Bypaths in Dixie: Folk Tales of the South

by Sarah Johnson Cocke

“Tishy Peafowel nev’r wud er got so mean, ef An’ Polly Parrit had er mine her own biznes’,—’stid er dat, An’ Polly ax Cock Robin whut ail Tishy feath’rs. Robin tell her Tishy ain’ got no sense, dat ef she had much sense es Lilly Dove got, she nuv’r wud er bin in de fix she in now.—Whoopee! dat start de fracus.

“An’ Polly start right fum dar an’ spen’ de day wid ev’rybody in de woods—she mixin’ de ’pinions fokes got er Tishy an’ Lilly. Atter she git bustin’ full er news, hyah she come ter spen’ de day wid Tishy. Whin ole Lady Peafowel see An’ Polly take off her bonnet ter spen’ de day, she run an’ git out de bes’ china, an’ she tell de cook ter have fried chick’n fur din’r ’caze she know An’ Polly gwine tell all erbout whut dey eats ter de nex’ place she go.”

She paused to lift a table near the window, when Willis called from the floor:

“Mammy, don’t let Aunt Polly have fried chicken for dinner.”

“You sho’ly done los’ yo’ senses, boy. Ole lady Peafowel jes’ es skeered er An’ Polly es yo’ ma is er Miss Tilly Totenews.—’Cose she gwine have fried chick’n an’ mo’ b’sides,—an’ she doan let none de chillun do no talkin’ whar An’ Polly’s at neeth’r,” she giggled.

The children needed no further description of Aunt Polly, for they knew a visit from Miss Tilly meant their banishment, as well as the strictest injunction to yea, yea, nay, nay, whenever they chanced to meet her.

“Yas, suh,” she unfolded her quilt pieces and prepared to assort them on the table, “An’ Polly talk er nuf wurds ter Tishy dat day ter set her plum on fier wid madnes’. Yer see mos’ all Tishy’s purty feath’rs wus out, an’ dem whut’s lef wus right loose an’ straggly, an’ dat make Tishy wusser. Yer see trubble done make Tishy so sour an’ mean dat she hate ev’rybody dat’s purty’r’n her—an’ she hate Lilly wusser en all uv ’em, ’caze Lilly wus so kine, an’ treat fokes so sweet, dat ev’rybody jes’ nachelly love Lilly.

“Long ’bout dis time, de church fixin’ ter have er sociable. Dey gwine have speakin’ pieces, an’ singin’ jes’ like fokes has. John Mockin’bird, he de haid man. ’Cose John wus lovin’ Lilly, an’ ’cose he want Lilly ter sing er chune er do sump’in, but Lilly say she bleege ter him fur axin’ her, but de Lawd nuv’r make her ter sing like Laura Nightingale, an’ ’tain’ no use er her tryin’ ter do hit. I tell yer Lilly had er heap er sense—an’ er heap er beaux, too; dar wus John Mockin’bird, an’ Tom Jay Bird, an’ Bob White, an’ mo’ b’sides. But she ain’ keer nuthin’ fur none uv ’em ’cep’in’ John.”

“Mammy, did Lilly Dove know Tom Jay Bird went to the Bad Place every Friday night?” Willis went over and stood by the table.

“Cose she heah tell erbout hit, ’caze An’ Polly Parrit done spen’ de day wid her on de subjec’, but Lilly, she sot right still tell An’ Polly git th’u busin’ him, an’ callin’ him low down gambl’r—den Lilly she up an’ ax, ‘An’ Polly does you recoleck whin you wus shet up in dat cage up at Mist’r Man’s house?’ An’ Polly say she nuv’r is ter fergit hit. Lilly say, ‘Does yer ’memb’r whin Tom Jay ust’r fotch yer all dem fat wurms?’ An’ Polly say she know Tom’s er good feller, but she jes’ tellin’ whut fokes sez.