“Mammy, what does folks have Fourf of Julys for?” asked Dumps, after a little while.
“I dunno, honey,” answered Mammy; “I hyear ’em say hit wuz ’long o’ some fightin’ or nuther wat de white folks fit one time; but whedder dat wuz de time wat Brer David fit Goliar or not, I dunno; I ain’t hyeard ’em say ’bout dat: it mout er ben dat time, an’ den ergin it mout er ben de time wat Brer Samson kilt up de folks wid de jawbone. I ain’t right sho wat time hit wuz; but den I knows hit wuz some fightin’ or nuther.”
“It was the ‘Declination of Independence’,” said Diddie. “It’s in the little history; and it wasn’t any fightin’, it was a writin’; and there’s the picture of it in the book: and all the men are sittin’ roun’, and one of ’em is writin’.”
“Yes, dat’s jes wat I hyearn,” said Uncle Bob. “I hyearn ’em say dat dey had de fuss’ Defemation uv Ondepen’ence on de Fourf uv July, an’ eber sence den de folks ben er habin’ holerday an’ barbecues on dat day.”
“What’s er Defemation, Uncle Bob?” asked Dumps, who possessed an inquiring mind.
“Well, I mos’ furgits de zack meanin’,” said the old man, scratching his head; “hit’s some kin’ er writin’, do, jes like Miss Diddie say; but, let erlone dat, hit’s in de squshionary, an’ yer ma kin fin’ hit fur yer, an’ ’splain de zack meanin’ uv de word; but de Defemation uv Ondepen’ence, hit happened on de fuss Fourf uv July, an’ hit happens ev’ry Fourf uv July sence den; an’ dat’s ’cordin ’ter my onderstandin’ uv hit,” said Uncle Rob, whipping up his horses.
“What’s dat, Brer Bob?” asked Daddy Jake, and as soon as Uncle Bob had yelled at him Dumps’s query and his answer to it, the old man said:
“Yer wrong, Brer Bob; I ’members well de fus’ Fourf uv July; hit wuz er man, honey. Marse Fofer July wuz er man, an’ de day wuz name atter him. He wuz er pow’ful fightin’ man; but den who it wuz he fit I mos’ furgot, hit’s ben so long ergo; but I ’members, do, I wuz er right smart slip uv er boy, an’ I went wid my ole marster, yer pa’s gran’pa, to er big dinner wat dey had on de Jeems Riber, in ole Furginny; an’ dat day, sar, Marse Fofer July wuz dar; an’ he made er big speech ter de white folks, caze I hyeard ’em clappin’ uv dey han’s. I nuber seed ’im but I hyeard he wuz dar, do, an’ I knows he wuz dar, caze I sho’ly hyeard ’em clappin’ uv dey han’s; an’, ’cordin’ ter de way I ’members bout’n it, dis is his birfday, wat de folks keeps plum till yet caze dey ain’t no men nowerdays like Marse Fofer July. He wuz er gre’t man, an’ he had sense, too; an’ den, ’sides dat, he wuz some er de fus’ famblys in dem days. Wy, his folks usen ter visit our white folks. I helt his horse fur ’im de many er time; an’, let erlone dat, I knowed some uv his niggers; but den dat’s ben er long time ergo.”
“But what was he writin’ about Daddy?” asked Diddie, who remembered the picture too well to give up the “writing part.”
“He wuz jes signin’ some kin’ er deeds or sump’n,” said Daddy. “I dunno wat he wuz writin’ erbout; but den he wuz er man, caze he lived in my recommembrunce, an’ I done seed ’im myse’f.”