The Voice of the People | Page 9

howdy, honey," he remarked in a fault-finding tone.
"Dar ain' no manners dese days, nohow. Dey ain' no manners en dey
ain' no nuttin'. De niggers, dey is gwine plum outer dey heads, en de po'
white trash dey's gwine plum outer dey places."
He looked at Nicholas, who flinched and hung his head.
"Dar ain' nobody lef to keep 'em ter dey places, no mo'. In Ole Miss'
time der wa'nt no traipsin' roun' er niggers en intermixin' up er de
quality en de trash. Ole Miss, she des' pint out der place en dey stay dar.
She ain' never stomach noner der high-ferlutin' doin's roun' her. She
know whar she b'long en she know whar dey b'long. Bless yo' life, Ole
Miss wuz dat perticklar she wouldn't drink arter Ole Marster, hisself,
'thout renchin' out de gow'd twel t'wuz mos' bruck off de handle."
He sighed and shifted his bag.
"Ef Ole Miss 'ud been yer thoo' dis las' war, dar wouldn't er been no
slue-footed Yankees a-foolin' roun' her parlour. She'd uv up en show'd
'em de do'--"
"Are all Yankees slue-footed, Uncle Ish?"
"All dose I seed, honey--des' es slue-footed. En dar wuz Miss Chris' en
ole Miss Grissel a-makin' up ter 'em, en a-layin' out er demselves fer
'em en a-spreadin' uv de table, des' de same es ef dey went straight on
dey toes. Dar wan't much sense in dat ar war, nohow, an' I ain' never
knowed yit what 'twuz dey fit about. Hit wuz des' a-hidin' en a-teckin'
ter de bushes, en a-hidin' agin, en den a-feastin', en a-curtsin' ter de
Yankees. Dar wan't no sense in it, no ways hits put, but Ise heered
Marse Tom 'low hit wuz a civil war, en dat's what it wuz. When de
Yankees come a-ridin' up en a-reinin' in dere hosses befo' de front po'ch,
en Miss Chris come out a-smilin' en a-axin' howdy, en den dey stan' dar
a-bowin' en a-scrapin', hit wuz des' es civil es ef dey'd come a-co'tin'.
But Ole Miss wuz dead en buried, she wuz."
Nicholas shook his head without speaking. There was a shade of
consolation in the thought that the awful "Ole Miss" was below the

earth and beyond the possibility of pointing out his place.
The brazier in the west snapped asunder suddenly, and a single forked
flame shot above the jagged pines and went out in the dove-coloured
clouds. In a huge oak beyond the rail fence there was a harsh rustling of
wings where a flock of buzzards settled to roost.
"Yes, Lord, she wuz dead en buried," repeated Uncle Ish slowly. "En
dar ain' none like her lef' roun' yer now. Dis yer little Euginny is des' de
spit er her ma, en it 'ud mek Ole Miss tu'n in her grave ter hear tell 'bout
her gwines on. De quality en de po' folks is all de same ter her. She ain'
no mo' un inspecter er pussons den de Lord is--ef Ole Miss wuz 'live, I
reckon she'd lam 'er twel she wuz black en blue--"
"Is she so very bad?" asked Nicholas in an awed voice.
Uncle Ish turned upon him reprovingly.
"Bad!" he repeated. "Who gwine call Ole Miss' gran'chile bad? I don't
reckon it's dese yer new come folks es hev des' sprouted outer de dut es
is gwine ter--"
At this instant the sound of a vehicle reached them, gaining upon them
from the direction of Kingsborough, and they fell to one side of the
road, leaving room for the horses to pass. It was the Battle carriage,
rolling heavily on its aged wheels and creaking beneath the general's
weight.
"Howdy, Marse Tom!" called Uncle Ishmael. The general responded
good-naturedly, and the carriage passed on, but, before turning into the
branch road a few yards ahead, it came to a standstill, and the bright,
decisive voice of the little girl floated back.
"Uncle Ish--I say, Uncle Ish, don't you want to ride?"
"Dar, now!" cried Uncle Ishmael exultantly. "Ain't I tell you she wuz
plum crazy? What she doin' a-peckin' up en ole nigger like I is?"

He hastened his steps and scrambled into the seat beside the driver,
settling his bag between his knees; and, with a flick of the peeled
hickory whip, the carriage rolled into the branch road and disappeared,
scattering a whirl of mud drops as it splashed through the shallow
puddles which lingered in the dryest season beneath the heavy shade of
the wood.
Nicholas turned into the branch road also, for the poor lands of his
father adjoined the slightly richer ones of the Battles. He felt tired and a
little lonely, and he wished suddenly that a friendly cart would come
along in which he might ride the remainder of the