Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Meh Marster, you mo’ an’ mo’ like Mars Francis ev’y day, same bright eyes, like uh fish hawk’s, but sorf an’ big.

OLE MARS
AN’
OLE MISS

BY

Edmund K. Goldsborough, M. D.

Washington, D. C.:

NATIONAL PUBLISHING CO.,

1900.

COPYRIGHT, 1900

BY

EDMUND K. GOLDSBOROUGH, M. D.

ILLUSTRATIONS

INTRODUCTION

My subjects are all typical Eastern-Shore-of-Maryland darkies, some of whom “had erligion, ’longed ter de Babtis’ chuch an’ wuz monstus pious.” Others danced, sang, played the banjo, fiddled, fished and frolicked in Talbot County “Befo’ de Wah.”

“Ole Joe kickin’ up behin’ an’ befo’,

Yaller gal kirkin’ up behin’ ole Joe.”

Their smiling, shining, happy faces can be fully appreciated only by those who played with them, heard them sing, preach and pray, and had among them Mammies.

To all such I dedicate this volume.

MISS SANSON IN THE SADDLE.

PERSONS REPRESENTED

Parson Phil Demby

An adept in breaking colts and steers, and especially hearts. Can read a wee bit and has a remarkable memory. Very gallant among the dusky damsels. Has the best coon dogs on the plantation.

Uncle Reubin Viney

Sensible, truthful and pious. Sir Oracle among the negroes. Can read some and is familiar with the Bible.

Damon Danridge

Courtly, intelligent and observant body servant to Rev. William Pinckney. His bow would have charmed Beau Brummel.

Ezra

Quite as much of a beau as Rosin, and not as pious as the prophet.

Frisby Jemes

A pupil of Uncle Reubin Viney. Afraid of shirks [sharks].

Scipio Jones

A firm believer in witches, ghosts and “spirits,” especially applejack.

Hesakiah Sprouts

Would rather coon hunt than debate. A fiddler.

Little Billy

A crafty wag. Nimble witted.

Juba Viney

A fine singer and hymn raiser. Kinsman to Uncle Reubin.

Deacon Rasmus Jasper Jemes

A pompous, dandy darkey; very wise in his own conceit. A good preacher.

Stephen Demby (Uncle Stephen)

A dear old servant. A devoted fisherman. Little and Bent.

John Poney

A very entertaining darkey. Took hold of his wool when he bowed to you.

Jerry Butler and Caesar Butler

Brothers. Very credulous and superstitious. Free negroes.

Horace Duley

Janitor.

Aunt Phillis

Gentle, sweet tempered, intelligent cook. Everybody liked Aunt Phillis.

Tilly Mink

Chickens were afraid of her, and roosted high when she was about.

Sue Benson

A good natured, lazy housemaid.

Becky Williams

A faithful nurse.

Sister Chew

A dairymaid.

Mammy

Good as gold.

Nancy Young

A fortune teller.

Uncle David

Who loved his mule.

CONTENTS

“OTWELL.”

Otwell was originally an estate of some 2,000 acres, situated on a beautiful peninsula, the land rich and productive, and the forest would have charmed Silvanus. Here and there on the shores of the inlets grew majestic oaks, black walnut, and immemorial elms. The peach, pear, apricot, fig and other fruit trees flourished, and would have charmed Eve, and the Cart House apples, Adam.

The forest was entirely of lofty pines—many of the trees so large that one tree made a canoe; they were made and used principally by the servants and were in evidence almost everywhere. The forest had very little undergrowth; the ground was carpeted and cushioned with pine fallings, and the huntsmen were delighted when reynard was started there. The murmuring of the wind in the lofty pine tops, the tongueing of the hounds “like sweet bells jangled out of tune,” delighted the hearts of the Tilghmans, Chamberlains, Dickinsons, Tripps, Robins, Lloyds and many others that followed the hounds, horsemen of the first-flight type. The hunt over, there was “The feast of reason and the flow of soul.”

The river was as lovely as the Bay of Spezia, and from its bed and shores the canvas-back and red-head plucked the wild celery and fattened. Fish, terrapin and oysters abounded, and the mint luxuriated. The Eastern Shore of Maryland was then as now the garden spot and sunny side of creation.

Before the hour of parting two songs were always sung, “Sportsman Hall” and “The Bottle,” the former sent by The Beef Steak Club of London to one of the above named gentlemen. I could give the words, rich and rare, left me by my father, but delicacy forbids; both are exquisite double entendres fit to sing before kings, but not before queens.

There was a school at Otwell, taught by John Singleton and —— Garrick, two fine belles-lettres scholars, to which came the Robins from Job’s Content, Tilghmans from Plimhimmon, Chamberlains from Bondfield, Haskins from Canterbury Manor, Morrises and Collisters from Oxford. John Singleton’s sister was the mother of the eminent portrait painter, John Singleton Copley, who on a visit to his Uncle at Otwell with his former preceptor, Smibert, made portraits of Anne Francis, James Tilghman, Matthew Tilghman and his wife, nee Annie Lloyd, whilst spending Christmas there.

Dem’s meh gre’t gran’ chillun an’ dey monstus bad! Ef’n you don’ git of’n dat cow I’ll whup you till da ain’ no bref lef ’in you.

Standing on his front porch Ole Mars Nickey viewed his broad acres, whose shores were washed by the Tred-Avon, by crystal creeks, and coves with beautiful mouths that kissed with briny lips the bosom of the river. The windmill on the shore added to the scenery as its sails moved languidly, grinding the wheat and corn for the negroes.

To the south on the river side was the little town of Oxford, a tobacco port, and riding at anchor was a brigantine from Liverpool, being loaded with tobacco by Morris & Callister (Robert Morris and Henry Callister), shipping merchants.[^[1]]

From the back porch, through a long, wide and high arbor entwined with fruitful grapevines, you saw Otwell Creek, and the arbor-way led you into a more enchanting garden than the one mentioned in “EZRA,” where my fancy loves to wander, for “a thing of beauty is a joy forever.”

It was some fifteen acres in extent. The encircling fences were so overgrown with honeysuckle, clematis and trailing roses as to look like a flowery hedge, with here and there lilacs and snowballs. The winding, wooing walks were hedged with box, and bowing trees were caressed by fruitful grapevines. It was a banqueting place for bees, and a paradise for birds, from little Jennie Wren to the proud mocking bird, and they filled acres of air with their melodious lays.

Ezra loved to assist old Kurchibell, the Scotch gardener, and one day he was heard to say, “Mr. Kurchibell ain’ no gyardner less’n he kill dem plegon sassy catbirds and robins; dey jes spilin’ all dem cherries. I’m gwine right straight an tell Ole Mars an Ole Miss!” Betimes Ezra would saunter with basket on each arm to the garden and gather the dew-kissed peaches, apricots, juicy melons and other fruits, and later cull the 100–leaf roses and assist the old gardener in distilling them. The rose cakes left were tucked away in the house linen, the fragrance of which in fancy I still inhale.

The apple trees flung down so many blossoms that they covered the ground. All are gone! so are the other fruit trees and fragrant vines.

“Leaves have their time to fall

And flowers to wither at the North

Wind’s breath,

And stars to set; but all—

Thou hast all seasons for thine

Own, O death!”

About the middle of the garden was a large bower, roughly made of cedar, but as strong as Jacob’s ladder. Clematis, honeysuckle and beautiful trailing roses covered its sides and dome-shaped top so thoroughly that only here and there little sunbeams could pierce and play among the interwoven vines and blossoms. In the center of the bower was a large table, from which fruit was eaten, cards played, tea made (echo), and love made! Almost within arm’s reach of the arbor was a brimming spring, whose water was soft and pure as a dewdrop. The spring is there to-day, and, like the brook, flows on forever.

When the weather was dry Miss Henrietta dipped its pellucid water and sprinkled the thirsty arbor vines,

“But O! for the touch of a vanished hand

And the sound of a voice that is still.”

Around the spring grew mint in exuberance, that was as much cared for as the foxhounds. Mayhap in that arbor Tench Francis tinkled the sides of his glass in mixing sugar and grass with spirits, sipped and read letters from his gay and brilliant nephew, [^[2]]Sir Phillip Francis, the supposed author of the letters of Junius, then one of England’s Counsel for India; maybe told all about his duel with Warren Hastings, then Governor-General of India; for we know that his cousin, the beautiful Anne Francis, visited “Otwell” with her husband, James Tilghman, who met there his brother, Matthew, the great patriot, and his wife, who was charming Anne Lloyd. There, too, Tench Tilghman, aide-de-camp to Washington, and his wife, spent happy hours. Later his daughter married the host, and there in luxury and loving kindness lived

“OLE MARS an’ OLE MISS.”

’Twas a very cold Sunday in December. The sun shone brightly, but the wind was on a frolic. High-crested, white-capped waves leaped upon and lashed the shore. Ole Miss, as usual, had service for the house servants in the brick kitchen. She said the Lord’s prayer, read the 63d psalm, commented upon their deportment for the past week and then they were dismissed.

Pawson Demby was to preach in the new Zion church, and the servants were now on the lawn looking for the Plimhimmon, Bondfield and Job’s Content boats. In those days visiting was done for the most part by water, the numerous creeks, coves and bays making distance so great by land. The servants used the eight-oared barges, boats of burden, with sails and generally two masts, called a pinnace; they carried to the large schooners wheat, corn and other cereals for the Baltimore market, and in return brought hogsheads of molasses, sugar, coffee, rice, boots and shoes for the servants.

TENCH TILGHMAN.

Presently Little Billy sang out, “Heah dey come!” and sure enough, rounding Wind Mill Point and turning into Otwell Creek, were three barges—tip-tap-toe—each pulled by eight lusty oars. The angry roar of the waves, the struggling boats, the landscape and the breaking billows made it a picturesque sight. Soon they were at the wharf. Most of them were house servants, and it would be for me a hopeless task to describe their raiment, the old-time courtesies, graceful bows and how-dys with which they greeted one another.

Those negroes were environed for generations with kindness, culture, refinement and Christian teaching, so that many of them had finished manners, knew perfectly

“How ter wait

On Marster’s table an’ han’ de plate,

Pars de bottle when he dry

And brush away de blue-tail fly.”

They were dependent, kind, obedient, full of music, contentment, and happiness. The venom of the politician and carpetbagger had not stung them.

Greetings over, they all strolled to the new brick church, distant about three-quarters of a mile. Like all the churches of that day, the pulpit was much nearer heaven than the pews, and above it hung a picture given them by Miss Henrietta. It had a bell, a clock—described in Ho-Ho—and a fireplace large enough for half a dozen darkies to stand and warm themselves. When all were seated Uncle Stephen was asked to pray, and then Parson Phil Demby preached.

His text was “Fogitfulness.”

ANNE FRANCIS.

“FOGITFULNESS.”[^[3]]

“Dat is de subjec’ ub my discose dis mawnin’ and I is preachen mo’ ’specially to de chillun in de meetin’ house. Uncle Reubin Viney an’ I was a huskin’ cawn lars’ week an’ he tol’ me boutin dis tex’, and arsked me to preach fum it; an’ you will find de ’zact words in de 7th chapta ub Acts, 8th vus: ‘Ab’ham fogot Isaac, Isaac fogot Jacob and Jacob fogot de twelve Petracks.’ Dem ole Petracks was a pow’ful fogitful race ub people! Now, ten ub dem Petracks, Simeon, Levi an’ Zebulon, dey wuz Miss Leah’s chillun (I fogit de names ub de res’ ub her chillun, but dey wuz all Jews). An’ Joseph an’ Benjamin, dey wuz Miss Rachel’s chillun, an’ de Bible say dey wuz saints. One ub ’em er his uncle, I fogit which, foun’ some mules in de wilderness ez he wuz watchin’ his father’s sheep, but he wuz so fogitful dat he didn’t gib de names ub de mules or how many dey wuz—some people say da wan’ no mules at all, dey wuz all Jackasses. Well, lemmy see—da wuz two mo’ ub Jacob’s sons (I dun mention five), an’ I fogit deah Ma’s name, but deah names wuz Dan an’ Naptha, or sompin’ like dat (I lef’ my specks hom’). I don’ think dey wuz Jews, er Dukes like Esau’s sons, an’ I don’ ’zactly no deah ’ligion, but I specks dem two wuz Babtis’s. ’Pears to me I hearn Uncle Reubin say so! How-some-eber, all ub dem chillun ub Jacob’s wuz born in Panorama [Padanaram] an’ dey’s all uh pow’ful fogitful race ub people.

“Brudderin, da is nothin’ ez bad ez fogitfulness. Ef’n my memory wuz not good (kase I lef’ my specks at hom’) I could not gib you any ub dese beautiful names. Now, den, dese ten brudders wuz sent by deah Pa way down in Egyp’ lan’ futto buy cawn fum deah eleventh brudder. An’ bless yo’ soul, when dey got down da, dey didn’t eben no deah brudder—but he no’d dem. Mebby de color ub his coat ’fused ’em. I tell you dem old Petracks is a pow’ful fogitful race ub people. So wuz deah Ma’s an’ Pa’s. Laban, de Granpa ub de Petracks, and prob’ly de bigist farmer in dem days, wuz uh fogitful man. We is told dat Jacob (wonder why dey jes’ call ’em Jacob), an’ Noahy, an’ Moses, an’ Peter, an’ Rasmus dey’s mos’ ub ’em kings an’ dukes an’ sich like. I mus’ ask Uncle Reubin boutin dat. Well, Jacob merried Miss Rachel, so he did, but I specks Jacob got a little het up at de weddin’. An’ Laban, he mus’ hab had some ros’ apples wid apple-jack. Brudderin, apples is bin makin’ trubble eber since Adam totch ’em—kase Laban he fogot which daughter Jacob wuz gwine ter marry. ’Pears like Jacob fogot, too, kase he didn’t scover de mustak’ till de nex’ mawnin’. An’ ’pears like Miss Leah an’ Miss Rachel fogot. Now, wan’ dey uh fogitful lot ub people? De nex’ mawnin’ arfter de weddin’—or as de Bible say, de feas’—when Jacob got up to milk de cows an’ yoke de oxin, da was Miss Leah up, an’ shakin’ down de stove an’ grindin’ de coffee. An’ Jacob say, ‘Wha Rachel?’ an’ Miss Leah say, ‘I dunno nuffin boutin Rachel.’ Da wuz uh mustak’ some wha, sho. So Jacob merried ’em bof to be sartin an’ pleas’ Laban. No wonder dat de Petracks wuz uh fogitful race wid four Ma’s an’ uh Pa all fogitful; an’, mine you, Miss Rachel she wuz so fogitful seems to me her mine mus’ hab been ’stressed, kase you recommember when her boys Jacob an’ Esau went out an’ kilt uh deer, she fogot which kilt it—leas’wise it ’pears so. Well, as fo’ dat, I specks de fus’ man, Adam, hissef was absen’-minded. He sut’ny lubbed fruit. We all knows dat. An’ I specks he wuz hongry, an’ mebby po’ Adam when he clum up de apple tree in de dark tho’t it wuz uh peach tree—kase when a man is hongry he ain’ ’stressin’ hissef boutin de fruit, so it’s good. An’ I specks he got ’fused ’bout de trees, kase dat gyarden wuz full ub fruit trees, from apple trees clean down to cucumbers and watermillions.

“King Dabid come outin uh fogitful fam’ly. De Bible tell us dat in dem days Pharez fogot Hezron, an’ Hezron fogot Ram——”

Sister Becky (interrupting): “Pawson Demby, you mus’ mean Ham or Sham?”

“Chile, I kin read; I means Ram! Dat’s what I mean! Ram wuz uh white pusson; Ham wuz uh cullud pusson. Well, dey kep’ on fogittin’ till Jesse fogot Dabid. But blessid to say, de lars’ one wuz not uh fogitter; he recommembered mos’ too well—leas’wise fuh dese days. He had Uriahy kilt kase he wuz rite smart tuck on Uriahy’s wife. In dese days it’s mo’ dan de chuch ’low; how-some-eber, in dem days it didn’t stress uh pusson ef’n uh man’s wife fogot him, kase dey had so many dey wouldn’t miss ’em, ’cep’in five er six lef’ ’em. Now, chillun, boys wuz bad in dem days same as now. Po’ King Dabid’s son ’stressed him pow’ful, but he neber fogot him, an’ he mus’ uh favo’d he Pa and bin uh monstus fine-lookin’ chile, kase de Bible say—lemmy read it to you: ‘Ab-so-lum wuz prais’ fuh he beauty fum de sole ub he foot ebin to de crown ub he haid.’ An’ de king wuz gwine to meck a Babtis’ preacher outin him, but he fogot his po’ father an’ run uh way; and what wuz de consequasion ub dat boy’s badness? Sistus an’ chillun, it’s wussa dan stealin’ watermillions er chickens; it’s mos’ ez bad ez dancin’ an’ playin’ de fiddle on de Sabbuth. Well, de Bible tell us dat Ab-so-lum[^[4]] rid ’pon uh mule, an’ de mule went under de thick bows ub uh jack oak, an’ his haid kotch hold ub de oak (I mean de haid ub little Ab-so-lum) an’ he wuz’ tuck up ’tween de heaben an’ de uth; an’ de mule dat wuz under him went ’way, an’ dat wuz de las’ ub po’ Ab-so-lum. Ez many hosses ez dat ventersum chil’ mus’ uh had, an’ ez many ez his brudder Solomon had, it’s quare to me why he rid uh ornry mule. Dey mus’ uh bin uh breed ub mules an’ jackasses dat’s died out—kase mules an’ jackasses wuz de favorite beases in dem days.

“De chillun ub Ephram fogot de works ub de Lawd, an’ his wonders, arfter he had rain down manner ’pon ’em to eat. Uncle Reubin say de manner wuz mushrooms. De reason ub de flood, is kase de chillun ub man fogot deah benefits. Dey wan’t satisfied wid creeks an’ ribbers, but dey mus’ provok’ uh flood. Is dar any pusson in dis chuch dat would fogit Miles Ribber? De Petracks would. Dunno though! Kase I reckin da wan’t no ribbers in dem days lubly as Miles Ribber. Kin I eber fogit her wha’ I wuz born? How it charm an’ conjur me when I goes fishin’, oysterin’ er crabbin’ in de mawnin’s, when de ribber is cam. Den de trees is ’flected in de watah an’ de heb’nly clouds meck rainbows in de watah. An’ dat Miles Ribber is so clare when de trees is ’flected in de mawnin’ befo’ de sun-up, you kin see de jewdraps on de leabes. An’ sometimes all day long when de breeze is sorf de sun plays on de ripples, an’ when de sun git tired an’ sink in de wes’ de moon plays on de watah sorter ridin’ de canterin’ wabes. An’ de hooppo-wills sing, an’ de mockin’ birds chant, an’ de wabes chases de moonlight, an’ de moonlight chases de wabes; an’ de stars way down deep in de watah winks an’ twinks at yer, an’ dey looks ez bright ez de eyes ub Phareoh’s daughter an’ almos’ ez sorf’ ez uh possum’s. It’s uh sin to play on de fiddle, flute an’ fife, an’ to dance, but, brudderin, it’s ’spirin’ an’ heb’nly to see de moon dance on Miles Ribber, spreadin’ hissef on de top ub de wabes, makin’ dem de color ub silver, jes’ like dear ole Missis hyah.

“Yes! Pawson Demby born close to Miles Ribber, an’ he lubs de watah nex’ to music. I’d lub to hab bin on de ark; dey tells me mos’ everything wuz on it, so ’cose music wuz. An’ I wouldn’t be s’prised ef dat sweet little cullud boy, Ham, didn’t play de banjo, an’ Sham de bones, an’ ’cose de udder brudder (I fogit his name) played! I reckin de hyarp. Kase hyarps wuz in de fashin in dem days. Dear little Dabid used to play de hyarp at night when he watched his Pa’s flocks, to make hissef feel happy, an’ to skere de wolves an’ bars ’way. An’ he played fuh Saul er his daughter, I fogit which. Wonder how dey got deah hyarp an’ banjo strings dem days. Well, I kin almos’ see dat jus’ man, de captin ub de boat, arfter all de beases bin fed an’ bedded, set down in de stern ub de ship, take de rudder, lite his pipe, sigh fuh de watahs to cease an’ long fuh his dove to come back. An’ when de moon ris I specks Ham chune his banjo, Sham his bones, an’ de udder brudder wid a quare name, twank de hyarp. An’ den dey mus’ hab played, ‘Roll, Jordan, Roll,’ ‘One Bright Ribber to Cross,’ ‘Swing Lo’, Sweet Chariot,’ ‘Go Down Moses,’ till de stars sunk in de skies, and de beases got relarmed.

“Brudderin, we ain’t sung dat lars him fuh uh long time. Uncle Eph, you rase it an’ we will sing some ub de vuses, so I kin res’ mehsef uh little.”

GO DOWN MOSES.

When Israel wuz in Egypt’s lan’:

Let meh people go,

Oppressed so hard dey could not stand,

Let meh people go.

Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt land,

Tell ole Pharoh, Let meh people go.

O, twuz uh dark an’ dismal nite,

Let meh people go;

When Moses led de Israelites,

Let meh people go.

Go down, Moses, etc.

O, cum ’long Moses, yo’ll not git los’,

Let meh people go;

Stritch out yo’ rod an cum across,

Let meh people go.

Go down, Moses, etc.

Yo’ll not git los’ in de wilderness,

Let meh people go;

Wid a lighted candle in yo’ bres’,

Let meh people go.

Go down, Moses, etc.

’Twas jes ’boutin harvis’ time,

Let meh people go;

When Joshua led his hos’ divine,

Let meh people go.

Go down, Moses, etc.

Miss Henrietta’s gift, that hung above the pulpit.

“Brudderin, da wuz one man dat wuz not fogitful, an’ a man we all should intimate. I hab befo’ briefly ’luded to him. I say briefly, kase a pawson mite talk boutin him fum de commencement to de closin’ ub a big camp meetin’ an’ not git fur on de subjec’. He nebber fogot. T’ink ub de animals he had to recommember, fum elephants clean down to coons an’ ’possums. Dey tells me he eben kep’ de chickens fum eatin’ up de watermillion seeds. He wuz uh sailor, gyardner, farmer, blacksmith, carpenter—King Dabid wuz no wha when he wuz ’bout. His name wuz Noahy. Uncle Reubin say de elephants, whales and hippopotamusses wuz so big an’ bad dat he chained dem outside de boat an’ let ’em float to make room. An’ de shirks an’ crocodiles had et up all de dogs, sepin fo’ coon dogs. So Noahy chained dem outside, too. ’Cose Noahy wuz uh gre’t animal tamer, an’ I kin ondastan’ how he like so many animals, but I kyant ondastan’ why he didn’t pisen dem shirks. De Bible tells ’bout fishhooks, fishpools, fish spears an’ fishermen, an’ all ’bout Peter’s gwine uh fishin’, an’ de five loaves an’ two fishes (dey mus’ uh bin whales, kase dey fed so many)—but it don’t say nuffin boutin shirks. How-some-eber, I specks when Peter’s net broke da wuz uh shirk in it, kase when dey cum ’long da ain’ no use you takin’ up yo’ net, kase it’s clean gone. Uncle Reubin say ef’n it wan’ fuh de pitch on de wood ub de ark dey would hab chawed uh hole thoo huh. Dey’s kep’ many a sister fum comin’ in de Babtis’ chuch, when dar’s only salt watah to dip in, like it is down heah on de Easton Sho’.”

Aunt Phillis Viney (interrupting): “Pawson Demby, ef’n dem sistus had salbation in deah hearts dey wouldn’t keer fuh dem shirks any mo’ dan little Moses keered fuh de Bull-rushes.”

Voices: “Dat’s what I say, too!” “Yas, dat’s it!” “You done sed it.” “Dat’s de law, Sistah Viney.”

Tilly Mink: “I’s got salbation mehsef.”

“Uncle Eph, will you pleas’ pars de barsket ’roun’? An’ I hope dis congation will stop dis shirk ’citement an’ not be fogitful boutin de collection. I exhort sistus an’ all heah present to gib lib’ly, an’ not be like dem fogitful ole Petracks.

“We will include by singin’ de three fus’ vusses ub him seventy-fo’.”

Zion is de place fuh me,

Oh, I want to git da;

Zaccheus clum uh sycamo’ tree,

Oh, I want to git da.

In de heb’nly hom’ we’ll all be free,

Oh, I want to git da;

De Angel Gabriel den we’ll see,

Oh, I want to git da.

Mary an’ Marfa’s gone befo’;

Oh, I want to git da;

Baptized an’ shoutin’ on de golden sho’;

Oh, I want to git da.

Pawson Demby requested Uncle Stephen to “Please led us in prayer,” whereupon Uncle Stephen prayed as follows:

“Sistus, brers an’ little chillun, recommember! Dat’s de qualificashun, an’ don’ fogit it. Po’ Lot’s wife, she fogot, looked back, an wuz turnt inter uh pillow ub salt.

“Fogitfulness is wuss’n playin’ de fiddle, dancin’, an’ uh cuss’n one nerr. Hits almos’ ez bad ez fishin’ on de Sabbuth day. Y-a-s, Lawd, fogitfulness is bin uh ’stressin’ people ev’y sense Adam clum de apple tree an’ eat dem apples. Ab-so-lum fogot his Pa’s ’structions, er he wudn’ er rid un’er dat oak tree an’ let dat lim’ twiss his neck ef’n he hadn’ bin frolikin’, I specks, wid dat ornry King Fario. Y-a-s, Lawd, tech us ter recommember. De prodigal son fogot he Pa’s ways, an’ you know de consequation. Sted ub fogittin’, meck us ter recommember; y-a-s, Lawd, meck us ter recommember dat de debbil is uh rovin’ lion, seekin’ who he may eat up.[^[5]] Don’ let us be like Jacob, de Petrack, who fogot hissef an’ tried ter rassel wid uh angel, an’ de fus’ fall he got his leg wuz flung outin jint.

“But da is one thing dat you kin fogit; hits dem shirks [sharks] in Miles Ribber. Some ub our sistus is got de shirk fright so bad dey is persidderin jinin’ de Presbyters. Sweet sistus, don’ yer do hit. Ev’y man’s mouf ain’ uh prayerbook, an’ uh case orntried is hyard ter justify. Persidder us, deah Lawd, burhol us, be wid us, cum down right now in de spirit ub de lam’; cum right th’oo de roof, Ole Mars will pay fuh de shingles. Dese moners is uh waitin’ fuh you. Y-a-s, indeed, cum down dis minit an’ cur-tail de work ub de debbil.”

By this time old Harrison, Colonel Lloyd’s faithful and credulous servant from “Wye,” became so much excited that he jumped up and shouted, “Yas, Lawd, cum down an cut he tail clean orf,” whereupon Uncle Stephen arose, patting his hands, and singing:

DIDN’T MY LORD DELIVER DANIEL.

Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel,

D’liver Daniel, d’liver Daniel,

Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel,

And why not a every man?

He deliver’d Daniel from the lion’s den,

Jonah from the belly of the whale,

And the Hebrew children from the fiery furnace,

And why not every man?

Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel,

D’liver Daniel, d’liver Daniel,

Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel,

And why not a every man?

The wind blows East, and the wind blows West,

It blows like the judgment day,

And every poor soul that never did pray,

’Ll be glad to pray that day.

TENCH FRANCIS.

The singing over, Parson Demby announced—“Befo’ goin’ I wan’ ter say dat de deacons is so ’stressed ober ’mersion dey has ’cided ter hold uh rebate in de Zion Chuch fo’ weeks fum nex’ Chusday, an’ de subjec’ chusin will be, ‘Ef’n uh man er woman hab salbation in deah hyarts, will dey be feared ter babtiz wha shirks is?’ Ef’n hits ’cided hits dangersome, salbation er no salbation, I hope dis congation will git somebody’s ice pon’, an’ ef’n dey kyant do no better, somebody’s big hoss trough fuh de ’mersions.

“I ’pints rebaters fuh dem dat’s not feared—Frisby Jemes, Hesekiah Sprouts, Damon Mink.

“Fuh dem dat’s feared, Uncle Reubin Viney, Juba Viney, Scipio Jones, Horace Duley. I puts fo’ on de side ub dem dat’s feared, kase it’s de weak side.

“Judges—Pawson Phil Demby, Deacon Rasmus Jasper Jemes.”

DEBATE.

Ef’n uh man er woman hab salbation in deah hearts, will dey be feared ter babtiz wha’ shirks [sharks] is?

“Aunt Tillie, is de ’bate commence?”

“No, indeed, honey, but you almos’ late fuh de feas’—dar’s resins, ammons an’ dates lef’.”

“Is dem dates? Bless Gord, I tho’t dey wuz dried ’simmons; well, I’ll teck some resins an’ dates. How cum de ’bate not commence?”

“Why, Phillis, dey got word ter ’speck three loads ub people fum Kyarline County, an’ two loads fum Queen Anne’s an’ Kent.”

“Now, hush!”

“Y-a-s dey did! So dey’s waitin’; besides, dey ain’ got all de books outin de kyart. Uncle Reubin Viney fotch uh wheelbarr load hissef, an’ dey tell me Damon Mink is so ’thused fuh his side, dat fuh two weeks he has bin speakin’ ter hissef. How cum you so late, Phillis? We had uh lot ub plum-puddin’.”

“Well, dat lars chile ub Miss Mary’s is pow’ful hyard ter put ter sleep; when I commenc’ ter nuss de chile I had jes’ larnt dat new hym, “Git on board little chillun’”, an’ I am sut’ny sorry Pawson Demby fotch dat hym ter de chuch, kase dat chile mecks me sing it ober an’ ober, till I sho’ly ’spise de chune. Mon dat, de chile wuz bo’n on de fus’ ub de moon; lars yeah wuz leap yeah, an’ da wuz only three full moons, an’ dat chile wuz bo’n on one ub dem moons. ’Cose Miss Mary kyant help dat. Dey tells me cats bo’n on de full ub de moon neber mecks mousers, an’ chickens hatched on de full ub de moon is fussin’ all de time and neber mecks good layers.

“I lef’ home plenty time er nuff ter git ter de feas’. De moon wuz so bright I tuck de parf th’oo de peach archard, ’stead er gwine roun’ by de road; you see, it cuts orf erbout uh harf mile. When I wuz ’bout harf way th’oo de archard I saw in de parf uh hooppo-will singin’ fuh deah life, goin’ jes’ like uh pump handle; an’ wussa yit, when I look good da wuz two ub ’em. Dey say it’s bad luck fuh nine year ef’n you flush uh hooppo-will, so what mus’ it be ef’n you flush two? I wudn’ hab flushed dem two hooppo-wills fuh uh load ub watermillions—so I walked heah erlong de ribber sho’; den I wuz almos’ skeer’d stiff, fuh I recommember’d what I had fogot, an’ dat wuz, dat lars’ wintah Scipio Jones wuz mus’-rattin’ an’ uh Jack-uh-ma-lantern tuck an’ led him in de watah clean up ter his neck, jes’ erbout wha I wuz walkin’, kep him in de ribber fuh two hours, uh laffin’ at an’ sassin’ him.”

Aunt Tillie: “Served him right, fuh dem days he wuz al’ays trav’lin’ ’roun’ wid uh juice-hyarp in his mouf.”

“Aunt Tillie, dey tell me Mars George’s Bob is broke his erligion an’ tuck up his fiddle ergin. Howsome-eber, Mars Richard say de Bible tells all erbout trumpets, shams an’ flutes, but you see dem trumpets wuz made ub ram’s hohns; leas’wise de trumpets dat Gideon made de Pawsons play—so Uncle Reubin say, so ubcose, dey wan’t bad like brass hohns; nobody kin meck me bleebe dat playin’ on brass hohns wid keys an’ locks is right. I think Pawson Demby orter keep ev’y one outin de chuch dat plays de fiddle er hohns. John Poney’s son, Jim, is goin’ erstray; I hearn him walkin’ ’long de road lars nite sorter twankin er tryin’ ter twank uh cow’s hohn an’ singin’ loud ernuf futto almos’ bus’ hissef—

I ain’ no tukkey buzzard

I ain’ no saint,

I ain’ no tukkey buzzard,

So glad I ain’t.

“Now, wan’t dat scanlus? It’s jes’ ez bad ez fishin’ on Sunday. Dat’s what gib Jim Brooks de brake-bone fever, fishin’ on Sunday; but de doctor tole Kyarline, his wife, not ter be relarmed, but reposed; dat de bone-set tea he wuz ergibbin’ him would kow de wus kine ub brake-bone fever. Doctor Dawson is sut’ny uh pow’ful doctor. Fuh instinct, meh arms wuz all broke out. He say dey wuz too clean fum habin’ dem in soapsuds too much, so he tole me ter grease meh arms wid goose grease befo’ I commenc’ ter wash. Well, it made de skin sorf, kep’ de water outin de poors, an’ it sholy cured meh arms. Aunt Betsy wuz ’tirely mustakin; she say dat when I got het up washin’ da wuz uh checkeration ub pusspuration, an’ dat made it.

“I heah de bell ringin’, Aunt Tillie, so let’s go in, fuh dat mus’ mean de speechifyin’ gwine futto commence.”

Just as they entered Pawson Phil Demby said: “Sistus an’ brudders, de fus’ ter pester dis subjec’ will be Brer Frisby Jemes; den Brer Rasmus Jemes, den Brer Hesakiah Sprouts, an’ de gre’t speller an’ reader, Uncle Reubin Viney. Da ain’ no use ub interjuicin’ ’em, kase almos’ ev’ybody heah has kep’ company wid ’em.”

Frisby Jemes: “I wuz ’pinted on dis side, an’ de mo’ I think erbout it de mo’ I think hits de rong side; de fac’ is, meh mind is pow’ful ’stressed. You see, I bin rasslin’ wid bof sides ub de ’bate, an’ de consequation is, I is bin dreamin’ ’bout ole shirks an’ young shirks fuh two weeks, till I kyant res’; an’ I kyant see why dey tuck such uh fishy subjec’ ter ’bate erbout. Reposin’ on erligion, I shall res’ meh remarks on de salbation part ub dis ’bate, an’ I wan’ ter say rite heah dat salbation an’ de funnel-shape pen is all dat will preserb you fum dem shirks. We mus’ hab de pen, fuh ef’n da is anyone heah ornsartin erbout deah faith, an’ nach’ly timid like many ub de sistus (ub cose we men ain’ feard), dat pen mus’ be built an’ de rails kivvered wid tar, ter keep dem shirks fum chawin’ de rails. Now, we kin make uh funnel-shaped pen, an’ hab de mouf ub de funnel jes’ big ernuf fuh one at uh time ter go in; de shirks, ub cose, kyant git in.”

Wilson Small (interrupting): “Why kyant dey git in? Kyant dey jump same ez you? Dey kin chaw up de pen. Dey is monstus sens’ble, an’ ef’n dey raal hongry dey would jump in, tell dey fill dat pen an’ hab all ub dem moners in uh cluster.”

Damon Mink: “You kyant qualify what you say, an’ fum yo’ talk, uh pusson mite s’pose de shirks know’d deah A. B. C.’s. Mon dat, you ain’ in dis ’bate! Wha you cum fum, anyhow?”

“Fum Queen Anne’s County; I’m uh free pusson.”

Damon: “Well, we don’ ’low no free niggahs ter ’bate heah!”

“Suppose meh sistah ’longs ter Mars John Tilghman? What den?”

“Set down; we ain’ talkin’ ’bout yo’ sistah, an’ dis subjec’ is ’stressin’ ernuf ’doutin you breakin’ de hyarts ub dese po’ sistus talkin’ erbout jumpin’ shirks!”

Hesakiah Sprouts: “Fris, you ain’ got salbation nuff in yo’ heart, dat’s what’s de matter wid you! Ef’n you had uh bin wha Jona wuz, in de whale’s belly fuh three days, you’d uh had spavins an’ cramps, kase you wudn’ had any faith an’ condidence in de whale, but Jona did.”

Frisby Jemes: “Hessa, ef’n you had bin ris’ by de qual’ty you wudn’ say belly in de presence ub dese sistus; hits bad nuff in de presence ub shirks. Den ergin, da ain’ no whales in dis ’bate.”

Hessa: “Why, you don’ no nuffin erbout de Bible, Fris! Talkin’ ’bout qual’ty; I reckon de prodigal son ’longed ter de qual’ty, didn’t he? His father had plenty ub serbants, fuh de Bible say: ‘An’ when he cum ter hissef he said, “How many hired serbants ub meh father’s hab bread ter spare an’ I perish wid honger?”’ An’ now, lis’n to dis: ‘An’ he fain wud hab filled his belly wid de husks dat de swine did eat.’ Now, ef’n Jona, de prodigal son, St. Matthew, King Solomon, Jerry Myah, Genesis, an’ lars, but not leas’, John de Babtis, who all hab spoke on dis subjec’, didn’ cum fum de qual’ty, wha’ did de qual’ty cum fum? I will preserb de res’ ub meh remarks fuh de ’clusion.”

Aunt Kyarline (in a whisper): “Hes, don’ you mine Fris; his haid bin turnt since he bin drivin’ de coach fuh Ole Miss.”

Uncle Reubin Viney was Sir Oracle among the negroes. He was very pious and austere, looked like an old portrait, could read a little, and spent his Sundays in reading and memorizing verses from the Bible. If he talked to you five minutes he would quote something from the Bible. When he got up all ears were listening, and all mouths were open. He said:

“Sistus, brudders an’ chillun, I is bin readin’ an’ studdyin’ fuh three weeks on dis ’bate, an’ Becky say she is tired ub dippin’ candles fuh me ter read by. De young oxen I is brakin’ is de wus’ I eber han’led; so worryin’ wid dem in de day time an’ rasslin’ wid dis ’bate at night, mecks me truly glad dat de time is come ter arbiter. I shall try an’ confine mehsef ter one word—watah. You will see de application pres’ny. Sister Sue, meck dat boy teck his musrat gum of’n de pew; you kin set yo’ musrat gum in de mash ez much ez you want, but not on dese pews, kase dey’re sanctified.

“We read in de fus’ book ub Gensis, ’dat a ribber went out ub Edum ter watah de gyarden,’ an’ in Sams, ‘He maketh me ter lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside de still watahs.’ De still watah wuz de drink ub Mars Adum an’ Miss Eve in deah Edum home. Da wan’ no snakes, shirks, frogs, whales, er crockdiles in dat watah, fuh de Bible spressify hit wuz still watah. An’ mon dat, it mussa bin fresh, kase dey drunk it, an’ it mussa bin jes’ ez clare ez uh jewdrap, fuh I heah uh gre’t Meffodis’ preacher say: ‘It ’flected back de lubliness ub Miss Eve when she dress hersef.’”

Aunt Tillie: “Uncle Reubin, Miss Eve didn’ hab no clos’ ter dress wid!”

Uncle Reubin: “Well, I didn’ say what sort she put on; mout erbin crows-foot, spechly ef’n de fros’ had kilt de fig leaves, er it mout erbin Firginny Creeper, er she mout uh rap hersef in clusters ub grapevines; we all no dar wan’ no fashion in dem days.

“De Bible say: ‘Ez in water de face anserreth ter face, so de hart ub man ter man;’ so de water wuz Miss Eve’s lookin’ glass, dat’s what it mean; an’ all dat watah wuz fresh; de consequation wuz, da wuz no shirks in it.”

Jim Brooks, from Queen Anne’s County: “I rid 20 miles ter heah dis ’bate, an’ I wan’ ter no what watah got ter do wid it. Ev’body seems ter hab fogot de shirks.”

Uncle Reubin: “I has jes’ ’cited uh vus fum Sams, an’ I will ’cite an nerr fum Proberbs: ‘Tho’ thou shouldst bray uh fool in uh morter ’mong wheat wid uh pessal, yet will not his foolishness depart fum him.’ Why, Brer Brooks, ef’n it hadn’ bin fuh watah de twelve Petracks mout neber bin bo’n. De narration say dat Mars Jacob met Miss Rachael at de well, an’ ef’n de well had uh bin dry he mout neber hab met de mudder ub de Petracks.

“Now, what wud dat gyarden bin ’dout plenty watah? Dey wud uh lef’ it, an’ got an nerr gyarden; fuh not only Mars Adum an’ Miss Eve baved in dat Paradice watah, but de seeds an’ de vegetables sipped it, de flowers when deah faces got dusty, washed in it, de cups ub de blossoms hilt it, I specks, till de watah tu’n inter perfume, an’ I kin almos’ see de jewdraps hangin’ on ev’y leaf, mo’ lubly dan uh oyster pearl. It makes Uncle Reubin glad when he looks at watah, fuh it tu’ns our mills, gibs us cawn bred, brings de big schooners wid our boots, shoes, clothes an’ mullasses, an’ when de tide comes in, ’specially at sundown, when de birds is goin’ ter deah nesses, an’ de busy bees is wanderin’ home, da is nuffin I lubs mo’ ter look at, it’s so quiet an’ repose. No place kin be lonely ef’n watah is da; but it’s uh sad thing, too, fuh what is mo’ ’stressin’ dan eyes full ub tears. But mos’ ub all, young people ub dis chuch don’ fogit dat watah wash yo’ sins uh way, an’ meck you ez white ez de lam’. But I am condident da is only one kind fit fuh ’mersion, an’ dat’s fresh watah.”

Sister Sue: “Dat’s it; now yo’r climin’ dem golden stairs, Brer Viney!”

Sally Mink: “Blessid be his brow, he’s fairly chantin’ de songs ub de Sams.”

Mrs. Rodgers’ Ned: “I is convicted, Brer Viney, an’ I plays de fiddle no mo’!”

Uncle Reubin: “Now, you begin ter see de application. Jordan, wha’ John de Babtis, wuz ’mersed, is fresh watah. Not far fum Jordan is de dead sea, which has mo’ salt dan Miles Ribber, kase it will float uh man same ez uh egg; but de ’Postles tuck de fresh watah, kase I hab no doubt skirks wuz bad in dem days, an’ prob’ly wusser, ’speci’lly in de dead sea. Jes’ think ub our dear sistus, trem’lin’, soaked wid faith an’ salbation, speckin’ ev’y minit ter hab deah legs bit orf! Da ain’ uh sistuh in dis chuch dat ain’ had chills dis spring. De cold watah got nuffin ter do wid it; it’s shirk fright; dat’s what’s de matter wid ’em. But blessin’s cum in disguise, an’ Providence mus’ hab brought dis ’bate, fuh it sot me ter readin’, thinkin’ an’ prayin’, an’ I am confluent we will all hab ter be babtize a-fresh; den da will be mo’ moners, mo’ shoutin’, an’ bless Gord, no shirk fright. I shall hab mo’ ter say ef’n de application ain’ well ondastood.”

Hesakiah Sprouts (in a whisper): “Pawson Demby, uh young man jes’ cum in wants ter speak ter you. He is bashful; bin peepin’ an’ lis’nin’ at de do’. Mebby Uncle Reubin’s speechifyin’ hab made salbation in his heart.”

“Jes’ so! Young man, who you ’long ter? Mars John Skinner? Well, wispuh what’s in yo’ heart; don’ be feared, kase salbation’s free!”

“Pawson Demby, yo’ dogs is treed uh coon ’cross Peach Blossom Creek. Meh boat is on dis side.”

Pawson Demby: “Belubbed sistus, as Brer Viney’s gre’t an’ pow’ful speech has fuh ever ’cided dis question fuh fresh watah, it is move, secon’, an’ carried, dat dis meetin’ ’jurn.”

ROMP’S MUSTAKE.

Lars Sunday night me[^[6]] an’ Fred went ter de swamp

An’ it wan’ many minits fo’ we heahd ole Romp

Talkin’ ter hissef, an’ tree’in’ up’n uh pine

Dat wuz all obergrow’d wid uh big grapevine.

Speak ter him Romp! Mus’ be uh ’possum, Fred,

De way dat dog is cacklin’ an’ losin’ ub he hed.

An’ feedin’ on dese fros-bit grapes an’ fat

Ef he won’ meck yo’ lip go flip-flop, teck dis hat.

Well, it won’ be long fo’ de breck ub day;

An’ de possum, showly, he kyant git ’stray,

So den I’ll clime dat little black-gum tree;

Dat pine’s too full ub grapevines futto see.

De day broke clare, an’ up’n de tree I clum,

An’ in dem grapevines, twixt de pine an’ gum,

A ressin ub his’self, yaller, slick an’ fat,

Da lay uh gre’t big ornry Thormas cat!

I tuck uh match an’ lit de varmint’s tail,

An’ when he jump po’ Romp an’ Fred dey wail;

Dat yaller Thormas cat, on fire, ub cose,

Dey tuck to be uh red-hot, flamin’ ghose!

Romp ain’ no use fuh night dog any mo’,

An’ neber ter de swamp he wants ter go;

An’ when he comes uh cross uh wile grapevine

He al’ays gits relarmed an’ ’gins ter growl an’ whine.

Ef Romp had bin ub houn’ blood, stid ub cur,

He’d know’d de difference in de scent ub fur.

So arfter dis I wants uh thorrybred;

When dey speaks up’n uh tree you ain’ misled.

But if I steals de finis’ thorrybred

Da ain’ no use ub praisin’ him ter Fred—

He’s jined de chuch. Dat yaller Thormas cat

He tho’t uh ghose is all de cause ub dat.

I ’gin ter think mehsef dat cat uh witch,

Fuh in de swamp ef it is dark ez pitch,

An he cum out! de branch it looks so bright

De brabest niggah’s obercome wid fright.

I ’spises cats, an’ fuh dem hab no use,

But it’s mos’ time I’d ended wid uh buse,

Fuh when I think erboutin’ “Romps mustake”

Dis haid ub mine cummences soon ter ache.

LITTLE BILLY’S PUMPKIN.

Hayland Meadow was some ten miles in length, and on the upper half, used for growing timothy and for grazing, here and there stood aristocratic-looking trees—poplar, black-walnut, majestic oaks, imposing and graceful elms. The lower half was thickly wooded with smaller trees of many varieties, among which flourished the persimmon. Nature had with generous hands festooned many of the trees with wild grapevines, and when these were in bloom and twilight dews fell upon their blossoms, they filled that meadow with a delicious fragrance, sweet enough for Eden; every dewdrop in the dell seemed perfumed.

Through this vale, over mossy stones and snowy pebbles, chattered and meandered a crystal creek which joined other streams and emptied at Hayland marsh into Miles River.

The woodcock nested there, and in warm June days dozed under the shade of the fine old trees; and there the oriole sang a lullaby to her hanging cradle that rocked in the wind.

The tranquilness of the place was never disturbed save by the canticles of song birds and the almost nightly baying of some coon dog, for until of late the darkies never thought of going anywhere else to put up coons or ’possums than “Haylan’” Branch, as they called it.

Little Billy was not pious, and, if he knew his prayers, never said them. He doted on all sorts of sports, and, though a poor shot, entered all the turkey-shooting contests Thanksgiving Day. He chewed the best tobacco, danced with the dancers, played the banjo and jewsharp, always had a jug of molasses, a pair of gum boots, fiddle-strings and fiddle—all purchased with his coon, ’possum and muskrat money.

Scipio Jones’ experience had pretty well frightened off Miles River Neck hunters (see “Romp’s Mustake”), but of late darkies from Queen Anne’s and Caroline Counties had been hunting Hayland Branch, and Billy became jealous, wanting to be the only hunter, and sought to get his Mars Pinckney, who owned the meadow, to help him; and his success was more than he anticipated.

“Romp’s Mustake” had been talked about until the story had so grown that most of the darkies thought the cat a ghost, and among the converts was Scip’ Jones. The matter was discussed at bush meetings, corn-huskings and cake-walks; so after the christening of Mollie Jones’ son (Scipio Jonas Jones) at Zion Church, John Poney, Uncle Stephen Demby and Scip’ Jones were appointed to investigate Hayland Branch.

MARS PINCKNEY WHEN A BOY.

Billy was at the christening, of course, and wanted the ghost story to flourish, as it kept Talbot coon hunters from the branch. So he told his Mars Pinckney that “niggahs cum fum Kyarline an’ Queen Anne’s County ter hunt dat mash an’ branch, an’ ’skusin’ de Talbot hunters, he wouldn’ be s’prised ef dey som’ time, when dey hongry, teck de oysters fum de cove;” (Billy did)—“an’, young Marster, won’ you qualify me ter say dat de branch hanted pow’ful?”

His Mars’ Pinckney said with sternness: “Billy, that is not the truth! I want, however, to keep rogues and intruders out, and I will make and give you something that will scare every nigger out of my meadow from this day forward forevermore.”