The Chronicles of Aunt Minervy Ann

by Joel Chandler Harris

“’Long ’bout dat time she struck up wid little Sally Blasengame, an’ when dem two got tergedder dar wuz de pick er de town ez fer ez de chillun went. I don’t say it, suh, bekaze Marse Bolivar was Marse Tumlin’s br’er-in-law—dey married sisters—but his little gal Sally wuz ez fine ez split silk. Mary Ellen had black hair an’ big black eyes, an’ Sally had yaller hair an’ big blue eyes. Atter dey come ter know one an’er dey wa’n’t a day but what dem two chillun wuz playin’ tergedder. How many an’ many is de times I seed um gwine ’long wid der arms ’roun’ one an’er!

“Well, one day atter dey been playin’ tergedder a right smart whet Marse Bolivar ’gun ter make inquirements ’bout Mary Ellen, an’ when he foun’ out who an’ what she wuz, he went out whar dey at an’ tol’ her she better go home. I wuz right dar in de back yard when he said de word. Mary Ellen stood an’ looked at ’im, an’ den she picked up her bonnet an’ marched out’n de yard holdin’ her head up; she wuz twelve year ol’ by den.

“Sally seed Mary Ellen go out, an’ she turn ’roun’ on her daddy, her face ez white ez a sheet. Den her whole frame ’gun ter shake. She ’low, ‘I been lovin’ you all dis time, an’ I didn’t know you could be so mean an’ low-life.’ She flung at ’im de fust words dat pop in her min’.

“Marse Bolivar say, ‘Why, honey! Why, precious!’ an’ start ter put his arm ’roun’ ’er. She flung fum ’im, she did, an’ cry out, ‘Don’t you never say dem words ter me no mo’ ez long ez you live, an’ don’t you never tetch me no mo’.’ Den she seed me, an’ she come runnin’ des like she wuz skeer’d. She holler, ‘Take me ’way! take me ’way! Don’t let ’im tetch me!’ Talk ’bout temper—talk ’bout venom! All dem Blasengames had it, an’ when you hurt de feelin’s er dat kind er folks dey are hurted sho ’nuff. Marse Bolivar couldn’t ’a’ looked no wuss ef somebody had ’a’ spit in his face while his han’s tied. You talk ’bout people lovin’ der chillun, but you dunner nothin’ ’tall ’bout it twel you see Marse Bolivar lovin’ Sally. Why, de very groun’ she walkt on wuz diffunt ter him fum any udder groun’. He wuz ready ter die fer ’er forty times a day, an’ yit here she wuz wid her feelin’s hurt so bad dat she won’t let ’im put his han’s on ’er. An’ he ain’t try; he had sense ’nuff fer dat. He des walk ’roun’ and kick up de gravel wid de heel er his boots. But Sally, she had ’er face hid in my frock, an’ she ain’t so much ez look at ’im. Bimeby he went in de house, but he ain’t stay dar long. He come out an’ look at Sally, an’ try ter make ’er talk, but she erfuse ter say a word, an’ atter while he went on up-town.

“Ef dey ever wuz hard-headed folks, suh, dat wuz de tribe. He went up-town, but he ain’t stay long, an’ when he come back he foun’ Sally in de house cryin’ an’ gwine on. She won’t tell what de matter, an’ she won’t let nobody do nothin’ fer ’er. Now, ef she’d ’a’ been mine, suh, I’d ’a’ frailed ’er out den an’ dar, an’ I’d ’a’ kep’ on frailin’ ’er out twel she’d ’a’ vowed dat she never know’d no gal name Mary Ellen. Dat’s me! But Marse Bolivar ain’t look at it dat away, an’ de man what never knuckle ter no human bein’, rich er po’, high er low, had ter knuckle ter dat chile, an’ she wa’n’t much bigger dan yo’ two fists.

“So bimeby he say, ‘Honey, I’m gwine atter Mary Ellen, ef dat’s her name, an’ she can stay here all day an’ all night, too, fer what I keer.’

“Sally ’low, ‘She sha’n’t come here! she sha’n’t! I don’t want nobody ter come here dat’s got ter git der feelin’s hurted eve’y time dey come.’

“Right dar, suh, is whar my han’ would ’a’ come down hard; but Marse Bolivar, he knuckle. He say, ‘Well, honey, you’ll hafter fergive me dis time. I’ll go fetch ’er ef she’ll come, an’ ef she won’t ’tain’t my fault.’

“So out he went. I dunner how he coaxed Mary Ellen, but she say he tol’ ’er dat Sally wuz feelin’ mighty bad, an’ wuz ’bleeze ter see ’er; an’ Mary Ellen, havin’ mo’ heart dan min’, come right along. An’ Marse Bolivar wuz happy fer ter see Sally happy.

“Dis wuz long ’fo’ de battlin’, suh, but even dat fur back dey wuz talkin’ ’bout war. Ol’ Fed Tatum wuz a mighty long-headed man, an’ he know’d mighty well dat ef Mary Ellen stayed dar whar she wuz at, she won’t have no mo’ show dan a chicken wid its head wrung off. So he fixed ’er up an’ packed ’er off up dar whar de Northrons is at. He’d ’a’ sont her mammy wid ’er, but she say no; she’d be in de way; folks would ’spicion what de matter wuz; an’ so she shet her mouf an’ stayed. Ef Mary Ellen had ’a’ been my chile, suh, I’d ’a’ gone wid ’er ef I had ter claw my way wid my naked han’s thoo forty miles er brick wall. But her mammy was diffunt; she stayed an’ pined.