Nine Little Tar Heels.

Tar Heel Tales

By
H. E. C. Bryant
“Red Buck”

Stone & Barringer Co.
Charlotte, N. C.
1910

Copyright, 1909,
By STONE & BARRINGER CO.

TO
JOSEPH PEARSON CALDWELL

most of these stories you have seen, some you have praised, while others, newly writ, you have not been able to see on account of your unfortunate illness, but, to you, the Prince of Tar Heels, I dedicate all, in loving remembrance of fifteen years of intimate acquaintance, faithful friendship, and most delightful companionship.

PREFACE

These tales, concerning all sorts and conditions of people, were written by H. E. C. Bryant, better known as Red Buck. As staff correspondent of The Charlotte Observer, Mr. Bryant visited every corner of North Carolina, and in his travels over the state wrote many stories of human interest, depicting life and character as he found it. His first impulse to publish his stories in book form resulted from an appreciation of his work by the lamented Harry Myrover, a very scholarly writer of Fayetteville, who said:

“I have been struck frequently at how the predominant mental characteristic sticks out in Mr. Bryant. His sense of humor is as keen as a razor. He sees a farce while other men are looking at a funeral, and this exquisite sense of humor is liable to break out at any time—even in church. One may read after him seriously, as he reports the proceedings of a big event but toward the last the whole thing is likely to burst out in an irrepressible guffaw, at some very quaint, funny reflection or criticism, or an inadversion. All this shows out, too, from the personal side of the man, making him delightful in talk, and altogether one of the most entertaining fellows one will meet in many a day’s journey.

“I really think there is more individuality about his writings, than about those of any other writer of the state. Every page sparkles and bubbles with the humor of the man, and it is a clean, wholesome humor, there being nothing in it to wound, but everything to cheer and please.”

These words honestly spoken by Mr. Myrover encouraged Mr. Bryant. Red Buck’s dialect stories soon obtained a state wide reputation, and as Mr. J. P. Caldwell, the gifted editor of The Charlotte Observer, truly said: “His negro dialect stories are equal to those of Joel Chandler Harris—Uncle Remus.”

His friends will be delighted to know that he has collected some of the best of his stories, and that they are presented here.

In North Carolina there is no better known man than Red Buck. A letter addressed to “Red Buck, North Carolina,” would be delivered to H. E. C. Bryant, at Charlotte. Everybody in the state knows the big hearted, auburn haired Scotch-Irishman of the Mecklenburg colony, who, on leaving college went to work on The Charlotte Observer and, on account of his cardinal locks, rosy complexion and gay and game way, was dubbed “Red Buck” by the editor, Mr. Caldwell. It was an office name for a time. Then it became state property, and the name “Bryant” perished.

Red Buck has traveled all over the state of North Carolina and written human interest stories from every sand-hill and mountain cove. Many Tar Heels know him by no other name than Red Buck. In fact there is a Red Buck fad in the state, which has resulted in a Red Buck brand of whiskey, a Red Buck cigar, a Red Buck mule, a Red Buck pig, and a Red Buck rooster, although the man for whom they are named drinks not, neither does he smoke.

This book of Tar Heel tales is from Mr. Bryant’s cleverest work.

Thomas J. Pence.

Washington Press Gallery.

December, 1909.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

Uncle Ben.

TAR HEEL TALES

UNCLE BEN’S LAST FOX RACE

“Me an’ Marse Jeems is all uv de ole stock dat’s lef’,” said Uncle Ben, an ex-slave of the Morrow family, of Providence township.

“Yes, Miss Lizzie, she’s daid, an’ ole Marster, he’s gone to jine her. It’s des me an’ Marse Jeems, an’ he’s in furrin parts. He sole de ole farm, all cep’n’ dis here little spot dat he lef’ fur me an’ Ellen. An’ Ellen, she’s daid an’ de ole nigger’s by hissef.

“Dey ain’t no foks lak dem here now. De times is done changed. Me an’ Marse Wash wuz de big uns here when he wuz livin’. All dis lan’ an’ dese farms belonged to him. But Marse Jeems he’s done come to be er fine doctor, an’ stays in New York.

“Evybudy’s gone an’ lef’ me.

“De horses an’ de houns, too, dey’re all gone.

“I guess I ain’t here fur long, but I sho’ woul’ lak to see ole Marster, an’ Miss Lizzie, an’ Sam, an’ Cindy, an’ Mollie, de hosses, an’ Joe, Jerry, Loud, Dinah, Sing, an’ Hannah, de dogs.”

The old darkey was on his death bed. He spoke in a weak but charming voice. His mind was wandering, returning to the past. He had been his old master’s hunting companion, his whipper-in, and their black and tan hounds were famous for speed, casting ahead at a loss and hard driving. They could catch a red fox or make him take to the earth.

Old Ben was a hunter from his heart. He loved the running dog, the fast horse and the chase. The pleasant days of years long since passed were coming back to him. He longed for one more run with the old Morrow hounds. Those who watched by the death bed in the little cabin, waiting for the final summons, listened to Ben’s stories of the past. Dr. Smith had telegraphed for Dr. James Morrow, the last of his family, and told him that the old man wanted to see him and say good-bye. Loyal to the last the young master was hurrying from the North to the old home place to be present when the faithful servant departed this life. He had asked Dr. Smith to make the last hours as comfortable as possible and to gratify Uncle Ben’s every wish.

It was almost midnight that October day; the moon was shining gloriously, the ground damp from recent rain and the weather fine for a fox hunt. The scenting conditions were well-nigh perfect. Dr. Morrow had just arrived, but old Ben did not know him.

“Yes, sir, Marse Wash, all’s ready fur de hunt,” said the negro in his delirium.

“Ever thing’s right an’ ole Hannah’s been clawin’ at my do’ fur de las’ hour. She’s mighty anxious to try dat ole Stinson fiel’ fox dis evnin’. De horses is done saddled an’ nothin’ to do but start.

“Des listen at Sing an’ Jerry, dey’s powful anxious to go!”

It was pathetic to hear the old fellow talking to his master who had been dead many years, but he seemed happy. There was no way to stop him if those there should have desired to do so.

“Blow yo’ horn, boss, an’ let Marse Sam Stitt jine us ef he will. Dat’ll do, I hear ’im. He’s comin’.”

For a time Uncle Ben was quiet. His lips worked and he seemed to be talking to himself. But, after a long silence, he lifted his head from the pillow and exclaimed: “Listen! Listen, Marse Wash! Hear dat bark? Dat’s ole Sly, Marse Sam’s Georgy dog. She’s done slip in dere an’ strike er head uv ole Hannah!

“Listen! Hear her callin’? Marse Wash, dat Sly looks lak er steppin’ dog an’ she sho’ is gwine to give Joe some hard runnin’ dis mornin’ ef we jump dat Stinson fox.

“Listen, listen, listen, Marse Wash, I hear our dogs puttin’ in! Dere’s ole Sing, ole Loud and Joe. It’s time fur dat fox to walk erway now, ole Joe ain’t in no foolin’ way to-night. He sho’ is ready to run. Listen, Marse Wash, you hear him callin’.”

Uncle Ben dropped back on the pillow, and rested a few minutes. Everybody in the room was silent. It seemed only an hour or so. The old man had run his race and his time had come.

“Hear dat, Marse Wash? Listen how dat Georgy lady’s singin’ in dere. She an’ ole Joe’s neck to neck. Deyer comin’ down thu de Hartis woods now an’ ’tain’t gwine to be long till dey make dat fox run. Ef it’s de ole Stinson fox dey’ll ’roust him in de Rea pastur’. Dat’s whay he’s feedin’ dis time er night.

“Dat’s it! Listen, you hear ole Loud crossin’ dat hill? He’s scoutin’ now. De fus’ thing you know he’ll be right behint dat rascal. He ain’t sayin’ much, but he’s movin’ on.

“Dat’s Joe fallin’ in, an’ Jerry, an’ Dinah!

“Deyer all crossin’ to de pastur. Dat’s whay ole Stinson Fiel’ do his eatin’ ’bout dis time. Well, ef he’s in dere to-night you’ll hear dem dogs cry out lak dey wuz mad derectly.”

At irregular intervals the old darkey would stop and catch his breath. There was a smile upon his face and spirit in his voice. Death came on and he was having his last fox chase. The old Morrow hounds trailed the famous Stinson Field fox and were about to make a jump. Capt. Sam Stitt’s dogs were putting in and the quality of a new hound would be tested. The contest promised to be exciting.

“Hear dat Sly, wid dat chop, chop bark, an’ er sort uv er squeal! She’s right wid ole Joe.

“Listen, Marse Wash, ole Loud’s done driv him out!

“Des listen how he’s shoutin’!

“Dey’s gone toads de Big Rock an’ dey sho’ is flyin’. Ef it’s de ole fiel’ feller he’ll drap erroun’ by de Cunnigin place des to let ’em know dat he’s up an’ doin’ an den he’ll come back dis way.

“Whoopee, but ain’t dey movin’! Listen at ole Joe wid his ‘yowl’ holler. He’s des kickin’ dust in de faces uv de res’ uv dem dogs.

“Yes, sir, he’s gone right square to dat Cunnigin place. It’s ole Stinson an’ he’s walkin’ erbout.

“I des kin hear ’em. Dey’s sucklin’ ’roun de ole house now.”

There was a break in the story. Uncle Ben stopped to rest. The dogs had gone out of his hearing.

“Listen, Marse Wash, dey’re comin’ back! Ole Joe’s runnin’ lak he’s skeered. Some dog mus’ be crowdin’ him? Yes, sir, it’s de Stinson fox, an’ he’s comin’ dis way. See, comin’ over de hill? Dat’s him! Look how he’s lopin’! He knows dat ole Joe ain’t arter no foolin’ dis night.

“See, yonder’s de dogs! Dey’re travlin’ arter him. Look at dat pale red houn’! Dat’s Sly, an’ she’s steppin’ lak de groun’ wuz hot! She ain’t givin’ ole Joe time to open his mouf wide. I knowed some dog wuz pushin’ him.

“Here dey come down to de branch! Ain’t dey movin’? Dey’re goin’ to de Hartis woods, an’ on toads Providence church. But ain’t dey flyin’? I dis kin hear dem!”

As the dogs went out of hearing toward the east the old hunter lay back and hushed his tongue. He was running the race that he had run many times before.

“Listen, Marse Wash, I hear ’em crossin’ de Providence road, comin’ back. Dey’re drivin’ to kill ole Stinson now. I ’clar’ fo’ de Lawd I never heered dat Joe run lak he’s runnin’ dis night. He’s almos’ flyin’.

“But hush, listen, don’t you hear dat ‘Whoo-ark, whoo-ark, whoo-ark’ in dere? Dat’s Sly, an’ she sho’ is shovin’ dat fox an’ crowdin’ Joe.

“Hear dat? She’s crossin’ de big hill fust.

“Dey’re turnin’! He’s makin’ fur de Big Rock, but he ain’t gut time to make it.

“Listen, Marse Wash, dat Georgy dog’s ’bout to outdo ole Joe! She’s comin’ lak de wind. I don’t hear ole Joe. He won’t bark ef he gits behind. He mus’ be tryin’ to head off dat Sly bitch.

“Look! Yon dey go ’cross de cotton fiel’ an’ Joe an’ Sly is side to side.

“Whoopee, ain’t dey goin’? Ole Joe sho’ is doin’ about, but Sly’s on his heels.

“Dey’s goin’ to ketch dat fox. Git up Sam an’ less see ’em kill him! Go on! Come on, Marse Wash!”

For the first time during the night the old darkey became very much excited and jumped and surged in the bed. Those near tried to calm him. But the race was almost over. Uncle Ben’s summons had come. The angel of death was at the door.

“Look, Marse Wash, ole Joe’s in de lead. He sees dat fox an’ he’s done lef’ Sly. He’s runnin’ fur blood.

“See him! Look! Look! Ole Stinson Fiel’s ’bout to git to de thicket! See, he can’t make it! Joe’s grabbin’ at him! Look! Look!”

That was all. Uncle Ben was giving up the ghost. Death came on him. The final summons had arrived. As old Joe bore down the fox the faithful servant of the Morrow family passed away. As the end drew nigh Dr. Morrow and Dr. Smith and other friends who had assembled around the bed stood near and watched the light go out. Everything around was still. Death was easy.

The remains were buried in the Morrow family’s private burial grounds. Ben was the last of the old slave stock. In his delirium he had called back his old master, the old horses and the old hounds, and died happy in the delusion.

Aunt Matt.

FORTY ACRES AND A MULE

“What about your husband and the ‘forty acres and the mule,’ Aunt Matt?” asked the ruddy-faced young man who had just arrived from the city to visit his father and mother at the old home place on the farm.

“It’s fine weather, Mister Eddie, an’ de cotton an’ de corn is des growin’ a inch or two ever’ night,” said Matt Tite, a tall, thin-faced negress of the ante-bellum type, smiling.

“Don’t evade the question, Matt; tell these boys about Tite and the carpet-baggers,” insisted the visitor. “Out with it, I want to hear the story again.”

“Chile, ain’t you never gwine to fergit dat? I walked eight miles to git here to see you, but ef I’d er knowed dat you wuz gwine to pester me ’bout Tite an’ de Ku Kluxes I sho’ wouldn’t a come.

“I’s done fergit de perticlers uv dat story.”

“You know enough to make it interesting; tell it.”

“Tite’s done fergit de forty acres an’ de mule, an’ ef I des wanter have er fight, let me mention it in his presence.

“You know Tite wuz one uv Marse John Robinson’s niggers ’fo’ s’render. Marse John wuz a powerful big man in dem times ef he is po’ now. He had lots uv lan’ an’ niggers, an’ wuz mighty good to his slaves. Tite wuz a good nigger, an’ Marse John làked him, an’ arter de war he stay on at de ole place an’ seem satisfied till dem cearpet-baggers (dat’s what de white folks called dem) fust come sneakin’ around, puttin’ de devil in de niggers’ haid, promisin’ all kinds uv things, an’ given dem nuthin’ but trouble.

“’Twuz soon arter s’render when me an’ Tite married. I had b’longed to Marse Jeems Walkup, an’ a mighty good man, too, he wuz. When I marry Tite I move to de Robinson place to live wid him, an’ we all git ’long fine fur a while. Tite he wucked ’bout de farm an’ I hep ’roun’ de Big House. Ole Miss Jane done say dat she been wantin’ me fur de longes’ sort uv time.

“One night, when me an’ Tite start ’way fum de kitchen, I seed a rabbit cross de road in front uv us, an’ I ’low right den dere wuz bad luck ahead fur him an’ me. Ole Missus uster say ef a rabbit cross yo’ path somefin’ bad woul’ sho’ happen to you.

“Sho’ nuff, chile, hit done come. Bad times ’gin on dat plantation an’ ’roun’ dat neighborhood dat very night. When me an’ Tite git home dar come ’long a strange white man, lookin’ lak er peddler, totin’ a police on his arm. Comin’ nigh he say to me an’ Tite, ‘Howdy-do, Miss Robinson an’ Mr. Robinson?’

“I look ’roun’ to see ef Ole Marses an’ Missus wuz dere, fur I knowed we wuz no ‘Miss Robinson’ an’ ‘Mr. Robinson.’ But, bless yo’ sole, honey, he wuz talkin’ to nobudy but me an’ Tite. I look at de man spicious lak right den, an’ kinder git skeered. He ’gin to talk ’bout sellin’ us some specs an’ julery, an’ sich lak, but soon he tell Tite dat he’s sont dere fum de Norf to talk ’bout de comin’ ’lection. He ’low dat he’s been heerin’ ’bout Tite, an’ tell him dat he’s one of de big niggers uv de country ef he des only knowed it. Tite he say nuthin’ but de white man des keep on an’ on.

“‘Yes,’ ’low de man, ‘dey tells me dat you’s one uv de mos’ prominent cul’ud gentlemens in dis section uv de country. I knows dat’s so fur you looks smarter dan de res’ I’s seed down here!’

“I seed Tite swell up a little when de man tell him dat. Niggers’ haids des lak white folks’, dey gits mighty big sometime.

“‘Well, Mr. Robinson, dere’s a better day comin’ fur you an’ Miss Robinson,’ ’clared de white man.

“‘I’s des fum de Norf, an’ come to fetch you good tidens. By dis time of coase you knows who yo’ frien’s is. You had slav’ry; you’s gut freedum. Dat’s not all, ef de ’Publikins gits in dis time you’s gwine to have some uv dis lan’. Yes, you’s gwine to have forty acres uv lan’ an’ a mule to wuck it wid. You, Tite Robinson, is to have de pic’ uv de lot fur you’s gut so much sense.’

“Dat man sho’ did have a sharp tongue, an’ knowed how to please a nigger. Tite’s eyes git mighty big while he talk ’bout de lan’ an’ de mule. But all de time I wuz lookin’ at dat man an’ de way he dress. He look lak a bad man. Me an’ Tite wuz not use to calls fum white men. No spectable white person prowled ’bout ’mong de niggers lookin’ dat way. But ’t’wuz none uv my bizness to meddle wid him an’ Tite. So I says nuthin’ an’ he goes on wid his putty talk.

“After while he say to Tite: ‘Come inside an’ make a light; I’s gut some pitchers to show you an’ Miss Robinson.’

“Dat wuz mos’ too much fur me, but I darsen’ cheep. Tite he goes in an’ lights de torch an’ de man he opens up his police an’ takes out some pitchers. De fust ones had niggers wid chains on, an’ de overseer wid his whup. Indeed, sir, dem pitchers had de po’ darkey in a bad place. De man say dat’s de way it wuz in slav’ry time. Den he fotch out some wid Mr. Nigger dressed up in fine clothes, wid yaller buttons, dis what de nigger laks. Bless me, ef he didn’t have one wid Tite on a big chestnut hoss, ridin’ ’roun’ de farm. It look so much lak de nigger dat I des laugh out loud. An’ Tite he grin all over de face.

“‘Dat’s de way Tite’s gwine to look after de ’lection,’ said de man. ‘Dat’s ef de ’Publikins git in.’

“Chile, dat wuz a powful talkin’ man. His tongue go dis lak it wuz loose at both een’s. When he shet up his police, after givin’ Tite some pitchers to put on de mantel boa’d, he take de breff fum me by axin’ ef he kin stay all night. Tite wuz so stuck on him dat he say ‘all right.’ So he stay, but slip out ’fo’ day nex’ mornin’.

“Dat talk an’ dem pitchers stir Tite all up. He’s not de same nigger no mo’. De nex’ day he wuz mean to me, ’cause he seed fum de color in my eye dat I lak no sich doin’s, an’ he had some words wid Marse John. ’Deed, sir, he wuz des lak er stubborn mule. Nobudy coul’ do nuthin’ wid him. I tole him dat he’d better quit foolin’ wid po’ white trash, fur you git nuthin’ in dis worl’ ’cepin’ whut you wuck fur. But Tite he wuz done gone ’stracted on de forty acres an’ de mule. He des look at hissef on dat big hoss an’ smile.”

“Matt, do you really think Tite believed he would get the land and mule?”

“Coase he did!” declared the old woman with considerable spirit.

“De same white man meet Tite an’ talk agin, but dat time I wuz away an’ hear nuthin’ uv it. Tite soon ’gin to talk ’bout callin’ a meetin’ uv de niggers. Mo’ strange niggers dan I ever seed befo’ come dere to talk wid him, an’ dey all act mighty bigity lak.

“Yes, sir, Tite wuz de big nigger in dem parts. Whatever he said de ’tuther niggers done. De ’lection come nigher an’ Tite gits mo’ triflin’ ’bout wuckin’ fur de white folks. Him an’ Marse John had a dispute an’ Marse John knock him down wid a stick. Talkin’ woul’ do no good. De crowds uv niggers kep’ gittin’ bigger an’ bigger an’ mo’ strange white mens come to see Tite, an’ dey all’ers sneak in at night.

“De white folks lak Marse John and Marse Jeems Walkup ’gin to git tired uv all dis foolishness. Dey hold a meetin’ demselves, at Marse John’s, an’ ’scuss how to keep de cearpet-baggers off uv deyer farms an’ git de niggers back to wuck.

“But, Lawd bless yo’ soul, honey, ’bout dis time Tite cut de highes’ buck uv all an’ have Marse John ’rested an’ carried to town fur hittin’ him. Yes, sir, a man wid blue suit an’ brass buttons come an’ git Marse John an’ take him to Charlotte ’fo’ dat Freedman’s Bureau. You orter heerd de niggers an’ white foks cryin’, an’ seen ’em takin’ on when de officer driv’ off wid Marse John. Ole Missus took it mighty hard, so she did, an’ I wuz des as mad es I coul’ be. I knowed dat de devil wuz to pay den, fur de white foks wuzn’t gwine to put up wid no sich es dat. Deyer day wuz comin’ agin.”

“Did they put Grandpa in jail?” asked one of the excited children.

“No, honey, but dey mos’ done it. Marse John come back de very nex’ day, but he wuzn’t de same man. He done gut mad an’ all de res’ uv de white foks wid him. ’Deed, sir, dey wuz tired foolin’ wid dem cearpet-baggers, an’ Marse John make Tite git out uv his house de fust thing when he come back, an’ to tell de truf I didn’t blame him one bit, fur dat nigger wuz des so mean dat nobudy coul’ git on wid him. Ole Miss Jane wuz pow’ful sorry fur me but I had to go wid Tite. We rented a house fum a town man, an’ move in. We wuz back fum de road an’ ’way fum de white foks. I never seed sich a nigger es Tite; every day he wuz wusser dan de day befo’. Fum ’sociatin’ wid dem cearpet-baggers he gut high up. Dey done fill his ole kinky haid wid highferlutin’ talk an’ idees. Every udder night he wuz at some nigger meetin’, stayin’ till ’fo’ day in de mornin’. You woul’ never know when an’ where dey wuz gwine to meet but dere wuz all’ers lots uv ’em dere. Sometimes dey’d meet at my house an’ it woul’n’t hold ’em all. De way dem niggers talk when dey meet I des knowed somefin’ bad wuz boun’ to happen.

“Now an’ den, when Tite wuz off politicin’, I woul’ slip off an’ go see Miss Jane, an’ hear whut de white peoples wuz doin’. Den I beg Tite to let politicin’ ’lone an’ stay at home, but, no, sir, he knowed his bizness. His haid wuz sot on dat forty acres an’ de mule, an’ I coul’n’t do nuthin’ wid him.

“One day Miss Jane read fum de paper whut de Ku Kluxes wuz doin’ to niggers down in Souf Careliny. You know where ’tis: des over de line down here ’bout three mile? De piece say dat dey wuz comin’ dis way. She ’low dat de doin’s uv mean niggers wuz gwine to fetch ’em here.

“An’ let me tell you, chilluns, it wuzn’t long ’fo’ dey come an’ putty nigh skeered de niggers to deaf.

“But, ’fo’ dey come Tite done run plum mad on de subjec’ uv de ’lection. I beg him to stop dat foolin’ an’ go back to wuck, but he des go on lak he never heerd me. Why, honey, de fool nigger done ’gin to think he’s gwine to be Gov’ner. De wust ain’t come yit, fur one day a white man come ’long an’ giv’ Tite what he say wuz a deed fur Marse John’s mill place. Es he giv’ de paper to Tite he say: ‘Mr. Robinson (talkin’ to nobudy but Tite), here’s de deed to de mill place an’ you kin have it surveyed as soon as you laks, fur de ’lection is mos’ here an’ ’twon’t be long ’fo’ you kin git dem forty acres an’ de mule.’

“Tite, he take it an’ hide it under a rock. I seed him lookin’ at it, des lak he coul’ read, when he know he don’t know B fum bull-foot. One day, while Tite wuz in Charlotte, I slip de deed out fum under de log where he hid it, an’ took it over to Miss Jane an’ she say it read lak dis: ‘Es Samson lifted de serpent out uv de wilderness so I lifted dis po’ nigger out uv $5.’

“Tite done giv’ de man $5 fur drawin’ de deed, an’ he sho’ did think it wuz er deed fur de mill place, an’, ’cordin’ly, he an’ another nigger sneak down one day, while Ole Marster wuz in Souf Careliny, an’ lay off whut he want an’ put up rocks to mark de corners. Soon after de ’lection Tite an’ de yudder niggers uv de Robinson settlement wuz to go to town an’ git de mules an’, bein’ as Tite wuz a leader, he wuz gwine to have a fine hoss to boot. De cearpet-baggers done tell dem dat dey woul’ have several thousan’ mules fur de niggers in de county. ’Fo’ dat, one night, Tite done come in wid a long coat wid shiny buttons, an’ a stovepipe hat. You orter seed dat nigger how he swell ’roun’ ’fo’ me, but de mo’ he git fur nuthing de mo’ trouble I seed fur him. I ’spect’d trouble every day. It des look to me lak de worl’ wuz comin’ to de een. All de time Miss Jane kep’ tellin’ me ’bout de Kluxes comin’ nigher. An’, bless yo’ soul, honey, one mornin’ all de niggers ’long de big road wuz stirred up ’bout er percession dey had seed de night befo’. Dey say dat de bigges’ men dey ever see come ’long ridin’ camels lak dey have in de show. Whutever it wuz didn’t make no fuss but move easy des lak a cat after er rat. De mens coul’ stretch deyer necks way up in de trees, an’ drink a whole bucket uv water at a time.

“’Fo’ de day passed we heerd ’bout de same crowd goin’ to ole Joe Grier’s home an’ takin’ him out an’ beatin’ his back wid a buggy trace. Yes, sir, dey say it wuz a shame de way dey do dat nigger, but he’d been medlin’ des lak Tite. Dey kotch him makin’ a speech at one uv dem nigger meetin’s an’ dey bus’ his high hat (one lak Tite’s) all to flinders. An’ dey say when dey lef’ dere dat ole Tite Robinson wuz de nex’ nigger dey woul’ git. When Tite hear’ dat he git sorter shaky, but ’low, big lak, dat dey wuz foolin’ wid de wrong nigger. He make out lak he’s gwine to fite.

“Dat very night Tite wuz gwine to have a big meetin’, de las’ ’fo’ de ’lection, at Pineville chuch. It wuz to be de bigges’ uv all but when de niggers hear ’bout de Ku Kluxes dey gut skittish ’bout gittin’ out after dark. Tite an’ de rest uv de ringleaders went but dey didn’t have much uv a crowd. De pews uv de chuch wuzn’t full lak dey had been. Yes, sir, de audience wuz rather slim fur de ’casion. But Tite wuz dere in all his glory, an’ de boss dog uv de yard. Howsomever, when he lef’ home dat night he wuz sorter quiet lak. He ’peered to be a little oneasy. I wuz monstrous anxious ’bout him fur I knowed de Kluxes wuz in de lan’. I didn’t want Tite to git hurt but I didn’t care much ef de Kluxes skeered dem fool idees out uv his haid, so he coul’ have some sense once mo’.”

“Did they get him, Aunt Matt?” asked a small boy who had become thoroughly interested.

“Honey, dat’s de night de devil broke loose,” said Matt. “I des felt lak somefin’ wuz gwine to drap, an’ sho’ nuff it did.

“Soon after Tite lef de house de elements gut wrong. De clouds gather’d thick an’ hang mighty low in de Wes’. I coul’ hear de thunderin’ an’ see de lightnin’. I never seed sich a dark night. But, after de bigges’ rain dat I ever seed fell, de clouds ’clare ’way an’ de moon come out.

“When Tite wuz gone an’ de rain wuz over I went to sleep an’ knowed no mo’ till I heerd peoples talkin’ an’ cussin’, an’ it soun’ des lak dey wuz outside my do’. It wuz den after midnight, I spec’. I coul’ hear de low whisperin’ voices on fust one side uv de house, den de tuther. I heerd horses movin’ ’bout, an’ den I knowed dat it wuz de Ku Kluxes. I heerd one man say: ‘Well, we’ll go in here an’ see ef de black rascal’s come yit. But I don’t see how he coul’ uv haided us off.’

“’Bout dat time dere wuz a tap on de do’, an’ a call, ‘Matt, open de do’. We want to see if Tite’s in dere. We won’t hurt you ef you let us in, an’ ef you don’t we are comin’ in anyhow. We’ll break de do’.’

“I wuz wide awake but say nuthin’.

“‘Matt! Matt! Don’t you hear?’ I coul’n’t tell de voice but I knowed ef I didn’t open de do’ dey woul’ break it down; so I open it an’ git back in bed. When de do’ come open it peered to me lak I seed a whole lot uv hosses in de road an’ lots uv men in de yard, dressed in red shirts an’ had on dese here false faces. I wuz skeered an’ den I wuzn’t, fur de man whut do de talkin’ had a mighty fermilyer lak voice to me, but I des coul’n’t say who’s it wuz. Dey peered to b’lieve me when I told ’em dat Tite wuzn’t dere, but dey searched anyhow to make sartin’.

“After dey can’t find him an’ dey start out de man what spoke befo’ say: ‘Well, Matt, we give de ole devil a good run, an’ would’ve swung him up ef we’d ketched him, but it’s late now an’ we’d better go.’

“Den I say: ‘Please, marster, don’t kill him fur he’s des gone crazy ’bout dis here ’lection bizness what dem strange white foks put in his haid. Don’t, boss man, fur my sake, kill de ole nigger. He’ll come right. I’s tried to git him to stay at home. Now des let me try him one mo’ time. Ax Marse John Robinson an’ Marse Jeems Walkup ’bout Matt. Dey knows me. I’s been good since s’render, an’ I’s tried to make Tite behave hissef. So, Mister, won’t you let him off dis time?’

“De same man what spoke befo’ ’low: ‘Well, boys, I b’lieve dis is a good nigger, an’ on her ’count we’ll let de Parson ’lone fur a few days an’ see. Ef we hear uv any mo’ uv his doin’s, ’citin’ de niggers an’ makin’ speeches, we’ll do him des lak we did Ole Joe Grier, or wuss. Ef he hadn’t run lak er deer t’night, we’d broke his neck. Let’s go back to Souf Careliny, an’ res’.’

Tite; riding a Democratic Ox.

“Dis said, dey rode off. I wuz skeered dat Tite wuz daid, an’ coul’n’t sleep no mo’ dat night, but wuz too bad ’frighten’ to git up.

“Way in de mornin’, toge day, when all gits quiet, I heered a soft knock at de do’. I knowed it mus’ be Tite, so I gits up an’ opens it, an’ sho’ nuff it wuz him.

“Honey, you woul’n’t knowed dat nigger. He wuz wet an’ muddy fum de bottom uv his feets up. He wuz bare haided an’ his clothes all tore. But, bless yo’ soul, chile, he wuz glad to git home. When I open de do’ he say, ‘Let me in, ole ’oman, fur I’s mos’ daid. De Ku Kluxes is been runnin’ me all night. Don’t make no fuss, but lem’me in.’

“Skeered as I wuz when I seed him I had to laugh. He look’ des lak a frizzly chicken wid de feathers turned de wrong way, an’ wuz des tremblin’ lak a leaf. Ever time I move my foot he jump lak he wuz hit, but when I tell him what de Kluxes say to me he ’clare, ‘Thank Gawd, Matt, ef dat be so I’s yo’ nigger so long as I live. You ain’t gwine to ketch me foolin’ wid po’ white foks an’ politics no mo’. Dis is my las’ time. I’s never been so skeered since de Lawd made me.’

“Yes, sir, an’ dat wuz his las’ meetin’, an’ when dem cearpet-baggers come sneakin’ ’roun’ at night he made me drive dem way des es same as ef dey had pizen. He went straight to wuck an’ fum dat day to dis he’s been quiet on politics.

“But it wuz a long time ’fo’ I knowed what happened at de chuch dat night. Tite woul’n’t never talk ’bout it. Miss Jane heered all de fac’s an’ tell me.

“It wuz lak dis. You’s been to Pineville chuch—I mean de col’ud chuch—de one dat sets on de big hill. At de time when Tite wuz flyin’ so high no white pusson lived close to de chuch. All de lan’ ’bout dere wuz in woods. De chuch is gut two do’s, one in de side an’ one at de een where de pulpit is. It wuz a good thing fur Tite dat de een do’ wuz dere. Dat’s all dat saved his life.

“Tite an’ his niggers wuz at de chuch dat night an’ had de meetin’ gwine at nine. De onlies’ lamp in de house wuz on de pulpit. Tite wuz de fust speaker fur de ’cassion. He wuz to stir up de niggers fur de ’lection day. Dem cearpet-baggers done told him what to say.

“De niggers all holler fur Parson Robinson an’ Tite step up in de pulpit an’ take off his stovepipe hat, set it on de table, button up his long coat, an’ start off lak dis: ‘Gents an’ Feller Citizens: I’s come here to-night to tell you dat de nigger’s ’bout to git what b’longs to ’em. De white foks is been on top long ’nuff. Ef de ’Publikins wins dis time ever nigger in dis house is gwine to git forty acres uv de bes’ lan’ in dis kermunity an’ a mule to wuck it wid.’

“‘Fur nuthin’, Mr. Robinson?’ ’low’ Ole Tom Moore.

“‘Yes, Mr. Moore, fur nuthin’, fur it b’longs to ’em. Dat’s de truf. I’s done gut de deed fur mine, an’ all I’s gut to do is to move on after de ’lection, an’ go to town an’ git my mule.’

“‘Dat’s de truf,’ shouted Ole Bill Davis, a deekin in de chuch.

“‘Tell it to ’em, brother! Come on wid some mo’ lak dat!’

“‘Dat’s whut we wants to heer,’ said de crowd.

“Tite went on: ‘But on de yudder han’, ef de Demmycrats gits back in power, de las’ one uv you will go bac’ in slav’ry. De overseer wid his whup will be back. Mark whut I say fur it’s de truf!’

“‘We know it, Parson, tell it des lak it is!’

“But, bless yo’ soul, honey, dis is where de speakin’ wuz out. While Tite wuz soarin’ high ’mong de clouds, ’bout a dozen great big mens, wid masses on deyer faces, an’ red shirts on deyer bodies, sprung up des lak fum de yearth an’ march down de middle aisle uv de chuch an’ take seats on de long bench in front uv de pulpit. Nobudy but Tite say nuthin’, an’ he chatter des lak he’s crazy. His voice trem’le so it almos’ shake de house. At fust his tongue mos’ stop, but when he seed de strange men cross deyer legs an’ look up at him, he say dat he’s gut nuthin’ ’ginst de white foks, an’ he seed no use in freedum nohow.

“Dere wuz a little shufflin’ in de back uv de buildin’. It wuz Tom Moore, Bill Davis an’ other niggers pilin’ out.

“’Bout dis time come de straw dat broke de camel’s bac’. De big mens uncross deyer legs, all at one time, an’ each one pull out a long knife an’ a whit rock an commence to sharpen de blades, des lak dey wuz fixin’ to kill hogs. De shinin’ steel dumbfounded Tite. Big draps uv sweat come out on his haid. When de red shirt mens see how skeered de po’ nigger is dey soun’ deyer blades on de rocks an’ Tite mos’ jump out uv his skin. He fust look at de mens an’ den at de bac’ do’. His tongue done stick to de roof uv his mouf, but he muster up courage to say: ‘I see dat you darkies didn’t fetch no water fur me to drink. I can’t speak widout water, so I’ll des git a little at de well.’

“Dis said, Tite dash out de back do’ widout his hat an’ de Ku Kluxes give a wild Injin yell an’ charge out de side do’.

“But, chile, you can’t ketch a skeered nigger, an’ it’s no use to try. ’Fo’ de Kluxes git started Tite wuz gone.

“Tite never did git de forty acres an’ de mule. Ef he did I never seed it, an’ I’s been livin’ wid him ever since.”

Later, when Grover Cleveland ran for President, Tite rode in a Democratic procession, mounted on an ox, and wearing a Cleveland hat.

THE SPANIEL AND THE COPS

“Come here, Judge,” said Col. Tom Black, the big, blonde policeman, of the Charlotte force, as a black, sleek, shaggy water spaniel started across Independence Square. “You’ve got no business over there; come here.”

Officer Will Pitts, who was by Col. Black’s side at the time, volunteered: “That is an affectionate pair—Col. Black and Judge—they like each other; they tramp the same beat together every night the colonel is on duty.”

“That’s no lie,” put in Col. Black, “that dog is as regular as a clock. He comes to headquarters just before twelve and patrols with the boys till they go off in the morning. He has sense like a man; I never saw such an intelligent animal.

“Look at that large head, those big, bright eyes and that splendid nose! Judge’s no fool!

“He’s got sense enough to vote for mayor. That’s the gospel truth.”

Pitts acquiesced in everything the colonel said, and moved around like a caged animal while Judge was being discussed. He is very fond of the dog.

Judge is a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde dog. During the day, when all honest beings go about and care not who observes them and their manners, Judge plays the part of Dr. Jekyll, serving as a watchdog for his rightful master, Dr. George W. Graham, and enlivening the premises by a cheerful bark or warning growl. All friends of the family are as welcome to the place as the gentle south winds of summer, but an enemy is driven out.

Who, that strolls about the town, viewing the pretty homes, has not seen Judge, trotting about the Graham yard, at the corner of Seventh and Church streets, switching his bushy tail and smiling out of his great brownish mellow eyes at all attractive persons as they pass?

That is his best side.

But, at that very moment, Judge is playing the hypocrite, just as well as a deceitful man would do. All is fair and bright, and Judge greets you with a hearty shake of the tail, beaming face and dancing eyes, delighted to please one and all, knowing that his proud master is watching him through the window. If his behavior is excellent, his dinner will be something out of the ordinary; a rare slice of beef, or a bit of cake, and Pussy will not get all the cream.

Judge comes to just conclusions. He fools the folks at home seven days in the week, being a past master at wool-pulling. When Dr. Graham goes home at night, tired and depressed from a hard day’s work, Judge, tactful dog that he is, rushes out to meet him.

Such capers he does cut, barking, cutting somersaults, and jumping around like wild; his joy unconfined. Dr. Graham tarries for a few minutes to play with him, and if you chance to hear the racket, you think that two gay school children have taken possession of the lawn. If Judge has an axe to grind—an extra large cavity in his bread-basket, or desires to slip away unnoticed earlier than usual—he romps all the harder, and barks more boisterously. He is a shrewd politician. His love for Dr. Graham is sincere, but not as intense as he would make him believe. He is not unlike the girl who marries one fellow for his money while she loves another; Judge prefers Col. Black, Pitts, Sergeant Jetton and other members of the police force to his home people.

For five years he has spent his nights with the night officers of the city. He knows the ins and outs of the police department better than one or two of the billy-toters that pass for policemen. For patrol duty he is first-class. He can run with the flying thief, or jump fences with the light-footed crap-shooter, and is always handy and willing. If a call comes for Black Maria, Judge is the first to mount the front seat. He likes an exciting race—the faster the better. On raids, he is the first to enter the house and the last to quit it. While the search or investigation is being made, he sits quietly by, a visiting onlooker, interested but not active. If the officers are compelled to run a foot-race, Judge takes the lead, and it is a wiry culprit that can out-distance him. The prisoner securely fixed in the wagon, Judge takes his seat in front, turns his back to the horse, and faces the unfortunate one. He seems to delight in bringing offenders to justice, not cruel, but in full sympathy with the blue-stocking laws of the city.

Once outside of his own yard, Judge assumes a dignified, stiff air, except when playing with his favorite officers. Some people would say that he is haughty, and at times he is, but if he turns up his nose at a fellow, that means that he considers himself superior to that particular wart on society, and there is generally a good reason for his contempt.

Dogs do not concern Judge. He pays but little attention to their friendly advances or threatening growls. If some vicious cur snarls and snaps at his heels, he curls his fuzzy tail over his back and ignores the common whelp; while, on the other hand, if some soft-coated, gentle-mannered, pedigreed dog tries to make up to him, he goes to Col. Black, rubs against his legs, looks up into his face, and declares: “What fools these canines be! I don’t care one whit for any of them.”

From what has already been said, one might conclude that Judge is a coward. Well, dear reader, you may disabuse your mind of that conclusion, for it is wrong. Judge is a true North Carolinian—slow to anger, but fearfully courageous when in trouble. He fears no dog in town. The common herd like to snap at him from inside a secure fence, as he trots by in the wake of Col. Black, but none would dare go near the open gate. Judge just ignores everything that keeps its distance. He has frequently said to the patrolmen something like this: “Did you see that contemptuous scamp charging at me? I would not lower myself to fight him if he were out. I should like to sick old Puss on him if he’d call at my home.”

In order to get Judge to do battle, a dog must assault him. Being an officer of the law, he lives up to the letter. If attacked, he fights in self-defense. It will be recalled that he put the little speckled bull-terrier, that loafed around the Gem Restaurant a few years ago, clear out of business for good. Old Speck lingered between life and death for two days after the affray, and then died from his wounds. Other dogs have fared as badly. Judge is slow to take hold, but when he does, Pitts says it’s good night, Isum, for death will creep over the prostrate form of the other dog before he can stop the fight. That is the kind of scrapper Judge is. Like the man who says little, but hangs on like grim death.

I have always heard it said in Providence that it was well to stay out of a row with the laughing fighter. Such a one is Judge. He winks his eyes and grins in the midst of the fight.

Col. Black has one thing against Judge. As Mr. Hyde he is all right, but as Dr. Jekyll he is high-headed and arrogant. If Judge goes up street with any of Dr. Graham’s family, he refuses to recognize any police officer. He carries himself far above common people and soars in an aristocratic atmosphere. If Col. Black or Mr. Pitts calls to him on the sly, he lifts his saucy tail a bit higher and gets closer to his young mistress or master, as the case may be, as if he feared contamination of some sort. In other words, Col. Black and his associates on the police force are proper company after dark, but not in daylight.

Judge does not recognize them in a social way. As conclusive evidence on this point, I relate the following incident:

The joke is on Col. Black or Pitts. Col. Black claims that it is on Pitts, and Pitts that it is on the colonel.

One day, several years ago, one of these worthy officers was sent to notify Dr. Graham that a certain committee, of which he was a member, would meet that night. The officer went to Dr. Graham’s gate, opened it, and started to the porch. Judge, the faithful friend of the early morning, rushed around the house, with bristles raised and teeth shining, growling viciously. The officer, seeing the threatening attitude of the dog, stopped, and said: “Why, Judge, don’t you know me?” Instead of making up, after this, Judge became more determined to stop the officer. He hurried to the walkway, fixed himself, and made ready for a stubborn resistance.

“Judge! Judge!” said Col. Black or Pitts, which ever it was. But Judge heard him not.

Dr. Graham, seeing the predicament of the officer from within the house, came out and assured Judge that all was well, and he dropped his tail, and went toward the kitchen, carrying an ugly case of the sulks, seeming badly put out because he did not get to bite the caller.

At midnight of the same day, Judge joined Col. Black and Pitts on their rounds, as bright and cheerful as ever.

The two men reasoned it out after this fashion: “Well, I guess he is right. We are the stuff when it comes to beating around the city, keeping out burglars and thieves, but must stay in our places. Judge thought we were going to make a social call.”

Judge grew greater in their estimation. They cursed him at first, but finally came to the conclusion that as Mr. Hyde he is on an equality with policemen, but as Dr. Jekyll out of their class.

Marse Lawrence and Trouble.

A HOUND OF THE OLD STOCK

“Is dem putty fas’ houn’s, Marse Lawrence?” asked Uncle Simon Bolick, as Mr. L. A. Williamson, of Graham, Alamance county, came up with his pack of noted fox dogs.

“Yes, Uncle Simon, they are the best in the country,” was the answer.

“Yes, sir; I spec’ dey is now, since ole marster’s stock ’s all died out. But when Marse Billy wuz livin’ he had de steppin’ dogs. Dey wuz de swiftes’ in de lan’. Yo’ daddy’ll tell you dat. Dey don’t have houn’s lak his’n now. Ef I coul’ git some uv de ole Bolick breed I sho’ would git on ole Beck an’ go wid you arter Big Sandy, dat sly ole red dat uses in de Big Crick woods. But de las’ uv de stock’s gone. When Marse Tim lef’ here he sont Buck an’ Bell, de onlies’ ones livin’, to ole man Bob Bolick, his no ’count uncle, up in de Souf Mountins. Ole Bob he never know’d how to care for nothin’, much less er fine houn’. All my fo’ks is lef’ dis section. De war broke dem up an’ mos’ uv dem’s in de fur Wes’, unless dey’s all daid. But ef I had one uv dem old Bolick houn’s I woul’ show you how to ketch ole Sandy. Dat’s de gospel truf!”

The old darkey was in earnest. His memory carried him back and he lived in days gone by, and scoffed at the things of the present. Life was not as sweet to him as it had been when he served his owner, Colonel William Bolick, the famous old farmer-sport of Piedmont, North Carolina, for then every day was a holiday. He hunted and traveled with his master, who kept fine wines, blooded horses and fast dogs. Truly, those were glorious days for Simon, and he has never become reconciled to the prosaic life of freedom. The Bolicks were prominent in North Carolina, and came from a good old English family. Robert, however, never did well and, to get rid of him, his father purchased a fertile mountain valley farm and sent him there to live. That suited him, for he had no pride and but little ambition.

Colonel William Bolick did well until the civil war. Like many men of his class and day, however, he could not change with the times. The freeing of the negroes destroyed him financially, and he was never able to rally his fortunes. He died soon, leaving an encumbered estate and a family of boys; the former was sold and the boys went West.

Old Simon, the aristocratic ex-slave, took up the burden of life, and went from place to place doing odd jobs here and there until two years ago, when he moved to Graham to live with a daughter who had saved money and bought a home. There he made the acquaintance of Mr. Williamson, and never tired of telling him about the Bolick hounds.

A fortunate thing happened for Simon last fall. He was wrong in his conjecture about the passing of the Bolick stock. It had not all perished. The breed had been kept pure and improved by the sons of Bob Bolick. Some profitable crosses had been made, and the Bolick hounds of South Mountain were even better than the ones formerly owned by Colonel William Bolick. They had not been hunted after foxes, but had run deer, bear, coons and wild cats.

Zeb Bolick, the most promising son of Bob, heard of the old family negro at Graham. He found out that the Bolick hound was the hobby of Uncle Simon, and determined to box up one of the best young ones in his pack and send her to the old darkey. Therefore, on a fine day in October, he shipped Dinah, a well-built bitch, to Graham, at the same time sending the following letter to Simon:

“Simon, I have just sent you a hound of the old Bolick stock. I heard that you wanted one. She is untrained for foxes, but will run anything that leaves a scent. Accept her as a gift for the sake of by-gone days. I never saw you, but if you were raised by Uncle William, you are all right. I have named the black and tan lady Dinah. She looks just like old Bell, her great-great-grandmother, except that she is larger. She has raced all the flesh off of her bones, but that is a small matter.”

Simon Bolick was the happiest negro in the county. He rejoiced for two reasons; the promise of the dog made him happy, and the receipt of the letter, the first one of his life, pleased him. He told the town of his good fortune, going from store to store showing his letter. It was like a dream to him, and he could not realize that the dog was actually on the way. He ran around until he was almost prostrate.

For some cause Dinah was two days late in showing up, and it began to look as if somebody had been joking the old man.

Simon had described her as a beautiful, gentle animal, full of life and well-bred looking, but his imagination had been too active. Hence, when Dinah arrived, the old darkey was sorely disappointed, for she was skinny, raw-boned and dirty, her ribs prominent and her back too sharp. The boys laughed and jeered as Simon led her along the street. She seemed half-starved and tried to put her nose into everything. If she found a morsel to eat she gulped it down so greedily that the spectators roared with delight. But when safely within his own yard, the old negro made a thorough examination of his dog, and, after looking her over from nose-tip to tail, he spoke to himself as follows: “Dat ain’t no bad dog ef I’m a jedge. She’s got de same marks dat de ol’ houn’s had. I laks dem thin years, dat hump-back an’ dat long, keen tail. All she needs is somefin’ to eat an’ er little res’. Me an’ ole Suckie ’ll fetch her out. By de time de race arter Big Sandy comes off I’ll have her des right, an’ ef I ain’t mightily mistaken she’s gwine to sho’ dem yudder dogs de bottom uv her feets es she flies. Des es soon es she gits rested, I’s gwine to slip her off down to de crick an’ hear dat mouf. Ef it soun’s lak ole Bell, den I’ll bet on her sho’ nuff.”

The tongue proved right. It was loud, clear and horn-like and could be distinguished in any pack. Simon was happy. His cup of joy was brimful when Mr. Williamson sent him word that he could join him for a chase the first good opportunity for a night hunt. The old darkey could hardly wait—he was so anxious for the hunt.

When the eventful hour came, Simon, mounted on his trusty mule, Beck, with his master’s old horn on his back, and Dinah trotting behind, with head and tail down, overtook the other hunters just out of Graham, on the Haw River road. The night was fine, and the ground in first-class condition. The atmosphere was fresh and sweet, after a light shower, and the weeds and grass sufficiently damp to hold a scent. As Simon rode up, Mr. Williamson remarked: “Well, old fellow, if Dinah has the proper stuff in her, and we hit old Sandy, she will have an opportunity to do her best to-night, for the weather is ideal.”

“Yes, sir; dat’s so; Mr. Fox’ll smell mighty good arter de little sprinkle. I ain’t sayin’ much erbout my dog yit, ’cause she ain’t never run but one or two foxes in her life, but I feels lak she wuz des gwine to fall in wid de res’ an’ do her part.”

Some of the mischievous chaps in the party twitted the old negro about his hound, calling her “skinflint,” “meat-catcher,” “rabbit-chaser,” and the like, but he laughed and advised them to wait and see.

The hunters had not gone far when Trump, a young dog, routed a rabbit, and drove him flying across the road. Five or six puppies joined in and hurried old mollie-cotton-tail to the thicket of a near-by stream. Soon a turn was made and all came back. The dogs were close behind Brer Rabbit, and a new mouth carried the lead. Uncle Simon, with much joy in his heart, cried out: “Listen at dat horn-mouf! Dat’s Dinah, an’ she’s in front!”

Mr. Williamson was charmed with the deep bark of Skinny Dinah. It was wrong to encourage the rabbit hunters, but the boys could not refrain from galloping ahead to see the race. Dinah was literally splitting the wind. She did not tarry or linger, but picked up the scent here and there and hastened on. Simon blew his horn and all of the culprits, except Dinah, came in; and her tongue ceased. It was surmised that she had caught the rabbit and was eating a second supper. Soon she overtook her proud owner, her mouth blood-stained and her sides sticking out. The laugh was on the darkey.

Far to the right came the melodious note of Trouble, the faithful old strike dog. He had ranged toward Bull Nose Creek and struck a hot scent. Mark, Mr. Williamson’s colored valet, declared, “Dat’s where dey strikes ole Sandy, an’ Trouble knowed where to hit him!”

The hunters struck a gallop and the dogs were “harkened” in—Jerry, Jude, Kate, Sing, Music, Flora, Black Bill, Red Ball, Trumpet and Flirt. Strive, a big, deep-mouthed, bob-tailed hound, opened some distance in front of the rest. He was a fast trailer, making time and ground by sighting logs and wet places ahead and hitting here and there. He had good dog sense and knew the ways of Reynard, and, under his leadership, the pack soon had a running trail.

Mark dismounted and examined the track. “It sho’ is ole Sandy, Mr. Lawrence,” said he. “If you don’t believe it, come here an’ look.” And so it turned out.

The dogs moved across Cedar Hill toward Holt’s Bay and Drowning Creek. The young hounds, all but Dinah, were chiming in at the rear. Dinah seemed interested, but lazy. However, she kept nibbling at the track. As the hounds went in on the north side of Holt’s Bay, old Sandy slipped out on the other side. Red Ball, the famous leader of the pack, got a live scent of the cunning fox as he set out, and rushed through the thicket, bawling as he went, and picked up the hot track. There was consternation among the dogs for a moment, but in a jiffy every last mouth, even that of Dinah, was giving tongue behind Red Ball.

As was the custom of Sandy, he took a short round to try the quality of the pack. He raced three miles and back over level country, entered the bay where he went out, dodged through and started for the swamps of Big Creek, five miles away, to the north. The hounds were in hot pursuit, Red Ball in the lead, closely followed by Trumpet, Sing and Flirt.

About every fourth leap Ball would cry, “Yock! Yocky-yocky yock!” It was sweet music to the ear. He did not bark often, but his voice was strong and piercing. Dinah brought up the rear, but was now thoroughly aroused, though the rabbit had made her heavy and slow. Simon was delighted to see her sticking to it so well and showing such interest.

The hunters rode to the top of the hill, dismounted and waited patiently for the fox and the dogs to return. It might be an hour, or it might be four, but Sandy always came back to Drowning Creek, and the faster the race the quicker the return.

Mr. Williamson and his companions did not have to loiter long that night, for within three-quarters of an hour after the hounds went out of hearing, Mark, with his keen ear, heard the tongue of Red Ball. It was coming back, “Yock! Yocky-yocky yock!”

The men hurried to a road crossing to see the pack as it passed. Dogs had changed places. Some of the short-winded runners had dropped out and others fallen back. But Simon’s Dinah had performed the most wonderful feat; instead of bringing up the tail-end, she was pushing Ball. Her tongue was mingling with his, and the old negro could not constrain himself. He just had to yell, and yell he did, at the top of his voice. “As sho’ es de Lawd,” he shouted, “she’s one uv de ole stock!”

But it was no time to shout. The dogs were flying on, and any inopportune whoop might bother them, so Simon was rebuked by the captain of the party.

Sandy covered his three-mile circuit again, and returned to Holt’s Bay. By that time he saw that his life was in danger, for the hounds were racing him faster than he ever had to go before. If the gait continued death would be staring him in the face, so he determined to put forth his best efforts in a run to Buck Hill and back, a total of sixteen miles, but by foiling several miles he would have ample time to dodge in Holt’s Bay. The dogs were close after him when he left for Buck Hill, with Red Ball and Dinah cheek by jowl. Ball was running wild, while Dinah seemed to be getting better. To the west the flying pack went, the tongues of Ball and Dinah blended in one sound. Simon was so elated that he could not be still, moving about like a crazy man.

When the music ceased, Mr. Williamson turned to Uncle Simon and said, “Old man, I’ll give you fifty dollars for her.”

“Marse Lawrence, I needs de money, but I wouldn’t swap dat dog fer yo’ cotton mill; no sar, dat I wouldn’t.”

After that there was no sound for more than two hours, though the hunters listened with strained ears. Mark was the first to hear the returning music. He cried: “Hush! There they come! Dinah’s in the lead!”

“Yoo-it yoo-it yoo-it! yoo-it!” came the sound rending the air. Ball had fallen back ten feet or more. Again the hunters hastened to a place where they could view the dogs. That time they saw the fox, Big Sandy. He was but thirty yards ahead, with tail dragging the ground and tongue hanging out.

His last race was run. The fatal day had come. But he had pluck to struggle on. Dinah and her mates came on, tired but strong. Sandy was pulling for Holt’s Bay, where he could turn and double about, and worry the dogs. But the sight of the men and the horses seemed to urge Dinah on. They gave her courage and she gained on the fox. As she crossed a hillock in the edge of the woods and turned down the opposite side, she caught a glimpse of Big Sandy. Her heart beat with joy and she went forward with renewed vigor. The other dogs and the hunters were close in her wake. They had noted the change in her tongue and knew full well what it meant. It was a sight race from there to the thicket, and Dinah had the advantage. Big Sandy dodged and twisted, but his last moment had arrived. Dinah pounced on his back just as he entered the edge of the bay, and it was all over.

Dinah had proved her mettle, and Big Sandy was dead. Uncle Simon was so happy that he could not speak. He fell upon his dog and embraced her, while the boys patted him on the back and rejoiced with him. Dinah rolled and groaned in the broom sage, the idol of the hour.

MINERVA—THE OWL

When in Charlotte, I make my home at 411 North Tryon street, in a private family. My hostess, Mrs. Barringer, widow of General Rufus Barringer, owns an owl of the Asia Accipitrimus or short-eared species; her name is Minerva and she is a very common bird. Hundreds like her dwell along the wooded streams of Mecklenburg and adjoining counties. None of them are beautiful. The one of which I write has but one redeeming feature. She is grateful to her mistress who, alone, has fondled and petted her. In this she acts well and shows a trait that but few men have.

Where did this strange, quaint and curious creature come from? Why did she become a thing to be domesticated and cared for like the beautiful little canary or the sweet-tongued mocking bird? Is she the apple of any person’s eye, or the pride of any home? To the last question I should say: “No; she is nobody’s darling.”

The owner of Minerva was not looking for her when she came nor did she especially desire to become the possessor of such a charge. A friend sent her as a present from a neighboring town. She had been lifted from her nest, a tiny, awkward, helpless birdie, and dropped into our home suddenly.

What was to be done?

Had she been given her liberty in Charlotte, either by night or by day, a violent death would have been her fate. Hungry cats were ready to crack her delicate bones, and the street urchin, with his never-failing sling shot, or air-rifle, was eager to try his skill on just such a mark.

Truly, the ugly, dirty, drab-colored little bird was far from enthusiastic friend or kindred. None of her kind are within several miles of the town. But if she could have been taken to the woods and set free she would have died from starvation and loneliness, for she was young, innocent and inexperienced.

Indeed, she must be fed, housed and cared for as an object of charity, for, truly, she lacked lovable characteristics. At first she had but one friend and that, her owner, and to her she owes life and what happiness she has had.

For twelve months of her existence, after she arrived, Minerva lived in a large wire-screen chicken pen, situated beneath my room window. It was there that she grew into the dignified old lady that she is. The pen was built and is used for cooping chickens for the table. At times it was well filled with a fine lot of hens and then, again, empty. Minerva watched the daily slaughter of her strange companions with apparent concern from the highest perch she could find. She would not associate with them. However, she soon discovered that they were afraid of her. Those direct from the country, sought the farthest corner from her. All this she did not understand, for having seen none of her peculiar family, she must have felt that she was of the same blood as her fellow creatures. She tried diligently to unravel the mystery. Her thoughts were along the line of these questions, I imagine, from the serious look she always wore upon her face: “Why do they avoid me? Will that dreadful tall creature from the kitchen come and wring my head off like he has done others? What does it all mean? Have I but one friend, the sweet old lady who raises the window every morning and greets me?”

The only trouble Minerva had in her early captivity was given by Osmond, the son of her mistress, who set Jack, his fierce bull terrier, after her. The dog could not get inside the enclosure, but would frighten her into hysterics by charging against the wire and barking viciously. Under this excitement she took the only exercise she got, flying from pole to pole and snapping her bill. What the bull dog and his master did for her Minerva did for the timid chickens. She amused herself daily by chasing them around. By instinct an owl captures a fowl by pushing it off of a perch and catching it on the wing. Minerva would drop on the pole by the side of a frightened hen and shove her off, just to see her squirm and hear her squall. She kept this sport up for months. Every time a new chicken was turned in she would haze her, much to the delight of those who could watch the game.

But, now, Minerva is too much of a lady to engage in such youthful pranks. She sits on her perch and keeps tab on the sons and daughters of our neighbors. She announces the time of night that Colonel Willie Harty comes in and sings a funeral dirge out of respect for Fritz, the deceased dog of Mr. John Oates. In her more cheerful moods, she warbles after this manner: “Toot, oot, hoot, toot!” “Toot, oot, hoot, toot!!” That is very owlish and I have found no one who could translate it into English.

Mrs. Barringer, being a woman of noble heart, decided, not long ago, to give the bird her freedom. William, the man servant, was instructed to turn her out and see that no enemy harmed her. We all believed that she would be glad to leave the place for good at the first opportunity, for she did not seem to care for or even trust any one but her mistress, to whom she would go when called or notice when spoken to. But we had reckoned wrong. She did not desire to depart from us. Her hours are whiled away in such cozy nooks and corners as she elects to occupy in the back yard. She is growing fat and familiar with mankind and beast.

But, with liberty, protection and free-lunch, Minerva is not permitted to be contented and happy. She has a swarm of unrelenting feathered enemies that make her life a burden. The blue jay, the red-headed peckerwood, the harsh catbird, and the cruel English sparrow are her fiercest foes. They annoyed her no little while confined in the chicken pen, by railing at her through the wire, but now they dare to pluck feathers from her back and puncture her body with sharp bills. The mischievous old jay lands in the morning before the servants come or the occupants of the house begin to stir, delivers an inflammatory speech and urges his hearers to fight for their rights, their homes, their wives and their little ones.

It was my fortune, good or bad, to see one of these crowds assembled, to hear one of the addresses and witness an onslaught, one fine Sunday morning, several weeks ago. I had retired early the night before and slept well. The first call of Mr. Blue Jay waked me. I sat up in bed and looked on through the window blinds. The jay, feigning great indignation, sat in the top of an elm tree, not ten feet from the window. His voice rang out loud and shrill through the light morning air. It was harkened to by all the winged kind for several blocks. The red-headed woodpecker quit his hammering on the steeple of the Lutheran church across the street, and flew in all haste to join in the outcry with his rasping voice. The catbird sailed out from a neighboring fig bush and came tumbling and screaming across the garden. English sparrows poured in by the score from all directions until the tree was alive with their nervous little bodies.

All was consternation and fuss at first, but soon the jay got the floor and made this very bitter and impressive speech: “Fellow creatures: Here we are defied by the vilest bird that left the ark. She lurks about and seeks to do murder to you and to me, to yours and to mine. Our homes, our wives and our children are in danger! What shall we do? Must we stand quietly by and see our loved ones killed and their flesh defiled by this designing old night-assassin? I answer: ‘No!’ Why, she was despised and hated by the people of old. Hear what the Great Book says about her! When Job’s honor was turned into extreme contempt and his prosperity into calamity, he cried: ‘I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls.’

“Babylon was threatened: ‘It shall never be inhabited, etc.

“‘But wild beasts of the desert shall lie there, and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures; and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there.’

“Yes, we must slay the detested creature. She is an imposition. I command you to rise in your might and drive her out of our paradise!

“The English sparrow will lead the charge.

“All together!

“Charge! Bite! Scratch! Squall! Poise the head!”

Off they went in a body to wage war on old Minerva, who had seen the antics and heard the words of the indignant meddlers from her comfortable seat on a wheelbarrow-handle, just under a thick circle of a grape vine. It is useless to say that she was badly frightened, for she dreaded the sharp beak and the fury of the courageous little sparrow; he was so swift and determined in action that his onslaughts were to be feared. The bombastic jay, the timid catbird and the blatant woodpecker gave her no concern.

The fight was in earnest when William, the servant, hove in sight. Minerva had lost several batches of feathers and her back was sore where the sparrows had billed her. At the flight of her assailants and the appearance of William, she chirped: “Toot, toot, toot!”

This is a brief sketch of Minerva’s life. She is shunned, despised and distrusted by all the Charlotte feathered tribe. She is alone in the world. Her appearance is against her and she has no accomplishments. She can neither sing nor dance. Truly she is “the bird with the hoe.”

UNCLE DERRICK IN WASHINGTON

It was the week after Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States, had Booker Washington, a famous negro educator, at the White House for dinner with him, and the press of the land had sent the news broadcast.

“Good morning, Uncle Derrick, where are you off for to-day?” asked Dr. F. L. Smith of Concord, of his fellow-townsman, Derrick Alexander, the old colored wood-chopper, as he trudged along the street.

“I’s gwine to de Big House at Washington, where de President lives,” said the old darkey.

“Yes, sir, I’s on my way to see President Roseanfelt.”

“What are you going to see him for?” inquired Dr. Smith.

Uncle Derrick at Home.

“Why, ain’t you been readin’ in de papers ’bout dem big festerbuls dat Mr. Roseanfelt an’ his fine lady’s been havin’ spechully fer de niggers? Dat’s it, sir! Dere’s where Uncle Derrick’s goin’.”

The old fellow was in earnest. He wore his best shoes—a new pair of number fourteen brogans—a weather-beaten stovepipe hat and an antiquated suit of livery. In a bandanna handkerchief, swung over the end of a stout cane across his shoulder, he carried a few odds and ends of dress.

“Well, Uncle Derrick, how much money are you taking with you? Can you go in good style?”

“Boss, dat’s de weak p’int ’bout my trip. De ole nigger’s des got ernuff to git to Salisbury, but ef he can’t fine er frien’ dere to hep him on he’ll walk. I’s gwine to go ef de Lawd lets me live. De time dat I’s been waitin’ fer is done come. It sho’ is. All de niggers in my part uv de town is talkin’ ’bout goin’. President Roseanfelt (dat’s what de Dutch folks uv Keebarrus county calls him) sho’ is de frien’ uv de nigger. Think uv it! Niggers wid deyer shinin’ clothes on eatin’ wid de rich white folks uv de lan’! I ain’t got no fine clothes, but ef de ole nigger kin des git dere he’ll be all right; some good white gem’man frum de Souf will hand me out er thanky-suit. No, sir, I ain’t ’spectin’ no trouble arter I git dere fer de ole nigger’s mighty handy ’bout de house. Ef I can’t git in at de fust table I kin at de secon’.”

“But, Uncle Derrick, they won’t let a cornfield negro go in the White House; it’s high-toned negroes, like Booker Washington and John Dancy, that attend the receptions of the President.”

“What? Dem yaller niggers! Dey ain’t fitten to go wid de quality. It’s de right black nigger dat’s got de ’ristocrat blood in him. My ole marster uster say dat a light-skin nigger an’ er roan mule wuz de wust things in de worl’.

“No, sir, I ain’t skeered uv no nigger wid er yaller skin. Ef I des kin git to de Big House dat’s all I ax; I’ll do de rest.”

Dr. Smith, seeing that Derrick was serious, furnished him with money to buy a ticket to Washington and urged him to go forth and be merry.

But, a week later, Derrick returned to Concord, ragged and bruised. His clothes had been rent in many places and his head badly wounded. He hobbled up town and called on Dr. Smith, to whom he told the story of his visit to Washington, and recited the fearful tale of woe that follows:

“Marster, I ’clare ’fo’ Gawd dat I’ll never leave home ergin while I live. Dere’s mo’ good foks in Concord dan anywhere else. I’ll die right here. Dem Washington foks is de meanes’ people dat I ever seed. De niggers is bigity an’ de white men don’t pay no ’tention to you, an’ dat’s one place de poleesmens don’t take no draggin’ fer dey’ll knock you down fer lookin’ mad. I sho’ did think that judgment day had come when I got dere.

“De trip up dere on de train wuz fust-class. I seed lots uv fine people on de way. But no sooner dan I lit on de groun’ at Washington my trouble started.

“I followed de yudder travelers f’um de train out to de street, where I met a big buck nigger, wearin’ uv a beaver. I know’d dat he was fixin’ to go to de festerbul. He had on er Jim-swinger coat an’ high-top boots. I step up to him an’ say: ‘Is dis de day fer de President’s big blow-out to de niggers an’ de big white foks?’ De rascal look me up an’ down an’ all over an’ ax: ‘What is you talkin’ ’bout, ole Rube? What do you know ’bout de President’s functions?’ I stop right dere fer I seed de kinder nigger I wuz talkin’ to. He was too highferlutin’ fer me, talkin’ ’bout functions; when er nigger quits sayin’ festerbul it’s time to let him erlone. I axed him de way to de Big House an’ he sed, ‘Go to de yavenue an’ up.’ I say, ‘What’s dat?’ He answer, ‘It’s de bigges’ street in de town.’

“I move on till I meet er pleasant lookin’ white gem’man who say dat he’s frum Alabam. I knowed dat he wuz uv de bes’ stock in de country, fer he had on good clothes an’ er big wide brim hat, one la’k ole master useter wear. I pull off my hat an’ say, ‘Boss, does you live here?’ ‘No,’ he say, ‘why?’

“I seed dat he wuz all right, so I pop er few questions to him. ‘Boss, is dis de day uv de festerbul at de Big House fer de culled peoples an’ yudders?’ Well, sir, he smile way down to his Adam’s apple, des la’k de question do him good, and say, ‘Is you thinkin’ ’bout ’tendin’ one uv de White House to-do’s?’

“‘Yes, sir, dat’s what I come up here fer; I lives in Concord, North Caroliny, wid Marse Jim Cannon, Marse John Wadsworth an’ de rest. I sho’ do wish dat you’d hep me git in. I’se des as good as dem yaller niggers dat’s been ’vited.’

“He des chuckle when I tol’ him ’bout my bizness up dere. He reach in his pocket an’ fetch out a ticket wid his name on it an’ when he write, ‘Let dis nigger in de White House to de festerbul,’ he handed it to me an’ say, ‘Dat’ll git you in.’

“‘But, uncle,’ he say, ‘dey don’t call de to-do’s festerbuls, la’k dey do down Souf, but dey is functions an’ ceptions.’