LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS 
 
. 
 
UNCLE ISAAC: 
 
 OR 
 
 OLD DAYS IN THE SOUTH, 
 
ME AND MY REBECCY." 
 
UNCLE ISAAC: 
 
 OR 
 
 Old Days in the South 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 BY WILLIAM DUDLEY POWERS. 
 
 " I have considered the days of old, the years of ancient times. I 
 call to remembrance my song in the night." Psalms Ixxvii, 6, 7- 
 
 RICHMOND: 
 
 F. JOHNSON PUBLISHING CO. 
 1899. 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS 
 
COPYRIGHTED. 
 
 DUDLEY POWERS. 
 1899. 
 
TO 
 
 HOWARD AND DUDLEY, 
 
 WITH THE WISH 
 
 THAT THEY MAY I^OOK BACK ONE GENERATION BEHIND 
 THEIR FATHER'S 
 
 FOR 
 
 AN EXAMPLE AND AN INSPIRATION. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Maturity had not marked the author of this volume for its 
 victim maturity means responsibility and care and labor when 
 the revolution in Southern life was had, and its recent fashions 
 and ways were transferred to legend and song, audits exanimate 
 factors to the philosophy of history. With the civil war the atony 
 of a lost thunder trembled in the air, and a generation of South 
 ern people felt that a Summer was ended. But a disappearing 
 immaturity of years located him then in a time of life, when 
 impressions are most securely fixed in memory's safest place. 
 He has not forgotten, and not forgetting, he has fancied that he 
 must remind those who may forget, of the glad and better things 
 of the past, which may still follow life for good, and preserve 
 something of the old inspirations for those who can get them 
 only from one who does not forget. 
 
 "But how will the North take your book?" asked a friend, 
 when the manuscript was read to him, and the question gave the 
 publication pause. Reflection, however, brought the conscious 
 ness of the fact that the North was not over against the South, 
 unfriendly. The North, the South, the East, and the West are 
 the Union, and what is of value in history or tradition, and a 
 pleasure of remembrance in one section must be of some value 
 and of some charm to the whole country. The author had read 
 with pleasant appreciation the idyls of New England, and it 
 must be true that the New Englander will read with like satis- 
 
12 Preface. 
 
 faction the pastorals of the South. Then came the recollection 
 of an incident, which as the interpretation of national friendship, 
 that relationship which binds the people of the far separated 
 sections together, convinced him that he need have no alarm 
 about the sympathy of book-readers anywhere in the nation on 
 this score. 
 
 Sitting one afternoon upon the porch of a hospitable house 
 in Riverdale, where he had spent several happy days, the writer 
 in reply to a requisition was tendered a match from a gold match 
 case by his friend and host. The beauty of the case attracted 
 him, and in the conversation which ensued, he learned that it 
 had a story, and this is the story: 
 
 One morning toward the summer of 1865, a lady sent her card 
 into the private office of a well-to-do New York gentleman. She 
 was admitted. The gentleman, after courteously receiving her, 
 asked to what he owed the honor of the call. 
 
 She replied, that she was a Southern lady in some distress, 
 and had called to solicit his assistance. 
 
 Through the devastation incident upon the war, just closed, 
 she added, she had been left with a plantation, but without seed 
 or implements or mules, or money to purchase these necessary 
 articles of equipment, and with no other possible source of sup 
 port. Could she procure five hundred dollars, she was quite 
 sure that she could make the plantation yield an income sufficient 
 for the maintenance of her family, the payment of the interest, 
 and presently for the liquidation of the debt. She then requested 
 of him the loan of the five hundred dollars. 
 
 In utter astonishment at her request, he said: " Why, madam, 
 I do not know you at all." 
 
 " I know that," she replied. 
 
 " Have you any security to offer me? " 
 
 "None, sir," she said. 
 
Preface. 13 
 
 "Then how can you expect me to advance you this money, 
 and why do you apply to me? " 
 
 " Because," she answered, " I have heard that you are a gen 
 erous, sympathetic man, and I believed you would appreciate my 
 situation, and help me if you could. I am a lady, in much em 
 barrassment; I must appeal to some one; I selected you. I will 
 certainly return you the five hundred dollars with interest." 
 
 Something in her manner and speech, and the pathos of the 
 situation prepossessed him to grant her most remarkable request, 
 and in spite of the conviction that he was doing a probably very 
 absurd thing, he lent her the money. 
 
 Year by year the interest was regularly paid, and after some 
 years had passed, she called again at his office, returned him the 
 principal, and presented him with this gold match case, asking 
 him to keep it as a token of her appreciation of his kindness. 
 She told him that she had taken some of her jewelry to Tiffany's, 
 and out of it the match case had been made. On the top of the 
 case there was engraved the name of " William H. Appleton." 
 The name of a man given to such actions should be remembered 
 with his deeds, and, therefore, in violation of his wish, doubt 
 less, had it been asked, his name has been printed here. 
 
 With the remembrance of this instance of Northern gener 
 osity to a Southern appeal came the certain belief, that those of 
 the family in the one part of the Union would be glad to know 
 somewhat of the story of the family in the other, and that 
 he who is there, while he might smile at the writer's simple 
 pleasure, would look at his pictures in sympathy, criticising, it 
 may be, the attempted literary work of a man, but not the happy 
 facts of a life. So this book is published. Dixi et salvavi ant- 
 mam meant. W. D. P. 
 
 Note. The phonetics of the negro Dialect have been required 
 to sustain some violence through the orthography used in this 
 
14 Preface. 
 
 book. But this has been done in order to facilitate an easy 
 understanding among those readers who are not familiar with 
 the tongue of this picturesque figure of the ancient regime. It 
 should be borne in mind that the final "t" in such words as 
 " warn't, ain't, don't," etc., is never sounded. The author finds 
 his excuse for sacrificing the dialect in the benefit accruing to 
 the unfamiliar reader. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 
 Uncle Isaac's Christmas Recollections. 
 
 When Marse Ran' Got Kilt. 
 
 De Sundays an 1 De ' Ligion Dat is Gone. 
 
 Uncle Isaac's Experience With New Things. 
 
 Marse Ran's Hoss. 
 Uncle Isaac Has More Experience. 
 
 Uncle Isaac's Lament. 
 
 The Passing of Rebecca. 
 
 Uncle Isaac in the Song. 
 
 The Passing of Uncle Isaac. 
 
 The Old Song. 
 
 Mammy. 
 
WHEN AND WHERE UNCLE ISAAC LIVED. 
 
WHEN AND WHERE UNCLE ISAAC LIVED. 
 
 JTC HE TRANSITIONS of civilization and the revo- 
 JL, lutions in social conditions are swifter than we 
 wist. Not a great many years ago, as the older 
 generation looks back, the last wearer of knicker 
 bockers could be seen on his favorite stroll. He was 
 an old gentleman then, it is true, with all the charac 
 teristics of his generation, but as with the stately 
 tread of his day he walked down Cary street, he gave 
 no consciousness of the fact that he was in any wise 
 conspicuous. In his grave with him they buried the 
 small clothes, the silk stockings, and the silver 
 buckles, and the generation swept on to other 
 fashions. 
 
 Age had hardly marked his successor, the wearer 
 of the blue swallow-tail, with its brass buttons, and the 
 red bandanna, for its victim, when again there was a 
 change. A more intense crisis thrust itself upon a 
 
 [19] 
 
20 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 people, and within the stretch of their every horizon 
 wrought change. The substratum everywhere of gov 
 ernment and society was made to feel a revolutionary 
 touch, and as with the stern finger of fate it first de 
 stroyed every condition of the old life, it then under 
 took its reconstruction. Five years were consumed 
 in its work, and when they had expired between these 
 people and the past there was a great gulf fixed, and 
 it was impassable. The old life was gone forever, a 
 civilization was remodeled, and the spirit of Southern 
 life had witnessed its own metempsychosis. All things 
 were new r . 
 
 But rapid indeed as has been this change, or these 
 changes, the children of the fathers have easily be 
 come accustomed to them. The old days and their 
 fashions and habits have been apparently all too soon 
 fixed in history as prosaic facts of a mechanical re 
 cord, the generation that is feels the force of the older 
 life only through the law of heredity, and in the sen 
 timent of the legend, and to those who had some part 
 in their lingering peace and happiness there is left 
 only the wake of a white remembrance, down which 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 21 
 
 they look and sigh. The past has become a " song 
 in the night." 
 
 But those clays and their civilization must stand for 
 something, and that something must have its value. 
 In them was the fashioning of those ancestors, and 
 the people of to-day may be proud of them, who 
 were the potent factors in the making of the nation, 
 and who determined the early trend of the present 
 life and character. In the nobler impulses now and 
 the stronger integrity to which men hearken, there 
 is the echo of a voice that has long been silent except 
 in the echo. 
 
 For veer the heading as you will, transform the 
 conditions, and shift the social structure to other con 
 creted foundation, its past must still operate in the 
 building character, remonstrate before questionable 
 introductions, and stand for ideals. A nation's le 
 gends and traditions indicate the climb of its heights. 
 The critics' sneer at the past, their condemnation of 
 its thought when applied to this time of new move 
 ments, and the smile of these unwitting folk at their 
 own fantastic stories of the older days, are travesties 
 
22 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 upon the philosophy of history, and treason to that 
 which should have ordered a notable loyalty. More 
 than this, the intensity which they have sometimes ex 
 hibited in their adverse reflections have created the 
 suspicion that the underlying motive was not sincere, 
 and the attempt was not so much to reach just con 
 clusions and to impress them as to tickle a majority, 
 who were supposed, and similarly unjustly, to be 
 without sympathy for the past of these people, and 
 inexorably arrayed against all their previous life and 
 character. The immediate inspiration, one cannot 
 help but suspect, was the fancied sight of a demoral 
 ized market adapted to and ready for the sale of such 
 dishonest stuff. 
 
 Never for a moment has any man had cause to be 
 ashamed for the fathers' past or the high demands in 
 those days of their chivalry, generosity, and refine 
 ment. Nor must the heritage be lost. It is worth 
 too much. But history will not preserve its precious 
 facts for us as they really were, nor let them move 
 among us forcefully as factors or with any accom 
 panying enthusiasm. History is cold and its facts 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 23 
 
 are chilled. Life-building factors must be warm with 
 a soul-inspiration if they shall affect us for good. And 
 if these factors be flown out of history that soul-inspi 
 ration must needs be the sentiment of their day, a 
 sentiment persuaded into action by legend and the 
 unworded epic of a reverenced ancestry. Sentiment 
 is poetry, and poetry is that impulse of life that makes 
 the toiler sing as he toils. Facts without sentiment 
 are dead things. So it shall not be so much the histo 
 rian as the singer with his truth in romance, who shall 
 best set to work among us, and perpetuate for that 
 work, the reminiscences of our forefathers, which are 
 good and worth the memory. 
 
 Something has already been done along this line, 
 but genius has yet a well-nigh ungarnered field in 
 which he may gather, and from which he may vehicle 
 the ideals of the South's past in the romance of lit 
 erature. The writer of this bit of a volume recog 
 nizes in himself no ability to perform any such task. 
 But he dares to undertake to give a detail or two of 
 that old life that is gone, which with its full story he 
 would fain have fresh in the memory of the South 
 
24 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 forever, and whose exquisite simplicity, the simplicity 
 of a very real refinement, cannot help but aid and 
 purify our civilization and culture in this luff of its 
 destiny. In even in a bit of recollection there is, for 
 some of us at least, something of the sweet things of 
 the past. 
 
 Not far from the banks of the Appomattox the old 
 house stands. It was built in the early days of the 
 century, but it has grown much since its original 
 owner died, and in obedience to the exactions of a 
 constantly unsatisfied hospitality, until it has reached 
 the edge of the hill. Its rooms are large and many, 
 and its halls, sometimes broad and sometimes nar 
 row, follow no straight line as they lead to the various 
 chambers and reception rooms. The green room is 
 here, around the first angle is the blue, further on 
 still is the red room, and above and to the left is the 
 haunted room. It was always haunted. Certainly in 
 the remembrance of all who knew the house the fact 
 that it was haunted had long been fixed. Every occu 
 pant of that room had been initiated into fright by 
 queer murmurs and well breathed sighs. There was 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 25 
 
 evidently an uncanny resident in that room, and the 
 family became so accustomed to his continuance that 
 his freakish sounds were catalogued among the natu 
 ral noises of the household. They were all wont from 
 time to time to fall asleep in the midst of his peculiar 
 ities. 
 
 A trellis of roses enclosed the front porch, and to 
 the fore lay a circle of hollyhocks, princess feather, 
 touch-me-nots, roses, violets, and heart's-ease. 
 Around these flowers the roadway, roughly macad 
 amized with a crystal rock, wound to the avenue of 
 oaks and poplars, sentineled by a tall pine, the land 
 mark of all the countryside, and out and beyond, the 
 avenue between fields of the golden grain, or stac- 
 catoed with the green of Virginia's staple. On the 
 other side of the house the grove sloped up to the 
 shadowing of the eaves, and separating it from the 
 garden spread a hundred yards or so in either direc 
 tion. Squirrels populated it, who were sufficiently 
 intimate to accept anything in the shape of squirrel 
 luxury offered them by the children. 
 
 From any door a fascinating scene developed. 
 
26 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Large oaks scattered through the unfenced yard cast 
 a velvet shade on the grass in the day, or at night 
 sifted the moonlight. Oh, those oaks ! How many 
 thousand watermelons, ice-cold, have been tasted in 
 that shade ! That's the recollection coming from the 
 boy. How many times the story, the old, old story, 
 has been told in that shade, and listened to ! That's 
 the reminiscence of a little later day. How many a 
 game of backgammon and of chess has been played 
 there ! That's the remembrance of the old exile. 
 Down the vista between the oaks the symmetrical 
 pines, here and there, straightened themselves above 
 the gold of the wheat and the green of the tobacco, 
 and near the tracery of a winding thread of darker 
 green the brook chaunted. But they called it then 
 the " branch." 
 
 Turning within, the floor lay mellowed, dark, and 
 polished like glass. Woe to the urchin who forgot 
 to wipe his feet on the door mat before he trod that 
 dry-rubbed hall ! A calamity of malediction fell upon 
 him did the matron or the butler prove or severely 
 suspect him the culprit. It was generally a nuisance 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 27 
 
 to him, and in rainy weather, when the red mud 
 showed plainly, an abomination. Parlor and dining 
 room, and chambers as well, save when the carpets 
 or mattings were down, had the same care and polish. 
 
 Here the family lived and entertained, and rare was 
 the day when the breakfast or the dinner table was 
 without a guest, and rare was the night when no 
 guest occupied a chamber in that house. For to call 
 in those days meant to stay at least a night and a 
 portion of a day. They are all well-nigh gone now, 
 that old family and its contemporaries, generous and 
 hospitable, true and brave and gentle. This is just 
 a memory of them. 
 
 The tall, lithe father, who smiled in conscious 
 pleasure when the opportunity to welcome a guest 
 occurred, is gone. Strong in the integrity of true 
 character, he was stern before all wrong, and gentle 
 at all other times. About him hovered a family's 
 affection, the neighborhood was the residence of his 
 friends, and near him stood the colored folk as in the 
 presence of a friend. The cabins and the house alike 
 loved and reverenced him. He was a scholarly pro- 
 
28 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 duct of the University, and courteous with an ancient 
 courtesy, devoted to those who loved him or were 
 dependent upon him. Every night he sat in the par 
 lor before the great fireplace concealed in the sum 
 mer behind the graceful foliage of the asparagus, 
 where, surrounded by family and guest, he read the 
 Holy Word of God and sped a prayer heavenward. 
 His was a character shaped by a chivalrous genera 
 tion, taught of the scholars, and refined in the im 
 pulses of the Christian Religion. 
 
 Matching the man was the matron, and noble the 
 husband noble the wife. They have folded her 
 hands, and she too is asleep. They were chivalry 
 and purity wedded. A twain made one. Stately in 
 her motions, and gentle in her manners she graced 
 the house, and in the charming delicacy of the ways 
 that belonged to her day and generation the gentle 
 man found his inspiration to gallantry and honor. 
 No impure thing met the eyes of her daughters in 
 the home and conversation that in any degree dan 
 gerously approached the questionable was impossible 
 where she reigned the soul of refinement. Her sons 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 29 
 
 must needs have been gentlemen, and her daughters 
 could be naught but maidens made fair by the touch 
 of such modesty and refinement. 
 
 There are yet many in this day of fret and hurry 
 why may it not be said, many of us? It cannot be 
 wrong or impolite to put one's self in the company 
 of which he is proud aye, many of us, who can look 
 back and see them as they sat with us on the rose- 
 scented porch or rambled pleasantly down the avenue. 
 Their white muslin with the waist ribbon of blue 
 was enough of attractive gowning for them, and no 
 additional ornament to the flower caught in the 
 brown hair was needed. We walked with innocence 
 when we walked with them, and a true gentility could 
 have had no happier inspiration. They were the 
 touch of a high civilization. 
 
 In the evening after prayers, man and girl, they 
 sang the ballads of that day. Perhaps no appreciable 
 description of those evenings can be given until the 
 genius comes, but we can hear again, some of us, I 
 know, those sweet voices interpret " Robin Adair," 
 " Coming Thro' the Rye," and " O Don't You Re- 
 
30 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 member Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt." It may be that the 
 rendition was not scientific, nor even classical, but 
 it was exquisite in its witchery of purity, and winning 
 in the fresh melody of the girl whose soul had been 
 taught in the always chaunting nave of Nature. The 
 men were their brothers, and the men were gentle 
 men. 
 
 These were the ladies and the men who were to 
 make, in the opportunities of patriotism and where 
 the battle joined, the fame of a chivalry, and the re 
 cord of a courage which the world shall never forget. 
 Where the little star-crossed guidon is found, torn 
 and shot-marked, there is the token of the strength 
 of that inspiration and the sign of that gallant bear 
 ing. They were the sweet spirits that urged men to 
 glory, and they were the grey clad heroes of an 
 everlasting remembrance. 
 
 Behind the house and down the slope of the hill 
 the gravelled way led toward the spring sweet 
 spring where the evening sun often found boy and 
 girl, or man and maiden drinking the cool water, and 
 merry in conversation. Perhaps they were a bit in- 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 31 
 
 clined to words of dearer import sometimes and 
 who could resist the romance of such scenes in that 
 contented, white day of the Sunny South? 
 
 The oaks stretched their branches over the walk. 
 A dozen steps from the last door fetched the fringe 
 of cedars, another passed them, and there on one 
 side stood Mary Caesar with her churn full of butter 
 milk ready for any boy or girl who had brought a 
 cup along. Close to her was the dairy and the ice 
 house, and across the way the kitchen. Over its 
 fireplace, in which a rail went without forcing, Uncle 
 Nat, a real bit of polished, animated ebony, reigned 
 supreme, and who for the asking, with a word of 
 hospitality spoken in the negro's quaint way, but 
 learned from the generous master, stood as ready 
 to give a hce-cake, the natural accompaniment to 
 Mary Caesar's buttermilk, but the making of which 
 is now a lost art and the meal of which it was made, 
 rich and sweet, is gone as well. 
 
 The people of to-day would stand in amazement 
 in that ancient kitchen. Its pot-hooks, its ovens 
 with their coal-covered lids, the roasting pig, the 
 
32 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 broiling mutton, the baking ham, the basting fowl, 
 the innumerable things that were ever appetizing and 
 creating a longing for dinner, and above all the old 
 white-crowned, black face shining in a natural polish, 
 with its unmistakably tyrannical voice, but bent to 
 hospitable intention don't you wish you were back 
 there and hungry? The beaten way widened past the 
 kitchen, invading, on both sides, the ground once 
 belonging to grass. It was worn by many a year of 
 marble-playing boys, and by many a night's double 
 shuffle and back-stepping when old John, with his 
 banjo, was coaxed into the light of the full moon. 
 Thence it wound hard by the smoke-house full of 
 bacon, hams and shoulders and sides, a rich, old 
 greasy treasure house. Its mate, in which the gro 
 ceries for a couple of hundred or more people were 
 stored, stood over against it across the road. Now 
 the narrowing road, crossed with many a path and 
 intersection, rambled among the cabins of the colored 
 folk, the vassals vassals, yes, and happy. Clean and 
 neat these cabins were, and marked with the sign 
 of contentment. 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 33 
 
 So the wandering took the stroller by Uncle Julius' 
 home, and to the door of Lucy's and Peyton's, where 
 the boys, in a time of unusual hunger, went to per 
 suade a treat of scrambled eggs and hoe-cake, and to 
 the spring. Cool and clear it bubbled in the shade of 
 the pines in the dell at the foot of the three hills, hills 
 that were dotted with the homes of the quiet colored 
 folk of the old times. The bath house stood on one 
 side, and the wheat waved out of sight on the other. 
 Could the moving shadows that play between the 
 spring and the tobacco barn repeat the stories to 
 which they listened in that old time, they would de 
 light us with many a scrap of lovely romance. 
 
 Along the path around the hill, and a mile away, 
 the waters of the Appomattox, river of the sad history, 
 run under the cotton-woods and the willows, and 
 sometimes boisterously over the rocks. Between 
 the river and the spring are the lowgrounds. In the 
 evening through their bordering pines once there 
 came the drifting song of the hands as they wound 
 their way homeward. It was a quaint old song they 
 3 
 
34 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 sang, and in it was content, and the note of the coax 
 ing rest of the closing day. 
 
 A sharp turn out of the head of the avenue and a 
 hundred or more yards away stocd the stable in its 
 ample yard. Its double doors, always ajar, opened 
 a vista of stalls rilled with riding and driving horses, 
 and rows of mules, whose crunching of the corn-was 
 interrupted by the whinny of the satisfied guest. 
 Parallel with it ran the long crib. In the front of this 
 building, on a winter's night, a great pile of corn 
 would sometime lie, and in it and on it a crowd 
 of black folk shucking, the pannikin of whiskey 
 passing a little too frequently, perhaps. A cheerful 
 scene it was withal, softly noisy with the strange 
 aria of their monologue of music, and a picture of 
 glee and of toil without conscious sweat. 
 
 Along the road-side from the avenue to the gran 
 ary, peach and apple trees grew, and here and there, 
 were scattered in the fields, which, barring a late frost, 
 afforded fruit for all during the summer. But two 
 miles away is the orchard, and its hornets' nests, 
 and its green apples, and the battle, and the flight 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 35 
 
 not of the hornets. Then a reach of aromatic pines, 
 and the lake and the mill. On the top of the red hill 
 is the granary where the threshing and the garnering 
 were had, and from its rick of straw radiated the paths 
 down which the boys were wont to hurry in the early 
 morning all excited in the examination of the hare 
 traps, and the securing of the spoil. 
 
 " Rosemary, that's for remembrance." 
 
 It is morning. The mists are curling up from the 
 river. The grey touches the dark horizon of the East. 
 Beneath the big yard oak, the master winds the clear 
 note of the horn, and from the cabins by hill and dale 
 the contented hands go to their several occupations. 
 The hours creep on toward well past the sunrise, 
 and the " Good Mornings " greet one and another 
 of the family and the guests like a benediction. Such 
 indeed they are. The julep smack your lips O ! 
 connoisseur, in a nectareous reminiscence or the 
 toddy is served by the butler, old and courteous, 
 proud of his lineage he and the family are one 
 in aristocratic right which is, in his opinion, suf- 
 
36 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 ficiently indicated by his swallow-tailed coat and 
 brass buttons, and emphasized by a mannerism that 
 defies imitation. It is in him grotesque perhaps, but 
 the accurate counterpart of the gentleman whom he 
 serves. 
 
 The morning passes swiftly along. The matron 
 metes out the rations, enough and to spare, and 
 orders the dinner, and settles herself to that superin 
 tendence in general that constitutes the rest of her 
 pleasant domestic responsibility. The gentleman 
 rides to the fields, and in chat and stroll, and it may 
 be with a wistful glance revealing the refining motion 
 of a tender passion the younger people forget the 
 slipping hours. But before that those girls have 
 done their assigned duties in the household, and 
 have surely read a chapter in the Holy Bible. 
 
 Then across field and stream the winding horn 
 sounds the fact of noon, and luncheon, and rest. But 
 not luncheon, " snack." Dinner it is in the fields, 
 under the shade of the walnut or the peach. The 
 ash-cake, the rich, red gravy, the broiled bacon, 
 and the molasses tickle the appetite, and the ice-cold 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 37 
 
 buttermilk, the champagne of Virginia, washes it 
 all down. Certain remembrances are synonymous 
 with sacred hunger. 
 
 Again the sweep and swish of the cradles in the 
 wheat is heard, and the weird chant sturdily sung of 
 the rivals as they give themselves enthusiasm and en 
 couragement, and the chorus in which, under the self- 
 appointed and cordially recognized leader, all join, 
 cradlers, binders, and children. The bay of a hound 
 interrupts the chant and Molly Cotton-tail exploiting 
 her fright bolts across the stubble. Down drops the 
 cradle, the sheaf, the bundle, over turns the half 
 made shock, and away go they all in the hurry of the 
 chase. 
 
 Around the angles of the halls, the dinner bell sum 
 mons to the dining room. But that dinner need not 
 be described here, the aroma of Uncle Nat's kitchen 
 has already escaped, and besides Uncle Isaac will, 
 by and by, give his happy recollections of that meal, 
 and still again, as he would say, it would make you 
 too " hongry." Then followed the dolce far niente 
 of the Southern plantation. It was the time of the 
 
3 8 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 nap, or the time to read, or to write for the evening's 
 mail. 
 
 The hours skip again, and the day gets softer. 
 The gentlemen are gathering from the fields and 
 woods, new guests are riding down the avenue, and 
 the house is exiling the family reconciled by the 
 evening air. The trees are beginning their songs, 
 the flow of the river is slowing, the swallows make 
 high merriment, the hogs are driven from the acorn 
 mast of the forest toward the pen, the sheep drift 
 toward the cooler parts of the pasture, and from the 
 stable the neigh of the horse falls into the harmony. 
 They walk, these sweet Southern folk, they sing again, 
 they speak soft whispered words along the avenue, the 
 bench under the maple listens to a story told often 
 there before. It is so beautiful. It is so quiet. It is 
 so winning. The glad days of the " long ago " tempt 
 one out of the right line and the writing of a book's 
 chapter into soliloquy. 
 
 Oh, Dee, come look again into this old face with 
 those beautiful eyes! Oh, Nan, come romp a bit 
 down the path, we will frighten the covey out of 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 39 
 
 their nest once more ! Oh, Cousin Alice, sing- again 
 " Ben Bolt " ! Peyton, saddle the horses once again, 
 and let us ride through Ocmulgee to where the red 
 fox runs ! Come boys, and as in the old days " lets " 
 ride the dawn away. Who'll bring the trophy home? 
 Hark, hark, hark-a-way Music, and Fashion, Black 
 Dick, and Rover! Jolt us along the road Isaac, to 
 the old Brick Church or to Grub Hill, and we will 
 worship as before in " sincerity and truth." What 
 is ten miles to Church ! It will be an all-day meeting. 
 Everybody will be there. We will dine out of the 
 basket on the grass in the woods again ! 
 
II. 
 
 The civilization of the ancient regime in the South 
 was a picturesque civilization. A feudalism there was, 
 it is true, and projected into the nineteenth century, 
 but a feudalism stripped of those conditions, which, 
 making it cruel, had exiled it from the older countries, 
 and now so modified by that spirit of gentleness 
 which makes everything great that it furnished the 
 unique opportunity for that life in the Southern 
 States which charmed all who touched it. Ruling 
 in this feudalism, the Southern people were a refined 
 and hospitable people, and their land was quiet, con 
 tent, and happy. Whether then it were right or 
 wrong this feudalism produced that which is gone and 
 may never return, a picturesque life filled with ro 
 mance and peace. In those days there was a knight- 
 errantry as gallant and as true as when the lady's 
 glove was caught in the steel headgear of the cavalier, 
 and the winning graces of the lady were a stateliness 
 of generous courtesy that compelled a willing respect 
 
42 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 as it made plain a genuine cordiality of welcome hos 
 pitality. And when those days were departed, they 
 had well-nigh buried the cavaliers. Their generation 
 was also of the past. Their social system and their 
 notion of the sovereignty of government they believed 
 ideal. But whether or no that was true, what fetched 
 so beautiful a life could not then have been all wrong. 
 
 Touch those times and you have touched a high 
 impulse of humanity. Go back to them and you 
 breathe in an atmosphere of gentle refinement. Few 
 can recall a fair cheek then mantled with shame, and 
 rare was the man, the gentleman, who at sometime 
 had not found an inspiration to chivalry in the gentle 
 character and sweet purity of the Southern maiden. 
 Like the music of birds, we believe, was the life in the 
 Southland. 
 
 There were vassals, but the vassal was loved by the 
 lord of the manor. The lady so refined and gentle 
 that the caste feeling was forgotten, met and touched 
 and spoke to those who must come and go at her 
 bidding in such manifest friendship that the tie which 
 bound them one to the other was that of affection 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 43 
 
 rather than that of ownership. On the plantation 
 there was an esprit du corps which was as strong 
 among the one caste as among the other. This 
 feudalism, which, in large part made the South char 
 acteristically the South, was a poetic thing, without 
 tyranny, and working no wrong, save where men 
 were bad, and bad men will be, and bad men will 
 disturb any relationship. 
 
 Perhaps, doubtless the institution of slavery was 
 an error lingering in the land. Its time of correction 
 had not come, and in so far as that was true it was 
 still doing a good work. But was it an error? The 
 rationale of history rather persuades us to believe 
 it a factor in a progressing civilization, disappearing 
 when its task was done. Regard it as you will, it 
 was, in these days of which we think, a factor in the 
 process of development of the people, who are made 
 the subject of much pity, pity which they did not 
 either seek or appreciate, and for which they knew no 
 occasion. Strange as this may appear, it is true. It 
 had taken them out of the crassest moral turpitude, 
 separated them from barbarism, and placed them 
 
44 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 in the school of civilization, with all its possibilities 
 of destiny before them. It may have been one of the 
 " growing pains " of humanity's upward struggle. 
 But, be it what it may, it gave the slave his oppor 
 tunity now in full fruition, and it was a potent factor 
 in the old life of the South. 
 
 The chivalry and the gentility of the land was per 
 petuated in some degree by the conditions which 
 naturally environed such a system, but it was in no 
 wise fictitious. These exquisite elements of society 
 had been brought to the South by the near descend 
 ants of English and Scottish belted knights and 
 those of the sturdy yeomen who fought under them. 
 The Huguenots had given them a vivacious strain, 
 and in the Spotswoods, the Randolphs, the Lees, 
 the Fairfaxes, and many another family of like posi 
 tion what had been natural with them across the 
 waters was of necessity natural with them in Vir 
 ginia. 
 
 But since glimpses are likely to leave wrong im 
 pressions about that not emphasized in them, it must 
 be borne in mind that this life in the older days of the 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 45 
 
 South was not spent in wastral dissipation or idleness. 
 There was no laziness, either of thought or action. 
 On the nation's register of fame Southern names are 
 largely written, and on the record of good works 
 there are wages to their credit. When the republic 
 had need of statecraft Southern men along such lines 
 did noble work. The Bill of Rights, the Declaration 
 of Independence, and the accomplishments of the 
 first Congresses testify to that. Nor may the country 
 ever forget or ignore, whatever the critic may say, 
 or however he may sneer, the notable works of Jeffer 
 son, Marshall, Clay, Calhoun, Toombs, and Hill, 
 and many another of ability and usefulness. When in 
 the time of war she made requisition for soldiers, the 
 South showed no lack and could feel no shame for 
 her furnishment. Washington, Andrew Jackson, 
 Scott, Thomas, Lee, and Stonewall Jackson are men 
 of national and of international reputation as of 
 Southern birth. Not by any means is there intima 
 tion of any foolish exaltation in this, or that the 
 North did not do her portion of the work or send to 
 the nation's legislatures and the nation's wars men 
 
46 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 who, distinguishing themselves, gave the nation a 
 right to be proud. That was true, too. But a sketch 
 of a bit of landscape does not require a description 
 of the earth, and in this brief note of a speck of 
 Southern life the omission of any mention of those 
 other portions of the Union must not at all imply a 
 criticism or neglect of them. 
 
 Nor may the South be taunted with a lack of place 
 in literature. A reading people may be as literary as 
 those who write, and what the authors published, the 
 South bought and read. Books then, and especially 
 the standard ones, were channeled more steadily from 
 the publishing houses to the Southern gentleman's 
 study, perhaps, than now. When this era closed the 
 Southern man was just recovering from the idea in 
 herited from his ancestors, that it ill became a gentle 
 man to sell books. He therefore did not care to 
 write. But it had its literature. In the polemics of 
 political economy more than one Southern man 
 showed himself at home, and easily the peer of his 
 contemporaries. Sometime the sweet spirit of song 
 inspired a Southern soul, whose music has not died. 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 47 
 
 Such were Edgar Allen Poe, Henry Timrod, and 
 Sydney Lanier, and others, and a long list of writers 
 of desultory poems, many of which were gems, and 
 stood as exponents of the possibilities of Southern 
 poets. The Southern Literary Magazine, when 
 ruined and stopped by the civil war, had established 
 for itself both a place and a support in its particular 
 field. Sometime as well, the field of romance was 
 gleaned by a Southern gleaner, witness the Partisan, 
 The Scout, Katherine Walton, and some others of 
 William Gilmore Simms. In his Woodcraft there is 
 a rich vein of humor, and Porgy is a creation of which 
 any writer might be proud. And in the more sober 
 and stronger works some goodly tasks were done. 
 That it did not do more in literary work is not sur 
 prising. The conditions of its society, and the 
 notions fixed upon it in the past forbade. But these 
 thoughts belong to the historian, and really had no 
 place in this little book's intention. It only desired 
 to go back to a spot in the past, when Uncle Isaac 
 and his ilk lived and loved. 
 
 Would that its readers and its writer could have 
 
48 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 been taken there in the coach with its folding steps, 
 and its boot for the guest's or the family's trunk, 
 the seat on which the boy's surreptitious ride was so 
 often pleasantly secured. But the coach, too, is gone 
 with the knickerbockers, the swallow-tail, Uncle Isaac 
 and his gentle folk of that day. 
 
 But Uncle Isaac shall posthumously tell of these 
 days himself, and what he says is true. His testimony 
 may not be impeached. 
 
 It is quite true that that requires a considerable 
 draft upon the credulity of some people, but many 
 there are yet who will give him all necessary corro- 
 boration. In the mouth of many witnesses what he 
 says may be established. Indeed the incredulous are 
 incredulous only because they did not take advantage 
 of the opportunity, once afforded, to see, or lived too 
 late to see him and his people, or have been persuaded 
 into skepticism by inaccurate, if not untrue, narrators 
 of his story. 
 
 In that picturesque life in the South his reality, 
 the butler, was a conspicuously picturesque figure. 
 Uncle Julius Caesar it was in the country, Uncle Miles 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 49 
 
 in the city, and who that knew them can fail to re 
 member them? He had all of the aristocratic notions 
 of his master, shared in the pride of the family, and 
 excelled in a gratifying pomposity. He was largely 
 impressed with his responsibility for the family's 
 honor, and the courtliness of his welcome at the door 
 never failed to impress the visitor. His etiquette 
 embroidering his character with something over 
 much like tinsel to the stranger was a genuine article, 
 and a real finish to a real personality a species of 
 Southern dilettanteism in hyperbole. Many were 
 the functions and much was the authority that he 
 arrogated to himself without contradiction or rebuke, 
 and this had continued until both he and others be 
 came reconciled to his assumptions, and half way 
 recognized them as his right. And nothing was more 
 noticeable in this connection than the constitution 
 of himself as the instructor of all other servants in 
 matters of decorum, and as the teacher of the children 
 in what he denominated " good manners." The 
 apprentice to the butler had a severe curriculum and 
 4 
 
50 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 a stern task-master. In fact of Uncle Julius Caesar, 
 or " Daddy," all stood in considerable awe. 
 
 " Howcum you use dat sort ob languidge now, 
 Marse Charley? Don't you kno' you oughtn't to 
 talk in no sich ob a way? Hit 'tain't perlite, an' 
 yo' Par would be mighty mad ef he knowed about 
 hit. You ought to be shame ob yo'sef, dat's what you 
 ought to be, an' I don't want to hear you talk in no 
 sich ob a way agin. Young fokes ob yo' quality 
 ought to 'spress demselves in a gin'rous 'zaggeration, 
 Sar," was the fashion of frequent speech on his part 
 with which the younger generation was entirely 
 familiar. 
 
 " I cuarn't bar to see you stickin' yo' fingers in 
 dat dar jar ob sarbes, Miss Kate, I'm so sorry I'm 
 mos' estressed dat I cotched you. Lordy, Lordy, dat 
 a chile ob yo' Mar should do sich ob a thing ! How 
 cum you chilluns cuarn't larn de fashionables' man 
 ners what nat'rully belongs to you? De tarpretations 
 ob somethings is pas' my complehensions." And so 
 the young lady, not yet in her teens, escaped no more 
 easily than her brother. 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 51 
 
 " In de name ob Common Sense, Marse Jeems, 
 why don't you wipe yo' feet on de mat befo' 
 de do' befo' you come into de house? Dat flo' was 
 scoured dis mornin', an' Becky is spent a whole hour 
 a dry-rubbin' ob hit. Jes' look a dar at what you is 
 done done to de hall flo'. Hit's farly spilt. Yo' Par 
 is a gempman, an' yo' Mar is a high quality lady, and 
 yit somehow or nother you don't 'pear to heritages 
 nar one ob de manners dat is rejoined to dat breedin'." 
 So Marse Jeems was scolded more than once. 
 
 But for any of the family he would have laid down 
 his life. Often he was a hero, and whenever 
 threatened danger called for heroic action he was 
 equal to it. 
 
 The affection of the black Mammy for her white 
 " chile " had no limitation, and it was honestly re 
 ciprocated. It manifested itself in a devoted courage 
 and in intense signs, but it was altogether likely to 
 be somewhat exclusively her particular child's. 
 
 Once when the nursery of the writer and of his 
 younger brother was afire, Mammy Grace rushed 
 into the smoke, snatched her boy from his bed, and 
 
52 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 carried him safely down the stairs, leaving the 
 younger boy in his burning crib. She did not wish 
 him to burn, but the intensity of her anxiety centered 
 her efforts on a single idea, and that was the rescue 
 of her " chile." 
 
 The little girl as naturally returned her Mammy's 
 kiss as she so saluted her mother, and the boy was 
 not one whit more ashamed, similarly to express his 
 affection or his gratitude for something done. There 
 was nothing in her power the Mammy would not do 
 for these children, and always with the sincerest token 
 of pleasure. But this devotion of the colored people 
 to their owners, and its reciprocation as well, was one 
 of the remarkable and unique features of this oid 
 Southern life. 
 
 When the old Mistress of a South Carolina planta 
 tion died, one of her shawls was given to the old 
 Mammy. It was treasured. Subsequently when the 
 dispersion of the family, in the attempt to recover 
 a livelihood, occurred, this shawl was divided into 
 many pieces and distributed by her to the numerous 
 old servants, who, in turn subdivided their portions 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 53 
 
 among their children. Some years afterward, per 
 suaded by the recollections of home, one of tne sons 
 of this lady returned to the plantation. In his conver 
 sation with a son of one of the former servants, the 
 young colored man told him, that all of the plantation 
 colored people who had died since his departure had 
 been buried with a piece of " ole Miss' shawl " in their 
 coffin, and that he still had his piece the last of the 
 shawl given him by his mother, which he was keep- 
 in for his own burial. There may have been a bit 
 of fetich worship in this, but no iconoclast would 
 like to disturb it, and it was a splendid mark of a 
 lasting love. 
 
 The drastic calls of war took nearly all of the men 
 to the front, and the ladies and children were left 
 almost entirely in the charge of the colored people 
 of the plantation. In many instances there was not 
 a gentleman within miles of the place, and yet these 
 ladies and children remained there without fear, 
 without even a suspicion of uneasiness so great was 
 their confidence in their colored friends. Nor were 
 they in the slightest peril. They were watched over 
 
54 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 and cared for as by anxious affection. The crops 
 were planted and harvested, and the plantation was 
 looked after by the colored folk, if not always success 
 fully, at least, to the best of their ability. When 
 the Proclamation of Emancipation was declared it 
 wrought no change in the colored people or in their 
 family relationship, or in their strict conception of 
 responsibility. Really they did not wish their free 
 dom, and not infrequently the purpose of the kind 
 master to emancipate his slaves was, by them, 
 strenuously resisted. The identity of a slave with the 
 family to which he belonged gave him, in his opinion, 
 a higher position socially than that occupied by the 
 free negro. He was accustomed, therefore, to look 
 down upon what he called a " free nigger," and to 
 resent any proposition to so degrade him. This is 
 no argument for slavery, but it was the fact, and it 
 made that condition of affection, which fastened 
 happiness in the South. In all that time of struggle 
 and deprivation and poverty incident upon the war 
 there is no record, so far as one Southern man knows, 
 of any disloyalty or desertion on their part. It was 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 55 
 
 wonderful and no greater test of sincere attachment 
 could be made. 
 
 Butter became a thing of ancient recollection, 
 bacon gravy grew thin and thinner, and then just a 
 trifle rancid. Flour was scarce, corn meal expensive, 
 salt could be had only of the government, shoes were 
 too high priced to buy, and clothes must be made, 
 and the material thereof often must be found on the 
 plantation. The young and the old master staid at 
 the front and in the perpetual battle, where the wages 
 were some thirteen dollars a month, and flour twelve 
 hundred dollars a barrel, and calico, perhaps, fifty 
 dollars a yard. There had to be suffering at the home. 
 But at home the colored people continued, helped, 
 and suffered with the family. They were always 
 faithful. Faithful always, that is enough to say of 
 them. It was heroic. 
 
 Others of them in the time of unhappy war showed 
 themselves in other ways as devoted and as heroic. 
 The negro then was not brave. It was not expected 
 that he should be, But when the young master, who 
 was permitted to take his servant, went with his 
 
56 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 regiment, his colored servant, his loving friend, went 
 with him. In the severity of the camp life he lived 
 unmurmuringly. He was satisfied to be near his 
 master, and no one had greater concern about the 
 welfare of the young soldier than his colored body 
 guard. 
 
 " Don't you be a gwine up dar in de front ob dis 
 here fight, Marse Ran', dem who is behin' is gwine 
 hab plenty ob fightin' befo' dis here battle is ober. 
 Jes' wait 'twell yo' time comes. Hit 'tain't no use 
 ob gittin' kilt de fus' thing. I'm gwine to be a 
 watchin' ob you," was the somewhat sophistical 
 advice of Isaac. Yet no one would have been more 
 disgraced and distressed had his Marse Ran' showed 
 anything of the white feather. 
 
 But something of all this will occur in Uncle 
 Isaac's recollections. We know something of the 
 time of his life, and where it was lived, and its con 
 ditions. That is enough. Let him, for the rest of this 
 book, tell his own stories. He and his times are only 
 a remembrance now. A remembrance like the 
 fragrance of violets along the pathway of the absent 
 
When and Where Uncle Isaac Lived. 57 
 
 years. This is the fashion of his reminiscence: and 
 if in it he be found a partisan of a pronounced type, 
 bear with him even then, because his partisanry was 
 an expression of his rare affection, and a sign of a 
 rare loyalty. 
 
UNCLE ISAACS CHRISTMAS 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 

 " MISS KATIE." 
 
UNCLE ISAACS CHRISTMAS 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 Now clis here Chris'mus ain't like what our Chris'mus 
 
 use to be, 
 When white fokes warn't no sarbents, an' de niggers 
 
 warn't set free. 
 You set down dar Marse Charley, an' you set right 
 
 dar Miss Kate, 
 An' den I'm gwine to tell you 'bout ole Chris'mus 
 
 in dis state. 
 
 You kno' dis is Virginny, old Virginny is her name, 
 An' whar dey use to hab sich good things 'twas a sin 
 
 an' shame. 
 Dis state warn't like dem odder states up Norf or way 
 
 down Souf, 
 We neber had much sno' an' ice, an' hardly eber 
 
 drouf. 
 
 [63] 
 
64 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 De rain was plenty for de crap, an' ice enuff would 
 
 come 
 To las' us through de Summer in our ole Virginny 
 
 home. 
 Den corn an' wheat an' hogs an' sheep was plenty 
 
 all de year, 
 
 An' turkeys gobbled in a way you always like to hear. 
 Dar ain't no use a talkin' for hit always was a fac' 
 Dat eb'rybody use to lub a ole Virginny snac'. 
 Dat hoe-cake an' dat 'lasses an' dat ole time butter 
 milk 
 De chilluns eat upon de lawn, dat lawn as fine as 
 
 silk- 
 Hit raly was de bestis' time dis country eber see. 
 'Twas good enuff for any fokes, an' twict too good 
 
 for me. 
 I ain't gwine tell you 'bout de dinners dat we sarbed 
 
 each day, 
 Case you cuarn't 'predate all de things ob dat ole 
 
 fashion way. 
 But 'twas de grandes' libbin' dat dis worl' did eber 
 
 see. 
 
Uncle Isaac's Christmas Recollections. 65 
 
 How cum dem Yankees come down here an' set de 
 
 niggers free? 
 De niggers clat was happy from de time dat cley was 
 
 born, 
 
 A cradlin' in de wheatnel' an' a shuckin' ob de corn, 
 Is beggin' an' a stealin' for to git dem sump'n to 
 
 eat 
 
 Deir bacon is all rancid, an' de 'lasses hit ain't sweet. 
 I sho' misstan' dat bus'ness from de las' unto de 
 
 fus', 
 
 A comin' to Virginny an' a both'rin' arter us. 
 Who axed dem for to come down here dat's what I 
 
 want to kno'. 
 Dey's done upsot de good ole life an' ruined hit for 
 
 sho'. 
 But I ain't tole you 'bout de Chris'mus what we had 
 
 dem days, 
 When we was doin' eb'rything in dem ole fashion 
 
 ways. 
 'Twas Chris'mus sho', Marse Charley, an' 'twas 
 
 Chris'mus sho', Miss Kate. 
 
 5 
 
66 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Our hogs mos' come to killin' an' de fish didn't want 
 
 no bait. 
 
 De Ian' was full ob music, an' de banjo couldn't stop, 
 An' eb'ry face was smilin' like a bright tobacker crop. 
 December twenty-fif is always Chris'mus day you 
 
 kno', 
 
 But dey begins deir preparations sev'rul weeks befo'. 
 Dere was mo' chop an' choppin' ob raw meat an' 
 
 mutten suet, 
 An' spice an' raisins jes' as good, an' didn't we fokes 
 
 all knew it ! 
 Anodder thing 'twas roun' an' green dey use' to 
 
 cut an' slice, 
 What for you call dat thing? Any'ow hits tas'e was 
 
 mighty nice. 
 Cit Cit , Yes, sho's you born Miss Kate, I had 
 
 mos' done forgit, 
 Lor' me, for sartin Ma'm, you 'members right, Citrun, 
 
 dat's hit ! 
 Den sich a bakin' an' a bakin' ob clem cakes an' 
 
 pies, 
 
Uncle Isaacs Christmas Recollections. 67 
 
 Hit make yo' motif a leetle branch dat run out ob yo' 
 
 eyes 
 Dey pickled all de oyshters dat a one boss team could 
 
 tote, 
 An' out'n de pen dey picked an' took de bery fattes' 
 
 shote. 
 Dey killed de souf-down mutton, an' dat ole time 
 
 fatted calf, 
 
 Dat would a made a prodigal forgit hesef an' laf . 
 Dar was de bigges' turkey an' hit mout be too a 
 
 goose 
 Hit looked jes' like de 'bundance ob de erf was turned 
 
 a loose. 
 Dey gathered in de taters, an' a possum, hit warn't 
 
 scace, 
 
 An' all poke sassage dat was mos' elicious to de tas'e. 
 An' sarbes an' jelly, puddin' too, an' all dat sorter 
 
 stuff. 
 Hit seemed jes' like dem good ole fokes, dem days, 
 
 couldn't hab enuff. 
 Ole Whiskey was a ribber, an' ole Brandy was a 
 
 branch, 
 
68 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Dat flowed to de plantation in a stream you could'nt 
 
 stanch. 
 Ole Marster made hit into punch an' what we called 
 
 Aig Nog 
 Ef you had mixed hit wid de vict'ls you would a made 
 
 a bog. 
 An' apple toddy, which I kno' is mighty good to 
 
 drink, 
 An' gits yo' hade to thinkin' 'twell hit don't kno' 
 
 what to think. 
 Den out de cellar wid de cobweb an' de dus' dey 
 
 brung 
 De wine from ole Madeery, an' dat odder Now I'm 
 
 hung 
 Ef I remimbers what's hits name, 'twas Shurry, I 
 
 belieb, 
 Which sifted through yo' stomick like fine flour 
 
 through a sieb, 
 An' riz, an' riz untwell hit struck de center ob yo' 
 
 brain, 
 An' splendid made one single night, but nex' day dar 
 
 was pafti. 
 
Uncle Isaac's Christmas Recollections. 69 
 
 Oh me, clem blessed juleps wid de mixeture ob grass, 
 I knowed dey was among de things dat was too good 
 
 to las' ! 
 
 I hear de carridge comin' down de poplar abenue 
 Dem hosses is Marse Peytonses, his grey mars Suk 
 
 an' Sue; 
 I kno' cleir trot. Jes' hear dem now a comin' in dis 
 
 way, 
 Jes' like dey warn't no hoss but fokes an' knowed 
 
 'twas Chris'mus Day. 
 An' yonder come anoclder, dat's yo' modder an' yo' 
 
 Par, 
 
 He was a Cornfed sojer an' got wounded in de war. 
 I bet you in dat carridge is Miss Julia an' Miss Ann, 
 An' dat young brodder dat is dade, my po' young 
 
 Marster Ran'. 
 A heap mo' fokes is comin'. Cuarn't you hear de 
 
 hosses trot? 
 
 A-booker an' a-booker, dat's anodder hoss-back lot : 
 Marse Joe, yo' cousin Simon, an' Marse Willyum 
 
 from de Vale 
 
70 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Dar ain't no een to all de fokes dat figgers in dis 
 
 tale. 
 Yo' Gran'pa an' yo' Gran'ma, an' yo' sickly Uncle 
 
 Bill 
 Is standin' on de big front poach a beck'nin' up de 
 
 hill. 
 
 Den sich a fussin' an' a kissin' you ain't neber seen, 
 An' eb'ry kiss dat dem fokes gib you sho' a kiss dey 
 
 mean. 
 
 An' eb'ry chile ob dat big fambly, all ob dem was dar, 
 De boys drest up in Sunday close, de girls wid curly 
 
 har. 
 Jerusalum, it was a sight dat made you jump an' 
 
 cheer ! 
 No Ma'm, Miss Kate, you couldn't a stood hit mo' 
 
 den onct a year. 
 Den in de house whar was de Chris'mus tree dey all 
 
 would go- 
 Hit sot inside de parlor near de middle ob de flo'. 
 'Twas kivered wid some shiny stuff, an' on mos' all 
 
 de limbs 
 Was red an' yaller candles sot in lubly golden rims. 
 
Uncle Isaac's Christmas Recollections. 71 
 
 An' on dat tree was sump'thin' sho' for eb'ry chile an' 
 
 man. 
 De ole fokes, an' de chilluns, an' for eb'ry maid an' 
 
 han'. 
 No, I cuarn't tell you what dey got, for all dem girls 
 
 an' boys 
 In heap les' time den I can tell was plum armful ob 
 
 toys. 
 De grown fokes too was smilin' an' dey showed dat 
 
 dey was glad, 
 For eb'rything dey fetched dem down was what dey 
 
 wished dey had. 
 Unk' Jule would git a Kercheefer, an' Andrew'd git 
 
 a hat, 
 Ole Nancy'd git a apron, an' dar was sump'n too for 
 
 Nat, 
 Unk' Caesar' d hab a pa'r ob boots, an' Sis would git 
 
 a doller, 
 An' dem black fokes would git so glad dey couldn't 
 
 hep' but holler. 
 A-clang, a-clang, a-clanger, now dey'd ring de dinner 
 
 bell, 
 
72 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 But, Naw Sar, 'bout dat dinner I'm a not a gwine to 
 
 tell. 
 'Twould make you bofe too awful hongry Dar I 
 
 yearn you laf ! 
 I clar I couldn't escriber hit, I couldn't escribe one 
 
 haf. 
 
 A lis' ob all dey eat dat day an' all de wine dey drank 
 Would take a mem'ry bigger'n mine. I clar 'twould 
 
 take a tank 
 To hole dat wine an' cordjuls, Sar, an' as for what dey 
 
 eat, 
 
 'Twould put ten men a hystin' hit into a mortal sweat. 
 Why, Lord-a marcy, Marster sho', you fokes ob now- 
 
 a-days 
 Cuarn't pos'bul understan' how in de oler timer 
 
 ways 
 We libbed, an' eat, an' drinked, an' lubbed, an' made 
 
 dis life a song, 
 When eb'rything was 'zactly right, an' nuffin', Sar, 
 
 'peared wrong. 
 An' ef I tole you 'bout dat dinner, an' I darred to 
 
 try, 
 
Uncle Isaac's Christmas Recollections. 73 
 
 You wouldn't belieb hit 'twas a fac', but think hit 
 
 'twas a lie. 
 " Git partners," now de cry would come, for " Chris'- 
 
 mus eb'nin's dance." 
 An' you ought'r seen dem chilluns how dey den 
 
 would ra'r an' prance. 
 De ole fokes go mo' slo' you kno', fus' dis way an' 
 
 den dat, 
 
 A nocldin' to de music an' a keepin' up a chat. 
 Dar warn't no planners an'' horns dat dance fcr us 
 
 to play, 
 We neber had dat sort er tune for us on Chris'mus 
 
 Day, 
 
 But music from de banjo an' a jinin' to de fiddle 
 " Dar, take yo' place, Chassay, Forw'd Fo', Cross 
 
 ober through de middle ! " 
 Ole John would sing, " O clearest May," Hum, Hum, 
 
 " Wid eyes so bright." 
 " Now balunce all, Salute yo' partners," Pang Piing, 
 
 " Ladies right ! " 
 How dat ole banjo'd plunk an' pling, an' how dat 
 
 fiddle'd sing, 
 
74 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Hit made deir souls come in deir feet an' cut de 
 
 pidgeon wing. 
 But night would come an' darkness settle on de happy 
 
 sky, 
 When on de poach dey'd go agin an' say de sweet 
 
 " Good-bye." 
 An' some would be a laffin' an' den some would shed 
 
 a tear, 
 For who could tell what was gwine come befo' 
 
 anodder year. 
 An' dat was all our Chris'mus 'ceptin' what I cuarn't 
 
 rebeal, 
 For fokes may tell all what dey do but cuarn't tell 
 
 what dey feel. 
 We ain't gwine hab no mo' sich like, dat Chris'mus 
 
 kin not be, 
 Case white fokes' sot to wurkin', an' de niggers is 
 
 sot free. 
 Good-bye, Miss Kate, Marse Charley, you had bes' 
 
 keep out'n de Sun. 
 Rebeccy is dat hoe-cake an' dat bacon almos' done? 
 
WHEN MARSE RAN' GOT KILT. 
 
I CUARED HIM HOME, MARSE CHARLEY.' 
 
WHEN MARSE RAN' GOT KILT. 
 
 Jes' set down dar, Marse Charley, on dat ole time bar 
 
 cloth char, 
 Hit's mighty saf an' easy, 'twas a present from yo' 
 
 Mar. 
 Bles' heaben for her goodness, caze she was mos' 
 
 kine to me 
 Her face was like a angel, an' her eyes was like de 
 
 sea, 
 So blue an' deep. You could not fine de bottom ob 
 
 dem eyes, 
 Dey look like some 'eflection ob de Savior from de 
 
 skies. 
 Her words was like dat manna dat de anshunt 
 
 Isrulites 
 Foun' on de mornin' pastur, what de angels spread o' 
 
 nights. 
 
 [79] 
 
8o Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 O, she was good to all ob us, white fokes an' niggers 
 
 too, 
 An' nar a sole libbed on dis place dat didn't iub Miss 
 
 Sue. 
 " Ole Miss" we called her in dem days. We lubbed 
 
 to say " Ole Miss," 
 Hit was a sign ob 'faction, jes' de same thing as a 
 
 kiss. 
 I members well dat lone, sad day when she took sick 
 
 an' died, 
 I went down in de lowgroun' pines an' cried, an' cried, 
 
 an' cried. 
 De sweetes' life had lef dis Ian', de sweetes' voice was 
 
 still; 
 De ole plantation changed dat day, an' neber, neber 
 
 will 
 Be like hit ust er be. Set down Marse Charley on de 
 
 char. 
 I hope you is a righteous chile ob yo' sweet, righteous 
 
 Mar. 
 You want me to tell you ob de time when young 
 
 Marse Ran' got kilt? 
 
When Marse Ran' Got Kilt. Si 
 
 'Twas awful hard to bar Sar, but 'twas what de good 
 
 Lord wilt. 
 
 Hit 'tis a sadsome story, but I'll tell you ef I can 
 My memory is gwine fas', but I cuarn't forgit Marse 
 
 Ran', 
 Nor how he libbed, an' lubbed, an' laffed, an' rid, an' 
 
 fit, an' died; 
 Now how I prayed so long dat day, an' when I quit 
 
 I cried. 
 
 Hit 'twas a tur'ble battle, but we fit hit as we mout, 
 I b'lieb hit was de harcles' fight dat in de war we 
 
 font. 
 But ef I'm gwine to tell you den I spec' I'de bes' 
 
 begin 
 Wid when we yeard about de war fo' he an' I went 
 
 in. 
 In ole Amelia, we was here, when news dar comes 
 
 to us 
 
 About de war arisin', an' I think 'twas May de fus' 
 In eighteen hundud sixty one an' Nannie Domino. 
 Dat was de year de lowgroun"s had de dreadful 
 
 oberflo'. 
 
 6 
 
82 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 De corn crap hit 'twas ruint, an' de Appomattox 
 
 riz 
 Untwell hit cotched de cow pen an' drowndid our bes' 
 
 cow, Liz. 
 De taters warn't no good dat year, an' wheat was 
 
 mighty bad- 
 Hit seemed we had de wustes' luck dat we had eber 
 
 had. 
 I don't kno' much 'bout who got mad, or what dey 
 
 got mad for, 
 But bofe sides got to sassin', an' dat sassin' fetched 
 
 de wor. 
 I'se yeard sence den dat 'ligion is mos' gin'rally de 
 
 cause 
 
 Ob all dis rumpass an' a killin' what we call de wors, 
 But in dis case 'twas diffrunt an' de niggers made de 
 
 muss 
 
 Dat brung a tribulation an' a fightin' on to us. 
 De Yankees sade dey's suffrin', an' we'll sot de 
 
 niggers free. 
 De Cornfed sade, you shet up, an' jes' let our niggers 
 
 be. 
 
When Marse Ran' Got Kilt. 83 
 
 De niggers warn't complainin' an' dey lubbed de 
 
 cabin life, 
 hi clat ole time ob comfort for de man an' chile an 
 
 wife. 
 De vict'als was abundant, an' our close was spic an' 
 
 span, 
 An' den we libbed jes' like we would in dis bles' 
 
 Suddern Lan'. 
 
 Wid watermillions ripe an' sweet down on de ice 
 house flo', 
 An' possums in cle simmon trees, what else did we 
 
 want mo'? 
 De niggers warn't complainin', an' dey neber sade a 
 
 word 
 
 About a bein' unhappy Sar, as eber I is yeard. 
 De gempman was de marster, but de gempman was 
 
 our frien', 
 An' we didn't want dat frien'ship to bust up Sar, an' 
 
 to en'. 
 But startin' to Virginny, whar we sade dey should not 
 
 come 
 To gib us any trouble in our ole Virginny home, 
 
84 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 We got to fight de battles ob de Souf Cornfidrit wars, 
 An' dat's 'bout all I knows Sar, in de matter ob hits 
 
 cause. 
 But you ought'r seen our fokes den when dey foun' 
 
 de news was true 
 Dat 'vasion was a comin' Sar. De air was black an' 
 
 blue. 
 I neber yeard sich langwidge from ole marster fo' 
 
 dat day; 
 He cuarried on in what seemed like a mos' unchristian 
 
 way. 
 
 I b'lieb 'cept for dat 'ligion dat hilt holt on mos' on 
 
 us 
 
 He would a broke completely an' los' hesef an' cuss. 
 Ezactly like de men de ladies too got mad you kno', 
 An' sade so much a quar'lin' dat you almos' thought 
 
 dey swo'. 
 De chilluns eben dey got mad an' made deir leetle 
 
 fuss 
 You scace could fine a single sole dat wasn't fit to 
 
 cuss. 
 
When Marsc Ran' Got Kilt. 85 
 
 De gempmen jined de comp'nies, an' mos' eb'ry single 
 
 man 
 
 In ole Amelia county an' her sister Powhatan 
 Was jiniir an' a gwine, I clar, untw.ell when dey was 
 
 clone, 
 
 Ob all de men in dese here parts dey hardly lef a one 
 To take care ob cle place, or ten' a crap, or blow a 
 
 horn. 
 
 Dey was mo' scacer den a measly nubbin' in our corn. 
 Yo' Pa he jined cle Richmon' Blues, an' den my young 
 
 Marse Ran', 
 He jined cle hoss-back troop dey raised across in 
 
 Powhatan. 
 Deir captin was Marse Charley Ole a good one to 
 
 be sho', 
 An' deir leftenant was, you kno', Mis' Hobson' young 
 
 son Joe. 
 De sargent was Marse Harty, Mister Willyum Hair'- 
 
 son's son. 
 An' Marse Joe Gibbs, our mess's cook, he was 
 
 anodder one. 
 
86 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Den dar was young- Marse Lewis Harvie, an' Marse 
 
 Jimmie Werf 
 
 As fine a lot ob cabilmen as rid upon clis erf. 
 In dis here worl' no braver men no wars ain't neber 
 
 see, 
 An' all de men ob dat ole troop was brave as dey 
 
 could be ! 
 Dey lubbed to git to fightin' as mos' fokes do lub to 
 
 eat, 
 
 An' dey didn't hab no notion 'bout a time for a re 
 treat. 
 When dat ole troop got started dey was gwine some- 
 
 whar dat day, 
 An' 'twarn't no use for Yankees to git crosswise in de 
 
 way, 
 For dey was gwine I tell you, gwine a bubblin, to dat 
 
 spot 
 
 Like gravy in a skillit dat ole Nat had made red hot. 
 Dar warn't no way to hender dat ole resky Pow'tan 
 
 troop; 
 You ought'r seen 'em chargin', an' you ought'r yeard 
 
 'em whoop. 
 
When Marse Ran' Got Kilt. 87 
 
 'Twas like a great big pac' ob houn's a openin' wid 
 
 deir cry 
 Behin' a fox a runnin', but who knowed he had to 
 
 die. 
 
 Marse Ran' he rid de sorrel colt, an' I, I rid ole Nade, 
 An' way we v/ent one day to whar de war would be 
 
 dey sade. 
 But fus' we marched to Richmon' town, an' dat was 
 
 only fun, 
 Becaze, you kno', de time for fightin' hadn't as yit 
 
 begun. 
 But hit was comin' slo'ly, an' dat sojer play didn't 
 
 las' 
 For mo'n a week or month befo' de mis'ry come to 
 
 pas'. 
 In Richmon' hit was nelegent. De vict'als was de 
 
 bes', 
 
 An' not a thing had we to do but jes' to eat an' res', 
 Dey mounted guard a mornin', an' had eb'nin' dress 
 
 perade, 
 All dressed up in deir finery an' lots ob golden 
 
 braid. 
 
88 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 De ladies come mos' all de time to see de sojer boys, 
 An' life in camp was jes' a great big passel full ob 
 
 joys. 
 So dey was geth'rin an' geth'rin' untwell dar come a 
 
 day 
 When buglers blowed de bugles an' we had to march 
 
 away. 
 De ban's dey sot to playin', an' de drums begun to 
 
 beat, 
 
 De cannons rumbled loudly 'long on wide, rock- 
 paved Broad street, 
 
 De banners was a flyin', an' de sojers look so glad, 
 Dat we begun to feel dat war was what we wished we 
 
 had. 
 De sight we made was splendid, an' de hosses mos' 
 
 kep' step, 
 An' ladies waved deir kerchiefs, an' smiled, an' laffed, 
 
 an' wep'. 
 An' some was gwine to glory, Sar, an' some was 
 
 gwine to die, 
 An' soon dem praisin', smilin' ladies dar was gwine 
 
 to cry. 
 
When Marse Ran 3 Got Kilt. 89 
 
 Our gin'ral was de gin'ral dat mos' eb'rybody love. 
 He was so han'some dat he mout a drapped down 
 
 from above,. 
 
 A angel gone to sojerin' upon dis sorry worl', 
 But dat he lubbed to be a singin', chirpy as a girl. 
 He'd sing away a mornin', an' he'd sing de same at 
 
 night, 
 Nare shadder crossed his countenance, dat face was 
 
 always bright. 
 You'se yeard ob him Marse Charley, Gin'ral Stuart 
 
 was de man, 
 
 De fines' cal'vry gin'ral dat we had in all de Ian'. 
 I hear him now a singin' 'bout de ole hoss dat was 
 
 A comin' out a wildernes' an' warn't gwine long to 
 
 stay. 
 I almos' see dem golden spurs he wore upon his 
 
 boots, 
 An' graceful wabin' ob his han' tow'ds ole Sweeney 
 
 Toots, 
 His drab, saft hat an' feadder cotched up wid a star 
 
 ob gole 
 
90 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Ole Marster when He made dat gin'ral sho'ly broke 
 
 de mole. 
 But I cuarn't tell you all about dem fo' long years ob 
 
 fight, 
 Twould take too long, Marse Charley, an' hit 'tain't 
 
 fur now fo' night. 
 
 He kep' us stiddy fightin', an' he rarly let us res', 
 Untwell we all got ragged an' our food warn't none 
 
 de bes'. 
 Our bacon got so rancid an' de brade dat full ob 
 
 worms 
 Hit sets my hade a shiverin' an' gibs me yit de 
 
 squirms 
 In my tuff stomick when I thinks ob what dem days 
 
 we eat. 
 Dat hard tac' would a crawled right off ef eber hit got 
 
 wet. 
 How in dis worl' dey made so hard dat measly ole 
 
 hard tac' 
 I kin not compehen'. Hit would not saften, bust, 
 
When Marsc Ran' Got Kilt. 91 
 
 Yas Sar, hit was as hard, I clar, as dat dar iron 
 
 plow- 
 To sabe my life, Marse Charley, I b'lieb I couldn't 
 
 eat hit now. 
 We got dat low an' on'ry dat we retched de lowes' 
 
 pitch, 
 When eb'ry gempman ob us all had gone an' got 
 
 de itch. 
 An' do' we washed all dat we could, an' tried to keep 
 
 us clean 
 Dem varmin would come on us dat's de meanes' ob 
 
 de mean. 
 I ought'n to tell you ob dese things dey is so mighty 
 
 low, 
 But dey w r as in de war Sar, an' I'se boun' to talk jes r 
 
 so. 
 But nary word ob grumblin' did he hear dem brave 
 
 boys say, 
 Dey fit an' bled, dey bur'd deir dade, an' rid wid him 
 
 away 
 To fight agin. Dem men was made ob ole time 
 
 Suddern stuff, 
 
92 Uncle Isaac: or Old Da\s in the South. 
 
 Which neber knowed an' neber tole 'bout when dey 
 
 had enuff. 
 
 But arter while Marse Ran' he riz to be a captin an' 
 Dey took him out ob his own troop dat come from 
 
 Powhatan, 
 An' him an' me dey sont to sarve on Gin'ral Pickett's 
 
 staff, 
 An' do' I was so proud I laffed hit 'twarn't no time to 
 
 laff. 
 Dat 'motion kilt my marster, for ef in de troop he'd 
 
 staid, 
 He wouldn't a got in dat big fight an' on de fiel' lay 
 
 dade. 
 He went to Gin'ral Pickett for de wuss fight ob de 
 
 war; 
 'Twas mighty sad, 'twas tur'bul, Sar. What did he go 
 
 dar for? 
 But dar he went, an' dar he fit, an' dar a brave man 
 
 died, 
 An' dar a nigger's heart got broke, an' dar ole Isaac 
 
 cried, 
 
When Marsc Ran' Got Kilt. 93 
 
 Dey drawed dem up one mornin', 'twas de third day 
 
 ob July, 
 In line ob battle dat was formed ob men dat had to 
 
 die. 
 I clum a fence an' watched dem form beneaf de slopin' 
 
 hill, 
 Whar in de brilin' Sun dey stood for seb'rul hours 
 
 untwill 
 I got so narvous dat I ses, dar's sumpthin' sho'ly 
 
 wrong, 
 Dey stays down dar too quietly an' too onnat'rul 
 
 long. 
 
 Yes Sar, I got so jerky dat 'twas like I had a chill, 
 A watchin' dem brave sojers at de bottom ob de hill. 
 Den jes' 'bout when 'twas dinner time, de Sun sade 
 
 hit was one 
 
 O'clock, a settin' on de fence I yeard a single gun. 
 An' den good Lord-a-marcy ! dar come bustin' out 
 
 de noise 
 Ob seb'rul hund'ud cannons dar a shootin' at dem 
 
 bovs. 
 
94 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Hit soun' like jedgment day had come an' eb'ry one 
 
 ob us 
 Was summoned up to jedgment in dat big, tre- 
 
 menjous fuss. 
 Hit skeered me into sich a trimble dat I los' my 
 
 sense, 
 An' jumped so high up from de rail I fell off ob de 
 
 fence. 
 De yearth hit shook an' shivered, an' de smoke be- 
 
 thicked de ar' 
 A siffocatin' 'twell I thunk we all would die right 
 
 thar. 
 For I couldn't b'lieb 'twas people dat was makin' sich 
 
 a stir 
 Ob ilemints an' turmile, but de Lord had made hit 
 
 'cur. 
 Den suddently de guns dey heshed an' eb'rything was 
 
 still, 
 
 An' muskits 'gin to rattle at de bottom ob de hill. 
 I knowed dat sumpthin' awful was a gwine to happen 
 
 den, 
 
When Marse Ran' Got Kilt. 95 
 
 But pray I couldn't to sabe my life, I jes' could say 
 
 "Amen." 
 I was so skeered my sense war gone, my tongue 
 
 couldn't make no soun', 
 Jes' mumblin' an' a trimblin' dar I .laid upon de 
 
 groun'. 
 But in dat word, young Marster, dar was all a man 
 
 could pray, 
 A skeered sole say'n in breffless prar all dat hit had to 
 
 say. 
 An' den I yeard de order, " Forw'd," an' all along de 
 
 line 
 I seed de motion ob de men, an' knowed whar dey 
 
 was gwine. 
 Right up dat hill dey pinted to whar all dem guns was 
 
 sot, 
 Wid forty thousan' Yankees waitin' for dem in dat 
 
 spot. 
 Dey moved as stiddy an' as true as ef 'twas dress 
 
 perade, 
 Deir shoulders techin' shoulders, an' de gin'rul at 
 
 deir hade. 
 
96 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 But praise don't 'mount to nuffin' air no mo' 1 cuars 
 
 to say, 
 'Cept dat straight line ob battle was deposed ob " men 
 
 in grey/' 
 Dat's all you hab to say Sar, for de res' is known to 
 
 . all. 
 Dey moved like corn a wabin' an' deir line was like 
 
 a wall. 
 An' so dey went haf up de hill, when forw'd I seed 
 
 'em sarge, 
 An' kno'ed de gin'ral had gib order for de men to 
 
 charge. 
 Dar bruk loose on de hillside den de loudes' " rebel 
 
 yell," 
 
 An' I mos' hear de gin'ral say, " Now boys jes' gib 
 
 'em hell "- 
 De saints forgib me for dat word, I had done sho' 
 
 forgit 
 
 Dat I was now a Christian man, an' not a rebel yit. 
 Away dey went right up de hill into dat place ob 
 
 deff, 
 An' I got so ixcited dat I actshul hilt my breff. 
 
When Marse Ran' Got Kilt. 97 
 
 A cheerin' an' a yellin' an' a rushin' tow'd cle top, 
 Dat ole Division hurried in a way no fokes could 
 
 stop. 
 An' den de Yankee cannons turned a loose deir iron 
 
 storm, 
 An' mowed dem down in ranks an' files, but quick 
 
 agin dey'd form. 
 Dey needn't a tried to stop 'em for dey was de " men 
 
 ob grey," 
 Who'de ruther fight den eat, I b'lieb, on any sort er 
 
 day. 
 Dey flung deir nale kaigs an' canbusters murd'rin'' 
 
 down de slope 
 
 Untwell for not a single man I had de slightes' hope, 
 De ar was full ob bustin' shells, de grape was whistlin' 
 
 loud, 
 
 An' mos' a million bullits was a hitin' in dat crowd. 
 Hit was like hell had been turned loose Dar is dat 
 
 word agin, 
 But I don't mean no harm an' so hit cuarn't be much 
 
 er sin. 
 
 7 
 
98 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 An' 'twas like hell all turned a loose in answer to a 
 
 cuss, 
 I clar to heab'n, Marse Charley, nuffin' else could hab 
 
 been wuss. 
 Dey cheered an' fell, dey fell an' cheered, an' o' de 
 
 dade dey run, 
 An' paid nare bit ob 'tention to dem shot or hill or 
 
 gun. 
 I seed de off'cers fallin', but Marse Ran' I seed kep' 
 
 on, 
 'Twill 'twixt de smokes I looked agin' an' Lordy, he 
 
 was gone. 
 My heart sunk in my stomick, an' my breff come 
 
 quick an* fas', 
 Den in a minnit mo' I yelled an' jumped up off de 
 
 grass. 
 Fde plum forgit de bullits an' de canbusters an' 
 
 shell, 
 De noise an' fight, de skeer an' me, an' eb'rything as 
 
 well, 
 But up de hill 1 runned to whar I thunk I seed him 
 
 fall, 
 
When Marse Ran' Got Kilt. 99 
 
 An' neber cuared a single bit for anything at all. 
 A bullit hit me in de arm, but not one word I sade, 
 For I was gwine to git Marse Ran' onles' dey shot 
 
 me dade. 
 
 An' thar he was lyin' still right flat upon his face, 
 His blood a red'nin' eb'rything about dat sacred 
 
 place. 
 I turned him gintly ober, but so soon's I cotched his 
 
 eye 
 I knowed his time was sartin come an' he was boun' 
 
 to die. 
 " O Lord/' I hollored, " O Marse Ran', please look 
 
 at me onct mo' ! " 
 An' his dear eyes looked in my eyes He 
 
 whispered, but so low 
 Dat I, to sabe me, couldn't make out what he was 
 
 try'n' to speak, 
 An' neber think he'd talk agin he 'pearecl so mighty 
 
 weak. 
 But den I seed him try agin, an' dis time plain I 
 
 yeard, 
 
ioo Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Do' low he spoke, in whisper low, an' slo'ly word by 
 word. 
 
 " Isaac Good-bye Isaac tell Mar I feel- 
 Isaac Good-bye, 
 
 Tell Isaac all at home dat I was not afeered 
 to die; 
 
 Tell tell dem I died for dem, an' an' for my 
 country's good ! " 
 
 I tole him, an' I scace could speak, dat I mos' sho'ly 
 would. 
 
 An' den he sade, " for honor, tell tell , Isaac, 
 hole my hade," 
 
 An' den de blood bulged out his bres', an' den Marse 
 Ran' was dade. 
 
 " Somebody's darlin' " lay dat day upon de grey hill 
 side, 
 
 " Somebody's darlin' " fit dat day, an fit untwell he 
 died, 
 
 " Somebody's darlin' " lef dat day a pain for all ob 
 us, 
 
 An' many a heart was hurt dat day, an' one sweet 
 heart did bus'. 
 
When Marse Ran' Got Kilt. 101 
 
 Please 'scuse my cryin' Marster, I cuarn't hep' de 
 
 wish to cry, 
 
 I rickolix so well clat day I watched my darlin' die. 
 I picked him up an' toted him a down dat bloody 
 
 hill, 
 
 An' in my arms he lay so white an' beautiful an' still. 
 His smile was like a angel's, an' I knowed his fight 
 
 was won 
 A sojer's sole done furloughed 'caze his sojer work 
 
 was done. 
 I cuarred him home, Marse Charley, an' right yonder 
 
 now he sleeps, 
 Beneaf de grass an' vi'lets whar dat weepin' wilier 
 
 weeps. 
 To me his grave is holy, an' I'se kep' hit all dese 
 
 years 
 Sweet wid de grass an' flowers, an' mos' watered hit 
 
 wicl tears. 
 But ob de fight I seed no mo', dey tell me dat de 
 
 boys 
 To Cimitiry Ridge went up through all dat deff an' 
 
 noise. 
 
IO2 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the Soutli. 
 
 I neber boddered 'bout my arm, aldo' hit hurt, 
 
 untwell 
 
 I got him safely home agin, an' den hit soon got well. 
 Hit's techy now for rheumatiz, an' brings me back 
 
 de day 
 In sad remimbrance when Marse Ran' in battle passed 
 
 away. 
 1'se been here eber sence, Sar, eber sence dat time he 
 
 died, 
 An' 'twell I jine Marse Randuff thar, 'tis here I want 
 
 to bide. 
 An' when my time is come, as 'twill, an' I've took 
 
 sick an' died, 
 Marse Charley put me 'neaf de tree by my young 
 
 Marster's side. 
 You mus' be gwine? Good eb'nin' Sar, I hopes you'll 
 
 come agin, 
 Hit does me good to tell you 'bout de times our 
 
 fokes libbed in. 
 Please 'scuse my tears. Good-bye, Good-bye ! Gord's 
 
 doin's is all right. 
 
 Nummine Rebeccy, thanky, I ain't hongry none to 
 night ! 
 
DE SUNDAYS AN' DE 'LIGION DAT IS 
 GONE. 
 
"BUT JES' SET DOWN AND TALK. 
 
DE SUNDAYS AN' DE 'LIGION DAT IS 
 GONE. 
 
 Good Mornin' Sar, Good Mornin' M'am! I'm raly 
 
 glad you come, 
 An' tell me 'bout all ob yo' fokes, how is dey all at 
 
 home? 
 Marse Charley, how is you to-day, I hope you'se well 
 
 Miss Kate. 
 I'm mighty glad to see you caze hit's lonesome here 
 
 ob late. 
 Rebeccy went a week ago down to Marse Jeemses 
 
 place, 
 
 An' ob a pa'r ob frien'ly eyes I kinder wants a tas'e. 
 She's gwine come home to-morrer, an' I reck'n 'twill 
 
 be sometime 
 Befo' she gits plum rested from dat backward uphill 
 
 clime. 
 
 [107] 
 
io8 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 She's mos' too ole an' ailin' to be trampin' to de 
 
 Oaks, 
 An' dat big hill 'twixt here an' dar is hefty for ole 
 
 fokes. 
 Somehow or nother we cuarn't larn what mus' be 
 
 plain to you, 
 Dat we ole fokes cuarn't pos'bul do what onct we 
 
 ust er do. 
 Wid grey har'd age de knee jints gits too stiff so far 
 
 to walk; 
 An' I ain't fit'n for nuffin now but to set down an' 
 
 talk. 
 
 Onct 'pon a time I ust er plow 'long any sort er man, 
 An' better den young Isaac den yo' Par didn't hab 
 
 nare han'. 
 
 In dat ole wheatnel' yonder I is made de cradle sing, 
 An' in dem ole corn shuckin' days I neber do a 
 
 thing 
 But jes' walk way wid all de fokes. I cuarn't hep' 
 
 now but laff 
 When I remimber how de res' couldn't do much mo' 
 
 den ha'f 
 
De Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 109 
 
 I did, no matter how cley wurked. I spec' hit made 
 
 me proud. 
 
 But you cuarn't hep' dat pride M'am, when you con 
 stant leads de crowd. 
 
 Hit 'tis dat ilemint ob sin dat in us fines a place, 
 An' lets us look a smilin' at de lef ones in de race, 
 A kinder nat'rul selfishnes' dat in us all is sot, 
 An' don't care 'bout no odders, 'cept to git what dey 
 
 is got. 
 But now I cuarn't wurk hard M'am, an' de res' ob 
 
 time down here 
 I'm satisfied to plow behin' dat ole red, broke horn 
 
 steer. 
 We bofe goes slo' an' poky, but we makes a leetle 
 
 crap, 
 Enuff for one po' 'oman an' for one ole worn out 
 
 chap. 
 She's gwine come home to-morrer Sar, an' jes'as sho' 
 
 as sin 
 Hits gwine to be a good long time befo' she goes 
 
 agin. 
 
no Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 She'll be so tired an' groanin' when she sets down in 
 
 dat char 
 Hit's gwine take heap er suasion for to start her back 
 
 down thar. 
 I knows her well, young Mistis, an' she ain't so nimble 
 
 now 
 As when she cleaned up in de house while I was hin' 
 
 de plow. 
 She ain't gwine back torectly, an' de Spring will hab 
 
 set in 
 
 Befo' she gits de notion, an' ole Isaac's lef agin. 
 Tobacker, Sar! I'm much obleedged, hit's what I 
 
 wished I had. 
 Mine's done got mighty funky, an' hit's tas'e is almos' 
 
 bad. 
 How cum dey puts dese leetle brass things all along 
 
 de plugs? 
 To tell you ef 'twas made ob long leaf or 'twas made 
 
 ob lugs? 
 De bran' you say? An' dat's de name? An' dis is 
 
 "Grabely Pres'?" 
 
De Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 1 1 1 
 
 In dem good days dat now is gone O'noco was de 
 
 bes'. 
 I'm gwine pull off dis bran right now, case only tother 
 
 day 
 When young Marse Jimmie Bannister come ridin' 
 
 'long dis way, 
 He gimme one nice bit ob piece like dis fixed up wid 
 
 brass, 
 
 An' bit'n a chor I bruk a touf, de nex' one to my las'. 
 Hit was a shame to los' dat touf, Yes M'am, an' now I 
 
 choose 
 To teck no resks, for sho's you born, I'se got no mo' 
 
 to lose. 
 You wants me tell you sumpthin' mo' about de life 
 
 dat's gone, 
 I knows hit all Marse Charley from long fo' you bofe 
 
 was born. 
 You lubs to hear me tell about de good days dat is 
 
 pas'? 
 Dey was good too Miss Katie, an' too good for dem 
 
 to las'. 
 
ii2 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 An' ef you lubs to hear my tales, I lubs to tell clem 
 
 too, 
 
 An' nar a sole in all de worl' I'd ruther tell den you. 
 Tse tole you 'bout our Chris'mus time an' when (ley 
 
 kilt Marse Ran', 
 Arter he lef dat horseback troop he jined in Powha- 
 
 tan. 
 What does you want me talk 'bout now? I members 
 
 eb'rything 
 From way de ole houn's ust er bark to how de mock 
 
 bird sing. 
 Deres nuffin ob dat ole time life ain't cotched hard 
 
 in dis brain, 
 
 An' when I fotch it back I gits a pledjur outen pain. 
 For howsomeber when I thinks about clem good ole 
 
 days 
 My feelin's gits a crosswise an' dey tech me in two 
 
 ways. 
 'Tis sad to kno' dat dey is gone an' cuarn't come back 
 
 no mo', 
 But den agin hit makes me glad to call dem back so 
 
 sho'. 
 
De Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 113 
 
 An' when I talks about dem Sar, I libs in dem agin, 
 Jes' like I'd been an' gone away, come home, an' 
 
 walked right in. 
 Tis but a sweet word song, M'am, sot unto a sadsome 
 
 tune, 
 A kinder late October day sont back somewhar in 
 
 June. 
 I b'lieb I'll tell you 'bout de 'ligion dat we had dem 
 
 days, 
 When we was doin' eb'rything in dem ole fashion 
 
 ways, 
 An' how we went to our ole Chu'ch whar onct we 
 
 singed an' prayed, 
 An' 'tracted meetin' at de Chu'ch when all day long 
 
 we stade. 
 We was Episcumpalyons, 'mong mos' high tone 
 
 fokes was we, 
 
 An' had de fines' sarvice dar as eber dar could be. 
 Dar was some odder kind er 'ligions scattered roun' 
 
 about, 
 But dey didn't warship much like us, an' mos'ly lub 
 
 to shout. 
 
 8 
 
114 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 We neber 'lowed no shoutin', an' cle fokes jes' say 
 
 " Amen " 
 Wheneber in de prars dar come what seemed a leetle 
 
 en'. 
 Sometimes we jawed back standin' what de good ole 
 
 Prar Book sade, 
 
 A speakin' to de preacher like de body to de hade. 
 We neber had no jumblin' caze we all had larnt to 
 
 tell 
 What our ole preacher wanted M'am, an' up we riz 
 
 an' fell. 
 A norgan hysted up de tune an' how de time was 
 
 wrote, 
 So eb'rybody in de choir could strike de samest 
 
 note. 
 
 An' sich a singin' we did hab, I clar, hit was enerf 
 To make you b'lieb de angels had come down from 
 
 heab'n to erf 
 
 A singin' ob de music dey was ust to in de skies, 
 An' 'twas dat sweet hit made you cry onles' you shet 
 
 yo' eyes. 
 
De Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 115 
 
 De balunce ob cle Chu'ches was as Christian fokes, 
 
 'tis true, 
 But (ley didn't like to warship much like we all ust er 
 
 do. 
 Dey neber had no Book ob Prar an didn't stan' to 
 
 sing, 
 An' seemed to hab a notion for a change in eb'ry- 
 
 thing. 
 But den dey was good people an' dey prayed bofe 
 
 loud an' long, 
 Do' dey didn't hab no norgan for to hyst deir 'ligious 
 
 song. 
 You ought to yeard us singin', O, dem himes was 
 
 good to hear, 
 When dat sweet norgan tried to fotch de bery heabens 
 
 near. 
 * k When I kin read my title clar to mansions in de 
 
 skies, 
 I'll bid farwell to eb'ry fear an' wipe my weepin' 
 
 eyes," 
 Dat was one hime in our Chu'ch our lubly choir 
 
 would sing, 
 
n6 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Untwell hit souir jes' like cleir tune was music on de 
 
 wing 
 
 A risin' an' a risin' up unto de good Lord's throne, 
 An' healin' eb'ry sinner an' a heshin' eb'ry groan. 
 Mos' gin'rally 'twas Baptis' here arfter you lef us 
 
 out, 
 
 An' dey all was de people dat I sade did lub to shout. 
 Dey warn't so much peculiar, Sar, cept'n when dey 
 
 took fokes in, 
 An' den dey used mo' water for de washin' out ob 
 
 sin. 
 We'd drap a drap er water for de sin dat was mos' 
 
 rank, 
 But dey picked up de seekin' man an' soused him in 
 
 a tank. 
 One day down in de ribber dar close by de injine's 
 
 pump 
 De preacher hit one nigger's hade aginst a hidden 
 
 stump, 
 
 Which bruk up one baptisin', for de people got afrade, 
 An' de ole preacher didn't dar no futher out to wade. 
 
DC Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 117 
 
 But nare a bit ob feelin' come betwixt dem fokes an' 
 
 us, 
 Two Sundays in de month dey had, an' we de third 
 
 an' fits'. 
 Deir Chu'ch was named de " Brick Chu'ch," an' down 
 
 yonder hit Stan's still, 
 But our'n was sot cle odder way, an' hit was called 
 
 " Grub Hill." 
 Dey had a heap er preachers, but we neber had but 
 
 one, 
 An' a mo' holier man den he didn't walk beneaf God's 
 
 Sun. 
 An' so I disremimber now mos' all de Baptis' 
 
 names, 
 
 Dey was a stayin' so onriglar; do dey strongly claims 
 Dat changes was de bestis' for de congregation's 
 
 good, 
 While we all tried to keep our preacher all de time we 
 
 could. 
 His body warn't so much to see, you'd say 'twas 
 
 tol'bul thin, 
 But his big soul was pow'ful in hit's battles for our sin. 
 
n8 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 An' in dat hade ob his'n, Sar, deir was a bilin brain 
 As full ob 'ligious notions as a cloud's got draps ob 
 
 rain. 
 You's yeard yo' Ma speak of him, M'am, you mus' 
 
 hab, I declar, 
 For she lubbed him as all us did, de people near an' 
 
 far. 
 
 His name was Mister Burkley an' as nateral was he 
 In Grub Hill's ole time pulpit as a ship upon de sea. 
 His sole was full ob goodness an' his life ob sacrifice; 
 But he don't preach no mo' here now, he's gone to 
 
 Paradise. 
 One Sunday 'twas de ole Brick Chu'ch, an' one hit 
 
 'twas Grub Hill, 
 
 As riglar as a sojer goes upon his riglar drill. 
 De Grub Hill Chu'ch was full ten mile, de Brick hit 
 
 warn't but seb'n, 
 But who cuarn't go dat fur to Chu'ch ain't gwine 
 
 much fur tow'd heab'n. 
 We neber mine dem miles we went caze we all lubbed 
 
 to go, 
 An' Sunday was de hapyest day ob all we had I kno'. 
 
DC Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 119 
 
 To do no wurk dat holy day our fambly neber 'lows. 
 'Cept but to feed de bosses an' de hogs, an' milk de 
 
 cows. 
 De Lord is tole us dat good law right in de Holy 
 
 Book, 
 An' de cuarn't 'low no liberties wid dat law to be 
 
 took. 
 For what de Lord writ wid His finger on de slab ob 
 
 stone 
 Is 'portant an' you's got to mine, let what hit stops 
 
 alone. 
 But dat cuarn't be no 'sturbance for a raly Christian 
 
 sole, 
 He's boun' to do what Gord's Word ses, no matter 
 
 what he's tole. 
 Caze lubbin' Gord he lubs His Word, an' lubs to do 
 
 His tas', 
 
 As ef hit 'twas a pledjur he was glad had come to pas'. 
 Soon arter brekfas' when de holy Sunday mornin' 
 
 come 
 All ob de fokes was fixed for Chu'ch an' ready to 
 
 leab home. 
 
I2O Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Ole Peyton driv de carridge hitched to de pa'r ob 
 
 greys 
 Whose names was Fan air Savage, an' a pa'r wid 
 
 frisky ways 
 Dey'd pull dat carridge down to Chu'ch an' back agin 
 
 for sho', 
 An' nar a tech ob Peyton's whip was used to make 
 
 dem go. 
 In dar would go ole Miss, Miss Sue, Marse Bill, an' 
 
 yo' An't Ann 
 An' by hit's side on his own hoss would ride my 
 
 young Marse Ran'. 
 Benin' de carridge on a leetle squar made wooden 
 
 seat, 
 Ef 'twas a all day meetin', we would cuar our snac' 
 
 to eat. 
 'Twas put in a big basket what had hilt sometime 
 
 shampain, 
 An' ob dem vic'tls Unc' Julius fixed nare one was 
 
 gwine complain. 
 Ole speckly Bill, his ridin' hoss, yo' Pa would always 
 
 ride, 
 
De Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 121 
 
 An' den Miss Lucy on dat Charley'd gallop by his 
 
 side. 
 I driv de fo' boss wagon filled up full wid girls an' 
 
 boys, 
 Who neber had no odder day not haf so full ob 
 
 joys. 
 Dem girls an' boys I speaks ob, Sar, warn't chilluns 
 
 but was grown, 
 An' eb'ry one in clar, Sar, had a sweetheart he mout 
 
 own. 
 Dey all warn't ob de fambly, some was comp'ny what 
 
 we had. 
 We always had some comp'ny, 'twas dat comp'ny 
 
 made us glad. 
 Dar's scace a night 'cept gues's slep' in de red room 
 
 or de blue, 
 An' ef you'd opened de green room do' a gues'd a 
 
 looked at you. 
 We picked cle nices' straw an' spread hit on de wagon 
 
 flo', 
 An' put on hit de boys an' girls 'twell dar warn't 
 
 room for mo'. 
 
122 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Dey'd make me drive across de ruts an' ober eb'ry 
 
 stump, 
 Untwell dat wagon hardly run but jes' kep' on de 
 
 jump. 
 Hit 'twarn't no trouble to go long wid dat dar fo' 
 
 boss team 
 Dey went across de country like a race boss in a 
 
 dream. 
 For to dat wagon I would hitch fo' ob our fastes' 
 
 mules, 
 An' ef you'd seen us gwine our way you'd think we all 
 
 was fools. 
 So soon's we got up to de Chu'ch we would de teams 
 
 onhitch, 
 
 An' dar would be so many dar on almos' eb'ry switch 
 Dat hung down from a tree you'd see somebody's 
 
 boss or mule 
 A stan'in' tied beneaf de oaks or poplars whar 'twas 
 
 cool. 
 
 An' den de fokes would scatter for to hab a leetle chat, 
 De oler 'fokes gwine disaway an' young ones dey 
 
 gwine dat. 
 
DC Sundays an' DC 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 123 
 
 Dey'd set clown on a root or stump or stan' up in de 
 
 shade, 
 An' talk about de politix or what good craps dey'd 
 
 made. 
 Dem's ole fokes talkin' clat away de young ones mo' 
 
 like dubs 
 Warn't thinkin' 'bout no craps or law but only 'bout 
 
 cley lubs. 
 I spec' dar was a heap er courtin' done at ole Grub 
 
 Hill, 
 Bar's plenty insperation dar for him who has de 
 
 will. 
 
 Beneaf de trees a singin' in dat Summer shiny spot 
 I reckon dey who wanted lub mus' some ob lub hab 
 
 got. 
 Whar Natur was a courtin' an' cle heab'ns an' erf was 
 
 met 
 Hit couldn't a been so hard indeed, some gemp'man 
 
 for to get 
 His sweetheart to de highes' pitch, an' tell his story 
 
 so 
 Dat hit was nigh onpos'bul for de lady to say no. 
 
124 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 But dar dey bofe, de ole an' young, would chat an' 
 
 talk untwell 
 Unc' George de sexton would come out an' ring de 
 
 las' Chu'ch bell. 
 Dey'd move in sloly den, de ladies settin' on one 
 
 side, 
 De men upon de tother, an' not eb'n de groom an' 
 
 bride 
 Was 'lowed to set togedder. Caze dat warn't de 
 
 Chu'ch's law 
 No brudder set wid sister an' yo Pa mus' leab yo' 
 
 Ma. 
 'Twas siperation in de Chu'ch what in de Chu'ch was 
 
 jined, 
 A kinder pullin' off de tree what roun' de tree was 
 
 twined. 
 I cuarn't ixplain dat rule we had, hit always puzzled 
 
 me, 
 An' I'se been tole dat down in town dat rule you 
 
 neber see. 
 But here dey mus' set sip'rate, an' de people did not 
 
 rile, 
 
De Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 125 
 
 Because, I 'spose, dey'd practised hit den for so long 
 
 a while. 
 De choir would sing, an' Mister Berkly'd read de 
 
 Word an' pray, 
 An' by an' by he'd preach de sarmon in his blessed 
 
 way. 
 De people riz an' fell an' set an' kneeled to pray an' 
 
 sing 
 Our Chu'ch, you kno', I tole you, had a rule for eb'ry- 
 
 thing 
 
 An' lissened to de sarmon, dat was usu'l tol'bul long, 
 An' come too wid a sigh or stretch to jine in de las' 
 
 song. 
 Do' we didn't call dem songs. Dat warn't de Chu'ch's 
 
 name. 'Twas himes 
 We raised an' sung in Grub Hill Chu'ch dem blessed 
 
 anshunt times. 
 But arter while dey would git through, somewhar 
 
 about two hours, 
 An' gether on de grass to eat among de wile wood 
 
 flowers. 
 
126 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 You 'members 'bout de Chris'mus dinners I tole you 
 
 we had 
 Dem days when war hadn't teched us, an' when all 
 
 dis Ian' was glad. 
 Well, what we eat at all day meet'n, hit's truf an' hit's 
 
 de fac' 
 Was jes' as good as dat, Sar, 'cept we called hit den 
 
 a snac'. 
 
 Upon de grass de ladies spread a table clof as white 
 As moonshine on de water, M'am, upon a summer 
 
 night. 
 An' on hit dey fixed all de things we brung wid us to 
 
 eat, 
 De meats an' pickles, brade an' cakes, de pies an' 
 
 odder sweet 
 Things good to tas'e, My Sole ! 'twas good, Marse 
 
 Charley, sho's you born, 
 An' plenty too ob all dem things, do' 'twarn't long fo' 
 
 'twas gone. 
 You gits mo' hongry in de woods den you does in de 
 
 house, 
 
DC Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 127 
 
 An' may be dat's how cum de tale about de po' Chu'ch 
 
 mouse. 
 Dey gits so hongry 'bout de Chu'ch whar dar ain't 
 
 nuff'n' to eat 
 Dey gits mo' po' den odder mice who libs on corn 
 
 an' wheat. 
 We'd hab a ham an' mutton an' some chickens baked 
 
 an fried, 
 Some sassage an' cole shoul'er, an' dem pickles dat 
 
 was tied 
 Up so cley couldn't to pieces drap, dey was dat rich 
 
 an' saf- 
 I clar you'd git so hongry you was skeered you 
 
 wouldn't git haf 
 
 Enuff to eat, dem 'vict'als was so 'ticin' to yo' eyes. 
 Den dar'd be cakes an' jelly, sarbes, an' all de kine ob 
 
 pies. 
 Deir warn't no fokes had better, Chile, I tells bofe ob 
 
 you dat, 
 Gaze all we brung along wid us was cooked by Unkle 
 
 Nat. 
 
128 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 An' he didn't hab no 'sperior cook no whar about 
 
 dese parts, 
 Dey couldn't tech him in meats or brade, or puddin', 
 
 pies, or tarts. 
 Ole Nat was jes' a nat'rul cook. De good Lord put 
 
 him dar, 
 An' smellin' ob his cookin' made you hongry, M'am, 
 
 I clar. 
 All dese good things we had an' raly mo' den I kin 
 
 tell, 
 Caze I cuarn't 'member all de things. I 'members 
 
 none too well 
 In dese here days when age is come an' cotched my 
 
 inside brain, 
 An' rheumatics my body wid a constant tech ob 
 
 pain. 
 But when you got through eatin' ob dat snac 'twas 
 
 sartin sho' 
 Yo' stomick was full to de top, an' you didn't want 
 
 no mo*. 
 Den dar was milk an' tea, an' wine, an' plenty too ob 
 
 ice, 
 
De Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 129 
 
 An' sumpthin' in cle baskit too dat tasted mighty nice 
 An' warm upon yo' stomick, ef you sarched right 
 
 good for hit. 
 De hunters calls hit medecine to take in case you'se 
 
 bit 
 By one de sprade hade moc'sins dat mout be slidin' 
 
 roun' 
 
 An' unbeknownst to you a settin dar upon de groun'. 
 But dat was in de cornder of de basket, kinder hid 
 Ole Marster put dat in dar an' cle ladies knowed he 
 
 did. 
 So ef you wanted some ob dat you'd hab to mine yo' 
 
 eye, 
 An' sorter take a off time chance an' slip hit on de 
 
 sly. 
 Dey's mighty 'tic'lar in dem days, 'bout how de young 
 
 men do, 
 An' dar was always danger ob somebody ketchin' 
 
 you. 
 But by an' by dey'd quit de snac' an' in de Chu'ch 
 
 retarn 
 To do mo' prayin' an' mo' singin' an' a bit mo' larn 
 
 9 
 
130 Uncle Isaac: or Old. Days in the South. 
 
 From out a shorter eb'nin' sarmon dat de preacher 
 
 gib, 
 'Bout how to die an' rise to Gord, an' how we ought 
 
 er lib 
 Dat we mout die in dat dar way ob which he tried to 
 
 speak, 
 An' how we ought er git mo' strength caze we was 
 
 awful weak. 
 An' den de benediction he would 'voke de Lord for 
 
 us, 
 An' dat was all day meetin' from de las' unto de 
 
 fus'. 
 We'd hitch up den de teams an start back on de way 
 
 we come, 
 A joltin' an' a joltin' 'twell by good dark we was 
 
 home. 
 De ole fokes an de young fokes den would chat a 
 
 while an' set 
 Upon de poach or neaf de trees digestin' what dey 
 
 eat 
 An' yeard. Dar's heaper wurk for bofe de brain an' 
 
 stomick, M'am, 
 
De Sundays an' De 'Ligion Dat is Gone. 131 
 
 When you's jes' yeard two sarmons, an' been eatin' 
 
 much ob ham 
 An' a whole passle sweets an' things like all day 
 
 meetin' snac' 
 Ef you could eber try hit, M'am, you'd kno' hit was a 
 
 fac'. 
 Den when de moon was gwine down, an' ole Marster 
 
 prars had sacle, 
 Dey'd say de " Good Night " on de poach, an' all 
 
 would go to bade. 
 I wisht you could er libbed dem days, Marse Charley. 
 
 and Miss Kate, 
 But you was born for dat good time a jes' a few years 
 
 late. 
 I b'lieb you would a liked de things ob our ole fashion 
 
 way 
 Good Gracious, yonder's Becky, she is done come 
 
 home to-day! 
 
UNCLE ISAAC'S EXPERIENCE WITH NEW 
 THINGS. 
 
UNCLE ISAAC'S EXPERIENCE WITH NEW 
 THINGS. 
 
 De times is changed, Marse Charley, an' de worl' ain't 
 
 gwine las' long, 
 De people's got to projectin' an' doin' things dat's 
 
 wrong. 
 Dey's lef deir nat'rul bus'nes' an' is try'n' to take 
 
 a ban' 
 
 In doin' de Almighty's wurk an' managin' His plan. 
 He ain't gwine stan' hit long, I kno', dis bigity dey's 
 
 got, 
 An' de fits' thing clat dem fokes kno' He's gwine wipe 
 
 out cle lot. 
 Dey thinks dey's mighty peart, Smart Elecks what 
 
 dey is, 
 A foolin' wid dem awful things de good Lord knows 
 
 is His. 
 
 [135] 
 
136 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the Sontli. 
 
 Dey's cotched de lightnin' out de skies, an' drawee! 
 
 hit like a wire 
 Across de erf 'tis dangous to be triflin' wid dat 
 
 fire. 
 Fse always yeard dat ef you took a tree de lightnin' 
 
 struck 
 For wood an' burnt hit in yo' house, you's sho' gwine 
 
 hab bad luck; 
 An' chances is dat sometime soon yo' house is gwine 
 
 git hit, 
 Caze lightnin' draws de lightnin', an' 'twon't do to 
 
 fool wid it. 
 Don't laff, Marse Charley, what I ses, I tells you hit 
 
 is true, 
 Fse been an' seen hit, Sar, mysef, an' knows what I 
 
 tells you. 
 But dat ain't all dey 'spires to do an' aims at now- 
 
 a-days 
 In all dis foolishnes' dat's come wid deir new fangled 
 
 ways. 
 Dey's gwine kill heap er fokes sometimes, dat's what 
 
 I prophesy, 
 
Uncle Isaac's Experience With New Things. 137 
 
 An' I'm gwine keep away from town, caze I don't 
 
 want to die 
 In no sich fractious way, but when de good Lord 
 
 tells me go, 
 I wants to go as nat'rul, Sar, as when I come, you 
 
 kno'. 
 Dey's got de homnybusses runnin' all about de 
 
 town, 
 An' gwine up hill as fas', Miss Kate, as dey is gwine 
 
 down, 
 An' nare a bit ob hoss or mule hitched to hit's ary 
 
 een 
 'Tain't nat'rul, an' no sich torn fool thing I ain't neber 
 
 seen. 
 But dar cley comes an' clar dey goes wid jes' a leetle 
 
 wheel 
 Hung on a pole aginst a wire on which de lightnin' 
 
 steal 
 Along dey ses. You cuarn't see nuffin 'cept de 
 
 runnin' cuar, 
 An' when one stopped I ses, ses I, " Hit ain't gwine 
 
 move from thar." 
 
138 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 But bless yo' sole, Marse Charley, den de man jes' 
 
 move a screw, 
 An' long she went so mortal fas' you mout a sacle 
 
 she flew. 
 Git on one Sar? Naw Sar, ole Isaac neber eben 
 
 tried. 
 I tells you now, on one clem things I neber am gwine 
 
 ride. 
 Why, 'tis de fac', Marse Charley, do' I ain't ofFn 
 
 much afeered, 
 When I seed dat thing runnin' loose I got so tur'bul 
 
 skeered 
 I almos' runned mysef . Hit look like mir'cul times 
 
 had come, 
 An' when sich is de sho' 'miff case I wants to be at 
 
 home. 
 But dat ain't all dey's doin' dar in dat new Richmon' 
 
 town 
 'Tain't ole no mo', Marse Charley, an' de place is 
 
 sho' gwine down 
 Dey's changed de good ole ways yo' kinfokes had 
 
 an' dat so fas' 
 
Uncle Isaac's Experience With New Things. 139 
 
 Dat sttmpthin's boun' to happen clar, clat wickednes* 
 
 cuarn't las'. 
 Hit made me sad, Marse Charley, an' I tarmined dat 
 
 I would 
 
 Jes' hurry up my bus'ness clar de fastes' dat I could, 
 An' git back home to Becky whar 'twas peaceful ef 
 
 'twas slo', 
 To stay an' lib our quiet life 'twell yonder I mus* 
 
 g- 
 An' so I called to mine de things I'd got to git an r 
 
 fix, 
 An' 'mongst de lis' ob things clere was a vile ob 
 
 Number Six. 
 I went to git dat Number Six in Mister Miller's 
 
 sto'- 
 He come from up 'bout Nottoway, I b'lieb, Marse 
 
 Poke, you kno' ! 
 But when I seed him in de sto' I b'liebed his mine was 
 
 gone, 
 
 I neber seed no gempleman in sich a cuarrm' on. 
 He had a black knob nigh his ear an' in a leetle 
 
 hole 
 
140 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 He poked his mouf an' talked, but Sar, to save my 
 
 mortal sole 
 I hardly dars to try to tell what hit 'twas dat he 
 
 sade. 
 Hit soundid, an' I lissened, as ef he'd done los' his 
 
 hade. 
 But sump'n like dis seemed what I yeard, " Nex' fo' 
 
 wid eighteen please." 
 "Hillo! Poke Miller. Yes. Is dat you George? 
 
 About dem trees? 
 Yes! You don't hear? Dey cut us off. Numminc. 
 
 You say you'll sell? 
 Haf doz'n ob Castor He. All right. I'll sen' hit 
 
 up. Yes. Well! 
 To-morrer? Naw, Good joke," he sade. An' den he 
 
 laffed. "Too high," 
 He sade agin. " I'll stop by on my way down town. 
 
 Good-bye." 
 An' den he retched an' pulled a leetle peg, an' ses he, 
 
 "Off"; 
 An' b'liebin' dat I ought'n 'sprise him, I gin a leetle 
 
 cough. 
 
Uncle Isaac's Experience With Nezu Tilings. 141 
 
 He looked up den as kindly, wid a smile upon his 
 
 face, 
 An' look ob welcome, sayin', " Ike I'm glad you's in 
 
 my place." 
 How cum he call me " Ike " you reck'n, I neber like 
 
 clat " Ike," 
 An' hit's de one thing 'bout Marse Poke dat I ain't 
 
 neber like. 
 I ain't no " Ike," he ought to kno', but " Isaac " is 
 
 my name, 
 An' sich a nickname 'pears to me, I clar, a sin an' 
 
 shame. 
 
 An' den he shook me by de han', an' tole we howclydo 
 Jes' nat'rul as he eber did. Marse Charley I tells 
 
 you, 
 De man he skeer-ed me, an' so bad I didn't kno' zactly 
 
 whar 
 I was. I jes' could ax, Marse Poke, for Gord's sake, 
 
 what's dat dar 
 
 A hangin' on de wall. Was dat you taikin, all alone? 
 He sort er shook hesef an' grinned, an' sade, " Ike 
 
 dat's a plone." 
 
142 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 But dat word gib me no idee ob what he's clrivin' at. 
 For I ain't neber yeard ob no sich thing as plone 
 
 " What's dat 
 Marse Poke," I axed. " Hit 'tis a mighty useful 
 
 thing," sade he, 
 
 A try in' to look serus like an' a convincin' me. 
 " A great kinvenience to all bus'nes' fokes. Hit lets 
 
 you talk 
 
 To people who libs far a way, too far for you to walk 
 To fine clem, an' wicl dis in'sment you simply has 
 
 to cotch 
 Yo' wire on deirs, den ring a bell, an' dat will sartin 
 
 fotch 
 Dem to de plone." But I cuarn't understan' no how 
 
 dat thing, 
 
 For how is I a bell dat's forty miles away gwine ring? 
 Hit Stan's to gumption dat you cuarn't. Bar's sump- 
 thin' dar dat's wrong, 
 
 Dat distance is onreas'n'bul, an' entierly too long. 
 He sade dar was a nixtion made dat's when de wires 
 
 is jined 
 An' axed me ef I'd like to talk. I pos'tively reclined. 
 
Uncle Isaac's Experience With New Things. 143 
 
 " Hit 'tain't gwine hurt you Ike," he sade, " I'll let 
 
 you talk to Giles, 
 Giles Brown clat libs at Wilk'son Shop, I reck'n 
 
 dat's forty miles." 
 " I wants you larn about dese plones, an' see how 
 
 good dey wurks." 
 An' so I went up to de thing, but narvous like de 
 
 jurks 
 Dat gits a po' blin' stag' grin' hoss, an' trimblin' an' 
 
 afeered, 
 Case I don't want tech nuffin,' Sar, ob which Fse 
 
 neber yeard. 
 An' den Marse Poke sade, " Seb'n on fo'," an' den 
 
 a bell hit ring. 
 " Now put dis to yo' ear," he sade. I didn't want 
 
 tech de thing; 
 But I jes' hitched my britches up, an' stuck hit to 
 
 my ear, 
 An' sho, enuff dar come a voice I could not hep' but 
 
 hear. 
 "Hillo," hit sade, "Who's dat? " "Who's dat? " 
 
 " Hit's me," I shakin' sade, 
 
144 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 An' eb'ry minnit I ixpict to see mysef drap dade. 
 
 " Who's you? " hit axed, " Well, W^ell ! " " I is ole 
 
 Isaac," den I 'plied. 
 "What does you want?" I yeard agin I trimbled 
 
 'twell I cried. 
 " I don't want nuffin', Sar, please Gord," I sade, 
 
 " 'cept to go home, 
 An' ef I gits back dar onct mo' from hit I'll neber 
 
 come 
 Away agin." An' den dar come a bur-r-r, a buz'n-n, 
 
 an' buz'n-n 
 Right in my ear like bumble bees an' hornets by de 
 
 doz'n, 
 An' fo' de lord I drapped dat thing an' neber sade 
 
 Good-bye, 
 But out'n dat sto' I runned as fas' as any bird could 
 
 fly. 
 
 I knowed hit 'twas a disprit case, an' I was in a fix, 
 An' so I stopped for nuffin', clean forgot my Number 
 
 Six. 
 Fse sorry too, Rebeccy's ailin' much wid cramps ob 
 
 late; 
 
Uncle Isaac's Experience With Nciv Things. 145 
 
 Please sen' her some ob Number Six when you goes 
 
 back, Miss Kate. 
 I'd had enuff ob numbers, Sar, an' I didn't want no 
 
 mo' 
 Bar's debils in dem numb'rin' plones, bad debils, 
 
 M'am, I kno'. 
 Deir want no chance for nobody to talk in dat dar 
 
 plone, 
 Marse Poke was standin' off a piece, an' I was dar 
 
 alone. 
 Needn't tell me 'bout no lightnin' caze de lightnin' 
 
 hit cuarn't talk, 
 An' you cuarn't hear nobody, M'am, when hit's too 
 
 far to walk. 
 Naw Sar, how I gwine tell how cum hit 'tw^as? Hit 
 
 'twan't no Giles, 
 Caze Giles was up at Wilk'son Shop, well nigh dat 
 
 forty miles. . 
 I don't kno' nufrm' 'bout hit, an' I'll tech hit, Sar, no 
 
 mo', 
 Dat's one thing you kin sot right clown for sartin an' 
 
 for sho'. 
 
 10 
 
146 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 So soon's I got my senses good I started for to 
 
 fine 
 Marse Jeems, an' axed a gemp'man, who looked 
 
 ginerous an' kine, 
 Ef he could tell me wharabouts I mout look for 
 
 Marse Jeems, 
 An' would you b'lieb hit dar I was across de street 
 
 hit seems 
 From whar his office was in dat big Chamber ob 
 
 Commerce. 
 
 An' ob all houses to git in or out hit 'tis de worse 
 I eber seed. I walked into de open big front do', 
 An' dar a black man sade Marse Jeems was on de 
 
 sebenth flo'. 
 
 He was a standin' in a do'way ob a leetle room, 
 A holdin' in his han', I b'lieb, a dustin' feader broom. 
 I axed him please to sho' me which a way I'd fine de 
 
 stars, 
 Instade he sade, " Step right in here." I saw in dar 
 
 some chars, 
 An' b'liebed he'd axed me to set down untwell he 
 
 foun' de time 
 
Uncle Isaac's Experience With New Things. 147 
 
 To sho' me whar to fine de steps up which I had to 
 
 clime; 
 
 An' so I went into his room an' 'umbly took a seat, 
 Not payin' no attintion, but jes' lookin' in de street, 
 When Lord-a-marcy, fo' I knowed I saw de flo had 
 
 riz 
 My back bone sot to shiv'rin', an' my marrow bones 
 
 dey friz. 
 I thunk de jedgment day had sho'ly come, an' we was 
 
 boun' 
 To Kingdom come, an' yit I thunk, " Thank God we 
 
 ain't gwine down ! " 
 My heart was in my thote, Sar, an' my voice was 
 
 choked right still, 
 I couldn't pray, I jes' could feel, hit is de good 
 
 Lord's will. 
 But as I passed anodder no', I yeard somebody 
 
 say, 
 " Hit's gwine to sno'." Hit busted on me den, in no 
 
 sich way 
 Ts fokes gwine talk ob "Jedgment Come." Dat 
 
 struck my mine as proof 
 
Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Some biler mus' a busted an' hit's blowm' us through 
 
 de roof. 
 I tried to yell an' holler, but I couldn't to save my 
 
 life, 
 But jes' my meanness come to mine an' membrance 
 
 ob my wife. 
 I couldn't make, Sar, nar bit ob soun', my mine hit 
 
 'fused to ac'. 
 I knowed I was a gwine, mos' gone, an' dat was plain 
 
 a fac'. 
 I warnt gwine see my wife no mo', my time was come 
 
 to die, 
 
 An' in my sole I tried to say, " Rebeccy, wife Good 
 bye." 
 So par'lyzed was my eb'ry thought hit I could scacely 
 
 think. 
 But when I felt de roof had come I yeard a leetle 
 
 clink, 
 An' at dat minnit, Sar, dat nigger open flung de 
 
 do', 
 An' turnin' roun' to whar I s. , he sade, " De sebenth 
 
 flo'." 
 
Uncle Isaac's Experience With New Things. 149 
 
 At fits' I thunk I'd git a stick an' broke his measly 
 
 hade, 
 For he'd done skeered me den an' dar 'twell I was 
 
 mo'n haf dade. 
 Marse Charley, den I'd got so mad I raly had no 
 
 sense, 
 
 An' I'd a sho'ly kilt clat man ef eber I'd commence 
 To beat him as I wanted to De Lord forgib de sin, 
 I'll try not let my passion git de bes' ob me agin. 
 Thank God de Christian 'ligion got hit's holt an' 
 
 fotched me 'bout ! 
 I lamed my skeer was ig'nunce, an' so, Sar, I jes' got 
 
 out. 
 But dat black nigger mout a knowed I was a stranger 
 
 man, 
 An' comin', from de country dat I didn't much under- 
 
 stan' 
 
 About de nelevators what but newly dey is built, 
 An' saved me from de skeer I got dat nearly had me 
 
 kilt. 
 But fokes don't think 'bout odder fokes as onct dey 
 
 ust er do, 
 
150 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 An' kinenes' now ain't rtmnin' loose, I clar, 'twixt 
 
 me an' you. 
 I tole Marse Jeems about my skeer, Marse Jeems is 
 
 a good man. 
 He kinely sade 'Twas all becaze I didn't quite under- 
 
 stan' 
 What 'twas dat brung me up. A nelevator's what 
 
 dey call 
 De thing, he 'splained to me, an' hit climes up aginst 
 
 a wall 
 Dar want no danger in hit. Hit jes' cuarred you to 
 
 yo' no' 
 Widdout yo' walkin' up dem stars a thousan' steps 
 
 or mo'. 
 Den when I had done axed him for to please to buy 
 
 my meat, 
 An' tole him I was hurrin' home an' mus' go down de 
 
 street, 
 He took me up de passage an' to whar de steps went 
 
 down, 
 An' I ain't neber been so glad as when I retched de 
 
 groun'. 
 
Uncle Isaac's Experience With Neiv Things. 151 
 
 Tain't right, Marse Charley, I cuarn't b'lieb hit, Sar, 
 
 hit cuarn't be right, 
 De Lord cuarn't be approvin' what ain't nat'rul to de 
 
 sight. 
 An' neber sence de worl' was made from Bersheber 
 
 to Dan 
 We fokes ain't knowed de flo's to rise no whar in dis 
 
 Gord's Ian'. 
 De people cley ain't 'umble, dey's ezalted 'twell dey's 
 
 proud, 
 An' I'm gwine keep mysef from out dat stiff an' 
 
 naked crowd. 
 Amelia's good enuff for me, I'll stay here 'twell I 
 
 die, 
 Here is contintment now, Miss Kate, de good Ian' 
 
 by an' by. 
 I ain't gwine back to town no mo', but here I'm 
 
 gwine to stay, 
 
 Whar me an' my Rebeccy can lib in de ole time way, 
 As onct hit 'twas in my young days when joy was in 
 
 de Ian', 
 
152 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Air fokes had 'nuff to do, Sar, widdout meddlin' wid 
 Cord's plan. 
 
 De butter's come Rebeccy now, an' dar's a done ash- 
 cake, 
 
 Come gib dese chilluns one mo' snac' for good ole 
 timeses sake. 
 
 Dat buttermilk an' cake is good, I yeard, M'am, what 
 you sade. 
 
 Rebeccy git de 'lasses too, I wants some on my 
 brade. 
 
MARSE RAN'S HOSS. 
 
MARSE RAN'S HOSS. 
 
 I'se neber tole you 'bout dat boss, an' how dat day 
 
 be died? 
 Why, when I got up to Marse Ran', dar he laid by his 
 
 side. 
 I mus' a been so strained in talkin' den about Marse 
 
 Ran', 
 
 I oberlooked de dyin' boss in griebin' for de man. 
 Naw, Sar, de boss warn't sabed, but on dat battlefier 
 
 ob woe 
 He bled 'long wid his marster, an' wid him he tried 
 
 to go. 
 'Tis mighty nigh as sad, Sar, now to think 'bout dat 
 
 dar boss 
 
 As 'tis ob my young marster. Dey is been my life 
 long cross 
 
 In memory to bar along de tired part ob my life 
 
 [155] 
 
156 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Dey all is gone, clem ole time frien's, 'cept Becky dar, 
 
 my wife. 
 I wisht I could a sabed dat boss, an' brung him borne 
 
 agin, 
 I b'lieb hit would a hoped me in cle new life dat set 
 
 in 
 Wid dat sad clay ob Gettysburg, an' which cuarn't 
 
 hab no een 
 Untwell ole Isaac's lookt his las' upon cle gole an' 
 
 green 
 Ob ole Amelia's fiel's, an' yeard de angel's sullem 
 
 call 
 To come up dar an' jine 'urn \vhar you cuarn't go 
 
 way at all. 
 We three was always gwine toguther, den for us to 
 
 part 
 Was mos' too much for Isaac, an' hit like to broke 
 
 his heart. 
 Dey went away in glory, an' dey lef me here in 
 
 pains, 
 Wid grief a pullin' on my sole like Sabage on cle 
 
 reins. 
 
Marse Ran's Hoss. 157 
 
 Hit had to bus' up sumpthin' for sich mis'ry could 
 
 not las', 
 
 An' so hit busted up my life, an' lef me wicl de pas'. 
 But ef I could a brung him home, an' kep' him here 
 
 to stay, 
 An' fed, an' curr'd, an' rubbed, an' breshed him off 
 
 twict eb'ry day, 
 Dat mout a made me sorter feel some nigher to 
 
 Marse Ran' 
 De seein' ob de hoss a fetchin' 'membrance ob de 
 
 man. 
 But always stay'n toguther dey was jined too, Sar, in 
 
 deff; 
 'Cept'n I caurn't tell how 'twas at all dat Isaac den 
 
 was lef. 
 Bofe on us, Sar, belonged to him, an' nar one could 
 
 he spar, 
 But I was lef to stay down here, Bruce went wid him 
 
 up dar. 
 His mammy was a Black Hawk mar, a Red Eye colt 
 
 his sire, 
 
158 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 An' nar a boss in dese here parts could rank ''mongst 
 
 bosses higher. 
 His bres' was broad an' easy, an' his ankles clean 
 
 an neat, 
 Like dem de high born ladies show a walkin' on de 
 
 street. 
 His weathers clim a leetle high, jes' high 'nuff for de 
 
 slope 
 Dat makes a graceful back line when you sont him 
 
 in a lope. 
 His rump was roun' an' plump, Sar, wid de barres' 
 
 ob a slide, 
 To make you kno' dat boss was gwine howcum his 
 
 marster ride. 
 His nose was small enuff, I b'lieb, to drink out ob a 
 
 glass, 
 An' not too much ob daylight fotchecl 'twixt him, 
 
 Sar, an' de grass. 
 His tail hung \vabin', glis'nin', Sar, jes' like a girl's 
 
 gole ha'r, 
 His leetle years an' hade a archin' yonder in der ar. 
 
Marse Ran's Hoss. 159 
 
 His mussels stood out fa'r to 'veal what kinder 
 
 strength he had, 
 Wid nar a pint about him dat a hossman thought 
 
 was bad. 
 His stride was sumpthin' monstrous, an' o' a ten foot 
 
 gate 
 He flung hesef as easy as you'd jump dat stick Miss 
 
 Kate. 
 A king's name, Sar, dey gib him, but for short dey 
 
 called him " Bruce"; 
 An' when, M'am, he got started hit 'twas like de win' 
 
 turned loose. 
 Jes' let Marse Ran' stan' neaf dat tree a hour by 
 
 crack ob day, 
 His horn a blowin', windin', driftin' up de stable 
 
 way, 
 Dat hoss was set a jumpin', crazy, so M'am, dat you 
 
 mout 
 A thunk you yeard him hoU'rin', " Isaac come an' let 
 
 me out." 
 An' ef you neber answer quick he'd git so awful 
 
 mad, 
 
160 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 You'd think he'se gwine bus' eb'rything, an' wish, 
 
 Sar, dat you had. 
 Den when Marse Ran' was on him, an' a openin' was 
 
 de houn's, 
 De red fox gwine a scurrin' 'cross de misty, grey low- 
 
 groun's, 
 Den doublin' in Ocmulgee, an' now gwine towards 
 
 de mill, 
 A runnin' on de pastur fence, den humpin' up de 
 
 hill, 
 A way off yonder sneakin', an' den racin' on his 
 
 track, 
 A brazen ole smart Elleck, now a comin' right 
 
 straight back, 
 You'd sho' see sumpthin' in de ar a scummin' nigh 
 
 de erf, 
 An' dat was Bruce a flyin' like de didn't want tech de 
 
 turf. 
 'Twas like a streak ob sorrel jes' a splittin' through 
 
 de ar, 
 Marse Ran' a settin' in de sad'l like you sets in a 
 
 char. 
 
Marse Ran's Hoss. 161 
 
 He an' cle hoss an' sad'l, Sar, was beglued into one 
 
 piece 
 A man an' hoss got jined into a new kine ob a 
 
 beas'. 
 I see hit all agin so plain. Look yonder, yonder 
 
 look! 
 Jes' by dat pint ob ches'nuts whar de road is made a 
 
 crook. 
 My Gord, M'am, ain't dat music, what dem houn's 
 
 is soundin' now? 
 Dey's runnin' by de sight, an' dey'll soon cotch ole 
 
 Red I 'low. 
 Hark, hark, to him ole Fashion, you is gwine now 
 
 Music, hark! 
 Ole Miss is in de middle, an' dat's Black Dick's ole 
 
 time bark. 
 Ah, here dey comes, de riders, but who'se dat dar in 
 
 de lead? 
 Marse Ran' an' Bruce, an' nar one else, I knowed dat 
 
 'fo I seed. 
 My Gord how dat hoss races, wid his hade an' tail 
 
 out straight, 
 ii 
 
162 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Now hystin' into flyin', Sar, right o' dat ten foot 
 
 gate. 
 Dey looks not like dey's erfly things, a rale boss an' 
 
 a man, 
 
 But angel-man on angel-hoss a sailin' cross de Ian'. 
 An' so he'se now, young Mistis', for a sperit he was 
 
 made 
 To rise from off dat battlefiel' on which I saw him 
 
 dade. 
 An' how cum dat his hoss ain't dar? He died dat 
 
 same day too, 
 A frien' dat was de fastes', an' as faithful, Sar, an' 
 
 true 
 As on dis erf, no whar you go, you fine ar human 
 
 frien'. 
 
 An' is dar enny reason for dat lub to bus' an' en'? 
 Some how or nuther I cuarn't hep' but b'lieb dat hoss 
 
 to be 
 A angel-hoss up yonder wid his marster, M'am, you 
 
 see! 
 I hopes hit 'tain't onchristian, caze I wants to hab 
 
 hit so, 
 
Marse Rail's Floss. 163 
 
 An' ef 'tain't wrong 'fo Gord, I'm gwine to keep de 
 
 thought, you kno' ! 
 I clar, Marse Charley, when I gits to 'member an' to 
 
 tell 
 Ob dem ole days, an' deir ole ways, I clar, Miss Kate, 
 
 M'am, well, 
 Indeed hit 'pears like 'tain't no thought, but fac' is 
 
 what I see, 
 
 An' dat ole life is back agin, an' in hit dar is me. 
 I tries to tell 'bout what dar was, an' 'stead I tells 
 
 what is 
 De pas' ain't pas' no mo' at all, but present's what 
 
 hit 'tis. 
 An' den dey'd come back fom de chase, de reins a 
 
 hangin' loose, 
 Marse Ran' a smilin', singin', an' dat proud highflyer 
 
 Bruce 
 A sort er dancin', an' a showin' dat he knowed de 
 
 tail 
 
 His marster had was got by him a flyin' like a gale 
 Across de fiel's air gullies, on de hard groun', in de 
 
 san' 
 
164 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 I b'lieb like me clat boss was proud ob my young 
 
 Marster Ran'. 
 An' when we got in to cle war, we knowed den what 
 
 he was 
 I clar to Heab'n, M'am, dat he done all dat we fokeses 
 
 does. 
 Marse Sweeney'd blow de gallop, gallop, blow de 
 
 walk, he'd walk; 
 He clone mos' eb'rything dat we could do 'cept'n 
 
 'twas to talk. 
 Nar nicker' d nick 'twell Rebellee, he didn't want 
 
 sleep 'twell Taps, 
 He knowed de bugler's soun's as well's a farmer 
 
 knows his craps. 
 You blow de call to water, Sar, an' dat hoss sho' 
 
 would drink, 
 
 But thirsty nar anodder time as eber I could think. 
 When Boots an' Saddles was de note dat brave ole 
 
 Sweeney soun' 
 'Twas almos' much as I could do to keep Bruce on de 
 
 groun'. 
 
Marse Ran's Hoss. 165 
 
 But when he blowed de Charge, my Gord, dat hoss 
 
 was sho' a sight ! 
 His eyes all wile, his body trimblin', an' de curb rein 
 
 tight 
 As iron, an' ef den Marse Ran' hadn't a let him free 
 
 rein go, 
 He'd sartin bus' in splinters, an' 'twarn't no use tell 
 
 him " Whoa." 
 He was a nat'rul sojer-hoss as my young Marster 
 
 Ran' 
 
 Was nat'rul born an' bred to be de braves' sojer-man. 
 Dat las' sad day ob Bruce lifetime I rubbed him down 
 
 so bright 
 
 His sorrel color lookt to me like gole dus' in de light. 
 His mane like spun silk sailin', an' his pride a sight 
 
 to see, 
 A savin' to all on us dar, " jes' lookt Marse Ran' an' 
 
 me." 
 I hilt his hade untwell Marse Ran his sad'l he'd good 
 
 got on, 
 An' den befo' I'de time to think dey bofe on 'um was 
 
 gone. 
 
i66 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 I hollered to Marse Ran' " Good-bye "; Til grieb now 
 
 'twell I die, 
 I neber kiss ole Bruce dat day, an' tole him too 
 
 " Good-bye." 
 Dey went like joy a flashin' M'am, when long hit 
 
 cuarn't abide, 
 An' den I seed deni stoppin' short close by de 
 
 gin'rul's side. 
 
 One time he darted like a narrow to dat awful fence, 
 To speak to Gin'rul Garnett dar, jes' when de wuss 
 
 commence. 
 I spec' dat was de las' word dat brave Gin'rul Garnett 
 
 sacle, 
 A ans'rin' ob Marse Ran', for in a sec'n dey shot 
 
 him dade. 
 Den back through all dat smoke an' deff Bruce brung 
 
 Marse Ran' away 
 So swif you scace could see his laigs, but jes' de man 
 
 in grey. 
 But Bruce was done his work an' life. I'se tole you 
 
 Marse Ran' died 
 
Marse Ran's Hoss. 167 
 
 A piece beyant dat tur'ble spot. Dar Bruce laid at 
 
 his side. 
 Bade, dade, he too, his velvit eyes stretched upward 
 
 tow'd de sky, 
 I knowed he didn't want lib no mo' when his young* 
 
 Marster die. 
 Dat was his glor'ous een, my blessed Marster's hoss ! 
 
 Poor Bruce, 
 I hopes you had a sole brave hoss for Gord to turn 
 
 a loose ! 
 Good-bye, my chillnns. Don't cry M'am, my los' 
 
 was sho' deir gain. 
 Rebeccy, bett'r take in clem close, hit looks like hit's 
 
 gwine rain. 
 
UNCLE ISAAC HAS MORE EXPERIENCE. 
 
UNCLE ISAAC HAS MORE EXPERIENCE. 
 
 Marse Charley don't you recken dat de jedgment's 
 
 comin' 'long, 
 De people's got so vile like, an' is doin' so much 
 
 wrong? 
 De worl' seems upside down, Sar, an' de country is 
 
 upsot 
 
 As bad in crazy notions as dem dat de town is got. 
 I'se been dat skeered dis week, Sar, dat I hardly dars 
 
 to go 
 Fur from de house or Becky; I don't want to lef de 
 
 do'. 
 Dese times is fulled up to de brim wid foolishness an 1 
 
 sin, 
 An' fokes is got so curous now wid all dere pro- 
 
 jectin'. 
 
 [in] 
 
iy 2 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Good manners don't concarn 'em, nor de vartues ob 
 
 de sole; 
 Dey's sacrificed mos' ob dat, Sar, for dollars clat is 
 
 gole. 
 'Twas honor once wid all de fokes who libbed in dis 
 
 here Ian', 
 But money's lub is got de mos', an' dat, Sar, ruins a 
 
 man. 
 De Chu'ches, eben dey ain't right, an' Sar, I dars to 
 
 say, 
 
 Dey'd better git to singin' an' mo' often too to pray. 
 Dey tried Unk' Jonah tother day for dancin' week fo' 
 
 las', 
 An' would you b'lieb hit, when dat trial raly come to 
 
 pas', 
 Dey neber done a thing to him, do all ob us had 
 
 thunk 
 Dey'd tarn him out; an' all becase he sade dat he was 
 
 drunk. 
 De dancin' was a nawful sin, but not de drunk, an' 
 
 dat's 
 A strainin' at de camels an' a chokin' on de gnats. 
 
Uncle Isaac Has More Experience. 173 
 
 De Chu'ch is gwine to bust up ef clat is de way cley 
 
 does, 
 For in. Cord's Chu'ch dem idees, Sar, 'tis sartin neber 
 
 was, 
 An' neber will be ef de Lord is gwine to hab His 
 
 wish, 
 An' 'fore dey knows dem fokes will burn like Moses 
 
 in de bush. 
 How cum de fokes ain't got no sense, an' what's got 
 
 in deir hade? 
 I sho' misstan's heap dat cley does, an' mos' all dat is 
 
 sade. 
 Marse Charley what does "divers" mean:* I don't 
 
 conceib dat word, 
 
 An' fur as I now 'members, I ain't hit befo' is yeard. 
 Mo' den one kine, an' diffrunt kine ob sickness or ob 
 
 fokes? 
 I knowed dat nigger was a fool, his sarmons jes' 
 
 some jokes. 
 
 Dey ain't no mo' a sarmon den a bucket is a well, 
 An' ha'f de time dat nigger don't kno' what he'se 
 
 try'n' to tell. 
 
174 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 De nigger ain't a nat'rul preacher do he nat'rul 
 
 sings 
 His songs is music sho' 'nuff, Sar, but mixed up is 
 
 de things 
 He tries to gospul on de fokes, an' ef dey had good 
 
 sense 
 Dey'd stop dese black fool preachers fo', Sar, dey 
 
 commence. 
 A nigger makes a sexton, but when he tries to 
 
 preach, 
 Hit's hystin' for de simmons dat is hung too high to 
 
 reach. 
 
 I axed you 'bout dem " divers," caze de odder Sun 
 day night, 
 Down yonder at de colored Chu'ch dat nigger Gabrul 
 
 White 
 A preachin' ob de sarmon, sacle he took up for de 
 
 tex', 
 " De Lord a healin' divers ob deseases," an' den 
 
 nex', 
 He sade he " 'vided up de sarmon into sev'rul parts, 
 
Uncle Isaac Has More Experience. 175 
 
 An' hoped de congregation would receib hit in deir 
 
 hearts." 
 u Dey sho' had heap er kine ob sicknes'," he 
 
 reck'n'd, " ober thar 
 'Bout whar de Lord was preachin' dis, a heap an' 
 
 mo' to spar. 
 But den," he sade, <k he spec' dat was mos' likely what 
 
 we had, 
 Caze sicknes' in dis country had done gone an' got 
 
 as bad 
 As hit could git," he reckened, " an' dat ole Jeru- 
 
 salum 
 
 Hadn't got no sort er 'vantage when de time ob sick- 
 lies' come. 
 A. IT den," he sade, " de Small Pox is a mighty bad 
 
 desease, 
 But hit you kin git cured ob, ef de bumps you'll only 
 
 grease 
 Wid coon grease, an' de doctor understan' de Small 
 
 Pox way, 
 When hit's upon a pusson sot an' sho'ed 'twas gwine 
 
 to stay. 
 
176 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 An' Chol'ry, you kin cure dat," he monstrated up an' 
 
 down, 
 " Ef you gits you quick a doctor, who ain't not fur 
 
 off de groun'. 
 
 An' eben in de Fever dat is yaller, dar's a chance, 
 Ef you gits you a nuss as good as ole Miss Mollie's 
 
 Nance. 
 But ef you gits de ' divers,' " den dat black fool 
 
 nigger sade, 
 u Hit 'tain't no use ob talkin' for hit's 'Good-bye 
 
 John,' you'se dade." 
 I knowed dat he was sassin' clar widdout a bit ob 
 
 sense, 
 
 An' nar a idee in his hade befo' he had commence. 
 Dey's gwine bust up de Chu'ch, Sar, ef dey keeps 
 
 along dis road, 
 An' 'ligion's gwine start backward from de way hit's 
 
 pintin' tow'd. 
 
 I tole you I was skeered dis week, an' so I was indeed. 
 I yeard an' seed what here befo' I neber yeard or 
 
 seed. 
 I was a fotchin' home a turkle Chewsday eb'nin' late, 
 
Uncle Isaac Has More Experience. 177 
 
 An' jes' befo' I retched de tarn dar by de stable gate, 
 I passed one dese here men fokes what dey calls a 
 
 benquilquis'*, 
 Who'se larnt to pucker up his mouf in some sort ob a 
 
 twis', 
 
 An' fling his voice mos' any whar, an' in mos' any 
 thing, 
 
 A settin' hit to talkin' or a makin' hit to sing. 
 I warn't a studyin' nuffin', but jes' slo'ly gwine my 
 
 way, 
 
 When fo' de Lord in Heab'n, I yeard dat turkle say, 
 " Now when is you gwine drap me, when is you 
 
 gwine drap me down? " 
 " For Gord's sake now," I sade, an' den I drapped him 
 
 on de groun', 
 An' runned a trimblin' to my house as fas' as I could 
 
 run, 
 A prayin', an' a won'drin' what dat turkle could er 
 
 done 
 
 To git a voice ob human kine, an' talk to me like dat,. 
 About a drappin' ob him down, an' Sar' I drapped 
 
 him flat. 
 
 12 
 
178 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 But by an' by I yeard somebody knockin' on my do', 
 An' dar a man stood at hit, who sade, " Howdy Uncle 
 
 Joe." 
 " I ain't name Joe," I 'plied to him, " but Isaac is my 
 
 name. 
 I'm well I thanky Marster, an' I hope you is de 
 
 same." 
 " Yo' turkle's up de road," he sade, " an' hadn't you 
 
 better walk 
 
 Up dar an' git him unkle, for dat turkle didn't talk. 
 'Twas me who done de talkin'. Now go git him for 
 
 yo' wife." 
 But Sar, I wouldn't a teched dat turkle not to sabe 
 
 my life. 
 I don't kno' nuffin' 'bout de benquilquis', but dis I 
 
 kno', 
 
 A turkle what kin talk to me I'm gwine to sho' let go. 
 Dis trabblin' roun de country wid a nar a bit ob aim, 
 But skeerin' ignunt pussons, Sar, hit 'tis a sin an' 
 
 shame. 
 I reck'n Fse out de times, Sar, an' I cuarn't quite 
 
 understan' 
 
Uncle Isaac Has More Experience. 179 
 
 About de fangled things dat's come here lately in de 
 
 Ian'; 
 An' when I sees one ob dese 'ventions what dey's 
 
 gone an' built, 
 I gits a crawlin' in my back like I was gwine git 
 
 kilt 
 
 A sorter chill an' creepin' dat I hardly kin ixplain. 
 But Sar, hit 'tis de ekal ob mos' any sort er pain. 
 De odder day I went to fine dat yonder one eared 
 
 hog, 
 An' gittin' kind er winded, Sar, I set down on dat 
 
 log 
 Dat's layin' in de forks ob road dar nigh de gran'ry 
 
 gate. 
 You knows de log I speaks ob for you'se set dar wid 
 
 Miss Kate 
 When fo' I knowed I yeard a soun' like win' betwixt 
 
 a crack, 
 Whew, whew, hit sounded comin' up a swish behin' 
 
 my back. 
 I looked up in a minnit, an' Marse Charley, Lordy, 
 
 dar 
 
i8o Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 I saw a sight dat skeered me so hit mos' unkinked my 
 
 liar. 
 A buggy had done busted loose, an' on two ob de 
 
 wheels, 
 A man was settin' an' a gwine like yuars across de 
 
 fiel's. 
 One was a great big high wheel, an' de odder hit 
 
 'twas small, 
 An' hitched behin' each odder, wid no way to go at 
 
 all. 
 'Twarn't right for dem to stan' up, an' howcum dey 
 
 went along 
 I cuarn't deceib to sabe my life. I mus' hab got all 
 
 wrong. 
 You reck'n my hade is tangled an' my senses is all 
 
 gone? 
 I'm feered I'll git so arter while I cuarn't weed out 
 
 my corn. 
 Wid nar a thing a pullin', Sar, an' nar a thing to 
 
 push 
 Dem wheels an' man went clown de road in Sar, a 
 
 parfec' rush. 
 
Uncle Isaac Has More Experience. 181 
 
 I hollered when I saw de thing an' fell back on de 
 
 An' hurt my rheumaticky laig, an' neber cotch dat 
 
 hog 
 'Twell Wensday, when down yonder in de guarden at 
 
 de spring 
 
 I foun' him hard a rootin' an' a spilin' eb'rything. 
 What for you call dat thing I seed de man a try'n to 
 
 ride? 
 Marse Charley was hit nat'rul? Is de ole time things 
 
 all died? 
 A bisickem, you ses hit 'twas? I cuarn't quite under- 
 
 stan'. 
 I'd like to sick de dogs on sich an' sick 'em out de 
 
 Ian'. 
 I mean dese all new things dey's fetched us in dese 
 
 later days, 
 
 A chasin' out de country all ob our ole fashion ways. 
 You cuarn't stop any longer, an' is gwine to hunt 
 
 to-day? 
 A drove ob patridges is usin' down de lowgroun' 
 
 way. 
 
1 82 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Turn to de lef Marse Charley, when mos' at de 
 
 spring you come, 
 An' in dat fiel' I'm almos' sho' you'se sartin to fine 
 
 some. 
 Good mornin', Sar, I'm busy too, I'm got to men' 
 
 my cuart. 
 Rebeccy how dat chile is growed, an' Lordy, ain't he 
 
 smart ! 
 
UNCLE ISAACS LAMENT. 
 
MARSE CHARLEY." 
 
UNCLE ISAAC'S LAMENT. 
 
 I'm glad you liked de snac', M'am, in de days dat 
 
 now is pas' 
 Fse gin yo' Par a heap like dat out dar upon dat 
 
 grass. 
 He'd come down to clis cabin for Ant Becky's hot 
 
 hoe-cake 
 Nar one would suit him ha'f as good as dem Ant 
 
 Becky make. 
 I feels not much like talking Sar, besides hit's gittin' 
 
 late, 
 An' while for you hit mout'n be wrong 'twon't do for 
 
 you Miss Kate 
 
 To be a walkin' in de woods arfter de night has fell, 
 An' now my mine is runnin' back I'm feared dat I 
 
 cuarn't tell 
 
 You nuffin' dat is joyous, for I'm got my sadful tone, 
 
 [187] 
 
i88 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Dat tech dat stops yo' singin 7 an' den cunjers up yo' 
 
 moan. 
 
 De pas' is pas' foreber an' hit's happines' is gone : 
 No cradle's in de wheatfiel', an' no song comes out 
 
 de corn, 
 No Marster's in de big house, an' no Mistis writes a 
 
 pas', 
 No cump'ny's in de green room, an' no chilluns on 
 
 de grass, 
 
 No ice is in de ice-house, an' no milk is in de churn, 
 An' nar a happy nigger now whicheber way you turn. 
 Nare hoss is in de stable, an' de kitchin neber smokes, 
 De people in de neighborhood is mos' all stranger 
 
 fokes. 
 Deres jes' de pines an' lowgroun's dat de vis'tor now 
 
 may see, 
 Besides my wife, Rebeccy, an' ole Isaac, which is 
 
 me. 
 No horn blows out from 'neaf de trees, no houn's de 
 
 foxes chase, 
 
 De dairy's fell to pieces, an' de farm is gone to was'e. 
 De cabins' gone to ruin, an' de orchard is mos' dade, 
 
Uncle Isaac s Lament. 189 
 
 Ocmulgee Stan's all lonesome, an' nuffin' here has 
 
 stade, 
 'Cept our ole rickolictions, an' de promise for de 
 
 bles', 
 When all dis life is ober an' dar come to us Cord's 
 
 res'. 
 I ain't complainin' caze de good Lord's chilluns 
 
 cuarn't complain 
 
 Bofe jus' an' unjus' yit receibin' ob de latter rain 
 But all my life in dis worl' dat was joyous an' was 
 
 glad 
 
 Is in de pas' behin' me wid de hap'nes' dat I had. 
 I cuarn't be rickonciled at all to what our people 
 
 does, 
 De Whiskey is like Turpentime, an' nuffin' what hit 
 
 was. 
 De sugar's full ob san' now, an' de meal is groun' too 
 
 fine, 
 De neighbors is mo' quar'lsome, an' few pussons is so 
 
 kine 
 As onct cley was in my young days when joy was in 
 
 de Ian', 
 
19 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 An' fokes had 'nuff to do, Sar, widdout meddlin' wid 
 
 God's plan. 
 I cuanrt be here much longer for I'm gittin' mighty 
 
 ole 
 Lord make me ready to be g\vine wheneber T is 
 
 tole! 
 An' let me please to stay right here an' lib in de ole 
 
 ways 
 Wid peace an, my Rebeccy for de balunce ob my 
 
 days.! 
 We'se bofe done retched de topmos' pint ob life's 
 
 resendin' hill, 
 An' started down de valley whar de voice ob men is 
 
 still. 
 Our feet is creepin' nigh de banks ob deff's myster'- 
 
 ous stream, 
 An' life is come to look jes' like 'twarn't nuffin' but a 
 
 dream. 
 Yistiddy, Sar, hit seems to me dat me an' my Marse 
 
 Ran' 
 Rid out wid dat ole hoss-back troop dey raised in 
 
 Powhatan. 
 
Uncle Isaac's Lament. 191 
 
 Yistiddy, M'am, my Becky's ha'r was black all o' her 
 
 hade 
 A sprightly gal whose supplenes' would den, I clar, 
 
 er made 
 A willow withe a bendin' feel ob hit's own sef 
 
 ashame, 
 An' nar a hick'ry switch could hep' but feel hitsef de 
 
 same. 
 Yistiddv bofe ob us was young, an' all dis Ian' was 
 
 glad, 
 To-day we'se ole, an' nuffin's lef ob all de Ian' onct 
 
 had. 
 
 Yistiddy hit was mornin' an' de Sun a shinin' bright, 
 To-day de eb'nin' shadders is a runnin' tow'd de 
 
 night. 
 We sho' hab retched de eb'nin' time ob dis our 
 
 mortal life, 
 An' soon we mus' be gwine away, ole Isaac an' his 
 
 wife. 
 De angel wid his book is sarchin' an' he's soon gwine 
 
 call, 
 
192 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 An' me an' my Rebeccy will leab here for good an* 
 
 all. 
 
 We'se gwine away my chilluns, Yas, fo' many Sum 
 mers pas', 
 
 An' ob de ole plantation fokes I spose we is de las'. 
 An' now jes' fo we goes to sleep, dat sleep from which 
 
 we'll wake, 
 My mine goes back from night time, M'am, to when 
 
 hit 'twas daybreak. 
 A grave is yonder 'neaf dat tree, an' 'neaf hit rests 
 
 de dade, 
 An' dars de cradle settin' dar wharin Marse Ran' onct 
 
 laid. 
 An' dat's de distance stretchin' 'twixt de cradle an' 
 
 de grave, 
 
 A distance dat no eyesight nar a big strain eber gave. 
 But night ain't black an' hor'bul, for in hit de bright 
 
 stars shine, 
 An' ef you'se knowed de way befo' 'tain't nuffin' to 
 
 be gwine 
 Along hits stillnes' happy on yo' tramp to whar 
 
 you'd be; 
 
Uncle Isaac's Lament. 193 
 
 For him who knows de pines an' fiel's 'tain't needful 
 
 for to see 
 De pafs dat runs through dem, no matter ef dey 
 
 twists an' tarns, 
 You'se only got to walk dat way which in de day you 
 
 larns. 
 An' so 'tis wid de eb'nin' time ob life, when hit is 
 
 nigh 
 De " How-dy-do " ain't sweeter den dat good ole 
 
 word " Good-bye " 
 For dem dat's taught a mornin' ob de way de Sabior 
 
 trord, 
 Is boun' to walk a eb'nin' time along wid Him to 
 
 Gord. 
 He led us in our mornin' an' He'll lead us in our 
 
 night, 
 An' Sar, we need not be afraid, we ain't gwine los' 
 
 His light. 
 Hit shined in all our gloom, M'am, when de clouds 
 
 come in de day, 
 Hit still will shine befo' us when pale deff pints out de 
 
 way. 
 
 13 
 
194 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 We ain't got fur to go when, Sar, de angel's call is 
 
 made, 
 An' den de sperret flies so fas' as soon's de body's 
 
 dade. 
 
 Ole David's tole us in de Sams dat eben wid a span 
 We fokes may medjure all de way 'twixt Heab'n an' 
 
 Powhatan. 
 
 I'm facin' ob de future but my mine is in de pas', 
 De mem'ry fixin' Isaac for de man he'll be at las'. 
 Caze what we'll be, Miss Kate, mus' be all dat we did 
 
 or sade, 
 
 An' rickolictions bein' what is lef when we is dade, 
 'Tis sperret mem'ry dat will be de sperret soul's one 
 
 pledge, 
 When hit stan's face to face wid Gord an' He dat 
 
 sole will jedge. 
 I cuarn't destrain mysef from lookin' back a down 
 
 de years, 
 An' hit 'tis dat dat makes me moan an' fetches up 
 
 dese tears. 
 Good eb'nin' my young Marster, Gord bless you bofe 
 
 Miss Kate. 
 
Uncle Isaac's Lament. 195 
 
 You don't think now de Sun is sot dat hit 'tis not too 
 
 late 
 For you to be a walkin' 'cross de nigh way by de 
 
 crick? 
 Caze ef you does I'll go wid you. De ole man wid 
 
 his stick 
 Is pretty peart in spite ob age, an' good for yit a 
 
 while 
 'Twould be a pledjure, Sarvant Sar, to go wid you my 
 
 chile. 
 All right young Marster, den Good-bye, you'se like 
 
 yo' Par a man, 
 
 An* in de time ob war dar was no braver in his Ian'. 
 I'll be obleedged Miss Kate, M'am, ef de nex' time 
 
 dat you come, 
 An' you kin git dat Number Six, you'll fetch Rebeccy 
 
 some. 
 I'm comin' now Rebeccy, wife, Miss Kate gwine 
 
 come a'gin. 
 Please come Miss Kate tomorrer an' bring her dat 
 
 medecine ! 
 
THE PASSING OF REBECCA. 
 
REBECCY.' 
 
THE PASSING OF REBECCA. 
 
 Yo' sarvant, my young Mistis, how-dy-do to-day, 
 
 Miss Kate? 
 1 seed you comin' 'cross de fiel', an' met you at de 
 
 gate 
 
 To let you in, an' tell you dat Rebeccy's mighty ill, 
 An's got so dreadful narvous dat we keeps de room as 
 
 still 
 As we kin do hit, M'am. Do' she ain't one dat much 
 
 complains 
 
 She's got a heap er courage when hit comes to stand- 
 in' pains. 
 But come right in, young Mistis, she's spoke much 
 
 ob you to-day, 
 Do' hit 'tain't much we understands ob what she 
 
 tries to say. 
 
 [201] 
 
202 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Come in Miss Kate, but saftly walk when you gits 
 
 on de flo'; 
 She'll be rale glad to see you. Mine de step dar at 
 
 de do' ! 
 You say fo' you goes in de house you wants to talk 
 
 to me? 
 For sartin, M'am, set in dat char, 'tis shady 'neaf de 
 
 tree. 
 Yes M'am, I got de Number Six you sont by leetle 
 
 Nade, 
 An' Nancy fotched the wine an' tea, de sugar an' de 
 
 brade 
 She sade you fixed up for we fokes, an' tole her for 
 
 to bring. 
 You'se good to us. I b'lieb, Miss Kate, you thinks 
 
 ob eb'rything 
 Dat we all needs. You is dat kine you mines me ob 
 
 yo' Mar, 
 Jes' like Marse Charley always mines me also ob yo' 
 
 Par. 
 No, M'am, de Number Six dis time don't seem to 
 
 retch de spot 
 
The Passing of Rebecca. 203 
 
 Wharin her ailin' an' her mis'ry 'pears to now hab 
 
 got. 
 Hit's wuss nor cramps de doctor ses. I b'lieb de 
 
 'sease he. named 
 As sumpthin' in de bowels dat hab got too much 
 
 enflamed. 
 Apendle-sea-tick was de way I cotched his namin' 
 
 word, 
 But den I cuarn't be sartin dat dat's 'zactly what I 
 
 yeard. 
 Dey's got new names for things dese days, an' mos'ly 
 
 dey is long, 
 Heap longer den dey ust er be, an' may be I is 
 
 wrong. 
 But axin' him de ailment, he reformed me dat he 
 
 foun' 
 Apendle-sea-tick in her bad, leas' dat's de way hit 
 
 soun', 
 An' I was doin' all I could to ketch what 'twas he 
 
 sade, 
 But to sich hard an' big words I'm not ekal in my 
 
 hade. 
 
204 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Yistiddy he was here agin, an' felt her all about, 
 An' sade he b'liebed 'twould be de bes' for him to cut 
 
 hit out. 
 
 But den he 'peared to hisitate an' 'dopt anodder plan, 
 Becaze dat cuttin' at dat time she pos'bul mout not 
 
 stan'. 
 He neber gibed her nuffin', but he made some liquid 
 
 warm. 
 An' squirt hit through a syringe in de back part ob 
 
 her arm. 
 Hit hope her much a hour or two, an' let her git 
 
 some sleep, 
 
 But arter while de power ob dat physic failed to keep, 
 An' sence den she's been narvous an' so res'les' in de 
 
 bade, . 
 Dat eber sence way in las' night I'se by her badeside 
 
 staid. 
 I was afeered she mout git up. You had to watch her 
 
 close, 
 
 An' offen is I wished she had anodder syringe dose 
 Ob what ole Doctor Hambleton had squirted in her 
 
 arm, 
 
The Passing of Rebecca. 205 
 
 For nuffin' M'am, dat we could do made her de leas' 
 
 bit calm. 
 She mos'ly whispers to us now, she's got so mighty 
 
 weak, 
 So hit's mo' diffikilt to hear air word she tries to 
 
 speak. 
 But arly, M'am, dis mornin' fo' her hade was hurt 
 
 wid pain, 
 We understood mos' eb'ry word 'twas spoke so bery 
 
 plain. 
 She's been a dreamin' ob de pas', de pas' to us so 
 
 dear, 
 Dat's way back in de long ago an' yit's so mighty 
 
 near, 
 
 'Twas pitiful to hear her talk as ef de fokes was nigh, 
 Who long ago bofe ob us saw come one by one to 
 
 die. 
 She seed ole Miss an' talked to her jes' like she was 
 
 right thar, 
 
 A settin' in her chamber an' a rockin' in her char. 
 She tole her 'bout de sheets an' bades an' 'bout de 
 
 counterpane, 
 
206 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 An' whar you chilluns had done gone down in de 
 
 grove or lane. 
 She talked 'bout you particular, when dar by her side 
 
 she dreamed 
 Yo' Mammy was a standin', an' I clar Miss Kate, hit 
 
 seemed 
 
 Almos' as ef de good ole time had come to us agin, 
 An' we was libbin' in dem days dat onct our fokes 
 
 . libbed in. 
 Hit 'twas so nat'rul who she seed, so nat'rul what she 
 
 spoke, 
 Dat I could almos' b'lieb I had been 'sleep an' den 
 
 had woke 
 
 To fine myse'f all young agin a plowin' in de corn. 
 An' my young Marster standin' thar a blowin' ob his 
 
 horn. 
 She'd tell yo' Mammy 'bout yo' room, an' ax her 
 
 'bout yo' dress, 
 An' 'vise her 'bout yo' dis an' dat as she thunk was 
 
 de bes'. 
 Sometimes hit 'twas yo' Mar she saw, who \vas de 
 
 leetle girl, 
 
The Passing of Rebecca. 207 
 
 Whose har her fingers was a twistin' up into a curl, 
 But den agin 'twas you she seed, an' den dar'd come 
 
 a smile 
 Upon her face an' linger as she tole us 'bout her 
 
 chile, 
 An' who dat chile she talked 'bout was bofe me an' 
 
 Nancy knew; 
 For dar was sumpthin' in her manner when she spoke 
 
 ob you 
 Dat tole a tale ob lub dat come from out a heart as 
 
 true 
 As sunshine in de Summer fallin' out de skies so 
 
 blue, 
 Tells ob de good Lord's ^roodnes' to His chilluns in 
 
 dis woiT. 
 She lubbed you hard, young Mistis, an' you was her 
 
 leetle girl ! 
 Yo' Mammy was her sister, an' when she couldn't 
 
 be about, 
 Hit 'twas Ant Becky in her place who ust er to take 
 
 you out 
 
208 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 To walk, or watch you while you played dar under- 
 
 neaf de trees 
 An' nar a time for nuffin' did you hab to ax her 
 
 please. 
 She'd gib you her own shadder, M'am, ef hit she 
 
 could er cotched, 
 An' what you tole her for to git 'twarn't long befo' 
 
 'twas fetched. 
 She lubbed you like yo' Mammy, an' yo' Mammy 
 
 neber mine, 
 But seemed to like hit caze to you " Sis Becky " was 
 
 so kine. 
 An' yo' ole Mammy lubbed you from yo' hade down 
 
 to yo' feet. 
 
 In ole Virginny nare a word has eber soun' as sweet 
 As " Mammy." Dat's de name dat always hurries up 
 
 a smile, 
 An' fetches back de good ole times to let dem stay 
 
 a while. 
 An' onct she b'liebed she saw Marse Ran', an' on her 
 
 face come joy, 
 
The Passing of Rebecca. 209 
 
 An', M'am, she 'peared to want to say, dat's Isaac's 
 
 darlin' boy. 
 An' so he was young Mistis, an' so was Marse Ran' 
 
 indeed. 
 
 In all my life nar sich a man ole Isaac neber seed. 
 Dem Yankees neber knowed at all dat hor'bul, 
 
 bloody day, 
 What kine ob sole dey loosened for de Lord to take 
 
 away. 
 But she may now be wantin' me. Come Mistis lets 
 
 go in, 
 An' ef you wants to ax me mo' I'll come out here 
 
 agin. 
 Come in Miss Kate an' see her, she'll be glad to see 
 
 yo' face, 
 You'll fine a char dar nigh her bade nex' to de fier- 
 
 place. 
 How is she doin' Nancy now? She 'pears to me mo' 
 
 still. 
 You thinks she's done got weaker, an' you'se feered 
 
 she's got mo' ill? 
 
 14 
 
2io Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Miss Kate how does you think she is? Yas M'am, 
 
 she's awful weak, 
 An' gittin weaker eb'ry hour. Tis time de Lord to 
 
 seek. 
 
 An' yit I is been seekin' Him all eb'ry night an' day. 
 He'se yeard my prars, I kno', but den He'se gwine 
 
 hab His good way. 
 Hit's hard to rickoncile down here de answers to yo' 
 
 prar 
 When He'se done odder den you axed. We'll 
 
 rickoncile up thar. 
 She's passin' from de doctor's power, nobody but de 
 
 Lord 
 Kin step in now an' stop de breakin' ob her life's gole 
 
 cord. 
 Her eyes is shettin' like in sleep, but dat I kno' ain't 
 
 sleep. 
 Dat shettin' ob her eyes, Miss Kate, gwine open mine 
 
 to weep. 
 Please 'scuse me, my young Mistis, I didn't mean to 
 
 'low dat groan, 
 
The Passing of Rebecca. 211 
 
 But hit hurts me so awful bad to hear Rebeccy 
 
 moan. 
 Hit feels jes' like a splinter had been run into my 
 
 sole, 
 An' lets my own life run right out untwell I gits dat 
 
 cole 
 I shivers an' my heart has cotched a rheumatic ob 
 
 woe 
 Dat makes me answer wid a groan at onct befo' I 
 
 kno' 
 What I am doin'. Please don't cry Miss Kate, please 
 
 M'am, don't cry ! 
 Hit may be dat de good Lord yit ain't gwine to let 
 
 her die. 
 Yas M'am, I kno' clat hope is gwine. She's dyin', 
 
 yas, I see. 
 My Becky's fadin' out ob life, my wife is gwine lef 
 
 me, 
 
 Lef me de ole man trimblin' an' so wa'ry in his age. 
 Good Lord, do tell de angel for to turn anodder 
 
 page 
 
212 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 In his big book whar Isaac's name is writ an' time is 
 
 tole, 
 An' tell his sole come long right now a jiniir wid her 
 
 sole! 
 
 For O my Lord, how will I stan' dis siperation here 
 From her who 'mong all peoples is to me de mostes' 
 
 dear? 
 Please git de Prar Book Nancy, hit is ober dar some- 
 
 whar, 
 An' please Miss Katie open hit an' read out'n hit a 
 
 prar, 
 Dat ef de good Lord wills hit my Rebeccy may yit 
 
 stay 
 Mo' longer here wid Isaac, an' please den Miss Katie 
 
 pray, 
 Dat ef she mus' go yonder whar de troubled is at 
 
 res', 
 He'll take her wid His angels in de mansions ob de 
 
 bles'. 
 I thanky, M'am, she's easyer, but she's fadin', fadin' 
 
 now, 
 Jes' like a vi'let wilts away beneaf de fros' I 'low. 
 
The Passing of Rebecca. 213 
 
 Rebeccy does you kno' me? I'se jes' been out to 
 
 de gate, 
 An' dis is our young Mistis, don't you kno' her? 'tis 
 
 Miss Kate. 
 I b'lieb she yeard an' understood what hit was dat I 
 
 sacle, 
 Hit sartin 'peared to me as ef she tried to nod her 
 
 hade. 
 An' now her eyes is openin', an' she knows us bpfe, I 
 
 b'lieb. 
 Thank you, my blessed Savior, for dis blessin' I 
 
 receib ! 
 Speak to her now Miss Katie, please speak to her 
 
 now, don't cry, 
 
 'Twill cheer her up a leetle as de valley drawef nigh. 
 Or hit may be Gord's marcy will yit leab her here a 
 
 while 
 To longer work an' pray. Look! look, Miss Kate, 
 
 you see dat smile 
 Come slowly on her sacred face? Her lips is mur- 
 
 m'rin' too, 
 An' I mos' kno' 'tis meant to be a welcomin' for you. 
 
214 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 > 
 An' did you hear her den, Miss Kate, in dat one 
 
 whispered word? 
 I'm sho' she sade " Good-bye," dat's hit, " Good-bye," 
 
 dat's what I yeard. 
 Gord bles' you my sweet Mistis, for dat ole time 
 
 Mammy kiss ! 
 
 I kno' hit let her body tas'e onct mo' a erfly bliss. 
 An' now I'se kissed her too onct mo'. Kin hit be my 
 
 las' time 
 Befo' she sees de golden stars an' up dem starts to 
 
 clime? 
 She's lookin' at me now agin. Gord bles' dem sweet 
 
 ole eyes, 
 Dey will be watchin' me so soon from out ob Gord's 
 
 blue skies ! 
 Dar, dar, I yeard hit sho' dis time, wid deff's cole 
 
 han' so nigh ! 
 Hit come so plain upon my ears, " Isaac, Isaac, 
 
 Good-bye ! " 
 
 Good-bye Rebeccy, far farwell, Gord's got you in 
 His arm, 
 
The Passing of Rebecca. 215 
 
 You'se in de valley ob de shadder, but you won't 
 
 meet harm, 
 Through all de darkness an' de danger Gord yo' sole 
 
 will take, 
 An' in de takin' ob Gord's chile no mistake will Christ 
 
 make. 
 Feel Nancy. Does you feel her heart give yit a single 
 
 beat? 
 Done stopped ! Good-bye my wife, Rebeccy always 
 
 good an' sweet! 
 My eyes won't cry, Miss Kate, my heart jes' aches, 
 
 my lips cuarn't groan, 
 My life's done gone, done gone, done gone, ole 
 
 Isaac's lef alone! 
 
 Alone in all de ole man's age, alone in all his pain ! 
 But Gord will gib him strength an' peace so dat he 
 
 cuarn't complain. 
 Alone 'mongst all de strangers, alone 'mongst dem 
 
 dat's born 
 In dese new days dat he don't kno' ! Rebeccy is you 
 
 gone? 
 
216 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Gone from yo' husban' Isaac, gone up to yo' heab'nly 
 
 res'? 
 I don't kno' how he'll stan' hit, but Cord's done hit 
 
 for de bes'. 
 " Don't let yo' heart git troubled, an' don't let hit 
 
 git afraid," 
 Dat's what de Scriptur tells you is de words de 
 
 Savior sade. 
 I feels yo' han', Miss Katie, M'am, you blessed angel 
 
 chile ! 
 You wants to lead me to de char to set in hit a 
 
 while? 
 I cuarn't set down now Honey, please jes' let de ole 
 
 man stay 
 Right here by his Rebeccy dade, to look an' lub, an* 
 
 pray. 
 You'se cryin' hard yo'se'f my chile, you set down in 
 
 de char. 
 Ole Isaac's lef here by hese'f, Rebeccy, she's gone 
 
 thar! 
 But when de angel trumpet's blowin' from whar 
 
 angels bide 
 
The Passing of Rebecca. 217 
 
 Rebeccy'll come for Isaac, an' she'll be his angel 
 
 guide. 
 She's in de good Lord's presense an' a jinin' in de 
 
 song 
 De angels sing befo' Him, an' hit sho'ly cuarn't be 
 
 long 
 Befo' ole Isaac's Sun gwine down behin' de trees an' 
 
 set. 
 Rebeccy, I'm a comin', may de Lord my moans 
 
 forget ! 
 I almos' hear de angels' call, hit mus ? be nigh my 
 
 day, 
 An' you'll come down Rebeccy, for to sho' me up de 
 
 way. 
 Why Nancy, is you let dat chile go 'lone dis time a 
 
 night? 
 I could a walked along wid her. My Nancy, hit' 
 
 'twarn't right. 
 But nar a sole gwine tech dat chile, o' her de angels 
 
 watch, 
 An' when she knocks on heaben's do' dar'll be a 
 
 hysted latch. 
 
2i8 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Go tell de neighbors 'bout hit please. Dey'll come 
 
 an' do deir part. 
 Rebeccy, Isaac's comin' ! Yo' deff is broke his heart ! 
 
UNCLE ISAAC IN THE SONG. 
 
UNCLE ISAAC IN THE SONG. 
 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, dat is de ole 
 
 time tune 
 We yeard in de ole happy days when all de months 
 
 was June. 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, dat is de song 
 
 Miss Kate. 
 
 I spec' dat my Rebeccy mus' be lis'nin' at de gate. 
 She'll cotch dem words an' 'member, dey's de ones 
 
 she lubbed so well. 
 'Twas in dem words all on us onct our hap'nes' ust 
 
 er tell, 
 A voicin' ob our gladnes', an' a chantin' in sweet 
 
 hope, 
 Wid dem sweet soun's ob music twisted up jes' like 
 
 a rope, 
 
 [221] 
 
222 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in tJie South. 
 
 An' stretchin' an' a stretchin' from de yearth up to 
 
 de skies 
 Our soles a shinin' an' a speakin' in our yearnin' 
 
 eyes. 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, I'm libbin' in de 
 
 pas', 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, an' let dis pled- 
 
 jur las'. 
 Yo' Par is comin' out'n de house, yo' Mar is on de 
 
 lawn, 
 Marse Ran' is whistlin' at de barn, nobody now is 
 
 gone. 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, de music's 
 
 cotched my sole, 
 I feels my days come back agin, I'm done forgot I'm 
 
 ole. 
 Unk' Julyus' in de dinin' room, an' Mary's at de 
 
 churn, 
 An' Peyton's on de carridge box a drivin' roun' de 
 
 turn. 
 
 I hear de cradles swishin', an' de san' upon de blade, 
 An' nar a sweeter music in dis Ian' was eber made. 
 
Uncle Isaac in the Song. 223 
 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, Yas, dar's yo 
 
 tinkle Bill, 
 An' yonder comes de cows a windin' up de cow-lot 
 
 hill, 
 Dar's Austin' too a drivin' dem, an' dar is Nancy 
 
 Ann, 
 Dey'll stan' for her to milk dem like for nare one else 
 
 dey'll stan'. 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, dat song ob long 
 
 ago 
 De bloom is on cle clover, an' de Summer breezes 
 
 blow. 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, I trimble I'm 
 
 so glad, 
 Dar's comin' back in music thought ob all dem things 
 
 we had. 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, I hear unk' John 
 
 agin 
 A playin' on his banjo for de dance we'se gwine jine 
 
 in. 
 Dar's Poleyun an' ole Frances lean de hoe aginst de 
 
 plow, 
 
224 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Dat's Isaac an' Rebeccy, dey's gwine sho' you sump- 
 thin' now. 
 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, full is de abenue 
 Ob gentle fokes a comin' to de weddin' ob Miss Sue. 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, I hears agin de 
 
 drum, 
 An' yonder is yo' Par a gwine, Marse Ran' an' me 
 
 gwine come. 
 
 I hears de war a breakin', an' I sees de bloody dade, 
 A thousan' things is ramblin' wid de music in my 
 
 hade. 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, What makes you 
 
 sing so low? 
 
 Hit's all a fadin, fadin, ob dem years ob long ago. 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, you sings 
 
 M'am mos' too low. 
 
 De trees is sot to sighin' an' de ribber runs mo' slo'. 
 An' in de pines 'tis gittin' dark, dem faces fade 
 
 away, 
 De music dream is passin', but hit brung me back a 
 
 day 
 
Uncle Isaac in the Song. 225 
 
 Dat was cle sunshine ob my life, de joy ob all my 
 
 fokes. 
 'Tis strange how out de long ago dese things de 
 
 music coax. 
 Sing low, my Mistis, low, sing low, sing low, sing 
 
 low, Miss Kate, 
 You hear de whippowill, de Sun's gwine down, 'tis 
 
 late, 'tis late. 
 We mus' be gwine. Sing low, sing low, sing low, jes' 
 
 one line mo' 
 In dat ole tune. Sing low, sing low, my Mistis, low, 
 
 sing low 
 
 A driftin' out er hearin' like de sunshine out er sight; 
 Low, low, so low. Hit's gone, my Mistis, gone, 
 
 Ole time good night. 
 
THE PASSING OF UNCLE ISAAC. 
 
THE PASSING OF UNCLE ISAAC. 
 
 I kno'ed you'd come, Marse Charley, Good Ebenin' ! 
 
 How does I do? 
 I'm poly an' I cuarn't las' long, Marse Charley how is 
 
 you? 
 Miss Kate cuarn't come. Yas Sar, I yearn dat she'd 
 
 done gone away 
 To see her Ant, Miss Mary. Is she gwine make 
 
 much er stay? 
 I spec' she won't see me no mo', de ole man's gwine 
 
 dis time. 
 
 An' I ain't sorry, not at all, dat kin not be a crime. 
 You don't think so young Marster, you don't think 
 
 dat dat is wrong, 
 When all my wurk is done down here an' yonder I 
 
 belong? 
 
 Mos' all my gineration's gone beyant de lofty skies 
 
 [229] 
 
230 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Hit 'tain't gwine make no diffrunce 'bout when one 
 
 mo' ole man dies. 
 De worl' won't neber miss me, an' de people won't 
 
 complain; 
 Dey'll shed no tears o' Isaac, an' his deff won't gib 
 
 no pain. 
 
 I am so ole an' crippled up I ain't no count no mo'. 
 I'll be obleedged Marse Charley ef you'll kinely shet 
 
 dat do'. 
 I'm gittin' ole, an' any draf gits pow'ful nigh de 
 
 bone. 
 My rheumatics is techy, an' dey constant makes me 
 
 groan 
 When through de do' de Winter air comes driftin' in 
 
 so cole. 
 You cuarn't stan' what you ust er stan' arfter you 
 
 gits so ole. 
 
 I'm glad I'm gwine, Marse Charley, for I'm lone- 
 sum now down here, 
 
 An' yonder whar de angels lib is many fokes so dear. 
 Ole Marster's gone dis many a day, an' Mistis' she's 
 
 gone too, 
 
The Passing of Uncle Isaac. 231 
 
 Marse Peyton, an' Marse Ran', Miss Ann, Marse 
 
 Willyum, an' Miss Sue; 
 Dey all in dat procession passed on through de 
 
 heab'nly gate 
 
 What for kin I a po' ole man want longer for to wait? 
 My wife is dar, Unc' Caesar, an' Unc' Andrew, an' 
 
 ole Nat, 
 Dey too has crossed de shinin' ribber whar de ange , 
 
 What's dat? 
 * ******** 
 
 I yearn a gentle whisper like a banjo playin' near, 
 In leetle notes ob music, dat come saftly to my ear. 
 I b'lieb hit 'twas de angels. Would de good Lord do 
 
 me so, 
 Sen' angels for to welcome me upon dat peaceful 
 
 sho'? 
 I cuarn't be good enuff for sich a blessin', hit 'tain't 
 
 me 
 
 Dem blessed singin' angels was a tryin' for to see. 
 'Tis gone agin. May be hit 'twarn't one ob dem pale 
 
 deff's signs, 
 
232 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 But jes' de wile win' driftin' through de wavy lo\v- 
 
 groun' pines. 
 De ole plantation now ain't like what onct hit ust er 
 
 be, 
 Befo' dem Yankees fotched us w r ar an' sot de niggers 
 
 free. 
 De weeds is in de meadow, an' de pastur ain't no 
 
 count, 
 An' nar a hoss, Marse Charley, dat is fit for you to 
 
 mount. 
 De house is rick'ty, an' de barns an' stable's mos' 
 
 fell down, 
 
 De fences is all busted an' a rottin' on de groun'; 
 De niggers' changed for wuster, an' dey's lef dis 
 
 good ole place, 
 An' ob de things dat onct was our'n dars scacely lef 
 
 a trace. 
 My heart mos' break when Marster died, an' eber 
 
 sence dat day 
 I larned to kno' dat I don't suit dese fokes new 
 
 fashion way. 
 I lub dat cradle in de barn, I lub de ole time plow r , 
 
The Passing of Uncle Isaac. 233 
 
 I don't like none de fangled things de 'ventions brung 
 
 us now. 
 De rose is drapped from off de poach, mos' dried up 
 
 is de spring 
 
 Some ebil's come upon de Ian' an' ruined eb'rything. 
 Hit 'pears to me de lan's got po', de skies ain't near 
 
 so blue, 
 Mos' eb'rything is ole or gone an' Isaac's gwine now 
 
 too. 
 De Sun's gwine down Marse Charley, ain't hit? So 
 
 hit 'pears to me. 
 Hit's gittin' dark in here, so dark, I scace kin hardly 
 
 see. 
 Whar's Nancy? Nancy git de light'ud an' make a 
 
 leetle light, 
 Marse Charley don't want set in here when hit's as 
 
 black as night. 
 You say you'se done hit, you'se done lit hit? Nancy 
 
 is you sho'? 
 Why, Honey, bless you, I cuarn't see no mo'n I could 
 
 befo'. 
 
234 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 I'm feelin' coler too now, an' a chill's come in my 
 
 bres', 
 I spec' dis is a sartin sign 'tain't long befo' my res'. 
 
 * * ******* 
 
 Is dat you callin' 'Poleyun, you'se gwine hab a dance 
 
 to-night? 
 Dat's good ! De clouds is gone by, an' de moon'll be 
 
 shinin' bright. 
 We'll meet down by de cabin dar beneaf de big oak 
 
 tree. 
 Unc' John will fetch his banjo, an' my Becky'll come 
 
 wid me. 
 
 * * ******* 
 
 Yas Sar, yo' hoss is ready an' a standin' at de rack, 
 Marse Ran' done blowed his horn an' rid down 
 yonder wid de pack. 
 
 * * ******* 
 
 Yas M'am, I see dem playin', dey's out yonder in de 
 
 Sun; 
 I'se tole ole Nat, Yas M'am, he ses de dinner's almos' 
 
 done. 
 
 * * ******* 
 
The Passing of Uncle Isaac. 235 
 
 Tears like I'se been a dreamin' ob de ole days dat is 
 
 pas', 
 I saw de ole fokes on de poach, de chilluns on de 
 
 grass, 
 
 I yeard de banjo playin', an' I yeard de niggers sing 
 Dat song about de lowgroun's, an' I danced like 
 
 eb'rything. 
 Ouch! Ouch, Marse Charley, dars a nawful mis'ry 
 
 settin' in 
 
 My chist. My battle wid de inimy is gwine begin. 
 Lord Jesus, I is not afeered, I lubbed you all my 
 
 life, 
 I larnt to from dat angel dat on erf was onct my 
 
 wife. 
 I'm ready now to leab here, an' to come to you dis 
 
 day. 
 I b'liebs in you, Lord Jesus, please wash all my sins 
 
 away ! 
 Marse Charley pray a prar for me; an' would you hole 
 
 my hade? 
 I hilt Marse Ran' dat way when dem mean Yankees 
 
 shot him dade. 
 
236 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Hit feels so good, Marse Charley. Bar! I hear de 
 
 music's hum- 
 Good-bye Marse Charley, far, farwell . Rebeccy, 
 
 I'se done come ! 
 
THE OLD SONG. 
 
THE OLD SONG. 
 
 Down in the lowgrounds where the rustic cabin 
 
 stands, 
 
 And pines lean gaunt against the sky, 
 I hear again the weird carousing of the hands, 
 Their low and quaint old lullaby. 
 Moaning and crooning and strong, 
 Through the grove it sweeps along, 
 The low, sadj negro's song. 
 
 Again 'tis moonlight in a year long gone away 
 
 The Summer breeze a perfume brings 
 From down the sleeping meadow sweet with new 
 
 mown hay, 
 
 And wastral chant of one who sings. 
 Moaning and crooning and strong, 
 Through the grove it sweeps along, 
 The low, sad, negro's song. 
 [239] 
 
240 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 Now like the soughing wind, in solemn, rhymeless 
 
 lay, 
 
 So soft and low and sad it swells; 
 Then stronger still the chorus bursts in sadder way, 
 As it some superstition tells. 
 
 Moaning and crooning and strong, 
 Through the grove it sweeps along, 
 The low, sad, negro's song. 
 
 Beyond the fields and \voods the music fades and dies, 
 
 Then as inspired begins again; 
 The bending pines harmonious with their plaintive 
 
 sighs 
 
 Blend kindly with the weirder strain. 
 Moaning and crooning and strong, 
 Through the grove it sweeps along, 
 The low, sad, negro's song. 
 
 O, night of year from out my happy past remain ! 
 
 Come back from out those days, Old Song ! 
 Sing softly, murmur, croon ye men its old refrain, 
 My memory holds it yet too strong. 
 Moaning and crooning and strong, 
 Through the grove it sweeps along, 
 The low, sad, negro's song. 
 
MAMMY. 
 
MAMMY. 
 
 Did you hear me praying Mammy when you heard 
 
 the angels' call? 
 I was sitting on the cricket near the staircase in the 
 
 hall. 
 They told me you were going to my mother over 
 
 there; 
 And I told the Lord I loved you in the mystery of 
 
 prayer. 
 I remember you, old Mammy, in the days of long 
 
 ago, 
 When a lad in many a mischief I poured out to you 
 
 my woe. 
 I remember well the hoe-cake that you gave me every 
 
 noon, 
 And the bed in which you put me every night, I 
 
 thought too soon. 
 
 [243] 
 
244 Uncle Isaac: or Old Days in the South. 
 
 I can still say " Now I lay me," which you nightly 
 
 prompted then, 
 With the following petitions to the last word, and 
 
 Amen. 
 And with crooning song you won me to the blessed 
 
 rest of sleep; 
 My peace was yours, old Mammy, and when weeping 
 
 you did weep. 
 Boy and man you loved me Mammy, man and boy I 
 
 loved you too, 
 And the bond of love's own making binds me 
 
 Mammy still to you. 
 They have told me in the graveyard you lie buried 
 
 with the dead, 
 But I knew they were mistaken when to me these 
 
 words they said. 
 For thy soul hath lifted upward, and on Nature's 
 
 kindly breast 
 Thy worn body is contenting in the ministry of 
 
 rest. 
 You have met again my mother in the meed of 
 
 sacrifice, 
 
Mammy. 245 
 
 And the angels at that meeting heard my name in 
 
 Paradise. 
 I can hear you calling, Mammy, now from where the 
 
 angels stay, 
 And I'm coming, dear old Mammy, when they show 
 
 me, too, the way. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 Uncle Isaac. U5 
 
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