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[Illustration: _Nine Little Tar Heels._]




                            _Tar Heel Tales_

                                   _By
                            H. E. C. Bryant_
                              “_Red Buck_”

                         _Stone & Barringer Co.
                            Charlotte, N. C.
                                  1910_

                            COPYRIGHT, 1909,
                        BY STONE & BARRINGER CO.




TO JOSEPH PEARSON CALDWELL

MOST OF THESE STORIES YOU HAVE SEEN, SOME YOU HAVE PRAISED, WHILE
OTHERS, NEWLY WRIT, YOU HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO SEE ON ACCOUNT OF YOUR
UNFORTUNATE ILLNESS, BUT, TO YOU, THE PRINCE OF TAR HEELS, I DEDICATE
ALL, IN LOVING REMEMBRANCE OF FIFTEEN YEARS OF INTIMATE ACQUAINTANCE,
FAITHFUL FRIENDSHIP, AND MOST DELIGHTFUL COMPANIONSHIP.




PREFACE


These tales, concerning all sorts and conditions of people, were written
by H. E. C. Bryant, better known as Red Buck. As staff correspondent
of The Charlotte Observer, Mr. Bryant visited every corner of North
Carolina, and in his travels over the state wrote many stories of human
interest, depicting life and character as he found it. His first impulse
to publish his stories in book form resulted from an appreciation of
his work by the lamented Harry Myrover, a very scholarly writer of
Fayetteville, who said:

“I have been struck frequently at how the predominant mental
characteristic sticks out in Mr. Bryant. His sense of humor is as keen as
a razor. He sees a farce while other men are looking at a funeral, and
this exquisite sense of humor is liable to break out at any time--even in
church. One may read after him seriously, as he reports the proceedings
of a big event but toward the last the whole thing is likely to burst
out in an irrepressible guffaw, at some very quaint, funny reflection or
criticism, or an inadversion. All this shows out, too, from the personal
side of the man, making him delightful in talk, and altogether one of the
most entertaining fellows one will meet in many a day’s journey.

“I really think there is more individuality about his writings, than
about those of any other writer of the state. Every page sparkles and
bubbles with the humor of the man, and it is a clean, wholesome humor,
there being nothing in it to wound, but everything to cheer and please.”

These words honestly spoken by Mr. Myrover encouraged Mr. Bryant. Red
Buck’s dialect stories soon obtained a state wide reputation, and as
Mr. J. P. Caldwell, the gifted editor of The Charlotte Observer, truly
said: “His <DW64> dialect stories are equal to those of Joel Chandler
Harris--Uncle Remus.”

His friends will be delighted to know that he has collected some of the
best of his stories, and that they are presented here.

In North Carolina there is no better known man than Red Buck. A letter
addressed to “Red Buck, North Carolina,” would be delivered to H. E.
C. Bryant, at Charlotte. Everybody in the state knows the big hearted,
auburn haired Scotch-Irishman of the Mecklenburg colony, who, on leaving
college went to work on The Charlotte Observer and, on account of his
cardinal locks, rosy complexion and gay and game way, was dubbed “Red
Buck” by the editor, Mr. Caldwell. It was an office name for a time. Then
it became state property, and the name “Bryant” perished.

Red Buck has traveled all over the state of North Carolina and written
human interest stories from every sand-hill and mountain cove. Many Tar
Heels know him by no other name than Red Buck. In fact there is a Red
Buck fad in the state, which has resulted in a Red Buck brand of whiskey,
a Red Buck cigar, a Red Buck mule, a Red Buck pig, and a Red Buck
rooster, although the man for whom they are named drinks not, neither
does he smoke.

This book of Tar Heel tales is from Mr. Bryant’s cleverest work.

                                                         THOMAS J. PENCE.

Washington Press Gallery.

December, 1909.




CONTENTS


                                          PAGE

    _Uncle Ben’s Last Fox Race_              1

    _Forty Acres and a Mule_                11

    _The Spaniel and the Cops_              33

    _A Hound of the Old Stock_              43

    _Minerva--The Owl_                      58

    _Uncle Derrick in Washington_           68

    _And the Signs Failed Not_              79

    _The Irishman’s Game Cock_              97

    _Strange Vision of Arabella_           112

    _A <DW64> and His Friend_               125

    _Faithful Unto Death_                  142

    _“Red Buck”: Where I Came By It_       153

    _Until Death Do Us Part_               168

    _Uncle George and the Englishman_      181

    _She Didn’t Like my Yellow Shoes_      191

    _Afraid of the Frowsy Blonde_          199

    _Jan Pier--The Shoeshine_              206

    _William and Appendicitis_             214




ILLUSTRATIONS


                                         PAGE

    _Nine Little Tar Heels_      Frontispiece

    _Uncle Ben_                             1

    _Aunt Matt_                            11

    _Tite, Riding a Democratic Ox_         27

    _Marse Lawrence and Trouble_           43

    _Uncle Derrick at Home_                68

    _Preparing for the Guest_              79

    _Arabella the Day After_              112

    _Jim in a Peaceful Mood_              125

    _William_                             214




[Illustration: _Uncle Ben._]




TAR HEEL TALES




UNCLE BEN’S LAST FOX RACE


“Me an’ Marse Jeems is all uv de ole stock dat’s lef’,” said Uncle Ben,
an ex-slave of the Morrow family, of Providence township.

“Yes, Miss Lizzie, she’s daid, an’ ole Marster, he’s gone to jine her.
It’s des me an’ Marse Jeems, an’ he’s in furrin parts. He sole de ole
farm, all cep’n’ dis here little spot dat he lef’ fur me an’ Ellen. An’
Ellen, she’s daid an’ de ole <DW65>’s by hissef.

“Dey ain’t no foks lak dem here now. De times is done changed. Me an’
Marse Wash wuz de big uns here when he wuz livin’. All dis lan’ an’ dese
farms belonged to him. But Marse Jeems he’s done come to be er fine
doctor, an’ stays in New York.

“Evybudy’s gone an’ lef’ me.

“De horses an’ de houns, too, dey’re all gone.

“I guess I ain’t here fur long, but I sho’ woul’ lak to see ole Marster,
an’ Miss Lizzie, an’ Sam, an’ Cindy, an’ Mollie, de hosses, an’ Joe,
Jerry, Loud, Dinah, Sing, an’ Hannah, de dogs.”

The old darkey was on his death bed. He spoke in a weak but charming
voice. His mind was wandering, returning to the past. He had been his
old master’s hunting companion, his whipper-in, and their black and tan
hounds were famous for speed, casting ahead at a loss and hard driving.
They could catch a red fox or make him take to the earth.

Old Ben was a hunter from his heart. He loved the running dog, the fast
horse and the chase. The pleasant days of years long since passed were
coming back to him. He longed for one more run with the old Morrow
hounds. Those who watched by the death bed in the little cabin, waiting
for the final summons, listened to Ben’s stories of the past. Dr. Smith
had telegraphed for Dr. James Morrow, the last of his family, and told
him that the old man wanted to see him and say good-bye. Loyal to the
last the young master was hurrying from the North to the old home place
to be present when the faithful servant departed this life. He had asked
Dr. Smith to make the last hours as comfortable as possible and to
gratify Uncle Ben’s every wish.

It was almost midnight that October day; the moon was shining gloriously,
the ground damp from recent rain and the weather fine for a fox hunt. The
scenting conditions were well-nigh perfect. Dr. Morrow had just arrived,
but old Ben did not know him.

“Yes, sir, Marse Wash, all’s ready fur de hunt,” said the <DW64> in his
delirium.

“Ever thing’s right an’ ole Hannah’s been clawin’ at my do’ fur de las’
hour. She’s mighty anxious to try dat ole Stinson fiel’ fox dis evnin’.
De horses is done saddled an’ nothin’ to do but start.

“Des listen at Sing an’ Jerry, dey’s powful anxious to go!”

It was pathetic to hear the old fellow talking to his master who had been
dead many years, but he seemed happy. There was no way to stop him if
those there should have desired to do so.

“Blow yo’ horn, boss, an’ let Marse Sam Stitt jine us ef he will. Dat’ll
do, I hear ’im. He’s comin’.”

For a time Uncle Ben was quiet. His lips worked and he seemed to be
talking to himself. But, after a long silence, he lifted his head from
the pillow and exclaimed: “Listen! Listen, Marse Wash! Hear dat bark?
Dat’s ole Sly, Marse Sam’s Georgy dog. She’s done slip in dere an’ strike
er head uv ole Hannah!

“Listen! Hear her callin’? Marse Wash, dat Sly looks lak er steppin’ dog
an’ she sho’ is gwine to give Joe some hard runnin’ dis mornin’ ef we
jump dat Stinson fox.

“Listen, listen, listen, Marse Wash, I hear our dogs puttin’ in! Dere’s
ole Sing, ole Loud and Joe. It’s time fur dat fox to walk erway now, ole
Joe ain’t in no foolin’ way to-night. He sho’ is ready to run. Listen,
Marse Wash, you hear him callin’.”

Uncle Ben dropped back on the pillow, and rested a few minutes. Everybody
in the room was silent. It seemed only an hour or so. The old man had
run his race and his time had come.

“Hear dat, Marse Wash? Listen how dat Georgy lady’s singin’ in dere. She
an’ ole Joe’s neck to neck. Deyer comin’ down thu de Hartis woods now
an’ ’tain’t gwine to be long till dey make dat fox run. Ef it’s de ole
Stinson fox dey’ll ’roust him in de Rea pastur’. Dat’s whay he’s feedin’
dis time er night.

“Dat’s it! Listen, you hear ole Loud crossin’ dat hill? He’s scoutin’
now. De fus’ thing you know he’ll be right behint dat rascal. He ain’t
sayin’ much, but he’s movin’ on.

“Dat’s Joe fallin’ in, an’ Jerry, an’ Dinah!

“Deyer all crossin’ to de pastur. Dat’s whay ole Stinson Fiel’ do his
eatin’ ’bout dis time. Well, ef he’s in dere to-night you’ll hear dem
dogs cry out lak dey wuz mad derectly.”

At irregular intervals the old darkey would stop and catch his breath.
There was a smile upon his face and spirit in his voice. Death came on
and he was having his last fox chase. The old Morrow hounds trailed the
famous Stinson Field fox and were about to make a jump. Capt. Sam Stitt’s
dogs were putting in and the quality of a new hound would be tested. The
contest promised to be exciting.

“Hear dat Sly, wid dat chop, chop bark, an’ er sort uv er squeal! She’s
right wid ole Joe.

“Listen, Marse Wash, ole Loud’s done driv him out!

“Des listen how he’s shoutin’!

“Dey’s gone toads de Big Rock an’ dey sho’ is flyin’. Ef it’s de ole
fiel’ feller he’ll drap erroun’ by de Cunnigin place des to let ’em know
dat he’s up an’ doin’ an den he’ll come back dis way.

“Whoopee, but ain’t dey movin’! Listen at ole Joe wid his ‘yowl’ holler.
He’s des kickin’ dust in de faces uv de res’ uv dem dogs.

“Yes, sir, he’s gone right square to dat Cunnigin place. It’s ole
Stinson an’ he’s walkin’ erbout.

“I des kin hear ’em. Dey’s sucklin’ ’roun de ole house now.”

There was a break in the story. Uncle Ben stopped to rest. The dogs had
gone out of his hearing.

“Listen, Marse Wash, dey’re comin’ back! Ole Joe’s runnin’ lak he’s
skeered. Some dog mus’ be crowdin’ him? Yes, sir, it’s de Stinson fox,
an’ he’s comin’ dis way. See, comin’ over de hill? Dat’s him! Look how
he’s lopin’! He knows dat ole Joe ain’t arter no foolin’ dis night.

“See, yonder’s de dogs! Dey’re travlin’ arter him. Look at dat pale red
houn’! Dat’s Sly, an’ she’s steppin’ lak de groun’ wuz hot! She ain’t
givin’ ole Joe time to open his mouf wide. I knowed some dog wuz pushin’
him.

“Here dey come down to de branch! Ain’t dey movin’? Dey’re goin’ to de
Hartis woods, an’ on toads Providence church. But ain’t dey flyin’? I dis
kin hear dem!”

As the dogs went out of hearing toward the east the old hunter lay back
and hushed his tongue. He was running the race that he had run many times
before.

“Listen, Marse Wash, I hear ’em crossin’ de Providence road, comin’ back.
Dey’re drivin’ to kill ole Stinson now. I ’clar’ fo’ de Lawd I never
heered dat Joe run lak he’s runnin’ dis night. He’s almos’ flyin’.

“But hush, listen, don’t you hear dat ‘Whoo-ark, whoo-ark, whoo-ark’ in
dere? Dat’s Sly, an’ she sho’ is shovin’ dat fox an’ crowdin’ Joe.

“Hear dat? She’s crossin’ de big hill fust.

“Dey’re turnin’! He’s makin’ fur de Big Rock, but he ain’t gut time to
make it.

“Listen, Marse Wash, dat Georgy dog’s ’bout to outdo ole Joe! She’s
comin’ lak de wind. I don’t hear ole Joe. He won’t bark ef he gits
behind. He mus’ be tryin’ to head off dat Sly bitch.

“Look! Yon dey go ’cross de cotton fiel’ an’ Joe an’ Sly is side to side.

“Whoopee, ain’t dey goin’? Ole Joe sho’ is doin’ about, but Sly’s on his
heels.

“Dey’s goin’ to ketch dat fox. Git up Sam an’ less see ’em kill him! Go
on! Come on, Marse Wash!”

For the first time during the night the old darkey became very much
excited and jumped and surged in the bed. Those near tried to calm him.
But the race was almost over. Uncle Ben’s summons had come. The angel of
death was at the door.

“Look, Marse Wash, ole Joe’s in de lead. He sees dat fox an’ he’s done
lef’ Sly. He’s runnin’ fur blood.

“See him! Look! Look! Ole Stinson Fiel’s ’bout to git to de thicket! See,
he can’t make it! Joe’s grabbin’ at him! Look! Look!”

That was all. Uncle Ben was giving up the ghost. Death came on him. The
final summons had arrived. As old Joe bore down the fox the faithful
servant of the Morrow family passed away. As the end drew nigh Dr. Morrow
and Dr. Smith and other friends who had assembled around the bed stood
near and watched the light go out. Everything around was still. Death was
easy.

The remains were buried in the Morrow family’s private burial grounds.
Ben was the last of the old slave stock. In his delirium he had called
back his old master, the old horses and the old hounds, and died happy in
the delusion.




[Illustration: _Aunt Matt._]




FORTY ACRES AND A MULE


“What about your husband and the ‘forty acres and the mule,’ Aunt Matt?”
asked the ruddy-faced young man who had just arrived from the city to
visit his father and mother at the old home place on the farm.

“It’s fine weather, Mister Eddie, an’ de cotton an’ de corn is des
growin’ a inch or two ever’ night,” said Matt Tite, a tall, thin-faced
negress of the ante-bellum type, smiling.

“Don’t evade the question, Matt; tell these boys about Tite and the
carpet-baggers,” insisted the visitor. “Out with it, I want to hear the
story again.”

“Chile, ain’t you never gwine to fergit dat? I walked eight miles to git
here to see you, but ef I’d er knowed dat you wuz gwine to pester me
’bout Tite an’ de Ku Kluxes I sho’ wouldn’t a come.

“I’s done fergit de perticlers uv dat story.”

“You know enough to make it interesting; tell it.”

“Tite’s done fergit de forty acres an’ de mule, an’ ef I des wanter have
er fight, let me mention it in his presence.

“You know Tite wuz one uv Marse John Robinson’s <DW65>s ’fo’ s’render.
Marse John wuz a powerful big man in dem times ef he is po’ now. He had
lots uv lan’ an’ <DW65>s, an’ wuz mighty good to his slaves. Tite wuz a
good <DW65>, an’ Marse John làked him, an’ arter de war he stay on at
de ole place an’ seem satisfied till dem cearpet-baggers (dat’s what de
white folks called dem) fust come sneakin’ around, puttin’ de devil in de
<DW65>s’ haid, promisin’ all kinds uv things, an’ given dem nuthin’ but
trouble.

“’Twuz soon arter s’render when me an’ Tite married. I had b’longed to
Marse Jeems Walkup, an’ a mighty good man, too, he wuz. When I marry Tite
I move to de Robinson place to live wid him, an’ we all git ’long fine
fur a while. Tite he wucked ’bout de farm an’ I hep ’roun’ de Big House.
Ole Miss Jane done say dat she been wantin’ me fur de longes’ sort uv
time.

“One night, when me an’ Tite start ’way fum de kitchen, I seed a rabbit
cross de road in front uv us, an’ I ’low right den dere wuz bad luck
ahead fur him an’ me. Ole Missus uster say ef a rabbit cross yo’ path
somefin’ bad woul’ sho’ happen to you.

“Sho’ nuff, chile, hit done come. Bad times ’gin on dat plantation an’
’roun’ dat neighborhood dat very night. When me an’ Tite git home dar
come ’long a strange white man, lookin’ lak er peddler, totin’ a police
on his arm. Comin’ nigh he say to me an’ Tite, ‘Howdy-do, Miss Robinson
an’ Mr. Robinson?’

“I look ’roun’ to see ef Ole Marses an’ Missus wuz dere, fur I knowed we
wuz no ‘Miss Robinson’ an’ ‘Mr. Robinson.’ But, bless yo’ sole, honey,
he wuz talkin’ to nobudy but me an’ Tite. I look at de man spicious lak
right den, an’ kinder git skeered. He ’gin to talk ’bout sellin’ us some
specs an’ julery, an’ sich lak, but soon he tell Tite dat he’s sont
dere fum de Norf to talk ’bout de comin’ ’lection. He ’low dat he’s been
heerin’ ’bout Tite, an’ tell him dat he’s one of de big <DW65>s uv de
country ef he des only knowed it. Tite he say nuthin’ but de white man
des keep on an’ on.

“‘Yes,’ ’low de man, ‘dey tells me dat you’s one uv de mos’ prominent
cul’ud gentlemens in dis section uv de country. I knows dat’s so fur you
looks smarter dan de res’ I’s seed down here!’

“I seed Tite swell up a little when de man tell him dat. <DW65>s’ haids
des lak white folks’, dey gits mighty big sometime.

“‘Well, Mr. Robinson, dere’s a better day comin’ fur you an’ Miss
Robinson,’ ’clared de white man.

“‘I’s des fum de Norf, an’ come to fetch you good tidens. By dis time of
coase you knows who yo’ frien’s is. You had slav’ry; you’s gut freedum.
Dat’s not all, ef de ’Publikins gits in dis time you’s gwine to have some
uv dis lan’. Yes, you’s gwine to have forty acres uv lan’ an’ a mule to
wuck it wid. You, Tite Robinson, is to have de pic’ uv de lot fur you’s
gut so much sense.’

“Dat man sho’ did have a sharp tongue, an’ knowed how to please a <DW65>.
Tite’s eyes git mighty big while he talk ’bout de lan’ an’ de mule. But
all de time I wuz lookin’ at dat man an’ de way he dress. He look lak a
bad man. Me an’ Tite wuz not use to calls fum white men. No spectable
white person prowled ’bout ’<DW41> de <DW65>s lookin’ dat way. But ’t’wuz
none uv my bizness to meddle wid him an’ Tite. So I says nuthin’ an’ he
goes on wid his putty talk.

“After while he say to Tite: ‘Come inside an’ make a light; I’s gut some
pitchers to show you an’ Miss Robinson.’

“Dat wuz mos’ too much fur me, but I darsen’ cheep. Tite he goes in an’
lights de torch an’ de man he opens up his police an’ takes out some
pitchers. De fust ones had <DW65>s wid chains on, an’ de overseer wid his
whup. Indeed, sir, dem pitchers had de po’ darkey in a bad place. De man
say dat’s de way it wuz in slav’ry time. Den he fotch out some wid Mr.
<DW65> dressed up in fine clothes, wid yaller buttons, dis what de <DW65>
laks. Bless me, ef he didn’t have one wid Tite on a big chestnut hoss,
ridin’ ’roun’ de farm. It look so much lak de <DW65> dat I des laugh out
loud. An’ Tite he grin all over de face.

“‘Dat’s de way Tite’s gwine to look after de ’lection,’ said de man.
‘Dat’s ef de ’Publikins git in.’

“Chile, dat wuz a powful talkin’ man. His tongue go dis lak it wuz
loose at both een’s. When he shet up his police, after givin’ Tite some
pitchers to put on de mantel boa’d, he take de breff fum me by axin’ ef
he kin stay all night. Tite wuz so stuck on him dat he say ‘all right.’
So he stay, but slip out ’fo’ day nex’ mornin’.

“Dat talk an’ dem pitchers stir Tite all up. He’s not de same <DW65> no
mo’. De nex’ day he wuz mean to me, ’cause he seed fum de color in my eye
dat I lak no sich doin’s, an’ he had some words wid Marse John. ’Deed,
sir, he wuz des lak er stubborn mule. Nobudy coul’ do nuthin’ wid him. I
tole him dat he’d better quit foolin’ wid po’ white trash, fur you git
nuthin’ in dis worl’ ’cepin’ whut you wuck fur. But Tite he wuz done gone
’stracted on de forty acres an’ de mule. He des look at hissef on dat big
hoss an’ smile.”

“Matt, do you really think Tite believed he would get the land and mule?”

“Coase he did!” declared the old woman with considerable spirit.

“De same white man meet Tite an’ talk agin, but dat time I wuz away an’
hear nuthin’ uv it. Tite soon ’gin to talk ’bout callin’ a meetin’ uv de
<DW65>s. Mo’ strange <DW65>s dan I ever seed befo’ come dere to talk wid
him, an’ dey all act mighty bigity lak.

“Yes, sir, Tite wuz de big <DW65> in dem parts. Whatever he said de
’tuther <DW65>s done. De ’lection come nigher an’ Tite gits mo’ triflin’
’bout wuckin’ fur de white folks. Him an’ Marse John had a dispute an’
Marse John knock him down wid a stick. Talkin’ woul’ do no good. De
crowds uv <DW65>s kep’ gittin’ bigger an’ bigger an’ mo’ strange white
mens come to see Tite, an’ dey all’ers sneak in at night.

“De white folks lak Marse John and Marse Jeems Walkup ’gin to git tired
uv all dis foolishness. Dey hold a meetin’ demselves, at Marse John’s,
an’ ’scuss how to keep de cearpet-baggers off uv deyer farms an’ git de
<DW65>s back to wuck.

“But, Lawd bless yo’ soul, honey, ’bout dis time Tite cut de highes’ buck
uv all an’ have Marse John ’rested an’ carried to town fur hittin’ him.
Yes, sir, a man wid blue suit an’ brass buttons come an’ git Marse John
an’ take him to Charlotte ’fo’ dat Freedman’s Bureau. You orter heerd de
<DW65>s an’ white foks cryin’, an’ seen ’em takin’ on when de officer
driv’ off wid Marse John. Ole Missus took it mighty hard, so she did, an’
I wuz des as mad es I coul’ be. I knowed dat de devil wuz to pay den, fur
de white foks wuzn’t gwine to put up wid no sich es dat. Deyer day wuz
comin’ agin.”

“Did they put Grandpa in jail?” asked one of the excited children.

“No, honey, but dey mos’ done it. Marse John come back de very nex’ day,
but he wuzn’t de same man. He done gut mad an’ all de res’ uv de white
foks wid him. ’Deed, sir, dey wuz tired foolin’ wid dem cearpet-baggers,
an’ Marse John make Tite git out uv his house de fust thing when he come
back, an’ to tell de truf I didn’t blame him one bit, fur dat <DW65> wuz
des so mean dat nobudy coul’ git on wid him. Ole Miss Jane wuz pow’ful
sorry fur me but I had to go wid Tite. We rented a house fum a town man,
an’ move in. We wuz back fum de road an’ ’way fum de white foks. I never
seed sich a <DW65> es Tite; every day he wuz wusser dan de day befo’. Fum
’sociatin’ wid dem cearpet-baggers he gut high up. Dey done fill his ole
kinky haid wid highferlutin’ talk an’ idees. Every udder night he wuz at
some <DW65> meetin’, stayin’ till ’fo’ day in de mornin’. You woul’ never
know when an’ where dey wuz gwine to meet but dere wuz all’ers lots uv
’em dere. Sometimes dey’d meet at my house an’ it woul’n’t hold ’em all.
De way dem <DW65>s talk when dey meet I des knowed somefin’ bad wuz boun’
to happen.

“Now an’ den, when Tite wuz off politicin’, I woul’ slip off an’ go see
Miss Jane, an’ hear whut de white peoples wuz doin’. Den I beg Tite
to let politicin’ ’lone an’ stay at home, but, no, sir, he knowed his
bizness. His haid wuz sot on dat forty acres an’ de mule, an’ I coul’n’t
do nuthin’ wid him.

“One day Miss Jane read fum de paper whut de Ku Kluxes wuz doin’ to
<DW65>s down in Souf Careliny. You know where ’tis: des over de line down
here ’bout three mile? De piece say dat dey wuz comin’ dis way. She ’low
dat de doin’s uv mean <DW65>s wuz gwine to fetch ’em here.

“An’ let me tell you, chilluns, it wuzn’t long ’fo’ dey come an’ putty
nigh skeered de <DW65>s to deaf.

“But, ’fo’ dey come Tite done run plum mad on de subjec’ uv de ’lection.
I beg him to stop dat foolin’ an’ go back to wuck, but he des go on lak
he never heerd me. Why, honey, de fool <DW65> done ’gin to think he’s
gwine to be Gov’ner. De wust ain’t come yit, fur one day a white man come
’long an’ giv’ Tite what he say wuz a deed fur Marse John’s mill place.
Es he giv’ de paper to Tite he say: ‘Mr. Robinson (talkin’ to nobudy but
Tite), here’s de deed to de mill place an’ you kin have it surveyed as
soon as you laks, fur de ’lection is mos’ here an’ ’twon’t be long ’fo’
you kin git dem forty acres an’ de mule.’

“Tite, he take it an’ hide it under a rock. I seed him lookin’ at it, des
lak he coul’ read, when he know he don’t know B fum bull-foot. One day,
while Tite wuz in Charlotte, I slip de deed out fum under de log where he
hid it, an’ took it over to Miss Jane an’ she say it read lak dis: ‘Es
Samson lifted de serpent out uv de wilderness so I lifted dis po’ <DW65>
out uv $5.’

“Tite done giv’ de man $5 fur drawin’ de deed, an’ he sho’ did think it
wuz er deed fur de mill place, an’, ’cordin’ly, he an’ another <DW65>
sneak down one day, while Ole Marster wuz in Souf Careliny, an’ lay off
whut he want an’ put up rocks to mark de corners. Soon after de ’lection
Tite an’ de yudder <DW65>s uv de Robinson settlement wuz to go to town
an’ git de mules an’, bein’ as Tite w