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i sfh a i sfb \ S >o!$ \<h H (h n 1 & 8 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