“Whenever you hear anybody a-axing anything,” he used to say, “’bout how I’m a-gettin’ on, an’ how my family is, un’ whether er no my health is well, you thess up an’ tell um that I’m a nachul Baptis’. You thess up an’ tell um that, an’ I’ll be mighty much erbleege to you. Tell um I’m a born’d Baptis’.”
Although Mr. Wall was unable to read or write, Joe Maxwell found him to be a very interesting talker. Perhaps it was his ignorance of books that made him interesting. He was more superstitious than any of the negroes—a great believer in signs and omens. One night when Joe went to visit him, the old man told a story that made a very deep impression on the lad. There was nothing in the story, but Mr. Wall identified himself with it, and told it in a way that made it seem real, and it was a long time before Joe could divest himself of the idea that the story was not true. Wherever Mr. Wall got it, whether he dreamed it or heard it, there is no doubt that he really believed it.
CHAPTER V—MR. WALL’S STORY
This is the way he told it, by the light of a pine-knot fire that threw a wavering and an uncertain light over the little room:
“I’m monst’us sorry. Daught ain’t here,” he began, “’cause she know’d the folks thess ez well ez I did; she’s been thar at the house an’ seed um. It thess come inter my min’ whilst we been a-settin’ here talkin’ ’bout ghostses an’ the like er that. Daught’s over yander settin’ up wi’ Mis Clemmons, an’ I wisht she wuz here. She know’d ’em all.
“Well, sir, it wuz in North Ca’liny, right nex’ ter the Ferginny line, whar we all cum frum. They wuz a fammerly thar by the name er Chambliss—Tom Chambliss an’ his wife—an’ they had a boy name John, in about ez peart a chap ez you ever set your eyes on. Arter awhile, Miss Chambliss, she took sick an’ died. Tom, he moped aroun’ right smartually, but ’twan’t long fo’ he whirled in an’ married agin. He went away off some’rs for to get his wife, the Lord knows whar, an’ she wuz a honey! She fussed so much an’ went on so that Tom, he took ter drink, an’ he went from dram ter dram tell he wern’t no manner account. Then she took arter John, the boy, an’ she thess made that child’s life miserbul a-doggin’ arter him all day long an’ half the night.
“One Sunday she fixed up an’ went ter church, arter tellin’ Johnny for to stay at home an’ keep the chickens outn’ the sallid-patch. She locked the door of the house before she went off an’ took the key wi’ ’er. It wuz right down coolish, but the sun wuz a-shinin’ an’ Johnny didn’t min’ the cold. Ther’ wuz a big white oak-tree in the yard, an’ he clum’ up that an’ crope out on a lim’ an’ got on top er the house, an’ sot up thar a straddle er the comb. He wuz a feeling mighty lonesome, an’ he didn’t know what ter do wi’ hisse’f skacely.