Cunjur and 'Suasion: Plantation Chronicles

I

TOOMBER KAMID! What a name! Well, she was a woman, a negro woman, tall, black, brawny. About her there was something that attracted me by its singularity; yet with this attraction there was a something indescribable that was almost awe-inspiring to a child like me. When I asked her where she got such a queer name, she told me that it was her grandmammy’s grandmammy’s name. Her grandmammy, she said, was a Mollie Gloskie (Madagascar) negro; and she had been told that her grandmammy remembered all about being in Africa, and had told of many strange customs there, where children never wore clothes until they were as tall as their mothers. Then they were sent to the straw-fields to make long aprons for themselves. She said the mothers had to do something to help them to know their own children from the children of other negroes, so they took a sharp knife, made of a shell, and scratched up and down the children’s faces, and up and down their arms and legs. As I listened to her, I saw that she was trying to describe tattooing. She told, too, of the rings she used to wear — gold rings, she said: two in her nose, and four or five around her ears, where holes had been pierced for them.

She said she had been told that her grandmammy’s grandmammy was a queen in Africa. But one day a big ship came sailing up, and the captain had pretty red calico and gold bracelets and looking-glasses in the ship. She and a crowd of other negroes ‘scrouged’ along and went on the ship, and the captain gave them some good firewater, and they got sleepy and went to sleep; and when they woke up, they were ’way off, ’way out in the sea, and the ‘maremaids’ were swimming all around them.

When I expressed doubts about the ’maremaids,’ she said, ‘ Dey sho is maremaids, kaze my own mammy seed ’em in de ’Tomac ribber. I hyeard her tell ’bout de maremaids times ’pon top uv times. She sho did see ’em wid her eyes — in de ’Tomac ribber. You doan’ know ’bout maremaids, but niggers knows ’bout ’em kaze dey seed ’em deyselves. Now Gold knows dat’s de trufe.’

All these stories were as fascinating to me as ‘Cinderella’ and ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ were to other children. I listened with eager interest to stories of the negroes in Africa who were ‘cunjur niggers.’ ‘All uv em wuz cunjur niggers. Dey knowed how to walk on behind anybody an’ pick up de tracks and put ’em in a cunjur bag with poisonous spiders and toad-frogs and treefrogs and devils’ horses — great big old grasshoppers wid red-an’-black wings. Den doodle-bugs and grubworms and measuring worms would be put in, and cats’ fur, and a piece of leather-wing bat’s wing, and thousand-legged worms, and lizards’ tails, and scorapins.’

When the cunjur bag was completed, it was buried under the eaves of the house where the victim of the cunjurer lived. The ‘tarrifyin’ pains’ would soon make themselves manifest, and in the veins, the stomach, and the bowels of the unfortunate conjured person these ‘varmints an’ insecks’ would hold high carnival. The victim was doomed. No doctor could relieve him. Only by propitiating the cunjurer was there any hope. This could sometimes be done by giving presents to the cunjurer. The poor conjured wretch was avoided by all his acquaintances. People did not like to walk on the side of the road where the doomed one lived. When the ‘cunjur’ was getting off, the ‘varmints an’ insecks’ would sometimes be heard jumping out and falling down flop on the ground.

Filled with interest and curiosity, I asked Toomber if she could tell me anything about conjuring.

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘cunjurin’ sho is true fac’. I bin had de cunjur on me, an’ I knows ’bout it. I sho do. One Sunday, when I gwine ’long ter meetin’, I seed a cunjur oman pickin’ up my tracks. Dat was Sunday; den on Monday dat ’oman done put de cunjur on me. I knowed she gwine do dat, kaze I seed her at her devilment, stoopin’ down on de san’ an’ pickin’ my tracks right outen de san’, an’ puttin’ ’em in her pocket. I peeped roun’ de corner uv my eye an’ seed her. I knowed she gwine do devilment. I knowed she a dang’ous ’oman. ’Fore Gord, ef you ever git de cunjur on you, you sho’ will know ’bout cunjur. Dat ’oman pick up my tracks on Sunday, an Monday ’bout daybreak de cunjur ’peared. I could n’ git out de bed, kaze de misery was in my laig, an’ my foots, an’ my side, an’ my head. I des sot propped up on de side uv de bed an’ I moan an’ groan. I skeered ter tell ’bout what dat dang’ous ’oman done ter me, kaze hit mought make de cunjur worse an’ worse. Den I crope out de bed, an’ tuck a knife an’ dug up some poke-root an’ biled it an’ rubbed my swol’d-up laig wid dat, an’ rubbed hit wid karosene. But de cunjur did n’ leave my cistern. My cistern wuz all discomfused. Hit so full of cunjur I did n’ know what ter do.

‘Dat night ole squint-eye Sary Jane come ter see my misery, an’ she say I mus’ fix up a big plate full uv good vittles, an’ put two dimes in de plate, an’ sen’ de plate to de cunjur ’oman wid my love an’complimen’s. Gord knows I did n’ want dat dang’ous ’oman ter hab dat plate full uv good vittles, but I so skyeurd uv dat ’oman I was mos’ crazy. De cunjur kep a-goin’ on, an’ I kep’ sayin’, “O Gord! O Gord! O Gord! I ’ze cunjured mighty bad. De misery’s wuckin’ all th’oo my cistern. O Gord! O Gord!” Squint-eye Sary Jane say she’ll tote de plate ter de cunjur ’oman ef I can han’ out a nice ashcake to her, kaze her belly wuz a growlin’ an’ groanin’ for vittles. Cunjur kin strike you mighty bad when your belly is moanin’. I han’ out some taters an’ some cushaw an’ some lye hominy to Sary Jane, an’ she smack’d her mouf an grin’ her toofs. Den she toted dat plate uv vittles ter de dang’ous ’oman an’ gin her de money. Den de misery got ter ’swagin’ down. Den Sary Jane say she pertects herse’f ’ginst cunjur. She totes de lef’ hin’ foot uv a grabeyard rabbit in her pocket day in an’ day out. I gwine get me one. Den cunjur’l lemme ’lone. I sho is gwine ter pertec’ myse’f f’om cunjur. I got ’nuf uv cunjur.

‘Dem Cincinnati niggers is gittin’ so dey likes ter hear ’bout cunjur an’ witches an’ grabeyard rabbits. Dem niggers is mighty ign’an’. Dey doan’ know nuthin’ ’bout de bref uv heaven. I flings my wooden winder-shutters open an’ de bref uv heaven goes a sweepin’ th’oo my cabin. Dey got glass winders all shut up tight, an’ ain’ got no great big fireplace. I feels like I wuz sufflicate when I goes in de chu’ch dar. I wants to be back on de plantation whar I kin git de bref uv heaven. I gwine back dar soon’s ole Mistiss comes ridin’ back f’om Culpeper Cote House.

‘I doan’ want ter stay in Cincinnati an’ be a free nigger. I doan’ want two things — I’ze sot ’ginst bein’ a free nigger or bein’ po’ white trash. Niggers ’spises po’ white trash an po’ white trash ’spises niggers. I bin uster quality white folks. Dey sets heap uv sto’ by niggers, an’ niggers sets sto’ by dem. Dey sho do like one anurr. I gwine back to Kanawha County an’ live out all my born days wid quality folks.

‘Dem dar Cincinnati niggers got so now dey lis’ns when my tongue ’gins ter run. One uv dem little Ohio niggers wuz layin’ up on de bed groanin’ wid de headache. She tol’ me she dunno what make her head ache so. I say, “Chile, I’ll tell you. Sho’s you born, you bin th’owed a stran’ uv yo’ hyar out de winder, an’ a bird done tuck hit up in a tree. Cose den eb’ry time de win’ blows yo’ head ’bleeged to ache. You all so ign’an’ up here, you ’bleeged ter be painified.” I tell you I knows a heap. I knows when bad luck is comin’ ’long, lickity-split, lickity-split. Scritch-owl tells me ’bout dat. He dess scritches an’ scritches when he knows bad luck’s comin’. Dat he do. One time a ole scritch-owl sot on de ridge-pole uv my cabin un’ mos’ split his th’oat scritchin’. I settin’ down in de cabin, waitin’ for my old man ter come home wid de oxteam. De scritch-owl kep’ on scritchin’. I th’owed my apurn up ober my face an’ sot dar an’ shivered an’ trimbled. De scritch-owl done got in good chune den, an’ he kep’ on scritchin’. My ole man nuvar did come home. He done drownded in de creek, cedar creek, one mile f’om de cabin.

‘I bin livin’ nigh on to a hunderd years, an’ I done fin’ out how knowin’ scritch-owls is. Dey’s knowin’ in Al’bama an’ dey’s knowin’ in de Mis’sippy bottoms. Whippoorwills is badluck birds, too, but scritch-owls kin beat whippoorwills. When I hears a scritch-owl I runs ter de fire, an’ sticks a shovel in de fire. Sometimes dat ’pears ter do some good. Sometimes hit doan’ do no good. I tries all de ways I hears tell ’bout ter shoo bad luck off. Ef a chunk uv fire rolls down, I puckers up my mouf in a hurry an’ spits down, spang on hit. Den when I spittin’ I wishes a good-luck wish. Dat’s a good way to do. Des say, “Stay dere, ole chunk, an’ hev ’memb’ance ter bring good luck!” I spits three times, spang! spang! spang! Den I sets down an’ sings a little.

‘I likes ter sing. All de plantation niggers likes ter sing. Dem Cincinnati niggers so smart dey say dey sings outen a book, do, re, mi, like white folks. I say, Gord teached de plantation niggers an’ de mockin’ birds how ter sing. I spec’ de debble teached de jay birds. I dunno ’bout dat.

‘I sho does wish ole Mistiss would git up on her prancin’ sorrel horse an’ ride back home. I tired bein’ chambermaid on de steamboat. Dey got cuyous vittles on dat steamboat, an’ I’ze tired eatin’ dem things whar I ain’ bin uster eatin’ on de plantation. I wants some possum, I does, possum wid sweet ’taters all ranged roun’ hit, wid good possum gravy. Plantation niggers knows what good vittles is soon’s dey sets dey eyes on hit. ’Pear like I cyarn’ go back ter de plantation now; but I know whar I kin go when de right time comes: I kin sho’ go ter de promis’ lan’ up de right road ter glory. I’ll go when Marse Jesus calls. When de angels comes, I sho will wrastle wid ’em, an’ dey’ll be a flutterin’ an’ a flyin’ roun’ worser ’n a chicken wid his head cut off. I ain’ ’feard uv angels. I des ’feared uv cunjur an’ hants. I gwine ter glory, dat whar I gwine!’

Then her wild voice rang out, —

II

‘O Gord! O Gord! Lord ’a’ massey on me! Poor me! Dat’s bad as a scritchowl, dess as bad. I looked out my doah an’ seed a hog, a ole razor-back red sow, des a-runnin’ up an’ down de pastur’ wid a shuck in her mouf. I knowed she tellin’ me den ’bout bad luck. Poor me! I knowed bad luck was comin’, kaze las’ night I dreamt ’bout muddy water. Den to-day I drapped ter sleep in my split-bottom chair an’ dreamt ’bout snakes. Dat a mighty bad sign. Secret enemies gwine ter ’pear when you dreams ’bout snakes. Poor me! Poor me! I ’members de fus time I dreamt ’bout hog runnin’ roun’ wid shuck in his mouf. I wuz livin’ ’way down in Mis’sippy den, on Marse Jeems’s lower plantation. Dey did n’ hab de same ways down dar dat dey got on dis plantation. Dey gin out a tas’ [task] ter ebry nigger on de place. Not a hard big tas’, des a tas’ ’bout de right size. Atter dat tas’ done did, all you got ter do is ter work ’long, an’ all you makes Marse Jeems’s gwine buy f’om you.

‘I wuz a sassy little gal when I live down in Mis’sippy on Marse Jeems’s place. Marse Jeems nuvar did speak discontempshus ter me but one time. I done hyeard ’im toll Mistiss dat I got gifty-gab. I so uppity I traipsed up ter do house, an’ pick up de bunch uv peacock feathers ter keep off de flies. I waved dem peacock feathers an’ I waved ’em. Den I say, “Marse Jeems, please, suh, splainify ’bout what you say I got — ’bout gifty-gab.”Marse Jeems th’owed back his head an’ laffed an’ laffed. Den I say agin, “Marse Jeems, suh, please splainify ’bout giftygab.”Den he say, “When you fus’ begin comin’ up ter de house ter set on de bottom step an’ play wid my chillern, I tuck noticemen’ dat you nuvar stop talkin’, talkin’. You kep’ up yo’ clack all de time. When folks doan’ nuvar stop talkin’ I ’clares dat dey sho got gifty-gab. Talk, talk, talk.” Den Marse Jeems th’owed back his head agin. He sho did. I ain’ stop gifty-gab yit. I spec’ I’ll keep up gifty-gab ’tel dey hauls me ter de grabevard. I doan’ see no use uv havin’ a tongue ef hit gwine ter be closed up ’tween yo teef, day in an’ day out. My mammy say I talks in my sleep. I dunno, I ain’ nuvar ’mained wake ter see ’bout dat. Dey say de gifty-gab runs day an’ night.

‘I did n’ like ter stay down on Marse Jeems’s plantation. Too many ole alligators down dar. My mammy tell me ter stay up on de hill. She say she hyeard dat alligators would bite off little nigger chillern’s laigs. Dey nuvar bit my laigs. I got many laigs now as I uver had in all my born days. Dat ’s de trufe — dat’s Gord’s trufe.

‘Marse Jeems wa’n’t like ole Marster hyeah on dis plantation. Marster’s a dignity man. Sometimes Marse Jeems wuz a dignity man — des’ sometimes. Den sometimes he so chock full of fun an’ devilment, de dignity des’ banished. I mos’ laffed tell my ribs rattle when I ’members how Marse Jeems punish Nepchune. Dat nigger wuz de lazies’ nigger on Marse Jeems’s plantation down in Mis’sippy. But he sorter smart, nigger, an’ he fooled Marse Jeems tel he ’sidered Nepchune a induschus nigger. Den Marse Jeems ’pinted Nepchune for foreman. He tol’ ’im ter go an’ look at de diff’unt fiel’s an’ lay off de wuck for hisse’f an’ for de gang.

‘Nepchune sho did lay off de wuck for hisse’f. All he laid off for hisse’f was ter do nothin’ an’ res’ in de shade. He knowed how ter do. One day Marse Jeems an’ Nepchune wuz out in de House gyarden. Marse Jeems ’splained ter Nepchune ’bout plantin’ de seed, radish-seed, and turnip-seed, an’ all sorts uv little pinhead seed like mustard-seed. Nepchune say he got de understannin’ ’bout how ter do. When he went up ter de house an’ tol’ Marse Jeems he done plant all de seed, Marse Jeems say Nepchune bin mighty smart, an’ he gin ’im a present. He gin ’im a whole plug uv ’bacco.

‘Nex’ day Marse Jeems wuz walkin’ in de gyarden, an’ unbeknownst he kicked up a brick layin’ out dar. Gord ’a’ massey! Marse Jeems foun’ all de papers uv little pinhead seeds onder dat brick. Marse Jeems a mighty cussin’ man when he wuz mad. I hyear ‘im say, “Dat infernal rascal! I ’ll punish im sho as I a born man. I sho gwine punish Nepchune.”

‘I kep on studyin’ ’bout what Marse Jeems gwine ter do ter Nepchune. I foun’ out. Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Marse Jeems’s place most jined on ter Merid’an. One day a Merid’an man comed ter de plantation an’ ’swaded Marse Jeems ter buy a great, big, long red hammock. Dat man swung dat hammock up on Marse Jeems’s gallery an’ lef’. Marse Jeems kep’ on studyin’ ’bout how Nepchune plant dem seed. I knowed what wuz in his min’. He studyin’ an’ studyin’ ’bout punishin’ Nepchune. I sho thought he gwine whip Nepchune bad. Dat I did. No, suh, Marse Jeems mighty notionate man. He got heap uv devilment ’bout ’im, an’ heap uv fun. He call Nepchune up ter de gallery an’ say: —

‘ “Nepchune, I mighty sorry you had to work so hard plantin’ de gyarden. I knows you tired mos’ ter def, poor nigger. I gwine give you some res’. Yo’ Marse Jeems ain’ gwine ter let you work yo’se’f ’tel yo’ tongue mos’ hangin’ out yo’ mouf. He sho ain’ gwine ter do dat. Come hyeah, Nepchune, an’ teck a li’l’ res’. Poor fellow, yo’ Marse Jeems sorry for you, he sorry for induschus nigger like you, Nepchune. You needs a res’, nigger. Come hyeah.”

‘Nepchune stepped up on de gallery, an’ Marse Jeems say, “Now, Nepchune, git up in dis big red hammock an’ stretch yo’se’f out long as you kin.”

‘Nepchune sorter swunk back. Den Marse Jeems say, “Is you work so hard you got deaf? Poor devil, you sho needs a good res’.

‘Nepchune ’bleeged ter git in de hammock an’ stretch out. He ’peared mighty sorrowful like, Marse Jeems mighty dignity dat day; talk mighty onnateral, so gently an’ sweetified, Nepchune did n’ know what wuz de ’casion uv dat soft-soap talkin’ to a nigger. When Nepchune done stretch out good, kaze he skyeard not to do dat, Marse Jeems sot hisse’f down by de red hammock. He done tied a twine string ter de hammock. He sot in a big split-bottom chair an’ pull dat string, an’ made it swing an’ swing.

‘Presen’ly Nepchune say, “Marse Jeems, I’ze mightily res’ up; I wants ter go out in de fiel’, suh.”

“‘No, no, Nepchune. No, no, poor fellow. I gwine ter let you hab a good ole res’.”

‘Den Marse Jeems swinged Nepchune an’ swinged ’im, an’ swinged ’im. Eb’ry now an’ den some uv de niggers comed up ter de house, ’tendin’ dey ’bleeged ter come on business. Dey kep’ on comin’, an’ laffin’, an’ savin’, “Nepchune, you sho gittin’ a good res’. Dat you is.” Nepchune nuvar ’sponded nuthin’. Marse Jeems kep’ on swingin’ dat nigger, an’ lookin’ like he walkin’ ’hind a hearse ter de grabeyard down by de ribber. I wuz des’ shakin’ my ribs lookin’ at Nepchune restin’ in de long red hammock. ’Pear like Marse Jeems could n’ git tired swingin’ Nepchune. He swinged an’ he swinged.

‘’Pear like all de niggers on de plantation got business in de house-yard dat day. Mos’ly dey did n’ say nuthin’. Sometimes dey step up close ter de gallery an’ look devilish an’ call out, “Nepchune, is you gittin’ a good res’? You ain’ nuvar be tired again, I ’spec’.”

‘Nepchune nuvar said nuthin’. He did n’ even grin. Mos’ly Nepchune wuz a mighty grinnin’ nigger. He did n’ ’pear so grinny de day he wuz restin’ in de hammock. He des’ ’peared discomfused, mightily discomfused wid all de niggers laffin’ at ’im. I seed Nepchune wuz mad. But Marse Jeems — Marse Jeems got mealy-moufed an sweetspoken more an’ more, more an’ more. He sho did hab a injoicin’ time seein’ dat induschus nigger restin’ in do red hammock. Dat wuz a good fun day on Marse Jeems’s plantation. ’Pear like Marse Jeems mighty induschus, pullin’ dat twine string an’ swingin’ Nepchune.

‘Mos’ all de niggers on de place, tendin’ dis an’ tendin’ dat, traipsed ’long th’ough de house-yard while Nepchune wuz gittin’ his res’. ’Pear like dey could n’ keep deyse’ves ’way f’om seein’ dat sight. Nepchune mos’ daid he so mad wid dem niggers. Dey so consarned ’bout poor, tired Nepchune. Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! ’Pear like de sun could n’ set. Pear like hit got hitched in a crotch uv de tree while Marse Jeems wuz swingin’ de poor tired nigger. Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Dat nigger would n’ nuvar git tired agin. Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!

‘Atter while de sun did drap. Den I hyeah Marse Jeems say, “Nepchune, nex’ time you gits tired, I gwine gib you a long res’ agin. I gwine dig a hole six foot deep for you to res’ in. Den when you res’n’ dar, you won’t hear when Gabriel blows his horn.”

‘All de niggers done flock roun’ de gallery den, an’ Marse Jeems call out, “Boys, is any of you tired?” Dey all ’spond, “No, Marse Jeems, we doan’ need no res’. We ain’ tired.” Den Marse Jeems say, “Hurrah for you, boys, hurrah!”’

III

‘I doan’ know but five Injin words. Dey’s Choctaw Injin words. Marse Jeems’s plantation wuz close to whar dem Choctaw Injins lived in Mis’sippy. Dem Injins say dey’s de frienlies’ Injins uv all de Injins. Dey sho did count mighty cuyous. “Onarby, tosharby, tuckaloo, toochany”: one, two, three, four, five. Dey belt dey fingers out when dey count dem words. Dem Choctaw Injins sho did meck pretty willer baskets. Dey dug up some sort uv roots, or sumpin,’ an’ dyed de wilier. Red willer, yaller wilier, black willer, all sorts of culled willer. Den dey made de baskets: little baskets for de gal chillern at Marse Jeems’s house ter put hick’y nuts in; baskets for Marse Jeems’s wife ter tote her keys in; great big roun’ baskets ter hol’ de fold-up work whar gwine ter be sewed on; cuyous baskets, one on each side runnin’ down ter a p’int: forks goes down in one side, knifes in t’other. Den dey made a monst’ous big basket to put dey puscooses [pappooses] in. Dem baskets got a long strop ter go roun’ de haid. Dem little puscooses looked comf’able wid dey heads stickin’ out dem baskets.

‘Eb’ry year, ’bout time chinkapins an’ ches’nuts an’ muscadines gits ripe, dem Injins sho ter come. De Injin men come ridin’ on Injin ponies. Dey sho ter be tottin’ some blow-guns. I doan’ know whar dey git dem big ole canes. Dey gits ’em somewhar, an’ tecks out all de pith. Den dey mecks Injins arrers, sharp at one eend, an’ feathers on t’ other eend. Jes’ blow in one dem blowguns an’ dem arrers goes flyin’ out. You can kill a jay bird dat way, or a sparrer. ’Cose nobody ain’ gwine kill a robin dat way. Dey wait for de robin ter fly up in a Chiny tree an’ git drunk. Eb’ry chile on de plantation thinks he ’bleeged ter hab a blow-gun when dem Choctaw Injins comes ridin’ in. Jay birds better watch out den. Folks say Choctaw Injins ain’ smart as Cher’kee Injins. I doan’ know ’bout dat. Dey sho mecks pretty baskets an’ blow-guns. But dey doan’ know nuthin’ ’bout alphabits like Cher’kee Injins does.

‘Marse Jeems wuz a mighty smart man. I sot my min’ an’ cotch heaps uv smartness f’om Marse Jeems on his lower plantation down in Mis’sippy. Dat I did. I ’stonish de Al’bama niggers wid my smartness when I went back to de Black Belt. Dat sho is a Black Belt. Dat ole prairie mud’s black as a tar-ball — an’ sticky! Gord knows hit’s sticky! Des’ walk ’long a little way an’ de mud sticks so fast to de soles uv yo’ foots you cyarn’ sca’cely lif’ em up. I likes sandy town myse’f, like Livi’ston an’ Selma.

‘Bless Gord! I knows I is got giftygab, like Marse Jeems say. I mos’ forgot how skyeard I wuz ’bout bad luck. Mighty bad luck for bird ter come flyin’ in yo’ house. Bird come flyin’ in my house one day. I druv dat bird out. Nex’ mornin’ dar wuz dat same bird flatted ’ginst my winder-shutter. I so ’stressed I des th’owed myse’f down on de flo’ an’ put my apurn up over my haid. I tryin’ ter fool dat bird. But I could n’ fool ’im. He knowed me, an’ dat very day de bad luck struck me. I fell down an’ broke my laig, my poor old laig wid de rheumatiz pain mos’ killin’ me. I could n’ skyear de bad luck away. Hit done come, an’ ’pear like hit gwine ter stay. Poor me!

‘Here I is gifty-gabbin’ an’ forgittin’ all de teachmen’s my mammy tol’ me ’bout huccome niggers han’s, an’ down side uv dey han’s, is white, an’ de bottoms uv dey foots. Mammy say Gord A’mighty made all de folks white when he fus’ started out ter make ’em. Den he got plum tired lookin’ at all dem white folks. Den he ’cided he’d paint ’em diff’unt colors. He made some red folks like Injins, an’ some yaller folks, an’ some brown folks. Den he studied ’bout what he gwine do nex’. He ’cided he’d meck some black folks. Den he tol’ some de white folks ter git down on all fours, kaze he gwine paint ’em black. He paint dem folks black while dey down on all fours. ’Cose de bottom uv dey han’s an’ dey foots did n’ git painted black. Dat’s de trufe, sho’s I’ze a born nigger. My mammy had heaps uv knowin’s. White folks doan’ know how much knowin’s niggers got.

‘One day I wuz out in de pastur’ gittin’ poke-weed. I hyeard ole crookhand Sal singin’ an’ singin’. I cotch de words. Dey wuz hitched on ter a chune. Mighty easy ter ketch de words ef dey’s hitched on ter a chune. She kep’ on asingin’: —

‘I sung dat over in my min’ ’tel I cotched hit good.

‘Dat wuz de day a nigger man comed ter Marse Jeems’s place f’om Merid’an. He think he mighty smart kaze he bin livin’ in Merid’an. He seed me, an’ wave his ole black paw at me. Den he hollered out, “Howdy, sweetie!” He all dress up mighty fine in white clo’es. Fus’ I would n’ look at ’im. Den he holler out agin, “ Howdy, sweetie. How is you to-day?” I say,“I worse off on ’casion uv seein’ you. Sho’s I born, you look des’ like a black snake in a bowl uv cream.” Dat smarty-jack nigger f’om Merid’an ’pear like he discomfused den. He riz up agin’ an’ hollered out, “You look mighty peart today, sweetie!” Den I ’spond, “ Keep yo’ sweetnin’ for yo’se’f, ole black snake.” I sho did discomfuse dat nigger. But he kep’ on wavin’ his black paw at me. He did n’ come back f’om Merid’an no more ter call me sweetie.

‘One nice white lady comed f’om Merid’an one time ter see Marse Jeems’s wife. She comed f’om de Norf an’ she mighty ign’an’ lady. She seed me settin’ on de tip-top uv de high ten-rail fence, staked an’ ridered, an’ she say she so ’feared I gwine fall down. I say I doan’ see no use in tumblin’ down. I mighty com’fable up hyeah. Den I ’menced callin’ out, “Cur rench! Cur rench! Cur rench!” She ax me what for I keep sayin’ “Cur rench” so much. I tell her she ain’ got un’erstannin’ ter know what I talkin’ ’bout. De cows an’ de bulls got un’erstannin’. Look at ’em. Marse Jeems say cows got jography an’ ’rithmetic in dey haids. Ef dey long way f’om de cuppen [cow-pen] dey starts home soon. Ef dey short way off, dar dey lays ’tel dey see me puttin’ down de bars. Dey got heap uv sense.

‘One time, I wuz a little gal den, I layin’ down on de flo’ kickin’ up my heels an’ cryin’. Mammy say, “Wha’ de matter wid you, chile?” I tol’ her my haid wuz splittin’ open wid headache. She ’spond, “Chile, I spec’ you got de hollow horn like de ole red bull got.” Den I got ter laffin’ an’ laffin’. Den de headache des upped an’ went off somewhat.

‘When I comed back from Marse Jeems’s place, I met ole black Jubiter. I bin gone seb’ral years. When I went dar, de wool on my haid wuz black. Wool on my mammy’s haid bin white ’long time. Ole black Jubiter hollered out to me, “Hi! hi! hi! Is you come back ter Al’bama? I mos’ did n’ know you. You heap more like yo’ mammy dan yo’se’f. Dat’s a sho fac’.”

‘I stannin’ by de car track den. I axed Jubiter ef de trains wuz regilar in runnin’. He ’spond, “Dey’s mighty regilar in bein’ onregilar.” He sho did tell de trufe dat time — dat one time. Mos’ly Jubiter wuz a big lie-teller. He ’joyed tellin’ lies. He had ’joymen’ f’om sunup ter sundown dat way.

‘I bin havin’ ’joymen’ all dis day des studyin’ ’bout buckwheat cakes. ’Fore Christmus come, on Marse Jeems’s plantation, ’peared like ebrybody was busy makin’ bags. Bags ’pon top uv bags wuz piled up on de shelves in de house. I knowed what dem bags was for. Ebry Christmus dem bags wuz’ piled up dar. ’Bleeged ter hab a highup pile uv bags for de ’casion. Den de Mistiss had a pile uv dimes an’ picayunes in her trunk. She knowed what she gwine do wid all dat silver money. I knowed, too, kaze I bin on Marse Jeems’s place ’fore dat time. I knowed dem wuz Chris’mus bags for buckwheat. Niggers nuvar seed buckwheat but one time eb’ry year. Dat wuz Christmus mornin’. All de niggers got up ’fore sunrise dat day. Eb’rybody had big fire in dey big fireplace by time de sun riz. Den all uv ’em went flockin’ up ter de house, ter jump out sudden, an’ holler out, “Christmus gif’! Christmus gif’! Christmus gif’, marster! Christmus gif’, mistiss.” Dem niggers got Christmus gif’s, eb’rybody down ter de suckin’ babies. Eb’rybody wuz laffin’ an’ whoopin’ an’ hurrahin’. Eb’rybody got Christmus in dey bones.

‘Den eb’ry nigger gits a bag, an’ back dey troops ter dey cabin. Dey snatches up dey sifters an’ ’mence siftin’, siftin’, siftin’. Dey knowed dimes an’ picayunes wuz in dem buckwheat bags. Dey ’termined ter sif’ out de money. All de chillern des’ scrouges one anurr, an’ gits up close ter de sifter ter see if dey kin git a dime or a picayune wid a hole in it. Dey likes ter hang picayunes an’ dimes roun’ dey neck, an’ strut roun’ proud as a ole peacock. Dat what dey wants ter do on Christmus mornin’ on Marse Jeems’s plantation.

‘Some uv de marsters in Mis’sippy does dat away like Marse Jeems. Some doan’ do dat away. Dey fix up some sorter way for Christmus fun. Marse Jeems got a big ole barrel uv whiskey in his smoke-house. He sho gits a barrel uv dat once eb’ry year f’om Mobile. He got a ’mission merchan’ in Mobile ter sell his cotton. Dat ’mission merchan’ buys de sugar an’ de flour an’ de whiskey an’ de rice an’ all sort o’ groceries down in Mobile. He puts ’em on de steamboat an dey’s fotch up ter de landin’ at Moscow. Den de wagons goes down dar an’ hauls ’em up. Dat’s de time we sees oranges an’ lemons. Dat’s de onlies’ time. We’s mos’ crazy when de wagons comes back. Eb’rybody on de place ’pears ter be plum crazy den. All de chillern in special, white chillern an’ nigger chillern. All dey moufs is waterin’ an’ drippin’. Eb’rybody is hollerin’ out, “Yonder comes de wagons!”

‘When dey does come, Gord A’mighty! eb’rybody sho is crazy den. De men lif’s out a great big hogshead of rice. Dey knocks out de head an’ ’mences divin’ down in de rice an’ pullin’ out tin buckets an’ tin pans an’ sifters, an’ I dunno what, all packed in de rice. Sometimes out comes a tin plate wid letters all roun’ de edge, big a, little a, big b, little b. We knows de house-’oman — one uv de house-’omans — gwine git dat tin plate. Certain sho, she gwine git dat. Dey keeps a-divin’ down an’ divin’ down in dat rice, an’ pres’n’ly out comes some doll-heads. All de chillern ’gins ter dance an’ laf an’ holler. Dey knows Mistiss gwine cut out doll-bodies an’ stuff ’em wid cotton. Den up in de seamster’s room de seamsters gwine ter sew’ de doll-heads on de doll-bodies.

‘All de chillern stannin’ roun’ eb’rywhar dances roun’ an’ hurrahs an’ hollers, ’tel Marse Jeems step out an’ say, “Too much noise! Too much noise! Ef you cyarn’ be quiet, you mus’ go back ter yo’ cabins.” Hit gits so quiet den ’pears like somebody’s dyin’. But in a minute dey gins ter ’spond, “Yes, suh, Marse Jeems, yes, suh! We gwine be still as a church mouse. Yes, suh, Marse Jeems, yes, suh!”

‘I gits ter studyin’ ’bout dem days sometimes ’tel hit ’pears like dem days is right here agin. ’T wuz a injoicin’ time eb’ry year when de wagons come back f’om Moscow. Sometimes Marse Jeems would han’ out some drams ter de niggers. De house-servants done had egg-nog when dey runned up Christmus gif’ing. Marse Jeems had a bung-hole in de whiskey barrel, an’ he’d teck a mighty cuyous vial, solid heavy at de bottom, an’ let it down th’ough de bung-hole an’ draw up de whiskey. Dat vial too little ter draw much whiskey. Nobody did n’ get none but special house-niggers. Dey did n’ git much.

‘All de whiskey Marse Jeems ever drunk was one mint julep once a day. I hyeard him say one day, “ Mint is de grass dat grows on de graves uv all good Virginians.” Dat’s what I hyeard Marse Jeems say. Dat what he tol’ his comp’ny settin’ up dar on de gallery. Once eb’ry day Marse Jeems tuck one mint julep. All his chillern runned to him den, an’ he gin each one a teaspoonful of dat good julep.

‘Somehow I keeps on studyin’ an’ studyin’ ’bout dem ole days. ’Pears like I kin set down in Jerushy’s cabin an’ see de fiddler fiddlin’. He sot up on a high stool on top uv a table. He de one dat called out de figgirs uv de dance. ’Fore dat, one o’ de niggers would step out an’ cut de pigeon wing, an’ one would give a double shuffle. All de niggers would clap an’ rap den, an’ somebody would holler out, “Play ‘Chicken in de bread tray,’ play ‘Ole Firginny nuvar tire,’ play ‘Susanna gal.'”

‘De fiddler did n’ pay no ’tention ter all dem callin’s-out. He de one gwine call out. Den he’d stan’ up a minute an’ holler, “Time’s a-flyin’. Choose yo’ pardners! Bow perlitely! Dat de way! S’lute yo’ pardners! Swing corners! Cyarn’ yo’ hear de fiddle talkin’? Hail, Columbia! Halleloo! Hol’ yo’ han’s up highfilutin’! Look permiskus! Dat’s de way! Dat’s de way! Keep on dancin’!” An’ dey sho did dance an’ promenade, tel de bref mos’ gin out.

‘Den de fiddler sho ter put his fiddle down an’ call out, “I knows what you wants. You wants some banjo music.” When de banjo started up, de niggers ’peared plum ’stracted. Dat’s de music for niggers. Dey kin fling a souple toe when de banjo talkin’ ter ’em. But I got rheumatiz in my laig, an’ I doan’ dance dese days. I ’d be skyeard ter dance too, kaze I mought cross my foots, an’ den de debble’d cotch me. I ’members de song: “He! Hi! Mr. Debble! I knows you’ze at de doah. I knows you’ze grabblin’ grabble wid yo’ ole sharp toe.”

‘Here I is studyin’ so much ’bout de debble I mos’ los’ ’membrance uv all de good Christmus vittles. Up at de house de table sho’ did look scrumshus; a whole roas’ pig at one eend uf de ’hogany table, wid a lemon in his mouf an’ red ribbon on his tail. Dey had turkeys too ’pon top uv turkeys, tame turkeys an’ wil’ turkeys, an’ roas’ ducks, an’ fried chickens, an’ baked hams, an’ mutton saddles, an’ venison, an’ — O Gord ’a’ massey! dey had so much good vittles dat I ain’ got de ’membrance uv one half uv all dat. Eb’rybody sho did git a fill-up wid good vittles. Den come de de’sert: drop-cakes, an’ hole-in-demiddle cakes, an’ snowball cakes, an’ jelly, an’ ice-cream, an’ apples, an’ blackberry cordial, an’ pork wine. All de house-niggers got so much leavin’s on de white folks’ plates dat dey was stuffed full as a egg.

‘Eb’rybody down on Marse Jeems’s plantation say dey’d like ter have Christmus all de year, ’stid uv des’ one week. All dat Christmus day you could n’ sca’cely hear yo’se’f talk. Eb’rybody wuz tryin’ to see how much noise dey could meck. De white folks, up an’ down de plantation, wuz firin’ off Christmus guns f’om sunup ter sundown. Dey’d teck a big hick’nut tree wid a nachul hollow in hit, or dey’d meck a hollow. Den dey’d fill dat hollow plum-full uv gunpowder an’ plug hit up. When de match wuz tetched ter de powder, you sho did hear noise. Sometimes dey’d fill up bottles an’ canisters wid gunpowder an’ put ’em onder barrels an’ hogsheads an’ set a match to ’em. Eb’rybody’d holler, an’ hurrah, an’ whoop eb’ry time de ’sploshun come. Dat de way’t. wuz all day long.

‘Inuvar did go down ter de cow-house Christmus night, but I hear tell ’bout, what gwine-ons dey wuz down dar. Out in de fiel’s, an’ down in de cowhouse, an’ out in de stables, all de cattle knowed when midnight come. Des’ like roosters knows when ter crow. When midnight come, all de cattle fell down on dey knees wid dey faces turned ter de eas’. Dar dey ’mained, clean till daylight. I sorry I did n’ go down dar ter de cow-house an’ see de cattle prayin’, an’ prayin’, an’ prayin’. Beastes got a heap uv sense. Dat dey is. I b’leeve all de beastes is gwine ter heab’n. I sho do. Hit sho’d be mighty lonely up dar bedout any beastes.

‘Folks doan’ know how ter hab good Christmus times now like dey knowed on Marse Jeems’s plantation down in Mis’sippy. Dem sho wuz good ole Christmus times, mun! Dey doan’ know ’bout good Christmus times up hyeah in Livi’ston. Dey ain’ nuvar live down in Mis’sippy on Marse Jeems’s plantation.’