BYPATHS IN DIXIE

“DES LIKE SHE RUB’IN ON YORN.”

BYPATHS IN DIXIE

FOLK TALES OF THE SOUTH

BY SARAH JOHNSON COCKE

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS

NEW YORK E·P·DUTTON & COMPANY 31 West Twenty-Third Street

Copyright, 1911 By E. P. Dutton & Company Reprinted, May, 1912

TO MY HUSBAND

[Pg 7]

INTRODUCTION

When Thomas Nelson Page began his stories of the old South in the early “Eighties,” the reading people of America suddenly aroused to the realization that a vein of virgin gold had been uncovered. There was a rush to the new field and almost every Southerner who had a story to tell told it, many of them with astonishing dramatic force and power. As by magic a new department was added to American literature and a score of new writers won their way to fame. From a notably backward section, in point of[Pg 8] expression, the South stepped easily, with the short story, into the front rank and has held her place ever since. The field once entered was explored faithfully, the eager minds of her sons and daughters running through the Ante-Bellum, Revolutionary and Colonial eras, and when Joel Chandler Harris developed the “Brer Rabbit” stories, “The Little Boy” and “Uncle Remus,” it seemed as though future work must lie in refining for the ore was all in sight.

But there was one lead almost entirely forgotten or undervalued in the scramble for literary wealth and this lead was into the Southern nursery where the real black Mammy reigned. With the better lights before us now we realize the astonishing fact that the very heart center of the Southern civilization had not been touched.

[Pg 9]Mrs. Cocke in the charming stories contained in this volume is the happy pre-emptor of the new find. Every Southerner old enough will recognize the absolute truthfulness of the scenes and methods therein embalmed, and applaud the faithfulness with which she has reproduced that difficult potency, the gentle, tender, playful, elusive, young-old, child-wise mind of the African nurse in the white family; the mind to which all things appeal as living forces and all lives as speaking intelligences.

The naturally developed mind of the African slave had no leaning to violence. The influence of the wildness of nature, the monotones of forests, fields and running waters, the play of shadows and the wind voices lingered in it and the tendency to endow all life surrounding it with human or[Pg 10] god-like powers as strong in an humbler way as with the early Greek. But the Greeks were warriors; the African slave tribes, never. Where one worshipped force, the other bowed to shrewdness and cunning and by these lived within a hostile environment. The rabbit that survives and multiplies was to the African slave always mightier than the lion that fell to the hunter’s gun or spear, and the rabbit was and, to a large degree still is, the best personification of the negro mind in its method of approach and treatment. Brer Rabbit in the stories retold by Harris is really the child-wise, world-old mind of Uncle Remus, himself a type. The absence from them of some of the moral laws is in itself one proof of faithful reproduction.

But in the nursery we had by necessity the[Pg 11] moral laws grafted on the African mind by master and mistress through daily association and the singular application of these is within the memory of many grown-up Southern children. I take issue with those who declare that the black Mammy did have equal authority in the punishment of refractory children. I have never known an instance in which punishment by her was inflicted in blows. A child might be dragged forcibly to its nursery, restrained by a turned key or remorselessly carried away to solitude, in arms, but struck, never! Blows were unnecessary with the wise-old Mammy. There were the cupboard and pantry, the fruit orchard, the kitchen stove, and there were the birds, beasts and fowls to be invoked in song and story. Thus were the children restrained, guided and taught, and doubtless[Pg 12] many a flower in our literary gardens to-day is but an old-time seed matured. This is the best side of the picture. The seed was not always well chosen; the impression, a good one. All black Mammies were not good and superstitions

fertilized with fear were often sown in childish minds never to be eradicated. The writer to this day could not under any temptation bring himself to touch a spider or sleep in the dark and somehow feels that life will not be entirely complete without a chance to even up with the female Senegambian who filled his mind with weird stories Saturday nights and prepared him for religious service Sunday mornings.

Mrs. Cocke’s work speaks for itself. It is a difficult work presented with but few of the stage accessories. But I believe it is admirably done and will endure in a niche of[Pg 13] its own. Certain it is that those to whose memories it appeals will receive it gratefully.

Harry Stillwell Edwards.

Macon, Ga., April 10, 1911.

[Pg 14]

[Pg 15]

ILLUSTRATIONS

(From drawings by Duncan Smith.)

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[Pg 19]

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[Pg 21]

BYPATHS IN DIXIE

ITHE ROOSTER TELEPHONE

The telephone had just been mended again, and the man suggested as he left that the little boy find another plaything. Phyllis indignantly protested that Willis had done no damage to the instrument, and that the frequent defects were due to the failure of the workman to put it in proper condition. Being thus defended by so strong an ally, Willis lost no time in attacking the forbidden object as soon as the door was closed.

“Let de ole telerfome erlone, baby,” said[Pg 22] Phyllis in a tone of sympathetic protest. But the boy could not resist such an opportunity. “Dat table tiltin’ right now.” She caught her breath as the table righted itself. “An’ dat telerfom’ll bus’ yo’ haid wide op’n.”

“I’m going to talk to my papa.”

“You gwinter talk ter er bust’d haid, dat’s who you—” At that moment, table, telephone, boy and all fell to the floor with a bang. “What’d I tell yer?”

Willis answered with a succession of screams that admitted of no argument or consolation. Phyllis offered none until she had satisfied herself that a bumped head and a much frightened little boy were the extent of the damage.

“Mammy gwine whup dat telerfome,” she continued, “an’ de flo’ too, caze dey hu’t her[Pg 23] baby.” And she proceeded to execute the threat.

“Don’t whip the telephone—whip the table!” he screamed.

“Dat’s right,” striking the table with a towel; “’twas dat ole table done all de mischuf—Mammy gwina rub camfer on dat telerfome’s haid des like she rub’in on yorn, an’ beg his pard’n too,” looking for the raised place. “Come on ov’r ter de wind’r so Mammy kin see her baby’s haid good!”

“I don’t want you to see it good!” And the wails redoubled.

“Lawsee! Look at dat ole rooster in de yard!” half dragging the little fellow to the window; “he’s done gone an’ telerfome ter Miss Churchill’s rooster ’bout you holl’rin’ an’ kicken’ up so!”

“No, he shan’t!” blubbered Willis.

[Pg 24]“He done done it, an’ he fixin’ ter do hit ergin!”

Another crow from the rooster: “I tole yer so! heah ’im? An’ Miss Churchill’s rooster done telerfome ov’r ter Miss Coxe’s roost’r, an’ dey keeps on telerfomin’ ter de nex’ yard tell all de roost’rs in dis whole place’ll know you settin’ up hyah cryin’ an’ yellin’ like you wus Ma’y Van.”

“I don’t want ’em to tell,” said the little boy, burying his face on her shoulder.

“I doan speck yer does, but he done tole hit!” A fresh burst followed, which Phyllis strove to quiet. “Hyah, eat dis nice butt’r’d biskit Mammy bin savin’ fur yer.” Willis pushed the bread away. She coaxed, “I speck ef you eats er lit’le, an’ thows er lit’le out yond’r ter ole man Roost’r, he’ll git in er good humor (like all de men fokes does[Pg 25] whin dey eats), an’ he’ll telerfome ter Miss Churchill’s roost’r dat he jes foolin’ him, an’ Miss Churchill’s roost’r’ll keep de wurd passin’ erlong dat way tell all de roost’rs’ll know our ole Shanghi jes pass er joke off on you.”

“Where’s his telephone?” sniffled the boy, only partly diverted by the chicken pecking up the crumbs of bread.

“He keep hit in his th’oat whar de Lawd put hit.”

“How can he eat?” Willis turned from the window to gaze into the old woman’s face.

“Pshaw, boy, you think er stool an’ er table wid er telerfome on hit’s in dat roost’r’s th’oat?” and she laughed aloud. Moistening the handkerchief again with camphor, she parted the curls and tenderly pressed the[Pg 26] cloth to the bumped place. “Nor suhree! dey ain’ no sich er thing in dat roost’r’s th’oat. Mist’r Man put dat un in hyar fur yo’ ma,” pointing in the direction of the ’phone, “but de Lawd hook up dat un out yond’r in ole man Roost’r’s th’oat. Yas, Lawd! He put hit in dar fur Roost’rs ter talk wid an’ fur fokes ter lis’n ter whut dey talks. You ’member de uth’r night when you wus took sick in de night, an’ Mammy keep er tellin’ yer ter stop cryin’ ’bout de cast’r oil, an’ lis’n ter de roost’rs crowin’? Well, our ole roost’r wus jes gittin’ news fum Peter’s roost’r den.”

“Who’s Peter?” Willis shook the camphor cloth from his head. “Who’s Peter, Mammy?” he insisted.

“Lemme see how I kin ’splain ter yer who Peter is,” scratching her head under the[Pg 27] bandana. “Lemme see—Peter wus er gent’mun de scriptur speak erbout dat trip hissef up on de ‘Bridge er Trufe’ an’ fell er sprawlin’ flat; an’ de Lawd sont er roost’r ’long ’bout dat time ter pick ’im up. Cose you know de roost’r didn’t pick ’im up wid his foots, but he raise him up wid er speeret de Lawd put in ’im fur dat ’speshul ’casion. Oh, I tell yer, de Lawd talks er heap er talk ter fokes thu fowels an’ beastes, but nobody doan take no notice uv ’em; dey ’pears ter fergit how dat fowel hope Peter up, an’ pint’d de road ter Glory fer ’im.”

“Mammy, can roosters talk show nuf?”

“Roosters kin talk good es you kin,—hits jes fokes ain’ got nuf speeret in ’em ter heah whut dey says. Way back yonder time whin hants an’ bible fokes projeck’ wid one nuth’r, beastes an’ speerets confabs wid[Pg 28] fokes, jes like me an’ you talkin’ now! Yas, suh, an’ fokes lis’ns ter de confab dem sorter creeters talks too! Whar you speck ole man Balim wud er bin terday ef hit hadn’t er bin fur dat mule er his’n? But screech owels an’ jay birds an’ er heap mo’ ’sides chicken roosters is got speerets in ’em in dese days too. Some fokes calls ’em hants!”

The door opened and little Mary Van, who had caught the last word, tripped quickly to the old woman’s side and whispered in suppressed excitement: “Where’s the hants, Mammy Phyllis?”

“Nem’ine whar de hants is terday. I’m talkin’ ’bout de rooster telerfome. Yer see Peter’s rooster’s settin’ up in rooster heb’n keepin’ his eye out fur all de news. He nuv’r do go ter sleep reg’lar; sometime at[Pg 29] night he sorter nod er lit’le, but he nuv’r do git in bed, caze he feer’d Mist’r Sun wake up ’fo’ he do. Well, whin he heah ole man Sun gap loud, an’ turn hisself ov’r an’ scratch, he know he fixin’ ter git up, an’ dat minit he flap his wings an’ telerfome loud es he kin ‘de break er day is c-o-m-i-n’’ (imitating the rooster). Ole man Diminicker down yonder on yo’ gran’pa’s rice plantation, down on de aige er de oshun, is de fus ter git de news. He stir hissef erbout an’ flop his wings, an’ telerfome loud es he kin, ‘de break er day is c-o-m-i-n’.’ De rooster on de nex’ plantation gits de wurd an’ dey passes hit on tell our ole rooster gits hit way up hyah in de mountains. Den our ole Shanghi keeps de wurd er gwine, tell ev’ry chickin fum one side de country ter de uth’r knows day fixin’ ter

break.”

[Pg 30]“Mammy, Mister Rooster wants some more biscuit.”

“I ’speck he do; did yer ev’r know er man dat wus satisfied wid what wus give him? Yas, Lawd! dat rooster’ll stan’ dar an’ peck vit’als long es you thows hit ter ’im, eb’n whin he feel hissef bustin’ wide op’n; he’ll stretch his neck ter git one mo’ bite whilst he’s dyin’.”

“Who’s dyin?”

“Nobody ain’t dyin’, caze dat rooster ain’ gwina git ernuf fum me an’ you ter do him no harm.”

“Make him telephone again.”

“Nor, he say he want ter pass er lit’le conversation wid Sis Hen, an’ Miss Pullet, an’ tell ’em, mebbe ef dey scratch hard ernuf, dey’ll fine some crum’s er his but’r’d biskit.”

[Pg 31]“Why didn’t Mister Rooster save ’em some?”

“Who, dat rooster?” Phyllis shook her head. “Dem wimmen hens doan git nuthin’ but whut dey scratches fur,” then thoughtfully she added: “Cose all roosters ain’ ’zackly erlike. Dey’s er few, but recoleck I says er pow’ful few, dat saves mos’ ev’ything fur de hens an’ chickens; den der’s some uv ’em dat saves right smart fur ’em; den der’s er heap uv ’em dat leaves ’em de crum’s, but de res’ er de rooster men fokes doan leave ’em nuthin’, an’ de po’ things hatt’r scratch fur der sefs.”

“Less give Sis Hen and Miss Pullet some biscuit too,” Mary Van insisted.

“You think Willis’s pa got ter feed all de po’ scratchin’ hens in dis worl’?—well, he ain’t.”

[Pg 32]“Give ’em this piece. It hasn’t got any butter on it.” Willis handed her the bread.

“Lawsee,” she threw up the disengaged hand and brought it down softly on the little boy’s head, “but ain’t you ’zackly like all de uth’r roosters—an’ hens too fur dat matt’r—willin’ ter give ’em dat ole crus’ atter you done eat all de sof but’r’d insides out’n it!”

A lusty crow sounded from the rooster in the yard.

“Mammy, what did Mister Rooster say?”

“He say ‘dey’s er good little boy in h-y-a-h,’” trilled Phyllis, imitating the rooster’s crow.

Willis smiled while his hands unconsciously clapped applause. Slipping from her lap, he ran about the room flapping his arms and crowing: “There’s a good little[Pg 33] boy in h-e-r-e, there’s er good little boy in h-e-r-e.”

Mary Van started in the opposite direction: “There’s a good little girl in h-e-r-e.”

“Hush, Mary Van,” commanded Willis; “you can’t crow, you’ve got to cackle.”

“I haven’t neether; I can crow just as good as you. Can’t I, Mammy Phyllis?”

“Well,” solemnly answered Phyllis, “it soun’ mo’ ladylike ter heah er hen cackle dan ter crow, but dem wimmen hens whut wants ter heah dersefs crow is got de right ter do it,” shaking her head in resignation but disapproval, “but I allus notice dat de roosters keeps mo’ comp’ny wid hens whut cackles, dan dem whut crows. G’long now an’ cackle like er nice lit’le hen.”

[Pg 34]

[Pg 35]

IIOLD MAN GULLY’S HANT

[Pg 36]

[Pg 37]“Put some bread crumbs on top of the barrel, Willis, and less see if he can peck it off,” suggested Mary Van in baby treble.

The Langshan seemed to understand, for he watched Willis with interest as he crumbled the bread; and after due consideration, and with an almost human scorn towards the hens, measured his steps to the barrel, and stretching his long neck, removed every crumb from the top. After this he slowly raised one foot as though to return to the company of hens, but changing his mind, stood with the foot poised in air and one eye apparently fixed upon Phyllis.

[Pg 38]“Come on, chillun, I ain’ gwine stay hyah an’ let dat ole chicken conjur me.”

“I don’t want to go, Mammy, I want to stay and feed the chickens,” protested Willis.

“I want to see him eat off the barrel some more,” pleaded Mary Van.

“Dat rooster ain’t no chicken, I tell yer, ’tain’ nuthin’ in dis worl’ but er hant.”

This closed the argument, for they felt the mysterious influence of “hants” that was upon Phyllis, hence they followed like the meekest of lambs until she stopped at her own room in the yard. After stirring some embers to a flickering sort of blaze, she looked insinuatingly about her and broke into an excited whisper: “Whinsomev’r yer sees enything right shiny black, widout er single white speck on hit nowhar, you[Pg 39] kin jes put hit down in yo’ mine, dats er hant! ’Tain’ no use ter argufy erbout it; dem’s de creeturs dat speerets rides whin dey comes back ter dis worl’. An’ ’twas one er dem same black, biggity Langshans dat ole man Gully’s hant come back inter.” Phyllis had taken her seat by this time, and the children had scrambled into her lap. “Sakes erlive! You all mos’ claw me ter death. How yer ’speck erbody ter be hol’in’ two growd up fokes like youall is?” But the children continued to climb, one on each knee. Phyllis put out her foot and dragged a chair in front of her. “Hyah stretch yer

foots out on de cheer, an’ mebby ef yer sets still, I kin make out ter hole yer.”

“Mammy, where do hants stay?” asked Willis.

“Hants is ev’r whars,” she looked about[Pg 40] her; “dis hyah room right full uv ’em now.”

Mary Van’s head was immediately buried on the old woman’s shoulder, while Willis’s arms locked tightly around her neck.

“Yas,” she continued, in low mysterious tones, “dis whole wurl’s pack’d full uv ’em, but ’tain’ no use ter git skeer’d, long es dey ain’ got no bisnes’ wid you. De time ter git skeer’d is whin you sees ’em!” (A scream from Mary Van answered by a tremor from Willis.) “Some fokes doan git skeer’d den, kaze dey knows ’tain’ no use ter git skeer’d er good speerets—hit’s jes dese bad hants dat does de damage.”

“Tell us about a good, good spirit, Mammy,” came in muffled tones from Mary Van.

“Cause we don’t want to hear about bad old hants,” finished Willis.

[Pg 41]“How yer speck me ter tell yer enything wid you chokin’ me, an’ Ma’y Van standin’ on her haid on m’ should’r. Set up like fokes—you hole dis han’ an’ let Ma’y Van hole dis un, an’ I’ll tell yer ’bout old man Gully’s hant.”

“Ole man Gully wus de biggites’ creetur’ you ev’r seed; he jes nachilly so biggity he ’fuse ter do er lick er wurk. Plantin’ time er harves’ time ain’ make no diffunce ter ole man Gully. He set up on his front po’ch an’ smoke his pipe, an’ read de newspaper an’ eat same es one dese ole buckshire hogs, whilst his old lady, an’ de chilluns, an’ der ole nigg’r Abe, done all de wurk.

“Ole Miss Gully wus pow’ful sot on de ole man; she think he’s de mos’ pow’fules’ gran’ man in de wurl. Ef he say ‘I wants er chaw er ’bark’r,’ de ole lady’d break her[Pg 42] neck runnin’ ter de fiel’ ter tell Abe ter take de mule out’n de plow an’ fly ter town fur de ’bark’r. Den she’d git de old broke down steer an’ go ter plowin’ tell Abe come back. All dis time ole man Gully snoozin’ on de po’ch in de cool. Ef er rainy spell come an’ spile de wheat, er ef fros’ come an’ kill de fruit, ole man Gully ’buse de ole lady an’ de chilluns, an’ say ef dey had er done like he tole ’em hit nuv’r wud er hap’n’d.