Part 3

“Simon, I have just sent you a hound of the old Bolick stock. I heard that you wanted one. She is untrained for foxes, but will run anything that leaves a scent. Accept her as a gift for the sake of by-gone days. I never saw you, but if you were raised by Uncle William, you are all right. I have named the black and tan lady Dinah. She looks just like old Bell, her great-great-grandmother, except that she is larger. She has raced all the flesh off of her bones, but that is a small matter.”

Simon Bolick was the happiest negro in the county. He rejoiced for two reasons; the promise of the dog made him happy, and the receipt of the letter, the first one of his life, pleased him. He told the town of his good fortune, going from store to store showing his letter. It was like a dream to him, and he could not realize that the dog was actually on the way. He ran around until he was almost prostrate.

For some cause Dinah was two days late in showing up, and it began to look as if somebody had been joking the old man.

Simon had described her as a beautiful, gentle animal, full of life and well-bred looking, but his imagination had been too active. Hence, when Dinah arrived, the old darkey was sorely disappointed, for she was skinny, raw-boned and dirty, her ribs prominent and her back too sharp. The boys laughed and jeered as Simon led her along the street. She seemed half-starved and tried to put her nose into everything. If she found a morsel to eat she gulped it down so greedily that the spectators roared with delight. But when safely within his own yard, the old negro made a thorough examination of his dog, and, after looking her over from nose-tip to tail, he spoke to himself as follows: “Dat ain’t no bad dog ef I’m a jedge. She’s got de same marks dat de ol’ houn’s had. I laks dem thin years, dat hump-back an’ dat long, keen tail. All she needs is somefin’ to eat an’ er little res’. Me an’ ole Suckie ’ll fetch her out. By de time de race arter Big Sandy comes off I’ll have her des right, an’ ef I ain’t mightily mistaken she’s gwine to sho’ dem yudder dogs de bottom uv her feets es she flies. Des es soon es she gits rested, I’s gwine to slip her off down to de crick an’ hear dat mouf. Ef it soun’s lak ole Bell, den I’ll bet on her sho’ nuff.”

The tongue proved right. It was loud, clear and horn-like and could be distinguished in any pack. Simon was happy. His cup of joy was brimful when Mr. Williamson sent him word that he could join him for a chase the first good opportunity for a night hunt. The old darkey could hardly wait--he was so anxious for the hunt.

When the eventful hour came, Simon, mounted on his trusty mule, Beck, with his master’s old horn on his back, and Dinah trotting behind, with head and tail down, overtook the other hunters just out of Graham, on the Haw River road. The night was fine, and the ground in first-class condition. The atmosphere was fresh and sweet, after a light shower, and the weeds and grass sufficiently damp to hold a scent. As Simon rode up, Mr. Williamson remarked: “Well, old fellow, if Dinah has the proper stuff in her, and we hit old Sandy, she will have an opportunity to do her best to-night, for the weather is ideal.”

“Yes, sir; dat’s so; Mr. Fox’ll smell mighty good arter de little sprinkle. I ain’t sayin’ much erbout my dog yit, ’cause she ain’t never run but one or two foxes in her life, but I feels lak she wuz des gwine to fall in wid de res’ an’ do her part.”

Some of the mischievous chaps in the party twitted the old negro about his hound, calling her “skinflint,” “meat-catcher,” “rabbit-chaser,” and the like, but he laughed and advised them to wait and see.

The hunters had not gone far when Trump, a young dog, routed a rabbit, and drove him flying across the road. Five or six puppies joined in and hurried old mollie-cotton-tail to the thicket of a near-by stream. Soon a turn was made and all came back. The dogs were close behind Brer Rabbit, and a new mouth carried the lead. Uncle Simon, with much joy in his heart, cried out: “Listen at dat horn-mouf! Dat’s Dinah, an’ she’s in front!”

Mr. Williamson was charmed with the deep bark of Skinny Dinah. It was wrong to encourage the rabbit hunters, but the boys could not refrain from galloping ahead to see the race. Dinah was literally splitting the wind. She did not tarry or linger, but picked up the scent here and there and hastened on. Simon blew his horn and all of the culprits, except Dinah, came in; and her tongue ceased. It was surmised that she had caught the rabbit and was eating a second supper. Soon she overtook her proud owner, her mouth blood-stained and her sides sticking out. The laugh was on the darkey.

Far to the right came the melodious note of Trouble, the faithful old strike dog. He had ranged toward Bull Nose Creek and struck a hot scent. Mark, Mr. Williamson’s colored valet, declared, “Dat’s where dey strikes ole Sandy, an’ Trouble knowed where to hit him!”

The hunters struck a gallop and the dogs were “harkened” in--Jerry, Jude, Kate, Sing, Music, Flora, Black Bill, Red Ball, Trumpet and Flirt. Strive, a big, deep-mouthed, bob-tailed hound, opened some distance in front of the rest. He was a fast trailer, making time and ground by sighting logs and wet places ahead and hitting here and there. He had good dog sense and knew the ways of Reynard, and, under his leadership, the pack soon had a running trail.

Mark dismounted and examined the track. “It sho’ is ole Sandy, Mr. Lawrence,” said he. “If you don’t believe it, come here an’ look.” And so it turned out.

The dogs moved across Cedar Hill toward Holt’s Bay and Drowning Creek. The young hounds, all but Dinah, were chiming in at the rear. Dinah seemed interested, but lazy. However, she kept nibbling at the track. As the hounds went in on the north side of Holt’s Bay, old Sandy slipped out on the other side. Red Ball, the famous leader of the pack, got a live scent of the cunning fox as he set out, and rushed through the thicket, bawling as he went, and picked up the hot track. There was consternation among the dogs for a moment, but in a jiffy every last mouth, even that of Dinah, was giving tongue behind Red Ball.

As was the custom of Sandy, he took a short round to try the quality of the pack. He raced three miles and back over level country, entered the bay where he went out, dodged through and started for the swamps of Big Creek, five miles away, to the north. The hounds were in hot pursuit, Red Ball in the lead, closely followed by Trumpet, Sing and Flirt.

About every fourth leap Ball would cry, “Yock! Yocky-yocky yock!” It was sweet music to the ear. He did not bark often, but his voice was strong and piercing. Dinah brought up the rear, but was now thoroughly aroused, though the rabbit had made her heavy and slow. Simon was delighted to see her sticking to it so well and showing such interest.

The hunters rode to the top of the hill, dismounted and waited patiently for the fox and the dogs to return. It might be an hour, or it might be four, but Sandy always came back to Drowning Creek, and the faster the race the quicker the return.

Mr. Williamson and his companions did not have to loiter long that night, for within three-quarters of an hour after the hounds went out of hearing, Mark, with his keen ear, heard the tongue of Red Ball. It was coming back, “Yock! Yocky-yocky yock!”

The men hurried to a road crossing to see the pack as it passed. Dogs had changed places. Some of the short-winded runners had dropped out and others fallen back. But Simon’s Dinah had performed the most wonderful feat; instead of bringing up the tail-end, she was pushing Ball. Her tongue was mingling with his, and the old negro could not constrain himself. He just had to yell, and yell he did, at the top of his voice. “As sho’ es de Lawd,” he shouted, “she’s one uv de ole stock!”

But it was no time to shout. The dogs were flying on, and any inopportune whoop might bother them, so Simon was rebuked by the captain of the party.

Sandy covered his three-mile circuit again, and returned to Holt’s Bay. By that time he saw that his life was in danger, for the hounds were racing him faster than he ever had to go before. If the gait continued death would be staring him in the face, so he determined to put forth his best efforts in a run to Buck Hill and back, a total of sixteen miles, but by foiling several miles he would have ample time to dodge in Holt’s Bay. The dogs were close after him when he left for Buck Hill, with Red Ball and Dinah cheek by jowl. Ball was running wild, while Dinah seemed to be getting better. To the west the flying pack went, the tongues of Ball and Dinah blended in one sound. Simon was so elated that he could not be still, moving about like a crazy man.

When the music ceased, Mr. Williamson turned to Uncle Simon and said, “Old man, I’ll give you fifty dollars for her.”

“Marse Lawrence, I needs de money, but I wouldn’t swap dat dog fer yo’ cotton mill; no sar, dat I wouldn’t.”

After that there was no sound for more than two hours, though the hunters listened with strained ears. Mark was the first to hear the returning music. He cried: “Hush! There they come! Dinah’s in the lead!”

“Yoo-it yoo-it yoo-it! yoo-it!” came the sound rending the air. Ball had fallen back ten feet or more. Again the hunters hastened to a place where they could view the dogs. That time they saw the fox, Big Sandy. He was but thirty yards ahead, with tail dragging the ground and tongue hanging out.

His last race was run. The fatal day had come. But he had pluck to struggle on. Dinah and her mates came on, tired but strong. Sandy was pulling for Holt’s Bay, where he could turn and double about, and worry the dogs. But the sight of the men and the horses seemed to urge Dinah on. They gave her courage and she gained on the fox. As she crossed a hillock in the edge of the woods and turned down the opposite side, she caught a glimpse of Big Sandy. Her heart beat with joy and she went forward with renewed vigor. The other dogs and the hunters were close in her wake. They had noted the change in her tongue and knew full well what it meant. It was a sight race from there to the thicket, and Dinah had the advantage. Big Sandy dodged and twisted, but his last moment had arrived. Dinah pounced on his back just as he entered the edge of the bay, and it was all over.

Dinah had proved her mettle, and Big Sandy was dead. Uncle Simon was so happy that he could not speak. He fell upon his dog and embraced her, while the boys patted him on the back and rejoiced with him. Dinah rolled and groaned in the broom sage, the idol of the hour.

MINERVA--THE OWL

When in Charlotte, I make my home at 411 North Tryon street, in a private family. My hostess, Mrs. Barringer, widow of General Rufus Barringer, owns an owl of the Asia Accipitrimus or short-eared species; her name is Minerva and she is a very common bird. Hundreds like her dwell along the wooded streams of Mecklenburg and adjoining counties. None of them are beautiful. The one of which I write has but one redeeming feature. She is grateful to her mistress who, alone, has fondled and petted her. In this she acts well and shows a trait that but few men have.

Where did this strange, quaint and curious creature come from? Why did she become a thing to be domesticated and cared for like the beautiful little canary or the sweet-tongued mocking bird? Is she the apple of any person’s eye, or the pride of any home? To the last question I should say: “No; she is nobody’s darling.”

The owner of Minerva was not looking for her when she came nor did she especially desire to become the possessor of such a charge. A friend sent her as a present from a neighboring town. She had been lifted from her nest, a tiny, awkward, helpless birdie, and dropped into our home suddenly.

What was to be done?

Had she been given her liberty in Charlotte, either by night or by day, a violent death would have been her fate. Hungry cats were ready to crack her delicate bones, and the street urchin, with his never-failing sling shot, or air-rifle, was eager to try his skill on just such a mark.

Truly, the ugly, dirty, drab-colored little bird was far from enthusiastic friend or kindred. None of her kind are within several miles of the town. But if she could have been taken to the woods and set free she would have died from starvation and loneliness, for she was young, innocent and inexperienced.

Indeed, she must be fed, housed and cared for as an object of charity, for, truly, she lacked lovable characteristics. At first she had but one friend and that, her owner, and to her she owes life and what happiness she has had.

For twelve months of her existence, after she arrived, Minerva lived in a large wire-screen chicken pen, situated beneath my room window. It was there that she grew into the dignified old lady that she is. The pen was built and is used for cooping chickens for the table. At times it was well filled with a fine lot of hens and then, again, empty. Minerva watched the daily slaughter of her strange companions with apparent concern from the highest perch she could find. She would not associate with them. However, she soon discovered that they were afraid of her. Those direct from the country, sought the farthest corner from her. All this she did not understand, for having seen none of her peculiar family, she must have felt that she was of the same blood as her fellow creatures. She tried diligently to unravel the mystery. Her thoughts were along the line of these questions, I imagine, from the serious look she always wore upon her face: “Why do they avoid me? Will that dreadful tall creature from the kitchen come and wring my head off like he has done others? What does it all mean? Have I but one friend, the sweet old lady who raises the window every morning and greets me?”

The only trouble Minerva had in her early captivity was given by Osmond, the son of her mistress, who set Jack, his fierce bull terrier, after her. The dog could not get inside the enclosure, but would frighten her into hysterics by charging against the wire and barking viciously. Under this excitement she took the only exercise she got, flying from pole to pole and snapping her bill. What the bull dog and his master did for her Minerva did for the timid chickens. She amused herself daily by chasing them around. By instinct an owl captures a fowl by pushing it off of a perch and catching it on the wing. Minerva would drop on the pole by the side of a frightened hen and shove her off, just to see her squirm and hear her squall. She kept this sport up for months. Every time a new chicken was turned in she would haze her, much to the delight of those who could watch the game.

But, now, Minerva is too much of a lady to engage in such youthful pranks. She sits on her perch and keeps tab on the sons and daughters of our neighbors. She announces the time of night that Colonel Willie Harty comes in and sings a funeral dirge out of respect for Fritz, the deceased dog of Mr. John Oates. In her more cheerful moods, she warbles after this manner: “Toot, oot, hoot, toot!” “Toot, oot, hoot, toot!!” That is very owlish and I have found no one who could translate it into English.

Mrs. Barringer, being a woman of noble heart, decided, not long ago, to give the bird her freedom. William, the man servant, was instructed to turn her out and see that no enemy harmed her. We all believed that she would be glad to leave the place for good at the first opportunity, for she did not seem to care for or even trust any one but her mistress, to whom she would go when called or notice when spoken to. But we had reckoned wrong. She did not desire to depart from us. Her hours are whiled away in such cozy nooks and corners as she elects to occupy in the back yard. She is growing fat and familiar with mankind and beast.

But, with liberty, protection and free-lunch, Minerva is not permitted to be contented and happy. She has a swarm of unrelenting feathered enemies that make her life a burden. The blue jay, the red-headed peckerwood, the harsh catbird, and the cruel English sparrow are her fiercest foes. They annoyed her no little while confined in the chicken pen, by railing at her through the wire, but now they dare to pluck feathers from her back and puncture her body with sharp bills. The mischievous old jay lands in the morning before the servants come or the occupants of the house begin to stir, delivers an inflammatory speech and urges his hearers to fight for their rights, their homes, their wives and their little ones.

It was my fortune, good or bad, to see one of these crowds assembled, to hear one of the addresses and witness an onslaught, one fine Sunday morning, several weeks ago. I had retired early the night before and slept well. The first call of Mr. Blue Jay waked me. I sat up in bed and looked on through the window blinds. The jay, feigning great indignation, sat in the top of an elm tree, not ten feet from the window. His voice rang out loud and shrill through the light morning air. It was harkened to by all the winged kind for several blocks. The red-headed woodpecker quit his hammering on the steeple of the Lutheran church across the street, and flew in all haste to join in the outcry with his rasping voice. The catbird sailed out from a neighboring fig bush and came tumbling and screaming across the garden. English sparrows poured in by the score from all directions until the tree was alive with their nervous little bodies.

All was consternation and fuss at first, but soon the jay got the floor and made this very bitter and impressive speech: “Fellow creatures: Here we are defied by the vilest bird that left the ark. She lurks about and seeks to do murder to you and to me, to yours and to mine. Our homes, our wives and our children are in danger! What shall we do? Must we stand quietly by and see our loved ones killed and their flesh defiled by this designing old night-assassin? I answer: ‘No!’ Why, she was despised and hated by the people of old. Hear what the Great Book says about her! When Job’s honor was turned into extreme contempt and his prosperity into calamity, he cried: ‘I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls.’

“Babylon was threatened: ‘It shall never be inhabited, etc.

“‘But wild beasts of the desert shall lie there, and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures; and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there.’

“Yes, we must slay the detested creature. She is an imposition. I command you to rise in your might and drive her out of our paradise!

“The English sparrow will lead the charge.

“All together!

“Charge! Bite! Scratch! Squall! Poise the head!”

Off they went in a body to wage war on old Minerva, who had seen the antics and heard the words of the indignant meddlers from her comfortable seat on a wheelbarrow-handle, just under a thick circle of a grape vine. It is useless to say that she was badly frightened, for she dreaded the sharp beak and the fury of the courageous little sparrow; he was so swift and determined in action that his onslaughts were to be feared. The bombastic jay, the timid catbird and the blatant woodpecker gave her no concern.

The fight was in earnest when William, the servant, hove in sight. Minerva had lost several batches of feathers and her back was sore where the sparrows had billed her. At the flight of her assailants and the appearance of William, she chirped: “Toot, toot, toot!”

This is a brief sketch of Minerva’s life. She is shunned, despised and distrusted by all the Charlotte feathered tribe. She is alone in the world. Her appearance is against her and she has no accomplishments. She can neither sing nor dance. Truly she is “the bird with the hoe.”

UNCLE DERRICK IN WASHINGTON

It was the week after Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States, had Booker Washington, a famous negro educator, at the White House for dinner with him, and the press of the land had sent the news broadcast.

“Good morning, Uncle Derrick, where are you off for to-day?” asked Dr. F. L. Smith of Concord, of his fellow-townsman, Derrick Alexander, the old colored wood-chopper, as he trudged along the street.

“I’s gwine to de Big House at Washington, where de President lives,” said the old darkey.

“Yes, sir, I’s on my way to see President Roseanfelt.”

“What are you going to see him for?” inquired Dr. Smith.

“Why, ain’t you been readin’ in de papers ’bout dem big festerbuls dat Mr. Roseanfelt an’ his fine lady’s been havin’ spechully fer de niggers? Dat’s it, sir! Dere’s where Uncle Derrick’s goin’.”

The old fellow was in earnest. He wore his best shoes--a new pair of number fourteen brogans--a weather-beaten stovepipe hat and an antiquated suit of livery. In a bandanna handkerchief, swung over the end of a stout cane across his shoulder, he carried a few odds and ends of dress.

“Well, Uncle Derrick, how much money are you taking with you? Can you go in good style?”

“Boss, dat’s de weak p’int ’bout my trip. De ole nigger’s des got ernuff to git to Salisbury, but ef he can’t fine er frien’ dere to hep him on he’ll walk. I’s gwine to go ef de Lawd lets me live. De time dat I’s been waitin’ fer is done come. It sho’ is. All de niggers in my part uv de town is talkin’ ’bout goin’. President Roseanfelt (dat’s what de Dutch folks uv Keebarrus county calls him) sho’ is de frien’ uv de nigger. Think uv it! Niggers wid deyer shinin’ clothes on eatin’ wid de rich white folks uv de lan’! I ain’t got no fine clothes, but ef de ole nigger kin des git dere he’ll be all right; some good white gem’man frum de Souf will hand me out er thanky-suit. No, sir, I ain’t ’spectin’ no trouble arter I git dere fer de ole nigger’s mighty handy ’bout de house. Ef I can’t git in at de fust table I kin at de secon’.”

“But, Uncle Derrick, they won’t let a cornfield negro go in the White House; it’s high-toned negroes, like Booker Washington and John Dancy, that attend the receptions of the President.”

“What? Dem yaller niggers! Dey ain’t fitten to go wid de quality. It’s de right black nigger dat’s got de ’ristocrat blood in him. My ole marster uster say dat a light-skin nigger an’ er roan mule wuz de wust things in de worl’.

“No, sir, I ain’t skeered uv no nigger wid er yaller skin. Ef I des kin git to de Big House dat’s all I ax; I’ll do de rest.”

Dr. Smith, seeing that Derrick was serious, furnished him with money to buy a ticket to Washington and urged him to go forth and be merry.

But, a week later, Derrick returned to Concord, ragged and bruised. His clothes had been rent in many places and his head badly wounded. He hobbled up town and called on Dr. Smith, to whom he told the story of his visit to Washington, and recited the fearful tale of woe that follows:

“Marster, I ’clare ’fo’ Gawd dat I’ll never leave home ergin while I live. Dere’s mo’ good foks in Concord dan anywhere else. I’ll die right here. Dem Washington foks is de meanes’ people dat I ever seed. De niggers is bigity an’ de white men don’t pay no ’tention to you, an’ dat’s one place de poleesmens don’t take no draggin’ fer dey’ll knock you down fer lookin’ mad. I sho’ did think that judgment day had come when I got dere.

“De trip up dere on de train wuz fust-class. I seed lots uv fine people on de way. But no sooner dan I lit on de groun’ at Washington my trouble started.