Bypaths in Dixie: Folk Tales of the South

by Sarah Johnson Cocke

“Dat peart’n Shoo Fly up moutily, an’ he say he gwine dat minit, an’ he do. He git ter de front porch jes’ es Miss Ma’y wus fancy talkin’ ter one er her beaux. Shoo Fly slip in, an’ fly back ter de pantry an’ light on sum er dis heah right heah,” she scraped the butter sauce from the edge of the plate and smacked her lips. “Whoopee, dat sort’r vit’als drive de skeer out’n enny fly. Shoo Fly jes’ hop erbout, an’ gorge hisse’f, tell bimeby he can’t hole no mo’. He start ter go out de wind’r, but he ’memb’r ’bout dem bumps on his haid, so he tu’n roun’ ter go in de parler, whin he come ’cross Miss Lucy! She start at ’im wid her fly-kill’r, an’ sakes er live!—you ort’r seed de way Shoo Fly make Miss Lucy run erbout dat house!” Again she laughed, calling to mind Miss Lucy’s daily fly fights. “But Shoo Fly hide b’hime yer gran’pa’s pictur’ ov’r de mantelpiece, an’ wint fas’ ter sleep. He doan wake up no mo’ tell supp’r time, neeth’r. He g’long in de dinin’ room ter supp’r wid de fambly, an’ whin dey sets down, he tak’n his seat on de cream pitch’r. Miss Lucy knock at ’im, she do, den he recoleck de fuss him an’ her done had wid one nuth’r, so he g’long ov’r ter Miss Ma’y’s beau’s plate, whar he know he kin eat all he want ter.”

“Wasn’t he afraid of Shoo Fly?” asked Willis, surprised.

“I nuv’r heah ’im pass no ’pinion ’bout de matt’r. Shoo Fly know dat man’s eyes too bizzy lookin’ at sum’in’ purtier’n him, an’ he know ergin de man got too much mann’rs ter set up an’ fight flies whin he’s vis’tin’.

“Miss Lucy, she sot dar an’ mos’ fidgit herse’f ter death, whin Shoo Fly light fus’ in de gent’muns vit’als, den up on his nose. De man breash ’im off his nose er heap er times, but Shoo Fly g’long back ev’y time, ’caze hit wus er nice place ter wash de greese off’n his face an’ han’s. An’ ev’y time he git coffee er ice cream, er enny thing on his foots, he g’long back ter sumwhars on dat man’s face ter wash his han’s, an’ wipe ’em on his coat tails. Miss Lucy say she know de man think she got er million flies in dat house.

“Shoo Fly done full er vit’als now, so he g’long ter bed b’hime yer gran’pa’s pictur’. In de mawnin’, he git up an’ look erbout, he do, an’ I tell yer he git pow’ful wo’ out waitin’ fur dem sleepy haid’d niggers ter start dey wurk, so by de time de cant’lopes git fix’d, Shoo Fly wus so hongry dat he eat hisse’f plum full er mush-mil’n ’fo’ brekfus’ time. He fly ’roun’ an’ zamine dat fly pap’r but he ain’ got no room fur no mo’ eatin’; den he look at dat cur’us Pison flow’r, but he keep way fum dat, ’caze he say he ain’ no bee. Jes’ den heah come Miss Lucy wid ’er fly-kill’r. Him an’ her dances considerbul ergin, but bimeby he g’long ter take er nap b’hime yer gran’pa, an’ Miss Lucy set down ter read de mawnin’ pap’r.

“Whin he wake up, he sort’r feel holl’r, he do, ’caze cant’lope res’ mighty light yer knows, so he g’long ter hunt sumpin’ nuth’r ter eat. He think Miss Lucy done fergit ’im by now, but no, Lawd, he dunno Miss Lucy, fur he ain’ buz hisse’f mo’n er time er two, ’fo’ Miss Lucy take atter him. She skeer ’im so bad, dat he fergit all ’bout dem wire things in de wind’r, but Lawsee, whin his haid come ’ginst de wire, hit knock de senses out’n ’im, an’ whin dat fly-kill’r er Miss Lucy’s hit his toe, hit tu’n ’im so sick, he fell blip! right on de fly pap’r. Mussy grashus! you ort’r heah Shoo Fly holl’rin’ an’ er buzzin’ fur Hoss Fly.

“’Bout dis time, whin Hoss Fly doan see nuthin’ er Shoo Fly on de cherry tree, he g’long ter git er peep in at de wind’r ter see ef he kin git enny news uv ’im; an’ bless de Lawd, he ain’ git ter de wind’r ’fo’ he heah Shoo Fly holl’rin’: ‘Oh, Hoss Fly, p-l-e-a-s-e come hope me out’n heah!’

“Hoss Fly run ter de front do’, but dat’s shet tight, so he take an’ run ’roun’ ter de kitchin do’ whar he know dey’s allus keerles’. He fly ter de kitchin’ do’ an’ seen Kitty standin’ wid her foot in de do’ passin’ news wid ole An’ Malviny, an’ he know he got plenty time ter go in an’ ’ten’ ter his biznes’, ’fo’ dat do’ git shet ergin. He fly thu de kitchin, an’ make fur de liberry, whar po’ Shoo Fly had done mos’ buzz hisse’f ter death.

“SHOO-FLY HOLL’R, ‘LOOK OUT FUR M’ LEGS!’”