THE CHRONICLES OF AUNT MINERVY ANN
By Joel Chandler Harris
"WHEN JESS WENT A-FIDDLIN'"
Sitting on the veranda one summer day, ruminating over other people's troubles, and wondering how womankind can invent and discover so many things to fret and vex them, I was surprised to hear someone yelling at the gate, "You-all got any bitin' dogs here?" I was surprised, because the voice failed to match the serenity of the suburban scene. Its tone was unsuited to the surroundings, being pitched a trifle too high. Before I could make any reply the gate was flung open, and the owner of the voice, who was no other than Aunt Minervy Ann, flirted in and began to climb the terrace. My recognition of her was not immediate, for she wore her Sunday toggery, in which, following the oriental instincts of her race, the reds and yellows were emphasized with startling effect. She began to talk by the time she was half-way between the house and gate, and it was owing to this special and particular volubility that I was able to recognize her.
"Huh!" she exclaimed, "hit's des like clim'in' up sta'rs. Folks what live here bleeze ter b'long ter de Sons er Tempunce." There was a relish about this reference to the difficulties of three terraces that at once identified Aunt Minervy Ann. More than that, one of the most conspicuous features of the country town where she lived was a large brick building, covering half a block, across the top of which stretched a sign—"Temperance Hall"—in letters that could be read a quarter of a mile away.
Aunt Minervy Ann received a greeting that seemed to please her, whereupon she explained that an excursion had come to Atlanta from her town, and she had seized the opportunity to pay me a visit. "I tol' um," said she, "dat dey could stay up in town dar an' hang 'roun' de kyar-shed ef dey wanter, but here's what wuz gwine ter come out an' see whar you live at."
She was informed that, though she was welcome, she would get small pleasure from her visit. The cook had failed to make her appearance, and the lady of the house was at that moment in the kitchen and in a very fretful state of mind, not because she had to cook, but because she had about reached the point where she could place no dependence in the sisterhood of colored cooks.
"Is she in de kitchen now?" Aunt Minervy's tone was a curious mixture of amusement and indignation. "I started not ter come, but I had a call, I sho' did; sump'n tol' me dat you mought need me out here." With that, she went into the house, slamming the screen-door after her, and untying her bonnet as she went.
Now, the lady of the house had heard of Aunt Minervy Ann, but had never met her, and I was afraid that the characteristics of my old-time friend would be misunderstood, and misinterpreted. The lady in question knew nothing of the negro race until long after emancipation, and she had not been able to form a very favorable opinion of its representatives. Therefore, I hastened after Aunt Minervy Ann, hoping to tone down by explanation whatever bad impression she might create. She paused at the screen-door that barred the entrance to the kitchen, and, for an instant, surveyed the scene within. Then she cried out:
"You des ez well ter come out'n dat kitchen! You ain't got no mo' bizness in dar dan a new-born baby."
Aunt Minervy Ann's voice was so loud and absolute that the lady gazed at her in mute astonishment. "You des ez well ter come out!" she insisted.