Diddie, Dumps and Tot Part 21

"Was it you, Daddy?" asked Dumps.

"Wy, no, honey, hit wan't me, hit wuz my forecisters."

"What's a forecister, Daddy?" asked Diddie, rather curious about the relationship.

"Yer forecisters," explained Daddy, "is dem uv yer _way back folks_, wat's born'd fo' you is yerse'f, an' fo' yer pa is. Now, like my ole marster, yer pa's gran'pa, wat riz me in ole Furginny, he's you chil'en's forecister; an' dis n.i.g.g.e.r wat I'm tellin' yer 'bout'n, he waz my _fuss forecister_; an' dats' de way dat I've allers hyearn dat he come ter be black, an' his hyar kinky; an' I b'lieves. .h.i.t, too, caze er n.i.g.g.e.r's de sleepies'-headed critter dey is; an' den, 'sides dat, I've seed er heap er n.i.g.g.e.rs in my time, but I ain't nuber seed dat n.i.g.g.e.r yit wat's wite, an' got straight hyar on his head.

"Now I ain't er talkin' 'bout'n _murlatters_, caze dey ain't no reg'lar folks 'tall; dey's des er mixtry. Dey ain't wite, an' dey ain't black, an' dey ain't nuffin'; dey's des de same kin' er _folks_ ez de muel is er _horse_!

"An' den dar's Injuns; dey's ergin ernudder kin' er folks.

"I usen ter hyear 'em say dat de deb'l made de fuss Injun. He seed de Lord er makin' folks, an' he 'lowed he'd make him some; so he got up his dut and his water, an' all his 'grejunces, an' he went ter wuck; an'

wedder he cooked him too long, or wedder he put in too much red clay fur de water wat he had, wy, I ain't nuber hyeard; but den I knows de deb'l made 'im, caze I allers hyearn so; an', mo'n dat, I done seed 'em fo'

now, an' dey got mighty dev'lish ways. I wuz wid yer gran'pa at Fort Mimms, down erbout Mobile, an' I seed 'em killin' folks an' sculpin' uv 'em; an, mo'n dat, ef'n I hadn't er crope under er log, an' flattent myse'f out like er allergator, dey'd er got me; an' den, ergin, dey don't talk like no folks. I met er Injun one time in de road, an' I axed 'im wuz he de man wat kilt an' sculpt Sis Leah, wat usen ter b'longst ter yer gran'pa, an' wat de Injuns kilt. I axt 'im 'ticklur, caze I had my axe erlong, an' ef'n he wuz de man, I 'lowed fur ter lay him out.

But, bless yer life, chile, he went on fur ter say,

"'Ump, ump, kinterlosha wannycoola tusky n.o.ba, inickskymuncha fluxkerscenuck kintergunter skoop.'

"An' wen he sed dat, I tuck'n lef' him, caze I seed hit wouldn't do fur ter fool 'long him; an', mo'n dat, he 'gun fur ter shine his eyes out, an' so I des off wid my hat, an' scrope my lef' foot, an' said, 'Good ebenin', marster, same ez ef he wuz er wite man; an' den I tuck thu de woods tell I come ter de fork-han' een' er de road, an' I eberlastin'

dusted fum dar! I put deze feets in motion, yer hyeard me! an' I kep'

'em er gwine, too, tell I come ter de outskwirts uv de quarters; an'

eber sence den I ain't stopped no Injun wat I sees in de road, an' I ain't meddled 'long o' who kilt Sis Leah, nudder, caze she's ben in glory deze fifty years or mo', an' hit's all one to her now who sculpt her."

But now, as it was getting late, Daddy said he was afraid to stay out in the night air, as it sometimes "gun him de rheumatiz," and wound up his remarks by saying,

"Tell yer ma I'm mighty 'bleeged fur de cake an' drinkin's, an' weneber yer gits de time, an' kin come down hyear any ebenin', de ole man he'll 'struck yer, caze he's gwine erway fo' long, an' dem things wat he knows is...o...b..knownst ter de mos' uv folks."

"Where are you going, Daddy," asked Diddie.

"I gwine ter de 'kingdum,' honey, an' de Lord knows. .h.i.t's time; I ben hyear long ernuff; but hit's 'bout time fur me ter be er startin' now, caze las' Sat'dy wuz er week gone I wuz er stretchin' my ole legs in de fiel', an' er rabbit run right ercross de road foreninst me, an' I knowed 'twuz er sho' sign uv er death; an' den, night fo' las', de scritch-owls wuz er talkin' ter one ernudder right close ter my do', an'

I knowed de time wuz come fur de ole n.i.g.g.e.r ter take dat trip; so, ef'n yer wants him ter 'struck yer, yer'd better be er ten'in' ter it, caze wen de Lord sen's fur 'im he's er _gwine_."

The children were very much awed at Daddy's forebodings, and Dumps insisted on shaking hands with him, as she felt that she would probably never see him again, and they all bade him good-night, and started for the house.

"Miss Diddie, did you know ole Daddy wuz er _trick_ n.i.g.g.e.r?" asked Dilsey, as they left the old man's cabin.

"What's er trick n.i.g.g.e.r?" asked Dumps.

"Wy, don't yer know, Miss Dumps? Trick n.i.g.g.e.rs dey ties up snakes' toofs an' frogs' eyes an' birds' claws, an' all kineter charms; an' den, wen dey gits mad 'long o' folks, dey puts dem little bags under dey do's, or in de road somewhar, whar dey'll hatter pa.s.s, an' dem folks wat steps ober 'em den dey's _tricked_; an' dey gits sick, an' dey can't sleep uv nights, an' dey chickens all dies, an' dey can't nuber hab no luck nor nuf'n tell de tricks is tuck off. Didn't yer hyear wat he said 'bout'n de snakes? an' de folks all sez ez how ole Daddy is er trick n.i.g.g.e.r, an'

dat's wat makes him don't die."

"Well, I wish I was a trick n.i.g.g.e.r, then," remarked Dumps, gravely.

"Lordy, Miss Dumps, yer'd better not be er talkin' like dat," said Dilsey, her eyes open wide in horror. "Hit's pow'ful wicked ter be trick n.i.g.g.e.rs."

"I don't know what's the matter with Dumps," said Diddie; "she's gettin' ter be so sinful; an' ef she don't stop it, I sha'n't sleep with her. She'll be er breakin' out with the measles or sump'n some uv these days, jes fur er judgment on her; an' I don't want ter be catchin' no judgments just on account of her badness."

"Well, I'll take it back, Diddie," humbly answered Dumps. "I didn't know it was wicked; and won't you sleep with me now?"

Diddie having promised to consider the matter, the little folks walked slowly on to the house, Dilsey and Chris and Riar all taking turns in telling them the wonderful spells and cures and troubles that Daddy Jake had wrought with his "trick-bags."

CHAPTER XVII.

WHAT BECAME OF THEM.

Well, of course, I can't tell you _all_ that happened to these little girls. I have tried to give you some idea of how they lived in their Mississippi home, and I hope you have been amused and entertained; and now, as "Diddie" said about _her_ book, I've got to "wind up," and tell you what became of them.

The family lived happily on the plantation until the war broke out in 1861.

Then Major Waldron clasped his wife to his heart, kissed his daughters, shook hands with his faithful slaves, and went as a soldier to Virginia; and he is sleeping now on the slope of Malvern Hill, where he

"n.o.bly died for Dixie."

The old house was burned during the war, and on the old plantation where that happy home once stood there are now three or four chimneys and an old tumbled-down gin-house. That is all.

The agony of those terrible days of war, together with the loss of her husband and home, broke the heart and sickened the brain of Mrs.

Waldron; and in the State Lunatic Asylum is an old white-haired woman, with a weary, patient look in her eyes, and this gentle old woman, who sits day after day just looking out at the sunshine and the flowers, is the once beautiful "mamma" of Diddie, Dumps, and Tot.

Diddie grew up to be a very pretty, graceful woman, and when the war began was in her eighteenth year. She was engaged to one of the young men in the neighborhood; and, though she was so young, her father consented to the marriage, as her lover was going into the army, and wanted to make her his wife before leaving. So, early in '61, before Major Waldron went to Virginia, there was a quiet wedding in the parlor one night; and not many days afterwards the young Confederate soldier donned his gray coat, and rode away with Forrest's Cavalry.

"And ere long a messenger came, Bringing the sad, sad story-- A riderless horse: a funeral march: Dead on the field of glory!"

After his death her baby came to gladden the young widow's desolate life; and he is now almost grown, handsome and n.o.ble, and the idol of his mother.

Diddie is a widow still. She was young and pretty when the war ended, and has had many offers of marriage; but a vision of a cold white face, with its fair hair dabbled in blood, is ever in her heart. So Diddie lives for her boy. Their home is in Natchez now; for of course they could never live in the old place any more. When the slaves were free, they had no money to rebuild the houses, and the plantation has never been worked since the war.

The land is just lying there useless, worthless; and the squirrels play in and out among the trees, and the mocking-birds sing in the honeysuckles and magnolias and rose-bushes where the front yard used to be.

And at the quarters, where the happy slave-voices used to sing "Monkey Motions," and the merry feet used to dance to "Cotton-eyed Joe," weeds and thick underbrush have all grown up, and partridges build their nests there; and sometimes, at dusk, a wild-cat or a fox may be seen stealing across the old play-ground.

Tot, long years ago, before the war even, when she was yet a pure, sinless little girl, was added to that bright band of angel children who hover around the throne of G.o.d; and so she was already there, you see, to meet and welcome her "papa" when his stainless soul went up from Malvern Hill.

Well, for "Mammy" and "Daddy Jake" and "Aunt Milly" and "Uncle Dan'l,"

"dat angel" has long since "blowed de horn," and I hope and believe they are happily walking "dem golden streets" in which they had such implicit faith, and of which they never wearied of telling.

And the rest of the negroes are all scattered; some doing well, some badly; some living, some dead. Aunt Sukey's Jim, who married Candace that Christmas-night, is a politician. He has been in the Legislature, and spends his time in making long and exciting speeches to the loyal leaguers against the Southern whites, all unmindful of his happy childhood, and of the kind and generous master who strove in every way to render his bondage (for which that master was in no way to blame) a light and happy one.

Uncle Snake-bit Bob is living still. He has a little candy-store in a country town. He does not meddle with politics. He says, "I don't cas'

my suffrins fur de Dimercracks, nur yit fur de 'Publicans. I can't go 'ginst my color by votin' de Dimercrack papers; an' ez fur dem 'Publicans! Well, ole Bob he done hyearn wat de _Book_ say 'boutn publicans an' sinners, an' dat's ernuff fur him. He's er gittin' uperds in years now; pretty soon he'll hatter shove off fur dat 'heb'nly sho';'

an' wen de Lord sen' atter him, he don't want dat angel ter cotch him in no kinwunshuns 'long wid 'publicans an' sinners.'" And so Uncle Bob attends to his store, and mends chairs and tubs, and deals extensively in chickens and eggs; and perhaps he is doing just as well as if he were in Congress.

Dilsey and Chris and Riar are all women now, and are all married and have children of their own; and nothing delights them more than to tell to their little ones what "us an' de wite chil'en usen ter do."

And the last I heard of Aunt Nancy, the "tender," she was going to school, but not progressing very rapidly. She did learn her letters once, but, having to stop school to make a living, she soon forgot them, and she explained it by saying: