Bypaths in Dixie: Folk Tales of the South

by Sarah Johnson Cocke

“Where’s his telephone?” sniffled the boy, only partly diverted by the chicken pecking up the crumbs of bread.

“He keep hit in his th’oat whar de Lawd put hit.”

“How can he eat?” Willis turned from the window to gaze into the old woman’s face.

“Pshaw, boy, you think er stool an’ er table wid er telerfome on hit’s in dat roost’r’s th’oat?” and she laughed aloud. Moistening the handkerchief again with camphor, she parted the curls and tenderly pressed the cloth to the bumped place. “Nor suhree! dey ain’ no sich er thing in dat roost’r’s th’oat. Mist’r Man put dat un in hyar fur yo’ ma,” pointing in the direction of the ’phone, “but de Lawd hook up dat un out yond’r in ole man Roost’r’s th’oat. Yas, Lawd! He put hit in dar fur Roost’rs ter talk wid an’ fur fokes ter lis’n ter whut dey talks. You ’member de uth’r night when you wus took sick in de night, an’ Mammy keep er tellin’ yer ter stop cryin’ ’bout de cast’r oil, an’ lis’n ter de roost’rs crowin’? Well, our ole roost’r wus jes gittin’ news fum Peter’s roost’r den.”

“Who’s Peter?” Willis shook the camphor cloth from his head. “Who’s Peter, Mammy?” he insisted.

“Lemme see how I kin ’splain ter yer who Peter is,” scratching her head under the bandana. “Lemme see—Peter wus er gent’mun de scriptur speak erbout dat trip hissef up on de ‘Bridge er Trufe’ an’ fell er sprawlin’ flat; an’ de Lawd sont er roost’r ’long ’bout dat time ter pick ’im up. Cose you know de roost’r didn’t pick ’im up wid his foots, but he raise him up wid er speeret de Lawd put in ’im fur dat ’speshul ’casion. Oh, I tell yer, de Lawd talks er heap er talk ter fokes thu fowels an’ beastes, but nobody doan take no notice uv ’em; dey ’pears ter fergit how dat fowel hope Peter up, an’ pint’d de road ter Glory fer ’im.”

“Mammy, can roosters talk show nuf?”

“Roosters kin talk good es you kin,—hits jes fokes ain’ got nuf speeret in ’em ter heah whut dey says. Way back yonder time whin hants an’ bible fokes projeck’ wid one nuth’r, beastes an’ speerets confabs wid fokes, jes like me an’ you talkin’ now! Yas, suh, an’ fokes lis’ns ter de confab dem sorter creeters talks too! Whar you speck ole man Balim wud er bin terday ef hit hadn’t er bin fur dat mule er his’n? But screech owels an’ jay birds an’ er heap mo’ ’sides chicken roosters is got speerets in ’em in dese days too. Some fokes calls ’em hants!”

The door opened and little Mary Van, who had caught the last word, tripped quickly to the old woman’s side and whispered in suppressed excitement: “Where’s the hants, Mammy Phyllis?”

“Nem’ine whar de hants is terday. I’m talkin’ ’bout de rooster telerfome. Yer see Peter’s rooster’s settin’ up in rooster heb’n keepin’ his eye out fur all de news. He nuv’r do go ter sleep reg’lar; sometime at night he sorter nod er lit’le, but he nuv’r do git in bed, caze he feer’d Mist’r Sun wake up ’fo’ he do. Well, whin he heah ole man Sun gap loud, an’ turn hisself ov’r an’ scratch, he know he fixin’ ter git up, an’ dat minit he flap his wings an’ telerfome loud es he kin ‘de break er day is c-o-m-i-n’’ (imitating the rooster). Ole man Diminicker down yonder on yo’ gran’pa’s rice plantation, down on de aige er de oshun, is de fus ter git de news. He stir hissef erbout an’ flop his wings, an’ telerfome loud es he kin, ‘de break er day is c-o-m-i-n’.’ De rooster on de nex’ plantation gits de wurd an’ dey passes hit on tell our ole rooster gits hit way up hyah in de mountains. Den our ole Shanghi keeps de wurd er gwine, tell ev’ry chickin fum one side de country ter de uth’r knows day fixin’ ter break.”