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'T'MTO RTTMMV
", r ^ T
For
the Sunny South.]
If we But Knew.
,rt our bosom hesitates
oft mu _ adoratl on,
\\ o' 11 n iou(i its ad'
To hLoni pines and waits,
A k 111 . . recognition.
A H' n ‘. J he arts but only knew
Aii'l lf0 ■ lost bv us not knowing!)
<" "?!, 11 not feel the pain we do; .
Wo would, with love, be ever glowing.
r,''X*,Z» bX ° m ™ be ‘
^r'lfwVdored though mute, partakes
n n all\urown emotion.
° f ive would but only speak
hue m.r soul is feeling,
1 ,r' ■ > the joy we madly seek,
A Tli at heart were ours without reserving.
, u„if the sorrow that we feel
A ;S1 our hearts not knowing,
... timidly conceal
U, ( Hir h"S<>ni’s silent glowing;
V f ue'd let our love be known,
break the bonds that sever,
Tit, waiting heart would be our own,
would be ours forever.
I" 0 ' 1 " Walter Harper.
For The Sunny
South.]
OLD BLACK JOE.
[CONCLUDED FROM DEC. 16.]
the amount of cotton picked, the yield of
corn and fodder, the health of the stock
and prospects of the winter’s killing of
pork. It was a good old custom, putting
employer and employee en rapport and
thus insuring law and order on the farm
and good management.
After discussing all matters pertaining
to business, Montgomery remarked: “My
melon patch suffered last night. Some
rascal got in and took the very largest
one I had—a beauty, a real Johnson
watermelon.”
Not a word was said in reply. I looked
anxiously at my husband, who evidently
was thinking on some other subject.
Again said Mr. M “if old Joe hadn't
quit his meanness, I’d think he was the
thief, just like his old tricks; I did look
for the rinds, but the villian didn’t stop to
eat it, fortunately for him.”
I drew a long breath, and felt that I
must change the subject if possible, so I
asked, “How’s your wife this morning,
Mr. Montgomery?” “Her well, mam;
but I declare Mrs. L , that did look
like Joe’s work—and it was a melon I had
marked for you—I mark all the best for
your use; that’s the reason I hate losing
it so.”
I expressed much regret and was pro-
I caUed my little flock together, and
went in, all of us sobered by the
Lne in the garden-all of us sympar
tliizinf with Joe in Ins great trouble and
fearing he might really “die sum ob dese
Jays ” Soon my darlings were prepared
f0 ; bed and offered up their simple
wavers, remembering “Uncle Joe.”
Watched over by their faithful nurse,
Charlotte, slumber took them in her
sweet embrace, and all nature was silent.
p,. I and I carried our armchairs
out on the piazza; the moonbeams fall
ing on the vines and floor, painting
vivid pictures; the night as lovely as the
noted one on which “Troilus sighed his
soul away.” We talked of old Joe and
the hidden depths of his heart, and hop-
in"' that he would be able to still resist
temptation and keep the vows he had
just made.
Then our thoughts followed our
soldier brothers afar off in Virginia and
Maryland fighting for the rights of dear
South-land, wishing for a cessation of
the hostilities which were now devastat
ing our fair country, and hoping that
“the war would soon bo over” and our
boys at home with us, sharing the
abundance of our table and comforts of
our farm.
Again our attention was called by the
opening of the gate, and Joe’s appear
ance. He was bending low under a bur
den which seemed heavy, and, coming
near us, he stooped and rolled to my feet
an immense watermellon; then, stepping
up close to us, said: “Dar is a water mil
lion for you, Misses; de berry biggest one
in my patch. You is so good to me, Mis
sis, so good to ole Joe.”
I thanked him, but insisted that he
should keep it and enjoy the eating of it
himself.
“Dar, Missis, you wont do dat, wont
take ’em, for you an’ de boys?”
I saw that he was wounded, and hesi
tated no longer, but expressed a fear that
he was depriving himself to contribute to
our comfort
“No ma’m, no ma’m; I’se got lots of
watermillions; dey is all fine, but dat is
de boss o«c, a rale Jonson watermillion.”
So I called Charlotte to put it away
with others for to-morrow’s consuming,
while Joe, as he hobbled away, said:
“Please ’em, hab dem seed sabed; its a
rale Jonson watermillion.”
Soon after this episode we grew tired,
and, leaving the loveliness of the moonlit
night, were soon asleep, with our precious
little dock sate around us.
Oh, mothers; weary and tired with the
thousand cares of the day, the multitude
of wants to be supplied to our little chil
dren. the burden of responsibility on our
shoulders, the immortal souls given to our
keeping; what time in life, what hour in
the day, is the happiest? I look to those
days and know it was then, in their sweet
innocent childhood, when “mamma’s”
word of commendation and her tender ca
ress were the prizes of their life, and the
happiest hour was when they were gath
ered in the fold at night, safe at home,
sleeping as innocently as their guardian
angels who hovered over and watched
them through the hours of rest.
The next morning the sun arose on a
cloudless sky, all nature wore its loveliest
liue. The cotton pickers were off to the
field, chattering like blackbirds (which
they do resemble) and almost as black
each one with a sack hung around his or
lier neck, with two baskets, the small one
in the larger and the darky’s head in that,
each one in a hurried condition—for
“Master’’ always gave a prize at “calling
°jf time on Saturdays. That was at the
dinner hour, and after that the women
and children washed and patched their
clothing and the men pursued some avo
cation that brought them in their revenue.
here they went by, laughing, showing
meir white teeth (like ivory), all gossiping
over the great event—Uncle Joe s com
mutation of sentence and release from ex
piation—not exactly in those words, but in
their simple vernacular. ‘‘Uncle Joe 45
gwine to preach ag’in.” -
1 was as glad as they were, and my
little boys’ joy was demonstrated by clap-
ping their hands as he went by with the
trash gang, and yelling out, “Hurrah for
Uncle Joe!” To which salutation ne
bowed his head and shambled on with
quicker step and hopeful look.
. f tte , r breakfast Mr. Montgomery came
tor his half-hour talk with the doctor,
1S n SU ^ custom, at which time they gen
erally discussed the plantation affairs—
fuse in my thanks for his kindness, and
as by this time my husband was noticing
the conversation, I gave him a wavering
look, and said:
“ It could not have been Joe who vas
guilty, as he was with us until a very late
hour last night, and was so penitent, and
seemed to suffer so much that his Master
has released him from his punishment.”
Sure enough, doctor, did you turn the
old fellow loose?”
“Yes, and gave him permission to
preach again,’’ said Dr. L ; and I feel
better about it jnyself.”
“Well, well, well,” cried Mr. M , “I
do believe I am glad too, the old sinner;
I have felt sorry for him myself, but it
did good, Doctor, no doubt about that—
but it's mighty strange about that water
melon. I reckon it was one of our neigh
bors. ”
Off he went, much to my relief, for I
was fearful that by some means old Joe’s
troubles were not over.
So soon as he was out of hearing I hur
ried in to examine my gift of the night
previous, and, sad to relate, there on its
green rind-was a large “ R,” and it was “a
rale Jonson water-million.”
“Well, it was intended for me and I got
it.” I argued and begged Dr. L so
earnestly not to betray Joe, not even let
him know that he was detected, that he
consented and thus we became particeps
criminis.
We were convinced now that Joe was
“in the toils”—no hope for him—might
just as well try to change his color as his
habits, and when we remembered the
pathetic scene in the garden we acknowl
edged that there did exist such a disease
as kleptomania. We had listened to his
apDeal, granted his request, and now to
withdraw forgiveness and indulgence,
would have a worse effect than to let him
return to his prayer-meeting. We could
not understand the poor old negro s heart,
and the least we could do was to imitate
our Divine Master, and bid him “go and
sin no more.” , , , , „
The next night Joe “struck the kettle,
and never did it sound so clear and bell
like in its tones. The “bretherin and sis
ters” came hurrying in, with renewed
zeal and spirituality, and once more
Brother Joe Payne” led the prayer meet
ing. The singing was louder and sweeter,
the prayers more energetic and vehement,
and “dem gals” shouted with more than
their usual activity and old Joe Payne
was so happy that he, too, shouted “Hal
lelujah!” . ,
So I was satisfied. I had carried my
point—the overseer never was told of the
stolen melon. Charlotte saved the seed
or Uncle Joe, and no doubt there exist
still on the plantation some of that very
“Jonson watermillion’s” descendants.
When Brother Lowry came on his
usual round he was informed of Joe’s re
establishment; rejoiced that he had been
reformed (?) and once again he was called
to lead in prayer and song, and his pastor
shook hands with him and called him,
respectfully, “Brother Payne.
The prayer meetings were kept up reg
ularly after that, the negroes seeming
more devout than ever before. So de
voted were they that they convinced me
of the reality of the faith which they
evinced and their devotion to their
church. It was no animal excitement (as
many term it) which developed itself in
their faithful appearance, under all cir
cumstances, at their little church. Their
pittance, which they saved froin their
own small earnings at night or during
their holidays, they added to our pay
ments to “Brother” Towney. They
would give it, esteemed it a privilege to
do so, and if “Brother Joe tuk his n,
why it went in a good cause. So the
church increased in numbers and in dem
onstration and, while we with our young
friends from the two adjacent towns,
Columbus and Aberdeen, froliced and
reveled, the negroes in the Quarter car
ried on their prayers, exhortations and
songs Our feasts with the young sol-
diers, home on furlough, card parties
and dances until late at night did not
last longer than their devout prayers for
Pe ?V, e the d frecdmen of the South should
be given the commendation which they
so e S deserve-f«thM slaves, tned
friends in adversity, ana now, wneu
treated aright, devoted friends in pros-
P< Butbefore they were free, during the
wa ®“ we suffered, were harrassed by care
and adversity. Sickness, sorrow, pain
and death marched along in grim array,
our souls tried to the farthest limit, and
sometimes despair, wrapped in her
black mantle, was crowned queen. The
women of Mississippi, with their little
children, were often left with none to
care for them save the old men, boys
and our faithful slaves. Our men who
were not disabled were in the army,
sending us words of hope and good
cheer, encouraging us to be brave and
trust to them for protection, never neg
lecting in their letters to remember the
“black body-guard” left at home. Alas!
how few returned—on every battle-field
fell some of our bravest and best; in
every hospital “some one’s darling” was
dying a lingering death from typhoid fe
ver and neglected wounds, or for want
of the delicacies which were in wasteful
abundance at their homes. How many
graves marked “unknown” in the ceme
teries are filled with the bodies of our
gallant Mfesissippians? “Unknown” on
earth, but answering “Here! ” when the
roll-call is heard in heaven.
At this remote period it is a difficult
task to recapitulate the trouble and deep
anxieties of our southern women. We
had bid “God-speed” to our best be
loved and sent them on their path of
duty with words of cheer; but oh, the
sad hearts, the bitter tears that were
shed when we knew they were gone,
when we realized that perhaps it was
the last parting, but with heroic hearts
we struggled on, bearing our burdens,
battling with our fears, and lived in a
state of agonized fright and terror.
Well do I remember the night that
Gen. Grierson’s force bivouaced in West
Point, Miss. His pickets were stationed
as far out as the gates of our plantation.
We had seen during the day bright
flames ascending from our farthest
neighbors’ gin houses, the cotton burn
ing with great brilliancy, and the air full
of the odor of burnt sugar and burned
feather beds. The soldiers were destroy
ing everything useful to the people. An
ticipating their arrival at our home, I
gathered together my silver and few val
uables and with the aid of my nurse,
Charlotte, hid them away. Then I dis
tributed food among the negroes in the
Quarter, for them and my little family,
trusting to their fealty. Then as the
shades of night came on I felt as I hope
no woman now living will ever experi
ence. Alone with my children and gov
erness, Miss Abernafhy, a northern lady,
—my house servants living near the
house made me feel secure—the Quarter
strangely quiet, and occasionally a new
blaze in the northwest. At dark the re
port came in from the Quarter that a lot
of soldiers in blue uniforms were at the
gate of the farm, a mile from our dwell
ing, and the “yankee army” in West
Point.
Oh, the terrors of that nfght! Gath
ering my little family around the fire,
we held a consultation. What should
we do? We were helpless—no white
man in the neighborhood; and if there
had been, what safety in that? So after
supper we shut the doors and blinds,
had a good log fire piled high, ani
awaited events. My little folk’s eyes
grew very heavy and*, after much per
suasion, they retired, the faithful Char
lotte promising to sit beside their beds
all night, and we three—the nurse, the
governess and myself—were alone. I
had a pistol, but was afraid to use it; so
we were totally at the mercy of any one
attacking us.
Quiet as death we three sat—occasion
ally speaking in whispers, wondering if
those soldiers at the far-away gate were
coming (in our ignorance, we knew no
thing of picket duty), and so the night
crept slowly on.
Suddenly the dog barked, then, whin
ing recognition, met some one who
opened the gate. I heard footsteps ap
proaching stealthily. Who was it?
What was to be our fate?
God only knows the terror of those
moments—and then a gentle tapping on
the door. Gathering all my courage, I
went forward and asked, “Who’s there?”
No answer.
“Who’s there?” I demanded in harsh
tones, trying to cheat a brave pulsation
into my heart. “Who’s there, I say? ’
boldergrowing.
Soft and low came the whisper, Me,
Missis.”
“Who?” exclaimed I again.
“Me, Missis; old Joe.”
I paused a moment, wondering. “What
do you want, Joe?”
“Nuflfin, Missis, nuffin. Is you got a
good fire?” . . ,
In my suspicions I conjectured, is
that a subterfuge, is my fire a pretext to
get my door open?”
“Yes, Joe; 1 have a good fire. Is that
all?”
“No, ma’m. I jes kum to ax you if de
lilly boys dun gone to bed?”
“Yes, long ago, and fast asleep.”
‘ Tank God for dat. I’se ’fraid dey
skeered.”
“No, we are none skeered, Joe. I am
able to take care of us all. Go on and
go to bed.” _ 5
“No ma’m, no ma?m, ole Joeaint
gwine, Missis; he’s gwine to stay right
here, dat he is.”
Shall I trust him? Poor old Joe—the
only one of all that large plantation to
care for our comfort. So, throwing my
doubts aside for ever, I said:
“Go on, Joe; no one will trouble us. I
have a pistol, you know.”
“Yes’m, Missis, I knows.. You got
Massa’s pistol, and I’se got a gun, too.’’
“Well, then, there is no use in your
staying here. X am afraid you are cold.
“Me cole! Lawd no, Missis; skuse
me, Missis, I gwine to stay wid you an’
de boys.”
“Why, Joe?”
“Kaus, Missis, kaus—.”
“Poor old negro, go home and go to
bed. If you are found here with a gun
those soldiers will shoot you certainly.”
“Let um, Missis. I can shoot, too.”
I expostulated with him; told him I
was not afraid, but really was glad to
hear his faithful voice from the outside.
It served to divert our minds from
what might happen at any moment—the
arrival of the yankee soldiery. After a
short interval, I said again:
“Better go to bed, Joe, it’s awfully
cold.”
“I’se gwine to stay, Missis. If dem
men kum I’ll sass ’em sure—den sum-
body git kill sartin.” ^
“Do you mean it, Joe? Are you going
to stay out there all night and shoot if
the soldiers come?”
“Yes’m, Missis, yes’m. If dey kills
ole Joe, who gwine to keer? Nobody,
nobody but you an’ de boys, Missis. Mas-
sa mos’ die—nobody keer fur ole Joe. I
ain’t got no mammy, I ain’t got no daddy.
Who gwine to keer?”
“I will, old man, and the boys, and
your master—we all care.”
“Tanky, Missis, tanky ma’m, fur dat.
God bress you all. I’se gwine to keep
off dem sojers, see if I don’t.”
I saw he was not to be persuaded to
leave us, and somehow felt safer that he
was so persistent; so returned to the fire
side, where Miss Abernathy sat enjoying
the conversation between Joe and I.
Charlotte, too, was glad for him to be
near, and we were all less afraid now
that he was there. Soon we heard the
crooning of his old song, so sweet to our
listening ears. After awhile he. called:
“Missis! ”
“Yes,” I said.
“Go to bed, you an’ de lady an’ Char
lotte. Go to sleep, too; ole Joe here,
an’ I gwine to die right here in my tracks
’fore dem sojers git in.”
We did not go to bed and, after pray
ing for protection from our Heavenly
Father and for our brave old slave, we
drew our chairs to the fire and sat
quietly, listening for sounds from afar.
The night was dark and gloomy. Oc
casionally the dogs would howl, as if in
fear of approaching danger. The chil
dren, with their dear, faithful nurse,
Charlotte, aside their bed, all in dream
less sleep.
Miss A whispered, “Do you think
they will come?”
“Yes,” is my sad answer, “certain to
be here sometime to-night.”
“What shall we do? What will be
come of us?”
“Alas! I know not. May God have
mercy on us, I pray.”
The whispered conversation aroused
Charlotte, who crept to my side.
“What will they do with me, Missis?”
• “Carry you off. You will be free.”
She hid her head and prayed that God
would let her stay with her dear nurs
lings, she was free enough now.
“Take care, Charlotte,” I said to her.
“You will awaken the children, and if
they see you crying they will be fright
ened beyond measure.”
Again silence, solemn silence. Then
the dogs in the farther Quarter barked
loudly in attack, then yelped and ran as
if beaten.
“There they are!” I exclaim, forget-
ing prudence in my alarm. My children,
awakening, call out:
“Mamma! Charlotte! Uncle Joe!”
“Here I is, lilly Masser, here is ole
Joe. Go to sleep, honey; don’t be ’fraid,”
responded Joe.
I am afraid should he be found with
arms he might be shot, so I call to him:
“Joe!”
“Yes, Missis.”
‘%&o away, please. You may be killed.
They will treat you very badly; do go.”
“Not me, Missis; I’se gwine to stay.”
I plead in vain, so quietly submit. An
other long silence. Then from Joe
comes this question:
“Missis, may I pray?”
“Yes, yes,” we all cry out, feeling the
need of God’s helping hand. So out in
the black darkness of the moonless
night, old Joe kneels and it seems to me
now, after the lapse of many years, I can
hear the earnest tones and broken lan
guage of that prayer for safety, for help,
for rescue for “Missis an’the lilly boys.”
Then Joe asks again: “May I sing?”
It must have struck me as rediculous,
even in the depths of despair, for I
smiled and there was a faint snigger
from the boys. A voice from the
truckle bed says, “Please, Mama, Joe
does sing so goody
We listen to Joe’s cracked voice:
Good Lord, is you cornin’,
Old Satan arter me,
Good Lord, is you cornin’,
A sinner for to see.
As his voice ceased the dogs barked
again, a bustle afar off. the tramp of
horses’ feet in the prairie mud—they
are coming sure enough. They are
most here. I hear “Halt!” The clank
of arms! The rapid gallop again from
the rear. The Quarter is full of horses,
the riders in the dim dawn scarcely per
ceptible. Ah, dear reader, may you
never know the paDgs of a mother s
heart at such a moment! My little chil
dren close gathered around me, the
alarmed women, and I fearing a horrible
fate for us all from unruly, hungry sol
diers, looking for treasure hidden and
destroying our possessions. I step to the
door and ask in a low voice:
“Are you there, Joe?”
I 3
“Yes’m, Missis.”
“Who are they?”
“Yankees, Missis.”
“Can you see them?”
“No, Missis; I smells dem do, dey srot
whiskey; our folks hain’t.”
“How many, Joe?”
“Leben or sebenteen; can’t tell zachv
Missis.”
“What are they doing?”
“Talking, ma’m. I hear one say lie’s
hungry.”
“Where are you, Joe?”
“Hidin’ Missis; hidin’under de steps.”
They are there sure enough. I won
der they don’t rush in on me and take
us all prisoners of war. I turn to Char
lotte and whisper: “Where is the
money?”
She points to her breast, and I know
she has all those Confederate bonds and
money safely hidden. Then I think of
escape with my little crowd and safety
—hidden in a negro cabin. But the sun
is rising, they will see us. And then,
with brave and steady steps, T go to the
door again. I speak to Joe, tell him “if
the soldiers rush in on me, to fire one
good shot and do the best lie can.”
I throw open my door and walk out; I
raise my hand and call, “Gentlemen!”
One rides forward and speaks. I am
too far from the gate to hear him. Ob,
how my heart beats; how can I exist in
the power of the enemy.
I tell Joe to go forward and ask wliat
they want. He, with faltering steps and
grasping his gun, goes to do my bid
ding.
“Missis sez what you men want?”
“ Victual*,” replied the angry soldier,
“and that mighty quick” (I could hear
him plainly). “Ef you don’t get ’em I’ll
riddle your old blank earcas!’’
Here comes Joe, pufling, mad, and aw
fully scared.
“Dey axed me a riddle, ma’m, an’
called me an ole cuss.”
Bolder growing, I walk forward and
in angry tones ask: “Are you Yankees
or Confederate soldiers?”
“Why, madam,” replied an officer,
“we are Forrest’s scouts. Grierson is
driven from West Point and we are look
ing for stragglers.”
Ah! My God! From dark night into
brilliant day! Rescue! Safety!
I raise my hands to heaven and thank
Him for it all. I shout aloud, all join
ing in with me, the women and my little
children crying with joy.”
“Hurry, come, get down, brave men,
here is food for man and horse,” I ex
claim, clapping my hands, and praising
God. Old Joe calls, “Cum quick, Char
lotte, Missis got ’ligion! ” And so I had
—a new faith, never, never to doubt
Him again. And then to feed those
hungry soldiers. They did not doubt
their welcome, and enjoyed our excite
ment. The food was soon cooked and
placed before them. They grasped
great pieces of meat and bread and hur
ried to the horses as the blare of a
trumpet to the northwest fell upon their
ears. Forward, march! They were
gone, galloping away to join their leader,
while we, feeling safe again, cheered
them on their way.
“The cruel war was over.” Thank
God for peace, though it brought loss
and disaster to us—yet it was peace.
Freedom had a strange effect on “ole
black Joe.” He became lion st; he
worked harder than ever, earned all he
could honestly. He was always indulgdll
by us, we kept him from the position of
a slave.
As the years rolled on old Joe became
bent with age, his snowy, kinky hair in
strange contrast with his black wrinkled
face; his eyes were bleared and red, as
all o!d negroes’are, yet to my sons he
was very attractive. They gathered
around to hear him talk of “de good
ole times,” and to get him to join them
in a ’possum hunt—he added gusto to
its charms.
So he lived to a ripe old age, never
knowing that he had been both a martyr
and a hero, until at last old Joe did “go
to de Promised Land one day.”
Peace to his ashes.
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