The Chronicles of Aunt Minervy Ann

by Joel Chandler Harris

“What did the neighbors say about it?” the lady of the house asked, in her practical way.

“Dat what pestered me all de time, ma’am,” Aunt Minervy Ann replied. “I ax Marse Bolivar, ‘What de folks gwine ter say when dey hear ’bout dis come off?’ He stuck his thum’s in de armholes er his wescut, an’ ’low, ‘Dat what I wanter know, an’ I wanter know so bad, Minervy Ann, dat ef you hear anybody talkin’ loose talk ’bout it, des come runnin’ ter me while it’s hot. Now don’t you fail.’

“But Marse Bolivar ain’t wait fer me ter hear what folks say. He went polin’ up town de nex’ day, an’ tol’ ’bout it in eve’y sto’ on de street, an’ de las’ man in town vow’d ’twuz de ve’y thing ter do. An’ dat ain’t all, ma’am! De folks dar raise a lot er money fer Mary Ellen, an’ de way dat chile went on when Marse Bolivar put it in ’er han’ an’ tol’ er whar it come fum wuz pitiful ter see.

“Dat’s de way ’tis, ma’am; ketch um in de humor an’ eve’ybody’s good; ketch um out’n de humor an’ dey er all mean—I know dat by my own feelin’s. Ef a fly had lit on Marse Bolivar’s face dat day, Mary Ellen would ’a’ had ter face ’er trouble by ’er own ’lone self. Ef some sour-minded man had gone up town an’ told how Marse Bolivar wuz en’tainin’ nigger gals an’ a Yankee ’oman in his parlor, dey’d all been down on ’im. An’ den——”

“What, then?” the lady of the house asked, as Aunt Minervy Ann paused.

“Dey’d ’a’ been weepin’ an’ whailin’ in de settlement sho. Ain’t it so, suh?”

It was natural, after Aunt Minervy Ann had narrated the particulars of this episode, that her statements should dwell in my memory, and sally forth and engage my mind when it should have been concerned with other duties. One of these duties was to examine each day the principal newspapers of New England in search of topics for editorial comment.

An eye trained to this business, as any exchange editor can tell you, will pick out at a glance a familiar name or suggestive phrase, no matter what its surroundings nor how obscurely it may be printed. Therefore, one day, weeks after Aunt Minervy Ann’s recital, when I opened the Boston Transcript at its editorial page, it was inevitable that the first thing to catch my eye was the familiar name of “Mary Ellen Tatum.” It was printed in type of the kind called nonpareil, but I would have seen it no sooner nor more certainly if it had been printed in letters reaching half across the page.

Mary Ellen Tatum! The name occurred in a three-line preface to the translation of an art note from a Paris newspaper. This note described, with genuine French enthusiasm, the deep impression that had been made on artists and art circles in Paris by a portrait painted by a gifted young American artist, Mlle. Marie Helen Tatum. It is needless to transcribe the eulogy—I have it in my scrapbook. It was a glowing tribute to a piece of work that had created a sensation, and closed with the announcement that another genius had “arrived.”