Ole Mars an' Ole Miss

by Edmund K. Goldsborough

“Dem days dear ole Mars Nickey had seben sons, an’ dey all wen’ Souf in de wah; all got kilt ’ceppin’ Mars Pinckney, name arfter uh Bishop, an’ he wuz de wiles’ an’ de gayes’, an’ he didn’ git uh scratch. Dem chillun gittin’ kilt, wid me leabin’ Ole Mars, meck him seck an’ breck his hyart. (’Skuse dese teahs, young mistis!) So he died! Meh pappy Demby use ter ’long ter Mars Nickey’s fava, an’ dribe de fo’-in-han’ an’ rid’ ’hine in de saddle when Mars Nickey drobe in de gig. Bof ub ’em wuz name Nickey, an’ he wuz de fif’ Nickey dat wuz bo’n at Otwell. I heah Leetle Billy say dat he heah Mars Tilghman say dat he heah Mr. Stevens say—de man dat use ter run Mars Nickey’s win’ mill—dat de fus’ Mars Nickey cum ober de bay wid uh man name Klumbus, an’ dey ’scover Talbot Kounty. Dat wuz in de time ub de Petracks. [Patriarchs.]

“Dem days dey had what you call gigs. ’Cose you nebber saw one ub dem ole-time gigs. Well, you almos’ had ter git up in ’em wid uh leetle ladder, dey so tall an’ stylish. Dey wuz fuh two hosses tandy, one in de shaf’, de udder in de lead. Dat’s de way dey wen’ co’tin’, an’ dey wo’ silk stockin’s, an’ no pants, ’ceppin’ ter deah knees. Pappy say ev’ything wuz slow in dem days, ’ceppin’ de race hosses, foxhoun’s, an’ de young; an’ de ole marsters, dey luck so peart an’ ’squisit’ in deah silk coats an’ socks, silk all ober, dat de young ladies cudn’ resis’ ’em. Dem days som’times dey had three er four wibes. One mistis hardly hab de hunnysuccle growin’ ober huh grabe ’fo’ dey git annurr wife. I had five wibes mehsef. Heh! Heh! Heh!

“When Pawson Demby, meh brudder, got ’ligion, den I got ’ligion. ’Fo’ dat I use ter ride race hosses, an’ me an’ Mrs. Rodgers’ Ned, an’ Mars Nickey’s Big Billy (you see dey had two Billys, an’ dey use ter call one Big Billy an’ de udder Leetle Billy) use ter play de fiddle, an’ two waitahs fum Myrtle Grobe, Hesakiah Sprouts an’ John Poney, use ter play de flute an’ banjo, an’, hunny, people use ter cum fum Kyarline an’ Qweens Anne’s County futto heah us play, ‘Wha You Gwine, Sistah Sue?’ ‘Rosin de Bow,’ ‘Debbil ’mong de Tailors,’ ‘Yaller Cow,’ an’ sich like.

SCIPIO JONAS JONES AND NIMROD.

“Meh deah chile, I cud tell you heap mo’ ’boutin dem days; but when I look ober da—Ole Mars’ gone, all de hoss ches’nut, elms an’ poplars (dey call dem Lombardy poplars) dead—de apple an’ de peach archard ’stroyed wid age, de cobe wha dey use ter swim de hosses so shaller dat uh kildee kin wa’k ’cross, an’ wussa yit, de man what wuz wonce uh oberseer libbin’ in de ole house, how you ’speck I feel? An’ much ez I lub de ole place, I’s ’fear’d ter go da; fuh dey tell me Leetle Billy plays de fiddle an’ dances in de yard sometimes, an’ he bin dead six monfs nex’ harves’. Ef’n I hadn’ preserbation in meh hyart, an’ ’long ter de chuch, I’d be ’fear’d ter lib heah. Do you ’long ter de chuch? Ef’n you don’ git salbation rite ’way, den yo’ mag’zine will bloom jes’ like de blossoms on dem crabapple trees, an’ you will long fuh de chuch jes’ ez much ez uh hen longs fuh huh los’ chickens. Ef’n I hadn’ jine de chuch I, tu, mout be uh ghose like po’ Billy—he died fum eatin’ tu much watahmillion he stole—an’ I mout uh bin wid him.

“Ef’n Ole Mars wuz libbin’ dem crabapple trees wud hab uh new fence ’roun’ dem. Das wha’ he burried Cicero, he favorite p’inter dog. Hunny, I will nebber fogit dat name; I recommember it jes’ ez well ez I recommember yistiddy. All de niggahs in de mansion call him Cis, an’ it meck Ole Mars ’stracted. He stan’ us all, young an’ ole, leetle an’ big, Aunt Phillis, tu, all in uh line, befo’ de po’ch, an’ he say: ‘Dem me, ef’n I don’ sell you all ter Georgy ef’n you don’ stop callin’ dat dog Cis. He’s uh gre’t dog, an’ name arfter uh gre’t man; I won’ hab it. I will wuck de plantation wid free niggahs ’fo’ I hab it.’ An’ he tell de leetle niggahs dey kyant play ’roun’ de po’ch fuh uh monf ef’n dey don’ learn ter call dat dog Cicero. Den he meck us all say arfter him, C-i-c-e-r-o, C-i-c-e-r-o, C-i-c-e-r-o—Cicero!

“When he wuz uh young dog, boutin two year ole, Ole Mars cum fum partridge shootin’ one day, an’ all de dogs jump out de wagon at de po’ch ’ceppin’ Cicero; he wuz almos’ tu tired an’ sleepy ter mobe. But when Mammy Phillis call him he got hongry rite ’way; jump out an’ struck he haid ’gin de iron scraper dey teck de mud of’n deah boots wid, an’ kill hissef. Hongry an’ thusty ez Ole Mars wuz, he wep’! An’ he say, ‘I wan’ you an’ Reubin ter dig uh grabe un’er dem crabapple trees, an’ in de mawnin’ we will burry him.’ An’ so de nex’ mawnin’ Uncle Reubin an’ I wuz stan’in’ by de grabe meddowtatin’, an’ heah wuz me, heah wuz Uncle Reubin, an’ heah wuz Cis. Pres’ny Marster cum an’ put Cis in de grabe, an’ I thowd uh spade full ub uth on Cis; an’ Uncle Reubin riz up his haid, an’ he say, ‘Mars Nickey, ain’ you gwine ter say nuffin?’ An’ Mars Nickey he luck like his hyart wud breck, an’ he say ‘Nuffin, Reubin!’ Den Uncle Reubin thowd in uh spade full ub uth, lean on he shovel an’ sorter whispuh like, ‘Den I will say he wuz uh good ole dog!’

“Marster’s favorite dogs wuz houn’s; he lub ’em so he nebber low you ter call uh houn’ uh dog. An’ he had seben hosses dat done nuffin but hunt ober dem dogs; an’ dey wuz hosses, fuh it tuck uh hoss ub qual’ty ter kerry him; he wuz uh pow’ful man. Fus’ you read de Bible, hunny, boutin de time King Dabid wuz all dress up in his new nuniform an’ whup de Flistins, an’ den teck uh look at Ole Mars’ pictur, you sho’ly wud think King Dabid favo’d Ole Mars, he so hainsome; an’ Mars Pinckney de ve’y spit ub him! When Mars Nickey git on he hun’in’ close he glitter jes’ same ez uh star! Yaller wes’ (yaller wuz he favorite color), no pants ’ceppin’ ter de nees, an’ dey yaller; an’ green welwet cote—bless meh soul an’ body, an’ meh body an’ soul, he look jes’ like King Solomon mus’ uh look when he wen’ struttin’ arfter annurr wife. An’ when he blow he hohn an’ you heah de houn’s moanin’ an’ Jedge Kyarmichael’s, Mars Lloyd’s, Kun’l Winders, an’ Mars Tilghman’s an’ all de qual’ty dogs cummin’ troo de cawn fields almos’ nockin’ down de cawn, an’ all ub ’em carryin’ uh chune, chile you’d almos’ wish yo’sef uh houn’! Yas, indeed, hunny, dem wuz days futto recommember. An’ sich hosses Ole Mars had; dey jes’ jump an’ hunt. Da ain’ no hosses dese days like de hosses dem days. Fuh instinct, like Don Won, Black Nite, Jew-drap, Junius, Fanny Esler, an’ Sky Lark. Jes’ cum in meh quarter an’ I’ll show de pictur ub dem hosses. I done lef’ ’em ter Mars Pinckney when I die; you see, I wan’ ter keep ’em in de fambly.

“Mars Nickey had he quare ways, tu, jes’ like udder people. Fuh instinct, he wud nebber lite he cigah fum uh match, al’ays fum uh cole uh fire, stuck on uh fork; an’ I lub ter tote de fork ter him—sho’ futto gimmy uh levy. When he shabe he nebber look at uh glass; jes’ wa’k all ’roun’ de room meddowtatin’ an’ shabin’, an’ shabin’ an’ meddowtatin’, kase he wo’ no whiskus, an’ ’spise uh beard. One time I nebber will fogit; Mars Jimmy cum fum Woodstock, had his fiddle in de kerridge an’ wuz full ub peartness. He wuz dribin’ Robbin an’ Red Bird tandy togedda—jes’ cum futto see he pa—an’ tho’t he wuz ve’y fine wid uh mustache on he lip. Ole Mars wuz in uh fine umuh, wid uh barsket full ub mushrooms on he ahms, but when he see dat mustache on Mars Jimmy, he say, cussin: “You kyant lite tell you cut dat hyah orf.”