Part 1

_Tar Heel Tales_

_By H. E. C. Bryant_ “_Red Buck_”

_Stone & Barringer Co. Charlotte, N. C. 1910_

COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY STONE & BARRINGER CO.

TO JOSEPH PEARSON CALDWELL

MOST OF THESE STORIES YOU HAVE SEEN, SOME YOU HAVE PRAISED, WHILE OTHERS, NEWLY WRIT, YOU HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO SEE ON ACCOUNT OF YOUR UNFORTUNATE ILLNESS, BUT, TO YOU, THE PRINCE OF TAR HEELS, I DEDICATE ALL, IN LOVING REMEMBRANCE OF FIFTEEN YEARS OF INTIMATE ACQUAINTANCE, FAITHFUL FRIENDSHIP, AND MOST DELIGHTFUL COMPANIONSHIP.

PREFACE

These tales, concerning all sorts and conditions of people, were written by H. E. C. Bryant, better known as Red Buck. As staff correspondent of The Charlotte Observer, Mr. Bryant visited every corner of North Carolina, and in his travels over the state wrote many stories of human interest, depicting life and character as he found it. His first impulse to publish his stories in book form resulted from an appreciation of his work by the lamented Harry Myrover, a very scholarly writer of Fayetteville, who said:

“I have been struck frequently at how the predominant mental characteristic sticks out in Mr. Bryant. His sense of humor is as keen as a razor. He sees a farce while other men are looking at a funeral, and this exquisite sense of humor is liable to break out at any time--even in church. One may read after him seriously, as he reports the proceedings of a big event but toward the last the whole thing is likely to burst out in an irrepressible guffaw, at some very quaint, funny reflection or criticism, or an inadversion. All this shows out, too, from the personal side of the man, making him delightful in talk, and altogether one of the most entertaining fellows one will meet in many a day’s journey.

“I really think there is more individuality about his writings, than about those of any other writer of the state. Every page sparkles and bubbles with the humor of the man, and it is a clean, wholesome humor, there being nothing in it to wound, but everything to cheer and please.”

These words honestly spoken by Mr. Myrover encouraged Mr. Bryant. Red Buck’s dialect stories soon obtained a state wide reputation, and as Mr. J. P. Caldwell, the gifted editor of The Charlotte Observer, truly said: “His negro dialect stories are equal to those of Joel Chandler Harris--Uncle Remus.”

His friends will be delighted to know that he has collected some of the best of his stories, and that they are presented here.

In North Carolina there is no better known man than Red Buck. A letter addressed to “Red Buck, North Carolina,” would be delivered to H. E. C. Bryant, at Charlotte. Everybody in the state knows the big hearted, auburn haired Scotch-Irishman of the Mecklenburg colony, who, on leaving college went to work on The Charlotte Observer and, on account of his cardinal locks, rosy complexion and gay and game way, was dubbed “Red Buck” by the editor, Mr. Caldwell. It was an office name for a time. Then it became state property, and the name “Bryant” perished.

Red Buck has traveled all over the state of North Carolina and written human interest stories from every sand-hill and mountain cove. Many Tar Heels know him by no other name than Red Buck. In fact there is a Red Buck fad in the state, which has resulted in a Red Buck brand of whiskey, a Red Buck cigar, a Red Buck mule, a Red Buck pig, and a Red Buck rooster, although the man for whom they are named drinks not, neither does he smoke.

This book of Tar Heel tales is from Mr. Bryant’s cleverest work.

THOMAS J. PENCE.

Washington Press Gallery.

December, 1909.

CONTENTS

PAGE

_Uncle Ben’s Last Fox Race_ 1

_Forty Acres and a Mule_ 11

_The Spaniel and the Cops_ 33

_A Hound of the Old Stock_ 43

_Minerva--The Owl_ 58

_Uncle Derrick in Washington_ 68

_And the Signs Failed Not_ 79

_The Irishman’s Game Cock_ 97

_Strange Vision of Arabella_ 112

_A Negro and His Friend_ 125

_Faithful Unto Death_ 142

_“Red Buck”: Where I Came By It_ 153

_Until Death Do Us Part_ 168

_Uncle George and the Englishman_ 181

_She Didn’t Like my Yellow Shoes_ 191

_Afraid of the Frowsy Blonde_ 199

_Jan Pier--The Shoeshine_ 206

_William and Appendicitis_ 214

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

_Nine Little Tar Heels_ Frontispiece

_Uncle Ben_ 1

_Aunt Matt_ 11

_Tite, Riding a Democratic Ox_ 27

_Marse Lawrence and Trouble_ 43

_Uncle Derrick at Home_ 68

_Preparing for the Guest_ 79

_Arabella the Day After_ 112

_Jim in a Peaceful Mood_ 125

_William_ 214

TAR HEEL TALES

UNCLE BEN’S LAST FOX RACE

“Me an’ Marse Jeems is all uv de ole stock dat’s lef’,” said Uncle Ben, an ex-slave of the Morrow family, of Providence township.

“Yes, Miss Lizzie, she’s daid, an’ ole Marster, he’s gone to jine her. It’s des me an’ Marse Jeems, an’ he’s in furrin parts. He sole de ole farm, all cep’n’ dis here little spot dat he lef’ fur me an’ Ellen. An’ Ellen, she’s daid an’ de ole nigger’s by hissef.

“Dey ain’t no foks lak dem here now. De times is done changed. Me an’ Marse Wash wuz de big uns here when he wuz livin’. All dis lan’ an’ dese farms belonged to him. But Marse Jeems he’s done come to be er fine doctor, an’ stays in New York.

“Evybudy’s gone an’ lef’ me.

“De horses an’ de houns, too, dey’re all gone.

“I guess I ain’t here fur long, but I sho’ woul’ lak to see ole Marster, an’ Miss Lizzie, an’ Sam, an’ Cindy, an’ Mollie, de hosses, an’ Joe, Jerry, Loud, Dinah, Sing, an’ Hannah, de dogs.”

The old darkey was on his death bed. He spoke in a weak but charming voice. His mind was wandering, returning to the past. He had been his old master’s hunting companion, his whipper-in, and their black and tan hounds were famous for speed, casting ahead at a loss and hard driving. They could catch a red fox or make him take to the earth.

Old Ben was a hunter from his heart. He loved the running dog, the fast horse and the chase. The pleasant days of years long since passed were coming back to him. He longed for one more run with the old Morrow hounds. Those who watched by the death bed in the little cabin, waiting for the final summons, listened to Ben’s stories of the past. Dr. Smith had telegraphed for Dr. James Morrow, the last of his family, and told him that the old man wanted to see him and say good-bye. Loyal to the last the young master was hurrying from the North to the old home place to be present when the faithful servant departed this life. He had asked Dr. Smith to make the last hours as comfortable as possible and to gratify Uncle Ben’s every wish.

It was almost midnight that October day; the moon was shining gloriously, the ground damp from recent rain and the weather fine for a fox hunt. The scenting conditions were well-nigh perfect. Dr. Morrow had just arrived, but old Ben did not know him.

“Yes, sir, Marse Wash, all’s ready fur de hunt,” said the negro in his delirium.

“Ever thing’s right an’ ole Hannah’s been clawin’ at my do’ fur de las’ hour. She’s mighty anxious to try dat ole Stinson fiel’ fox dis evnin’. De horses is done saddled an’ nothin’ to do but start.

“Des listen at Sing an’ Jerry, dey’s powful anxious to go!”

It was pathetic to hear the old fellow talking to his master who had been dead many years, but he seemed happy. There was no way to stop him if those there should have desired to do so.

“Blow yo’ horn, boss, an’ let Marse Sam Stitt jine us ef he will. Dat’ll do, I hear ’im. He’s comin’.”

For a time Uncle Ben was quiet. His lips worked and he seemed to be talking to himself. But, after a long silence, he lifted his head from the pillow and exclaimed: “Listen! Listen, Marse Wash! Hear dat bark? Dat’s ole Sly, Marse Sam’s Georgy dog. She’s done slip in dere an’ strike er head uv ole Hannah!

“Listen! Hear her callin’? Marse Wash, dat Sly looks lak er steppin’ dog an’ she sho’ is gwine to give Joe some hard runnin’ dis mornin’ ef we jump dat Stinson fox.

“Listen, listen, listen, Marse Wash, I hear our dogs puttin’ in! Dere’s ole Sing, ole Loud and Joe. It’s time fur dat fox to walk erway now, ole Joe ain’t in no foolin’ way to-night. He sho’ is ready to run. Listen, Marse Wash, you hear him callin’.”

Uncle Ben dropped back on the pillow, and rested a few minutes. Everybody in the room was silent. It seemed only an hour or so. The old man had run his race and his time had come.

“Hear dat, Marse Wash? Listen how dat Georgy lady’s singin’ in dere. She an’ ole Joe’s neck to neck. Deyer comin’ down thu de Hartis woods now an’ ’tain’t gwine to be long till dey make dat fox run. Ef it’s de ole Stinson fox dey’ll ’roust him in de Rea pastur’. Dat’s whay he’s feedin’ dis time er night.

“Dat’s it! Listen, you hear ole Loud crossin’ dat hill? He’s scoutin’ now. De fus’ thing you know he’ll be right behint dat rascal. He ain’t sayin’ much, but he’s movin’ on.

“Dat’s Joe fallin’ in, an’ Jerry, an’ Dinah!

“Deyer all crossin’ to de pastur. Dat’s whay ole Stinson Fiel’ do his eatin’ ’bout dis time. Well, ef he’s in dere to-night you’ll hear dem dogs cry out lak dey wuz mad derectly.”

At irregular intervals the old darkey would stop and catch his breath. There was a smile upon his face and spirit in his voice. Death came on and he was having his last fox chase. The old Morrow hounds trailed the famous Stinson Field fox and were about to make a jump. Capt. Sam Stitt’s dogs were putting in and the quality of a new hound would be tested. The contest promised to be exciting.

“Hear dat Sly, wid dat chop, chop bark, an’ er sort uv er squeal! She’s right wid ole Joe.

“Listen, Marse Wash, ole Loud’s done driv him out!

“Des listen how he’s shoutin’!

“Dey’s gone toads de Big Rock an’ dey sho’ is flyin’. Ef it’s de ole fiel’ feller he’ll drap erroun’ by de Cunnigin place des to let ’em know dat he’s up an’ doin’ an den he’ll come back dis way.

“Whoopee, but ain’t dey movin’! Listen at ole Joe wid his ‘yowl’ holler. He’s des kickin’ dust in de faces uv de res’ uv dem dogs.

“Yes, sir, he’s gone right square to dat Cunnigin place. It’s ole Stinson an’ he’s walkin’ erbout.

“I des kin hear ’em. Dey’s sucklin’ ’roun de ole house now.”

There was a break in the story. Uncle Ben stopped to rest. The dogs had gone out of his hearing.

“Listen, Marse Wash, dey’re comin’ back! Ole Joe’s runnin’ lak he’s skeered. Some dog mus’ be crowdin’ him? Yes, sir, it’s de Stinson fox, an’ he’s comin’ dis way. See, comin’ over de hill? Dat’s him! Look how he’s lopin’! He knows dat ole Joe ain’t arter no foolin’ dis night.

“See, yonder’s de dogs! Dey’re travlin’ arter him. Look at dat pale red houn’! Dat’s Sly, an’ she’s steppin’ lak de groun’ wuz hot! She ain’t givin’ ole Joe time to open his mouf wide. I knowed some dog wuz pushin’ him.

“Here dey come down to de branch! Ain’t dey movin’? Dey’re goin’ to de Hartis woods, an’ on toads Providence church. But ain’t dey flyin’? I dis kin hear dem!”

As the dogs went out of hearing toward the east the old hunter lay back and hushed his tongue. He was running the race that he had run many times before.

“Listen, Marse Wash, I hear ’em crossin’ de Providence road, comin’ back. Dey’re drivin’ to kill ole Stinson now. I ’clar’ fo’ de Lawd I never heered dat Joe run lak he’s runnin’ dis night. He’s almos’ flyin’.

“But hush, listen, don’t you hear dat ‘Whoo-ark, whoo-ark, whoo-ark’ in dere? Dat’s Sly, an’ she sho’ is shovin’ dat fox an’ crowdin’ Joe.

“Hear dat? She’s crossin’ de big hill fust.

“Dey’re turnin’! He’s makin’ fur de Big Rock, but he ain’t gut time to make it.

“Listen, Marse Wash, dat Georgy dog’s ’bout to outdo ole Joe! She’s comin’ lak de wind. I don’t hear ole Joe. He won’t bark ef he gits behind. He mus’ be tryin’ to head off dat Sly bitch.

“Look! Yon dey go ’cross de cotton fiel’ an’ Joe an’ Sly is side to side.

“Whoopee, ain’t dey goin’? Ole Joe sho’ is doin’ about, but Sly’s on his heels.

“Dey’s goin’ to ketch dat fox. Git up Sam an’ less see ’em kill him! Go on! Come on, Marse Wash!”

For the first time during the night the old darkey became very much excited and jumped and surged in the bed. Those near tried to calm him. But the race was almost over. Uncle Ben’s summons had come. The angel of death was at the door.

“Look, Marse Wash, ole Joe’s in de lead. He sees dat fox an’ he’s done lef’ Sly. He’s runnin’ fur blood.

“See him! Look! Look! Ole Stinson Fiel’s ’bout to git to de thicket! See, he can’t make it! Joe’s grabbin’ at him! Look! Look!”

That was all. Uncle Ben was giving up the ghost. Death came on him. The final summons had arrived. As old Joe bore down the fox the faithful servant of the Morrow family passed away. As the end drew nigh Dr. Morrow and Dr. Smith and other friends who had assembled around the bed stood near and watched the light go out. Everything around was still. Death was easy.

The remains were buried in the Morrow family’s private burial grounds. Ben was the last of the old slave stock. In his delirium he had called back his old master, the old horses and the old hounds, and died happy in the delusion.

FORTY ACRES AND A MULE

“What about your husband and the ‘forty acres and the mule,’ Aunt Matt?” asked the ruddy-faced young man who had just arrived from the city to visit his father and mother at the old home place on the farm.

“It’s fine weather, Mister Eddie, an’ de cotton an’ de corn is des growin’ a inch or two ever’ night,” said Matt Tite, a tall, thin-faced negress of the ante-bellum type, smiling.

“Don’t evade the question, Matt; tell these boys about Tite and the carpet-baggers,” insisted the visitor. “Out with it, I want to hear the story again.”

“Chile, ain’t you never gwine to fergit dat? I walked eight miles to git here to see you, but ef I’d er knowed dat you wuz gwine to pester me ’bout Tite an’ de Ku Kluxes I sho’ wouldn’t a come.

“I’s done fergit de perticlers uv dat story.”

“You know enough to make it interesting; tell it.”

“Tite’s done fergit de forty acres an’ de mule, an’ ef I des wanter have er fight, let me mention it in his presence.

“You know Tite wuz one uv Marse John Robinson’s niggers ’fo’ s’render. Marse John wuz a powerful big man in dem times ef he is po’ now. He had lots uv lan’ an’ niggers, an’ wuz mighty good to his slaves. Tite wuz a good nigger, an’ Marse John làked him, an’ arter de war he stay on at de ole place an’ seem satisfied till dem cearpet-baggers (dat’s what de white folks called dem) fust come sneakin’ around, puttin’ de devil in de niggers’ haid, promisin’ all kinds uv things, an’ given dem nuthin’ but trouble.

“’Twuz soon arter s’render when me an’ Tite married. I had b’longed to Marse Jeems Walkup, an’ a mighty good man, too, he wuz. When I marry Tite I move to de Robinson place to live wid him, an’ we all git ’long fine fur a while. Tite he wucked ’bout de farm an’ I hep ’roun’ de Big House. Ole Miss Jane done say dat she been wantin’ me fur de longes’ sort uv time.

“One night, when me an’ Tite start ’way fum de kitchen, I seed a rabbit cross de road in front uv us, an’ I ’low right den dere wuz bad luck ahead fur him an’ me. Ole Missus uster say ef a rabbit cross yo’ path somefin’ bad woul’ sho’ happen to you.

“Sho’ nuff, chile, hit done come. Bad times ’gin on dat plantation an’ ’roun’ dat neighborhood dat very night. When me an’ Tite git home dar come ’long a strange white man, lookin’ lak er peddler, totin’ a police on his arm. Comin’ nigh he say to me an’ Tite, ‘Howdy-do, Miss Robinson an’ Mr. Robinson?’

“I look ’roun’ to see ef Ole Marses an’ Missus wuz dere, fur I knowed we wuz no ‘Miss Robinson’ an’ ‘Mr. Robinson.’ But, bless yo’ sole, honey, he wuz talkin’ to nobudy but me an’ Tite. I look at de man spicious lak right den, an’ kinder git skeered. He ’gin to talk ’bout sellin’ us some specs an’ julery, an’ sich lak, but soon he tell Tite dat he’s sont dere fum de Norf to talk ’bout de comin’ ’lection. He ’low dat he’s been heerin’ ’bout Tite, an’ tell him dat he’s one of de big niggers uv de country ef he des only knowed it. Tite he say nuthin’ but de white man des keep on an’ on.

“‘Yes,’ ’low de man, ‘dey tells me dat you’s one uv de mos’ prominent cul’ud gentlemens in dis section uv de country. I knows dat’s so fur you looks smarter dan de res’ I’s seed down here!’

“I seed Tite swell up a little when de man tell him dat. Niggers’ haids des lak white folks’, dey gits mighty big sometime.

“‘Well, Mr. Robinson, dere’s a better day comin’ fur you an’ Miss Robinson,’ ’clared de white man.

“‘I’s des fum de Norf, an’ come to fetch you good tidens. By dis time of coase you knows who yo’ frien’s is. You had slav’ry; you’s gut freedum. Dat’s not all, ef de ’Publikins gits in dis time you’s gwine to have some uv dis lan’. Yes, you’s gwine to have forty acres uv lan’ an’ a mule to wuck it wid. You, Tite Robinson, is to have de pic’ uv de lot fur you’s gut so much sense.’

“Dat man sho’ did have a sharp tongue, an’ knowed how to please a nigger. Tite’s eyes git mighty big while he talk ’bout de lan’ an’ de mule. But all de time I wuz lookin’ at dat man an’ de way he dress. He look lak a bad man. Me an’ Tite wuz not use to calls fum white men. No spectable white person prowled ’bout ’mong de niggers lookin’ dat way. But ’t’wuz none uv my bizness to meddle wid him an’ Tite. So I says nuthin’ an’ he goes on wid his putty talk.

“After while he say to Tite: ‘Come inside an’ make a light; I’s gut some pitchers to show you an’ Miss Robinson.’

“Dat wuz mos’ too much fur me, but I darsen’ cheep. Tite he goes in an’ lights de torch an’ de man he opens up his police an’ takes out some pitchers. De fust ones had niggers wid chains on, an’ de overseer wid his whup. Indeed, sir, dem pitchers had de po’ darkey in a bad place. De man say dat’s de way it wuz in slav’ry time. Den he fotch out some wid Mr. Nigger dressed up in fine clothes, wid yaller buttons, dis what de nigger laks. Bless me, ef he didn’t have one wid Tite on a big chestnut hoss, ridin’ ’roun’ de farm. It look so much lak de nigger dat I des laugh out loud. An’ Tite he grin all over de face.

“‘Dat’s de way Tite’s gwine to look after de ’lection,’ said de man. ‘Dat’s ef de ’Publikins git in.’

“Chile, dat wuz a powful talkin’ man. His tongue go dis lak it wuz loose at both een’s. When he shet up his police, after givin’ Tite some pitchers to put on de mantel boa’d, he take de breff fum me by axin’ ef he kin stay all night. Tite wuz so stuck on him dat he say ‘all right.’ So he stay, but slip out ’fo’ day nex’ mornin’.

“Dat talk an’ dem pitchers stir Tite all up. He’s not de same nigger no mo’. De nex’ day he wuz mean to me, ’cause he seed fum de color in my eye dat I lak no sich doin’s, an’ he had some words wid Marse John. ’Deed, sir, he wuz des lak er stubborn mule. Nobudy coul’ do nuthin’ wid him. I tole him dat he’d better quit foolin’ wid po’ white trash, fur you git nuthin’ in dis worl’ ’cepin’ whut you wuck fur. But Tite he wuz done gone ’stracted on de forty acres an’ de mule. He des look at hissef on dat big hoss an’ smile.”

“Matt, do you really think Tite believed he would get the land and mule?”

“Coase he did!” declared the old woman with considerable spirit.

“De same white man meet Tite an’ talk agin, but dat time I wuz away an’ hear nuthin’ uv it. Tite soon ’gin to talk ’bout callin’ a meetin’ uv de niggers. Mo’ strange niggers dan I ever seed befo’ come dere to talk wid him, an’ dey all act mighty bigity lak.

“Yes, sir, Tite wuz de big nigger in dem parts. Whatever he said de ’tuther niggers done. De ’lection come nigher an’ Tite gits mo’ triflin’ ’bout wuckin’ fur de white folks. Him an’ Marse John had a dispute an’ Marse John knock him down wid a stick. Talkin’ woul’ do no good. De crowds uv niggers kep’ gittin’ bigger an’ bigger an’ mo’ strange white mens come to see Tite, an’ dey all’ers sneak in at night.

“De white folks lak Marse John and Marse Jeems Walkup ’gin to git tired uv all dis foolishness. Dey hold a meetin’ demselves, at Marse John’s, an’ ’scuss how to keep de cearpet-baggers off uv deyer farms an’ git de niggers back to wuck.

“But, Lawd bless yo’ soul, honey, ’bout dis time Tite cut de highes’ buck uv all an’ have Marse John ’rested an’ carried to town fur hittin’ him. Yes, sir, a man wid blue suit an’ brass buttons come an’ git Marse John an’ take him to Charlotte ’fo’ dat Freedman’s Bureau. You orter heerd de niggers an’ white foks cryin’, an’ seen ’em takin’ on when de officer driv’ off wid Marse John. Ole Missus took it mighty hard, so she did, an’ I wuz des as mad es I coul’ be. I knowed dat de devil wuz to pay den, fur de white foks wuzn’t gwine to put up wid no sich es dat. Deyer day wuz comin’ agin.”

“Did they put Grandpa in jail?” asked one of the excited children.

“No, honey, but dey mos’ done it. Marse John come back de very nex’ day, but he wuzn’t de same man. He done gut mad an’ all de res’ uv de white foks wid him. ’Deed, sir, dey wuz tired foolin’ wid dem cearpet-baggers, an’ Marse John make Tite git out uv his house de fust thing when he come back, an’ to tell de truf I didn’t blame him one bit, fur dat nigger wuz des so mean dat nobudy coul’ git on wid him. Ole Miss Jane wuz pow’ful sorry fur me but I had to go wid Tite. We rented a house fum a town man, an’ move in. We wuz back fum de road an’ ’way fum de white foks. I never seed sich a nigger es Tite; every day he wuz wusser dan de day befo’. Fum ’sociatin’ wid dem cearpet-baggers he gut high up. Dey done fill his ole kinky haid wid highferlutin’ talk an’ idees. Every udder night he wuz at some nigger meetin’, stayin’ till ’fo’ day in de mornin’. You woul’ never know when an’ where dey wuz gwine to meet but dere wuz all’ers lots uv ’em dere. Sometimes dey’d meet at my house an’ it woul’n’t hold ’em all. De way dem niggers talk when dey meet I des knowed somefin’ bad wuz boun’ to happen.

“Now an’ den, when Tite wuz off politicin’, I woul’ slip off an’ go see Miss Jane, an’ hear whut de white peoples wuz doin’. Den I beg Tite to let politicin’ ’lone an’ stay at home, but, no, sir, he knowed his bizness. His haid wuz sot on dat forty acres an’ de mule, an’ I coul’n’t do nuthin’ wid him.

“One day Miss Jane read fum de paper whut de Ku Kluxes wuz doin’ to niggers down in Souf Careliny. You know where ’tis: des over de line down here ’bout three mile? De piece say dat dey wuz comin’ dis way. She ’low dat de doin’s uv mean niggers wuz gwine to fetch ’em here.

“An’ let me tell you, chilluns, it wuzn’t long ’fo’ dey come an’ putty nigh skeered de niggers to deaf.

“But, ’fo’ dey come Tite done run plum mad on de subjec’ uv de ’lection. I beg him to stop dat foolin’ an’ go back to wuck, but he des go on lak he never heerd me. Why, honey, de fool nigger done ’gin to think he’s gwine to be Gov’ner. De wust ain’t come yit, fur one day a white man come ’long an’ giv’ Tite what he say wuz a deed fur Marse John’s mill place. Es he giv’ de paper to Tite he say: ‘Mr. Robinson (talkin’ to nobudy but Tite), here’s de deed to de mill place an’ you kin have it surveyed as soon as you laks, fur de ’lection is mos’ here an’ ’twon’t be long ’fo’ you kin git dem forty acres an’ de mule.’