Part 4

“I followed de yudder travelers f’um de train out to de street, where I met a big buck nigger, wearin’ uv a beaver. I know’d dat he was fixin’ to go to de festerbul. He had on er Jim-swinger coat an’ high-top boots. I step up to him an’ say: ‘Is dis de day fer de President’s big blow-out to de niggers an’ de big white foks?’ De rascal look me up an’ down an’ all over an’ ax: ‘What is you talkin’ ’bout, ole Rube? What do you know ’bout de President’s functions?’ I stop right dere fer I seed de kinder nigger I wuz talkin’ to. He was too highferlutin’ fer me, talkin’ ’bout functions; when er nigger quits sayin’ festerbul it’s time to let him erlone. I axed him de way to de Big House an’ he sed, ‘Go to de yavenue an’ up.’ I say, ‘What’s dat?’ He answer, ‘It’s de bigges’ street in de town.’

“I move on till I meet er pleasant lookin’ white gem’man who say dat he’s frum Alabam. I knowed dat he wuz uv de bes’ stock in de country, fer he had on good clothes an’ er big wide brim hat, one la’k ole master useter wear. I pull off my hat an’ say, ‘Boss, does you live here?’ ‘No,’ he say, ‘why?’

“I seed dat he wuz all right, so I pop er few questions to him. ‘Boss, is dis de day uv de festerbul at de Big House fer de culled peoples an’ yudders?’ Well, sir, he smile way down to his Adam’s apple, des la’k de question do him good, and say, ‘Is you thinkin’ ’bout ’tendin’ one uv de White House to-do’s?’

“‘Yes, sir, dat’s what I come up here fer; I lives in Concord, North Caroliny, wid Marse Jim Cannon, Marse John Wadsworth an’ de rest. I sho’ do wish dat you’d hep me git in. I’se des as good as dem yaller niggers dat’s been ’vited.’

“He des chuckle when I tol’ him ’bout my bizness up dere. He reach in his pocket an’ fetch out a ticket wid his name on it an’ when he write, ‘Let dis nigger in de White House to de festerbul,’ he handed it to me an’ say, ‘Dat’ll git you in.’

“‘But, uncle,’ he say, ‘dey don’t call de to-do’s festerbuls, la’k dey do down Souf, but dey is functions an’ ceptions.’

“‘Well,’ I say, ‘des so dey have good things to eat, dat’s all dat I care ’bout. We calls ’em festerbuls.’

“‘Why,’ he ’clare, ‘dey don’t have nothin’ to eat. You des go up dere an’ shake hands wid de big fo’ks. Dat’s all you do. Dere ain’t no eatin’ ’bout it.’

“Dat didn’t suit dis nigger an’ I wuz hot under de collar, fer Marse John Wadsworth tolt me, ’fo’ I lef’ dat dey woul’ have er ’possum as big as er sheep an’ sweet-taters an’ gravy by de gallun. Dat wuz what I went fer. I kin shake han’s wid folks at home. I thought de gem’man wuz tryin’ to fool me, but I didn’t tell him so. He look at me an’ laugh, an’ den go on ’bout his bizness.

“I go on up de yavenue an’ meet all de fo’ks. I didn’t know dat dere wuz so many people in de worl’. I step in front uv a nice lookin’ man an’ ax, ‘Boss, is chuch out?’ I seed de crowd an’ thought dat wuz de trouble. But de man hain’t answer my question yit. He look me in de eye, stick out his han’ to shake wid me, an’ say, ‘Jones is my name. What did you say yourn wuz?’ Dat wuz somefin’ else. I wuzn’t uster shakin’ wid white fo’ks, but I thought he might be kin to de President, so I ketched his han’ an’ ’clare, ‘My name is Derrick Alexander, frum Concord, North Caroliny.’ Well, de bref lef’ me when he say, ‘What kin I do fer you, Mr. Alexander?’ I’se ninety years ole, but dat’s de fust time dat er white man ever calt me ‘Mister.’ I slip erway fum de man quick fer I knowed dat he wuz one uv dem Yankees dat ole marster uster cuss so hard. I went on up de yavenue, but kep’ lookin’ back to see ef he wuz arter me. Frum dat time on it seem to me dat all de fo’ks dat I see wuz Yankees. Dey la’k ter driv’ me crazy. Dat’s de truf.

“Dat wuz de longes’ street dat I ever seed, for it took me er half er day to git to de Big House yard. I wuz des wile fer all de niggers dat I seed wuz bigity an’ de white fo’ks wuz mean. De little niggers look at me an’ laugh. Ef I had been back in Concord I’d busted some uv deyer noggin’s, but I wuz skeered to do it up dere. By de time I got to de Big House gate I wuz mad an’ ’stracted. It ’peers dat everybudy wuz ergin me. As I started to step up in de gate er man wearin’ er uneeform an’ brass buttons come out frum behint er bush an’ say, sassy la’k, ‘Don’t come in here, ole man! Dis’s no place fer niggers!’

“Well, sir, dat raised my dander. I des made up my mine to go in dere anyhow. So I say, ‘I’m goin’ to see de President ef I have ter lick you.’ He grin back at me an’ ’clare, ‘Dere’s de President now. He an’ his boy, goin’ fer er ride.’

“I turnt my head an’ looked roun’ an’ sho’ ’nuff, dere wuz er man an’ er boy ridin’ bob-tail horses. I yell out, ‘Hello, Mr. President! Dis ole Derrick, frum Concord. He’s come to yo’ festerbul.’ I don’t know why, but dat peered to make him mad an’ his upper lip histed up lack er winder shade an’ his lower lip fall down. I ’clare fo’ de Lawd dat I never seed sich a mouf full uv teef in my life. Dey shine so dat dey look la’k dem new tombstones in Red Hill graveyard. An’ he ain’t stop at grinnin’, fer he say to de plesman close to me, ‘’Rest dat crank uv er nigger an’ lock him up!’ Dat wuz de las’ straw. I des square mysef fer to fight. But dat’s all dat I know den, fer de man wid de uneeform whack me over de head wid his billy-stick an’ put me ter sleep. Dat’s what made de hole in my foid. As I wuz on de way to de gard house wid de officer, I hearn somebudy say, ‘Why, dat’s ole Derrick Alexander. What’s he bin doin’, Mr. Officer?’ ‘Tryin’ to git to de White House.’ ‘Well, des as soon as he gits able to travel I’ll send him home.’

“I didn’t know who it wuz den, but I hearn later dat it wuz Congressman Theo. Kluttz, from Salisbury. I had fetched water fer him ter drink at er speakin’ at Concord one day.

“Dey took me ter de lock-up an’ put me in er iron cell an’ it wuz late in de day ’fo’ I knowed er thing. Den I waked up an’ looked ’round me. I seed niggers in all de cells, an’ mos’ uv dem had sore heads. Dey had been tryin’ to git in de White House. I cried des la’k er chile an’ wish dat I wuz back at Concord wid de people dat I know. I imagined dat I seed all de good fo’ks here.

“Early de nex’ mornin’ de bossman uv de place come to me an’ say, ‘Ef you’ll git outen dis town des as fas’ as you kin hustle, we’ll let you go. A gem’man lef’ er ticket home fer you. Take it an’ git!’

“Dat sho’ was sweet music to my ears. I wuz ready to go right den. I went out de do’ an’ almos’ skip to de depot.

“Thank Gawd dat de ole nigger’s back home ergin. Dat’s where he’s goin’ ter stay. Dem niggers what want to go to de White House ’ceptions kin go, but give me my ole fryin’ pan, er big fat ’possum, a peck uv taters an’ er pint uv gravy. Dat’s what suits dis nigger. I ain’t hankerin’ arter shakin’ nobudy’s han’.”

AND THE SIGNS FAILED NOT

“Shhoo, shhoo, shhoo, you good-for-nothing thing, we don’t want any company to-day,” shouted the large, ruddy-faced lady of the Parks Big House, to a handsome, red and black game cock that jumped upon the walk in front of the porch, flapped his glossy wings and started to crow.

“Who you reckon’s comin’ here dis time uv de week, an’ we so busy, Miss Jule?” asked old Matt Miller, the family servant, as she came around the corner of the house, from the kitchen, on her way to the well, carrying two water buckets, with her sleeves rolled to her elbows, showing a pair of lithe, black arms, well muscled and hard.

“I don’t know, Matt, but that rooster persists in crowing in front of the door, and that is a mighty good sign that some stranger’s coming for a meal,” declared Miss Jule.

“Yes’m, an’ I’se done drap de dish rag twice dis mornin’ an’ dat’s er sign dat don’t fail, an’ de pusson whut comes is mos’ lakly to be hongry, too.

“Maybe hits de new preacher?”

“No, Matt, I don’t think so, he’s never said anything about coming, and he will go and see all of the elders and deacons before he starts around among the common folks. He hasn’t been to see the Graves yet, and they are pillars in Sharon.”

“Humph, Miss Jule, you don’t know dese young preachers lak I doos. Hit ain’t de elders an’ de deekins deyer arter so much as hit’s de mens wid de money.

“Leastwise, dat de way hit is wid our people, an’ human natur’ is ’bout de same whether de skin’s white or black. I knows dis, ef you hain’t gut de spondulicks you don’t git de preacher.

“Ef hit ain’t de rocks hit’s de weemens dat de young preachers is gut on deyer minds dese days. Dat sho’ is de truf.

“Dat young feller, he’s done heered dat Marse George’s gut las’ year’s cotton in de shed, dat ain’t never been sold, an’ he’s des ’bout comin’ to spend de day.”

“What about our new preacher, Matt, do you like his looks?” asked the lady of the house, as she knitted.

“I ain’t seed ’im right good, but I don’t lak de lef’ eye.”

“What’s the matter with it?”

“Yo’ maw, Miss Nancy, an’ she wuz er pow’ful smart ’oman too, used to say: ‘Matt, don’t you marry no cock-eye man, ef you do you’ll git cheated.’”

“And you believe it?”

“’Cose I do. Look at Marse George, one uv de bestes’ horse traders in dese parts! Whut do he say? ‘Don’t buy no white foot horse or trade wid er cock-eye man.’

“But, Miss Jule, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ergin yo’ preacher. I don’t lak to think bad ’bout de men uv de pulpit, but I ain’t gut de faith dat I used to have. No, chile, de older I gits de wuss I is.”

Matt moved on, leaving her mistress to think over what she had said.

Mrs. George Parks, although corpulent, and misshapen, had pretty white hands, neat and dainty feet and small, aristocratic ankles, pretty soft, iron-gray hair, and bright, keen gray eyes. Her every feature bespoke a warm heart, a gentle and refined nature. As she sat there that morning, in her own low rocking chair, knitting away at a cotton sock, she was a perfect picture of health and happiness. She had put her house in shape for the day, fed the early biddies just from the eggshells, looked over her garden and was resting on the long, cool front porch, overspread by the limbs of two magnificent white oaks.

After Matt had drawn the water and returned to the kitchen, Charlie, the baby boy of the Parks home, came running in from the shop with a hoe in his hand, and dashed up the steps, intending to go through the house to the field in the rear, but was halted by his mother, who said sharply: “Child, don’t bring that hoe in here, it is bad luck to carry a hoe in a house where one lives.”

The boy hurried back down the steps and around the house.

The reader may imagine that he is at this prosperous country home, in the Piedmont region of the South, where cotton is king, and hog and hominy the staff of life, and view the scene.

It is springtime, a beautiful fair morning in early June, and the grandfather clock, one that had been in the family for several generations, had just struck nine. Mrs. Parks was at peace with the world. She had helped to red up the house, to feed the poultry, strain the fresh milk, churn and put away the butter and written a letter to her oldest son, who was off at college.

Old Matt, who served as cook, chambermaid, milkmaid, dairymaid, and errand runner, was preparing dinner.

“Have you put on your greens, Matt?” asked Mrs. Parks, throwing back her head, and calling over her shoulder.

“Yes’m, long ’go,” responded the faithful Matt.

“What do you think about killing a chicken? Do you reckon we’ll have company?”

“Des as shore, Miss Jule, as I’se livin’; I’se done drap de dish rag ergin. Ef I wuz you, I’d be skeered to risk it.”

“Well, I think so myself, for George took butter this morning when he had butter on his plate, and that is a pretty sure sign. When the rooster crows in front of the house, and the cook drops the dish rag three times, and the head of the family takes butter when he’s got butter, all of the signs point one way.

“I expect you had better call Charlie and catch that little red rooster that stays in the Irish potato patch, back of the garden.”

Mrs. Parks continued to knit, and ponder. Her mind went from one thing to another. One moment she was thinking of her dear Tom, who would soon be home from the University, and the next of Ned, who had gone to Charlotte to get a new mowing machine. Most of her thoughts were of her children.

Matt and Charlie chased the little red rooster through Marse George’s prize cotton patch, under the barn and out again, over the fence, around the carriage house, finally hemming him in a corner and catching him. Matt put him in a pie and Charlie went to carry water to the field hands, in response to Big John Ardrey’s call: “Sonny, sonny, sonny, ain’t you gwine to fetch de ole nigger no water to-day? He’s so thirsty!”

The cotton and corn were beginning to show well in the more fertile fields. Every available man and woman on the place was at work, either plowing or hoeing, thinning the young truck to a stand, and making war on General Green, the farmer’s faithful enemy. Many fields were green with waving grain. Here and there wheat was turning yellow and would soon be ready for the reaper.

To the right of the Big House, far out in the twenty-four acre field, eight plows, drawn by as many sturdy mules, still thin from hard spring plowing, breaking lands, and brown from the first scorching rays of the sun, manned by lusty negroes, black and glossy from eating rich Western-grown meat, were going, running around the cotton, thinned to a stand.

“Lawdy, lawdy, lawdy, lawdy, It’s almos’ pay day, pay day, An’ I’se gwine to git my honey er hat,”

sang Jerry, a loud-mouthed, animated young negro, who plowed Kit, a four-year-old mule, fifteen hands high, and valued by Squire Parks at one-seventy-five. There was no meter to his song, but it sounded well to him, and the neighbors for two miles around could hear it.

“Listen, Miss Jule,” said Matt, to Mrs. Parks, who had gone to the kitchen to see about dinner. “Dat big mouf Jerry can’t keep quiet.

“Hear ’im singin’ ’bout his honey?

“He rakes ’roun’ all night, an’ hollers all day ’bout his honey? He better be givin’ dat Runt somefin’, dat chile uv Mary’s.”

“Is that his child, Matt?”

“’Cose hit’s his’n.

“An’ he ain’t never as much as give it a moufful uv nothin’--no, not nary moufful!

“De po’ little chile des runs ’roun’ while Mary wuks, des lak it wuz er dog or hog. I ain’t never seed sich neglect. But Mary can’t hep it now; she’s gut to wuck fur er livin’.”

“Well, I didn’t know that Runt was Jerry’s child before.”

“Yon he is now!” exclaimed Matt, as she turned and looked out of the window, toward the hands, who were hoeing cotton in the Clay Field, back of the orchard.

“Yes’m, Mary’s des hoein’ an’ wuckin’ lak er dog, an’ keepin’ dat chile, while Jerry’s spendin’ money on dat yaller Rose whut come here wid dat nigger Rufus, who de pleesmens tuck back to town an’ put on de chain-gang fur stealin’ er cow.

“Po’ Runt, he don’t git much ’tenshun! Dey never thought enough uv ’im to name ’im, an’ de foks, seein’ how little he wuz, called ’im ‘Runt’ an’ ‘Runt’ he is. Ef anybudy wanted him dey coul’ steal ’im an’ nobudy woul’ make much fuss ’bout it. Ef it wuz slavry time ergin, an’ Ole Brickhouse Jim wuz livin’, he’d git ’im ’fo’ Sadday night. Mary tote’s ’im to de fiel’ in de mornin’ an’ puts ’im down in de shade uv er tree an’ lets ’im stay dere.”

This same little negro, four years old, bow-legged, flat-nosed, onery-looking and dirty, clad in a single garment, which was torn, and without buttons to hold it in place, was at that very moment rambling about in the weeds in the orchard, far from his mother, who, with a dozen other hands, were chopping cotton. If a dog or a calf or anything else came along and toppled him over he cried until he was exhausted, fell asleep and waked up refreshed. No one seemed to love or care for him; he weeded his own row.

Taking pity on him, on various and sundry occasions, Miss Jule had sent Charlie with buttered biscuits or pieces of pie to the four-year-old. Although Runt was afraid of Charlie, who often slipped up behind him, turned his little shirt over his head and ran, he was thankful for the hand-outs, without knowing just where they came from. If he saw the white boy coming he wanted to hide, but was afraid to lest he miss a sweet morsel for his tongue.

“Look, Miss Jule, don’t it beat all how boys do? See Charlie teasing dat po’ little nigger,” old Matt would say.

“Charlie! Charlie! You little scamp, you! Quit worrying that child!” would follow, and the youngster would laugh and run, leaving Runt to think it over.

“Shhoo, shhoo, shhoo!

“There’s that old rooster again,” said Mrs. Parks, as she turned and started for the front porch again.

“We don’t want any company to-day.”

“Miss Jule, don’t you speck you’d better spruce up er little, so ef de preacher do come you’ll be ready fur ’im?”

“I will put on my new dress, I want George to see it anyhow, and I can take it off after dinner if nobody comes.”

“I speck you better.”

After the mistress of the house had resumed her seat on the porch, having arrayed herself in her pretty calico frock, Matt called out: “Miss Jule, who is dat comin’ ’roun’ de fiel’ on dat big white hoss?”

“It looks like Capt. Brown, on old Roy,” said Mrs. Parks.

“Yes’m, hit do, but he woul’n’t be comin’ here fur dinner, ’ceptin’ Miss Jane’s erway,” declared Matt.

Sure enough, it was Capt. Brown, and he rode up to the front gate.

“The tip of the day to you, Mrs. Parks!” said the gallant fellow, lifting his hat.

“Good morning, Capt. Brown; won’t you light?”

“No, thank you; I haven’t time.”

“You all well?”

“We’re up an’ about, but I’m not feeling well. I have had a pain in my head for several days.”

“Listen at Miss Jule,” said old Matt to herself, as she peeped around the honeysuckle vine, at the end of the porch to catch what was said. “I ain’t never seed her look better nor puttier.”

“How are you all, Capt. Brown?”

“Just tollerbly well, only; the old woman is grunting a little this morning.”

“Which way is the ’Squire?”

“He’s in the Clay Field, back of the house, where the hoe hands are at work.”

“Have you heard from Mrs. Marler to-day?”

“No, but Sam came by there last night, late, on his way from the post office, and Reuben told him that she was no better. I guess she’s in a right bad way.”

“Yes, poor woman, she’s been a great sufferer for a long time. I have been wanting to go to see her, but the stock is busy now, and then, too, I have not felt like riding. I get dizzy every time I get in a buggy.”

“You heard about Mrs. Bill McGregor, Mrs. Parks?”

“No; is it a boy or girl?”

“A ten-pound boy.”

“That’s fine! Five girls and three boys.

“Tell Mollie to come over. She needn’t wait on me. I’m getting too old to travel about much.”

“Thank you. You and George come.

“Well, I want to see the old man on a little business; I will just ride around there.”

Capt. Brown and Squire Parks were the best of neighbors and friends. Both were influential in political affairs and substantial business men. That morning they talked over a private matter and Capt. Brown turned and went back.

Dinner time came and no company arrived. The greens, the chicken and strawberry pies were all ready, but there was no one outside of the family circle to eat them.

“I don’t believe in your signs, anyhow,” declared Mr. Parks, “for, this morning, as I went to the field, a red bird, a pretty one, flew across the road in front of me, and I have heard it said that that is the sign that you are going to see your sweetheart, dressed in her best clothes, and I know I haven’t seen any sweetheart to-day.”

“O, yes, you is, Marse George,” said Matt, as she handed him the greens for a second help.

“Who? Where?”

“Here she is, Miss Jule, de onlies’ sweetheart dat you ever had.”

“Don’t you believe that, Matt,” said Mrs. Parks, fishing for a compliment.

“I guess you are right, Matt, and she’s got on a new dress,” conceded the lord and master of the Parks Big House.

Dinner and the hour of rest over, the hands started for the field. Everybody, save Mary, the mother of Runt, had gone, and she hunted everywhere for the fatherless waif, but could not find him. Squire Parks, Miss Jule, and Matt organized themselves into a searching party, but hunt where they would they could not find the little negro. The big bell that hung on the red oak in front of the lot gate was sounded, and all the workmen came in, knowing that the ringing of it meant a general alarm, and were formed into groups and sent to the fields to look for the missing child. Aunt Matt took a mirror and reflected the sun in the well, thinking that he might have tumbled in there. Every nook and corner about the barn and every wash, or gulley, or weed patch about the place was examined, but no trace of Runt was found.

“Somebudy done tuck an’ stole dat chile,” said Matt. “Told you so. I knowed dat de Lawd wuz gwine to let somebudy have ’im dat woul’ care fur ’im.

“Po’ little chile, I hope dat nothin’ ain’t happen to ’im.”

For two hours the hunt continued. Mary was wailing and shouting like one possessed. Jerry, the wayward negro of the plantation, was racing everywhere, looking. When all had about concluded that the boy had been kidnaped, Miss Jule, who had become hot and tired, moving about in the broiling sun, and returned to the house, discovered a pair of little black, dirty feet sticking out from under a large hall table and, on making a closer examination, found that Runt had stolen in, crawled under the table and gone to sleep on the floor. Having put a pillow under the knappy head she notified the hunters and told Mary to go to her work and leave the child to her.

Matt was very much disappointed, for she had looked into the well until she believed that she could see the body of a child on the bottom, and when Miss Jule called she was preparing to announce that she had found the little fellow; but, after seeing the feet and bowlegs, as they protruded from the table, was convinced that she was wrong.

“Yes, Miss Jule, an’ de signs done come true,” declared the old darkey. “Dat’s de hongry pusson dat wuz comin’; dat chile des gut so hongry dat he couln’t stand hit no longer an’ come in. Po’ little thing.”

“I am glad he made himself at home, Matt, I will adopt him.”

“One thing, Miss Jule, I wuz glad to see dat Jerry lookin’ sad-lak ’bout his boy. He may not be so bad arter all. De Lawd put good in everybudy.”

“Yes, and Jerry and Mary may marry some day, and make Runt a home; you can’t tell,” added Mrs. Parks.

Runt was treated as a guest of the house. He slept unmolested for an hour, and when he waked he was taken to the kitchen and given the best the larder afforded. For a month he remained there, waxing fat and black and strong. Mary was delighted to be rid of him under the circumstances.

The rooster had not given the clarion call in vain.

One day two weeks later, Miss Jule sent for Jerry, and they talked on the front steps. The next day the young negro said to Squire Parks: “Say, Marse George, I want’s you to marry me an’ Mary. I’se done gut de licenses.”

“Where did you get money to get license, this time of year?” asked the justice of the peace.

“Miss Jule give it to me.”

That was the day the signs failed not.

THE IRISHMAN’S GAME COCK

“That was a great day in Providence--when Paddy Roark’s bird outwitted Black John Smith’s fine cock, the mighty Jay Bird,” said the old gambler. “That was the end of the world for me. We’ve had no real sport since that time; the boys are all good nowadays.”

Briefly put, that is the story of the last gambling bout of a public nature in Providence township, Mecklenburg county. The day of the great battle between the fowls of Roark and Smith marks the beginning of a new era.