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A Realistic Ante-Bellum
Its Strange Latter Day Sequel
Atlanta, Ga. t Week Ending February 8, 1902
Drama;
"You were not raised here, were you?” "-Vo, bless God Marster, I ’uz raised up in ole Bartow
County, on de Etywah.”
1 n Two Parts Part One
Intertwined with Mr. Byrd’s pathetic
story of the ante-bellum south, is a won
derful picture of conditions during three
phases of southern history; the slavery
era the horrors of civil war and the
radically altered situation after the long
years of peace. The story also is a beau
tiful tribute to the old-time negro.
By S M Byrd
rarely walks
go single fil*
AST year while visiting some
relatives in one of the sub
urbs of Atlanta, I noticed
a couple of aged dar—ies
who passed the gate early
every morning and return
ed about dark. They al
ways had some kind of
loads, and what tirst at
tracted my attention was
their habit of walking
apart. This is one thing
that Us characteristic of the
old-time country negro. lie
with his wife, preferring to
The old woman who passed
my gate always came about ten steps be
hind her husband, never gaining or losing
any. They were generally conversing in a
low tone, and invariably spoke to any one
on the place, though I have seen them
pass other people and negroes without
a word.
I had long desired to know the history
of this Interesting old couple, and one
afternoon the opportunity came. It had
been a hot. oppressive day, and a .er din
ner I had gone out on the front piazza
to stretch myself upon the hammock. For
perhaps half an hour I had been watch
ing the angry clouds g3ther, when sud
denly there began such a rain as we
have nowhere except in the south. See
ing the old pair pass jusf then, I signed
for them to stop in.
“Bbenin', marster,” began the old man,
just as if he had known me for years,
•'how is yo' dis ebenin'? ’Pears lak de des
pull de bung out dis ebenin', sho!”
"Do rain falls on de jus' an' de unjus’,”
said his wife, as they sat down upon an
empty flower stand, "an’ 1’se glad de good
I-awd lemme git onder shelter.”
The first violent shower had now passed,
and there was a steady, musical down
pour, the kind that is so refreshing on a
sultry day.
"I am glad that I kept you from getting
wet,” said I; “now tell me something
about yourself; you were not raised here,
were you?*’
"No, bless Gord, marster; I uz raised
up in old Bartow county, on de Etywah.
I 'longst ter Dr. Malvern, an' Biddy, dar,
'longst ter old Cunnel Evart, dat is, till
she 'longst ter me—yah—yah!”
"YVhy’nt yo’ 'have yo’ se T f. nigger, an’
t« ii do gemman what yo’' knows; don t
’bout
creek
place
i ant
since
makin’ er fool or vo’ se’f." said his spouse.
"Marster, wuz yo' eber at dem two
places? De sit 'bout er mile eipart, rite
dost ter de Etywah ez yo' go*s out de
Shinbone road fum Cyartersv lie. Say
yo’ wuz? I knowed yo' raus’ er come
fum up dar somars; yo’s sho’ 'tuff qual
ity. Dar dis spring? Wuz de ole Mal
vern place dar vit, w'.d de marbl- colyums
whut ’uz cut fum de Topknot quary up
de riber. and do big bay window-? An’ is
de barn an' quarters dar, an' degin ’ouse,
half er mile back, on Tanner's
An’ how 'bout he de Evart
is de chimleys stan'in' or yit. er
has somebody done tuck on bull ernuther
house ter 'em?"
T assured him that the place: had not
changed much during my r*collection;
that the Evart place was a wase, the dis-
heirst having been nt lav over it
1R79, and that the old Mavern home
had been sold for taxes, and bought up
by a merchant, of Cartersville,one Drum
monds, who had moved out tire.
"Name er Gord, what right lat ar po
white trash got ter lib in u os house?
Marster tuck on kicked 'ini oven de door
oust for trvin’ ter ke.ep com] ny wid he
niece. Miss J.ucy Malvern, wurr visitin'
dar fum Ferginyer.
“Dat sho’ ! .s er fine count.-, marster,
wid de riber bottom Ian’s rite bel, an' de
edwn rows so long tel! yo’ Jn see whar
de come togedfr; don’t hit in' de end
an’ do wheat wid e clover in
t hit so purty an’ grfea yo' wants
ter git down an' roll ober init.
"Dish yer country des lakle people in
it. no manner er count. Boo. at dat cyar
full er niggers gwine by ot dar. ->ow
I lub ter git dem pplty uuclts
er mule erpieca, ar dem yaller
gals whut’s drest s fine, hung
Seovy hoe up dar o' de Etywah
bottoms, an' mo in ’hine'em wid er
whup. 'stid uf ’em ridin' in »m evars big
Jz white fokes. Dish yer yatg ginc-ration
;ers ain' wuff killin .
“Ur-r-r," he continued, oaing his eyes
at the clouds, "ef 1 'uz up c de old place
tomorrow, wouldn’ I ketch Mi. “
“Tomorrow’s de Sabbuf,” it in old Bid
dy, "an' de debbil gwi’ g yo' fo’ des
sic'h talk. Dat's huccome « Bawd wud-
let yo’ stay dar w'etyo’ dar, yo’
•d all Sundays we’n y|p'tendin' ter
ligion.”
scriptur’ say ‘pull < steer outen
on de Sabbuf,’ an-ose r.o steer
gwi' wuk on de Sabbuf, stse ter git he
se'f in de gully, an' I lak r know ef I
sees er fish in de Etywah.g ez er sieer
ter pull 'im outfDat's de pint
er dat scriptur’.”
"Yo' settin' in de seat £de scornful,”
no 'em;
'mong;
■wouldn’
holt uv
nigger
ter er
er m
den
fishe
seek ’
"De
de gull\
responded Biddy, "an’ de debbil got er
mortgage on yo" hide rite now. Whyn’t
yo’ go on an’ tell de gemman 'bout Miss
Hope an’ Marse Curtis, 'stid er perfanin'
de scriptur’s?”
I expressed my desire to hear of the
persons in question, for the history of a
family that has once inhabited a beauti
ful old ante-bellum southern home never
fails to excite my keenest interest.
"Well, hit 'uz dis erway: Vs'es places
on Marse Cunnel Evart's 'uz rite in sight
er one nurr. des lak my young Marse Cur
tis an' Miss Hope Evart wuz mos’ er de
time. Marster give me ter Marse Curtis
w en he Ii'le bitsy baby, ter be he servant
an' 'long ter him; an" lakwise Cunnel
Evart give Miss Hope er pow'ful black
nigger gal (‘List’n at de pot’.' growled
Biddy) w'en she ’uz horned de nex’ fall.
Dat’s huccome hit so nachul fer us all
ter git ter minglin’ an - ’mirin'. We 'uz
swe“thearts des natchul born an’ bred!”
"Don’ yo’ list'n at dat nigger's lies, mar
ster." broke in his wife. “Me and Miss
Hope des hed more beaus dan we cud
shake er stick at. De wuz dar 'pechully
fum Rome an' 'Gusta, an' eben Ferginyer,
des pesterin' us all de time. I des had ter
take dat lyin’ nigger dar ter git rid uv
'im. Hit uz de Bawd's judgment sont
on me fer de sins er de third an" fourth
gineration.”
"Yo' lemme norate de tale now,” said
the old man. “Dem Chilians des growed
up togerr an' de sho’ had er good time.
De 'uz de mos' diffunt. ter be so much
erlike, I eber seed, fur Marse Curtis hed
brown eyes an' qulriv black har, an' when
"e git mad 'e use ter th’ow dat liaid back
an’ shake dem quirls outen his eyes, an’
den yo’ better look out. But Miss Hope
she hed rite blue eyes, whut mek me
t'ink ’bou# e^ angel, an’ her har quirly,
foo. but hit de color er de big brass dog-
i’ons in de parlor w’en mistis speck'in'
comp'ny, an' hed de Ii'le niggers scour ’em
wid ashes an’ er cawn cob, an’ hit look
lak some cawn silks tuck an' got mixed
in wid it. Marse Curtis useter call er red-
haided till she got so she wudden ride de
big gray ertall, an’ den he try ter sof'-
sodder her 'roun' by tellin’ 'er she got har
lake Ellinor Troy, er Tree-er-platter, er
some sich name.
"De use ter hate one anurr w'en de rite
young, kase de fokes 'uz allers gwine on
'bout 'em bein’ sweethearts, ana sich like.
Cunnel Evart an' marster got er tutor fer
’em bofe, an’ marster hed ter whup Marse
Curtis ter mek 'im go ober ter de din
ners de fus’ day, an’ w'en 'e did go 'e
sot dar in de eornder an’ suiled des lak er
young 'possum whut po’ an’ spiteful.
(Dat's de kine dat always so rambunc
tious, de so Ii’le an' po' de run same ez
er coon, an' clime de bigges’ tree, an'
w'en yo' wuek yo'se’f mos’ ter def ter git
'urn eotch, de don’ hardly mek de skllllt
stink!) Well, Marse Curtis wudden speak
ter de Ii’le gal, do' she tried eber way,
eben gibin’ 'im de cookies whut —am
Dilsy hed done halted fer her, an' de gret
big tears come moro’n onct, but twar' no
use 'tali, tell long 'bout playtime Marse
Curtis fel. outen de barn lof' an' sprained
he wrist. 'Fore any de fokes kr.&wed
’bout it, Miss Hope hed done cried, too,
sort er sympathizing lak, an’ hed kissed
it ter mek it quit hurtin' an' tuck an’
ketch er bessy-bug outen er ole log an’
tied on dar wid her Ii'le w'ite hank'eher,
do' she too tender-hearted ter kill 'im
fus.' Marse Curtis didn’ cry no more at-
ter dat, fer w’en he seed her cry he git
ter feelin so mannish an' perfectin' lak
dat he stop cryin' an' put 'e arm 'roun'
er' ter comfort 'er, an’ she promis' not ter
tell how he got hurt; an de wuz laffin’
an' holdin’ ope nurr’s han’s w'en I come
way fer ter hunt aigs wid Biddy dar, an’
blneby she kissed me rite in de mouf,
do' hit warn't sprained nor we didn’ put
no bessy-bug on hit, nur nuthin’ but—”
"Dat’s er He!" exclaimed Biddy. “De
on’y thing dat 'uz done ter his mouf wuz
dat Mom Diisy tuck an’ scoured hit out
wid iye soap an’ san’ an’ er cawn cob ter
git hit clean or do lies he done tole 'bout
de nine aigs he tuck an' sucked. Pity she
didn’ rub more; dar ain’ nothing, do, but
de grace er Gord an’ de cawn cob er true
pentance gwln' purify dat mouf er his'n!”
"Well, hit 'uz all rite 'twix' dem two
atter dat. Wimmin fokes knows how ter
symperthize wid er mail, speshly w'en
he 'bout nineteen var' ole; de way de. do
pity 'Im w’en 'e lonesome, tell bineby he
tuk pity on dem and marry ’em! ("Bawd
he'p!" growled old Biddy). Marster ain'
never had ter whup Marse Curtis no
more ter meek 'im go ober dar. He tuck
sich er pow’ful intrust in he books tie
des eya’rn hardly eat breckus soon 'miff
ter start, an' he didn' 'pear lak he keered
ter git hungry for supper, 'kase 'e nuver
would start home tel! mos' dark. An'
we use ter hear de grahes crackin' open
w'en we pass by de ole buryln’ groun’
in de thicket, an’ ef we didn’ run! Bub
■fecks er man's apertite scanlous any
ways. I des cudden hardly cat nothin'
'tall w’en I cotin' Biddy, an' I kep er
gittin’ poer an’ poer tell—”
“Good Gordermity, nigger, stop yo' lyin'
'fore de Bawd sen' er holt er litrnin' ter
smite yo' on dc cheek, lak He done dat
Analias!"
"Don' sturb my dignity, olo ’ooman. T'se
tellin' de gemman 'bout dem Chilians.
'Bout er var atter Marse Curtis started
ter school mistis foun' dat it'le hank'eher
hid down in de linin’ er his trunk. Ez
I wuz 'monstratin', he wuz ober at de
ciinnel's endurin' mos’ er de time. M"rn
er old field 'possum wunce git er tas'e
er swamp 'simmons, an’ fine er big tree
uv ’em down in de creek bottom, he mine
des nachully run on ’em tell he cyarn
hep hut mosey down dar, no matter ef
he do hab saplln’ 'simmons closer by.
'Cose I 'uz allers long, too, but I nuver
got much lamin', kase do I try ter list'n
dat 'ar nigger gal always hangin' roun’
an' pesterin' me so I can’t do nuttin' fer
her. She tryin’ ter kotch me rite den!
W’en de had done growed up sorter fryin'
size marster giv' Marse Curtis er fine boat,
ail painted blue, an' he name it de Hope.
Den he say Miss Hope got ter christen
it. so 'e stole er bottle er misteses black
berry wine fer her ter break on it de
fus' time hit slid off in de water. She
didn’ th’ow it hard 'miff ter brek, an' I
dlv out atter hit an' got so wet I bleeged
ter drink some ter keep off de newmony.
I tas'e 'im. an' I tas’e 'im, an 'e tas'e so
good I tas'e 'im all de way home, an’ I
tas'e sump'en else, too, w’en I got dar.
Yo’ see mistis hed done mix some sper-
rits in dar fer ter fotch de bref’ back
in Yaller Joe de time 'e fell in de gin-
gear an’ got he se'f mashed in, an' fore
Gord, marster. dat time I drinker! dat
blackberry wine 'uz de on'y time I eber
wuz drunk in mer life!” At this junc
ture Biddy with arms crossed upon her
bosom was solemnly humming a tune.
“Marse Curtis wuz sho’ good ter me. I
'member w’en we 'uz growin' up I 'uz
“long 'bout fifteen yar ole, hut Biddy done
fed me so rank on good t'ings she stole
fum Mom Dilsy dat I’se er big, fat, fine-
lookin' gemman w’en I fifteen, an’ de
thought I’se sixteen an’ warned me otit
Continued on last page
&f>e Divided Valentine
Written for CAe Sunny South
_ HE people of Rooky Spring
g vicinity wore famous for
two decided facts, to-wit;
their intermarriage with
relatives and their supersti
tion. Indeed, so often had
cousins married cousins,
that it was impossible to.
tell just what relation a
man bore his neighbor, and
it was not a rare thing to
find one man at once cousin
and 'half uncle or step-
grandfather to his own
i . .id. or to find children who were doable
w first cousins to each other and also cous-
*ins to their own parents.
Another remarkable feature was a
strange fatality concerning the eyes of
these people. In every family were to
he found cross-eyes, blink eyes and near
sighted ones, with here nnd there a per
son who possessed one eye of blue and one
of black.
Perhaps it was owing to tills peculiarity
that they were able to see so many won
derful sights.
Superstition the world called It, but
who knows?
Parts of the old Rocky Spring grave
yard were more than two hundred years
old, and many were the spooks, ghosts
and hobgoblins to be seen in anrl abound
that plo.ee.
I'ncle Jiles Semple once saw a strange-
looking bird just Inside the churchyard
fence that spoke quite plainly and gaye
him the date of his own death. Just at
that date he had died!
Aunt Mallnda Jones was once passing
through the woods nearby when she saw
running by her side her daughter, Betsy,
who was lying at home very ill of fever.
That night Betsy died!
Strange lights were often seen fitting
here and there, and white-robed figures
glided noiselessly all around the place,
and even into the church nt night, while
i; was quite a common thing for venerable
objects in the community to "open theif
mouths and speak.”
One of the greatest objects of awe was
a gnarled old oak. probably a thousand
veaTs of age. on one of whose mossy
limbs had been hanged a negress for the
murder of her mistress in the long, long
past.
Strange to say. the negress herself sel
dom troubled the premises, hut the old
oak had won a reputation for predicting
ninl warning that was rather marvelous.
Manv were the direful calamities foretold
by the "prophe-t oak” to those who dared
pass along her rooty pathway afier the
going down of the sun. and many were
the lives saved by travelers taking her
groaning, creaking advice and running for
dear life in the direction opposite to fhe
one first intended.
It was the night of the 14th of February.
Tiie large old-fashioned farm house of
David Semple was brilliantly lighted for
the grandest valentine party the neigh
borhood had ever known. Miss Semple had
a visitor. Miss Daisy Dorn, of Georgia, a
classmate at boarding school, and it was
for her the party was given.
“Doesn't Miss Daisy look sweet to
night?" said Dot Hane. to a number of
chattering girls as they touched up their
ribbons and curls before descending to
supper.
“Everything is sweet to Dot,” laughed
Beila Sprigs.
"She looks very well,” said another, “but
nothing extra. J for one would not call
her a beauty by any means. She’s too
bashful to live.”
"Say. girls.” whispered Beila. “don't
you think Paul Semple's rather sweet on
her?”
"He's clear gone mad about her; any
one can see that with half an eye,” said
Dot. “I wonder why he isn't here to
night?”
“Oh, Granpa Semple had another bad
turn. I really think it's too provoking
the way he treats that boy,” said Mamie
Bee.
By MAXIE DUNLAP
"Why couldn't he get some one else to
stay with him tonight, anyway?” asked
Dot. “It's too bad when he has his heart
so set on Mips Daisy.”
“Oh, well, you know he rather claims
Cousin Paul because he was named for
him, and then Paul is under obligations to
him for his education, and, you know, he
has promised to will him his old home
place if he will try to please him. I do
believe the dear old soul takes a. fiendish
dePght in putting Paul tP every incon
venience possible to try his faithfulness."
"Well, it’s a shame—”
Here the discussion was cut short by the
entrance of Nina .and Daisy.
In the meantime, Paul was lounging
lazily in a big armchair by a roaring
hickory fire, reading Thomas Moore's
poems with the book upside down and
his mind’s eye at his father's home be
holding Daisy's fair form guided through
the whirling dance by Tom Jones' hulking
figure, or, perhaps, seated on the shaded
sofa ip the hall, while Tom made love to
ker. the impudent puppy! Plow he did
long to shake him!
But. no; he must sit passively in sight
of this crickety old gentleman, who was
at that moment chuckling to himself over
the fact that every minute g\as torture
to the young man.
Mamie was right. Grandpa was in his
dotage, arul anything that he could do
to exercise his power over others gave
him childish delight. The sight of this
forlorn looking youth sighing for a dance
with his Diana tickled him immensely.
The night was unusually warm, even
for this sunny clime, and the fire rather
uncomfortable, so moving the old arm
chair over near the window Paul gazed
Just a little* discontentedly in the direction
of the house.
The stars were shining dimly, and
through the clearing he could trace tile
faint outlines of the "prophet oak.”
Something about the oak seemed to fasci
nate him tonight. The wind was begin
ning to rise nqd the old limbs swayed to
and fro like the arms of a maniac. As
he gazed slowly hut surely the old tree
began to move. It seemed, yes he was
sure, it was moving toward him! On.
on it came, until he could plainly hear
the creaking and groaning as if it was
in a prophetic humor. When within P)
or 12 feet of the window 4 stopped, and
with one low, soft whistle, said hoarsely:
“Bisten!”
Paul's heart stood still.
“Young man, what would you have?”
it groaned. “Are you better than your
fathers were who thought brides selected
from the Semple family good enough for
them?" (Aunt Jane had said something
like this only yesterday.)
"Do you think to improve yourself by
your airs, airs, airs?” it sighed complain-
ingly.
Paul tried to speak, but his voice would
not obey the will.
“Bove, you say, must have its course,"
it shrieked, interpreting his effort. "Bis
ten. young man, and take warning. This
night, this night, if you do not change
your mind, will true love be your ruin.
She will bring you disappointment In a
singing tone. She will bring you pain.
She will give you sorrow. She will break
your heart. She wilt leave you helpless.
She will return with death!” and with one
shrill, long-drawn-out shriek, it repeated,
“Death!"
Paul, overwhelmed, covered his face
with his hands. How long he remained
thus he never knew, but when he took
them away the tree was gone. A thick
cloud had overspread the sky and the
wind was blowing dismally.
Shivering, he drew near the fire. Grand
pa was asleep and well he knew would
sleep until late in the morning. Glancing
at the clock, he hastily made preparations
for his departure.
“Why, Paul, you're not goin’ out to
night?” asked Aunt Silvy. coming In soft
ly. “It Is nearly 12, and I'm afraid there's
a storm a-risin'.”
“A storm in February, Aunt Silvy?”
laughed Paul. He grudged every moment
spent in discussion, for the party would
probably break at 2.
“It looks like it. I've seen the like.
When me and your pa was children there
came a storm in February once that b"Tow-
od the top off Uncle Si’s barn and the
lightnin' struck a tree in our yard, right
out there, and tore it all to flinders. I
mind it just as well as if it was yester
day,” continued she, falling into a reflec
tive mood; “never was so scared in my
life. They say lightnin’ in the winter
time is a sure sign of a’ important death.”
“I guess death js always important to the
one most interested,” said he lightly
with a shiver.
“Goodby, aunty, see you tomorrow.”
With that he was off. Despite his col
lege education, Paul had a strong degree
of reverence forjho family traditions, and
it was with rather a “jubous” feeling
that he neared the oak, remembering his
dream.
It stood in its accustomed place, but
the groaning tonight was almost lifelike.
Indeed, Aunt Silvy had spoken truly. A
storm was not only rising, hut was now
in full blast, making the oak creak as
though ten thousand demons were holding
a counsel of war within her crusty cloak.
He just reached the church, whose soli
tary door invariably stood ajar, in time
to save himself from the downpour of
rain that followed the flash and sudden
report of thunder.
Seating himself about -midway the
building, he crouched, shivering, for the
temperature had fallen rapidly.
It was dark as Egypt. Nothing could
be heard but the 'howling storm without,
and nothing could be seen but specterlike
glimpses of the church furniture as the
lightning played hide and seek among the
rafters.
In the course of half an hour the storm
had abated and he prepared to go. when
a flash revealed to him the white figure
of a woman standing near the pulpit.
Could he he mistaken? No, another flash
made it clear that she was there, large
as life, but frail and spiritlike in her gar
ments of pure white. His heart beat a
double-quick tattoo. Somehow he would
think of the words of the old oak. A
third and successive flash showed that she
was moving toward him! Gliding past
him she wandered toward the door, back
down the aisle, over to the opposite cor
ner, now near him, now farther away, al-
way keeping between him and the only
{dace of exit. Sometimes she would stand
perfectly still for an hour and then move
slowly back and forth In an aimless sort
of way that betokened hesitation.
Tt was still dark, but the cocks were
crowing for day when she turned and
moved siowlv but directly toward him.
Slowly she came with eyes that shone
like fire bent upon his face. He tried to
move. He tried to speak. His limbs were
paralyzed. His voice was gone. At last
she turned between the benches where he
sat and the next faint flash of the retreat
ing cloud she was standing right over
him! With a hideous, unearthly scream
she pounced upon him. clutching his arm
and shoulder like a vise.
The scream brought him to his senses.
Springing to his feet, he seized nnd threw
her violently to the floor. With one knee
on her breast, he exclaimed: “Tell me
your name or you’re a dead woman,” at
.the same time taking a knife, his only
weapon, from his pocket.
“It’s True Bove, True Bove; dat who
it is. Turn me loose. De debbil gwine git
ye, he is; Turn me loose. I got to £_et
Barksdale's cows outer de oats.”
Paul let her up, sheepishly replacing his
knife. True Bove was a privileged char
acter at the county poor house. Perfectlv
harmless, she was allowed to roam where
she would during the day, and often
would spend the entire night in the woods
or in one of these churches in the neigh
borhood. If questioned as to her business,
she would invariably be driving “Barks
dale's cows” out of the fields, such often
Continued, on last page