Iola Leroy, Frances Ellen Watkins Harper [read aloud books .txt] 📗

me. Dat chile war allers at my heels. I couldn’t stir widout him, an’ when he missed me, he’d fret an’ cry so I had ter stay wid him; an’ wen he went to school, I had ter carry him in de mornin’ and bring him home in de ebenin’. An’ I learned him to hunt squirrels, an’ rabbits, an’ ketch fish, an’ set traps for birds. I beliebs he lob’d me better dan any ob his kin’. An’ he showed me how to read.”

“Well,” said Tom, “ef he lob’d you so much, why didn’t he set you free?”

“Marse Robert tole me, ef he died fust he war gwine ter leave me free⁠—dat I should neber sarve anyone else.”

“Oh, sho!” said Tom, “promises, like pie crusts, is made to be broken. I don’t trust none ob dem. I’se been yere dese fifteen years, an’ I’se neber foun’ any troof in dem. An’ I’se gwine wid dem North men soon’s I gits a chance. An’ ef you knowed what’s good fer you, you’d go, too.”

“No, Tom; I can’t go. When Marster Robert went to de front, he called me to him an’ said: ‘Uncle Daniel,’ an’ he was drefful pale when he said it, ‘I are gwine to de war, an’ I want yer to take keer of my wife an’ chillen, jis’ like yer used to take keer of me wen yer called me your little boy.’ Well, dat jis’ got to me, an’ I couldn’t help cryin’, to save my life.”

“I specs,” said Tom, “your tear bags must lie mighty close to your eyes. I wouldn’t cry ef dem Yankees would make ebery one ob dem go to de front, an’ stay dere foreber. Dey’d only be gittin’ back what dey’s been a doin’ to us.”

“Marster Robert war nebber bad to me. An’ I beliebs in stannin’ by dem dat stans by you. Arter Miss Anna died, I had great ’sponsibilities on my shoulders; but I war orful lonesome, an’ thought I’d like to git a wife. But dere warn’t a gal on de plantation, an’ nowhere’s roun’, dat filled de bill. So I jis’ waited, an’ ’tended to Marse Robert till he war ole ’nough to go to college. Wen he went, he allers ’membered me in de letters he used to write his grandma. Wen he war gone, I war lonesomer dan eber. But, one day, I jis’ seed de gal dat took de rag off de bush. Gundover had jis’ brought her from de upcountry. She war putty as a picture!” he exclaimed, looking fondly at his wife, who still bore traces of great beauty. “She had putty hair, putty eyes, putty mouth. She war putty all over; an’ she know’d how to put on style.”

“O, Daniel,” said Aunt Katie, half chidingly, “how you do talk.”

“Why, it’s true. I ’member when you war de puttiest gal in dese diggins; when nobody could top your cotton.”

“I don’t,” said Aunt Katie.

“Well, I do. Now, let me go on wid my story. De fust time I seed her, I sez to myself, ‘Dat’s de gal for me, an’ I means to hab her ef I kin git her.’ So I scraped ‘quaintance wid her, and axed her ef she would hab me ef our marsters would let us. I warn’t ’fraid ’bout Marse Robert, but I warn’t quite shore ’bout Gundover. So when Marse Robert com’d home, I axed him, an’ he larf’d an’ said, ‘All right,’ an’ dat he would speak to ole Gundover ’bout it. He didn’t relish it bery much, but he didn’t like to ’fuse Marse Robert. He wouldn’t sell her, for she tended his dairy, an’ war mighty handy ’bout de house. He said, I mought marry her an’ come to see her wheneber Marse Robert would gib me a pass. I wanted him to sell her, but he wouldn’t hear to it, so I had to put up wid what I could git. Marse Robert war mighty good to me, but ole Gundover’s wife war de meanest woman dat I eber did see. She used to go out on de plantation an’ boss things like a man. Arter I war married, I had a baby. It war de dearest, cutest little thing you eber did see; but, pore thing, it got sick and died. It died ’bout three o’clock; and in de mornin’, Katie, habbin her cows to milk, lef her dead baby in de cabin. When she com’d back from milkin’ her thirty cows, an’ went to look for her pore little baby, someone had been to her cabin an’ took’d de pore chile away an’ put it in de groun’. Pore Katie, she didn’t eben hab a chance to kiss her baby ’fore it war buried. Ole Gundover’s wife has been dead thirty years, an’ she didn’t die a day too soon. An’ my little baby has gone to glory, an’ is wingin’ wid the angels an’ a lookin’ out for us. One ob de las’ things ole Gundover’s wife did ’fore she died war to order a woman whipped ’cause she com’d to de field a little late when her husband war sick, an’ she had stopped to tend him. Dat mornin’ she war taken sick wid de fever, an’ in a few days she war gone out like de snuff ob a candle. She lef’ several sons, an’ I specs she would almos’ turn ober in her grave ef she know’d she had ten culled granchillen somewhar down in de lower kentry.”

“Isn’t it funny,” said Robert, “how these white folks look down on colored people, an’ then mix up with them?”

“Marster war away when Miss ’Liza treated my Katie so mean, an’ when I tole him ’bout it, he war tearin’ mad, an’ went ober an’ saw ole Gundover, an’ foun’ out he war hard up for money, an’ he bought Katie and brought her home to lib wid me, and we’s been a libin in clover eber sence.