Chapter 6

“Give 'er ter me, Malviny. Don't pappy's gal want er ride on pappy's foot? See 'ere, now! Whoopee!” and placing the plump little body astride his foot, the leg of which crossed the other, and clasping the baby hands in his, he tossed her up and down till she crowed and laughed in a perfect abandon of baby glee. A smiling audience looked on in joyous sympathy with the baby's pleasure, the old gra'mammy murmuring softly, “It's like feelin' the sunshine ter hear her laugh!”

“There, pappy,” said Mother Tyler, anxiously, “that'll do; ye're goin' ter git 'er so wide-erwake there'll be no doin' er thing with 'er. Come, now, Thaney, let mammy put ye down here on yer quilt. Come, come, I _know_ ye've forgot that ole bugger-man that stays up th' chimbly 'n' ketches bad gals! There, now, that's mammy's nice gal. Git 'er playthings fer 'er, Susan Jane. Jim, don't ye go ter sleep there in that door. Ha' ye washed yer feet?”

“No, 'm,” came drowsily from the doorway.

“Why upon th' yeth do ye wait every blessed night ter be told ter wash yer feet? Go straight 'n' wash 'em, 'n' then go ter bed. Come, gals, knit ter th' middle 'n' put up yer knittin'; it's time for all little folks ter go ter sleep 'n' look for ter-morrer. 'Pears like Thaney's goin' ter look fer it with eyes wide open.”

“Malviny, ye'll have ter toe up my knittin' fer me, Monday; I've got it down ter th' narrerin', 'n' I can't do no more,” came softly from gra'mammy's corner.

“Ya'as, mother, I will; I could ha' toed it up this evenin' es well es not, tho' ef I had, ye'd ha' started ernuther, 'n' ye'd need ter rest; ye're allers knittin'.”

“Ya'as, but, darter, it's all I kin do; 'n' I'm so thankful I kin feel ter knit, fer th' hardest work is ter set wi' folded han's doin' nothin'.”

“Well, mother, it's but sildom that I ever knowed yer ter set with folded han's,” remarked her son, with proud tenderness.

“Maybe, Jeems Henry; but I never tuck no consait ter myself fer workin', because I jest nachally loved it. Yer pappy use ter say I was er born worker, 'n' how he did use ter praise me fer bein' smart! 'n' that was sich er help! Somehow I've minded me of 'im all day ter-day--of th' time when he logged Whitcombe's mill down on Fallin' Crick. 'Twas--lemme see! Jeems Henry, ye're how ole?”

“Fifty-two my las' birthday.”

“Well, that was fifty-one year ergo. You was all th' one I had then, 'n' yer pappy was erway from home all th' week, 'cept from Sat'day evenin' tell 'fore day Monday monrin'. Melindy White staid wi' me; she was Zekle's great-aunt, 'n' er ole maid, 'n' people did say she was monst'ous cross 'n' crabbed, but she warn't never cross ter me. I mind me of er Sat'day, 'n' I'd be spectin' of yer pappy home. I'd git up at th' fust cock-crow, 'n' go wake Melindy, 'n' she'd grumble 'n' laff all in er breath, 'n' say: 'Ann Elisabeth Tyler, ye're th' most onreasonablest creeter that I ever seed! What in natur' do ye want ter git up 'fore day fer? Jest ter make th' time that much longer 'fore Jim Tyler comes? I know ef I was married ter th' President I wouldn't be es big er fool es ye air.' But, la! she'd git up jest ter pleasure me, 'n' then sich cleanin' up, 'n' sich cookin' o' pies 'n' cakes 'n' chickens, 'n' gittin' ready fer yer pappy ter come!” And the placid old face fairly glowed with the remembrance. “'N' I mind me,” she crooned on, “of th' time when ye fust begun ter talk; I was er whole week er-teachin' yer ter say two words; I didn't do much else. Melindy allowed that I'd gone clean daft; 'n' when Sat'day come, 'long erbout milkin'-time, I put on er pink caliker frock. I 'member it jest es well! it had little white specks on the pink; he bought it at Miggs's Crossroads, 'n' said I allers looked like er rose in it. I tuck ye in my arms 'n' went down ter th' bars, where I allers stood ter watch fer 'im; he come in er boat ter th' little landin' 'n' walked home, erbout er mile; 'n' when I seed 'im comin', 'n' he'd got nigh ernuff, I whispered ter ye, 'n' ye clapped yer little han's, 'n' fairly shouted out, 'Pappy's tumin'! pappy's tumin'!' Dearie me, dearie me; I kin see 'im now so plain! He broke inter er run, 'n' I stepped over th' bars ter meet 'im, 'n' he gethered us both in his arms, like es of he'd never turn loose; then he car'ied ye up to th' house on one arm, the other one roun' my wais', 'n' he made ye say it over 'n' over--'Pappy's tumin', pappy's tumin';' 'n' Melindy 'lowed we wer' 'th' biggest pair o' geese'; but we was mighty happy geese jest th' same.”

There was a pause. They were all listening. Then she went on. “Somehow ter-day I felt like I use ter of er Sat'-day then, kinder spectin' 'n' light-hearted. I dun'no' why; I ain't never felt so befo' in all these years sence he died--forty-one on 'em; 'n' fifteen sence th' Lord shet down th' dark over my eyes, day 'n' night erlike. Well, well; I've had er heap ter be thankful fer; th' Lord has been good ter me; fer no mother ever had er better son than ye've allers ben, Jeems Henry; 'n' of Malviny had er ben my own darter, she couldn't er ben more like one; I've alleys ben tuck keer on, 'n' waited on, 'n' 'ain't never ben sat erside fer no one. Ya'as, th' Lord's ben good ter me.” She began to fumble for her handkerchief.

“But, mother, ye don't say nothin' o' what er blessin' ye've ben to us,” said her son. “Ye've teached us many er lesson by yer patience in yer blindness.”

“Ya'as, but, Jeems Henry, I had no call ter be nothin' else but patient; I had no call ter be onreasonable 'n' fret 'n' worry 'n' say that th' Lord had forsakened me when He hadn't. I knowed I'd only ter bide my time, 'n' I'm now near seventy-two year old. Dear, dear, how th' time goes! Seems like only th' other day when I was married! Was that nine the clock struck?”

“Ya'as, 'm.”

“Well, I b'lieve I'll git ter bed.”

“Wait, mother, let me help yer,” said her daughter, hastily throwing aside her knitting.

“We'll both help ye, mother,” said her son, putting one arm gently around her as she arose from her chair.

“Well, well,” she laughed, with soft content. “I sh'll be well waited on with two children 'stid er one; but none too many--none too many.”

Zekle White had made brave progress from the chair by the door to the other rocker, drawn closely beside that of Mandy Calline; and he was saying, in tones that suggested an effort: “I've seed other young ladies which may be better-lookin' in other folkses' eyes, 'n' they may be more suiterbler ter marry, but not fer me. Thar ain't but one gurl in this roun' worl' that I'd ask ter be my wife, 'n', Mandy Calline, I've ben keepin' comp'ny wi' you long ernuff fer ye ter know that ye air th' one.” He swallowed, and went on: “I've got my house nigh erbout done. Ter be sho', 'tain't es fine es this un, nor es big; but I kin add ter it, 'n' jest es soon es it is done I want ter put my wife in it. Now, Mandy Calline, what yer say--will yer be my wife?”

Mandy Calline looked shy--much like a young colt when it is going to break out of harness. She rocked back and forth with short spasmodic jerks, and twisted her handkerchief into all conceivable shapes.

“Yer don't know how sot on it I am,” he went on; “'n' all day long I'm er-thinkin' how nice it 'll be when I'm er-workin', ploughin' maybe, up one row 'n' down ernuther, 'n' watchin' th' sun go down, 'n' lookin' forerd ter goin' ter th' house 'n' hev er nice little wife ter meet me, wi' everything tidied up 'n' cheerful 'n' comf'ble.” Mandy Calline simply drooped her head lower, and twisted her handkerchief tighter. “Mandy Calline, don't yer say 'no,'” he said. “I love yer too well ter give yer up easy; 'n' I swear ef ye don't say `yes,' I'll set fire 'n' burn up th' new house, fer no other 'oman sha'n't never live there. I'm er-waitin', Mandy Calline, 'n' don't, don't tell me no.”

“Well, Zekle,” she began, with much hesitation, “bein' es how I don't see no use in burnin' up er right new house, 'n' it not even finished, I guess es how--maybe--in erbout two or three years--”

“Two or three thunderations!” he cried out, ecstatically, seizing both her hands in his. “Yer mean two or three weeks! Mandy Calline, do ye mean ya'as, ye'll marry me? I want ter hear ye say it.”

“Ya'as, Zekle,” she said, shyly. “Whoopee! I feel like I'd like ter jump up 'n' knock my heels tergether 'n' yell!”

“Yer'd better try it er spell.” she said, smiling at him shyly, “'n' jest see how soon ye'd ha' th' hull fambly er-rushin' in ter see what was the matter.”

Hereupon came the ominous sound of Father Tyler winding the clock in the sitting-room; Zekle knew 'twas a signal for him to depart.

“Well,” slowly rising, “I guess I got ter go, but I do mortally hate ter. Come ter th' door wi' me, Mandy Calline”; and taking her hand, he drew her up beside him, but she stood off a bit skittishly, and he knew that it would be useless to ask the question which was trembling on his lips, so, quick as a flash, he dropped one arm around her waist, tipped up her chin with the other hand, and kissed her square on the mouth before she fairly knew what he was about.

“You Zekle White!” she cried out, snatching herself from his arm and bestowing a rousing slap on his face.

“I knowed ye wouldn't give me one, so I tuck it jest so. Good-night tell ter-morrer, Mandy Calline; I'm goin' home 'n' dream erbout ye.”

The next morning dawned bright and soft. A perfect September morning. Father Tyler and the boys were at the lot feeding and milking. Mandy Calline was cleaning up the house, her comely face aglow with her new-found happiness. Susan Jane attended to the baby, while Ann Elisabeth helped her mother “get breakfast.”

“Gra'mammy was sleepin' so nice when I got up,” said the girl, “that I crep' out 'n' didn't wake 'er. Had I better go see of she's erwake now, mar? Breakfus is nigh erbout done.”

“Not yet. Go tell Mandy Calline ter git th' milk-pitcher 'n' go to the cow-pen 'n' fetch some milk fer breakfus. No tellin' when they'll git thoo out there. Then you hurry back 'n' finish fryin' that pan o' pertaters. No need ter 'sturb gra'mammy till breakfus is ready ter put on th' table; 'n' yer pappy 'n' th' boys'll ha' ter wash when they come from th' lot.” And Mother Tyler opened the stove door and put in a generous pan of biscuits to bake.

Mandy Calline, with the milk-pitcher in her hand, hurried out to the cow-pen, which adjoined the stable lot. Her father was milking, Jim holding the calves. Zachariah was in the lot feeding the horse and pigs. She had just stepped over the bars into the pen, when who should appear, sauntering up, but Zeke White! He assumed a brave front, and with hands thrust in his pantaloons pockets, came up, whistling softly.

“Good-mornin', Zekle,” greeted Father Tyler, rising from his stooping position.

“Good-mornin', Mr. Tyler. Fine mornin'.”

“Ya'as; but I'm erfeared we're goin' ter hev rain in er day er two. I feel ruther rheumaticky this mornin', er mighty shore sign that rain ain't fur off. Want milk fer breakfus, Mandy Calline? Well, fetch here yer pitcher.”

A shy “good-mornin”' had passed between Mandy Calline and Zekle, and he sauntered up beside her, taking the pitcher, and as they stepped over the bars Father Tyler, hospitably inclined, said: “Take breakfus with us, Zekle? I lay Malviny 'll hev ernuff cooked ter give yer er bite.”

With assumed hesitation Zekle accepted the invitation, and he and Mandy Calline passed on to the house, he carefully carrying the pitcher of milk.

He cleared his throat a time or two, and remarked again on the beauty of the morning, to which she rather nervously assented; then suddenly, the words seemingly shot out of him: “Mandy Calline, I'm goin' ter ask th' ole folks ter-day. What yer say?”

Mandy Calline was red as a turkey-cock, to which was now added a nervous confusion which bade fair to overwhelm her.

“It's too soon, Zekle. Whyn't yer wait er while?” she replied, tremblingly.

“No, 'tain't too soon,” he answered, promptly. “I want it all done 'n' over with, then I sh'll feel mo' like ye b'long ter me. I'm goin' ter ask 'em ter-day; yer needn't say not. I know you're erfeared o' th' teasin'. But ye needn't min' that; ye won't hev ter put up wi' it long; fer th' way I mean ter work on that house ter git it done--well, 'twon't be long befo' it 'll be ready ter put my wife in it.”

“Well, Zekle,” said the girl, hesitatingly, “ef ye'd ruther ask 'em ter-day, why--I guess es how--ye mought es well do it. But let's go 'n' tell gra'mammy now; somehow I'd ruther she knowed it fust.”

“We will,” replied Zekle, promptly.

* * * * *

Mother Tyler was putting breakfast on the table. She suddenly paused and listened. Something was the matter. There were cries that betokened trouble. She hastened to the house, followed her husband and the boys on to gra'mammy's room, and there on the bed, in peaceful contrast to all this wailing and sorrow, lay dear old gra'mammy, dead. The happiest smile glorified the kind old withered face, and the wrinkled hands lay crossed and still on her breast. She had truly met the husband of her youth, and God had opened in death the eyes so darkened in life.

My Fifth in Mammy

By William Ludwell Sheppard

I never knew a time in which I did not know Mammy. She was simply a part of my consciousness; it seems to me now a more vivid one in my earliest years than that of the existence of my parents. We five, though instructed by an elder sister in the rudiments of learning, spent many more of our waking hours with Mammy; and whilst we drew knowledge from one source, we derived the greater part of our pleasure from the other--that is, outside of our playmates.

The moments just preceding bedtime, in which we were undergoing the process of disrobing at the hands of Mammy, were periods of dreadful pleasure to us. As I look back upon them, I wonder that we got any sleep at all after some of her recitals. They were not always sanguinary or ghostly, and of course when I scan them in the light of later years, it is apparent that Mammy, like the majority of people, “without regard to color or previous condition of servitude,” suffered her walk and conversation to be influenced by her state of health, mental and bodily. Her walk--I am afraid I must admit, as all biographers seem privileged to deal with the frailties of their victims as freely as with their virtues--her walk, viewed through the medium already alluded to, did not owe its occasional uncertainty to “very coarse veins,” though that malady, with a slight phonetic difference, Mammy undoubtedly suffered from, in common with the facts. She was a great believer in “dram” as a remedial agent, and homoeopathic practice was unknown with us at that period.

Mammy's code of laws for our moral government was one of threats of being “repoated to ole mahster,” tempered by tea of her own making dulcified by brown sugar of fascinating sweetness, anecdote, and autobiography.

The anecdotal part consisted almost exclusively of the fascinating répertoire of Uncle Remus. Indeed, to know the charm of that chronicle is reserved to the man or woman whose childhood dates from the _ante bellum_ period, and who had a Mammy.

In the autobiographical part Mammy spread us a chilling feast of horrors, varied by the supernatural. Long years after this period I read a protest in some Southern paper against this practice in the nursery, with its manifest consequences on the minds of children. It set me to wondering how it was that the consequences in my day seemed inappreciable. I do not understand it now. Some of Mammy's stories would have been bonanzas to a police reporter of today; others would have bred emulation in Edgar Poe. And yet I do not recall any subsequent terrors.

An account of the execution of some pirates, which she had witnessed when a “gal,” was popular. She had a rhyme which condensed the details. The condemned were Spaniards:

Pepe hung, Qulo fell, Felix died and went to ----

Mammy always gave the rhyme with awful emphasis.

She had had an experience before coming into our family, by purchase, which gave her easy precedence over all the mammies of all our friends. To be sure, it was an experience which the other mammies, as “good membahs of de chutch,” regarded as unholy; one which they congratulated themselves would never lie on their consciences, and of which poor Mammy was to die unshriven in their minds; for she never became a “sister,” so far as I ever learned.

But to us this experience was fruitful of many happy hours. Mammy had been tire-woman to Mrs. Gilfert, the reigning star of that date, at the old Marshall Theatre--the successor to one burnt in 1811.

The habit of the stock companies in those days was to remain the whole season, sometimes two or more, so Mammy had the opportunity to “assist” at the entire repertoire. It is one of the regrets of my life that I am not able to recall verbatim Mammy's arguments of the play, her descriptions of some of the actors, and her comments.

For some reason, when later on I wished to refresh my memory of these, Mammy had either forgotten them or suspected the intention of my asking. She ranked her experiences at the theatre along with her account of the adventures of the immortal “Mollie Cottontail” (for we did not know him as “Brer Rabbit”), and the rest of her lore, I suppose, and so could not realize that my maturer mind would care for any of them.

When I had subsequently made some acquaintance with plays, or read them, I recognized most of those described by Mammy. Some remain unidentified. Hamlet she preserved in name. Whilst she had no quotations of the words, she had a vivid recollection of the ghost scenes, and “pisenin' de king's ear.” She also gave us scenes in which “one uv them kings was hollerin' for his horse”--plainly Richard. Julius Caesar she easily kept in mind, as some acquaintance of her color bearing that name was long extant. I can still conjure up her tones and manner when she declaimed “'Dat you, Brutus?' An' he done stick him like de rest uv um; and him raised in de Caesar fam'ly like he wuz a son!”

The ingratitude of the thing struck through our night-gowns even then.

The period when Mammy's sway weakened was indeterminate. We boys after a while swapped places with Mammy, and made her the recipient of our small pedantries. I do not recollect, however, that we were ever cruel enough to throw her ignorance up to her.

At last the grown-up sisters absorbed all of Mammy's spare time. Sympathy was kept up between them after her bond with us was loosened, and they even took hints from her in matters of the toilet that were souvenirs of her stage days.

In the course of time reverses and bereavements came to the family. The girls had grown to womanhood and matrimony, and had begun their new lives in other places. Then came the inevitable to the elders, and it became necessary to convert all property into cash.

We were happy in being able to retain a good many of our household gods, and they are the Lares and Penates of our several homes to this day. We had long since ceased to think of Mammy Becky--she was never Rebecca--as property. In fact, we younger ones never thought of her as such. By law we were each entitled to a fifth in Mammy.

This came upon us in the nature of a shock at a family consultation on ways and means, and there was a disposition on the part of every party to the ownership to shift that responsibility to another.

I must do ourselves the justice to say that such a thing as converting Mammy into cash, and thus making her divisible, never for a moment entered our minds. It seemed, however, that the difficulty had occurred to her.

We all felt so guilty, when Mammy served tea that last evening, that we were sure she read our thoughts in our countenances. It would be nearer the truth to say that it was rather our fears that she should ever come to the knowledge that the word “sale” had been coupled with her name.

The next day we were to scatter, and it was imperative that some disposition should be made of Mammy. The old lady--for old we deemed her, though she could scarcely have been fifty--went calmly about the house looking to the packing of the thousand and one things, and not only looking, but using her tongue in language expressing utter contempt for all “lazy niggers” of these degenerate days--referring to the temporary “help.” The eldest sister was deputed to approach and sound Mammy on the momentous question.

The deputy went on her mission in fear and trembling. The interview was easily contrived in the adjoining room.

We were exceedingly embarrassed when we discovered that Mammy's part of the dialogue was perfectly audible. As for the sister's, her voice could be barely heard. So that the effect to the unwilling eavesdropper was that which we are familiar with in these days of hearing a conversation at the telephone.

“Don't you bother yo'self 'bout me, Miss Frances.”

Interval.

“No, marm. I'd ruther stay right here in dis town whar ev'body knows me. Doan yawl study 'bout me.”

Several bars' rest, apparently.

“Yes'm, I know hit's yo' duty to look after me, an' I belongs to all of you; but Ise concluded to let yawl off. You can't divide me into five parts, an' they ain' nah one uv you 'titled to any partickler part if you could; most uv me ain't much 'count nohow, what with very coarse veins an' so fothe. Oh, yes'm! I done study 'bout it plenty, an' I done concluded that I'll let yawl off an' do fur myself. You know I'm a prime cake-maker, bread-maker, an' kin do a whole pahcel uv other things besides; an' dress young ladies for parties, whar I learnt at the ole the-etter, which they built it after the fust one burnt up and all dem people whar dey got the Monnymental Chutch over um now; an' any kind of hair-dress-in', curlin' wid irons or quince juice, an' so fothe. No, don't you bother 'bout me.”

So Mammy was installed in a small house in a portion of the city occupied by a good many free people, and, as we subsequently ascertained, not bearing a very savory reputation.

We had heard it rumored that there were some suitors for Mammy's hand. She had always avowed that she had been a “likely gal,” but we had to take her word for this, as she had very slender claims to “likelihood”--if the word suits hers--in our remembrance. She was nearly a mulatto--very “light gingerbread,” or “saddle-colored”--and a widow of some years' standing. Still, there was no accounting for tastes amongst the colored folks, any more than there was amongst the whites in this matter. We surmised that some of the aspirants suspected Mammy of having a _dot_, the accumulation of many perquisites for her assistance on wedding occasions. It may be remarked that she had no legal right to demand anything for such services.

One of the sisters approached Mammy timidly on this subject, and was assured positively by her that “they ain't no nigger in the whole university whar I would marry. No, ma'm. I done got 'nough of um.”

We knew that Mammy's married life had been a stormy one. Her husband, Jerry, had been a skilful coach-painter, and got good wages for his master, who was liberal in the 'lowance that was made by all generous owners to slaves of this class. Jerry was a fervent “professor,” who came home drunk nearly every night, and never failed to throw up to Mammy her dangerous spiritual condition. Jerry was so vulnerable a subject that Mammy was prepared to score some strong points against him. He invariably met these retorts with roars of laughter and loud assertions of his being “in grace once for all.”

* * * * *

Left the sole representative of my family in the city, I had to start a new establishment, just as Mammy did.