Diddie was generally a very good and studious little girl, and therefore it was a matter of surprise to everybody when Miss Carrie came down to dinner one day without her, and, in answer to Major Waldron’s inquiry concerning her, replied that Diddie had been so wayward that she had been forced to keep her in, and that she was not to have any dinner.
Neither Major nor Mrs. Waldron ever interfered with Miss Carrie’s management; so the family sat down to the meal, leaving the little girl in the schoolroom.
Dumps and Tot, however, were very indignant, and ate but little dinner; and, as soon as their mamma excused them, they ran right to the nursery to tell Mammy about it. They found her overhauling a trunk of old clothes, with a view of giving them out to such of the little negroes as they would fit; but she dropped everything after Dumps had stated the case, and at once began to expatiate on the tyranny of teachers in general, and of Miss Carrie in particular.
“I know’d how ’twould be,” she said, “wen marster fotch her hyear; she got too much white in her eye to suit me, er shettin’ my chile up, an’ er starvin’ uv her; I an’t got no ’pinion uv po’ white folks, nohow.”
“Is Miss Carrie po’ white folks, Mammy?” asked Dumps, in horror, for she had been taught by Mammy and Aunt Milly both that the lowest classes of persons in the world were “po’ white folks” and “free niggers.”
“She ain’t no rich white folks,” answered Mammy, evasively; “caze efn she wuz, she wouldn’t be teachin’ school fur er livin’; an’ den ergin, efn she’s so mighty rich, whar’s her niggers? I neber seed ’em. An’, let erlone dat, I ain’t neber hyeard uv ’em yit;” for Mammy could not conceive of a person’s being rich without niggers.
“But, wedder she’s rich or po’,” continued the old lady, “she ain’t no bizness er shettin’ up my chile; an’ marster he oughtn’t ter ’low it.”
And Mammy resumed her work, but all the time grumbling, and muttering something about “ole maids” and “po’ white folks.”
“I don’t like her, nohow,” said Dumps, “an’ I’m glad me an’ Tot’s too little ter go ter school; I don’t want never to learn to read all my life. An’, Mammy, can’t you go an’ turn Diddie erloose?”
“No, I can’t,” answered Mammy. “Yer pa don’t ’low me fur ter do it; he won’t do it hisse’f, an’ he won’t let dem do it wat wants ter. I dunno wat’s gittin’ in ’im myse’f. But, you chil’en, put on yer bunnits, an’ run an’ play in de yard tell I fixes dis chis’ uv cloes; an’ you little niggers, go wid ’em, an’ tuck cyar uv ’em; an’ ef dem chil’en git hut, yer’ll be sorry fur it, mun; so yer’d better keep em off’n seesaws an’ all sich ez dat.”
Dumps and Tot, attended by their little maids, went out in the yard at Mammy’s bidding, but not to play; their hearts were too heavy about poor little Diddie, and the little negroes were no less grieved than they were, so they all held a consultation as to what they should do.
“Le’s go ’roun’ ter de schoolroom winder, an’ talk ter her,” said Dilsey. And accordingly, repaired to the back of the house, and took their stand under the schoolroom window. The schoolroom was on the first floor, but the house was raised some distance from the ground by means of stone pillars, so none of the children were tall enough to see into the room.
Dilsey called Diddie softly, and the little girl appeared at the window.
“Have you said your lesson yet?” asked Dumps.
“No, an’ I ain’t ergoin’ to, neither,” answered Diddie.
“An’ yer ain’t had yer dinner, nuther, is yer, Miss Diddie?” asked Dilsey.
“No; but I don’t care ’bout that; I sha’n’t say my lesson not ef she starves me clean ter death.”
At this dismal prospect, the tears sprang to Tot’s eyes, and saying, “I’ll dit it, Diddie; don’ yer min’, I’ll dit it,” she ran as fast as her little feet could carry her to the kitchen, and told Aunt Mary, the cook, that “Diddie is sut up; dey lock her all up in de woom, an’ s’e neber had no dinner, an’ s’e’s starve mos’ ter def. Miss Tawwy done it, and s’e’s des ez mean!” Then, putting her chubby little arms around Aunt Mary’s neck, she added, “Please sen’ Diddie some dinner.”
And Aunt Mary, who loved the children, rose from the low chair on which she was sitting to eat her own dinner, and, picking out a nice piece of fried chicken and a baked sweet potato, with a piece of bread and a good slice of ginger pudding, she put them on a plate for the child.
Now it so happened that Douglas, the head dining-room servant, was also in the kitchen eating his dinner, and, being exceedingly fond of Tot, he told her to wait a moment, and he would get her something from the house. So, getting the keys from Aunt Delia, the housekeeper, on pretence of putting away something, he buttered two or three slices of light bread, and spread them with jam, and, putting with them some thin chips of cold ham and several slices of cake, he carried them back to the kitchen as an addition to Diddie’s dinner.
Tot was delighted, and walked very carefully with the plate until she joined the little group waiting under the window, when she called out, joyfully,
“Hyear ’tis, Diddie! ’tis des de bes’es kine er dinner!”
And now the trouble was how to get it up to Diddie.
“I tell yer,” said Chris; “me ’n Dilsey’ll fotch de step-ladder wat Uncle Douglas washes de winders wid.”
No sooner said than done, and in a few moments the step-ladder was placed against the house, and Dilsey prepared to mount it with the plate in her hand.
But just at this juncture Diddie decided that she would make good her escape, and, to the great delight of the children, she climbed out of the window, and descended the ladder, and soon stood safe among them on the ground.
Then, taking the dinner with them, they ran as fast as they could to the grove, where they came to a halt on the ditch bank, and Diddie seated herself on a root of a tree to eat her dinner, while Dumps and Tot watched the little negroes wade up and down the ditch. The water was very clear, and not quite knee-deep, and the temptation was too great to withstand; so the little girls took off their shoes and stockings, and were soon wading too.
When Diddie had finished her dinner, she joined them; and such a merry time as they had, burying their little naked feet in the sand, and splashing the water against each other!
“I tell yer, Diddie,” said Dumps, “I don’t b’lieve nuthin’ ’bout bad little girls gittin’ hurt, an’ not havin’ no fun when they runs away, an’ don’t min’ nobody. I b’lieve Mammy jes makes that up ter skyeer us.”
“I don’t know,” replied Diddie; “you ’member the time’ bout Ole Billy?”
“Oh, I ain’t er countin’ him,” said Dumps; “I ain’t er countin’ no sheeps; I’m jes er talkin’ ’bout ditches an’ things.”
And just then the little girls heard some one singing,
“De jay bird died wid de hookin’-coff,
Oh, ladies, ain’t yer sorry?”
and Uncle Snake-bit Bob came up the ditch bank with an armful of white-oak splits.
“Yer’d better git outn dat water,” he called, as soon as he saw the children. “Yer’ll all be havin’ de croup nex’. Git out, I tell yer! Efn yer don’t, I gwine straight an’ tell yer pa.
It needed no second bidding, and the little girls scrambled up the bank, and drying their feet as best they could upon their skirts, they put on their shoes and stockings.
“What are you doin’, Uncle Bob?” called Diddie.
“I’m jes er cuttin’ me er few willers fur ter make baskit-handles outn.”
“Can’t we come an’ look at yer?” asked Diddie.
“Yes, honey, efn yer wants ter,” replied Uncle Bob, mightily pleased. “You’re all pow’ful fon’ er dis ole nigger; you’re allers wantin’ ter be roun’ him.”
“It’s ’cause you always tell us tales, an’ don’t quar’l with us,” replied Diddie, as the children drew near the old man, and watched him cut the long willow branches.
“Uncle Bob,” asked Dumps, “what was that you was singin’ ’bout the jay bird?”
“Lor’, honey, hit wuz jes ’boutn ’im dyin’ wid de hookin’-coff; but yer better lef’ dem jay birds erlone; yer needn’ be er wantin’ ter hyear boutn ’em.”
“Why, Uncle Bob?”
“Caze, honey, dem jay birds dey cyars news ter de deb’l, dey do an’ yer better not fool ’long ’em.”
“Do they tell him everything?” asked Diddie, in some solicitude.
“Dat dey do! Dey tells ’im eb’ything dey see you do wat ain’t right; dey cyars hit right erlong ter de deb’l.”
“Uncle Bob,” said Dumps, thoughtfully, “s’posin’ they wuz some little girls l-o-n-g time ergo what stole ernuther little girl outn the winder, an’ then run’d erway, an’ waded in er ditch, what they Mammy never would let ’em; efn er jay bird would see ’em, would he tell the deb’l nuthin erbout it?”
“Lor’, honey, dat ’ud be jes nuts fur ’im; he’d light right out wid it; an’ he wouldn’t was’e no time, nuther, he’d be so fyeard he’d furgit part’n it.”
“I don’t see none ’bout hyear,” said Dumps, looking anxiously up at the trees. “They don’t stay ’bout hyear much does they, Uncle Bob?”
“I seed one er sittin’ on dat sweet-gum dar ez I come up de ditch,” said Uncle Bob. “He had his head turnt one side, he did, er lookin’ mighty hard at you chil’en, an’ I ’lowed ter myse’f now I won’er wat is he er watchin’ dem chil’en fur? but, den, I knowed you chil’en wouldn’t do nuffin wrong, an’ I knowed he wouldn’t have nuffin fur ter tell.”
“Don’t he never make up things an’ tell ’em?” asked Dumps.
“I ain’t neber hyeard boutn dat,” said the old man. “Efn he do, or efn he don’t, I can’t say, caze I ain’t neber hyeard; but de bes’ way is fur ter keep ’way fum ’em.”
“Well, I bet he do,” said Dumps. “I jes bet he tells M-O-O-O-R-E S-T-O-R-I-E-S than anybody. An’, Uncle Bob, efn he tells the deb’l sump’n ’boutn three little white girls an’ three little niggers runnin’ erway fum they teacher an’ wadin’ in er ditch, then I jes b’lieve he made it up! Now that’s jes what I’ b’lieve; an’ can’t you tell the deb’l so, Uncle Bob?”
“Who? Me? Umph, umph! yer talkin’ ter de wrong nigger now, chile! I don’t hab nuffin te do wid ’im mysef! I’se er God-fyearn nigger, I is; an’, let erlone dat, I keeps erway fum dem jay birds. Didn’ yer neber hyear wat er trick he played de woodpecker?”
“No, Uncle Bob,” answered Diddie; “what did he do to him?”
“Ain’t yer neber hyeard how come de wood-pecker’s head ter be red, an’ wat makes de robin hab er red bres’?”
“Oh, I know ’bout the robin’s breast,” said Diddie. “When the Saviour was on the cross, an’ the wicked men had put er crown of thorns on him, an’ his forehead was all scratched up an’ bleedin’, er little robin was sittin’ on er tree lookin’ at him; an’ he felt so sorry ’bout it till he flew down, an’ tried to pick the thorns out of the crown; an’ while he was pullin’ at ’em, one of ’em run in his breast, an’ made the blood come, an’ ever since that the robin’s breast has been red.”
“Well, I dunno,” said the old man, thoughtfully, scratching his head; “I dunno, dat mout be de way; I neber hyeard it, do; but den I ain’t sayin’ tain’t true, caze hit mout be de way; an’ wat I’m er stan’in’ by is dis, dat dat ain’t de way I hyeard hit.”
“Tell us how you heard it, Uncle Bob,” asked Diddie.
“Well, hit all come ’long o’ de jay bird,” said Uncle Bob. “An’ efn yer got time fur ter go ’long o’ me ter de shop, an’ sot dar wile I plats on dese baskits fur de oberseer’s wife, I’ll tell jes wat I hyear ’boutn hit.”
Of course they had plenty of time, and they all followed him to the shop, where he turned some baskets bottomside up for seats for the children, and seating himself on his accustomed stool, while the little darkies sat around on the dirt-floor, he began to weave the splits dexterously in an out, and proceeded to tell the story.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg