The Chronicles of Aunt Minervy Ann

by Joel Chandler Harris

“Ef here ain’t ol’ Minervy Ann wid pies!”

“Well, suh, you mought er heer’d ’im a mile. He holler des like de She’ff do when he stick his haid out’n de court-house winder an’ call somebody in ter court—des dat ve’y way. He say, ‘How much you take fer yo’ chicken-pie?’ I ’low, ‘Hit done sol’, suh.’ He say, ‘I’ll gi’ you a quarter fer dat pie.’ I ’low, ‘De pie done sol’, suh.’ By dat time dey wuz a right smart clump er folks come up fer see what Salem Birch wuz holl’in’ ’bout, an’ you know yo’se’f, suh, how a half-drunk man’ll do when dey’s a crowd lis’nin’ at him.

“He say, ‘Who done bought dat pie?’ I ’low, ‘Marse Tumlin Perdue.’ He sorter draw’d hisse’f up, he did, an’ say, ‘Ain’t I des ez good ez Tumlin Perdue?’ I ’low, ‘I ain’t know nothin’ ter de contrary, suh, but ef you is, you got ter be a monstus good man.’ He say, ‘I is! I’m de bes’ man in de county.’ I ’low, ‘Dat may be, suh; I ain’t ’sputin’ it.’ By dat time I ’gun ter feel de Ol’ Boy kinder ranklin’ in my gizzard. He say, ‘Why can’t I git dat pie?’ I ’low, ‘Bekaze it done sol’, suh.’ He say, ‘Fer cash?’ I ’low, ‘No, suh; but Marse Tumlin’s word is lots better’n some folks’ money.’

“Well, suh, I know’d ’fo’ I open my mouf dat I ought’n ter say dat, but I couldn’t he’p it fer ter save my neck. He say, ‘Well, blast yo’ black hide, my money’s better’n anybody’s money!’ Wid dat he flung down a shinplaster quarter an’ retch fer de pie. By de time he grabbed it, I grabbed it, an’ he pulled an’ I pulled. I dunner whedder ’twuz de strenk in me er de dram in ’im, but in de pullin’, de box what de pie wuz on turnt over, an’ my cheer turnt over, an’ down come Salem Birch right spang on top er me.

“I tell you now, suh, dis skeer’d me. ’Twuz mo’ dan I bargain fer. Right at de minnit, I had de idee dat de man had jumped on me an’ wuz gwine ter kill me—you know how some folks is ’bout niggers. So I des give one squall——

“‘Marse Tumlin! Run here, Marse Tumlin! He killin’ me! Oh, Marse Tumlin!’

“Well, suh, dey tell me dat squall wuz so inhuman it made de country hosses break loose fum de racks. One white lady at de tavern hear it, an’ she had ter be put ter bed. Bless yo’ soul, honey! don’t never say you done hear anybody blate twel you hear ol’ Minervy Ann—an’ de Lord knows I hope you won’t never hear me.

“Dey ain’t no use talkin’, suh, hit ’larmed de town. Eve’ybody broke an’ run to’rds de place whar de fuss come fum. Salem Birch got up des ez quick ez he kin, an’ I wuz up des ez quick ez he wuz, an’ by dat time my temper done run my skeer off, an’ I des blazed out at him. What I say I’ll never tell you, bekaze I wuz so mad I ain’t never hear myse’f talk. Some say I called ’im dis an’ some say I called ’im dat, but whatsomever ’twuz, hit wa’n’t no nice name—I kin promise you dat.

“You see dat nigger ’oman?”