UNCLE PETE.

Characters.

Scene—Exterior view of a planter’s cabin, with practicable door. George Peyton discovered, seated on a bench, under veranda, reading a newspaper.

Enter Uncle Pete, a limp noticeable in his left leg, the knee of which is bowed outward, hoe on his shoulder.

Uncle Pete. (Pausing as he enters, shading his eyes with his hand, going towards George Peyton.) Yes, dar he is; dar is Marse George, a sittin’ on the porch, a readin’ his papah. Golly, I cotch him at home! (Advancing and calling) Marse George, Marse George, I’s come to see you once mo’, once mo,’ befo’ I leabes you fo’ebber. Marse George, I’se gwine to de odder shoah; I’se far on de way to my long home, to dat home ober acrost de ribber, whar de wicked hab’ no mo’ trouble, and where water-millions ripen all the year! Youns has all bin berry kine to me heah, Marse George, berry kine to de ole man, but I’s gwine away, acrost de dark ribber. I’s gwine ober, an’ dar, on dat odder shoah, I’ll stan’ an’ pick on de golden hawp among de angels, an’ in de company of de blest. Dar I’ll fine my rest; dar I’ll stan’ befo’ de throne fo’ ebber mo’ a singin’ an’ a shoutin’ susannis to de Lord!

George Peyton. Oh, no, Uncle Pete, you’re all right yet—you’re good for another twenty years.

Uncle P. Berry kine o’ you to say dat, Marse George—berry kine—but it’s no use. It almos’ breaks my hawt to leab you, and to leab de missus and de chillun, Marse George, but I’s got my call—I’s all gone inside.

George P. Don’t talk so, Uncle Pete; you are still quite a hale old man.

Uncle P. No use talkin’, Marse George, I’s gwine to hebben berry soon. ’Pears like I can heah the singin’ on de odder shoah. ’Pears like I can heah de voice of ol’ “Aunt Liza” an’ de odders dat’s gone befoah. You’s bin berry kine, Marse George—de missus an’ de chillun’s bin berry good—seems like all de people’s been berry good to poor ole Pete—poor cretur like me.

George P. Nonsense, Uncle Pete (kindly and encouragingly), nonsense, you are good for many years yet. You’ll see the sod placed on the graves of many younger men than you are, before they dig the hole for you. What you want just now, Uncle Pete, is a good square meal. Go into the kitchen and help yourself—fill up inside. There is no one at home, but I think you know the road. Plenty of cold victuals of all kinds in there.

Uncle P. (A smile illuminating his face.) ’Bleedged t’ye, Marse George, ’bleeged t’ye, sah, I’ll go! For de little time I has got to stay, I’ll not go agin natur’; but it’s no use. I’s all gone inside—I’s got my call. I’m one o’ dem dat’s on de way to de golden shoah.

(Exit Uncle Pete through door, his limp hardly noticeable. His manner showing his delight.)

George P. Poor old Uncle Pete, he seems to be the victim of religious enthusiasm. I suppose he has been to camp-meeting, but he is a cunning old fox, and it must have taken a regular hard-shell sermon to convert the old sinner. He was raised on this plantation, and I have often heard my father say, he hadn’t a better negro on the place. Ever since the war, he has been working a little, and loafing a good deal, and I have no doubt he sometimes sighs to be a slave again at work on the old plantation. (Starts and listens.)

Uncle P. (Singing inside:)

Jay bird, jay bird, sittin’ on a limb,

He winked at me, an’ I at him;

Cocked my gun, an’ split his shin,

An’ left the arrow a-stickin’.

George P. (Starting up.) Zounds! if that old thief hasn’t found my bitters bottle! Pete! Pete, you rascal!

Uncle P. (Continues singing:)

Snake bake a hoe cake,

An’ set the frog to mind it;

But the frog fell asleep,

An’ the lizard come an’ find it.

George P. Pete! you rascal, come out of that.

Uncle P. (Who does not hear the planter, continues singing, and dances a gentle, old-fashioned shuffle.)

De debbil cotch the groun’ hog

A-sittin’ in de sun,

An’ kick him off de back-log,

Jes’ to see de fun.

George P. (Furious.) Pete; you infernal nigger, come out of that, I say.

Uncle P. (Still singing and dancing.)

De ’possum up de gum tree,

A-playin’ wid his toes,

An’ up comes de ginny pig,

Den off he goes.

George P. (Thoroughly aroused, throwing down his paper.) You, Pete; blast the nigger.

Uncle P. (Continues singing:)

De weasel went to see de polecat’s wife,

You nebber smelt such a row in all yer—

George P. (Rushes in the cabin, interrupts the singing, and drags Pete out by the ear.) Pete! Pete, you infernal old rascal, is that the way you are crossing the river? Are those the songs they sing on the golden shore? Is this the way for a man to act when he has got his call—when he is all gone inside?

Uncle P. (Looking as if he had been caught in a hen-roost.) Marse George. I’s got de call, sah, an’ I’s gwine acrost de dark ribber soon, but I’s now braced up a little on de inside, an’ de ’scursion am postponed—you see, de ’scursion am postponed, sah!

George P. (Folding his arms, looking at Pete, as if in admiration of his impudence.) The excursion is postponed, is it? Well, this excursion is not postponed, you old scoundrel. (Seizes Pete by the coat-collar and runs him off stage, L.) [CURTAIN.]