CHAPTER XXI
WHY THE HONEY BEE DON’T SUCK RED CLOVER
A Corn-shuck chair, tipped back in the sunshine, stood beside a cabin door. Cupe, with crossed legs, one foot resting on a round of the chair, sat balanced thereon. The hanging foot was beating time to an aged violin, keyed to the highest tone, from which came the familiar tune: “Run, Nigger, Run, or White Man’ll Catch You,” a favorite with antebellum darkeys. The hand that held the bow was bandaged, but that did not disturb the peace of mind of the owner or injure in the least the tune he scraped from the loved instrument. Near the door a gaunt coon hound was peacefully sleeping, his nose between his forelegs, the tips of his flabby ears falling to the earth. In front of the negro stood a little girl with clean face and smoothly combed hair. She was clad in oddly cut garments, very prim, stiff, almost fantastic, but faultlessly clean. She was enjoying the music, and from time to time would clap her hands and dance artlessly and joyously. The lively tune, quite out of keeping with the player’s sedate appearance, was accompanied at intervals with snatches of songs, of which the following are fair samples:
Ya—ya—ya—ya—ya,
Look upon de mantelpiece,
Han’ me down my candle grease,
Grease my cart an’ grease my gear,
Grease ole Ball behin’ de ear.
CHORUS.
Dance, chile, dance. An’ a walk ole Hogan walk,
An’ a walk ole Hogan walk. An’ a walk ole
Hogan walk, ole Hogan walk along.
Ya—ya—ya—ya—ya.
De little bee suck de blossom,
De big bee make de honey,
De nigger wo’k terbacky, an’
De white man spen’ de money.
CHORUS.
Dance, chile, dance, etc.
When I went down ter Shin Bone Shank,
De creek wah wide an’ deep,
I put my foot on de grey goose’ back,
An’ she carried me ’cross de creek.
CHORUS.
Dance, child, dance, etc.
At each call of “Dance, chile, dance,” the girl pranced and scampered around in true negro style, and when the chorus was over waited expectant for the next stanza. Occasionally old Cupe excitedly jumped from the chair, holding his violin and bow aloft in his uninjured hand, and with characteristic negro step and comical motion joined in the dance, continuing to sing. Then, seating himself, he changed the tune and sang a few verses, the last one running as follows:
Some fo’ks say dat de nigger won’t steal,
But I caught six in my corn fiel’,
Tied ’em down wid a little piece ob twine.
Up wid my whip an’ I gib ’em ninety-nine.
CHORUS.
Dance, chile, dance, etc.
Wha’d yo’ come from, knock a nigger down,
Wha’d yo’ come from Apalackytown.
Wha’d yo’ come from, knock a nigger down,
Wha’d yo’ come from, Apalackytown.
“Oh, Uncle Cupe,” chimed in the child, “did you whip the
niggers?”
“Yes, chile, yes, and heah am de string what dey wah tied wid. Ya, ya.” And old Cupe pulled a slender piece of twine from beneath a patch, for once more he wore the patched garments of many colours that had been taken from him during his imprisonment.
“Tell me a story, Uncle Cupe.”
“What shall et be ’bout, chile?”
“Anything you will tell me.”
The negro cast his eyes about, and they rested on a jabbering flock of ducks. “I’ll tole you why de turkey say ‘tuck, tuck’ an’ de duck say ‘day,day.’ ”
The child clapped her hands.
“One time de turkey an’ de duck git t’ yargerin’ ’bout which could wake fust in de mahn’n. An’ befo’ dey go t’ sleep dey settle de mattah by ’greein’ among demsels dat de fust dat wake should tole de uddah dat he see de day. Up t’ dis time de two had roosted t’geddah on de groun’, but dis night de turkey tuhn his back on his fren’. De ole turkey roost up in de top ob de tree, an’ early in de mahn’n see de light creepin’ obah de hill; but de duck who sit on de groun’ could n’t cotch de gleamin’. An’ de turkey called down, ‘Tuck, tuck,’ an’ de duck wake up. I tole yo’, chile, dat de duck am a sly crittah. He know dat de stupid turkey see de light, but dat de ole fool had n’t sense nuff t’ say so. An’ de duck hollah back ‘Day, day, day!’ an’ he win de bet. Ebah sense dat time” (and Cupe looked very solemn) “de turkey hab said, ‘tuck, tuck,’ an’ de duck hab said, ‘day, day.’ Ebah sense dat time de turkey hab roost in de tree an’ de duck hab sot on de earf. Dese birds wah close fren’s once, but dey hab monstrous little use fo’ each uddah now.”
The child applauded and said: “Tell me another story, Uncle Cupe.”
Again the negro looked about for an object lesson, and caught sight of a honey bee sucking a white clover head in the grass-plot at his feet.
“I ’ll tole yo’ why de honey bee doan suck red clovah.”
The child repeated her applause, and the old negro continued:
“When de Lawd make de honey bee an’ de bumble bee he make red an’ white clovah de same mahn’n’. An’ de Lawd take de two bees to de fiel’ ob clovah an’ he sot em on de fence an’ ’pared t’ gib ‘’em some ’vice. An’ when dem bees see de clovah patch an’ smell de honey, dey doan wait fo’ no moah observashuns, but make a bre’k fo’ de blos’m, lebin’ de Lawd standin’ ’side de fence; an’ dis actin’ up make de Lawd pow’ful cross. An’ he grab at dem two bees es dey fly ’way, an’cotch de honey bee; but de bumble bee wah too sharp fo’ him an’ git ’way, an’ he hide in de clovah patch. Den de Lawd say t’ de honey bee, what he hold ’twixt his fingahs: ‘Yo’ caint git ’way ’til yo’ make up yoah min’ t’ one ob two tings.’ De bee ax what dey wah, an’ de Lawd spoke de word wid be bark on it:
“ ‘Ef yo’ suck red clovah, yo’ can’t wo’k on Sunday. If yo’ wo’k on week-days an’ Sundays, too, yo’ can’t such red clovah. Yo’ kin take yoah ch’ice.’
“An’ den de bee, he know de Lawd am in earnest, an’ he debate de subject obah ’til de Lawd git tired ob waitin’, an’ say; ‘Ef yo’ doan make yoah min’ up pow’ful quick yo’ ll get de life squeezed out ob yo’; an’ he gib dat bee a leetle squeeze. An’ den de honey bee hollah out dat he choose t’ wo’k eb’ry day ob de week, Sunday an’ all. So de Lawd make him promise not t’ suck red clovah blos’m, ef he ’low him t’ wo’k on Sunday, an’ de honey bee hab nebbah suck a head ob red clovah, nebbah. But de bumble bee, what did n’t make no promise t’ de Lawd, suck bof red an’ white clovah weekday an’ Sunday.” Again the child clapped her hands, and Cupe thrust a fresh leaf of tobacco into his flabby mouth.
“Tell me another story, Uncle.”
The negro shaded his eyes with his unbound hand, and gazed intently over the distant hill. “Chile, what yo’ see com’n’ obah de rise on de Stringtown paff?” The girl turned in the direction indicated, and quickly answered: “A man, Uncle.”
“Jump down, honey, run t’ Aunt Dinah.” Cupe arose with this unceremonious dismissal and walked toward the man, muttering as de did so: “P’r’aps et es bes’ if de conbersashun ain’t hea’d by de honey chile; dah hab be’n bodin’ signs ob late, an’ et may be bes’ fo’ Cupe t’ be alone. Las’ night when de moon go down, de cheer an’ de table creek an’ crack, de kettle move on de harf, de doah push in an’ out, but dah wa’n’t no wind. De sign wah bad, an’ Cupe am suah hat trouble am movin’ ’bout.” He turned back at this juncture, and spoke to the sleeping hound: “Yo’ may come, Dgawge Wash’n’t’n,” and the old dog, obedient to his master’s word, arose, yawned and came to his side.
The stranger was Mr. Wagner, who was warmly welcomed by the negro. Well might Cupe bid him a cordial good-day, for it will be remembered that by means of the patient instruction of Mr. Wagner, illiterate Cupe acquired a knowledge of the Constitution of the United States, and thus saved himself a term in the penitentiary. The tragic occurrence, vivid in the mind of the old negro, led him, on meeting the clerk, to extravagance of speech and to thanks so prolific as to give the hearer no opportunity to say a word.
“An’ t’ t’ink dat Cupe distrusted yo’ when he seed yo’ com’n’ an’ feared dat yo’ brung bad news. Wah dah ebah so mighty a ’stake! Come into de house, Ma’se, an’ take a glass ob milk an’ see de chile what yo’ gladden wid de sight ob Uncle Cupe. Et wah a mighty close shave, Ma’se, an’ t’ t’ink dat Cupe wah afeard yo’ brung bad news.”
The visitor entered the cabin and partook of a drink of fresh buttermilk, but notwithstanding Cupe’s cordial welcome seemed ill at ease. At last he said: “Cupid, you are aware, are you not, that I am appointed guardian for this little girl? What’s her name?”
The countenance of the negro changed in an instant, and he gave expression to the oft-repeated sentence of surprise.
“Spoke ag’n, Ma’se. De name am Susie.”
“I have been appointed guardian for Susie.”
“Yo’ hab moah t’ say; go on.”
“You know, Cupid, that this is not an appropriate place to bring up a child. You and Dinah have not the opportunities necessary to the education and cultivation of the girl. She is the heir of this large farm, and should have the advantages of a good education, and the company of playmates befitting her station.”
The shrewd negro intuitively grasped the meaning of the pointed words of Mr. Wagner.
“An’ why doan yo’ let de nigger go ter de pen’tensh’ry ef yo’ ’tend t’ take ’way de child? What fo’ yo’ lead him back t’ sorrah? Stan up, Dinah, an’ beg fo’ de sake ob de honey deah. Yo’ doan mean et, Ma’se Waghan, yo’ doan mean et; yo’ am jokin’ wid de poo’ ole man. Yo’ ’udn’t take de blos’m, yo’ ’udn’t cave in de heaht ob de two ole fo’ks?”
“Cupid, I am in earnest. The child must remain in my care in Stringtown. Judge Elford appointed me administrator.”
The old slave fell upon his knees, and with uplifted hand, with all the force and extravagance of the nego language, begged for the child he had raised. “De honey am our chile, I foun’ de baby an’ its muddah half starved on de grabe in Bloody Hollah. We wahm et by de fiah, we sit up in de night, an’ watch obah et in de day; we promise de ma’se what wah t’ keer fo’ et es ef et wah de baby chile ob de ma’se hisse’f. Yo’ waon’t take de pritty chile ’way, et am de light ob day t’ de two ole fo’ks who hain’t nuffin else t’ lib fo’.”
“It must be, Cupid: for the child’s sake, it is best. However, you need not feel so disconsolate. Aunt Dinah and yourself will have opportunities to visit Susie often, and she can come to the cabin occasionally. Remember, this is her cabin and land, you and Dinah are her slaves, and you may have the care of the land and live here.”
But explanations and soft words made no impression on either of the negroes. Although Cupid did all the supplicating, it could be seen that Dinah was not less heart-stricken. She stood by Cupe’s side and silently wept, clasping the frightened child, who did not understand, yet realized that she was concerned in the trouble that had fallen on her two friends, the only friends she knew in the world. Weeping she clung to the neck of the old woman.
But the scene finally came to an end, and Mr. Wagner insisted that the child be given to his care. “You may bring her clothes later, Cupe,” he added.
“De clo’s will come befo’ da’k,” replied the old man, “but yo’ bettah let de chile change dem ole slippahs fo’ de new pair. Dem wah put on fo’ de purpose ob de dance.” The change was made, and then Cupe offered no further objection to the decision of the court.
Clasping the frightened little girl in his arms her uncouth but kind-hearted benefactor retreated along the path by which he came. The sobbing child made no resistance nor outcry. Cupe stood in the cabin door, the violin lay at his feet, the flock of ducks jabbered beside the fence, but were unheard, the bumble bee buzzed in the clover patch, but unseen. There was no song now in the heart of the forlorn man, no music, no folklore stories in his soul. His eyes followed the retreating figure of the lank officer with the child in his arms, until together they vanished beyond the crest of the distant hill. Then his faze turned upon the vacant spot where, a short time before, Susie had danced to the tune of his merry violin, and a tear sprang to his eyes and rolled down his wrinkled cheek—the first tear he had shed during the sorrowful interview. Old George Washington lay curled up beside the door, and Dinah on her knees, holding in her hand a child’s plaything—a gourd cut to look like the head of a man—moaned inside the cabin. “An’ dah wah trouble com’n’,” said Cupe; “de sign could n’t lie. When de table an’ de cheer talk t’geddah, an’ de doah move in an’ out in de still night, et am a sign ob saht’n trouble. But dah am deeper trouble yit to come; when de two boys mix in de ’fairs ob de honey gearl, dah am worsah trouble fo’ Cupe.”
Then he spoke to Dinah: “Git up, yo’ fool nigger, what fo’ yo’ blubberin’ like a sick sheep? Doan yo’ know dat eb’ry fellah hab t’ stan’ his own toofache? Doan yo’ know dat cryin’ salty tears doan stop no bleeding heaht? Git de chile some clo’s, fo’ de night am com’n’!”
A little while later the devoted man might have been seen slowly trudging along the path the clerk had trod; over his shoulder he carried a bundle containing the clothing of the child; now at his heels, with downcast head, as if he entered into the sorrow of his master, walked George Washington.