Moriah's Mourning and Other Half-Hour Sketches Part 13

An' dat's huccome I mixed dat feed so purtic'lar.

I does love Lady!

A PULPIT ORATOR

Old Reub' Tyler, pastor of Mount Zion Chapel, Sugar Hollow Plantation, was a pulpit orator of no mean parts. Though his education, acquired during his fifty-ninth, sixtieth, and sixty-first summers, had not carried him beyond the First Reader cla.s.s in the local district school, it had given him a pretty thorough knowledge of the sounds of simple letter combinations. This, supplemented by a quick intuition and a correct musical ear, had aided him to really remarkable powers of interpretation, and there was now, ten years later, no chapter in the entire Bible which he hesitated to read aloud, such as contained long strings of impossible names hung upon a chain of "begats" being his favorite achievements.

A common tribute paid Reub's pulpit eloquence by reverential listeners among his flock was, "Brer Tyler is got a black face, but his speech sho' is white." The truth was that in his humble way Reub' was something of a philologist. A new word was to him a treasure, so much stock in trade, and the longer and more formidable the acquisition, the dearer its possession.

Reub's unusual vocabulary was largely the result of his intimate relations with his master, Judge Marshall, whose body-servant he had been for a number of years. The judge had long been dead now, and the plantation had descended to his son, the present inc.u.mbent.

Reub' was entirely devoted to the family of his former owners, and almost any summer evening now he might be seen sitting on the lowest of the five steps which led to the broad front veranda of the great house where Mr. John Marshall sat smoking his meerschaum. If Marshall felt amiably disposed he would often hand the old man a light, or even his own tobacco-bag, from which Reub' would fill his corn-cob pipe, and the two would sit and smoke by the hour, talking of the crops, the weather, politics, religion, anything--as the old man led the way; for these evening communings were his affairs rather than his "Ma.r.s.e John's." On a recent occasion, while they sat talking in this way, Marshall was congratulating him upon his unprecedented success in conducting a certain revival then in progress, when the old man said:

"Ya.s.sir, de Lord sho' is gimme a rich harves'. But you know some'h'n', Ma.r.s.e John? All de power o' language th'ough an' by which I am enable ter seize on de sperit is come to me th'ough ole marster. I done tooken my pattern f'om him f'om de beginnin,' an' des de way I done heerd him argify de cases in de co't-house, dat's de way I lay out ter state my case befo' de Lord.

"I nuver is preached wid power yit on'y but 'cep' when I sees de sinner standin' 'fo' de bar o' de Lord, an' de witnesses on de stan', an' de speckletators pressin' for'ard to heah, an' de jury listenin', an _me--I'm de prosecutin' 'torney_!

"An' when I gits dat whole co't-room 'ranged 'fo' my eyes in my min', an' de pris'ner standin' in de box, I des reg'lar _lay 'im out_! You see, I knows all de law words ter do it _wid_! I des open fire on 'im, an' prove 'im a crim'nal, a law-breaker, a vagabone, a murderer in ev'y degree dey is--fus', secon', _an_' third--a reperbate, an' a blot on de face o' de yearth, tell dey ain't a chance lef' fur 'im but ter fall on 'is knees an' plead guilty!

"An' when I got 'im down, _I got 'im whar I want 'im_, an' de work's half did. Den I shif's roun' an' ac' _pris'ner's 'torney_, an' preach grace tell I gits 'im shoutin'--des de same as ole marster use ter do--clair a man whe'r or no, guilty or no guilty, step by step, nuver stop tell he'd have de last juryman blowin' 'is nose an' snifflin'--an'

he'd do it wid swellin' dic'sh'nary words, too!

"Dat's de way I works it--fus' argify fur de State, den plead fur de pris'ner.

"I tell yer, Ma.r.s.e John," he resumed, after a thoughtful pause, "dey's one word o' ole marster's--I don'no' huccome it slipped my min', but hit was a long glorified word, an' I often wishes. .h.i.t'd come back ter me. Ef I could ricollec' dat word, hit'd holp me powerful in my preachin'.

"Wonder ef you wouldn't call out a few dic'sh'nary words fur me, please, sir? Maybe you mought strike it."

Without a moment's reflection, Marshall, seizing at random upon the first word that presented itself, said, "How about _ratiocination_?"

The old man started as if he were shot. "Dat's. .h.i.t!" he exclaimed.

"Ya.s.sir, dat's. .h.i.t! How in de kingdom come is you struck it de fust pop?

Rasheoshinatiom! I 'clare! Dat's de ve'y word, sho's you born! Dat's what I calls a high-tone word; ain't it, now, Ma.r.s.e John?"

"Yes, Uncle Reub'; ratiocination is a good word in its place." Marshall was much amused. "I suppose you know what it means?"

"Nemmine 'bout dat," Reub' protested, grinning all over--"nemmine 'bout dat. I des gwine fetch it in when I needs a thunder-bolt!

Rasheoshinatiom! Dat's a bomb-sh.e.l.l fur de prosecutiom! But I can't git it off now; I'm too cool. Wait tell I'm standin' in de pulpit on tip-toes, wid de sweat a-po'in' down de spine o' my back, an' fin'

myse'f _des one argimint short_! Den look out fur de locomotive!

"Won't yer," he added, after a pause--"won't yer, please, sir, spell dat word out fur me slow tell I writes it down 'fo' I forgits it?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'WON'T YER, PLEASE, SIR, SPELL DAT WORD OUT FUR ME SLOW?'"]

Reaching deep into his trousers pocket, he brought forth a folded sc.r.a.p of tobacco-stained paper and a bit of lead-pencil.

Notwithstanding his fondness for the old man, there was a twinkle in Marshall's eye as he began to spell for him, letter by letter, the coveted word of power.

"R," he began, glancing over the writer's shoulder.

"R," repeated Reub', laboriously writing.

"A," continued Marshall.

"R-a," repeated Reub'.

"T," said the tutor.

"R-a-t," drawled the old man, when, suddenly catching the sound of the combination, he glanced first at the letters and then with quick suspicion up into Marshall's face. The suppressed smile he detected there did its work. He felt himself betrayed.

Springing tremulously from his seat, the very embodiment of abused confidence and wrath, he exclaimed:

"Well! Hit's come ter dis, is it? One o' ole marster's chillen settin'

up makin' spote o' me ter my face! I didn't spect it of yer, Ma.r.s.e John--I did not. It's bad enough when some o' deze heah low-down po'-white-trash town-boys hollers 'rats' at me--let alone my own white chillen what I done toted in my arms! Lemme go home an' try ter forgit dis insult ole marster's chile insulted me wid!"

It was a moment before Marshall saw where the offence lay, and then, overcome with the ludicrousness of the situation, he roared with laughter in spite of himself.

This removed him beyond the pale of forgiveness, and as Reub' hobbled off, talking to himself, Marshall felt that present protest was useless.

It was perhaps an hour later when, having deposited a bag of his best tobacco in his coat pocket, and tucked a dictionary under his arm, Marshall made his way to the old man's cabin, where, after many affectionate protestations and much insistence, he finally induced him to put on his gla.s.ses and spell the word from the printed page.

He was not easily convinced. However, under the force of Marshall's kindly a.s.surances and the testimony of his own eyes, he finally melted, and as he set back the candle and removed his gla.s.ses, he remarked, in a tone of the utmost humility,

"Well--dat's what comes o' n.i.g.g.e.r educatiom! Des let a n.i.g.g.e.r git fur enough along ter spell out c-a-t, cat, an' r-a-t, rat, an' a few Fus'

Reader varmints, an' he's ready ter conterdic' de whole dic'sh'nary.

"Des gimme dat word a few times _in my ear_ good, please, sir. I wouldn't dare ter teck it in thoo my eye, 'caze don' keer what you say, when a word sets out wid r-a-t, I gwine see a open-eyed rat settin'

right at de head of it blinkin' at me ev'y time I looks at it."

AN EASTER SYMBOL

A MONOLOGUE OF THE PLANTATION

_Speaker_: A Black Girl.

_Time_: Easter Morning.

"'Scuse me knockin' at yo' do' so early, Miss Bettie, but I'se in trouble. Don't set up in bed. Jes' lay still an' lemme talk to yer.

"I come to ax yer to please ma'am loand me a pair o' wings, mistus.

No'm, I ain't crazy. I mean what I say.