Moriah\'s Mourning and Other Half Hour Sketches
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Ruth McEnery Stuart >> Moriah\'s Mourning and Other Half Hour Sketches
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"I 'clare, I talks like a plumb hycoprite, missy--I sho' does. But I
ain't. No, 'm, I ain't. Of co'se I grieves for Sis' Sophy-Sophia. I'd
grieve for any po' human dat can't find rest in 'er grave--an' I'm gwine
to consolate her, good as I kin. Soon as de dark o' de moon comes, I
gwine out an' set on her grave an' moan, an' ef dat don't ease her,
maybe when her funer'l is preached she'll be comforted."
"And hasn't she had her funeral sermon yet, Tamar?"
"Oh no, 'm. 'Tain't time, hardly, yit. We mos' gin'ly waits two or
three years after de bury-in' befo' we has members' funer'ls preached.
An' we don't nuver, sca'cely, have 'em under a year. You see, dey's a
lot o' smarty folks dat 'ain't got nothin' better to do 'n to bring up
things ag'in dead folks's cha'acter, so we waits tell dey been restin'
in de groun' a year or so. Den a preacher he can expec' to preach dey
funer'ls in peace. De fac' is, some o' our mos' piousest elders an'
deacons is had so many widders show up at dey funer'ls dat de chu'ches
is most of 'em passed a law dat dey compelled to wait a year or so an'
give all dese heah p'omiscu'us widders time to marry off--an' save
scandalizement. An' Pompey an' Sophy-Sophia dey didn't have no mo'n a
broomstick weddin' nohow--but of co'se _dey did have de broomstick. I'm
a witness to dat, 'caze dey borried my broom--yas, 'm._ Ricollec', I
had one o' dese heah green-handle sto'e brooms, an' Pompey he come over
to my cabin one mornin' an' he say, 'Sis' Tamar,' he say, 'would you
mind loandin' Sis' Sophy-Sophia dat green-handle straw broom dat you
sweeps out de chu'ch-house wid?' You 'member, I was married to Wash
Williams dat time--Wash Williams wha' live down heah at de cross-roads
now. He's married to Yaller Silvy now. You know dat red-head
freckled-face yaller gal dat use to sew for Mis' Ann Powers--always
wear a sailor hat--wid a waist on her no thicker'n my wris'--an' a
hitch in her walk eve'y time she pass a man? Dat's de gal. She stole
Wash f'om me--an' she's welcome to 'im. Any 'oman is welcome to any man
she kin git f'om me. Dat's my principle. But dese heah yaller freckle
niggers 'ain't got no principle _to_ 'em. I done heerd dat all my
life--an' Silvy she done proved it. Time Wash an' me was married he was
a man in good chu'ch standin'--a reg'lar ordained sexton, at six
dollars a month--an' I done de sweepin' for him. Dat's huccome I
happened to have dat green-handle sto'e broom. Dat's all I ever did git
out o' his wages. Any day you'd pass Rose-o'-Sharon Chu'ch dem days you
could see him settin' up on de steps, like a gent'eman, an' I sho' did
take pride in him. An' now, dey tell me, Silvy she got him down to
shirt-sleeves--splittin' rails, wid his breeches gallused up wid twine,
while she sets in de cabin do' wid a pink caliker Mother Hubbard
wrapper on fannin' 'erse'f. An' on Saturdays, when he draw his pay,
you'll mos' gin'ally see 'em standin' together at de hat an' ribbon
show-case in de sto'e--he grinnin' for all he's worth. An' my belief is
he grins des to hide his mizry."
"You certainly were very good to do his sweeping for him." Tamar's
graphic picture of a rather strained situation was so humorous that it
was hard to take calmly. But her mistress tried to disguise her
amusement so far as possible. To her surprise, the question seemed to
restore the black woman to a fresh sense of her dignity in the
situation.
"Cert'ny I done it," she exclaimed, dramatically. "Cert'ny. You reckon
I'd live in de house wid a man dat 'd handle a broom? No, ma'am. Nex'
thing I'd look for him to sew. No, ma'am. But I started a-tellin' you
huccome I come to know dat Pompey an' Sis' Sophy-Sophia was legally
married wid a broom. One day he come over to my cabin, jes like I
commenced tellin' you, an' he s'lute me wid, 'Good-mornin', Sis' Tamar;
I come over to see ef you won't please, ma'am, loand Sister Sophy-Sophia
Sanders dat straw broom wha' you sweeps out de chu'ch-house wid, please,
ma'am?' An' I ricollec's de answer I made him. I laughed, an' I say,
'Well, Pompey,' I say, 'I don't know about loandin' out a chu'ch broom
to a sinner like you.' An' at dat he giggle, 'Well, we wants it to
play preacher--an' dat seems like a mighty suitable job for a chu'ch
broom.' An' of co'se wid dat I passed over de broom, wid my best
wushes to de bride; an' when he fetched it back, I ricollec', he
fetched me a piece o' de weddin'-cake--but it warn't no mo'n common
one-two-three-fo'-cup-cake wid about seventeen onfriendly reesons
stirred into it wid brown sugar. I 'clare, when I looks back, I sho'
is ashamed to know dat dey was ever sech a po' weddin'-cake in my
family--I sho' is. Now you know, missy, of co'se, dese heah
broom--weddin's dey ain't writ down in nuther co't-house nur chu'ch
books--an' so ef any o' dese heah smarty meddlers was to try to bring
up ole sco'es an' say dat Sister Sophy-Sophia wasn't legally married,
dey wouldn't be no witnesses _but me an' de broom_, an' I'd have to
witness _for it_, an'--an' _I_ wouldn't be no legal witness."
"Why wouldn't you be a legal witness, Tamar?"
"'_Caze I got de same man_--an' dat's de suspiciouses' thing dey kin
bring up ag'ins' a witness--so dey tell me. Ef 'twarn't for dat, I'd
'a' had her fun'al preached las' month."
"But even supposing the matter had been stirred up--and you had been
unable to prove that everything was as you wished--wouldn't your
minister have preached a funeral sermon anyway?"
"Oh yas, 'm, cert'n'y. On'y de fun'al he'd preach wouldn't help her to
rest in her grave--dat's de on'ies' diffe'ence. Like as not dey'd git
ole Brother Philemon Peters down f'om de bottom-lands to preach
wrath--an' I wants grace preached at Sister Sophy-Sophia's fun'al, even
ef I has to wait ten years for it. She died in pain, but I hope for her
to rest in peace--an' not to disgrace heaven wid crutches under her
wings, nuther. I know half a dozen loud-prayers, now, dat 'd be on'y too
glad to 'tract attention away f'om dey own misdoin's by rakin' out
scandalizemint on a dead 'oman. Dey'd 'spute de legalness of dat
marriage in a minute, jes to keep folks f'om lookin' up dey own weddin'
papers--yas, 'm. But me an' de broom--we layin' low, now, an' keepin'
still, but we'll speak when de time comes at de jedgmint day, ef she
need a witness."
"But tell me, Tamar, why didn't Pompey take his bride to the church if
they wanted a regular wedding?"
"Dey couldn't, missy. Dey couldn't on account o' Sis' Sophy-Sophia's
secon' husband, Sam Sanders. He hadn't made no secon' ch'ice yit--an',
you know, when de fust one of a parted couple marries ag'in, dey
'bleeged to take to de broomstick--less'n dey go whar 'tain't known on
'em. Dat's de rule o' divo'cemint. When Yaller Silvy married my Joe wid
a broomstick, dat lef' me free for a chu'ch marriage. An' I tell you,
_I had it, too_. But ef she had a'tempted to walk up a chu'ch aisle
wid Joe--an' me still onmarried--well, I wush dey'd 'a' tried it! I'd
'a' been standin' befo' de pulpit a-waitin' for 'em--an' I'd 'a' quoted
some Scripture at 'em, too. But dey acted accordin' to law. Dey married
quiet, wid a broomstick, an' de nex' Sunday walked in chu'ch together,
took de same pew, an' he turned her pages mannerly for her--an' dat's de
ladylikest behavior Silvy ever been guilty of in her life, I reckon. She
an' him can't nair one of 'em read, but dey sets still an' holds de book
an' turns de pages--an' Gord Hisself couldn't ax no mo' for chu'ch
behavior. But lemme go on wid my washin', missy--for Gord's sake."
Laughing again now, she drew a match from the ledge of one of the
rafters, struck it across the sole of her bare foot, and began to light
the fire under her furnace. And as she flattened herself against the
ground to blow the kindling pine, she added, between puffs, and without
so much as a change of tone:
"Don't go, please, ma'am, tell I git dis charcoal lit to start dese
shirts to bile. I been tryin' to fix my mouf to ax you is you got air
ole crepe veil you could gimme to wear to chu'ch nex' Sunday--please,
ma'am? I 'clare, I wonder what's de sign when you blowin' one way an' a
live coal come right back at yer 'gins' de wind?" And sitting upon the
ground, she added, as she touched her finger to her tongue and rubbed a
burnt spot upon her chin: "Pompey 'd be mighty proud ef I could walk in
chu'ch by his side in full sisterly mo'nin' nex' Sunday for po' Sister
Sophy-Sophia--yas, 'm. I hope you kin fin' me a ole crepe veil, please,
ma'am."
Unfortunately for the full blossoming of this mourning flower of
Afro-American civilization, as it is sometimes seen to bloom along the
by-ways of plantation life, there was not a second-hand veil of crepe
forth-coming on this occasion. There were small compensations, however,
in sundry effective accessories, such as a crepe collar and bonnet, not
to mention a funereal fan of waving black plumes, which Pompey
flourished for his wife's benefit during the entire service. Certainly
the "speritu'l foster-sister" of the mourning bride, if she witnessed
the tribute paid her that Sunday morning in full view of the entire
congregation--for the bridal pair occupied the front pew under the
pulpit--would have been obdurate indeed if she had not been somewhat
mollified.
Tamar consistently wore her mourning garb for some months, and, so far
as is known, it made no further impression upon her companions than to
cause a few smiles and exchanges of glances at first among those of
lighter mind among them, some of whom were even so uncharitable as to
insinuate that Sis' Tamar wasn't "half so grieved as she let on." The
more serious, however, united in commending her act as "mos'
Christian-like an' sisterly conduc'." And when, after the gentle
insistence of the long spring rains, added to the persuasiveness of
Tamar's mourning, the grave of her solicitude sank to an easy level,
bespeaking peace to its occupant, Tamar suddenly burst into full flower
of flaming color, and the mourning period became a forgotten episode of
the past. Indeed, in reviewing the ways and doings of the plantation in
those days, it seems entitled to no more prominence in the retrospect
than many another incident of equal ingenuousness and novelty. There was
the second wooing of old Aunt Salina-Sue, for instance, and Uncle
'Riah's diseases; but, as Another would say, these are other stories.
Another year passed over the plantation, and in the interval the always
expected had happened to the house of Pompey the coachman. It was a tiny
girl child, black of hue as both her doting parents, and endowed with
the name of her sire, somewhat feminized for her fitting into the rather
euphonious Pompeylou. Tamar had lost her other children in infancy, and
so the pansy-faced little Pompeylou of her mid-life was a great joy to
her, and most of her leisure was devoted to the making of the pink
calico slips that went to the little one's adorning.
On her first journey into the great world beyond the plantation,
however, she was not arrayed in one of these. Indeed, the long gown she
wore on this occasion was, like that of her mother, as black as the
rejuvenated band of crepe upon her father's stovepipe hat; for, be it
known, this interesting family of three was to form a line of chief
mourners on the front pew of Rose-of-Sharon Church on the occasion of
the preaching of the funeral of the faithfully mourned and long-lamented
Sophy-Sophia, whose hour of posthumous honor had at length arrived. The
obsequies in her memory had been fixed for an earlier date, but in
deference to the too-recent arrival of her "nearest of kin" was then too
young to attend, they had been deferred by Tamar's request, and it is
safe to say that no child was ever brought forward with more pride at
any family gathering than was the tiny Miss Pompeylou when she was
carried up the aisle "to hear her step-mammy's funeral preached."
It was a great day, and the babe, who was on her very best
six-months-old behavior, listened with admirable placidity to the
"sermon of grace," on which at a future time she might, perhaps, found a
genealogy. Her only offence against perfect church decorum was a
sometimes rather explosive "Agoo!" as she tried to reach the
ever-swaying black feather fan that was waved by her parents in turn for
her benefit. Before the service was over, indeed, she had secured and
torn the proud emblem into bits; but Tamar only smiled at its demolition
by the baby fingers. It was a good omen, she said, and meant that the
day of mourning was over.
THE DEACON'S MEDICINE
When the doctor drove by the Gregg farm about dusk, and saw old Deacon
Gregg perched cross-legged upon his own gatepost, he knew that something
was wrong within, and he could not resist the temptation to drive up and
speak to the old man.
It was common talk in the neighborhood that when Grandmother Gregg made
things too warm for him in-doors, the good man, her spouse, was wont to
stroll out to the front gate and to take this exalted seat.
Indeed, it was said by a certain Mrs. Frequent, a neighbor of prying
proclivities and ungentle speech, that the deacon's wife sent him there
as a punishment for misdemeanors. Furthermore, this same Mrs. Frequent
did even go so far as to watch for the deacon, and when she would see
him laboriously rise and resignedly poise himself upon the narrow area,
she would remark:
"Well, I see Grandma Gregg has got the old man punished again. Wonder
what he's been up to now?"
Her constant repetition of the unkind charge finally gained for it such
credence that the diminutive figure upon the gate-post became an object
of mingled sympathy and mirth in the popular regard.
The old doctor was the friend of a lifetime, and he was sincerely
attached to the deacon, and when he turned his horse's head towards the
gate this evening, he felt his heart go out in sympathy to the old man
in durance vile upon his lonely perch.
But he had barely started to the gate when he heard a voice which he
recognized as the deacon's, whereupon he would have hurried away had not
his horse committed him to his first impulse by unequivocally facing the
gate.
"I know three's a crowd," he called out cheerily as he presently drew
rein, "but I ain't a-goin' to stay; I jest--Why, where's grandma?" he
added, abruptly, seeing the old man alone. "I'm shore I heard--"
"You jest heerd me a-talkin' to myself, doctor--or not to myself,
exactly, neither--that is to say, when you come up I was addressin' my
remarks to this here pill."
"Bill? I don't see no bill." The doctor drew his buggy nearer. He was a
little deaf.
"No; I said this pill, doctor. I'm a-holdin' of it here in the pa'm o'
my hand, a-studyin' over it."
"What's she a-dosin' you for now, Enoch?"
The doctor always called the deacon by his first name when he approached
him in sympathy. He did not know it. Neither did the deacon, but he felt
the sympathy, and it unlocked the portals of his heart.
"Well"--the old man's voice softened--"she thinks I stand in need of
'em, of co'se. The fact is, that yaller-spotted steer run ag'in her
clo'esline twice-t to-day--drug the whole week's washin' onto the
ground, an' then tromped on it. She's inside a-renchin' an' a-starchin'
of 'em over now. An' right on top o' that, I come in lookin' sort o'
puny an' peaked, an' I happened to choke on a muskitty jest ez I come
in, an' she declared she wasn't a-goin' to have a consumpted man sick on
her hands an' a clo'es-destroyin' steer at the same time. An' with that
she up an' wiped her hands on her apron, an' went an' selected this here
pill out of a bottle of assorted sizes, an' instructed me to take it.
They never was a thing done mo' delib'rate an' kind--never on earth. But
of co'se you an' she know how it plegs me to take physic. You could
mould out ice-cream in little pill shapes an' it would gag me, even ef
'twas vanilly-flavored. An' so, when I received it, why, I jest come out
here to meditate. You can see it from where you set, doctor. It's a
purty sizeable one, and I'm mighty suspicious of it."
The doctor cleared his throat. "Yas, I can see it, Enoch--of co'se."
"Could you jedge of it, doctor? That is, of its capabilities, I mean?"
"Why, no, of co'se not--not less'n I'd taste it, an' you can do that ez
well ez I can. If it's quinine, it'll be bitter; an' ef it's soggy
an'--"
"Don't explain no mo', doctor. I can't stand it. I s'pose it's jest ez
foolish to investigate the inwardness of a pill a person is bound to
take ez it would be to try to lif the veil of the future in any other
way. When I'm obligated to swaller one of 'em, I jest take a swig o'
good spring water and repeat a po'tion of Scripture and commit myself
unto the Lord. I always seem foreordained to choke to death, but I
notice thet ef I recover from the first spell o' suffocation, I always
come through. But I 'ain't never took one yet thet I didn't in a manner
prepare to die."
"Then I wouldn't take it, Enoch. Don't do it." The doctor cleared his
throat again, but this time he had no trouble to keep the corners of his
mouth down. His sympathy robbed him for the time of the humor in the
situation. "No, I wouldn't do it--doggone ef I would."
The deacon looked into the palm of his hand and sighed. "Oh yas, I
reckon I better take it," he said, mildly. "Ef I don't stand in need of
it now, maybe the good Lord'll sto'e it up in my system, some way,
'g'inst a future attackt."
"Well"--the doctor reached for his whip--"well, _I_ wouldn't do
it--_steer or no steer_!"
"Oh yas, I reckon you would, doctor, ef you had a wife ez worrited over
a wash-tub ez what mine is. An' I had a extry shirt in wash this week,
too. One little pill ain't much when you take in how she's been
tantalized."
The doctor laughed outright.
"Tell you what to do, Enoch. Fling it away and don't let on. She don't
question you, does she?"
"No, she 'ain't never to say questioned me, but--Well, I tried that
once-t. Sampled a bitter white capsule she gave me, put it down for
quinine, an' flung it away. Then I chirped up an' said I felt a heap
better--and that wasn't no lie--which I suppose was on account o' the
relief to my mind, which it always did seem to me capsules was jest
constructed to lodge in a person's air-passages. Jest lookin' at a box
of 'em'll make me low-sperited. Well, I taken notice thet she'd look at
me keen now an' ag'in, an' then look up at the clock, an' treckly I see
her fill the gou'd dipper an' go to her medicine-cabinet, an' then she
come to me an' she says, says she, 'Open yore mouth!' An' of co'se I
opened it. You see that first capsule, ez well ez the one she had jest
administered, was mostly morphine, which she had give me to ward off a
'tackt o' the neuraligy she see approachin', and here I had been tryin'
to live up to the requi'ements of quinine, an' wrastlin' severe with a
sleepy spell, which, ef I'd only knew it, would o' saved me. Of co'se,
after the second dose-t, which I swallered, I jest let nature take its
co'se, an' treckly I commenced to doze off, an' seemed like I was a
feather-bed an' wife had hung me on the fence to sun, an' I remember how
she seemed to be a-whuppin' of me, but it didn't hurt. Of co'se nothin'
couldn't hurt me an' me all benumbed with morphine. An' I s'pose what
put the feather-bed in my head was on account of it bein' goose-pickin'
time, an' she was werrited with windy weather, an' she tryin' to fill
the feather-beds. No, I won't never try to deceive her ag'in. It never
has seemed to me thet she could have the same respect for me after
ketchin' me at it, though she 'ain't never referred to it but once-t,
an' that was the time I was elected deacon, an' even then she didn't do
it outspoke. She seemed mighty tender over it, an' didn't no mo'n remind
me thet a officer in a Christian church ought to examine hisself mighty
conscientious an' be sure he was free of deceit, which, seemed to me,
showed a heap 'o' consideration. She 'ain't got a deceitful bone in her
body, doctor."
[Illustration: "SAYS SHE, 'OPEN YORE MOUTH.' AN' OF CO'SE I OPENED
IT"]
"Why, bless her old soul, Enoch, you know thet I think the world an' all
o' Grandma Gregg! She's the salt o' the earth--an' rock-salt at that.
She's saved too many o' my patients by her good nursin', in spite o' my
poor doctorin', for me not to appreciate her. But that don't reconcile
me to the way she doses you for her worries."
"It took me a long time to see that myself, doctor. But I've reasoned it
out this a-way: I s'pose when she feels her temper a-risin' she's 'feerd
thet she might be so took up with her troubles thet she'd neglect my
health, an' so she wards off any attackt thet might be comin' on. I
taken notice that time her strawberry preserves all soured on her hands,
an' she painted my face with iodine, a man did die o' the erysipelas
down here at Battle Creek, an' likely ez not she'd heerd of it. Sir? No,
I didn't mention it at the time for fear she'd think best to lay on
another coat, an' I felt sort o' disfiggured with it. Wife ain't a
scoldin' woman, I'm thankful for that. An' some o' the peppermints an'
things she keeps to dole out to me when she's fretted with little
things--maybe her yeast'll refuse to rise, or a thunder-storm'll kill a
settin' of eggs--why, they're so disguised thet _'cep'n thet I know
they're medicine_--"
"Well, Kitty, I reckon we better be a-goin'." The doctor tapped his
horse. "Be shore to give my love to grandma, Enoch. An' ef you're bound
to take that pill--of co'se I can't no mo'n speculate about it at this
distance, but I'd advise you to keep clear o' sours an' acids for a day
or so. Don't think, because your teeth are adjustable, thet none o' yore
other functions ain't open to salivation. _Good_-night, Enoch."
"Oh, she always looks after that, doctor. She's mighty attentive, come
to withholdin' harmful temptations. Good-bye, doctor. It's did me good
to open my mind to you a little.
"Yas," he added, looking steadily into his palm as the buggy rolled
away--"yas, it's did me good to talk to him; but I ain't no more
reconciled to you, you barefaced, high-foreheaded little roly-poly, you.
Funny how a pill thet 'ain't got a feature on earth can look me out o'
countenance the way it can, and frustrate my speech. Talk about whited
sepulchures, an' ravenin' wolves! I don't know how come I to let on thet
I was feelin' puny to-night, nohow. I might've knew--with all them
clo'es bedaubled over--though I can't, ez the doctor says, see how me
a-takin' a pill is goin' to help matters--but of co'se I wouldn't let on
to him, an' he a bachelor."
He stopped talking and felt his wrist.
"Maybe my pulse is obstropulous, an' ought to be sedated down. Reckon
I'll haf to kill that steer--or sell him, one--though I swo'e I
wouldn't. But of co'se I swo'e that in a temper, an' temp'rate vows
ain't never made 'cep'in' to be repented of."
Several times during the last few minutes, while the deacon spoke, there
had come to him across the garden from the kitchen the unmistakable odor
of fried chicken.
He had foreseen that there would be a good supper to-night, and that the
tiny globule within his palm would constitute for him a prohibition
concerning it.
Grandmother Gregg was one of those worthy if difficult women who never
let anything interfere with her duty as she saw it magnified by the
lenses of pain or temper. It usually pleased her injured mood to make
waffles on wash-day, and the hen-house owed many renovations, with a
reckless upsetting of nests and roosts, to one of her "splittin'
headaches." She would often wash her hair in view of impending company,
although she averred that to wet her scalp never failed to bring on the
"neuraligy." And her "neuraligy" in turn meant medicine for the deacon.
It was probably the doctor's timely advice, augmented, possibly, by the
potencies of the frying-pan, with a strong underlying sympathy with the
worrying woman within--it was, no doubt, all these powers combined that
suddenly surprised the hitherto complying husband into such
unprecedented conduct that any one knowing him in his old character, and
seeing him now, would have thought that he had lost his mind.
With a swift and brave fling he threw the pill far into the night. Then,
in an access of energy born of internal panic, he slid nimbly from his
perch and started in a steady jog-trot into the road, wiping away the
tears as he went, and stammering between sobs as he stumbled over the
ruts:
"No, I won't--yas, I will, too--doggone shame, and she frettin' her life
out--of co'se I will--I'll sell 'im for anything he'll fetch--an' I'll
be a better man, yas, yas I will--but I won't swaller another one o'
them blame--not ef I die for it."
This report, taken in long-hand by an amused listener by the road-side,
is no doubt incomplete in its ejaculatory form, but it has at least the
value of accuracy, so far as it goes, which may be had only from a
verbatim transcript.
It was perhaps three-quarters of an hour later when Enoch entered the
kitchen, wiping his face, nervous, weary, embarrassed. Supper was on the
table. The blue-bordered dish, heaped with side bones and second joints
done to a turn, was moved to a side station, while in its accustomed
place before Enoch's plate there sat an ominous bowl of gruel. The old
man did not look at the table, but he saw it all. He would have realized
it with his eyes shut. Domestic history, as well as that of greater
principalities and powers, often repeats itself.
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