The Chronicles of Aunt Minervy Ann

by Joel Chandler Harris

The lady seemed to be hesitating, and the silence in the kitchen was oppressive.

“I’ll decide to-day,” she remarked. “Our cook is a good one, but she has been thinking of resting awhile. If she goes, you shall have the place.”

“Den she ain’t gone?” cried Aunt Minervy Ann. “Well, I don’t want de place less’n she goes. I ain’t gwine ter run my color out’n no job ef I kin he’p it. We got ’nuff ter contend wid des dry so.” Then she turned and looked in the kitchen. “Ain’t dat Julie Myrick?” she asked.

“How you know me?” cried the cook. “I b’lieve in my soul dat’s Miss ’Nervy Ann Perdue!”

With that Aunt Minervy Ann went into the kitchen, and the two old acquaintances exchanged reminiscences for a quarter of an hour. After awhile she came back in the sitting-room, stared at us with a half-indignant, half-quizzical expression on her face, and then suddenly collapsed, falling on the floor near a couch, and laughing as only an old-time negro can laugh. Then she sat bolt upright, and indignation, feigned or real, swept the smiles from her countenance, as if they had been suddenly wiped out with a sponge.

“You know what you got in dat kitchen dar? You ain’t got nothin’ in de worl’ in dar but a Injun merlatter; dat zackly what you got. I know’d her daddy and I know’d her mammy. Ol’ one-legged Billy Myrick wuz her daddy, an’ he wuz one part white an’ one part nigger, an’ one part Injun. Don’t tell me ’bout dem kind er tribes. Dey ain’t no good in um. Hamp’ll tell you dat hisse’f, an’ he b’longed ter de Myrick ’state. Merlatter is bad ’nuff by itse’f, but when you put Injun wid it—well, you may hunt high an’ you may hunt low, but you can’t git no wuss mixtry dan dat. I tell you right now,” Aunt Minervy Ann went on, “I never did see but one merlatter dat wuz wuff a pinch er snuff, an’ she wuz so nigh white dat de ol’ boy hisse’f couldn’t ’a’ tol’ de difffunce. Seem like you must ’a’ knowed Mary Ellen Tatum, suh?” she suggested, appealing to my memory.

I had heard the name somehow and somewhere, but it was as vague in my recollection as a dream.

“Maybe you didn’t know ’er, suh, but she was born an’ bred down whar I cum fum. Dat’s so! She wuz done gone fum dar when you come. Wuz ol’ Fed Tatum dead? Yasser! ol’ Fed died de year dey quit der battlin’, an’ ’twuz de year atter dat when you come; an’ you sho did look puny, suh, ter what you does now. Well, ol’ Fed Tatum, he wuz one er deze yer quare creeturs. He made money han’ over fist, an’ he had a sight er niggers. He had a place sorter close ter town, but he didn’t stay on it; an’ he had a house not fur fum Marse Bolivar Blasengame, but he’d des go out ter his place endurin’ er de day, an’ den he’d come back, git his vittles, an’ walk ter de tavern an’ dar he’d take a cheer an’ go off by hisse’f, an’ set wid his chin in his coat collar, an’ look at his foots an’ make his thum’s turn somersets over one an’er. Ef you wanted ter talk wid ol’ Fed Tatum, you’d hafter go whar he wuz settin’ at an’ do all de talkin’ yo’se’f. He’d des set back dar an’ grunt an’ maybe not know who you wuz. But when he come huntin’ you up, you better watch out. Dey say dey ain’t nobody ever is make a trade wid ol’ Fed but what dey come out at de little een’ er de horn.

“Well, ol’ Fed had a nigger ’oman keepin’ house fer ’im, an’ doin’ de cookin’ and washin’. I say ‘nigger,’ suh, but she wuz mighty nigh white. She wuz Mary Ellen’s mammy, an’ Mary Ellen wuz des white ez anybody, I don’t keer whar dey cum fum, an’ she wuz purty fum de word go. Dey wa’n’t never no time, suh, atter Mary Ellen wuz born dat she wa’n’t de purtiest gal in dat town. I des natchully ’spises merlatters, but dey wuz sump’n ’bout Mary Ellen dat allers made a lump come in my goozle. I tuck ter dat chile, suh, de minnit I laid my eyes on ’er. She made me think ’bout folks I done forgot ef I ever know’d um, an’ des de sight un ’er made me think ’bout dem ol’ time chunes what mighty nigh break yo’ heart when you hear um played right. Dat wuz Mary Ellen up an’ down.

“Well, suh, when Mary Ellen got so she could trot ’roun’, old Fed Tatum sorter woke up. He stayed at home mo’, and when de sun wuz shinin’ you might see ’im any time setting in his peazzer wid Mary Ellen playin’ roun’, er walkin’ out in de back yard wid Mary Ellen trottin’ at his heels. I’m telling you de start-naked trufe—by de time dat chile wuz six-year ol’ she could read; yasser! read out’n a book, an’ read good. I seed her do it wid my own eyes, an’ heer’d ’er wid my own years. ’Tain’t none er dish yer readin’ an’ stoppin’ like you hear de school chillun gwine on; no, suh! ’Twuz de natchual readin’ right ’long. An’ by de time she wuz eight, dey wa’n’t no words in no book in dat town but what she could take an’ chaw um same as lawyers in de cote-house. Mo’ dan dat, suh, she could take a pencil, an’ draw yo’ likeness right ’fo’ yo’ face.