XI.

FREE POLLY’S STORY.

It was not long before the children had an appointment to see Free Polly. She had chosen their father for her guardian, and was in the habit of visiting the plantation very often, sometimes staying there for weeks at a time.

Free Polly was sixty years old, but very frisky and fond of fun—always ready to listen to a joke or tell a story. All her stories were older than she was, but she never told one without laughing at it just as heartily as if she had heard it for the first time. She bowed her head from side to side in jaunty fashion, and laughed loudly. The children laughed, too, for she made a very comical appearance. She had on a yellow basque with flowing sleeves, and a blue skirt. On her head she wore a flaming red bandana, and on top of that a bonnet shaped like a sugar scoop and stuffed full of faded artificial flowers. At sixty years old Free Polly still considered herself a belle, and put on a great many airs. Whenever she met anybody, black or white, she always bowed her head, first to the left, then to the right, and made a low curtsy. This she did now when the children called her. She bowed and curtsied, and then placed her arms akimbo, and waited for the youngsters to come up.

“Oh, I so glad to see you,” she cried, “I can’t tell you how glad I is. You mos’ done grown. ’Fo’ I know it you’ll be done grown an’ married. Hey-hey! You nee’n ter laugh. I done see young people ’fo’ I see you. Dey mos’ all do dat away.”

“Aunt Polly,” said Buster John, “do you remember the night the big house burned?”

Free Polly ceased laughing and screwed up her mouth and face in pretended indignation.

“How I gwine ter fergit it? Wa’n’t I right dar in de house? Right un’ de roofness?”

“Won’t you please tell us about it?” asked Sweetest Susan, with her pretty, coaxing smile.

Free Polly shook her head solemnly, closed her eyes, and heaved a deep sigh.

“How kin I tell you stan’in’ up here flat-footed in de sun? Wait. I comin’ in de house atter supper to see Mistiss. When you see me in dar, run an’ ax me to come in yo’ room ’fo’ I go. But when I go in dar I mus’ fin’ sump’n else ’sides a cheer, an’ a table, an’ a bedstid, an’ a washstan’.”

“What do you want to find?” Buster John inquired.

Again Free Polly closed her eyes and sighed, as she answered:—

“What I want to fin’? Biscuit. Battercakes. Butter. Ham.” At each word Free Polly smacked her lips and opened her mouth wide. The children laughed, and promised that they would carry as much food into the nursery as they could make an excuse for.

At supper their mother saw them buttering more biscuits than they usually ate. So she suddenly asked:—

“Has any one seen Free Polly to-day?”

“Yes’m,” promptly replied Drusilla, who was waiting on Buster John and Sweetest Susan.

“Is she coming here to-night?”

“I—I speck so,” Drusilla answered somewhat doubtfully.

At this the mother looked at the children and laughed.

“Mamma, how did you know?” cried Sweetest Susan.

“Because she used to come to see me when I was a little girl, and I always had to carry biscuits and ham to my room, if I wanted her to tell me a tale. Drusilla, put those biscuits and three slices of ham on a plate, and carry it to the nursery.”

Naturally the children were delighted at the way their mother fell into their innocent little plans, and they waited with a good deal of impatience for Free Polly to come. She came after what seemed to be a very long while. She was even more comically polite in the house than she was out of doors, and pretended to have a good deal to say to the “Mistiss;” but the lady said she was busy at that moment, and told Free Polly to go into the nursery and see the children.

Thus it came about that Buster John and Sweetest Susan heard all the particulars of the burning of the big house, told in a style that was to them the most graphic and complete that could be imagined.

After eating the supper that had been brought in for her, Free Polly wiped her mouth with the back of her hands, placed her heels on the top round of the chair she sat in, and clasped her knees with her long arms. Then closing her eyes, she began:

“I dunner how come it, but when de sun shine it look like a long time ago when de house burn. When night come, it look like it done happen yistiddy. It so come ’bout dat I hatter come see ol’ Marster dat ve’y night. I start from de place whar I been workin’ time de sun go down, an’ when I come to turn in de big gate up yander, twuz gittin dark. I raise de latch er de big gate, I did, an’ den I say ter myse’f, ‘No, I won’t go de front way, kaze dey might be comp’ny in de front peazzer, an’ I’ll go roun’ de back way an’ come in by de nigger quarter.’ I had my min’ on dat ar man what dey like ter hang—dat ar Mr. Hudspy”—

“Hudspeth,” said Buster John.

“Kaze he gimme a sev’m-punce one time, an’ I wuz mighty sorry he had to go back home. I walk ’long, I did, an’ I ’low I mighty sorry dat ar Mr. Hudspy ain’t here now, kaze he might fergit hissif an’ gimme a n’er sev’m-punce.’ Des ’bout dat time I look up an’ look ’round, an’ right at me wuz a man. I could ’a’ put out my han’ an’ totch him. Ef he’d ’a’ said ‘Boo!’ at me, I’d ’a’ drapt right in my tracks. But I bowed, I did, an’ drapt him a curtsy, an’ ax’d him howdy.

“He say, ‘Ain’t dat Free Polly?’ I say, ‘Yasser.’ I know’d time he open his mouth dat ’t’wan’t nobody in de roun’ worl’ but dat ar George Gossett.

“He say, ‘I got a crow to pick wid you.’ I say, ‘How come dat, suh?’

“He say, ‘You been harborin’ runaway niggers.’ I say, ‘I don’t see how I kin do dat, suh, when it’s e’enabout all I kin do fer ter harbor myse’f, let ’lone runaway niggers.’

“He say, ‘I hear tell you es des han’ in glove wid dat ar nigger A’on what Pap bought fum de speculator.’ I say, ‘Ef A’on ever is been at my house, suh, it wuz unbeknownst to me.’

“He say, ‘Nummine. I’ll git you yit; an’ when I does, hit’ll be all night Isom dar wid you.’ I say, ‘Yasser,’ and den I bowed perlite ez I know how, an’ come on to de big house.

“I ain’t been here long, ’fo’ dey tell me dat de Little Marster—which dey call him Little Crotchet—is sorter ailin’, an’ I say ter myse’f dat I’ll go up sta’rs dar whar he stay at, an’ see him. So, atter while, up I goes, an’ sho’ nuff, dar wuz de Little Marster layin’ up dar readin’.

“He put down his book, he did, an’ look like he mighty glad ter see me, an’ he ax me what good fer deze here long-time pains in de legs; an’ I say I dunno, ’cep’n you have somebody to rub ’em. He ax me ef I won’t rub ’em; an’ I say tooby-shore I will, an’ glad to do it, an’ den I whirled in an’ rub ’em; an’ whiles I’m a-rubbin’ he ax me de names er all de presidencies er de Nunitin’ States whar we live at, an’ I say ef I ever know’d ’em I done fergitted ’em off’en my min’. Desso.

“An’ den, bless yo’ souls, he lay dar flat er his back, an’ call off de names er all de presidencies er de Nunitin’ States same ez ef he had ’em right dar in a book, an’ den when he done dat he tol’ me all ’bout John Henry Bonaparte an’ Mr. Benjamin Arnold, which he traded off his country fer a pa’r er shiny boots an’ a cocked hat.”

Buster John and Sweetest Susan laughed heartily at this, and Free Polly laughed in sympathy.

“Yes, honey, he lay dar flat er his back an’ tol’ me all de news. I dunner how long I sot dar, rubbin’ an’ noddin’, an’ lis’nin’ ter de Little Marster, tellin’ me all ’bout how de Nunitin’ State of Americus, Georgy, come up, an’ how he wuz skeer’d she wuz gwine down agin ef de folks up dar whar dey make laws did’n’ stop scandalizin’ an’ gwine on. I speck both un us must er drapt off ter sleep, kaze when I waked up, de candle had done burnted mos’ down. Bimeby de Little Marster say, ‘Polly Ann’—he call me Polly Ann fer short—‘Polly Ann, I smell smoke. What does you smell?’

“I say, ‘I smells smoke, too. I speck somebody burnin’ off a new groun’.’

“He say, ‘Polly Ann, dis ain’t de time er de year when dey burns off de new groun’.’

“I say, ‘Maybe somebody possum huntin’ drapt der torch an’ sot fire to de woods.’

“He say, ‘Polly Ann, dis ain’t de time er de year when dey hunts possums.’

“I say, ‘I dunner how come it den.’

“He say, ‘All de same, Polly Ann, I smells smoke.’

“I say, ‘Dat what Brer Fox say when Brer Rabbit put fire ter de hay what he totin’ on his back.’

“De Little Marster say, ‘Polly Ann, maybe somebody done put fire ter de hay what we got on our backs.’

“I say, ‘I ain’t skeer’d er dat.’

“Dis make him laugh. He say, ‘Polly Ann, folks don’t hafter be skeer’d ter git burnted up.’”

At this point Free Polly suddenly became very solemn. A heavy frown appeared on her face. Her voice fell to a tragic whisper. She placed one hand lightly on Sweetest Susan’s shoulder and held the other to a gesture of warning, looking all around the room as if expecting to discover the beginning or the ending of some horrible catastrophe.

“Right dar an den,” she said, “I not only smelt de smoke, I seed it. Seed it wid my own eyes. Yes, honey! A little streak un it, not much bigger dan a pipestem, come curlin’ up by de candle an’ went dancin’ up ter de ceilin’. Den’ way off yander, I hear somebody holler. Den somebody holler’d mo’ closer. Den de cows ’gun ter low, an’ de hosses ter whicker.

“I say ter myse’f, ‘Nigger ’oman, you better keep yo’ eye peeled, kaze sump’n n’er gwine on, an’ ’tain’t so mighty fur fum here, needer.’ Den I hear somebody holler right out in de lot dar.

“De Little Marster say, ‘Polly Ann, I tell you I smells smoke. Hit’s right off’n de fire.’

“I say, ‘I b’lieve you, honey.’

“By dis time, de fuss outside wuz gittin’ wuss an’ wuss, an’ I could hear somep’n cracklin’ like somebody walkin’ thoo a patch er ragweed in de winter time. It look like de little candle got mo’ paler, an’ den it seem like I could see shadders dancin’ on de wall. Den I happen to look up at de window, an’, man, suh, de whole place wuz lit up.

“I say, ‘Hey! ef de sun done riz up in de night, she shinin’ mighty red.’ De smoke keep on curlin’ up an’ curlin’ up. It cum thoo de crack er de flo’.

“De Little Marster say, ‘De smoke smell so bad, I got ter put my head un’ de cover.’

“I say to myse’f, ‘Look a-here, nigger ’oman, you better be up an’ gwine, kaze when you see de smoke comin’ up thoo de floor you better watch out.’”

“I’d ’a’ gone down dem stairsteps faster’n I come up,” exclaimed Drusilla.

“Ef you had,” said Free Polly, scornfully, “you’d ’a’ never gone down any yuther steps—an’ dat would ’a’ been des like a nigger fer de worl’. I ain’t run down no steps. I des sot dar an’ sorter pat de Little Marster on de leg fer ter keep him comp’ny, an’ de smoke kep’ on comin’ wusser an’ wusser. I say to myse’f, ‘Watch out, nigger ’oman! Watch out!’

“Den I ’gun to strangle, an’ I went ter de window, an’ des ’bout dat time I hear mo’ squallin’ an’ fussin’ dan I ever been hear befo’, an’ time I got ter de window somebody smash it in, an’ I des give one big squeal an’ drapt on de flo’.

“Now, dat ar somebody wuz A’on. He clum de tree, he did, an’ smash in de window, an’ he wrop de Little Marster in de quilts an’ coverleds what he had on him, an’ toted him down de tree on one arm, an’ den he come back an’ toted me.

“When we got down, dar wuz a big crowd stannin’ ’round, an’ ol’ Marster wuz a-cryin’, an’ A’on put me down an’ went up in de crowd, an’ when he got dar he fell down like he wuz dead. When he smash in de window, de glass cut him in de arm an’ in de face an’ he wuz bloodier dan a stuck pig. So dar he wuz, an’ dar he lay. He des shet his eyes an’ fell back like he done dead.

[Illustration: AARON TOTED HIM DOWN DE TREE]

“Yes, honey! dar he wuz right in de middle of a big crowd. All de niggers wuz dar fum five mile ’roun’, an’ mighty nigh all de white folks wuz dar. Ol’ Mr. Gossett wuz dar wid his eyelids red, an’ lookin’ like dey been turn wrongsudout’ards. He walk up, he did, an’ ’low—

“‘Aha! If I ain’t mighty much mistaken, dat’s my nigger, A’on. A’on, ’git up fum’ dar, you gran’ rascal.’

“But A’on ain’t move. He des lay dar like he dead. Ol’ Mr. Gossett knelt down by ’im, an’ put his han’ on him, an’ felt ’im like de doctors does. Den he riz up an’ look at A’on long time, an’ den he shuck his head. He shuck his head, an’ turn roun’ an’ holler to Ol’ Marster:—

“‘Jedge, once ’pon a time I hear you say you want to buy dis nigger. What’ll you gimme fer ’im des ez he is?’

“‘Twelve hundred dollars!’ Ol’ Marster holler’d back. He talk short an’ sharp, like he talkin’ to a fiel’ han’.

“Ol’ Mr. Gossett holler back, ‘Done!’

“Den Ol’ Marster, bidout movin’ in his tracks, tuck a long book out er his side pocket, an’ pulled out five bills an’ sont um to Mr. Gossett by one er de niggers.

“He say, ‘Dat’s a hunderd fer ter make de trade bindin’. Meet me in town ter-morrer, an’ I’ll pay you de rest.’

“Ol’ Mr. Gossett say, ‘But, Jedge, s’posin’ de nigger is dead now?’

“Ol’ Marster snap ’im short off: ‘A trade’s a trade. You stan’ by yone, an’ I’ll stan’ by mine.’

“Mr. Gossett say, ‘Oh, I’ll stan’ by mine, Jedge. De nigger is yone, ’live or dead.’

“It look like ter me,” continued Free Polly, shifting her position and talking in a less solemn tone, “dat A’on must ’a’ been playin’ possum. Kaze time he hear ol’ Mr. Gossett say dat, he open his eyes an’ riz up fum whar he wuz layin’ at. He walk sorter weak, but he wa’n’t hurted much. He got up an’ went whar dey had de Little Marster, an’ fum dat time on, de two stuck mighty close by one anudder. Whar you’d see one, you’d be mighty apt to see de udder. It was dat away all de time, fum Monday mornin’ twell Sat’day night.

“De Little Marster ’gun ter git well an’ strong. Some say he grow’d an’ got fatter. I can’t tell you ’bout dat. He allers look mighty pale an’ puny ter me, but dey ain’t no ’sputin’ dat he got ’roun’ on his crutches mo’ soopler. He wuz ez nimble on dem crutches ez a game rooster is on his legs.

[Illustration: DE SQUINCH OWL LIGHTED ON A’ON’S HAND]

“’Twa’n’t long atter dat ’fo’ de niggers on de place wuz all fear’d er A’on. Dey seed all de creeturs a-follerin’ ’im ’bout, an’ dey got it spread ’roun’ dat he wuz a cunjer-man, one er deze yer hoodoo folks what puts spells on you. Den dey got it spread ’roun’ dat he want no nigger, kaze he don’t do like niggers. I didn’t blame ’em much fer bein’ skeer’d, kaze one day, des atter sundown, I happen to see A’on lookin’ up in de big pine out dar in de lot. I hear a squinch owl holler, an’ den I hear A’on say sump’n. Time he do dat I see de squinch owl drap fum de top er de pine an’ light right on A’on’s han’. De bird sot dar, he did, an’ pop his bill like a waggin whip, an’ den he up an’ flew’d away. He come right by my head, an’ it’s Lord’s trufe, he ain’t make no mo’ fuss dan a fedder floatin’ on de win’.

“I wuz sorter skeer’d, but I walk right up to A’on an’ say, ‘Man, who is you, an’ what is you?’

“He turns ’roun’ an’ say, ‘De Son of Ben Ali.’

“I say, ‘Thanky. I know mos’ ez much now ez I did befo’.’

“Den he say, ‘Le’ me show you.’ Wid dat he holler, an’ de black hoss answer him. He holler agin, an’ de gray mar’ whicker. He holler once mo’, an’ de pony come a runnin’ an’ a whinnyin’.

“I say, ‘Man, le’ me go ’way fum here. I done hear talk er Ben Ali long ’fo’ I seed you.’”