Part 18

On a night in the early summer, an unusually large congregation had gathered at this trysting place of the faithful, for the news had spread that “Pa Kinlaw” was going to say something sensational on the subject of pastoral ways and means. The night was dark, the sky overcast, and now and then the low rumble of distant thunder and a fitful gust of wind from the south-east, that soughed through the tops of the pines for a moment and then died away, betokened the coming storm. Around the place of worship, two or three pine-knot fires blazed brightly, furnishing, at once, light for the comfort of the congregation, and smoke for the discomfiture of the gnats and sandflies that swarmed about the church. Around and between the fires, the negroes, men and women, moved, avoiding the smoke and sparks that the wind, from time to time, sent among them, the firelight falling on their dark faces recalling the “hot-pot” scene in Rider Haggard’s “She.” While they awaited the advent of their preacher, they discussed their daily pleasures, trials, hopes and fears--the reduced cost of bacon or calico at the country store, the demand for labor, and the increased price therefor, at the rice plantations along the river, the destruction of the early corn by the cutworms and the crows, etc.

“I yerry,” said one old woman to another, “I yerry dat Mistuh FitzSimmun done tek de sprout flow off ’e rice, en’ ’e gwine hoe’um nex’ week, T’ursday.”

“Dat so?” said her companion. “Den, I gwine dey sho’ ez Gawd lemme go. Ef my juntlemun kin git uh hawss, eeduhso uh oxin, fuh knock de middle out’n ’e crap, I will mek she go ’long too, alldo’ ’e gots de mis’ry een ’e back ’tell ’e cyan’ specify wid ’e hoe lukkuh ’e nyuse to do.”

“I ’spec’,” said old Ca’lina Manigo, “I ’spec’, I mos’ sho’, rokkoon duh walk duh paat’ dis berry night! Please Gawd, ef Him didn’ mek dat snake ’stroy’d Hol’fas’ las’ yeah, I could’uh ketch one tenight, tenight, duh de night!”

“Ef you so hongry fuh rokkoon meat, w’en de praise done gitt’ru, we kin tek my dog Ring en’ tek a leetle dribe,” said Monday Parker, a stalwart black fellow.

“_Ring!_” said Ca’lina, scornfully. “_Ring!_ Boy, ef you talk Ring’ name een de same bre’t’ wid Hol’fas’ name, you will mek me hab sin right yuh tenight! I kin tek ole Hol’fas’ jawbone out’n de du’t weh de buzzut done lef’um, en’ I kin pit dat jawbone ’puntop uh rokkoon track, en’ him will mek de rokkoon git een de tree top, befo’ Ring kin ketch a fleas out’n ’e own tail! Go’way, Paa’kuh, man, you know berry well yo’ dog cyan’ specify!”

“’Nuf t’ing, ’scusin’ dog, dey een dis wull’ w’at cyan’ specify,” said a deep voice from the darkness without, and, in a moment more, the long-looked-for pastor, mounted on a raw-boned brindled ox, rode into the broad disk of firelight that filled the glade. A grain sack stuffed with corn shucks was his saddle, and a long grapevine wound around and around the unhappy ox, together with martingales and crupper of the same, held it in place. A bridle and stirrups of frayed cotton rope completed the extraordinary equestrian equipment.

“Cow iz shishuh ’ceitful t’ing fuh ride, dat I mos’ didn’ mek me ’p’int,” said the preacher, as he dismounted and hitched his animal to a bush.

“Paul Jinkin’ got some shinny peas plant close by de road aige, en’ dis cow bin so hongry dat, w’en I git to weh de fench bruk down, ’e tek ’eself en’ me en’ all, en’ gone een de fiel’ en’ staa’t fuh nyam de peas, en’ I try fuh git’um out de fiel’, ’cause Paul ent b’long to we chu’ch, but de cow haa’d-head ez a ’ooman, en’ I couldn’ git’um fuh lef’ de fiel’, ontel we yerry Paul call to ’e lady fuh git up en’ he’p’um ketch de somebody w’at dey een de fiel’, en’ w’en I yerry _dat_, I yent want’uh git de cow’ cyarrictuh spile, so I mek’um come out’n’ de fiel’--en’ dat how I git yuh late.”

Taking his stand in the tall box of rough pine boards that served for a pulpit, he looked askance at the contributions to his support that various members of his congregation brought to the altar and laid on the ground beside him. A quart of grist, a dozen eggs, a chicken, a pint of “clean” rice, a nickle--ostentatiously brought forth from a knot in the corner of an apron and placed by the proud donor “een de Reb’ren’ han’”--such were the offerings of this simple people, but, although representing more than a tithe of their possessions, they found little favor in the pastor’s eyes.

“Sistuh Wineglass,” said he, as a bustling middle-aged woman smilingly presented a chicken. “Sistuh Wineglass, chickin’ seems to sca’ceful een dis congregashun ez debble sca’ceful een heab’n! Dis mek only de t’ree chickin’ w’at bin contri_butes_ to dis chu’ch sence de las’ quawt’ly preachin’, en’ I done tell oonuh one time ’ready dat dis pulpit cyan’ filfill’ bidout _bittle_. Ent de Scriptuh say een de fo’teen chaptuh een Nickuhdemus, dat de lab’ruh wut’ ’e hire? I gots to lef’ my crap kibbuh wid grass, en’ come yuh fuh ’rassle en’ agguhnize wid oonuh sinful soul en’ t’ing, en’ you gots de nomannus to come een de Lawd’ house wid t’ree aig’ en’ one leetle fo’punce chickin een yo’ han’, en’ ’spec’ fuh ketch salwashun, enty? Ef you saa’ch Nickuhdemus’ wu’d you will fin’ dat ’e say ’sponsubble dat a fo’punce chickin cyan’ specify fuh seb’npunce’ wut’ uh salwashun! You tell me week befo’ las’ dat you couldn’ git no chickin’ ’scusin’ you git aig’, en’ you cyan’ gots no aig’ ’cep’n’ de hen lay’um, but de Lawd’ wu’d say, ef yo’ right han’, eeduhso yo’ right han’ feet, refen’ you, you mus’ cut’um off, en’ ef de hen cyan’ specify, you mus’ cut off him head same fashi’n en’”--

The pastor’s prelude was brought to a sudden close by a deafening peal of thunder that echoed and re-echoed through the forest. A gust of wind lifted the sweetgum thatch from the rafters of the little church and scattered the boughs to leeward, and, as the big raindrops began to fall upon the assembled worshipers, Pa Kinlaw gathered together his prog, mounted his ox, and trotted off in the darkness, calling to his flock as he went, “de Lawd en’ me alltwo cyan’ talk one time! De nex’ preachin’ will be to Sistuh Rab’nel’ house ’bout fus’ daa’k Chuesday night!”

A FLAW IN THE “EENDITEMENT”

She came into the office of a Walterboro lawyer and engaged his services to reverse, upset and “spile” the decision of a trial justice who had just fined her “nine dolluh’ en’ de cawss’, suh,” for obstructing a public highway.

Grace Rivers was her “eentitlement.” The color of her skin was so deep that a piece of charcoal drawn across her face would have left a pallid mark. Although literally on the “shady side” of seventy, she was not regardless of the advantages of dress, and her costume was, like Katisha’s left elbow, worth “coming miles to see.” The gray wool that covered her head was snarled and tangled like a burry merino pelt, but a man’s black straw hat, battered and weather-stained, was set upon it as jauntily as was ever worn the rakish cap of Fra Diavolo! When a fashion-plate had last been seen in her habitat near Ion’s Cross Roads, bustles were “the thing.” Although these protuberances on the human form divine had long since been called in and relegated to the rear (?) they were still “the thing” for Grace. The balloon bustle of the society actress, the oscillating bustle, the coiled-spring variety that rebelled at being sat upon, and, when “crushed to earth,” like truth, would “rise again,” having passed away, were not now obtainable at the country stores; so the ingenuity of this dusky devotee of fashion was called into play, and she had constructed as unique a “dress improver” as was ever worn under the sun--or under a homespun skirt, either, for that matter. A rift in the rear of her gown disclosed the mechanism of this work of art, which was merely a piece of an iron barrel hoop, bent into a half-elipse, and wound with two or three thicknesses of cotton bagging. Primitive as it was, it sufficed to elevate the hind part of her skirt several inches above the level of the lower periphery of the front breadth, which was hidden by an apron made of a rough-dried guano sack, on which appeared in bold stenciled letters, “Ashepoo Acid Phosphate, 200 pounds--privilege tax paid.”

Taking a seat in the counsellor’s office, she said: “Majuh, I come fuh git jestuss yuh teday, teday! W’en my juntlemun, Mistuh Ribbuhs, dead yeah befo’ las’, een Augus’ munt’ (en’ ’e dead ’cause snake structid’um on ’e lef’ han’ feet w’en ’e binnuh gwine to praise meetin’ to Sistuh Gibbes’ house on Hawss Shoe causeway) w’en him dead, ’e lef’ me t’irty acre’ lan’ w’ich ’e buy frum Cap’n Gracy befo’ ’e dead. Now, w’en my juntlemun binnuh lib, Cudjo Singletun en’ ’e fambly buy a piece uh groun’ close to weh we lib, en’ likeso Sambo Hawlback buy groun’ eenjinin’ de same lan’. ’Long ez my juntlemun binnuh _lib_, dem berry well sattify fuh trabble ’longside de aige uh my groun’ w’en dem duh gwine chu’ch, eeduhso to de sto’, but soon ez my juntlemun _dead_, de eegnunt nigguh’ git so swell’up en’ ’laagin’, dem come en’ cut paat’ t’ru my pinelan’, en’ call’um pulblic road. W’en I see de ’ceitfulness’ en’ de ondeestunt gwinin’ en’ gwinin’ uh dese nomannus nigguh’, I git disgus’ wid de nigguh’, en’ I mek a fench ’cross de road, ’tell de road couldn’ specify. Now, w’en Sunday night come, Sambo tek ’e lady een ’e oxin cyaa’t, en’ staa’t lukkuh him duh gwine chu’ch, but ’e nebbuh git to chu’ch, suh, ’cause ’e oxin ent gots good eye duh night time, en’ de oxin git tanglety’up een de fench, befo’ Sambo ruckuhnize weh ’e duh gwine, en’ de oxin t’row Sambo’ lady out’n de cyaa’t, en’ de lady fuhgit de ’lij’un w’at ’e staa’t fuh tek to chu’ch, en’ ’e git bex, en’ Sambo git bex, en, fin’lly at las’, dem didn’ gone chu’ch, but dem tu’n back home, en’ nex’ mawnin’ Sambo gone to de Trial Jestuss en’ swayre out warrant fuh ’res’ me en’ my groun’ fuh twis’up en’ obstruck de pulblic highway, en’ de Jestuss sen’ a mufflejaw’ nigguh counstubble to my house, en’ him tek me off befo’ I gitt’uh chance eb’nso fuh pit on me shoesh, en’ I tell’um dat ’e yent deestunt, no, suh, fuh ’res’ a lady en’ tek’um to co’t, bidout ’e shoesh ’puntop ’e foot, but dat counstubble raise’ by po’ buckruh en’ ’e yent gots uh Chryce’ mannus to ’e name!”

“Well,” said the attorney, when he had stemmed this torrent of speech, “did you tell him that you were not ready for trial; that you wished time to secure counsel and to summon witnesses to testify in your behalf?”

“I _baig’um_, I tell’um, ‘Mistuh Awkuhmun, I want to quizzit you on dis p’int, how de debble you kin ’res’ a lady fuh obstruck uh highway, w’en you know berrywell de road w’ich de nigguh’ mek t’ru my lan’, run t’ru _low groun’_! How, een de name uh Gawd, kin I eentuhfayre wid de pulblic _highway_ w’en de road so _low_ dat ’e full uh watuh ’tell limus cootuh en’ t’ing duh swim een’um! No, suh! ’scusin’ you kin ansuh me dat parable, yo’ eenditement cyan’ specify’.”

“What was his reply,” asked the lawyer.

“’E didn’ reply _nutt’n’_, suh. ’E jis’ tell me I gots fuh specify wid nine dolluh’ en’ de cawss’, ’scusin’ I want’uh leddown een Walterburruh jail ontell de t’ree Sat’d’y een June. I didn’ gots no money fuh g’em, so I g’em mawgidge on my cow en’ t’ing ’tell I kin come yuh to you, suh, en’ git you fuh see me t’ru, ’cause dis ondelicate buckruh ’res’ me’, en’ try me en’ all, een one en’ de same day. ’E wouldn’ eb’n gimme time fuh go home en’ reconstruck meself, en’, please suh, Majuh, w’en my juntlemun dead, ’e tell me fuh fin’ out w’at you will chaa’ge me fuh tek care uh me en’ my cow en’ my groun’ en’ t’ing by de yeah--eb’n so ef I duh sleep--I want you fuh see how much you will chaa’ge fuh keep nigguh, en’ counstubble, en’ po’buckruh en’ all kind’uh waa’ment en’ t’ing off my groun’, ’tell I _dead_, suh.”

The lawyer told her he would consider the matter, and, Ashepoo’s “Nada, the Lily,” with a curtsy to the stranger within the attorney’s gate, drifted out into the brilliant sunlight that lay like a golden mantle on field and woodland.

OLD WINE--NEW BOTTLES

He lived in Spartanburg, and was the proud valet (pronounced “valley” in the up-country) of a young physician. Whether the charcoal hue of his face, or his employer’s profession, prompted a clever woman to bestow upon him the appellation of “the valley of the shadow of death,” I do not know, but it certainly seemed, to every one acquainted with him, a peculiarly appropriate “eentitle_ment_.”

Whence he came was a mystery. He tramped into the town one day, with his kinky wool full of the red dust of the up-country roads and his mouth full of the Gullah dialect of the coast, and asked for work. Although not more than thirteen years of age, his hardened muscles and pinched face indicated that he had known both toil and starvation. “Gran’puh lick me en’ I run’way en’ lef’um,” was all he said, and, as he proved industrious and reasonably honest, there was no further inquiry into his antecedents.

One day, soon after he had established himself in his Spartanburg sanctuary, I chanced, while on a visit to the low-country, to learn something of his history. Passing through a plantation, formerly the home of a distinguished South Carolina family, but now abandoned to the occupancy of a few negro squatters, whose slovenly agricultural methods extracted but a scanty subsistence from the naturally fertile soil, I came to a miserable cabin, half a mile away from the main settlement. On its site had once stood a comfortable frame house of the type in general use on Southern plantations for ante-bellum negro quarters, but the woodwork had long since been destroyed by fire, and the brick chimney alone remained. Among the negroes of the coast, where brick are scarce and the cabin chimneys are generally made of clay or mud, the possession of a brick “chimbly” is a sort of badge of aristocracy and a passport to high position in colored society, and old Scipio Smashum, having been a house servant before the war, and, retaining through all the hardships that had come to him with freedom, a profound contempt for the coarser-fibred “field hands,” preferred to live apart from them, and had reared around the isolated brick chimney a habitation which, even when new, was never weatherproof, and was now in a pitiable state of dilapidation.

From the pine saplings, of which the walls were constructed, the rotting bark had fallen away, disclosing the perforations of the wood borers or “sawyers,” whose industry had almost honey-combed the sappy logs. The clapboards which covered the house were falling to pieces with decay, and here and there on the weather-worn roof lay, like oases in a desert of gray, patches of green mould.

The surroundings of the cabin were as unkempt and unattractive as the building itself. Dogfennel and “Jimpson” weed grew almost up to the threshold. A few rows of corn and beans in a garden nearby were choked with grass and had been abandoned soon after the plants were up. The “wattled” fence of clapboards surrounding it was tumbling down, and through the fallen panels the neighbors’ cows and pigs roamed at will. On the top of a little log chicken coop, a young Dominique rooster cackled loudly while he awaited the coming of his partner, who was, at the moment, busied with domestic duties within.

On a bench near the door sat old Scipio. The wool which covered his head was as white as the back of a Cotswold sheep, and the face, in which his bleared and jaundiced eyes were deeply set, was seamed with care.

As I approached, he was upbraiding the boastful rooster. “You so ’laagin’. Soon ez yo’ lady git on ’e nes’ you biggin fuh cackle same lukkuh _you_ duh specify, ’stead’uh _him_. You stan’ dey wid yo’ back speckle’ lukkuh one dese red-head’ woodpeckuh’, en’ t’ink you gots mo’ eentruss’ een dat aig den de hen ’eself.--Mawnin’, maussuh, t’engk _Gawd_ I see you teday. De time so berry haa’d, maussuh; ef you didn’ bin come soon, I ’spec’ you wouldn’ uh fine’ yo’ ole nigguh yuh teday. I mos’ t’ink de big Maussuh gwine to call me putty soon, ’cause de mis’ry een de back git mo’ wuss den ’e nyuse to be, en’ bittle git so sca’ceful dese day’, en’ I cyan’ hol’ de hoe like I could’uh do one time, en’ I cyan’ git no cow, needuhso no mule, fuh plow de groun’, ’tell I cyan’ raise no crop, en’ eb’nso w’en de crop done plant, I yent gots no chillun en’ t’ing’ fuh keep de waa’_ment_ out’n’um, en’ I mos’ t’ink ef you didn’ come teday, _Stepney_ would’uh git dis po’ ole body. Trouble come sence you bin yuh las’, sho’ ez Gawd! Dat boy Joe run’way en’ gone to de up-country jis’ ’cause I lick’um, en’ soon as _him_ gone, old Sancho Haywu’d’ lady dead, en’ Sancho come en’ tek’way my gran’daa’tuh ’Riah, en’ tek’um home fuh wife. I t’aw’t dat ole nigguh had mo’ sense, but w’en I peruse ’e cyarrictuh close, I see ’e cyan’ specify ez uh sensubble man.”

“When did his wife die?” I asked.

“’E dead een Fibbywerry, suh. ’E binnuh cook supper, en’ ’e gone to de shelf fuh git salt fuh pit een de hom’ny, en’ ebbuh sence ’e gots catt’rack’ een ’e yeye ’e cyan’ see berry well, en’ ’stead’uh tek de can wid de salt, ’e tek de can wid de consecrate’ lye, en’ ’e pit de consecrate’ lye een de hom’ny, en’ fus’ t’ing ’e know, ’e yent know _nutt’n’_ ’cause ’e dead! Oh yaas’suh, ’e git relij’un jis’ befo’ ’e dead, en’ ’e dead beautiful, yaas’ suh, en’ ’e had de biggis’ fun’rul you ebbuh see, en’ ole Pa Sancho pit ’e lady een de groun’ lukkuh teday, en’, please Gawd, ez ’e gwine home frum de fun’rul dat same berry day, ’e come by my house en’ tek my gran’ ’Riah en’ tek she home fuh wife! Ef I had’uh bin home, I wouldn’uh let’um tek de gal befo’ de munt’ done out, ’e would’uh look mo’ _deestunt_, yaas’suh. But I don’ min’ ’bout Sancho, ’cause dat gal gwine to mek’um t’ink t’unduhsnake got’um befo’ dis yeah gone, yaas’suh. I tell’um, ‘Sancho, you better min’! Tek care bettuh mo’nuh baig paa’d’n[4], en’ Paul’ wu’d to Buhrabbus een de Scriptuh specify puhtickluh dat you cyan’ pit uh nyung grapewine een uh ole killybash, en’ you cyan’ pit a nyung ’ooman een uh ole ’ooman’ frock, ’cause dem alltwo will buss’. Sancho, you know berry well you cyan’ specify, en’ you ent gots de strengk fuh lick dat nyung ’ooman, en’ likeso Buhrabbus say dat ef you don’ lick yo’ lady you will spile ’e chile,’ but I sway-to-Gawd, suh, dat gal tu’n Pa Sancho staa’t fool, en’ ’e nebbuh had my exwice een de back’uh ’e head! En’ now, maussuh, sence de gal gone, I ent gots nobody fuh do nutt’n’ fuh me. Dese nigguh’ w’at grow up sence freedom come een ent gots no mannus, en’ dey would’uh lemme dead een dis house, ef de w’ite people didn’ see me t’ru. W’en ole Missis binnuh lib, bress Gawd, ’e always ’membuh de ole nigguh, but now, sence him dead en’ de grass duh grow obuh ’e grabe out yonduh onduhneet’ de libe-oak tree, en’ all de w’ite people w’at I raise lef’ de ole plantesshun en’ scattuh all obuh de wull’, en’ all kind’uh low-down buckruh, w’at couldn’ ’sociate wid we w’ite people’ fambly een ole time’, come fuh lib on de place, please Gawd, I yent gots nutt’n’ much fuh lib fuh now, dese days. T’engk you, nyung maussuh, t’engk you, suh, Gawd bress you!”

A GULLAH GLOSSARY

The Glossary included in this volume, while making no pretense to absolute accuracy, is offered as a workable list of the words in common use by the Negroes of the South Carolina coast. It is doubtful, however, if the vocabulary of any single individual comprises more than half the list, for many words in everyday use about Georgetown or Charleston occur rarely at Beaufort, or on the Combahee. Then, too, many terms and expressions have only a local significance. On the seacoast and along the lower reaches of the tidal rivers, “trus’-me-Gawd” (I trust my God) is the common name for the cranky, unseaworthy dugout canoe, the hazard of whose use on the rough waters of the coast implies faith in the watchful care of a divine Providence. Higher up the same river, however, where smoother waters exact smaller faith, the coffin-like craft is merely a “coo-noo,” a “cun-noo,” or a “con-noo.”

He who adventures into Gullah and would “make head or tail” of its queer phonetics, must keep in mind the sounds “uh,” “e,” “ran,” and “a.” In no other tongue, perhaps, can so much be expressed with so little strain upon brain or lips or glottis as by the Gullah’s laconic use of these grunting jungle-sounds.

To the Gullah, the naked “a” at the top of the first column of the dictionary is “uh,” the dominant note upon which his speech is pitched. With “uh” he boastfully proclaims the personal pronoun “I.” As “bubbuh,” or “budduh,” or “buh,” he greets his brethren; as “sistuh,” or “tittuh,” his sisters. Sweet potatoes he roasts and eats as “tettuh.” His father, mother, daughter, are “farruh, murruh, daa’tuh;” his ever is “ebbuh,” his never is “nebbuh;” forever, “fuhrebbuh.” His answer is “ansuh,” his master is “mastuh,” his pastor is “pastuh” (and so is his pasture); his either is “eeduh,” his neither is “needuh,” his fever is “febuh,” his river is “ribbuh,” his cooter is “cootuh,” his silver is “silbuh.” If in daylight he falls asleep in an open place, the vulture’s wing that hovers over him will cast a “shadduh.” His neighbor is “navuh,” his favor is “fabuh,” his labor is “lavuh,” his Savior is “Sabeyuh.” His bother is “bodduh,” his other is “odduh,” his t’other is “todduh;” another, “anodduh.” Otter is “ottuh,” and ’gator is “’gatuh;” better, “mo’bettuh,” and alligator, “alligettuh.” Barrow is “barruh,” burrow is “burruh,” furrow is “furruh,” harrow is “harruh,” borrow is “borruh;” tomorrow, “tomorruh.” His mourner is “mo’nuh,” and so is his more than (more nor) and corner is “cawnuh,” “mauma” is “maumuh,” “maussa” is “maussuh,” cover is “kibbuh;” uncover, “onkibbuh,” the white man is “buckruh,” the Negro is “Nigguh.” And finger is “finguh,” as ginger is “ginjuh.” Pshaw is “shuh,” and sir is “suh.” His feather is “fedduh,” his weather is “wedduh,” his measure is “medjuh,” his pleasure is “pledjuh.” And if, in pleasantry or wrath, he cries out upon a compatriot, he scornfully apostrophizes him as “uh Gulluh nigguh!”

Following “uh” in frequency of occurrence comes “’e,” a contraction of he, she (but used also for it)--usually pronounced as “ee” in see, but sometimes approaching “e” in set and “i” in sit; but, without the use of diacritical marks, the exact shading cannot be expressed. This “’e” is ever in the Gullah mouth. If a man has shuffled off this mortal coil, “’e dead;” if a fruitful woman has blessed the earth, “’e hab chile;” if the dusky infant cries out upon the world, “’e cry;” if a mule be too free with her hindlegs, “’e kick.” If winter comes, “’e freeze,” and in summer weather “’e hot.” If a storm approaches, “’e gwine to wedduh;” when it breaks, “’e t’unduh, ’e lightnin’, ’e blow win’, ’e rain.”

In “Myths of the Georgia Coast,” Colonel Jones’s Gullahs pronounce this contraction “eh,” but with this a clearer phonetic apprehension of the Gullah does not permit agreement. “Eh” is a good English word which the Gullah pronounces correctly and frequently utters in the ejaculation “eh, eh!” to express surprise or bewilderment.

Almost the twin of “’e” is “um,” expressing him, her, it and them. Did that man steal your pig? “’E t’ief’um.” Did the woman whip the boy? “’E lick’um.” Did the fire burn your house? “’E bu’n’um.” Have you finished your task? “Uh done’um.” Did you shoot those crows? “Uh shoot’um.” And “um” added to see or saw becomes “shum.” See that woman? “Uh shum.” Did you see her yesterday? “Uh shum.” Will you see her tomorrow? “Uh gwine shum.” “Shum” expresses see, seeing, or saw him, her, it, or them.

If the Gullah Negro, in “fuh him” and “fuh she,” changes the pronoun to “um,” he adds an “r” for euphony and utters a rolling “fuhr’um;” and, similarly, “tuh him,” “tuh she” are changed to “tuhr’um.”