“‘Lor’ bless your sweet soul, Miss Charlotte,’ sez I, ‘don’t hab ter put on moanin’ lak de white folks; it am already dar, an’ mo’ dan skin deep, too,’ I sez. ‘I bin moanin’ for Peggy eber sense I marrid ’er,’ I sed, ‘an’ now is my time for rejicement, Miss Charlotte, an’ I gwineter rejice. Sides dat,’ I sed, ‘whilst I’m moanin’, all my things gwine to rack, an’ de chillun’s got nobody to take keer ob ’em an’ sumpin’ nuther sho’ gwinter happen, Miss Charlotte.’
“Miss Charlotte bleege to laf, an’ old Marster he spoke up an’ say, ‘Let ’im erlone, Charlotte. Can’t you see de ole fool has got it? Go on, you ole idjut,’ he sed to me, ‘an’ marry sumbody an’ git back heah termorrer wid enuf sense in yo’ haid to run er straight furrer fer de fall plowin’.’ An’ wid dat I lit out.
“Now, Unk Pete an’ me, suh,” he explained, “belong to de same church—de Candle Light—an’ to de same lodge—de Ainshunt an’ Honorbul Order ob de Bow-legged Sons of de Black Cat—an’ ’course I ain’ gwi’ marry his widder now an’ spile sum moral observashun, so I jes’ stopped at his cabin to git his consent fur me to marry his widder.
“Get his consent?” I asked. “Why how could you get his consent if he was dead?”
“Who sed he was dead?” said the old darky, quickly. “I nurver sed so; I sed she was his widder!”
I tried to explain to him that a man couldn’t have a widow unless he were dead, but this only made him throw back his head and laugh heartily.
“Wal, wal, wal, white folks got such curious ways of thinkin’. Who’d urver thout it? You see,” he said very solemnly and impressively, “It was dis way: Unk Peter wus gittin’ ole, an’ went off contrawise to de doctrine an’ marrid dis young ’oman. Furst thing he know, he waked up sum mohnin’ an’ find hisself de father ob ten chilouns, sum ob ’em hisn an’ sum ob ’em hern, by her fus’ husban’, an’ dar he wus gittin’ so ole he cudn’t s’port ’em. So up he jumps an’ at de naixt meetin’ ob de church he runs fer de offis ob Patriark ob Santerfercashun, which, ’kordin’ to de doctrine ob Hollerness, marrid ’im to de church. ’Course arter Unk Pete gits santerfercashun an’ marrid to de church, he cudn’t hab enny uder wife, so he hafter put Sis Calline an’ de chilluns aside, which made all ob dem de widders ob de church. Don’t you ketch on to de doctrine, suh?”
I told him I had caught.
The old man was silent as if in deep thought. Then he said: “I wus young den, an’ bleeved eberything erbout de church an’ de doctrine I eber heurd, smelt or dreamed, but I am older now, an’ I’ve cum to de pinted konklushun dat when er man or er woman gets santerfercashun; one or two things done happen to ’em: Either de flahs ob youth dun played out in de bilers ob dar natral swashun—de ole Adam in ’em jes’ peg out from ole aige—or else dey am layin’ low, Brer ’Possum, fur de slickes’ game dat eber wus played. I’ve kinder notis’d we all nacherly gits better es we gits older, ennyway, an’ when we gits so ole we can’t sin no mo’, we mighty nigh good-fur-nuffin’. An’ dars whar de patr’arks ob ole had it on to de res’ ob us,” said the old man knowingly. “Jes’ let de good Marster let me lib heah erbout seben hundred years longer, an’ jes’ watch me sot back an’ view unconserned de fleetin’ vanerties ob dis life.
“Brer Peter wus in deep prayer when I rid up to his cabin, an’ arter he ris up from his knees he blessed on de top ob my observashun, gib me de grip ob Ainshunt an’ Honorbul Order ob de Bow-legged Sons ob de Black Cat, an’ ’lowed he’d lak ter tak off my sandals an’ wash my feet; but I tole ’im I jes’ wash ’em ’bout er month befo’ an’ didn’t hab no time fur foolishness; dat I cum to dis cabin fur konsolashun an’ den I jus’ got offen dat muel an’ plowed a straight furrer ob facts down de row ob his head: ‘Brer Peter,’ sez I, ‘de doctrine ob our church teach us it am not good fur er man wid er dozen chilluns to lib erlone on one side ob er plantashun, an’ er nice, seekin’ lookin’ widder ’oman wid ten mo’ to lib erlone on de yudder side. In union dar am strength, in numbers dar am prosperity, an’ in Duteromety dar am happiness. Brer Peter, I wants ter marry Sister Calline,’ sez I. ‘She am yo’ widder an’ de widder ob de church, but you know yourself she ain’t had no sho’ ’tall—jes’ ha’f a marrid life an’ er house full ob chilluns—ten ob ’em, all needin’ sum lubbin’ father’s gidin’ arm, wid er hickory attachment, whilst my twelve or fifteen all need de spirtool ker ob er good muther ercompament. De cotton pickin’ seezen am ’most on us, an’ if I kin jine our forces I’ll hab er lead-pipe cinch on de cotton crap ob Tennessee to say nuthin’ ’bout de fo’teenth ’mendment to de skule law fixin’ de pro ratter ob all householders raisin’ twenty or mo’ widin de skule aige.