“The glorious Fourth” was always a holiday on every Southern plantation, and, of course, Major Waldron’s was no exception to the rule. His negroes not only had holiday, but a barbecue, and it was a day of general mirth and festivity.
On this particular “Fourth” the barbecue was to be on the banks of the creek formed by the back-waters of the river, and was to be a “fish-fry” as well as a barbecue.
All hands on the plantation were up by daylight, and preparing for the frolic. Some of the negro men, indeed, had been down to the creek all night setting out their fish-baskets and getting the “pit” ready for the meats. The pit was a large hole, in which a fire was kindled to roast the animals, which were suspended over it; and they must commence the barbecuing very early in the morning, in order to get everything ready by dinner-time. The children were as much excited over it as the negroes were and Mammy could hardly keep them still enough to dress them, they were so eager to be off. Major and Mrs. Waldron were to go in the light carriage, but the little folks were to go with Mammy and Aunt Milly in the spring-wagon, along with the baskets of provisions for the “white folks’ tables;” the bread and vegetables and cakes and pastry for the negroes’ tables had been sent off in a large wagon, and were at the place for the barbecue long before the white family started from home. The negroes, too, had all gone. Those who were not able to walk had gone in wagons, but most of them had walked, for it was only about three miles from the house.
Despite all their efforts to hurry up Mammy, it was nearly nine o’clock before the children could get her off; and even then she didn’t want to let Cherubim and Seraphim go, and Uncle Snake-bit Bob, who was driving the wagon, had to add his entreaties to those of the little folks before she would consent at all; and after that matter had been decided, and the baskets all packed in, and the children all comfortably seated, and Dilsey and Chris and Riar squeezed into the back of the wagon between the ice-cream freezer and the lemonade buckets, and Cherubim and Seraphim in the children’s laps, and Mammy and Aunt Milly on two split-bottomed chairs, just back of the driver’s seat, and Uncle Snake-bit Bob, with the reins in his hands, just ready to drive off—whom should they see but Old Daddy Jake coming down the avenue, and waving his hat for them to wait for him.
“Dar now!” said Mammy; “de folks done gone an’ lef’ Ole Daddy, an’ we got ter stuff ’im in hyear somewhar.”
“They ain’t no room in hyear,” said Dumps, tightening her gasp on Cherubim, for she strongly suspected that Mammy would insist on leaving the puppies to make room for Daddy.
“Well, he ain’t got ter be lef’,” said Mammy; “I wuz allers larnt ter ’spect ole folks myse’f, an’ ef’n dis wagin goes, why den Daddy Jake’s got ter go in it;” and, Major and Mrs. Waldron having gone, Mammy was the next highest in command, and from her decision there was no appeal.
“How come yer ter git lef’, Daddy,” asked Uncle Snake-bit Bob, as the old man came up hobbling on his stick.
“Well, yer see, chile, I wuz er lightin’ uv my pipe, an’ er fixin’ uv er new stim in it, an’ I nuber notus wen de wagins went off. Yer see I’m er gittin’ er little deef in deze ole yurs of mine: dey ben er fasten’t on ter dis ole nigger’s head er long time, uperds uv er hundred years or mo’; an’ de time hez ben wen dey could hyear de leaves fall uv er nights; but dey gittin’ out’n fix somehow; dey ain’t wuckin’ like dey oughter; an’ dey jus sot up dar, an’ let de wagins drive off, an’ leave de ole nigger er lightin’ uv his pipe; an’ wen I got thu, an’ went ter de do’, den I hyeard er mighty stillness in de quarters, an’ bless yer heart, de folks wuz gone; an’ I lookt up dis way, an’ I seed de wagin hyear, an’ I ’lowed yer’d all gimme er lif’ some way.”
“Dem little niggers’ll hatter stay at home,” said Mammy, sharply, eyeing the little darkies, “or else they’ll hatter walk, caze Daddy’s got ter come in dis wagin. Now, you git out, you little niggers.”
At this, Dilsey and Chris and Riar began to unpack themselves, crying bitterly the while, because they were afraid to walk by themselves, and they knew they couldn’t walk fast enough to keep up with the wagon; but here Diddie came to the rescue, and persuaded Uncle Bob to go to the stable and saddle Corbin, and all three of the little negroes mounted him, and rode on behind the wagon, while Daddy Jim was comfortably fixed in the space they had occupied; and now they were fairly off.
“Mammy, what does folks have Fourf of Julys for?” asked Dumps, after a little while.
“I dunno, honey,” answered Mammy; “I hyear ’em say hit wuz ’long o’ some fightin’ or nuther wat de white folks fit one time; but whedder dat wuz de time wat Brer David fit Goliar or not, I dunno; I ain’t hyeard ’em say ’bout dat: it mout er ben dat time, an’ den ergin it mout er ben de time wat Brer Samson kilt up de folks wid de jawbone. I ain’t right sho wat time hit wuz; but den I knows hit wuz some fightin’ or nuther.”
“It was the ‘Declination of Independence’,” said Diddie. “It’s in the little history; and it wasn’t any fightin’, it was a writin’; and there’s the picture of it in the book: and all the men are sittin’ roun’, and one of ’em is writin’.”
“Yes, dat’s jes wat I hyearn,” said Uncle Bob. “I hyearn ’em say dat dey had de fuss’ Defemation uv Ondepen’ence on de Fourf uv July, an’ eber sence den de folks ben er habin’ holerday an’ barbecues on dat day.”
“What’s er Defemation, Uncle Bob?” asked Dumps, who possessed an inquiring mind.
“Well, I mos’ furgits de zack meanin’,” said the old man, scratching his head; “hit’s some kin’ er writin’, do, jes like Miss Diddie say; but, let erlone dat, hit’s in de squshionary, an’ yer ma kin fin’ hit fur yer, an’ ’splain de zack meanin’ uv de word; but de Defemation uv Ondepen’ence, hit happened on de fuss Fourf uv July, an’ hit happens ev’ry Fourf uv July sence den; an’ dat’s ’cordin ’ter my onderstandin’ uv hit,” said Uncle Rob, whipping up his horses.
“What’s dat, Brer Bob?” asked Daddy Jake, and as soon as Uncle Bob had yelled at him Dumps’s query and his answer to it, the old man said:
“Yer wrong, Brer Bob; I ’members well de fus’ Fourf uv July; hit wuz er man, honey. Marse Fofer July wuz er man, an’ de day wuz name atter him. He wuz er pow’ful fightin’ man; but den who it wuz he fit I mos’ furgot, hit’s ben so long ergo; but I ’members, do, I wuz er right smart slip uv er boy, an’ I went wid my ole marster, yer pa’s gran’pa, to er big dinner wat dey had on de Jeems Riber, in ole Furginny; an’ dat day, sar, Marse Fofer July wuz dar; an’ he made er big speech ter de white folks, caze I hyeard ’em clappin’ uv dey han’s. I nuber seed ’im but I hyeard he wuz dar, do, an’ I knows he wuz dar, caze I sho’ly hyeard ’em clappin’ uv dey han’s; an’, ’cordin’ ter de way I ’members bout’n it, dis is his birfday, wat de folks keeps plum till yet caze dey ain’t no men nowerdays like Marse Fofer July. He wuz er gre’t man, an’ he had sense, too; an’ den, ’sides dat, he wuz some er de fus’ famblys in dem days. Wy, his folks usen ter visit our white folks. I helt his horse fur ’im de many er time; an’, let erlone dat, I knowed some uv his niggers; but den dat’s ben er long time ergo.”
“But what was he writin’ about Daddy?” asked Diddie, who remembered the picture too well to give up the “writing part.”
“He wuz jes signin’ some kin’ er deeds or sump’n,” said Daddy. “I dunno wat he wuz writin’ erbout; but den he wuz er man, caze he lived in my recommembrunce, an’ I done seed ’im myse’f.”
That settled the whole matter, though Diddie was not entirely satisfied; but, as the wagon drove up to the creek bank just then, she was too much interested in the barbecue to care very much for “Marse Fofer July.”
The children all had their fishing-lines and hooks, and as soon as they were on the ground started to find a good place to fish. Dilsey got some bait from the negro boys, and baited the hooks; and it was a comical sight to see all of the children, white and black, perched upon the roots of trees or seated flat on the ground, watching intently their hooks, which they kept bobbing up and down so fast that the fish must have been very quick indeed to catch them.
They soon wearied of such dull sport, and began to set their wits to work to know what to do next.
“Le’s go ’possum-huntin’,” suggested Dilsey.
“There ain’t any ’possums in the daytime,” said Diddie.
“Yes dey is, Miss Diddie, lots uv ’em; folks jes goes at night fur ter save time. I knows how ter hunt fur ’possums; I kin tree ’em jes same ez er dog.”
And the children, delighted at the novelty of the thing, all started off “’possum-hunting,” for Mammy was helping unpack the dinner-baskets, and was not watching them just then. They wandered off some distance, climbing over logs and falling into mud-puddles, for they all had their heads thrown back and their faces turned up to the trees, looking for the ’possums, and thereby missed seeing impediments in the way.
At length Dilsey called out, “Hyear he is! Hyear de ’possum!” and they all came to a dead halt under a large oak-tree, which Dilsey and Chris, and even Diddie and Dumps, I regret to say, prepared to climb. But the climbing consisted mostly in active and fruitless endeavors to make a start, for Dilsey was the only one of the party who got as much as three feet from the ground; but she actually did climb up until she reached the first limb, and then crawled along it until she got near enough to shake off the ’possum, which proved to be a big chunk of wood that had lodged up there from a falling branch, probably; and when Dilsey shook the limb it fell down right upon Riar’s upturned face, and made her nose bleed.
“Wat you doin’, you nigger you?” demanded Riar, angrily, as she wiped the blood from her face. “I dar’ yer ter come down out’n dat tree, an’ I’ll beat de life out’n yer; I’ll larn yer who ter be shakin’ chunks on.”
In vain did Dilsey apologize, and say she thought it was a ’possum; Riar would listen to no excuse; and as soon as Dilsey reached the ground they had a rough-and-tumble fight, in which both parties got considerably worsted in the way of losing valuable hair, and of having their eyes filled with dirt and their clean dresses all muddied; but Tot was so much afraid Riar, her little nurse and maid, would get hurt that she screamed and cried, and refused to be comforted until the combatants suspended active hostilities, though they kept up quarrelling for some time, even after they had recommenced their search for ’possums.
“Dilsey don’t know how to tree no ’possums,” said Riar, contemptuously, after they had walked for some time, and anxiously looked up into every tree they passed.
“Yes I kin,” retorted Dilsey; “I kin tree ’em jes ez same ez er dog, ef’n dar’s any ’possums fur ter tree; but I can’t make ’possums, do; an’ ef dey ain’t no ’possums, den I can’t tree ’em, dat’s all.”
“Maybe they don’t come out on the Fourf uv July,” said Dumps. “Maybe ’possums keeps it same as peoples,”
“Now, maybe dey duz,” said Dilsey, who was glad to have some excuse for her profitless ’possum-hunting; and the children, being fairly tired out, started back to the creek bank, when they came upon Uncle Snake-bit Bob, wandering through the woods, and looking intently on the ground.
“What are you looking for, Uncle Bob?” asked Diddie.
“Des er few buckeyes, honey,” answered the old man.
“What you goin’ ter du with ’em?” asked Dumps, as the little girls joined him in his search.
“Well, I don’t want ter die no drunkard, myse’f,” said Uncle Bob, whose besetting sin was love of whiskey.
“Does buckeyes keep folks from dying drunkards?” asked Dumps.
“Dat’s wat dey sez; an’ I ’lowed I’d lay me in er few caze I’ve allers hyearn dat dem folks wat totes a buckeye in dey lef’ britches pocket, an’ den ernudder in de righthan’ coat pocket, dat dey ain’t gwine die no drunkards.”
“But if they would stop drinkin’ whiskey they wouldn’t die drunkards anyhow, would they, Uncle Bob?”
“Well, I dunno, honey; yer pinnin’ de ole nigger mighty close; de whiskey mout hab sump’n ter do wid it; I ain’t ’sputin’ dat—but wat I stan’s on is dis: dem folks wat I seed die drunk, dey nuber had no buckeyes in dey pockets; caze I ’members dat oberseer wat Marse Brunson had, he died wid delirums treums, an’ he runned, he did, fur ter git ’way fum de things wat he seed atter him; an’ he jumped into de riber, an’ got drownded; an’ I wuz dar wen dey pulled ’im out; an’ I sez ter Brer John Small, who wuz er standin’ dar, sez I, now I lay yer he ain’t got no buckeyes in his pockets; and wid dat me’n Brer John we tuck’n turnt his pockets wrong side outerds; an’ bless yer soul, chile, hit wuz jes like I say; DAR WAN’T NO BUCKEYES DAR! Well, I’d b’lieved in de ole sayin’ befo’, but dat jes kin’ter sot me on it fas’er ’n eber; an’ I don’t cyar wat de wedder is, nor wat de hurry is; hit may rain an’ hit may shine, an’ de time may be er pressin’, but ole Rob he don’t stir out’n his house mornin’s ’cep’n he’s got buckeyes in his pockets. But I seed ’em gittin’ ready fur dinner as I comed erlong, an’ you chil’en better be er gittin’ toerds de table.”
That was enough for the little folks, and they hurried back to the creek. The table was formed by driving posts into the ground, and laying planks across them, and had been fixed up the day before by some of the men. The dinner was excellent—barbecued mutton and shote and lamb and squirrels, and very fine “gumbo,” and plenty of vegetables and watermelons and fruits, and fresh fish which the negroes had caught in the seine, for none of the anglers had been successful.
Everybody was hungry, for they had had very early breakfast, and, besides, it had been a fatiguing day, for most of the negroes had walked the three miles, and then had danced and played games nearly all the morning, and so they were ready for dinner. And everybody seemed very happy and gay except Mammy; she had been so upset at the children’s torn dresses and dirty faces that she could not regain her good-humor all at once; and then, too, Dumps had lost her sun-bonnet, and there were some unmistakable freckles across her little nose, and so Mammy looked very cross, and grumbled a good deal, though her appetite seemed good, and she did full justice to the barbecue.
Now Mammy had some peculiar ideas of her own as to the right and proper way for ladies to conduct themselves, and one of her theories was that no white lady should ever eat heartily in company; she might eat between meals, if desired, or even go back after the meal was over and satisfy her appetite; but to sit down with a party of ladies and gentlemen and make a good “square” meal, Mammy considered very ungenteel indeed. This idea she was always trying to impress upon the little girls, so as to render them as ladylike as possible in the years to come; and on this occasion, as there were quite a number of the families from the adjacent plantations present, she was horrified to see Dumps eating as heartily, and with as evident satisfaction, as if she had been alone in the nursery at home. Diddie, too, had taken her second piece of barbecued squirrel, and seemed to be enjoying it very much, when a shake of Mammy’s head reminded her of the impropriety of such a proceeding; so she laid aside the squirrel, and minced delicately over some less substantial food. The frowns and nods, however, were thrown away upon Dumps; she ate of everything she wanted until she was fully satisfied, and I grieve to say that her papa encouraged her in such unladylike behavior by helping her liberally to whatever she asked for.
But after the dinner was over, and after the darkies had played and danced until quite late, and after the ladies and gentlemen had had several very interesting games of euchre and whist, and after the little folks had wandered about as much as they pleased—swinging on grape-vines and riding on “saplings,” and playing “base” and “stealing goods,” and tiring themselves out generally—and after they had been all duly stowed away in the spring-wagon and had started for home, then Mammy began at Dumps about her unpardonable appetite.
“But I was hungry, Mammy,” apologized the little girl.
“I don’t cyer ef’n yer wuz,” replied Mammy; “dat ain’t no reason fur yer furgittin’ yer manners, an’ stuffin’ yerse’f right fo’ all de gemmuns. Miss Diddie dar, she burhavt like er little lady, jes kinter foolin’ wid her knife an’ fork, an’ nuber eatin’ nuffin’ hardly; an’ dar you wuz jes ir pilin’ in shotes an’ lams an’ squ’ls, an’ roas’n yurs, an’ pickles an’ puddin’s an’ cakes an’ watermillions, tell I wuz dat shame fur ter call yer marster’s darter!”
And poor little Dumps, now that the enormity of her sin was brought home to her, and the articles eaten so carefully enumerated, began to feel very much like a boa-constrictor, and the tears fell from her eyes as Mammy continued:
“I done nust er heap er chil’en in my time, but I ain’t nuber seed no white chile eat fo de gemmuns like you duz. It pyears like I can’t nuber larn you no manners, nohow.”
“Let de chile erlone, Sis Rachel,” interposed Uncle Bob; “she ain’t no grown lady, an’ I seed marster he’p’n uv her plate hisse’f; she nuber eat none too much, consid’n hit wuz de Fourf uv July.”
“Didn’t I eat no shotes an’ lambs, Uncle Bob?” asked Dumps, wiping her eyes.
“I don’t b’lieve yer did,” said Uncle Bob. “I seed yer eat er squ’l or two, an’ er few fish, likely; an’ dem, wid er sprinklin’ uv roas’n yurs an’ cakes, wuz de mos’ wat I seed yer eat.”
“An’ dat wuz too much,” said Mammy, “right befo’ de gemmuns.”
But Dumps was comforted at Uncle Bob’s moderate statement of the case, and so Mammy’s lecture lost much of its intended severity.
As they were driving through the grove before reaching the house it was quite dark, and they heard an owl hooting in one of the trees.
“I see yer keep on sayin’ yer sass,” said Daddy Jake, addressing the owl. “Ef’n I’d er done happen ter all you is ’bout’n hit, I’d let hit erlone myse’f.”
“What’s he sayin’?” asked Diddie.
“Wy, don’t yer hyear him, honey, er sayin’,
‘Who cooks fur you-oo-a?
Who cooks fur you-oo-a?
Ef you’ll cook for my folks,
Den I’ll cook fur y’ all-l-lll?’
“Well, hit wuz ’long er dat very chune wat he los’ his eyes, an’ can’t see no mo’ in de daytime; an’ ev’n I wuz him, I’d let folks’ cookin’ erlone.”
“Can’t you tell us about it, Daddy?” asked Dumps.
“I ain’t got de time now,” said the old man, “caze hyear’s de wagin almos’ at de do’; an’, let erlone dat, I ain’t nuber hyeard ’twus good luck ter be tellin’ no tales on de Fourf uv July; but ef’n yer kin come ter my cabin some ebenin’ wen yer’s er airin’ uv yerse’fs, den I’ll tell yer jes wat I hyearn ’bout’n de owl, an ’struck yer in er many er thing wat yer don’t know now.”
And now the wagon stopped at the back gate, and the little girls and Mammy and the little darkies got out, and Mammy made the children say good-night to Daddy Jake and Uncle Rob, and they all went into the house very tired and very sleepy, and very dirty with their celebration of “Marse Fofer July’s burfday.”
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