FullReads

A slatternly negro woman dawdled down the street the following afternoon, and, encountering a friend of like description near the cottage which had been tenanted by Louie Gratz and his niece, paused for conversation.

“Howdy, honey,” she began, leaning restfully against the gate-post. “How’s you ma?”

“She right spry,” returned the friend. “How you’self an’ you good husban’, Miz Mo’ton?”

Mrs. Morton laughed cheerily. “Oh, he enjoyin’ de ‘leckshum. He ‘uz on de picnic yas’day, to Smeltuh’s ice-houses; an’ ‘count er Mist’ Maxim’s gittin’ ‘lected, dey gi’n him bottle er whiskey an’ two dollahs. He up at de house now, entuhtainin’ some ge’lemenfrien’s wi’de bones, honey.”

“Um hum.” The other lady sighed reflectively. “I on’y wisht my po’ husban’ could er live to enjoy de fruits er politics.”

“Yas’m,” returned Mrs. Morton. “You right. It are a great intrus’ in a man’s life. Dat what de ornator say in de speech f’m de back er de groce’y wagon, yas’m, a great intrus’ in a man’s life. Decla’h, I b’lieve Goe’ge think mo’ er politics dan he do er me! Well ma’am,” she concluded, glancing idly up and down the street and leaning back more comfortably against the gatepost, “I mus’ be goin’ on my urrant.”

“What urrant’s dat?” inquired the widow.

“Mighty quare urrant,” replied Mrs. Morton. “Mighty quare urrant, honey. You see back yon’eh dat new smallpox flag?”

“Sho.”

“Well ma’am, night fo’ las’, dat Joe Cribbins, dat one-eye nigger what sell de policy tickets, an’s done be’n havin’ de smallpox, he crope out de back way, when’s de gyahd weren’t lookin’, an’, my Lawd, ef dey ain’t ketch him down in dat Dago cellar, tryin’ sell dem Dagoes policy tickets! Yahah, honey!” Mrs. Morton threw back her head to laugh. “Ain’t dat de beatenest nigger, dat one-eyed Joe?”

“What den, Miz Mo’ton?” pursued the listener.

“Den dey quahumteem dem Dagoes; sot a gyahd dah: you kin see him settin’ out dah now. Well ma’am, ‘cordin’ to dat gyahd, one er dem Dagoes like ter go inter fits all day yas’day. Dat man hatter go in an’ quiet him down ev’y few minute’. Seem ‘t he boun’ sen’ a message an’ cain’t git no one to ca’y it fer him. De gyahd, he cain’t go; he willin’ sen’ de message, but cain’t git nobody come nigh enough de place fer to tell ’em what it is. ‘Sides, it ‘leckshum-day, an’ mos’ folks hangin’ ‘roun’ de polls. Well ma’am, dis aft’noon, I so’nter’n by, an’ de gyahd holler out an’ ask me do I want make a dollah, an’ I say I do. I ain’t ‘fraid no smallpox, done had it two year’ ago. So I say I take de message.”

“What is it?”

“Law, honey, it ain’t wrote. Dem Dago folks hain’t got no writin’ ner readin’. Dey mo’ er less like de beasts er de fiel’. Dat message by word er mouf. I goin’ tell nuffin ’bout de quahumteem. I’m gotter say: ‘Toby sen’ word to liebuh Augustine dat she needn’ worry. He li’l sick, not much, but de doctah ain’ ‘low him out fer two weeks; an’ ‘mejutly at de en’ er dat time he come an’ git her an’ den kin go on home wheres de canary bu’d is.’ Honey, you evah hyuh o’ sich a foolishness? But de gyahd, he say de message gotter be ca’yied dass dataways.”

“Lan’ name!” ejaculated the widow. “Who dat message to?”

“Hit to a Dutch gal.”

“My Lawd!” The widow lifted amazed hands to heaven. “De impidence er dem Dagoes! Little mo’ an’ dey’ll be sen’in’ messages to you er me!–What her name?”

“Name Bertha Grass,” responded Mrs. Morton, “an’, nigh as I kin make out, she live in one er dese little w’ite-paint cottages, right ‘long yere.”

“Yas’m! I knows dat Dutch gal, ole man Grass, de tailor, dass his niece. W’y, dey done move out dis mawn, right f’um dis ve’y house you stan’in in front de gate of. De ole man skeered er de smallpox, an’ he mad, too, an’ de neighbuhs ask him whuh he gwine, he won’t tell; so mad he won’t speak to nobody. None on ’em ’round hyuh knows an’ dey’s considabul cyu’us ’bout it, too. Dey gone off in bofe d’rections–him one way, her ‘nother. ‘Peah lak dey be’n quollun!”