The Chronicles of Aunt Minervy Ann

by Joel Chandler Harris

“’Twus ’nuff ter rise his dander, an’ he draw’d back his arm fer ter hit me, but des ’bout dat time Marse Tumlin shoved ’im back. Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘You dirty dog! You sneakin’, nasty houn’! is dis de way you does yo’ fightin’?’

“Well, suh, dis kinder skeer me ag’in, kaze I hear talk dat Salem Birch went ’bout wid dirks an’ pistols on ’im, ready fer ter use um. He look at Marse Tumlin, an’ his face got whiter an’ whiter, an’ he draw’d his breff, deep an’ long.

“Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘You see dat nigger ’oman? Well, ef she wuz blacker dan de hinges er hell’—he say dem ve’y words, suh—‘ef she wuz blacker dan de hinges er hell, she’d be whiter dan you er any er yo’ thievin’ gang.’ An’ den, suh—I ’clar’ I’m mos’ shame ter tell you—Marse Tumlin rise up on his tip-toes an’ spit in de man’s face. Yasser! Right spang in his face. You may well look ’stonish’d, suh. But ef you’d ’a’ seed de way Marse Tumlin looked you’d know why Salem Birch ain’t raise his han’ ’cep’ ter wipe his face. Ef dey ever wuz blood an’ killin’ in anybody’s eyes, hit wuz in Marse Tumlin’s right dat minnit. He stan’ dar while you kin count ten, an’ den he snap his thumb an’ turn on his heel, an’ dat ar Salem Birch tuck’n walk ’cross de public squar’ an’ sot down on de court-house steps, an’ he sot dar, suh, wid his haid ’twix’ his han’s fer I dunner how long.

“Well, suh, I know in reason dat de een’ er dat business ain’t come. You know how our white folks is; you kin spit in one man’s face an’ he not take it up, but some er his kinnery er his frien’s is sho ter take it up. So I say ter myse’f, ‘Look here, nigger ’oman, you better keep yo’ mouf shot an’ bofe eyes open, kaze dey gwine ter be hot times in deze diggin’s.’ When I come ter look at um, suh, my ginger-cakes wa’n’t hurt, an’ de chicken-pie wuz safe an’ soun’ ’cep’ dat er little er de gravy had sorter run out. When I git thoo brushin’ an’ cleanin’ um, I look up, I did, an’ dar wuz Marse Bolivar Blasengame walkin’ up an’ down right close at me. You oughter know ’im, suh, him an’ Marse Tumlin married sisters, an’ dey wuz ez thick ez two peas in a pod. So I ’low, ‘Won’t you have a ginger-cake, Marse Bolivar? I’d offer you de pie, but I’m savin’ dat fer Miss Vallie.’ He say he don’t b’lieve his appetite run ter cakes an’ pies right dat minnit. Dat make me eye ’im, suh, an’ he look like he mighty glum ’bout sump’n. He des walk up an’ down, up an’ down, wid his han’s in his pockets. It come back ter me atterwards, but I ain’t pay no ’tention den, dat de folks all ’roun’ town wuz kinder ’spectin’ anudder fuss. Dey wuz all standin’ in clumps here an’ dar, some in de middle er de street, an’ some on de sidewalks, but dey wa’n’t nobody close ter me ’cep’ Marse Bolivar. Look like dey wuz givin’ us elbow room.

“An’ he sot dar, suh, wid his haid ’twix’ his han’s fer I dunner how long.”

“De bigges’ clump er folks, suh, wuz down at de public well, at de fur side er de squar’, an’ I notice dey kep’ movin’, now dis way, an’ now dat, sorter swayin’ like some un wuz shovin’ um ’bout an’ pushin’ um ’roun’. An’ dat des de way it wuz, ’kaze ’twa’n’t long ’fo’ somebody broke loose fum um an’ come runnin’ to’rds whar I wuz settin’ at.

“I know’d in a minnit, suh, dat wuz Bill-Tom Birch. He wuz holdin’ his han’ on his wes’cut pocket fer ter keep his watch fum fallin’ out. He come runnin’ up, suh, an’ he wuz so mad he wuz cryin’. His face wuz workin’ des like it hurted ’im. He holler at me. ‘Is you de——?’ I won’t name de name what he call me, suh. But I know ef he’d ’a’ been a nigger I’d ’a’ got up fum dar an’ brained ’im. I ain’t say nothin’. I des sot dar an’ look at ’im.

“Well, suh, he jerk a cowhide fum under his cloze—he had it run down his britches leg, an’ say, ‘I’ll show you how you erfuse ter sell pies when a gemman want ter buy um.’ I dunner what I’d ’a’ done, suh, ef he’d ’a’ hit me, but he ain’t hit me. Marse Bolivar walk right ’twix’ us an’ ’low, ‘You’ll settle dis wid me, right here an’ now.’ Wid dat, Bill-Tom Birch step back an’ say, ‘Colonel, does you take it up?’ Marse Bolivar ’low, ‘Dat’s what I’m here fer.’ Bill-Tom Birch step back a little furder and make as ef ter draw his pistol, but his han’ ain’t got ter his pocket ’fo’ bang! went Marse Bolivar’s gun, an’ down went Bill-Tom Birch, des like somebody tripped ’im up.