dances, his master accompanying him on a cracked fiddle, till my sides were sore with laughter, and the hostess begged them to stop. Finally the clock struck twelve, and the farmer, going to the door, gave a long, loud blast on a cow's horn. In about five minutes, one after another of the field hands came in, till the whole ten had seated themselves on the verandah. Each carried a bowl, a tin-cup, or a gourd, into which my host--who soon emerged from a back room[1] with a pail of whisky in his hand--poured a gill of the beverage. This was the day's allowance, and the farmer, in answer to a question of mine, told me he thought negroes were healthier and worked better for a small quantity of alcohol daily. 'The' work hard, and salt feed doan't set 'em up 'nough,' was his remark.
Meanwhile the hostess busied herself with preparations for dinner, and it was soon spread on a bright cherry table, covered by a spotless white cloth. The little darkies had scattered to the several cabins, and we soon sat down to as good a meal as I ever ate at the South.
We were waited on by a tidy negro woman, neatly clad in a calico gown, with shoes on her feet, and a flaming red and yellow kerchief on her head. This last was worn in the form of a turban, and one end escaping from behind and hanging down her back, it looked for all the world like a flag hung out from a top turret. Observing it, my host said:
'Aggy--showin' yer colors? Ye'r Union gal--hey?'
'Yas, I is dat, massa; Union ter de back-bone,' responded the negress, grinning widely.
'All th' Union ye knows on,' replied the master, winking slyly at me, 'is th' union yer goin' ter hitch up 'long with black Cale over ter Squire Taylor's.'
'No, 'tan't, massa; takes more'n tu ter make de Union.'
'Yas, I knows; it gin'rally takes ten or a dozen: reckon it'll take a dozen with ye.'
'John, ye mustn't talk so ter th' sarvents; it spiles 'em,' said his wife.
'No it doan't; do it, Aggy?'
'Lor', missus, I doan't keer what massa say; but I doan't leff no oder man run on so ter me!'
'No more'n ye doan't, gal! only Cale.'
'Nor him, massa; I makes him stan' 'roun', I reckon.'
'I reckon ye du; ye wudn't be yer massa's gal ef ye didn't.'
When the meal was over, I visited with my host the negro houses. The hour allowed for dinner[2] was about expiring, and the darkies were preparing to return to the field. Entering one of the cabins, where were two stout negro men and a woman, my host said to them, with a perfectly serious face:
'Har, boys, I've fetched ye a live Yankee ab'lishener; now, luk at 'im all roun'. Did ye ever see sech a critter?'
'Doan't see nuffin' quar in dat gemman, massa,' replied one of the blacks. 'Him 'pears like bery nice gemman; doan't 'pear like ab'lishener;' and he laughed and scraped his head in the manner peculiar to the negro, as he added: 'Kinder reckon he wudn't be har ef he war one of dem.'
'What der ye knows 'bout th' ab'lisheners? Ye never seed one; what d'ye 'spose the' luk like?'
'Dey say dey luk likes de bery ole debil, massa; but reckon 'tan't so.'
'Wal, the' doan't; the' luk wuss then thet; they'm bottled up thunder an' lightnin', an' ef the' cum down har, they'll chaw ye all ter hash.'
'I reckon!' replied the darky, manipulating his wool and distending his face into a decidedly incredulous grin.
'What do you tell them such things for?' I asked good-humoredly.
'Lor' bless ye, stranger, the' knows th' ab'lisheners ar thar friends, jest so well as ye du; and so fur as thet goes, d--d ef the' doan't know I'm one on 'em myseff, fur I tells 'em ef the' want to put the' kin put, an' I'll throw thar trav'lin 'spenses inter th' bargin. Doan't I tell ye thet, Lazarus?'
'Yas, massa; but none ob massa's nigs am gwine ter put--lesswise, not so long as you an' de good missus am 'bove groun'.'
The darky's name struck me as peculiar, and I asked him where he got it.
''Tan't my name, sar; but you see, sar, w'en massa fuss hire me ob ole Capt'in ----, up dar ter Newbern-way, I war sort o' sorry like--hadn't no bery good cloes--an' massa he den call me Lazarus, 'case he say I war all ober rags and holes, an' it hab sort o' stuck ter me eber sense. I war a'mighty bad off 'fore dat, but w'en I cum down har I gets inter Abr'am's buzzum, I does,' and here the darky actually reeled on his seat with laughter.
'Is this woman your wife?' I asked.
'No, sar; my wife 'longs to Cunnel
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