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THE 'KUNNLLT PROTEGE
HE race of “afore-de-war” darkies is
fast passing away, and those that re
main are curious specimens well worth
studying. Such a one was Uncle Will.
Old Uncle Will was a family institu
tion, and had been for nobody knows
how long. It did not seem as if he
could ever have been young, so well did
■ » <*■'
■ his bald black head and pompous man-
ner befit the dignify of his years. He was the
body-servant of the “Runnel” when the latter
was as yet a lad, and loved and served him with
a devotion that is unknown to the young people
of the “New /South.”
The affection was returned; for I verily believe
my father, the “Runnel,” loved the old fellow,
and his services were rewarded during his declining
years, for he was borne with until the unthinking
and hard-hearted younger generation declared that
patience ceased to be a virtue. For it must be
admitted, in the beginning of this faithful record,
that Uncle Will was as arrant an old scoundrel
as ever breathed.
Like most negroes, he lived from hand to mouth,
and was constantly falling back on his beloved
families for aid, both gastronomic and financial,
to say nothing of all the “Runnel’s” old clothes
which were his regular perquisites.
“I war de Runnel’s body-servant 'fore he war
married,” lie explained to me not long ago; “I
know’d all he folks, an’ when dees har niggers
say day gwine to wo’k for you-alls I tell ’em
’tain’t no po’ white trash day’s wo’kin’ fur.”
“Well, Uncle Will, how old are you, anyhow?”
I asked.
“It just like dis, Miss Mary,” he replied, “I
know’d one time how old I was, an’ den I put it
down every year on a piece of paper, but I done
loss de paper now, an’ I’ll tell you near as I kin
riccollict how I figures. When de war broke out
I’d done been married, an’ I had me a boy, oh,
jest a fair-sized stripling, an’ he went off to de war
an’ he never come back. Now, Miss Mary, figur
ing from dat boy, how old dat make me?”
The problem was a rather hard one, but I de
cided he was nearly eighty, which he thought was
about right.
When the first of my father’s children was born
the old fellow sat on the floor of the porch in the
cold all night and when my father found him there
the next morning he explained that he had waited
in case they wanted a messenger.
When we left our old home for a large
town we did not move our domestics with us, as
both men and women had families, and we didn’t
care to transport the whole tribe. But it was not
many weeks before the sound of Uncle’Will’s deep
voice filled the kitchen, and the smell of his old
cob pipe, the neighborhood.
There was a good deal of loose lumber left over
after our new home was repaired, and this my
father allowed Uncle Will to take and build himself
a shanty on some land just out of town. Uncle
Will borrowed our team, moved the lumber out to
the place, and then I noticed him for several days
very industriously mending small places in the
fence. But he soon found a bad place and applied
to my father for an order for three pounds of
nails which was unsuspectingly furnished. I took
it upon myself to examine the fence, and found
three boards replaced with the new nails. The
rest had doubtless been taken in part payment
for his labor.
Duly settled in his new home, Uncle Will’s next
care was to take unto himself a better-half and
something over, in the shape of two well-grown
step-daughters, and as all three of his new family
possessed uncurbed dispositions and regarded Un
cle Will as a necessary evil in the domestic ecni
omy of the family, his life thereafter was not al
together as peaceful as hitherto.
Delicacy forbids my prying into the unevenness
of any matrimonial path, but one case brought up
The Golden Age for April 11, 1907.
By Sarah Herbert Walton
for arbitration, involved so fine a point that it
should be of interest to the world.
“Mrs. Uncle Will” visited her relatives in a
neighboring town, and on her return was dutifully
met by her devoted one-fourth, but somehow tlv
reception did not reach her expectations, and war
was declared. Poor Uncle Will, as well as his
personal injuries would permit, was allowed to
meditate all night upon a certain much discussed
question, reposing, meantime, upon the cold, cold
ground, while his family remained in possession
of the house.
In the morning an armed neutrality was patched
up, and a committee of two awaited the decision
of the arbitrator, said arbitrator being the “Run
nel.” “Mrs. Uncle Will” stated her case first.
It seems that Uncle Will, while glad to see her,
had not offered to embrace or caress her, and a*
she had friends on the train to whom she had di
lated largely concerning the fondness of her new
husband, this was her grievance.
Then Uncle Will took the floor.
“Now, ‘Runnel,’ I’ll jest leave it to you. Is
it parlimentary for a man ter kiss his wife afore
dose niggers?”
The “Runnel” deliberated and finally ruled that
while it could not be considered “parlimentarv”
to be demonstrated in public places, still, in the
future, he would advise Uncle Will to stretch a
point and gratify his good lady. As this pleased
both of them they went away together like two
children.
Uncle Will could not remain idle, so he wheedled
my soft-hearted father into clearing and fencing
several acres of farm land that adjoined the L t
on which he had allowed Uncle Will to build, that
they might “farm-on-shares,” and each spring we
might least on fresh garden truck and our live
stock flourish on green food.
Behold the farm in readiness and spring com
ing on apace, but, 10, a difficulty presents itself!
“Runnel,” said Uncle Will one day, “kin I git
one of the bosses ter plough de fiel’?”
The family protested at one of the carriage
horses being ploughed, but so great was the old
rascal’s influence that he finally triumphed and we
contented ourselves with fondly fancying our farm
well under way, and we dreamed dreams of the
future.
But Saturday night there is a surprise in the
shape of a young negro who demands pay for
helping Uncle Will plough.
We thought Uncle Will would do the work him
self, and on first thought would send the appli
cant to the one who hired him, but on reflection,
decided as he lives on my father’s land, wears
his old clothes, and eats about eight meals a week
at our house, he is not likely to have much ready
cash, so we pay the account with a slight demur.
Chancing to look from my back window a few
days later I saw our team hitched to our wagon,
with the latter containing a generous load of fer
tilizer I had prepared for my flower garden. I
remonstrated with the old negro, but he showed
me quite plainly that our farm could not prosper
without fertilizer, and left me rendered speechless
by the qustion: “Whar’s I gwine git it if I doan
git it haar?” I begin to wonder if any of the
money I was to save on fresh vegetables will be
left by summer, and when, soon after, my father,
half laughing, handed me a bill presented him by
our seed man “for seed I let your old negro have;
he said it would be all right as you all were farm
ing on shares,” the last hopes of my crop literally
went to seed.
Ploughing time came again all too soon and since,
with unpardonable negligence, we had not in
formed Uncle Will that his drafts on us would not
be honored this time, the self-same youngster ap
peared again for more remuneration. But we were
hardened this time to Uncle Will’s audacity and
paid up almost cheerfully.
The trees have shed their blossoms, the birds
are domesticated all around us and our Southland
has taken on the garb of late spring, which is
really almost summer. My green-grocer passes
me by with a reproachful glance (and a tempting
looking wagon) after I have haughtily informed
him that we are raising our own vegetables this
year. Our family clamor for lettuce, tomatoes,
new potatoes; and our grocery bill, for canned
goods, amounts up, while we wait patiently for
Uncle Will.
I hear he still eats in the kitchen several times
a week, but somehow I can never see him. Final
ly, I catch him, and when I demand certain things
he regards me ’as though pitying my ignorance, and
tells me, “Dey ain’t hardly up yit, and ain’t no
wise ready for picking.” Others “is past dey
season, an’ owing to the dry spell we had here
back, is mostly gone to seed.” But in spite of this
disappointment, hope springs up anew when he tells
me that his big crop will be watermelons, and when
the family hear this good news their complaints
subside completely. In the meantime I am re
quested to cultivate my green-grocer, which I pro
ceed to do.
iSummer glows all around us, and spreads her
hot glare over the face of the earth, but we bear
it without a murmur, for is it not ripening our
melons? The red-hearted, luscious fruit is in al!
the markets, but we prefer it perfectly fresh and,
therefore, wait on Uncle Will. One of the boys
goes as far as to buy a tub and place it in a
shady nook of the back porch, and we see, in im
agination, the large, green melon reposing in cool
water waiting for the cutting time. “Aren’t they
ever going to get ripe, Uncle Will?” the boys
demand, cautiously adding: “We arc coming out
to the farm tomorrow to get one ourselves.”
Alas, life is full of disappointment. Only
small, green melons remained, but the boys were
informed, confidentially, that a band of “no-count
young niggers” had been in the neighborhood the
night before and stolen every melon. However,
justice was sure to overtake the thieves, for Uncle
Will had “sot a trap,” which would “cotch ’em,
shore.” Notwithstanding this consolation, the
youngest boy wept bitterly.
Shortly after this we went to the mountains for
the summer, leaving behind us the now vexed
question of “farming on shares.” One day, in the
fall, on entering my father’s office quietly by a side
door, I heard voices, and not wishing to interrupt
I dropped into a chair and waited. Imagine my
surprise when I heard Uncle Will telling of two
loads of fine corn, a load of hay and a bank of
sweet potatoes which were to be delivered to us
on receipt of market price, cash down. I held my
breath while I waited to see what would be my
father’s reply to the old rascal’s outrageous de
mands, but I might have known how it would be.
Uncle Will’s persuasive powers were unequalled,
and my father meekly paid for forage that had
already been bought at least twice over.
Uncle Will did not leave immediately; there
was evidently something on his mind.
“Runnel, you know dem six fine shoals what you
give me ter raise on shares?”
“Yes, Will.”
“Well, Runnel, you see dey was growing pow
erfully, but las’ night some low-down nigger done
stole de three finest I was a-counting on killin’
for you-alls. I’m powerful sorry, an’ I wisht dey’d
tooken one of mine, nohow; but, Runnel, dey jest
seem like dey’d spotted yonr’n.”
Who could blame one so innocent, and yet the
occurrence “might produce in the sinful a smile.”
And this is all true, and more, too, and Uncle
Will lives today on his ill-gotten gains.
“My dear,” said Mr. N. to Mrs. N., “what name
did I understand you to call the new hired girl?”
“Japan,” replied Mrs. N. sweetly. “And, pray,
why such an odd name, my dear?” “Because she
is so hard on China, love.” —Detroit Free Press.
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