DEVIL TALES

BY Virginia Frazer Boyle

ILLUSTRATED BY A. B. FROST

NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS MCM

Copyright, 1900, by Harper & Brothers: All rights reserved.

TO ELLEN

ILLUSTRATIONS

[Pg vii]

INTRODUCTION

The sunlight drifting through an avenue of live-oaks sifts dappled gold upon the well-known gig that has splashed through miles and miles of the waxy “buckshot” mud, and now winds slowly up the driveway to stop before the broad white pillars of the “Big House.”

A dozen little negroes clamor for the lines, and with a friendly nod to them the autocrat of autocrats gives his hand to “Ole Miss,” who is standing at the open door.

“Ole Marse” sits with him in the library below, talking in subdued tones and joining now and again in a familiar julep, brought, at regular intervals, cold and dewy, by the serving man, Cæsar. And “Young Marse,” with his head upon his hand, every nerve strained to its tension, looks idly through the window upon the pulsing life without.

[Pg viii]

Then a feeble wail sets a pace to hurrying feet and smiling faces as the great bell clangs in the “Quarters” the coming of “Little Marse.”

But hardly second in importance to the arrival of the little lord of the domain is the advent of the Queen of the Nursery, who had been installed from the “Quarters” many days before; for on her capacious bosom the baby head of “Young Marse” had rested, and this, more than likely, is the third generation of her subjects.

The turbaned head is held high and her sway is supreme, for no one can do quite so well for “Baby” when his enemies attack him; her cup and spoon can usually rout the most persistent, and hives and whooping-cough fly ignominiously before her catnip and calimus tea.

The older children, turned over some time ago to the good graces of the second nurse, that “Mammy” might have time to rest, cling about her chair and pull at her skirts, looking with jealous eyes upon the tiny bundle that has usurped the warm nest of her arms, and when at last the little lord consents to sleep, and “Mammy” shoos the flies and draws the bar, the young deposed, of flaxen locks and[Pg ix] blue-checked apron, with sleepy eyes borrows the nest a while, regardless of the clamor of the others. “Mammy, tell a tale!”

And “Mammy” tells it; day after day she pours out the wealth of her inheritance, as her kindred, the “Mammies” before her, have done, and these children of children’s children listen with the same unfeigned delight.

But “Baby” is wearing trousers now—has attained to the dignity of being called by his own name, and “Mammy” is back in her cabin again, that Mecca of childish desire, between which and the “Big House” a path is worn by little pilgrims; for if “Mammy” is ailing there are flannels and loaf-sugar to be brought, and there are always ash-cakes to be baked, sweet-potatoes, goobers, chestnuts, or apples to be roasted by “Mammy’s” hearth, and, if nothing else offers, even plain buttermilk off her deal table, drunk from her cracked blue china bowl, tastes better than any other.

Then, after a season, the stone-bruises, stubbed toes, and little cut fingers are gone, and “Mammy’s” roll of old linen, with its familiar turpentine and sugar, are never now disturbed. The bewildering mass of curls that only “Mammy’s” hand could comb without a shower of[Pg x] tears, together with the dainty buttoned pinafores, have faded too, somewhere, for the college days have come and the first love affairs—those strange, all-absorbing passions—and as “Mammy’s” lap, with its smooth white apron and comfortable knees had been the receptacle of all broken dolls and toys, so “Mammy’s” ear is the haven of youthful broken hearts, and the same old stories are tenderly applied for the mending.

But time ripens, and the roof-tree is shaken of its fruit. First in joy and first in sorrow, it is “Mammy” who shrouds the form of “Ole Miss,” and now she looks longingly into the past.

A few short years that seem as days, and “Little Miss” smoothes the folds of “Mammy’s” black silk, “saved against her burying,” and pins, through blinding tears, a white rose above the still heart, and “Mammy’s” daughter, fat and gentle, with “Mammy’s” own soft, crooning voice, takes up the cradle song.

They romped together, these two, beneath the self-same oaks—“Little Miss” and “Mammy’s” daughter—but “Little Miss” now wears a cap (she is “Ole Miss,” too, to some down in[Pg xi] the “Quarters”), and the folds of the other’s turban are as full of comfortable dignity as the dusky mother’s were.

“Little Miss,” still sweet and dainty in her dimity, smiles over her netting and slips the beads upon the scarlet threads or sorts her crewels in the shady porch, for at the other end, just out of sight, the old split-bottomed hickory chair resumes its familiar “thump” to the music of a negro voice.

Again it is “the dark of the moon,” and Satan is abroad in the “Quarters,” and the good hoodoo who must beat the devil at his own game is working wonders against him as he “splits the wind.” “Ole Cinder Cat” sits by the hearth nightly, and the “devil’s little fly” buzzes audibly in wondering childish ears.

The same old stories, ever witching, ever new, to the same old chorus—“Tell another, Mammy!”

Another chorus calls to answering silence, for she is gone. The swaying form, crooning in low rich voice, like some bronze Homer blind to letters, a weird primeval lore into the ears of future orators, is shut within the feudal past of the old plantation days, for the brown breast[Pg xii] that pillowed its brain and beauty is still forever, and that South too is dead.

The worn split-bottomed chair is empty, filled with dust and years, for it is we who seek to conjure with it now—we who have heard unwitting at that shrine a classic that America may call her own.

[Pg 3]

OLD CINDER CAT

Solon and Juno had quarrelled. Now a quarrel was not an unusual occurrence in the Quarters, but Solon and Juno had been exemplars of conjugal felicity for nearly eighteen years, and had been held up to their dusky world as patterns to be zealously copied.

This unpleasantness, however, had been brewing for a long time; but hitherto, if one had lost temper, the other had always prudently remembered that they were in the fierce light that beats upon all paragons, and wisely refrained from adding to the flame. But at last there was a culmination behind closed doors, and when Solon and Juno arose at daylight neither had yielded a single point.

The most mortifying part of the whole proceeding[Pg 4] to Solon was the fact that he had just “experienced religion,” and this disgraceful thing coming close upon the second week was certainly a most painful “falling from grace,” and he groaned in spirit lest the news should be noised abroad.

Juno, however, had no such qualms of conscience, for, though she went to “meeting” persistently, her service was of the even, regular variety, and as she was never known to shout, and had never “come under conviction,” ’Zorter Blalock, newly come into that fold, took her under especial consideration, and prayed nightly for “dem needer hot, needer cole, les’ dey be spit outen de mouf, O Lord!”

Juno raised no question as to the genuineness of Solon’s religion; but she had her own grievance against him; for in her old age Juno had grown jealous; and at last, from much dwelling upon some recent occurrences simultaneous with Solon’s profession, Juno had become suspicious.

Twice of late Solon had asked for a pass to the adjoining plantation; the last time she knew he had to swim the creek, for the water was up, there was no one at the ferry that time of night, and he couldn’t have taken a mule[Pg 5] without waking John, who was most unobliging in such matters. Then, more positive proof than anything else, Solon’s head was very wet when he came in, along towards day, and he was very surly when questioned about it.

“Gittin’ ’ligion go mighty hard wid you, Solon,” said Juno. “Hit keep you outen you’ bed when hones’ folks is all ersleep. You does lack you tryin’ ter lay er ghos’, ’steader gittin’ peace.”

Juno, typical of her race, and particularly of her sex, though possessing no occult gifts of her own, was very superstitious, and, goaded by her suspicions, resolved to make use of the simple means within her reach; so, begging some coffee-grounds of Aunt Susan, the cook at the Big House, she “turned the three cups of her fortune,” for she felt that something was going wrong.

The first and second cups were barren of information, they represented youth, and the grounds did not even “wash.” But the third—ah! she knew it—Solon was deep in mischief, for this was the way it read:

That spot represented herself. There was a cross by it; that represented trouble—no, it did not mean death. That clear space represented[Pg 6] water—the cross pointed that way, towards the north. Bowen’s plantation was north: that was where Solon went. Across the water was another cross—trouble again. Beyond the cross was an eagle—that meant luck; but between the cross and the eagle, close to the cross—in fact, an arm of the cross pointed right to it—was a (Juno rubbed her eyes and looked again, then she pulled her brass specs, which she seldom used, down upon her nose and took the cup to the window)—was a woman!

Her hand trembled a little with indecision, then, forgetful of the borrowed cup, she threw it into the grove. So the quarrel had come about without a happy solution of the difficulty, for Solon sullenly but persistently declared his innocence of offence, while Juno as persistently put the question.

Next morning saw the beginning of a series of omens and disasters, showing that some dark power was at work, for, without cause or warning, Juno’s skillet cracked right in two on the fire before the hoe-cake was done; Solon’s rooster stood in the doorway and crowed three times before he could shoo him away; and a chimney-swallow got into the cabin and[Pg 7] beat its wings bloody against the wall in its efforts to get out.

A very thoughtful, silent pair joined the hands in the field that morning, for everything seemed to be going wrong. Juno got a “miz’ry in her side” long before noon, and just as the most unsatisfactory day that they had ever spent together was closing, a “cotton-mouth” bit Solon on the heel. Juno ran to kill a chicken to apply to the wound to draw out the poison, for she had more faith in the warm chicken than in Ole Marse’s whiskey, which was plentifully supplied. She did not want to see Solon die with, as she said, “a lie in de mouf”; and, hoping to avert evil, she killed the very rooster that had crowed so inauspiciously early in the morning, thus opening upon her head the vials of Solon’s wrath when he had recovered from his fright.

“Ju! you done los’ you’ head-piece sho’, you fool! Hain’t I done gib up all I got ter git dat dominicker, an’ hain’t got but one, an’ here you go an’ split him up fur er snake-bite lack any common chick’n! I lay I larn you, ole ’oman, if I hatter frail you ever’ day ’twix’ now an’ Chris’mus!”

“An’ I lay, if you does, I’ll up an’ tell ’em[Pg 8] in de meetin’ how you done git dat rooster, Solon!”

Then, to the amazement of both, the story of the quarrel got out; the faintest whisper of the midnight was exploited, as it were, upon the house-tops; wagging heads were turned and loosened tongues clattered; and at night Juno quilted in silence, and Solon sought his religious counsellors without comfort.

So the days passed, and Juno could see that Solon was perfectly miserable; but he kept his own counsel, and, despite his vehement protestations, the visits over the creek continued.

Then Solon fell ill of fever and ague. The overseer said that the trouble was malarial, caused by the weekly trips across the bottom, and refused to grant further passes; but it was to Parson Blalock that Solon poured out the burden of his woes.

“I done come ter gib up dat ’ligion. Parson Blalock”; and Solon yawned and shivered in the sunshine, for his chill-time was coming on. “Nebber hab no trouble ner nuffin ail me twel I git hit, an’ here I gwine chillin’ ever’ udder day lack er po’ mizerbul lam’ dat done been drapped too soon. Hit done go too hard wid me, Parson Blalock, an’ I come ter gib hit up!”

[Pg 9]

The ’zorter and ’spounder scratched his head thoughtfully, then laid a bar on the anvil—for Parson Blalock was a blacksmith on weekdays.

“Ter my min’, Brer Solon, you cain’t gib hit up. Once in de fol’, you b’long ter de fol’; you cain’t git out; an’ er-doin’ lack you is now, is how ever’ fol’ done git er black sheep in hit!”

“Hit hain’t struck in deep yit, an’ I hain’t got no use fur dat ’ligion, an’ I want ter let hit go!” moaned Solon.

Parson Blalock had let the iron cool, and, drawing close to Solon, he whispered: “Hit hain’t no ’ligion dat wukin’ on you, Brer Solon; you’s right; you hain’t neber got ernough fur dat! ’Cordin’ ter de signs er de times, ter my min’, hit er hoodoo, an’ you better look out fur her, ’case de hoodoo am er ’oman!”

Solon smiled in a sickly, hopeless way, for the ague was upon him, and turned away in the direction of his cabin. But Juno was not there. Crouching low before the witch-fire of Maum Ysbel, there had been poured into her ears enough of misery to last through a whole cycle,[Pg 10] the price of barter having been a coveted china cup.

There was no light in the cabin, save from the blue and green flames that were now dying out, lighting fitfully the features of the toothless, weazened negress who knelt before it, for the only opening was barred by a roughhewn hickory log. On the red coals snake fat and lizard skin, mixed with some strange, ill-odored stuff, were merrily bubbling; and the oracle continued:

“‘Tain’t no use ter try dat cat; hain’t nuffin but Ole Cinder Cat; you’ll fin’ her bloody bones hid out somers. Hain’t nuffin but er hoodoo dat er ridin’ dat cat, des ter ’do’ you wid Solon; but if yo’ wants ter mek sho’, jes ketch her when she dozin’ in de ashes an’ put her in de tar bar’l dar by you’ do’ wid de head druv in, an’ set fire ter hit. If hit Ole Cinder, you’ll fin’ her, ’dout eben her tail scotched, er-grinnin’ in de hot ashes when de fire done die out. If dat happin, den you gotter ketch her ergin—an’ she’s gwinter gib you er putty hard run—an’ ’n’int her hin’ de years wid dis grease; den foller uv her, an’ tek dis bone wid you—whatebber you does, don’ lose dis. If she cross de creek, she gwinter cross by de dry bed, ’case she hain’t[Pg 11] gwinter wet her foots lessen she kin hope hit; an’ she gotter go mighty fur way up fur ter git ober dry, so you mought tek sumpen ter eat wid you. Don’ matter how tired you gits, keep er-foll’in’ de cat, an’ es soon es yo’ git on t’uther

side, mek er cross an’ spit in hit, den rub you’ eyes wid dis bone, an’ tu’n roun’ free times. Dat ’ll mek de hoodoo gib up de Cinder Cat’s skin, an’ right dar es you tu’n you’ll see de pusson dat been mekin’ all dis here trouble ’twix’ you an’ Solon. You’ll know her when yo’ sees her, but don’ say nuffin ter her but ’Howdy?’ an’ don’ eat nuffin she gib yo’, ’case she mout ’fix’ yo’ lack she do Solon, an’ yo’ cain’t do nuffin yit. Yo’ gotter wait twel de spring, when de sap ’ll git up. Don’ yo’ quoil wid Solon ’twix’ now an’ den; Solon’s er good man; he wouldn’ be no kin ter me if he wa’n’t!—fur he’s des hoodooed an’ hain’t ’sponsible. But soon’s de sap’s riz you git yo’ er good big piece er green grape-vine an’ lay fur de ’oman, an’ hit her wid hit unbeknownst; ’case if she know yo’ arter her, she’ll go er mighty long piece outen her way ter git shet er yo’, fur de grape-vine sho’ brek de charm—hain’t no hoodoo kin mek er stan’ ’gin yo’ if you hit ’em wid

er grape-vine when de sap’s up; but be[Pg 12] mighty sho’ she’s stan’in’ on her own groun’ when yo’ hits her. If yo’ does what I tells you, gal, dat Solon ’ll come back ter yo’ in er herry, des es meek an’ peaceable es er lam’.”

Be it far from the chronicler of the Scheherazade of the nursery to narrate the marital infelicities of Solon and Juno for the space of nearly a year, but Mammy solemnly declares that the Cinder Cat bore the test of the fiery tar, and sat calmly grinning in the ashes when the flame had died away; and Juno, remembering the admonition, anointed the ears of the cat with Maum Ysbel’s ointment, pleaded illness to the overseer, and, putting the wonderful bone that was to give her superhuman sight into her basket, together with a hoe-cake, she followed Old Cinder Cat.

The cat progressed by many devious ways, giving many an unusual twinge to the rheumatic limbs, for often Juno had to go on hands and knees, scratching and tearing her face as she heard most unholy conversations between the cat and the cold-blooded things that creep and thrive in darkness.

But at last the dry bed of the creek was crossed, and, doing as Maum Ysbel had bidden, Juno met face to face the comeliest of yellow girls[Pg 13] coming from milking, with her pail upon her head.

“Howdy?” said Juno.

“Howdy?” rejoined the girl, smiling, as she offered Juno a tin cup of the milk.

The temptation was sore, for the rough hoe-cake, eaten in haste without water, had parched her throat; but, remembering the warning, Juno swallowed hard.

“Much obleeged, lady, but I hain’t got time”; and, breathless and bleeding from her scratches, Juno hurried back to report to Maum Ysbel.

But the depth of winter was upon the land; it would be many a day before vegetation would wake; and Juno, with consuming patience, bore the vagaries of Solon until the leaves were born. Twice, in despair, Juno had tapped the grape-vine, and twice the sap had failed to flow, but the last straw was broken in this wise:

There was to be a break-down in the Quarters, to celebrate the breaking of some new ground on the river-side, that had been deadened some two years before, and, in accordance with Ole Marse’s custom, the laborers were permitted to invite the negroes upon the adjoining plantation. It was to be a great[Pg 14] event, and Juno was preparing for the same with great interest, for even flesh and age could not bare as neat a pair of heels as hers for certain intricate shuffles, when, all of a sudden, Solon declared his intention of not attending. Such a thing had not been known to happen in the whole course of Solon’s existence. For two days before the break-down he claimed that he was sick, and took all of Juno’s nauseous concoctions without a murmur. Then he besought Juno not to go to the dance. It was devil trickery, he said, and it was very hard on him, as he was trying to keep his religion that he had gotten so painfully, and the devil would be sure to follow her home. He proposed that Juno should remain quietly in the cabin as usual on the night of the break-down,

as an example to the weaker “professors,” while he thought it might do him good to pay a dutiful visit to his old “daddy” across the river—for Old Marse owned on both sides.

But though Juno physicked her spouse faithfully, she rebelled against such imposition.