The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 9, 1899, Page 25

SAN FRANCISCO, SUNDAY, APRIL 9, 1899. NN/ Y, N\W s~ X >IN D N4 i Wl \C Copyrighted, 1898, by Joel Chandler Harris. ENERAL SHERMAN had done the best he could for the Abar- crombie place. He had waved his hand, and grim war shrunk a y out of sight; he had given a cignal, and all the mules and horses and live stock that had been taken away by the foragers we turned in a Jiffy; he had lifted his ger, and a cordon of soldiers was pla the around the and buildings. Everything wz s place; so far as the eye could war had forcibly taken no tolls from the planta- tion. Nevertheless, when, on a misty morn- ing in November, the Federal comman- der bade the place good-by and pushed his army southward along the Mil- ledgeville road, he left the plantation in very bad shape so far as Buster John and Sweetest Susan were concerned. Something was wanting; the place wasn't the same. The silence that fell upon everything when the army clink- clanked out of hearing was something terrible. The horses and mules stood under the big shed and shivered dumb- 1v: the cattle huddled together on the western side of the ginhouse, for the wind was from the east and blowing with a penetrating —oisture that was more than cold. There was no gossip among these ani- mals that people think are dumb. They had been badly frightened by the hurly-burly that beset them: they might talk about it after a while when the sun shone, out, or when the grass came; but, meantime, the east wind was blowing, and no matter how in- telligent an animal may be, he can house outlying never tell what that wind will bring after it has begun to blow. Now the grass-eating animals know well v when a storm is coming. The flesh- eaters merely gro v and have a frolic: but the gr: ters make for shelter, and if they ha a home to go to t g0 there; but the east wind— well, that is their problem, as i Aaron’s, only the son of Ben Ali never allowed it to blow on the back of his neck, so that when other neople were going about comvlaining of rheuma- tism or neuralgia, or were in bed with pleurisy or pneumonia, the son of Ben All was usually on his feet and in fair- ly_good heaith. Well, on this remarkable day, the an- fmals in the horse lot and in the pas- ture were quiet and morose. They had n shaken up in the first place with range experienc having been helter-skelter two or three miles from home in the wind and mist, and helter-skelter back agair with drums beating and bugles blowing, and no- body to explain it all. Old June, the milch cow, thought she had lost her calf, but after a while she felt it run- ning. along by her side, and it was standing under her now, a shivering, shaky, shaggy thing that looked more like a ba-ba-black-sheep than a respec- table calf. Anyhow, they all stood on the shel- ered side of the ginhouse and were quiet, as the steam rose from their backs, and the fog issued from their nostrils. They were not in a playful mood; there was nothing about them to interest Buster John and Sweetest Susan when later in tie day these voung adventurers paid them a visit of inspection. Old June moaned at them in a familiar way, but that was all the welcome they received. “I don’t believe they've been fed,” sald Sweetest Susan with a sigh. “Why, of course not,” exclaimed Bus- ter Joh “Aaron can’t do everything. “Where's Simon and Johnny Bab- ter?” the little girl ed. Sure enough, where were they? Where were all the men and women and boys and girls who used to make the negro quarters gay with laughter? Where was old Fountain? Yes, and where was Drusilla? This was the kind of a day when there should be a fire blazing on the hearth of every cabin, if only to keep out the damp- ness, but smoke was coming out of only one chimney, and even that was not a free and friendly smoke. It was a thin, wavering ribbon of blue, hard- 1y visible until the wind seized it and tore it to tatters. “I don’t know what you are going to do,” sald Sweetest Susan, “but I am going to find Drusilla. I haven't s2en her since last night.” Sweetest Susan went toward the ne- gro quarters, followed by Buster John, # and as they went along they were even .. more and mor >d with the si- lence that had fallen over everything. except this particu- they could remem- couldn’t go within a quarter of a mile of the quarters without hear- ing singing and loud laughing, or the sound of negroes scuffling and wrest- ling. But now the whole place seemed to be deserted. Big Sal’s cabin was the first they came to. The door was open and they entered. For a moment the interior was so dark that they saw nothing, but presently they could see Big Sal sitting on the floor carding out her gray halr. Usually she wore it in *, wraps, but they were now untwisted, and as she carded them out they stood . at right angies to her head and gave her a very wild and ferocious appear- ance. She nelther turned nor paused in the carding when the children stepped somewhat timidly in the door. People said she was sullen; but she was very sensitive and tender hearted, and al- ways famishing for some one to love. The negroes thought she was both cruel and suspicious, and Buster John and Sweetest Susan were somewhat doubt- ful about her. For a woman of 60 vears, who had known hard work, and trouble with it, she was well preserved. .@y @M A for the Sunday Call. every bit as good as the old “Brer Rabbit” storles that delighted grayheads and goldenlocks. J OEL CHANDLER HARRIS, the famous Southern author, has written a new series of “Brer Rabbit” storles o “Uncle Remus,” Harris created “Uncle Remus' the negro has figured in literature. through whom Mr. Harris tells his stories, has given more pleasure to young and old than any But he had figured for a pur- a principle, as in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” or he was the stage negro of the minstrel show Perhaps he was too familiar a feature in the landscape for the Southern author to appreciate his artistic value. other ch cter in fiction. Before M pose, either to illustrate —an intolerable misrepresentation. The plantation negro had to wait for the geni ture. Like his own hero, Brer Rabbit, Mr. Harris his youth wa Mr Harr To be introdu “Brer Rabbit” belongs pa bi tion of the good of such punishment. of Mr. Harris before he was given his right niche in litera- ‘was born and bred in a briar patch” in Middle Georgia, and sed in the sgciety he has made famous the world over. in his sketches, gives the subtle character of the negro and gives it in the most charming way. d to “Brer Rabbit” again will delight not only the reading world but those who must be read to. s much to the little ones as the grown ups. stories by heart took a spanking without shedding a tear. One little girl who knew the “Brer Rab- She comforted herself with Uncle Remus’ explana- “Well, what did he spank 'em for, Uncle Remus?" asked the little girl in the story. “Fer make um grow, a-way, same ez young chilluns. honey—des ter make um grow! Young creeters is got ter have der hide loosen’d dat- The first installment of this delightful series deals with the old plantation where the children lived and forms the background for the wonderful adventures of “Brer Rabbit,” “Brer Fox,” Aunt Minervy Ann and the rest of the characters. battle of wits and laughable adventures in the next instaliment. HOHOXOHOKOHOX “Aunt Big Sal,” said Sweetest Su- san, ‘“where is ev- erybody?” “Gone, honey, de Lord knows whar; gone, honey, de Lord knows whar.” She turned as she spoke, and her hair bristling out gave her countenance such a wild as- pect that the chil- dren involuntarily shrank back. They had never seen her with her hair down before. She raised hands. “F er any an’ body, hone; but don’t be afeard of Dodge frum an’' all, but don’t dodge frum me. Not frum me. No, my Lord! re the all - gone?”’ asked Bus- ter John. “Mighty nigh all, honey; mighty nigh all un um. Dem whut went wuz big fools, an’ dem whut stayed may be bigger ones, fer all I know. I'd a-been gone myse'f, but 1 went’ roun’ yander in the graveyard, whar dey put dat cripple chile, an’ sump’in’ helf me. I couldn’t go 'way an’ leave Hm." She was speaking of Little Crotchett, who had been dead her afeard ev'y- one and buried these ma long years. “Why did they 20 inquired Sweetest Susan. “Huntin’ free- responded Sal. Xen, , huntin’ free- dom! I hope dey’ll fin’ it; dat I does.” “Papa says all the negroes are free now,” “Did he say dat? his own mouf? .vell, I thank my star: I'm free, den! Me an’ all de balance 0 papa says,” remarked Buster John. “Well,” said Big Sal, “ef I'm free I better git up frum here an’ go ter work. What does Marster want us ter do? I'm gwine u» dar an’ ax ’'im.” The children went to the other cabi and found them empty, but in Jeminy's house thev found Drusilla cerying. You may imagine Sweetest Susan's grief when she made this discovery. Dru- silla was ready with her tale of woe. “Mammy walloped me kase 1 won't go off wid de balance un um,” sobbed Drusilla. “She say ef I stay here she got ter stay. I tell her I do anything but dat; T'll tell Hes, I'll steal, but I don’t go off fum here; dey got to kill me dead an’ tote me. An’ den mammy walloped me.” “You needn’t to b’lieve a word er dat!” cried Jeminy, who came in at that moment. “I tol’ dat gal it would be better for we all ter go ef we wanter be free sho’ ’nuff, an’ wid dat she fell on de flo’ and "gun to waller an’ holler till I ’bleege to paddle her. I don't wanter go no wuss'n she do, but dey say dat if we don’t go 'way frum whar we b'long at, we never is ter be free. Dat what de niggers on de nex’ plan- tation say. I wuz born here, an’ ef dis ain’t my home, I-dunno whar in de roun’ worl’ I got any.” There was a break in Jeminy's voice as she said this. Buster John paid no attention to it; but Sweetest Susan went close to her and leaned against said Sweetest Susan. Did he say dat wid ‘her, and the negro woman put an arm around the child. It was as if a tramp steamer had thrown out an anchor within sight of the lights of home. . “Who cooked breakfast this morn. ing?"” asked Sweetest Susan. ““Me,” replied ‘Jeminy; “I know'd somebody had ter cook.” “I thought s0,” said the child. biscuits were mighty good.” It was some time before Jeminy said anything. She rose and pushed the child from her, remarking: “I dunno what come over me; but ef T set here wid my arm ‘roun’ you, an' you talkin’ dat way, I'll be boo-hooin’ fo’ I know “The myse'f. Git up fum dar, Drusilla, *fo’ 1 break yo’ neck!” Before Drusilla could make any preparation to rise, there came a loud rap on the door-facing. “Nobody but old Fountain,” said the newcomer; “old Fountain, as muddy as a hog and harmless as a dove.” Harmless or not, he was certainly muddy. As he came in, the legs of his pantaloons rubbing together sounded as if they were made of leather. His coat was full of red mud and mud was on his coat and in his hair. ‘““Whar is you been?” asked Jeminy. “Fur enough to go no furder,” re- sponded old Fountain, shaking his hed. “T went a-huntin’ ¥reedom. De kin’ I foun’ will las’ me a whet; I prora- ise you dat.” “You don’t tell me!’ miny. “1 does,” said Fountain, “an’ I could tell you lots mo’ dan dat ef I had time. Dey sot me ter work liftin’ waggin wheels out er de quagmire, an’ den a driver rap-jacked me wid his whip— well, you see me here, don’t you? An’ ef we're bofe alive, you'll me here ter-morrer an’' de day atte “An’ dey wan't no freedom dar?” questioned Jeminy. She spoke under her breath, as if afraid to hear the an- swer. “I won't say dat,” replied Fountain. “Fer dem dat like de kin’' *twuz dar. Some mought like de change, but net me. I bless God fer what I seed, but I seed 'nuff. I went an’ I come.” ‘“Whyn't you stop an’' wash de mud off in de branch?” Jeminy asked pres- ently. “No, not me,” Fountain replied, still shaking his head. “Ter stop wuz ter stay. I know’d dey wuz A branch at exclaimed Je- home; an’ mo' dan dat, a spring. De idee wuz ter hurry back a; ee ef de natchel groun’ had been left.” “I b'lieve you,” sighed Jeminy. “I come mighty nigh gwine. myself.” “You'd a-been sorry,” exclaimed Fountain; “you’d a-been sorry plum ter yo' dying day. You see me?” Jeminy nodded her head. “Well, I.been dar. I been right wid um. Yo' can't call it freedom atter yo' wade through dat mud an’ water.” . Some one else came to the door. “All Miss Meadows, Mr. Thimblefinger, “Brer Rabbit” and “Brer Fox” will begin their interminable PHROEDK O * O AOXOROHOLOLOHOXOKOROXPAOROKOAD HOADHIXORIXOXOLOAGHOHOAO XN eyes open!" cried the newcomer. It was the refrain of hide and seek, and the children laugh- ed when they heard it. They knew the voice of Johnny Bapter. “All eyes open!” he persisted. “I'm it. Ten, ten, double- ten, forty-five, fif- teen! All eyes open?” With that John- ny Bapter walked in. He was a thin- looking negro, with a long face, and a mouth that was al- ways laughing. He would have been very tall, but he stooped a trifle, and there was a Hmp to his walk. One of his feat dragged slightly, but he was nimble as a squirrel for all that. His clothes were wet, but not muddy. He hit his wool hat against the side of the chimn and it left i amp print. He looked at the children and point- ed to the wet place. “I tuck its da- garrytype, he said. Johnny Bap- ter had once lived in town, and his adventures there, as he made them out, would have filled a book: and, at times, they were Interesting. “I hope you been well,” John Bapter: “I'm sorter middlin’ peart myself.” “Whar yo' been?"” asked Jeminy. “Kinder se aw- in' 'roun’, follerin’ de ban's, an’ keep- in’ off de boogers." all said “Yo’ didn’'t go wid um?” “No'um; not me; I seed dey had plenty comp'ny. Mo’ dan dat, I seed um hit oI’ man Fountain dar a whack er two, an’ I 'lowed dat ez dey done come dis fur an’ nobody ain’t hurt um, maybe day'd git 'long all right. Dey ain’t offer me no money fer ter go ‘long and take keer un um. I wuz over dar at de camps las’ night, an’ I see niggers fightin’ over scraps, an’ I hear chillun cryfn’ fer bread atter de lights done put out. So wid me, it wuz, Howdy, and Good-by, an’ I wish yo' gflghty well. What mo’ kin a nigger 07" “Whar de balance er our folks?” “Oh, dey’ll come back in de time,”" sald Johnny Bapter “One'll turn back at_one branch, an’ one at anudder; an'‘dem what don’ turn back at de branch will sho’ turn back at de river. Dey’ll all be home 'fo’ de week's out.” Buster John and Sweetest Susan lis- tened to all this, but said nothing. Their minds hardly grasped the prob- lem with which the negroes were wrestling. " They were free if they went away. Would they be free if they stayed? It was a very serious matter. “What dey gwine do when dey come back?” Jeminy asked. ‘“Work,” exclaimed Fountain. “Yes, Lord! work frum sun-up to sun-down.” “An’ dey free, too?” suggested Je- miny. She wanted to get at the bottom of the matter. Johnny Bapter laughed. “Why, in town whar I stayed, de free white folks work harder dan niggers. De clerks in de sto’ come rushin’ ter'din- ner, an’ fling der hats on a cheer, snatch a mouffle er vittles an’ rush out, wuss'n ef de overseer wuz hollerin’ at um.” “Is dat so?” replied Jeminy. “Des like I tell ‘yo',” said Johnny Bapter. . % ;‘I've looked at it up an’ down,” re- marked Fountain, “an’ it's dis away— de man what eats honest bread is got ter work. 'Dat what de Bible say; maybe not in dem words.” “It sho’ is so,” remarked Johnny Bapter. laughing. “T'll work all day an’ half de night, but I don’ wanter “Dat's so,” sighed Jeminy. due laughing. handler Harvis. ~Z, hear no. bugles blow.” Just then Big Sal, who had fixed up her hair, and was quite presentable, having put on her Sunday clothes, came into the cabin and stood over against the fireplace. “Wuz dey many er we-all wid dem ar white folks?" she asked. “Well'um, I should sesso!” exclalmed Fountain; “too many, lots too many; more den dey’ll find rashuns fur ef I ain’t mighty much mistaken!"” “What dey all gwine 'long fur?” asked Blg Sal. “Dey er feared ef dey stay at home dey won't be free. Now, how ’bout dat?” suggested Fountain. “Why, grandfather and pap both say the negroes are free, whether they go or stay,” said Buster John. ‘‘Grand- father says he is mighty glad the black folks across the creek are free.” “Dey been prayin’ fer it 'long 'nuff,” remarked Big Sal. “We all is free 'nuff,” said Johnny Bapter, “but who gwine ter feed us?"” “Dat is so; dat is sho’ one way fer ter look at it,” exclaimed Fountain, uneasily. “Well,” exclaimed Jeminy, “I know one t'ing an’ dat ain’t two; I'd ruther starve right here, whar I been born at, dan starve way off in de woods whar nobody don’t know me.” A shadow darkened the door, and there stood Aaron, his right hand raised. “Well, well! What's all this? Everything to do, and nobody to do it!" He whistled low under his breath. “Horses and mules to feed, hogs to call, sheep to salt, calves to take away from the cows. Well, well! I ar calls for meal, meat, syrup.” it's a fac’,”” assented Fountain. “Yo' hear my min’ workin',” said Johnny Bapter. ‘“Make me a hoss out'n meal, meat an’ syrup, an’ I'll eat 'im up ’'fo yo' eyes. He rose, stretched himself, let one side of his face drop with affected sorrow, while the other side was laughing, winked at the chil- n and darted out into the mist and resently the children heard him the calling, first the hogs, and then sheep. Aaron and Fountain followed more sedately, and in the course of half an ses-and mules could be the fodder from the racks and munching the ears of corn. By dinner time, according to Aaron’s re- port, there was but one hand missing from the place; and as he had been hired from the Myrick estate, it was not expected that he would take up his abode on the Abercrombie plantation. The fact that all the men, women and children came back after taking a short holiday, would have been some- what puzzling ®o the children’s father if he had been at home; he had im- bibed some of the modern id of business. It would cost something to clothe and feed them during the winter months, and all this would be clear loss since their labor would not be profitable until the planting season be- gan. But there was no problem in it for the white-haired master, the child- ren’s grandfather. He looked for- ward to a period of chaos and confu- sion, when labor would be hard to secure. 3esides, as he said, the ne- groes had helped to make the ample supply of provisions with which the smokehouse was stocked, and they were entitled to a share of it, espe- clally if they were willing to remain. Morcover, nearly all were born at the place and knew no other home. And the plantation seemed to be very lucky in all respects. There were twenty bales of cotton stored under the ginhouse shed, and before Christmas day were sold at an average of $250 apiece—cotton was high directly after the war. This put $5000 in greenbacks in the plantation treasury; and in that, as in other things, the Abercrombie place was more fortunate than any of the .other plantations for miles and miles around. But Buster John and Sweetest Susan didn’t think so. Everybody was so busy—even Johnny Bapter, who used to agh and loaf every chance he had —that the children were driven back ipon themselves. They could talk to the other animals on the place, but that sort of thing ceased to be inter- esting when you have nothing else to do. They made signals to Mrs. Mead- ows and waited patiently about the spring, hoping to catch a glimpse of Little Mr. Thimblefinger. But all to ng purpose. Buster John was disgusted and sald so; but Sweetest Susan had clearer ideas about the matter. “What can you expect?’ she asked. “If you were Mr. Thimblefinger what would you have done when you saw that great crowd of men and wagons, and heard the drums and the brass horns? Why, you wouldn’t show your head in a year. And as for Mrs. Mead- ows, one of the soldiers let his horse drink from the spring. What do you suppose Mrs. Meadows thought when she saw that kind of a shadow staring at her throcugh the water?” “Well, grandfather says war is the worst thing that ever happened in the world,” said Buster John, “and I reckon it is.” (To Be Continued.) —_———————— “Funny thing that happened to Blo- hardt a little while ago. - We were walk- ing along the sidewalk, and he said he hadn’t had a fall for six winters—rather boasted of it, in fact. Just then he step- ped on a banana skin that had frozen on the top of one of those smooth iron coal- hole covers.” “‘And took a hard fall, of course. That's what he got for—" “No. That's the funny part of it. He didn’t fall; kept right on walking as if nothing had happened. You can’t always tell, you know."—Chicago Tribune.