Bypaths in Dixie: Folk Tales of the South. Sarah Johnson Cocke
fum one side de country ter de uth’r knows day fixin’ ter break.”
“Mammy, Mister Rooster wants some more biscuit.”
“I ’speck he do; did yer ev’r know er man dat wus satisfied wid what wus give him? Yas, Lawd! dat rooster’ll stan’ dar an’ peck vit’als long es you thows hit ter ’im, eb’n whin he feel hissef bustin’ wide op’n; he’ll stretch his neck ter git one mo’ bite whilst he’s dyin’.”
“Who’s dyin?”
“Nobody ain’t dyin’, caze dat rooster ain’ gwina git ernuf fum me an’ you ter do him no harm.”
“Make him telephone again.”
“Nor, he say he want ter pass er lit’le conversation wid Sis Hen, an’ Miss Pullet, an’ tell ’em, mebbe ef dey scratch hard ernuf, dey’ll fine some crum’s er his but’r’d biskit.”
“Why didn’t Mister Rooster save ’em some?”
“Who, dat rooster?” Phyllis shook her head. “Dem wimmen hens doan git nuthin’ but whut dey scratches fur,” then thoughtfully she added: “Cose all roosters ain’ ’zackly erlike. Dey’s er few, but recoleck I says er pow’ful few, dat saves mos’ ev’ything fur de hens an’ chickens; den der’s some uv ’em dat saves right smart fur ’em; den der’s er heap uv ’em dat leaves ’em de crum’s, but de res’ er de rooster men fokes doan leave ’em nuthin’, an’ de po’ things hatt’r scratch fur der sefs.”
“Less give Sis Hen and Miss Pullet some biscuit too,” Mary Van insisted.
“You think Willis’s pa got ter feed all de po’ scratchin’ hens in dis worl’?—well, he ain’t.”
“Give ’em this piece. It hasn’t got any butter on it.” Willis handed her the bread.
“Lawsee,” she threw up the disengaged hand and brought it down softly on the little boy’s head, “but ain’t you ’zackly like all de uth’r roosters—an’ hens too fur dat matt’r—willin’ ter give ’em dat ole crus’ atter you done eat all de sof but’r’d insides out’n it!”
A lusty crow sounded from the rooster in the yard.
“Mammy, what did Mister Rooster say?”
“He say ‘dey’s er good little boy in h-y-a-h,’ ” trilled Phyllis, imitating the rooster’s crow.
Willis smiled while his hands unconsciously clapped applause. Slipping from her lap, he ran about the room flapping his arms and crowing: “There’s a good little boy in h-e-r-e, there’s er good little boy in h-e-r-e.”
Mary Van started in the opposite direction: “There’s a good little girl in h-e-r-e.”
“Hush, Mary Van,” commanded Willis; “you can’t crow, you’ve got to cackle.”
“I haven’t neether; I can crow just as good as you. Can’t I, Mammy Phyllis?”
“Well,” solemnly answered Phyllis, “it soun’ mo’ ladylike ter heah er hen cackle dan ter crow, but dem wimmen hens whut wants ter heah dersefs crow is got de right ter do it,” shaking her head in resignation but disapproval, “but I allus notice dat de roosters keeps mo’ comp’ny wid hens whut cackles, dan dem whut crows. G’long now an’ cackle like er nice lit’le hen.”
II
OLD MAN GULLY’S HANT
“Put some bread crumbs on top of the barrel, Willis, and less see if he can peck it off,” suggested Mary Van in baby treble.
The Langshan seemed to understand, for he watched Willis with interest as he crumbled the bread; and after due consideration, and with an almost human scorn towards the hens, measured his steps to the barrel, and stretching his long neck, removed every crumb from the top. After this he slowly raised one foot as though to return to the company of hens, but changing his mind, stood with the foot poised in air and one eye apparently fixed upon Phyllis.
“Come on, chillun, I ain’ gwine stay hyah an’ let dat ole chicken conjur me.”
“I don’t want to go, Mammy, I want to stay and feed the chickens,” protested Willis.
“I want to see him eat off the barrel some more,” pleaded Mary Van.
“Dat rooster ain’t no chicken, I tell yer, ’tain’ nuthin’ in dis worl’ but er hant.”
This closed the argument, for they felt the mysterious influence of “hants” that was upon Phyllis, hence they followed like the meekest of lambs until she stopped at her own room in the yard. After stirring some embers to a flickering sort of blaze, she looked insinuatingly about her and broke into an excited whisper: “Whinsomev’r yer sees enything right shiny black, widout er single white speck on hit nowhar, you kin jes put hit down in yo’ mine, dats er hant! ’Tain’ no use ter argufy erbout it; dem’s de creeturs dat speerets rides whin dey comes back ter dis worl’. An’ ’twas one er dem same black, biggity Langshans dat ole man Gully’s hant come back inter.” Phyllis had taken her seat by this time, and the children had scrambled into her lap. “Sakes erlive! You all mos’ claw me ter death. How yer ’speck erbody ter be hol’in’ two growd up fokes like youall is?” But the children continued to climb, one on each knee. Phyllis put out her foot and dragged a chair in front of her. “Hyah stretch yer foots out on de cheer, an’ mebby ef yer sets still, I kin make out ter hole yer.”
“Mammy, where do hants stay?” asked Willis.
“Hants is ev’r whars,” she looked about her; “dis hyah room right full uv ’em now.”
Mary Van’s head was immediately buried on the old woman’s shoulder, while Willis’s arms locked tightly around her neck.
“Yas,” she continued, in low mysterious tones, “dis whole wurl’s pack’d full uv ’em, but ’tain’ no use ter git skeer’d, long es dey ain’ got no bisnes’ wid you. De time ter git skeer’d is whin you sees ’em!” (A scream from Mary Van answered by a tremor from Willis.) “Some fokes doan git skeer’d den, kaze dey knows ’tain’ no use ter git skeer’d er good speerets—hit’s jes dese bad hants dat does de damage.”
“Tell us about a good, good spirit, Mammy,” came in muffled tones from Mary Van.
“Cause we don’t want to hear about bad old hants,” finished Willis.
“How yer speck me ter tell yer enything wid you chokin’ me, an’ Ma’y Van standin’ on her haid on m’ should’r. Set up like fokes—you hole dis han’ an’ let Ma’y Van hole dis un, an’ I’ll tell yer ’bout old man Gully’s hant.”
“Ole man Gully wus de biggites’ creetur’ you ev’r seed; he jes nachilly so biggity he ’fuse ter do er lick er wurk. Plantin’ time er harves’ time ain’ make no diffunce ter ole man Gully. He set up on his front po’ch an’ smoke his pipe, an’ read de newspaper an’ eat same es one dese ole buckshire hogs, whilst his old lady, an’ de chilluns, an’ der ole nigg’r Abe, done all de wurk.
“Ole