Ole Mars an' Ole Miss

by Edmund K. Goldsborough

Well, den, meck dat boy Scipio Jones, settin’ ’side you, teck dat sweet-tater harness orf, an’ dat piece ub sheep rib outin his mouf, he chawin’, fuh uh bit.

At de lars camp meetin’ uh ve’y ’stinguish’ Babtis’ pawson said he wuz s’prised dat de lubly daughter ub King Fario merried King Sol’mon, uh man dat wusshup’d frogs, bulls, el’phants an’ crock’diles fuh pets. My ’pinion is she fell in lub wid dat brick house ub de King’s, dat de Bible say had two thousan’ baf tubs, an’ teck thutteen yeah ter buil’. Den, ergin, de bricks wuz laid in gole. King Fario’s daughter cudn’ resis’ uh house like dat, an’ I don’ think ’twuz hyard ter ondastan’. Huh merryin’ de King, dafo’, wuz uh subjec’ dat wuz rash-nal.

When we gittin’ our heb’nly trunk packed, an’ when we trabblin’ up ter St. Peter’s gait, I kin see Uncle Reubin, Aunt Phillis, Uncle Stephen, Aunt Sookey, Rasmus Jemes, Damon Danridge, Pawson Phil Demby an’ Mammy Nancy trottin’ ’long de road in de beauty ub holiness, goin’ ter St. Peter’s gait an’ longin’ ter git deah han’s on de gait futto ring dat bell. An’ I kin see Little Billy (be sho’ an’ pray fuh him, Sistus; ef’n coons, ’possums, fiddles an’ banjos had nebba ’zisted, he wudn’ be uh sinnah)—yas, I kin see Little Billy stan’in’ wid Jasper pullin’ dat bell tell he mos’ breck de wire, an’ pester St. Peter so dat he say, “Who dat tryin’ ter breck meh bell?” Den de bell wen’ jing-uh-ling ergin! Den St. Peter ’mejately stuck he lubly haid ober de gate an’ say, “Gwuffum heah, Little Billy; you ain’ bin ’nointed. Yon got ter lib wid dem you likes ter keep cump’ny wid; fuh instinc’, witches, ghoses, jack-uh-ma-lanterns an’ de chillun in de wilderness ub Zip!” You kin ’magine how po’ Billy’s face look—much mo’ sadder dan Scip Jones’ look at de cake-walk lars’ Chris’mus; an’ when St. Peter smile same ez uh serrypin an’ say, “Heah cum meh chillun; walk in de watah, fuh hit’s al’ays wahm; let me babtiz you in de golden ribba,” Billy wuz so ’stressed dat he kicked Jasper an’ say, “Hit’s all yo’ fault; ef’n you wan’ sech uh good coon dog I’d nebba bin led ’stray.”

Now, dis will cum ter pars: When St. Peter sees Aunt Phillis an’ Uncle Reubin cummin’ ’long he will say, jes’ ez sho’ ez judgmen’ day is cummin’, “Cherrypins an’ serrypins, an’ Ham, de cullud son ub Noahy, bresh de dust fum two ub de bes’ seats in de Lawd’s kitchen fuh dem two saints, an’ tell ’em we gwine ter hab uh festibal!” I wan’ Ham ter set ’long side you an’ pint out Samuel de fus’, an’ secon’, Moses, King Dabid, King Fario, Zackeus de climber, an’ lars’, but not leas’, Ho Ho, an’ you’ll see fum he habin’ whiskus he ain’ no Chine er Japne. Den de profit Noahy will renounce dat King Dabid an’ he son, King Sol’mon, gwine ter sing uh jewette togedda—King David, ub cose, playin’ on his hyarp ub uh thousan’ strings; an’ I ’specks dat sweetes’ son ub Noahy, Ham, will play de banjo. Bless meh soul an’ body, an’ meh body an’ soul, belubbed, what uh festibal hit will be! Sistus, I kin see ’em all.

Tilly Mink: “Yas, Brer Rasmus, all clustah’d ’roun’ de pul-pit.”

John Poney: “Kin you see me, Brer Rasmus?”

No; I am lis’nin’ ter ’em talk. Dear little Jona will tell erboutin’ his sea voyage; St. Peter, dat lubly ’possel, ub how many shirks he kotch an’ kilt; Little Jack-a-ass erboutin how slippery wuz de sycamo’ tree he clum; Jacob erboutin de lubly streeked, striped an’ speckled cattle he riz; Nimrod erboutin coon dogs, King Sol’mon erboutin he thorrybreds—brudderin’ I cud preach fum dis tex’ fuh uh monf an’ nebba git rejected, but I mus’ migrate ter dem dat ain’ bin ’mersed. Wha will dey be when dat sweet festibal is gwine on? Cole ez hit is—an’ dar’s fo’ back logs on de fire—I say cole ez hit is, tu cole fuh uh ’possum ter be out, yit I feel so het up fum dis discose dat I kin almos’ tase de red hot melted lead, an’ sizzlin’ brimstone dat de sinnah hab ter resis’ on.

“You kyant eat uh hoe-cake but once!” so cum ter de moanah’s bench now; cum while de hoe-cake ub salbation is brown wid faith, an’ all kivver’d ober wid de graby ub redemption, an’ hab yo’ fingahs filled wid streams ub goodness. When you go befo’ St. Peter, de gre’t fisherman, he got Moses stan’in’ by he side wid dat curisome rod ub his’n.[^[13]] Den Moses tap you on de han’ wid he rod, an’ ef’n you good yo’ fingah nails will fly back, an’ Moses will pull fum yo’ fingahs gre’t long strings ub goodness; an’ ef’n you bad, gre’t long black bad strings.

Uncle Reubin Viney say dat he heah uh gre’t Mefodis’ pawson say dat Unuch, who wuz transplanted, wuz so good dat he didn’ hab any fingah nails, an’ de Mefodis’ pawson also say de reason de debbil is called Ole Scratch is kase he fingah nails long ez uh roostus spuhs.

Now, when Moses tap yo’ fingahs what he gwine ter pull out? Belubbed, now is de time fuh de checkeration ub yo’ sins. Burhol’ de golden stairs starin’ you in de face! Sistus an’ brudders, you mus’ try ter clim’ dem stairs. Hit will meck yo’ legs, ahms, risses an’ hyarts so strong, jes’ ez it did little Zackasses when he clum dat slippery sycamo’ tree; an’ when you git ter de top ub dem golden stairs you will see fus’ Ole Mars Nickey, Mars Tilghman, Mars Jimmy an’ Miss Henrietta wid wings ’hine an’ befo’ an’ cullud angels consonly breshin’ de dus’ fum Miss Henrietta’s cheah, an’ lookin’ fuh huh specks, an’ you’ll see de same sweet ringlets in huh hyah. Yas, indeed! kissen huh lubly brow, neck an’ bres’ jes’ like de jewdraps kisses de snowballs in de gyardin. An’ pres’ny she will raise up dem sweet han’s ub huh’n dat’s of’n bin bu’nt meckin’ poltices fuh good an’ bad serbents, open huh cherrypin mouf an’ say, “Dem’s meh good serbents; I knew’d dey’d be heah!” An’ den she’ll call Ham an’ say, “Gib ’em nice seats in de Lawd’s kitchen;” an’ while she gibbin’ orders King Dabid chune he hyarp, Gabriel he trumpet, an’ all de res’ ub de gre’t singers an’ players git ’roun’ de organ. Den King Sol’mon, wid uh pow’ful bow an’ uh book ub songs un’er his arm, ax Miss Henrietta futto play de organ; an’ Miss Henrietta bow fum him an’ look ez prowd ez uh peacock—an’ she wuz, tu! An’, belubbed, she say, “I’m sho’ you ain’ pus-nal, den ergin you ain’ rash-nal, King Sol’mon, kase you had tu many wibes; an’ ef’n it wan’ fuh dem lubly songs ub yo’n I wudn’ fogib yo’ sassyness er keep comp’ny wid you.”