The Chronicles of Aunt Minervy Ann

by Joel Chandler Harris

“I sol’ um all ’cep’ one, an’ ef I’d ’a’ sol’ dat un, I don’t ’speck dey’d ’a’ been any trouble; but you know what a fool a nigger kin be, suh, speshually a nigger ’oman. I tuck a notion in my min’ dat I done so pow’ful well, I’d save dat pie fer Marse Tumlin an’ Miss Vallie. So ev’y time somebody’s come ’long an’ want ter buy de pie, I’d up an’ say it done sold.

“Bimeby, who should come ’long but dat ar Salem Birch! He dead now, but I ’speck you done hear talk un ’im, bekaze he made matters mighty hot in deze parts twel—twel—well, suh, twel he ’gun ter hone atter dat pie, ez you may say.” Aunt Minervy Ann paused and rubbed her hands together, as if reflecting. Then she shook her head and laughed somewhat doubtfully.

“I gi’ Miss Vallie de money.”

“What dey want ter name ’im Salem fer, I’ll never tell you. Hit’s a Bible name, an’ mo’ dan dat, hit’s a church name. You know it yo’se’f, suh, bekaze dey’s a Salem church not mo’n sev’m mile fum whar we settin’ at right now. Salem Birch! Hit bangs my time how some folks kin go on—an’ I ain’t nothin’ but a nigger. Dey’s mo’ chillun ruint by der names, suh, dan any udder way. I done notice it. Name one un um a Bible name, an’ look like he bleedze ter go wrong. Name one un um atter some high an’ mighty man, an’ dey grows up wid des ’bout much sense ez a gate-post. I done watch um, suh.

“I ’speck dis yer Salem Birch would ’a’ been a right good man but fer dat ar Bible name. Dat ruint ’im. I don’t b’lieve dey’s a man in de worl’ what kin walk straight under dat name less’n he done been called fer ter be a preacher, an’ Salem Birch ain’t had no sech call up ter dat time. Dat much I know.

“Well, suh, dar sot de pie, an’ dar wuz de ginger-cakes, ol’ timers, big ter look at, but light ter handle. Eve’ybody want de pie, but my min’ done made up. Some bought cakes stidder de pie, an’ some des wipe der mouf an’ go on. But, bimeby, here come Salem Birch, six feet high, an’ his hat sot on de side er his haid like he done bought de whole town. I know’d de minnit I laid eyes on ’im dat he had dram in ’im, an’ dat he wuz up ter some devilment. Him an’ his bre’r, Bill-Tom, suh, had tarryfied de whole county. Dey wuz constant a-fightin’, an’ ef dey couldn’t git nobody else ter fight, dey’d fight ’mongst deyse’f. Yassir! dem ar Birches had done whip der own daddy.

“An’ yit, suh, dis yer Salem wa’n’t no bad-lookin’ man. He had long curly ha’r, an’ he wuz constant a-laughin’. Ef de fac’ troof wuz ter come out, I ’speck he had more devilment in ’im dan downright meanness; an’ he wuz mean nuff, de Lord knows. But, be sech as it mought, bimeby here he come, sorter half tip-toein’, like some folks do when dey feel der dram an’ dunner how ter show it. He stop right front er me, suh, an’ time his eye fell on me he sung out:

“‘Whoopee! Ef here ain’t ol’ Minervy Ann! Wid pies! An’ cakes! Come on, boys! Have some pies! An’ cakes!’