
to see little Donna every two years, so when she was three,
Don went to a convention in San Antonio, Texas, and took
Donna to see his folks again. His mother became ill while
they were there, and in a few weeks after their return, she
passed away.
Saul had always wanted to see California and after
Mamie's visit, he began making preparations.
While Don was in Texas attending his mother's funeral,
Mamie had a letter from her uncle. He'd been working for
the railroad and had succeeded in getting a pass to California.
In a few weeks they arrived and liked it so well, they decided
to return later and live.
242


use only his old Ford, but no, he'd use the Nash sometimes.
The brothers even mentioned this. If Don hadn't been a
good talker and too, shown the boss a mortgage due that
spring on his home, he would have been put out; but he was
allowed to remain and was able to pay off his mortgage.
Time had rolled around again for Donna to visit rela-
tives in Penhook. She wanted to see her aunts, but didn't
like being cooped up in Jim Crow cars. This was the
Thanksgiving season. They had little time, but had many
things planned.
The first night they were there, Grace had a party for
them; every day was full.
Mr. Joe had asked Mamie to bring her daughter around
to see him, but as they mostly went in the summer, the
weather was too hot to take her about; but this time Mamie
had planned that he should see her.
Mr. Joe had been one of the most prosperous white men
in the county, but unfortunately had lost everything at the
beginning of the depression.
“Donna, we're going to see Mr. Joe today. Mrs. Garner
is going to send her chauffeur and car for us; Mrs. Garner
was my first teacher. They're the wealthiest colored folks in
town and they've been undertakers here for years. I wish
they would come to California; you can't beat southern hos-
pitality, but we'd do our best,” said Mamie. “There's the
horn now. We can't keep him waiting.” They rushed out
and Johnnie held the car door open.
“Hello, young man. Do you know where Mr. Joe
Stearns lives?”
“Yes I do, Miss Mamie. He moved on a little short
street back uv the big house he used to live in. You know
when his bank busted they tuck all his stuff away frum him.
He's a po' white man now. He lives wif his widder daugh-
ter. He built her a little house on the back uv his lot when
she first married.”
Johnnie talked calmly and sympathetically. He didn't
forget to slow up wherever a new house had been built, or
improvements of any sort had been made.
“Well, I'm so sorry all this has happened. Penhook has
built up quite a bit since we were here, especially right along
245


“Sarah, this is Mamie and her daughter, Donna. I want
you to hear her play the piano; Mamie says she can whistle
too.”
He had them to take off their coats, then escorted them in
the front room and asked Donna to play on the baby-grand
piano he'd bought years ago. -
Mr. Joe anxiously watched little Donna all the time she
played.
“Why that girl even sits at the piano like she means
business, and I like that. Sarah, you play your piece,” said
Mr. Joe in his same soft kind tone.
“Oh Grandad, I just play ‘O Solo Mio'”, answered little
Sarah shyly.
“Play that, and sing it. Mamie wants to hear it, don't you
Mamie P”
“Sure I do, that's a beautiful number,” answered Mamie.
Little Sarah played and sang her number. She had a lovely
VO1Ce.
“Donna, you've played the piano beautifully, and Mamie
has played and you whistled two lovely numbers for me. I
was wondering if you can accompany yourself and whistle,”
said Mr. Joe.
“Yes, I can,” was her quick reply.
Mr. Joe was thrilled.
“I’m glad you children came to see me.”
“Yes, Mr. Joe. I can't come to town without seeing you.
This is the first time I've seen your little grand girl. I'll give
her a dollar to buy some fruit and ice cream.
“She knows how to do that, Mamie. Don't go out the side
door, come this way, out of the front door, it's nearer.”
He walked to the car with them. After they had gotten
inside he leaned on the open door for quite a while. He seemed
to hate to have them leave.
“Goodbye, Mamie and Donna,” he said as he slowly closed
the car door.
“Goodbye, Mr. Joe; so glad we saw you,” they both chimed.
The chauffeur drove off in another direction to show Mamie
the east part of town. He noticed she said nothing about the
new houses.
247


s
|
Come on Donna, Miss Annie doesn't hear well. Her
daughter, Lizzie Mae, lives with her. We'll go in this side
door,” said Mamie.
Miss Annie, Lizzie Mae, and other members of the family
were watching them as they drove up. All of them rushed to
the door.
“Come in Mamie. When did you get to town?” asked
Lizzie Mae.
“We've been here two days—just had to come to see you
folks.”
“Yes, you better not come to Penhook without coming to
see us,” answered Miss Annie.
“We've been over to see Mr. Joe. He looks very well,
and so does Miss Cora.”
“Yes, but Mother cried when we left,” put in Donna.
“What's the matter, Mamie P” asked Lizzie Mae.
“I’ve been told that Mr. Joe has lost almost all his life's
savings. He looks well, but a bit shabby. I'm accustomed to
seeing him dressed as well as any man in town; well, better than
most of them,” said Mamie.
“Well, Mamie, Uncle Joe is in his seventies and I don't
think he minds much,” said Lizzie Mae sympathetically. “It’s
true he's lost most everything he had, but he doesn't worry.
His wants aren't what they once were.”
“Yes, those are almost my exact words, aren't they, Donna?
We know that he has lived a profitable life. He is rich in
experiences. He has made large investments to charities and
education for other people, investments which haven't depre-
ciated and are yielding a rich return to society today. Guess
we shouldn't worry about him, but about ourselves. If one's
savings of a life time are all going to be of the kind that can
be swept away by a depression, your life has been a failure.”
“That's true, Mamie,” answered Miss Annie. “Brother
Joe is very well satisfied with his church work. He doesn't
speak of his disappointments and failures.”
After a conversation of more than an hour, Mamie left
Miss Annie and Lizzie Mae feeling better than she did when
she went there.
Mamie then went to the new cemetery and put flowers on
249


º
greeted them. How beautiful everything looked 1 Mamie
said always after visiting other places, California reminded
her of a circus, everything so colorful and lively. Even the
people welcomed you back with warm, gracious smiles.
252


[HAPTEH XVII
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
THE POSTMAN handed Mamie a news-
paper. The front page carried a long article on the death
of Mr. Joe Stearns. He was brought to Penhook when a small
boy, grew up to manhood, and became one of the leading
citizens.
Mr. Joe lived with his only child, a daughter.
He had lost all his worldly possessions and was trying
to run for mayor of the city when he became seriously ill,
lingered only a short time, and passed away.
The closing of this great and useful life, like a book of
the past that had served its purpose, would soon be forgotten.
He was given a grand funeral. People turned out in large
numbers, brought flowers, and praised his past deeds. How
happy he would have been if he'd been given those flowers
and had compliments showered on him while he could enjoy
them,--but that's life.
His daughter knew he'd been a friend to the colored
people, and many loved and respected him, so this statement
was in the paper: “All of my father's Negro friends who
wish to attend his funeral services and go to the cemetery
may do so, as arrangements have been made for you.
Come to the Methodist church at First and Main Streets
at two o'clock Saturday.”
Had Mamie known it in time, she would have wired
flowers. How could she ever forget Mr. Joe's kindness?
However, she felt happy over the thought that she had sent
him a large box of California fruit and had written him a long
letter, thanking him for his interest in their family.
Don had been successful in Los Angeles with the insurance
company that sent him there. His membership of over two
thousand rallied at every call. The different departments had
253


were anxious for Don and Mamie to go inside and see the
marble soda-fountain, but Don refused; he felt the crowd a
little too rough for little Donna.
One of the Penhook boys owned this drug store and a
large restaurant in the rear, that opened on a side street.
Their friends paid for two rooms in their largest hotel for
Don and his family. They had a good night's rest and ate
breakfast at five o'clock the next morning at Green's
restaurant, as it never closed.
Donna refused to eat her hot cakes, because the cook
wiped the long pan with a big gunny sack. Don explained
that he had to cook so many at one time, that it was necessary
to use something large. He tried to assure her that it was
clean, but she shook her head and asked for toast.
“We've been treated royally by all attendants so far, but
from now on is the test. It's a whole day's hard driving from
here to Penhook; we'll be in the deep South. I'll fill the car
with gas here; I don't know where our next stop will be.
“Donna,” continued Don, “don’t you rush into the rest
rooms until your mother calls you.”
“Yes, Donna, you wait. I'll tell you what to do.”
“Yes mother; do you remember how scared I was the
last time we went to Texas and the man made us sit in that
little end of the coach by ourselves?” said little Donna in a
whisper, with her eyes opened their widest.
The roads through Texas were grand. At every little
town, folks peered at the license plate. Often someone said,
“Look! From Californie l’’
At their next stop they were tired; Mamie got out first, as
strangers are usually kinder to women. It was at a gas
station; two attendants rushed up to the car. One began
cleaning the windshield, and the other asked what they wanted.
As they both smiled and were friendly, Don and Donna
jumped out.
“Fill her up”, said Don as he rubbed his large brown hands
together.
“Yes sir,” both men answered.
Mamie had strained her eyes looking for the rest room
labeled, “For Negroes,” but as she didn't see one she thought
it best to ask.
256


“Do you have a rest-room here?” she finally asked one of
the men.
“Yes indeed ma'am, at the corner to your right,” came the
polite reply, as he pointed, “and there's plenty of ice water
in the cooler over there,” he added.
Mamie had seen that one; it had “For ladies”, but she
didn't know just how they interpreted it. She and Donna
rushed into the little ante-room, and there were two white
women with several children, sitting on the couch and in the
rockers. Mamie had noticed the license plate on their car;
they were from Mississippi. Though they were in Texas,
and from Mississippi, they didn't seem a bit surprised or
alarmed because Negroes came in.
Several bystanders asked Don about conditions in the states
which he had visited, and he didn't hesitate to tell them that
the depression had struck everywhere and his advice to people
was to stay at home where they were best known, unless they
had money to defray their expenses.
“Mom, you and Donna get in the car. I want to roll in
Penhook before seven o'clock,” said Don as he slowly pushed
his long fingers into his gloves.
When they were on the way and Mamie was certain they
out of hearing distance, she commented: “Don, I looked
over every door there and over the rest room doors and I
saw ‘Ladies' or ‘Gentlemen'. I couldn't believe my eyes.
Never before have I seen this; no discrimination, just as it
should be. I am glad to think the South is changing gradually.
I was born here and naturally I want to feel free and happy
in the land where I first saw the sun.”
They found conditions the same as far as they went into
the South. The attendants at gas stations were courteous,
polite, and helpful.
Don's two sisters, Rose and Pinkie, and a host of friends
were sitting on the spacious front porch watching every car
that turned the corner. About dust, Don rolled into Penhook.
He drove down Main Street and through town; they
recognized some familiar stores. As he turned to go into the
Negro section, he struck dirt streets.
“Well, Donna, we're here. This is our birthplace. Notice
how people are sitting on the porches and calling to those on
the sidewalks; this is truly Southern style. When we turn
257


the next corner I can show you my home place,” said Don
happily.
Donna stretched her little neck and tried to see everything.
She always sat in the front seat with her dad.
“Here they are Here they are,” shouted Rose, as she
sprang from her large rocker and ran to meet thm. Pinkie,
though not so demonstrative, was just as happy.
They were hungry, and Pinkie wasted no time in dishing
up the fried chicken and vegetables. While they were eating,
they told them about all the Penhook folk who lived in
California and in turn, they heard the Penhook news.
They spent five days, and each day proved to be too short.
The following Saturday night, Don and Mamie walked
around, hoping to relive childhood experiences, and as usual,
there were church suppers, both at the churches and in the
front yards of some of the members. Tables covered with
white cloths and big dishes of fried fish or chicken, were set
near the paling fences to entice customers. Penhook would
always have those little nickel entertainments, it seemed,
where they realized from $1.50 to $2.00 and thought that big
profit.
They stopped at Jones' corner and saw a host of friends.
Men still stood under the big, swinging electric light and
daintily dressed girls and women promenaded, looking for
their beaux or went to one of the little restaurants to buy a
saucer of red ice crean, and chat.
They went in Mamie's Cousin Melinda's chili-joint and
talked awhile; Aunt Hester, Melinda's mother, called Mamie
into the kitchen.
“Mamie, chile, is you seed yo' mammy's Uncle Henry's
boy, Ike P He's out dair somewhurs.”
“No we haven’t, Aunt Hester.
How have you been? You're looking so well. Here's
four-bits to buy yourself some snuff.”
“Thanky chile, you'se still lak yo’ ole gran'pappy.”
Mamie tried to get her off that subject. Southerners made
her so tired looking up long lost relatives. Everyone she had
looked up or had looked her up, had no money or job.
Melinda came rushing in with a stack of dishes from the
front, and Aunt Hester scraped the garbage in one plate and
threw it out of the back door. When the old hog heard the
258


door open, he came grunting up to the light and began to eat.
“Aunt Hester, you have a hog out there !”
“Yes Mamie; we allus put uh hog at duh back uv our
eatin' places. Dey eat up duh scraps an' gits fat in no time;
we's got two out dair.”
The sand was as heavy as ever. One's feet sank in the
loose earth and it was like plowing to walk through it.
They turned down Tremble Street and were stopped
about the middle of the block in front of a small house, where
several women selling refreshments sat in the yard near a
small table with a number two kerosene lamp setting in the
center of it that gave off a dim light.
“Hyer's Miss Mamie an’ Mr. Don | Won't yawl come an'
buy sumpthin' frum us? Dis is a festibul fuh our church.
We's got frush feesh caught in Pine Creek, and a slish uv.
bread fuh a nickel an' ice cream fuh uh nickel uh saucer.”
“We've just eaten, Dicie, but I'll buy each of you a saucer
of cream,_how's that?”
“That's fine, Mr. Don, it sho' is,” said Dicie as she grinned
and gave three small glass dishes to Sister Myrtle who sat by
the small cream freezer. “Miss Mamie, where 'bouts is yawl
livin' at?” Dicie inquired.
“We live in Los Angeles.”
“Oh—y-e-s,” Dicie drawled out, staring up as if searching
for information, “I knowed yawl lived in one uv dem big
towns, Los Angeles uh Mississippi, one.”
“We'll be going; hope you ladies sell out,” said Don as
they walked away.
“Yas Mr. Don, we's got fo' bits already.”
Mamie and Don made it around to four church suppers,
chatted with, and treated many friends to refreshments. Their
last stop was at the Holiness tent, where it seemed the meeting
had just begun.
They walked up just in time to see Lottie, a school mate
of theirs, walk up behind Solomon, her husband, who happened
to be standing outside of the tent talking to a girl she'd warned
him about and strike him such a blow on his head with a half
paling, that it almost broke up the meeting. Solomon's derby
hat was the only thing that saved him. It was wedged so
tight over his ears, that two men had to cut if off his head.
259


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