AUNT JANE’S MOCKING-BIRD
By Alma L. Stewart
“De sassy little deb’l, if dat jes’ don’t beat anything I eber seed,” Aunt Jane was saying, as she vigorously knocked the well-worn breadtray against the windowsill, if a hole two by four cut in the side of the little log cabin can be said to have a window sill, to dislodge the fragments of dough left from the preparation of the morning meal. After a few more well-intended knocks she dried the tray and hung it and the dishcloth on their own nail back of the small stove, and grasping the corner of her apron she dried her hands and was mopping her face as she turned and saw me in the doorway.
“Laws a-massy, Missus, whar’d yer drap from? Come in, dat is, ef yer can find de way wid so much trash strowin’ roun’.
“Git out in de yard, niggers,” she said to a group of dirty, half-naked little negroes, who were investigating the mysteries of a sardine can under the table. In their effort to obey their seemingly irate mother, they nearly upset the rickety old table, one leg of which was propped up with a broken brick that Aunt Jane had brought from the sidewalk of the town four miles away for that very purpose. “Bricks is sca’ce in dese parts,” she had said to a neighbor, who had “ax’d her what in de world she wuz gwin’ter do wid dat brick?” And so the vanquished pickaninnies with timorous backward glances, disappeared, rubbing their heads as they went.
“Viney, do git dat cher fer Miss Annie. Jes’ lay dem clothes on de bed. My soul alibe, Missus, dese here niggers nearly runs me ’stracted.” And she turned to me with the air of one whose last hope was gone.
But I knew how to take Aunt Jane’s moods, for she would have torn anyone else literally to pieces had they dared to intimate anything detrimental to the “life and charuc’ter of her chillun.” And so I seated myself comfortably in Aunt Jane’s only rocker, which she declared no one ever sat in “’cept her white folks.” Meanwhile she busied herself with the pots and pans of the stove, talking as fast as she could, asking me a hundred questions about the members of my family. I had come to see her about taking my laundry. My present washwoman had rubbed all the buttons off my husband’s shirts, and insisted on starching the nether parts of them, while my own cambric ones and linen dresses were as limber as Aunt Jane’s proverbial dishrag. Aunt Jane had been in our family when a girl and I felt that I could depend upon her.
“Law, Miss Annie, dat nigger don’t know de fust rudermints erbout washin’ an’ irun’n.” And she gave her pan a telling scrape by way of emphasis.
“Talk ter me ’bout dese town niggers,” and she went to the same little window to empty her dish-pan into the pig-trough placed beneath it, for convenience Aunt Jane had said.
“Well, ef he ain’t dar agin,” she exclaimed, turning to me as if I knew who “he” was.
“What is it, Jane?” I asked, going to the window myself, wondering what was outside of the window to call forth all these exclamations.
“Oh, it’s dat sassy little deb’l, dat yander rascal ob a mocking-bird—er-mind out, Missus, don’t tech dat table wid putty white dress o’ yourn. Dis here hole ain’t fit fer yer ter come in no how—but dat bird, he do beat all I eber seed. He ain’t skeered o’ nothin’, and sing! My, tain’t nothin’ like it! I do b’leve he sings all de night long. Why, de tother night ’bout twelve er’ clock, Jake come in ’bout half drunk. Jake’s alright when he’s sober, but jes’ let him git drunk, he’s de deb’l hissef, dat’s all’s to it. So when he git dat way I gits out, me an’ de chillun’.
“Well, we went out yander under dat Cherokee rose yer see by de fence dar, and laid low. We wuz skeer’d purty nigh ter death. Ever’thing wuz jes’ as quiet an’ still, ’cept Jake blusterin’ roun’ wid de pans in de cabin, when all ter wunce dat bird jes’ broke out, mos’ like a brass-band, right over our heads. I tell yer, Miss Annie, it made me feel creepy. Seem’d like hev’un wuz right over us, while dar wuz de bad place purty close by, ’cause Jake wuz a raisin’ a terrible roukus wid de pans try’nter find somp’in ter eat.
“So, dat’s de way ’tis, Missus,” and she nodded her head meditatively, “when de deb’l is try’nter raise a roukus wid yer hearts an’ souls, de angels is right over yer singin’ all de time, ef we’ll be still an’ listen.” And she stopped in a thoughtful attitude.
But her reverie was rudely broken up by such din of screaming and yelling as only half-starved African youngsters are capable of making.
“What on de top side er creashun ails dem yunguns?” she exclaimed, as we both went to the door. There we saw Viney armed with a long dog-fennel, followed by the others similarly equipped, in a wild dash for a lanky black cat. We both laughed at the pursuit. But, suddenly, above their yells Aunt Jane caught the distress call of the mocking-bird. That was enough for her. She seized her battling stick and flew after them, coming quickly to where they were gathered in a fence corner.
“Lemme in here, git erway niggers,” as she breathlessly tumbled two of them over one another, and with a terrific whack came down upon the fastened cat, who was still tenaciously gripping the dying bird.
I stood transfixed, not realizing what had taken place, until I saw them returning to the house. Viney was dragging the lifeless body of the thief tied by his hind leg to her apron string, while the boys were meting out vengeance to him in no unstinted terms, slashing him vigorously with one hand, the other busily engaged holding up their disjointed pantaloons.
In the lead was Aunt Jane. The little pile of grey feathers on the corner of her apron, resting tenderly on her hand, was all that was left of her “sassy little deb’l,” the beautiful mocking-bird.