The Chronicles of Aunt Minervy Ann

by Joel Chandler Harris

“Marse Tumlin never did pass a nigger on de road.”

“Temper!” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann, holding up both hands; “temper, I hear you say! Well, suh, dat ain’t no name fer it. I done seed bad men, but Marse Tumlin is de wuss man when he git his dander up dat I yever come ’cross in all my born days. De fust time I seed ’im mad, suh, wuz right atter de folks come home fum der fightin’ and battlin’. It make me open my eyes. I been livin’ wid ’im all dem years, an’ I never is know how servigrous dat man is.

“An’ de funny part wuz, suh, dat he got mad ’bout a ole nigger ’oman.” Aunt Minervy Ann paused to indulge in a very hearty laugh. “Yasser, all ’bout a ole nigger ’oman. In dem times we all had ter scuffle ’roun’ right smart fer ter git vittles ter eat, let ’lone cloze ter w’ar. Miss Vallie wuz w’arin’ a frock what her mammy had when she wuz a gal. An’ de clof wuz right good an’ look’ mighty well on ’er. Ez fer me, I dunner whedder I had on any frock—ef I did ’twuz ’bout ter drap off’n me. ’Long ’bout dat time, court-week wuz comin’ on, de fust court-week we had sence de folks come home fum battlin’. Dey wuz a great miration ’bout it, bekaze dey say ev’ybody gwine ter come an’ see de lawyers rastle.

“Well, suh, it come ’cross my min’ dat ef I kin bake some ginger-cakes an’ make some chicken-pies, maybe I kin pick up a little money. De dime an’ thrip species had all done gone, but dey wuz oodles er shinplasters floatin’ ’roun’ ef you had sump’n fer ter git um wid. I dunner whar in de worl’ we got ’nuff flour an’ ’lasses fer ter make de cakes. I know I got one chicken, an’ Hamp he went off one night and borried two mo’. I ain’t ax ’im whar he borry um, suh, bekaze ’twan’t none er my business. We made de cakes, an’ den we made de pies. Ef you ain’t know how ter make um, suh, you’d be ’stonished ter know how fur dem ar chickens went. We made twelve pies ef we made one. Yasser! ez sho’ ez I’m settin’ here. We strung um out—a wing here, a piece er de back dar, an’ a neck yonner. Twelve pies, suh, an’ nuff chicken lef’ over fer ter gi’ Miss Vallie a right smart bait; an’ de Lord knows she need it, an’ need it bad.

“Well, suh, I make de ginger-cakes de week ’fo’ court, bekaze it he’ps a ginger-cake ef you bake ’im an’ den shet ’im up in a tight box whar he kin sweat, an’ Monday we sot in ter bake de pies. I make de dough wid my own han’s, an’ I lef’ Miss Vallie fer ter bake um, wid Hamp ter keep de fire gwine. De word wuz dat ’bout half-pas’ ten Hamp wuz ter fetch me all de pies dey had ready, an’ den go back fer de yuthers.

“We made twelve pies ef we made one.”

“I ain’t say nothin’ ’bout de balance er de cakes; bekaze I ’low’d ter myse’f dat I had ’nuff. I had many ez I kin tote widout gittin’ tired, an’ I ain’t no baby when it comes ter totin’ cakes. Well, suh, I been livin’ a mighty long time, but I ain’t never see folks wid such a cravin’ fer ginger-cakes. Fum de word go dey wuz greedy fer ’m. Hit mought er been ’kaze dey wuz des natchally hongry, en den ag’in hit mought er been bekaze de cakes call up ol’ times; but no matter ’bout dat, suh, dey des showered de shinplasters down on me. ’Twa’n’t de country folks doin’ de most er de buyin’ at fust. It ’uz de town boys an’ de clerks in de stores; an’ mos’ ’fo’ I know’d it de cakes wuz all gone, an’ Hamp ain’t come wid de pies.

“I would ’a’ waited, suh, but dey kep’ callin’ fer cakes so ravenous dat bimeby I crumpled my shinplasters up in a wad an’ tuck my basket an’ went polin’ home fer ter hurry Hamp up. He wuz des gittin’ ready ter start when I got dar. I gi’ Miss Vallie de money—you kin count it up yourse’f, suh; ’twuz fer fo’ dozen ginger-cakes at a thrip a-piece—an’ tol’ her ter sen’ Hamp atter some mo’ flour an’ ’lasses ’fo’ night, ’kaze de ginger-cakes half-gone an’ court-week ain’t skacely open up. Hamp, he tuck de pies an’ de cakes, an’ I got me one er de low cheers out’n de kitchen, ’kaze I done tired er settin’ on de een’ uv a box.

“I ’speck you know right whar I sot at, suh; ’twuz dar by dat big chany-tree front er Sanford’s sto’. Hit sho’ wuz a mighty tree. De win’ done blow’d up an’ blew’d it down, but de stump stan’in’ dar sproutin’ right now. Well, suh, right under de shadder er dat tree, on de outer aidge er de sidewalk, I tuck my stan’, an’ I ain’t been dar long ’fo’ de folks ’gun ter swarm atter my cakes, an’ den when dey seed my pies—well! hit look like dey fair dribble at de mouf.