Part 5

“Dat’s whut I thout, suh,” he continued, “but bless yo’ soul, honey, my wife hadn’t bin dead er week befo’ I got up one mornin’ an’ all onbeknownst to myself I foun’ myself blackin’ my shoes! Cudn’t hep it to sabe my life, suh—jes’ had to do it. De naixt day, suh, ’tirely unbeknownst to de state ob my naturality, I kotch myself in de act ob puttin’ h’ar-oil on my hair, cinnermun-draps on my handkerchief, an’ pullin’ off de eel-skin gyarters I dun bin wearin’ forty years fur de rumertizn. No mo’ rumertiz fur me; er man nurver hes rumertizn arter his wife dies—least-wise,” he whispered, knowingly, “not twell he marries erggin an’ den he hes it so bad he can’t cut stove-wood fur her,” he laughed.

“In er week diszeese tuck me so komplementry, boss, I ’gun ter roach up de ole muel, fix up de buggy, an’ whitewash de cabin. Dese am allers de fus’ simptums, suh. I’ve knowed sum ole fellers to make dey house go widout paint fur forty years, but jes’ es soon es dey wife dies, jes’ watch ’em an’ see ef de fus’ thing dey don’t do am to paint up dat ole house lak dey tryin’ to ketch er angul—huh! better had er painted it er leetle fur de fus’ po angul arter dey fooled her into it!

“But de simptums come on me, suh, thick an’ fast, an’ fore goodness, suh, by Sunday I had it so bad it broke out in spots all ober me, wid gradual risin’ ob de temperchewin’ dryness in de region ob de salvashun glands, an’ complete p’ralersis ob de pizzerrinctum ob de sense-bumps! Gord, boss, I was mighty nigh insenserbul!

“It all seemed lak er dream to me, an’ I can’t tell ’zactly whut I did do. I seemed ter be walkin’ in er gyarden whar golden roses bloomed on peppermint candy vines, an’ coon-dorgs wid diamon’ eyes wuz treein’ solid silver ’possums up in de ’simmon trees!

“I tell you, boss, I wanted to marry! An’ de fus’ thing I knowed, me an’ dat ole muel was gwine in a peert trot up de road t’words de cabin ob Sister Calline Jones, Unk Peter Jones’ widder. I felt sorter mean, an’ I disremember sayin’ to myself: ‘Heah, you go, Wash, arter all yore good revolushuns, de biggest fool in de ban’ waggin.’ As I rid off, I seed dat old mischeevus Mistis ob mine, Miss Charlotte, God bless her!—an’ she called out to me kinder mad-lak, an’ sed: ‘Unkle Wash, I think it’s a shame you ain’t put on moanin’ for Aunt Peggy.’ The way you are dressed, ennybody’d think you are gwine to er ball!’

“‘Lor’ bless your sweet soul, Miss Charlotte,’ sez I, ‘don’t hab ter put on moanin’ lak de white folks; it am already dar, an’ mo’ dan skin deep, too,’ I sez. ‘I bin moanin’ for Peggy eber sense I marrid ’er,’ I sed, ‘an’ now is my time for rejicement, Miss Charlotte, an’ I gwineter rejice. Sides dat,’ I sed, ‘whilst I’m moanin’, all my things gwine to rack, an’ de chillun’s got nobody to take keer ob ’em an’ sumpin’ nuther sho’ gwinter happen, Miss Charlotte.’

“Miss Charlotte bleege to laf, an’ old Marster he spoke up an’ say, ‘Let ’im erlone, Charlotte. Can’t you see de ole fool has got it? Go on, you ole idjut,’ he sed to me, ‘an’ marry sumbody an’ git back heah termorrer wid enuf sense in yo’ haid to run er straight furrer fer de fall plowin’.’ An’ wid dat I lit out.

“Now, Unk Pete an’ me, suh,” he explained, “belong to de same church—de Candle Light—an’ to de same lodge—de Ainshunt an’ Honorbul Order ob de Bow-legged Sons of de Black Cat—an’ ’course I ain’ gwi’ marry his widder now an’ spile sum moral observashun, so I jes’ stopped at his cabin to git his consent fur me to marry his widder.

“Get his consent?” I asked. “Why how could you get his consent if he was dead?”

“Who sed he was dead?” said the old darky, quickly. “I nurver sed so; I sed she was his widder!”

I tried to explain to him that a man couldn’t have a widow unless he were dead, but this only made him throw back his head and laugh heartily.

“Wal, wal, wal, white folks got such curious ways of thinkin’. Who’d urver thout it? You see,” he said very solemnly and impressively, “It was dis way: Unk Peter wus gittin’ ole, an’ went off contrawise to de doctrine an’ marrid dis young ’oman. Furst thing he know, he waked up sum mohnin’ an’ find hisself de father ob ten chilouns, sum ob ’em hisn an’ sum ob ’em hern, by her fus’ husban’, an’ dar he wus gittin’ so ole he cudn’t s’port ’em. So up he jumps an’ at de naixt meetin’ ob de church he runs fer de offis ob Patriark ob Santerfercashun, which, ’kordin’ to de doctrine ob Hollerness, marrid ’im to de church. ’Course arter Unk Pete gits santerfercashun an’ marrid to de church, he cudn’t hab enny uder wife, so he hafter put Sis Calline an’ de chilluns aside, which made all ob dem de widders ob de church. Don’t you ketch on to de doctrine, suh?”

I told him I had caught.

The old man was silent as if in deep thought. Then he said: “I wus young den, an’ bleeved eberything erbout de church an’ de doctrine I eber heurd, smelt or dreamed, but I am older now, an’ I’ve cum to de pinted konklushun dat when er man or er woman gets santerfercashun; one or two things done happen to ’em: Either de flahs ob youth dun played out in de bilers ob dar natral swashun—de ole Adam in ’em jes’ peg out from ole aige—or else dey am layin’ low, Brer ’Possum, fur de slickes’ game dat eber wus played. I’ve kinder notis’d we all nacherly gits better es we gits older, ennyway, an’ when we gits so ole we can’t sin no mo’, we mighty nigh good-fur-nuffin’. An’ dars whar de patr’arks ob ole had it on to de res’ ob us,” said the old man knowingly. “Jes’ let de good Marster let me lib heah erbout seben hundred years longer, an’ jes’ watch me sot back an’ view unconserned de fleetin’ vanerties ob dis life.

“Brer Peter wus in deep prayer when I rid up to his cabin, an’ arter he ris up from his knees he blessed on de top ob my observashun, gib me de grip ob Ainshunt an’ Honorbul Order ob de Bow-legged Sons ob de Black Cat, an’ ’lowed he’d lak ter tak off my sandals an’ wash my feet; but I tole ’im I jes’ wash ’em ’bout er month befo’ an’ didn’t hab no time fur foolishness; dat I cum to dis cabin fur konsolashun an’ den I jus’ got offen dat muel an’ plowed a straight furrer ob facts down de row ob his head: ‘Brer Peter,’ sez I, ‘de doctrine ob our church teach us it am not good fur er man wid er dozen chilluns to lib erlone on one side ob er plantashun, an’ er nice, seekin’ lookin’ widder ’oman wid ten mo’ to lib erlone on de yudder side. In union dar am strength, in numbers dar am prosperity, an’ in Duteromety dar am happiness. Brer Peter, I wants ter marry Sister Calline,’ sez I. ‘She am yo’ widder an’ de widder ob de church, but you know yourself she ain’t had no sho’ ’tall—jes’ ha’f a marrid life an’ er house full ob chilluns—ten ob ’em, all needin’ sum lubbin’ father’s gidin’ arm, wid er hickory attachment, whilst my twelve or fifteen all need de spirtool ker ob er good muther ercompament. De cotton pickin’ seezen am ’most on us, an’ if I kin jine our forces I’ll hab er lead-pipe cinch on de cotton crap ob Tennessee to say nuthin’ ’bout de fo’teenth ’mendment to de skule law fixin’ de pro ratter ob all householders raisin’ twenty or mo’ widin de skule aige.

“I tell you, suh, Brer Peter tuck the thing mighty hard, mighty hard. He didn’t wanter do dat thing ’tall. But arter he dun prayed ober it, he cum out wid er new light in his eye, an’ he put his hand on my head an’ bless me an’ say, ‘Brer Washington, I’ve prayed ober it. It am de will ob de Lord. Lite on dat muel an’ seek your konsolashun. Go in an’ receive de sanshun ob her reten-shun an’ de kompliment ob her adorin’.’ And he kinder wink his off eye an’ sed, ‘Go in an’ win, fur you am de Samson ob lub fightin’ de Phillustines ob matrermony; but when you cum to git konsolashun from er widder’—an’ dar he wink hes eye ergin—‘use de same weepun dat Samson used an’ victory am yourn.’

“But when I got to de widder’s cabin an’ tole her—great Scott, suh! she tuck it terribul hard. She didn’t wan’ marry ’tall. Leastwise she made me b’leeve it. Hit’s jes’ es I tole you, suh; you hafter wrastle might swift fur konsolashun when you goes to marry a widder.

“‘Brer Washington,’ she sez, ‘dis am so suddent, so suddent! Don’t you think you’d be satisfied ef I’d continue in de sisterly relashuns ob de church wid you?’

“‘Sister Calline,’ sez I, sorter detarmined lak, ‘I’ve had ten ebry day sisters all my life en sum seben hundred Sunday ones. What I now wants am one wife!’

“Oh, I tell you, suh, you gotter shoot mighty klose fur konsolashun when you wants ter marry a widder!

“We kept it up for hours, she argyfyin’ an’ me argyfyin’, she prayin’ an’ me prayin’. I tell you, Boss, she wus er speedy filly, an’ she had no noshun ob quittin’. We went round de fus’ quarter ob de last mile nose and nose—argyment ergin argyment, prayer ergin prayer. I thout sho’ she had me distanced onct when she fotch out de scriptures on me an’ turned to de twenty-second chapter ob Exerdust an’ sed: ‘Brer Washington, read fur yo’self: “Thou shalt not afflict any widder or fatherless chile.”’ But I turned over to Timerthy, de fifth chapter an’ de third verse, an’ sez I, ‘Sister Calline, whut you read am Ole Testament. It am anshunt histery. Heah am de New Testament, heah am de new doctrine: “Honor widders dat am widders, indeed.”’ Oh, I tell you, Boss,” laughed the old man, “I sho’ hung onto de sulky wheels ob her contenshun wid de wings ob my orthorteries—you gotter hab sum speed lef’ fur de home stretch ef you wants ter beat er widder home!

“An’ so we went, ’round an’ ’round, wheel ergin wheel, an both drivin’ fur life, she quotin’ scriptures and argyfyin’ an’ me comin’ back wid Numbers an’ Duterrumetics—an’ sumtimes things dat wus Reverlashuns to her! At de half I got her tired, at de three-quarters she quit an’ jes’ befo’ she got to de wire she gib up wid er tired, tangled break, an’ sed:

“Brer Washington, it am de Lord’s will.”

“Oh, I tell you, suh, you got er use a mighty keen switch ob beseechment in de race ef you wanter lead er widder down de home stretch!

“But goodness grashus!” he said, as if suddenly remembering something. “I’d better be buildin’ dis pen or we won’t hab enny sawseges fur Kristmus,” and he began to saw energetically.

“Hold on,” I said, “You never told me whether you married the widow or not.”

He looked at me in undisguised astonishment—“Law, law, law,” he said, “white folks got such curis ideas. In course I did—marrid her dat night an’ tuck ’er home de naixt day; ain’t I bin tellin’ you whut er hard time I had gettin’ konsolashun frum dat ar ’oman?”

He sawed vigorously away for awhile, but I could see he wished to tell something else. Finally I said:

“Well, go on, I’m waiting.”

He turned around quickly, laid down his saw, laughed, and said: “How de wurl did you know dar was ennything else? Bless my life, suh, but de very look ob er white man am er search warrant to de nigger’s soul. Ef you bleegter hab it, heah it am,” he said, as he looked slyly around: “I hadn’t been married to dat ’oman but two years befo’ I had to run fur er offis, too.

“What office?” I asked.

He grinned sheepishly.

“Patriark ob de Santerfercashun,” he said, “I beat Unk Peter fur dat offis, an’ got eben wid ’im at his own game.

“Lemme tell you, chile,” he added, impressively, “two years ob konsolashun frum er widder will make a dead man or a Patriark outen ’most ennybody,” and he resumed his sawing with a vigor.

Concerning Littleness

_Let not the littleness of people disturb you. Remember that if you have been made big enough to do big things in life, you have been made large enough to overlook little things. So do not imagine you are great, so long as by sifting yourself you find jealousy, hatred, malice or even the spirit which frets, in your heart. These and Greatness sleep not in the same soul._

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

Stories of the Soil The Little Things of Life, Happening All Over the World and Caught in Ink for Trotwood’s Monthly.

He was a fine-looking old gentleman, well-dressed and had the air of a well-to-do business man. A silver-white mustache set off his cheery-looking, full, round face, and something in his eyes told me he wasn’t at all struck on formality and would not mind talking to a stranger, to pass away an hour or two in a sleeping-car. [Sidenote: An Unfinished Race.] I noticed, too, that his left sleeve had no arm in it, and then that he had on a G. A. R. button.

“That old fellow is all right,” I said to myself, “and I’ll bet he left that arm down in Tennessee. There are a dozen good yarns tucked away under that derby hat that have never yet seen the color of white paper, and I am going to get one of them. I should say that he fought from Shiloh to Chickamauga and from Chattanooga to Nashville, and made a good one, too, or else he wouldn’t have left that arm in the enemy’s country.” “He fought the war out,” I said, after I had studied his countenance more closely and noticed the big bump of benignity that made up his back head and ended in kind, mild countenance; “and after it was over he let it stay over, forgot all its meanness, inhumanity and cussedness generally, came on up here to Indiana and went into business, attended strictly to it, and is now a well-to-do business man.”

Satisfied that my diagnosis was correct, I went over, and taking a seat by him, began to slyly get in my net for the fish I knew was there.

“From Middle Tennessee, you say?” he said after awhile. “Well, I guess I know every foot of it, nearly.” He laughed. “Under a little black locust tree near Murfreesboro is what is left of this,” he said, as he touched his empty coat sleeve. “I have often wanted to go back there and see some of those pretty farms and good horses and bluegrass hills when I didn’t have any guard duty to do and wasn’t looking for an enemy, but friends.”

I cordially invited him to come, and mentioned how many of the veterans come down every now and then to go over the battlefields of the South.

“Is that long, wooden, covered bridge still spanning Duck River at Columbia?” he asked quickly, as if suddenly remembering all about it. “That old bridge has got a history,” he continued. “I was with Buell when we got orders that we were to unite our army with Grant’s somewhere in the neighborhood of Pittsburg Landing, on the Tennessee. When we reached Columbia the river was up and the bridge was partially destroyed, and all the flooring burned. I was one of the engineers and had to repair the bridge. Word had come that we were needed badly, and we worked day and night. Then word came that we were needed worse, and by hard dint I got the army over, and on we rushed for Pittsburg Landing. We got there almost too late. Grant’s army was nearly ruined. Johnston had driven it from Shiloh Church to the river bank, a distance of five or six miles, and only our arrival that night, bringing in the thirty or thirty-five thousand of Buell’s army, saved Grant. On what small things do great destinies hang!” he mused. “A loss of a day at Columbia would have changed the history of this country, and General Grant, instead of having been President, would have been one more of our unsuccessful generals.

“But the funniest experience I had in Tennessee was at a little place in Marshall County, almost at the extreme edge of our army’s position. It was after the battle of Shiloh, when the main army was at Nashville and our outposts went as far south as Pulaski. Do you all still raise pacing horses down there?”

I looked around to see if anybody was near enough to understand the humor of such a question, but seeing none, and no sign of a joke on the old gentleman’s face, I kept my face straight as I answered him that we still raised a few.

“I was always fond of a good saddle horse,” he went on, “and many of the boys in our company of cavalry were of the same way of thinking. In fact, we had picked up a whole company of them down there, and I’m afraid we did not take the trouble to issue any Government warrants for them either,” he laughed. “So when we went into camp in this village of Marshall County we had a company of as fine horses as any cavalry company ever bestrode. Time went a little heavy on our hands, until one day some of the boys got up a bet on the speed of their respective horses, and a quarter race was run that evening at which the entire company turned out. It was won by a little roan horse that could pace nearly as fast as he could run, which was saying a good deal, for he could run for a quarter of a mile about as fast as anything I ever saw on four legs. Well, he won, and two days afterward beat two others, and a week after that beat everything they could rake and scrape up against him. All this was hugely interesting and immensely exciting, and as none of us had ever heard anything of the presence of the rebel cavalry leader and reckless raider, General Forrest, and never dreamed of the danger we were in, I am sorry to say that we were more interested in horse-racing just then than anything else. The owner of the horse called the little roan pacer and runner “Mack,” in honor of General MacPherson, who commanded some of us at Shiloh. Well, after Mack had beaten everything running, it was announced in camp one day that Mack’s match at pacing had been captured a few days before, and a big pacing race was to come off that evening to decide it. I had never seen a pacing race under saddle, and with all the others I went out to see it. You can imagine what asses we were when we left everything in camp, even our side arms, in care of a few sentinels and camp followers, and all of us adjourned to an old field about a quarter of a mile to see the sport. The track was a half-mile, laid off on a nice country road, the judges standing at the end of the half mile and the start was at the beginning. It is needless to say that every man in the company was at the end of the track where the judges were. The horses were nearly equal favorites, and we soon had to appoint a man to hold the bets. He had his hands full, for every man in the company had something upon the race, and the goose hung high—and we were the goose,” he laughed.

“There were to be three heats. An Indiana man rode Mack, and an Ohio man rode the other horse. Down the lane they came on the first heat, and all of us strained our necks to see who led. In forty yards of the wire, so to speak, Mack lost his head, concluded he was born for running and not for pacing, broke out and ran away from his man. The judges gave the heat to the other horse. This made Mack’s friends mad, and after a good deal of palavering the heat was declared off and everything started over. In this heat Mack got down to business and beat the other horse by the nose. But in the next heat the other horse turned the tables on Mack and beat him a good length. I’ve seen a good many harness races in my day since then,” continued the old soldier, “but I never saw one that interested me as much as that. Everything was excitement, and the boys were betting everything they had, from hardtacks to dollars. When they turned up the road to come down for the third heat, we could easily see them from where we were, as the beginning of the track was slightly elevated. They turned ’round to come, when all at once I saw both horses stop, their riders looking intently toward the camp, which was behind us and could be seen by them from their slight elevation. In another instant they started, but not our way. They gave one wild shout, bolted the fence on the side of the road and lit out across the fields, according to our notion, like two fools. Before we had time to imagine what was up, we heard some shouts and shots in camp, some wild galloping and yells our way, and we turned ’round only to rush into the arms of a detachment, some five-hundred strong, of Forrest’s Cavalry. If there ever were a cheap set, we were the boys. We made no bones of surrendering, for we hadn’t a dog’s show and were glad to get off with our clothes.

“‘What in h—— are you Yanks doin’ down here, anyway?’ asked their leader, a big fellow with a Colonel’s gray uniform on. When the situation was explained to him he laughed like a big schoolboy. ‘Where is the stakeholder?’ he asked. When this gentleman was pointed out he hollered out: ‘Fetch them stakes over here, sonny, and tell the judges all bets are declared off on this race’! And the way the Johnnies laughed racked us more than being captured.

“We soon learned the secret of the thing. Forrest had made one of his characteristic raids around Nashville, captured and burned our stores at Gallatin and Murfreesboro, and was sweeping on towards Bragg’s army at Tullahoma. In his sweep he simply scooped us up while we were down in the woods of Marshall County, running a pumpkin fair, a goose show and a pacing meeting. But he was in a big hurry himself, for nearly all of Buell’s cavalry were after him. He had no time to do anything but take all we had, including our horses, the gate receipts and the book money and parole us and push on. But he never got Mack and the other horse, and to this day I have always wished that he had waited five minutes longer. I’d give ten dollars now,” he added, “to know whether Mack or the other horse would have won that last heat. But we never knew, for we were soon forced to the front again; forgot all about our paroles, for we never did think we were fairly captured, and I never saw Mack or his rider again. I stayed the war out, but I never went to see any more pacing races in the enemy’s country,” he laughed.

“Well, come down this fall and see some in the country of friends,” I said. We shook hands and parted.

TROTWOOD.

* * * * *

The poem below goes the rounds of the press every year signed with the name of Gen. Albert Pike. In fact, such is the general belief, and all the books in which I have seen this poem printed fall into this error. [Sidenote: The Old Canoe.] But though General Pike wrote some very beautiful poems, he did not write this one. We have his own admission made to Senator Carmack, the distinguished senior Senator from Tennessee. Like many other good poems, it was, perhaps, the only one some poet wrote, and, never thinking it would be immortal, or that it had any special merit, failed to sign his name to it.

It is a little curious how this poem became identified with General Pike. But we learn how it was from an old citizen of Columbia, Tenn., who knew General Pike when he was a young man and lived here. Pike practiced law there when he first started out in life, but met with poor success. Becoming despondent, he one night paid his hotel bill, went to the river’s edge, got into an old canoe, and drifted down to Williamsport, where he took the stage for Nashville. From there he went West, where he became a successful lawyer and politician, and afterwards wrote a volume of poetry. Those poems in which he allowed himself to be natural, such as “Every Year” and others, are very beautiful. But in his most pretentious poem he seems to imitate Keats and Shelley, and so lost his own individuality.