W

HA' yer gwine do wi' dat gun ?" It was Tempy Taylor who propounded the question, and she did it in a tone of voice that would have attracted anybody's attention. She was a tall, heavy, masculine woman of some two hundred odd pounds, and as she straightened up over the washtub under the chinaberry tree at the end of her cabin, she was indeed a formidable-looking figure. Her great black, muscular arms drooped towards the scrubbing-board that reclined in the tub, and her hands grasped a wet garment upon which she had been expending some of her prodigious strength. The person addressed was a small old man whose face was pretty well covered with a gray, kinky beard. He nervously shifted the weapon he bore, an ancient muzzle-loading fowling-piece with a wire-wrapped stock and reed ramrod, and affected an easy, conciliatory manner.

"Des gwine down yander on de crik. Ole buck rabbit down dere ev'y day 'bout dis time. 'Spec' he oughter be en de pan time Mammy Jo' git heah en de morndin'." The voice was drawl

ing and childlike in its modulations. He struck the right chord and very skillfully. Mammy Jo' was the mother of the Amazon at the tub, and had sent word of her intended visit. The little old man moved off slowly with a peculiar shuffling motion. "Dat 'possum mighty fine back yander," he ventured, with a motion of his head towards the cabin, "but 't ain't gwine ter las' all day." As he passed on his ear waited for a harsh summons, but heard only the mutterings of his spouse when she plunged a little more vigorously into her work. The little strip of pine woods towards which his face was turned seemed to approach at a snail's pace only, but he was afraid to change the gait he had chosen. As he stepped at last into the friendly cover of the trees he stole a backward glance over his shoulder, and then abruptly quickened his motions. At the same instant his whole manner changed, and when presently he heard his name echo through the wood, borne upon the imperative tones of a pair of prodigious female lungs, he laughed aloud and held on his way. The woman at the tub talked to herself.

46

Mighty takin' on 'bout Mammy Jo' all er sudd'n. Mammy Jo'! Mammy Jo'! Heap he kyar 'bout Mammy Jo'," she laughed scornfully. "Better be out en dat patch pick'n' cott'n or en dem pease. Ef hit wuz lef' ter him, dat steer go 'long ter town ter be sold, 'stidder de cott'n-bag. I know him; he can't fool me. Gi' 'im time an' he go skipp'n' 'bout over yonner at de Stillson place, de lyin' little debbil." She gave the shirt of her absent lord a vicious wring as if she felt him in it, and lifted up her voice, obeying a sudden impulse:

"You Torm!!!" There was no reply except a few echoes that mocked her. "He heah me," she continued, resuming her labors; and then she resumed too the thread of her revery. "Morndin', Sis' 'Lizer; how yo' he'th ter-day, ma'am? Morndin', Sis' Chloey; I hope yer feelin' berry well, ma'am.'" She imitated the insinuating, childlike tones of her absent spouse and repeated her scornful laugh. "Nex' time I heah 'bout 'im gwine over deir, I'll bre'k ev'y bone en 'is triflin' hide."

But Tom was thinking no longer of his industrious and indignant spouse. He was rapidly moving along the new line of departure from home and the haunts of the buck rabbit in the creek bottom. He had a slight limp, caused by a bale of cotton rolling against his leg when he was young, and as he trotted along, his funny little figure bobbing up and down caused the powder-horn under his arm and the shot-gourd to swing out and collide fiercely.

A couple of miles glided away thus, when suddenly out from under his feet a rabbit scurried a few yards away, and pricking up his ears looked back at the rude disturber of his afternoon ramble. Tom brought the gun down across his knee, cocked it successfully, the hammer going back half a circle with three distinct clicks, rested it for a moment against a tree, aimed long and carefully, and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening explosion; the little old man staggered back six feet, the muzzle of his gun dropped to the ground, and the rabbit sprung high in the air, turned a somersault, and fell dead. Had there been a witness present, he would have observed that the ground about the unfortunate animal was more or less torn up for a space of twenty feet square. Tom rushed in and secured his prize, then carefully reloaded his weapon and resumed his journey. He had not gone far before a rooster, leading his family among the dead leaves of some scrub oaks, straightened up and uttered an inquiring cackle. At the same instant a hound near at hand gave vent to a prolonged howl, and barking fiercely galloped out towards the newcomer. Tom entered a small clearing, where stood a log cabin with a garden at the rear, VOL. XXXVIII.-12.

guarded from a couple of cadaverous-looking pigs and the chickens by a split-picket fence reenforced with brush. In the doorway sat a young woman twisting her hair into the tight little rolls which all of the kinky-headed race affect under the idea that straight hair will finally result therefrom.

"How yer do, Sis' Chayney? How yo' he'th ter-day, ma'am ?" Tom had reduced his gait, and his voice rose and fell melodiously. The woman laughed, showing a mouthful of dazzling teeth.

"I'm toler❜ble. Set down. How yer do, Unc' Torm?"

"Des so, so. He laid the rabbit on the single step beside her feet and continued facetiously:

"'Spec' dat rabbit knowed wha' I wuz gwine, an' des git right en de way ter come erlong too." The woman laughed again. She stole a look at Tom as she sat up with both hands over her head, engaged upon a final knot. "How 'e know?"

ear.

Tom raised his eyebrows and scratched his

"He knowed I warn' gwine home," he said slowly; and meeting the comic look on his face with one of intelligence, she threw her head back and gave expression to her mood again. She did not thank him for the gift, but took it up as she rose and turned it over. "Rabbit fat," she said, and laid it on the water-bucket shelf, just inside. "How yer lef' Aunt Tempy?"

"She putty well," said Tom, carelessly. He was studying the toe of his foot visible through a rift in his well-worn brogan. Again the laugh of the woman, this time from the inside of the house, reached him.

"Tempy gwine ter be heah en dis worl' w'en you an' me done gone," she called out. Tom passed his hand over his face and looked as if the idea was not a pleasant one. "Better bring yo' cher enside," added the woman after a few moments, and he complied. Then she began to busy herself straightening things in the simple room, and as she worked the conversation went on.

"Unc' Josh Sims gwine ter preach ter-morrow," she said. "He come erlong heah des now an' he 'low dat he wuz gwine ter turn all de niggers over 'bout heah, 'count er dey debblement."

"Dey es er-needin' hit," said Tom. “Ef I had er seen 'im I 'd er got squar' wid some, sho' 's you born."

"Oom-hoo! An' I reck'n some seen 'im 'fo' now an' ten' ter dat 'head er you. Maybe some done got squar' wid ole man Torm." She was passing him as she spoke, and gave him a sharp slap on the jaw.

CHAPTER II.

WHEN Tom, warned by the sinking sun, set his face homeward, he took a course that would carry him in or about the creek bottom to which he had ostensibly set out. His way led him by the log church in which a neighborhood preacher or elder held forth every Sunday, except when the famous and eccentric Rev. Joshua Sims visited it, which was three or four times a year. As he approached the edifice, which stood in a pine thicket and boasted of a bush-arbor awning in front, he heard the voice of a preacher breaking loudly upon the afternoon calm. Never before had Tom known of a church meeting on Saturday afternoon. It was the time universally claimed by the negroes for town shopping or loafing. He knew of no one recently dead; and, besides, had any one died that late in the week the body would have been saved until Sunday. In open-mouth astonishment, therefore, Tom approached at the side. Sure enough "preaching" was going on. His first impulse was to enter; but, still suspicious, he placed his eye at a crevice and looked through. There was only one person within the church, and that was the Rev. Joshua Sims. Standing in the pulpit, he was preaching to an imaginary audience the sermon evidently prepared for the next day. Tom squatted down on his haunches, and a broad, comprehensive grin lighted his face as he realized the situation. The speaker thundered over the book lying upon the pulpit, slapping it vigorously from time to time, and walking from side to side. Half of the Rev. Joshua Sims's success lay in his figure, tempestuous delivery, and thrilling tones, and he knew it. The sermon was delivered in a shout, and wherever in a sentence the speaker sought for a word he would prolong the preceding tone with "er-rer." Sometimes saliva from his mouth flew over the pulpit into the vacant auditorium, as foam is tossed from a horse's mouth.

Tom had missed the text and indeed most of the sermon, but this much reached him through the crevice:

"Shake off yo' weights! Shake 'em off! Dey es good ter put on er race-horse w'en dey es er-trainin' 'im; but w'en de time come ter race dey must be shook off. Ef yer gwine ter run er race wid de debble shake off dem weights, an' go et fum de drop er de hat.

"Shake off yo' weights! Shake 'em off! Sister, ef hit 's fine clo'es, shake 'em off! Shake 'em off! Dey ain' no fine clo'es in hebben; de angels don't wear nuthin' but de plaines' kine. Yer can't run no race wid er long gown hangin' ter yer an' er bustle an' er hoop er-floppin' roun'. Yer can't run no race wid dem sacks an' high hats an' fedders ter ketch de win', an'

dem high-heel shoes er-ketchin' en de grass. Shake 'em off! Shake off yo' weights!

"Shake off yo' weights! Shake 'em off, brudders! Yer can't run er race wid de debble an' yer full er whisky. Er wise man 'ill take er gourd er spring water at de start an' go barefooted, like Moses roun' de bush, an' trus' de Lord, when 'e want mo', ter run er branch 'cross de road, like 'e does fur de mule gwine ter town. Shake off de weights; shake 'em off!

"Shake off yo' weights! How does po' sinner run? He runs wid de weights on, an' debble keep right 'long at 'is heels, so close sinner heah him laugh. Dey trabble 'long tergedder, an' bimeby, 'fo' dey gits ter de las' mile-pos', debble trip up po' sinner an' win de race. Shake off yo' weights! Oh, shake 'em off!

"How do de righteous run? He strips off de weights an' cuts out. Mos' 'fo' yer know 'e gwine run, 'e done gone; an' debble come erlong an' find trail so cole 'e don't know wha' good man gone, an' 'e win de race. Shake off yo' weights! Yer all got weights, an' I'm gwine tell yer 'bout 'em. Deir 's sump'n enside already tell yer, but I 'm gwine ter tell out loud so ev'ybody know yer been tole." He descended from the pulpit and marched up to the amen corner, still talking. "Here 's Bre'r Dan! Here 's Bre'r Dan! Bre'r Dan got weights, an' 'e ain' shake 'em off. What es dem weights's name? Too much corn en 'is crib fur de size er 'is crop! Too much cott'n en 'is crib fur de size er 'is patch! Too many chickens en de pan fur two hens an' er rooster! Too many shotes erbout Chrismus fur er no-sow man. Shake off yo' weights, Bre'r Dan; shake 'em off! Oh, w'at es sech er sinner like? He like er one-legged grasshopper, w'a' think 'e es erjumpin' somewhar, w'en ev'ybody know 'e jes tu'nnin' roun' en de road, p'intin' er new way ev'y time."

Tom rolled over on the ground outside and kicked his heels in the air, convulsed with laughter. "Somebody done got squar' wid Unc' Dan," he gasped. Then he quickly rose up an' glued his eye to the crack again. The preacher was standing with uplifted hands over another imaginary sinner.

"An' heah ole Black Aleck! Bre'r Aleck got weights. No chutch on Sunday fur Aleck. Mus' fish tro'tline an' hunt squ'r'l. Mus' hoe de gyardin an' hunt guinea-nes' en de jimsun weeds. Mus' do anythin' but heah de Lord's word, 'cept'n' ole Unc' Josh come ter preach. Dem de weights Bre'r Aleck got. Shake 'em off, er-rer! Shake 'em off! Oh, w'at es sech er sinner like? He like er las'-ye'r wasp en er spider web - holler an' dry, an' 'is wings won't flop no mo'.

"An' heah es Bre'r Clay. Heah es my dear Bre'r Clay. Bre'r Clay got weights. W'at

6

kind er weights 'e tryin' ter run wid? Lazy weights. Won't work cott'n-patch, won't work tater-patch, won't work collurd-patch, won't work nowhar. O Lord! did anybody ever see er lazy man win er race? 'T ain't gwine ter he'p yer, Bre'r Clay, ter put on dem good clo'es heah an' say 'Amen,' an' Bless de King,' an' 'He'p, Lord!' loud 'n anybody ef yer lef' de ole 'ooman an' de chillun ter work all de week. Shake off de weights, Bre'r Clay. Shake 'em off! Oh, w'at es sech er sinner like? He like er tadpole en er mud-puddl', w'at done dry up 'fo' time come fur 'im ter drop 'is tail an' be er frog."

Tom went over on the ground while Black Aleck was being dealt with, and he was too weak with laughter to sit up during the time devoted to Clay. Presently he heard:

"An' heah Sis' Tilly. Heah es dear Sis' Tilly. W'at es Sis' Tilly's weights? She got weights ter shake off. She run roun' tellin' tales on oth'r 'oomen's husbun's-"

"Ooom-hoo!"

his back would suffer until the sensations would make it appear so. He left almost as suddenly as his mirth. Gliding into the woods he made his way to the bend in the road, then, as if struck with a new idea, stopped short and took a seat on a stump. In an attitude of profound reflection he waited until, having finished his sermon, the preacher came down the road with great dignity. When he reached the vicinity of the little man the latter started suddenly, looked over his shoulder, and an affable and delighted expression dawned upon his face.

"How do yer do, Bre'r Sims? Lord, I wuz des er-sayin' how I 'u'd like ter see Bre'r Sims, an' heah 'e come er-walkin' right erlong." By this time he was up and shaking the newcomer's hand. "Wha' yer gwine dis time er day?" The Rev. Joshua returned the greeting, but with less demonstration.

"Well, I wuz er-gwine down ter Sis' Thomson's."

"Wha' dat!" Tom threw up both hands in well-affected astonishment. " Man, night ketch

"An' she scole-"

"Dat 's right!"

"An' mek troubl' ev'ywhar she go." "Somebody done got squar' wid Aun' Tilly!" Tom ducked his head down and rolled over again.

"Shake 'em off, deah sister! Shake 'em off! Oh, what es sech er sinner like? She like er cockleburr en de tail uv er dry cowhide an' gone ter markit; no good heah an' no good deir.

"An' heah Bre'r Torm." The preacher was right over the crevice, and his voice sounded like thunder in the ears of the startled eavesdropper outside. "Little Bre'r Torm. He tryin' ter run wid big weights. W'at es Bre'r Torm's weights? He heah ter see dis 'ooman, an' yonner ter see dat 'ooman; fus' one way an' den ernudder, an' er wife down yonner home t'ink 'e gone huntin' ev'y time 'e take 'is gun." A horrible groan broke from the lips of the trembling man without, and a cold sweat started forth all over him. In a frenzy of terror he raised himself to his knees and brought the old gun to full cock. Then, realizing what he was doing, he returned the hammer to a safer place with feverish anxiety. The Rev. Joshua Sims heard nothing but his own voice. "Shake 'em off, Bre'r Torm! Shake 'em off! Yer can't run no race wid dem weights er-hangin' on yer. Oh, w'at es sech er sinner like? He like er snake en de grass, an' fus' t'ing 'e know 'e gwine ter lan' en de fire wid 'is back broke."

Tom's hilarity was all gone. If that sermon was preached on the morrow he might not literally land in the fire with his back broke, but

come erlong wid me. Tempy 'll be proud ter see Bre'r Sims, an' I 'spect by now dat 'possum w'at wuz er-cookin' 'while back done got done." Tom laughed, and slapped his companion on the back. The Rev. Joshua Sims was a large, heavy man, with a round, full jaw and a well-fed look. It really mattered little to him where he spent the night, and the 'possum decided the point. He suffered himself to be led off. Tom, having gotten himself well under way, continued gayly:

"I knowed dat 'possum up ter sump'n. Las' night de rooster call me ter run deir quick. Bre'r 'Possum wuz squattin' en de hen-hous' des like 'e been sont fur an' come; an' heah 't is." Tom wagged his head sagaciously. "Oomp! Ef I c'u'd des jump Bre'r Rabbit now, 'spect he 'd he'p bre'kfus' mightily." And he began to peer around with a great show of eagerness.

"Did n't yer shoot erwhile back? Heah somebody over yonner 'bout Sis' Chayney's."

Tom shook his head. "'Spect dat wuz one dem Gillus boys. Dey all time bangin' way over deir. When Tom shoot, sump'n gwine hang 'bout 'is clo'es." He lifted the gun quickly and sighted it towards a clump of bushes, then took it down.

"Dat mullein leaf down deir fool me. Look mighty like er molly-cott'n."1 But Brother Sims plodded along behind the loquacious little man, his mind on other things again.

CHAPTER III.

TEMPY received the pair graciously. She was a devout church woman on Sundays. Like

1 Rabbit.

most negro women, she had infinite respect for preachers; and this respect in the case of the Rev. Joshua Sims was mixed with something of fear, for his methods in the pulpit were exceedingly pointed and personal, as has perhaps been gathered, and ridicule has a disastrous effect upon ignorant people. She vied with Tom in attentions to the shepherd. One placed a chair near the door; the other brought a gourd of water. One took his hat and Bible; the other got him a fan. Presently there came a lull in their ministrations, for the reason that there was nothing left to be done for the guest. Then Tom plucked the sleeve of his life partner at an opportune moment and glided out the back door behind the chicken-house. Puzzled by this demonstration, Tempy looked out after him. Presently she saw his head thrust out and his features working mysteriously. She took a pan in her hand as if on some domestic mission and went behind the chicken-house also. Tom straightened up his little body and looked her full in the face. Her mountain of flesh loomed above him, but his assumption of a common danger had made him bold.

"Put dat 'possum on de table, Tempy," he said in a tragic whisper.

"W'at I gwine ter put Mammy Jo's 'possum on table fur?" In her surprise and indignation she did not trouble herself to subdue her voice. Tom grasped her with both hands.

"Sh-h-h-h!" he said. "Don't let 'im heah, Tempy"; and his voice was just audible, while his features shifted themselves as under the pressure of some great emotion. "I wuzer-comin' 'long by de chutch des now an' Bre'r Sims wuz en deir er-preachin' by hisse'f, er-gittin' ready fur ter-morrer. He des gi' de niggers de wuss raspin' y' ever heah- Dan, an' Clay, an' Aleck, an' Sis' Tilly-" A low chuckle escaped from Tempy's lips.

"Need n' laugh; he tech on you too." "W'at 'e say 'bout me?" Tempy bristled up, but instantly looked around as if afraid of being heard.

"Sh-h-h! He gi' yer fits. Can't tell w'at 'e did say. Somebody been tellin' lies 'bout yer, sho'. He ain' say nuthin' 'bout me, but 'e gi' yer de wuss sort er name fur lyin' an' er-tarkin' 'roun'-"

66

"Be deir in one minute!" Tom elevated his voice as if he heard the Rev. Joshua Sims calling. Put dat 'possum on table, Tempy." Snatching up an armful of wood he went in, tossed it down noisily on the fireplace, and joined his guest in the broad passage-way between the two rooms of the little home.

Half an hour later the three sat down to eat. There was a scarcity of crockery, and there were only two forks, and all had to drink

water from a single gourd that hung by the bucket; but this did not lessen their enjoyment of the meal. There was plenty of hot, "crackling " bread, great generous pones that crumbled under the eager fingers of the men; and there was the 'possum warmed over, with its halo of baked sweet potatoes, and all as brown as a partridge's back. The eyes of the Rev. Joshua Sims danced at the sight of this dish; and when, having quartered the animal, Tom gave him a ham, and poured the rich brown gravy lavishly over all, a happier man could not have been found. Between his attacks upon the tempting dish he began to tell of his adventure some weeks before at a baptizing. He had undertaken to put Sis' Tilly Hunter under the water, when she caught him around the legs and over they both went. The elders pulled Tilly out by the heels, and Tilly pulled him. Tom laughed loudly and slapped himself on the legs, and ever and anon he would lay down his knife and, overcome with the recollection of the scene, repeat the performance.

"Bre'r Sims," he exclaimed to Tempy between his paroxysms, "es mighty hard ter beat." Tempy, too, simulated a great laugh, but with poor success.

What raconteur is not moved by the success of his stories? Stimulated by the unstinted applause, the Rev. Joshua Sims was stirred to further endeavors.

"Bre'r Torm," he said, after a long pull at the pitcher of persimmon beer that Tempy had remembered to fetch, "sump'n happ'n' las' ye'r en de drouth dat beat dat. I wuz er-baptizin' Bre'r Dick Simins, an' de crik wuz mighty low, lemme tell yer, 'cause hit had n' rain fur nigh onter eighty days; an' Bre'r Dick said de worl' wuz er-gittin' ready ter burn up, an' so 'e wanter come inter de chutch. De water wuz dat low we had ter dam up de crik, an' den we tuk Bre'r Dick en, an' Bre'r Jerry Toler an' me try ter put 'im unner. Bre'r Dick wuz er might' big man, an' de water did n' 'zactly git up over 'is stumick. Now yer know er man got ter go clean unner 'fo' 'is sins wash erway, an' Bre'r Jerry 'lowed dat ef 'is stumick staid out all de sins gwine ter stick right deir - des like fleas come up on er dog's head w'en he go in de water. Well, sah, w'en Bre'r Jerry see dat stickin' up deir, 'e put bof han's on hit an' bear down hard. Bre'r Dick wuz hol'in' 'is bref deir, an' w'en 'e git Bre'r Jerry's weight 'e blow water way up yonner an' say 'Poo-00-00 !' an' 'is foots an' head pop out. Bre'r Jerry put 'is foots back an' I shove 'is head unner; den 'is stumick come out ergin. Den Bre'r Jerry mash down, an' Bre'r Dick say 'Pooh!' and pop up 'is head an' 'is foots des like 'e did fus' time. Somebody on de bank yell out, 'Tu'n him over,'