Thus for years has Billy Smith trod—or rather joggled along—the path of duty between Walhalla and Belton. In the spring-time, when rill and river are swollen by heavy rains, and the tawny waters rush down the hillsides, gullying the plowed lands and scattering the rich soil “out among the neighbors,” when the pale blue wild violet and the waxen Easter lily peep from dell and dingle, and the peach and plum trees, clustering around the farmsteads, open their pink and white petals to the sunshine and the dew; in the summer, when the golden bees swarm over the clover blooms and the ripe grain falls before the sweep of the scythe; in the autumn, when the chestnut burrs lie on the sod and the dead leaves swirl in the blast; in the winter, when the Blue Ridge is wrapped in a slumber-robe of snow and the frost crystals, forced out of the icy earth, sparkle on the sides of the deep cuts—in all seasons and in all weathers—Billy Smith plods on. Time and toil have streaked his beard with gray, and deepened the lines in his face, but his smile is as sweet and his hands and feet as willing as ever they were in his younger days, and, until he shall run his last train through the golden gates of the new Jerusalem and pass in his manifests to be checked up by the Almighty Auditor, he will doubtless be seen at the termini of the Blue Ridge Railroad, loaded to the gunwales, like a lighter at a coaling station, with babies, pug dogs, flowering plants and all the miscellaneous paraphernalia apparently inseparable from itinerant femininity, and will still take a commanding position in the centre of his coach and diurnally sing, alas! “that old sweet song:” “Belton, Belton! Junction Columbia and Greenville Railroad! About fifty minutes, fifty minutes, before the train comes for Columbia! Passengers going in the direction of Columbia will have to git off now, you’ll have to git off, as this train leaves in about ten minutes, ten minutes, for Greenville, for Greenville—which is in the opposite direction from Columbia!”
There are moments in every life when flowers are no longer sweet, and women no longer fair; when there is no music in the song of birds, no merriment in the laughter of children, and all the world seems dark.
One of these moments came to Billy Smith the other day, when Conductor Fielding of the main line unloaded at Belton, Diana Hawlback, an elderly black woman from Beaufort County, who, with her grand-daughter “Lizzybet’,” a spotted pig in a bag, two barnyard roosters and a hen, tied by the legs, four quarts of roasted peanuts, a bushel of “Crazy Jane” sweet potatoes, a large bundle of bedding, and divers and sundry other belongings, was on her way to Pendleton to visit relatives. “The fight came up,” as the Congressional reporters say, “on the recurrence of the previous question,” which was, in this case, an emphatic demand for the payment of full fare for Diana’s “gran’,” “Lizzybet’,” a leggy girl of apparently fourteen years of age. “Cap’n,” said Diana, “dat gal is a ’leben yeahs old gal, en’ wehrebbuh I does tek’um on de train, de buckruh nebbuh does chaa’ge me mo’ den chillun money fuh de gal. Enty you ’membuh, suh, de yeah w’en de dry drought come? Well, dat gal bawn een dat same berry yeah een de middle paa’t ub de summuh, ’cause I ’membuh berrywell de dry drought dry up all de swamp en’ backwatuh en’ t’ing een Augus’, en’ all de man on de plantesshun gone out een de swamp en’ ketch de alligettuh out’n ’e hole, en’ dis gal Lizzybet’ ma—him name Benus—eat too much alligettuh w’en Lizzybet’ wuz a t’ree weeks’ ole gal, en’ de ’ooman dead en’ lef’ dis gal on my han’. De gal’ pa wuz my nyoungis’ son, Pollydo’, en’ alldo’ de scriptuh say, ‘Paul kin plant en’ Pollydo’ kin water, but Gawd duh de man w’at gib de greese,’ stillyet Pollydo’ en’ him bredduh Paul plant de crap en’ watuhr’um alltwo ’tell de dry drought come, but Gawd nebbuh sen’ de greese ’tell Pollydo’ ketch de alligettuh en’ bile’um, en’ stillyet, alldo’ ’e folluh’ de scriptuh’ wu’d en’ gib ’e lady de alligettuh greese w’at de Lawd sen’, yet de lady dead, so I don’t t’ink dat tex’, w’at my locus pastuh resplain, could be specify, elseso I don’t t’ink Pa Kinlaw could be onduhstan’ de scriptuh berry well, or de greese nebbuh would’uh ’stroy’d de ’ooman. Stan’ up gal, en’ ’low de buckruh fuh look ’puntop yo’ foot. Cap’n, you ebbuh see, sence you bawn, shishuh feet lukkuh dat on a fo’teen yeahs ole gal? Ent you know,” said she, as Conductor Smith’s eyes opened at the size of the pedal extremities exhibited, “ent you know dat a ’leben yeahs ole gal gots bigguh foot den a fo’teen yeahs ole gal? Dis gal nebbuh had a shoe ’pun ’e foot, en’ ’e foot gots nutt’n’ fuh stop’um frum grow. Befo’ you tek’way all my money fuh tek dis gal to Pendletun, I wish you, please, suh, kin eeduh go yo’self, elseso sen’ uh ansuh to my sistuhlaw, Miss Frajuh, w’at lib to Mistuh Brissle place to Cumbee, en’ ax’um wedduh dis gal Lizzybet’, w’ich him is my gran’, is mo’ den ’leben yeah ole.”
ONE WAS TAKEN—THE OTHER LEFT
On the hot white sand of a cart road that wound along the edge of a ricefield in lower Carolina, lay the stiffened body of a yellow, crop-eared cur. By his side, a companion in death, was a cottonmouth moccasin, beaten almost to a pulp.
The road was flanked on either side by a canal half filled with stagnant water, dotted here and there with water lilies and shaded by the feathery foliage of the pond willows, while, among the clumps of rushes that fringed the edges, blue flags nodded. Over all, the July sun glared fiercely, and up on the willow branches, where, here and there, his rays penetrated the dense foliage, lay a water snake basking in the golden light. Now and then a blue heron—the “Po’ Joe” of the plantation negro—rose lazily from his fishing station out in the ricefield, and, trailing his long legs after him, moved on to another “drop.” The whole world seemed to be asleep in the warm sunshine—all the world save old Ca’lina Manigo, who sat on a cypress log by the side of the road and gazed sorrowfully at the dead dog, and the snake that had caused its death, while he muttered to himself:
“Po’ ole Hol’fas’ dead, yaas, suh, dead en’ gone! Ketch ’e de’t’ en’ git ’structed by uh debble’ub’uh snake! De preechuh say dat w’en de Lawd tek’way good man en’ good ’ooman frum dis wull’ ’tis bekasew’y Him lub ’um en’ gots nyuse fuhr’um, but I wunduh w’y mekso Him tek’way Hol’fas’? Cyan’ be dem does ketch rokkoon en’ ’possum en’ t’ing een Heben! I nebbuh yerry ’bout no shishuh t’ing, but, my Mastuh! ef dem is got’um dey, Hol’fas’ will tree’um befo’ dayclean tomorruh mawnin’, ’speshly ef ’e got sense ’nuf fuh fin’ Bredduh Cudjo, my class-leader, w’at de Lawd tek las’ Fibbywerry, ’cause B’Cudjo nyuse to lub fuh folluh de waa’ment’ track een de swamp same lukkuh ’e nyuse to lub fuh folluh de ’Postle Paul’ en’ Nickuhdemus’ track een de Scriptuh, en’, I tell you, suh, w’en B’Cudjo git on a hot trail, wedduh’so ’e duh trail ’possum or ’postle, ’e berry haa’d fuh t’row’um off!
“Dat mek me ’membuh ’bout de las’ time me en’ him en’ Hol’fas’ ketch de hebby rokkoon een de Cypress swamp close to Beabuh dam. Yaas’suh, dat dog couldn’ tu’ndown fuh rokkoon! ’E wuz jes’ ’bout fus’ fowlcrow; de mawnin’ staar climb up de sky ’tell ’e stan’ ’puntop de treehead, en’, ’way obuh de swamp een de big dribe, we yerry de owl ‘whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo,’ en’ bimeby pres’n’ly, we list’n good en’ we yerry Hol’fas’ comin’ ’pun one hot trail, en’, bimeby ’gen, we know by ’e baa’k dat ’e done tree; so, w’en we come to de dog, ’e bin at de biggis’ sweetgum tree een de swamp en’ duh gib ’e tongue berry rappit. Now, w’en we pit de light’ood junk behin’ we fuh shine ’e yeye, we see de rokkoon ’puntop de berry top uh de gum tree, en’ we yent gots no gun fuh shoot de rokkoon, so B’Cudjo staa’t’ fuh climb de tree fuh t’row down de rokkoon, en’ ’e git’long berry well ’tell ’e git mos’ to de rokkoon, en’ B’Cudjo so hongry fuh ketch de rokkoon, dat ’e nebbuh quizzit de limb w’at him binnuh seddown ’puntop, en’ w’en ’e graff at de rokkoon, please Gawd, de limb couldn’ specify, en’ de limb bruk, en’ w’en B’Cudjo graff de rokkoon by ’e tail, him en’ de rokkoon alltwo drap out de tree, en’ hit de groun’ ‘bim!’ De rokkoon dead, but B’Cudjo, een Gawd’ mussy, fall ’puntop ’e head, en’ dat hukkuh ’e didn’ bruk ’e back!
“Well, praise de Mastuh, Him tek’way Hol’fas’. I yent grudge’um de dog, ef Him want’um, but I wish ’E had uh bin tek my lady Bina en’ lef’ de dog, ’cause de dog nebbuh lie, en’ de ’ooman fuhrebbuh duh lie, en’ de dog wuz a fait’ful dog, en’ de ’ooman is a ’ceitful ’ooman, en’ w’en you feed de dog, de dog wag ’e tail, but de ’ooman! him nebbuh tengkful fuh nutt’n’. You nebbuh kin sattify him!”