“Daughtuh, you f’aid fuh walk duh paat’ duh middlenight?”
“No, suh, uh yent ’f’aid fuh go Middletun’ house.”
“Berry well den, you fuh go Middletun’ house middlenight tenight. You fuh tek dis cunjuh en’ pit’um ’puntop de do’step to Middletun’ house, en’ you fuh walk easy so him ent fuh yeddy you. Onduhstan’?”
“Yaas, suh, tengk Gawd.” And she hurried homeward.
For awhile she dozed before her fire, and then, an hour before midnight, with that uncanny instinct which guides those who live close to nature, she roused herself, and with her precious charm, set out hot-foot for the station. As she hurried through the dark a raccoon padded noiselessly across the path. Farther on, a grey fox trotted fearlessly in front of her for a few yards then sprang into the bushes and disappeared. The terrifying shriek and wild laugh of a barred owl just overhead, as she passed along a dark aisle in the forest, made her heart stand still for an instant, but the thought of Middleton warmed its cockles again and she kept on her way. At last she reached Middleton’s cabin and, thanking her stars that he kept no dog, she cautiously lifted the latch of his yard gate and tiptoed up to the steps where, with a silent prayer for success, she deposited the precious “cunjuh” and quietly slipped away.
Just at the end of the “dog watch” of the mariners, just before the “day clean” of the negroes—the hour known to all night workers, when, with the imminence of the dawn, somewhat of the weight of the world seems lifted from their shoulders—Middleton rose from his cornshuck couch and opening his cabin door looked forth, as is the custom of the early-rising negroes, to scan the sky and appraise the promise of the coming day. A gibbous moon of dusky gold, new-risen, hung low in the East. Diana had been banting for ten days and altho’ her waist was waning, she yet shed sufficient light to open the eyes and engage the throats of all the roosters round about, and from the yards of lonely woodland cabin, and plantation quarters, their voices, shrill and clear, deep and raucous, came to Middleton’s ears as they saluted the fools’ gold of the moonlight in the belief that they were heralding the dawn.
“Fowl’ mus’ be t’ink day’ clean,” commented Middleton, and as he opened the door wider to get a better outlook, his bare toe came into contact with the gelid snakeskin and he sprang back in fear. Striking a match, he lit a lightwood splinter and discovered the “cunjuh” mysteriously placed at his very threshold. He scratched his puzzled head. “Eh, eh! wuh dis t’ing? Me nebbuh do nutt’n’ to nobody. Uh wonduh who duh try fuh t’row spell ’puntop me! Tengk Gawd, uh nebbuh ’tep obuhr’um,” secure in the belief that as he had not stepped over it, no harm could come to him. So, picking it up fearlessly, he put it away in a chink in the clay chimney until he should find use for the dread instrument which Providence had placed in his hands. All day he pondered, for, having no enemies, there was none to whom he wished harm. At last, as evening fell, dark thoughts came with the dusk, and a sinister purpose slid into his soul, which he lost no time in putting into execution. Venus was the evening star but she told him nothing, for there was no love in his heart and his mind held only the definite purpose to rid himself once and for all of the vexing importunities of the husband-hunter.
“Uh gwine tek dis t’ing to da’ ’ooman’ house en’ t’row one spell ’puntop’um fuh mek’um pit ’e min’ ’puntop some dem todduh man en’ lemme ’lone,” and walking briskly to Lucy’s house, where she slept unsuspiciously beneath the unalluring quilt, he carefully placed the charm in the middle of the top step and went his ways under the starlit heavens.
THE RACCOON HUNTER
All through the autumn, when golden-rod and sumac flaunted the colors of Spain from every neglected fence corner, and the ripening sun burned from the blue through the haze that hung over the earth, when the crows, uttering their care-free harvest note, flew over the tawny fields of corn, and negroes with nimble fingers pulled the reluctant locks from the half-opened Sea Island cotton bolls, when squirrels chattered and barked contentedly among the hickories as they commenced to gather their winter’s store, and wild pigs nosed about for acorns among the rustling leaves in the oak groves—all through these September and October days, the boy had pestered old Abram, the most successful ’coon hunter on Pon Pon, to organize a torchlight hunt and take him along. Abram White, or “’Bram,” as he was commonly called, was a slow-talking, slow-thinking, slow-moving old darkey; so deliberate that the mental effort involved in answering the simplest question would furrow his brow like an old-fashioned washboard. He had been allowed to clear up a piece of rich land on Cotton Hill, far removed from the “quarters” of the other negroes, and this field he held rent-free in return for the labor of bringing it under cultivation. The task occupied old ’Bram for several years. First building a substantial cabin for his smart wife, Delia, he proceeded to “ring” the forest trees and, leaving them to die, slowly grubbed up the smaller trees and undergrowth, planting in the little cleared plots patches of corn, peas and sweet potatoes, increasing his field bit by bit each year. He was employed regularly as night watchman for the plantation and, armed with his long “muskick”—a condemned army weapon—walked his beat about barn and stables from dark till dawn, returning from each round to drowse near the big fire which he invariably made in an open spot, summer as well as winter, for the coast negroes are true fire-worshipers and their love for the flames that leap and the embers that glow is as great as their skill in fire-making. Abram owned the best ’coon dog in the community, a black mongrel of medium size with a blaze in the face and a white ring around his neck. Devoted as he was to Delia, Abram’s love for “Ring” was almost as great, and his pride in the dog’s accomplishments and reliability was infinite. The abandoned rice field now overgrown, near old Abram’s new-ground, was full of raccoons and ’possums and the old hunter often got permission to put on a substitute watchman for part of the night, while he foraged the woods with almost invariable success, and all through the winter the jambs of his wide-throated clay chimney were hung with the smoked flesh of his spoils, while their pelts—ring-tailed and rat-tailed—adorned the outer walls of his log cabin.