The Golden age. [volume], February 18, 1909, Page 9, Image 9

About The Golden age. [volume] (Atlanta, Ga.) 1906-1920

Image provided by: Digital Library of Georgia, a project of GALILEO located at the University of Georgia Libraries

                
It was a. Saturday afternoon; a lazy, sunny, balmy
Spring day that had crept naughtily into the mid
dle of February, and Uncle Rastus was basking in
its golden glory as he sat and smoked contentedly
in the door of his cabin.
Presently he was aroused from his dreamy revery
by two angry little voices over in the “big house’’
yard. “You’re cheatin’ Tom.” “I ain’t.” “I
know you are; you had your foot clean over taw,
and you fudged, too.” “I didn’t. Take your old
marble, I wouldn’t have it anyhow, and I wouldn’t
play with you again, not to save your life.”
Uncle Rastus stepped out of his door and saun
tered leisurely across to the play ground. “Dem
boys are jes ’er spilin’ fer a tight. ’Pears lak when
de Spring begins to come and de sap begins to rise,
hit jes makes chillun’ ferment lak a jug o’ vine
gar. ’ ’
Leaning his arms across the fence, the kind old
man looked for a moment at the flushed, angry faces
of the two little boys. Then, apparently ignoring
the strained relations, he called softly: “Chillun,
when I was ’er potterin’ eroun’ in dat meadow after
dem calves his mornin’, I seed de mos’ fish in dat
branch, jes ’er browsin’ eroun’ in de water as sassy
as you please. ’Reared lak dey was jes ’er darin’
us to come and ketch ’em.”
Two little faces had begun to brighten eagerly,
and two little bodies had crept close up to the other
side of the fence, and two pairs of shining eyes were
looking wistfully first at Uncle Rastus, and then
towark the little creek down in the meadow.
“If your Mamma would let you, we could go
down thar and tease ’em a little bit.” Without
waiting for more than this gentle hint, two pairs of
little feet sped away to the “big house,” and in a
few minutes the lads came back on the run to join
their old friend, and the three set off in a brisk
walk toward the creek.
The fishing went merrily on for an hour or two,
but as the sun began to sink, and the fish to bite
less hungrily, the two little lads grew restive and
less absorbed in the 'antics of the nibbling minnows.
Uncle Rastus took their poles, stuck them firmly
into the soft bank of the creek, and seating himself
on a fallen log, in easy reach, he looked up, with
a twinkle of humor in his eyes, and queried: “You
chillun ever bear’d tell of George Washington'?”
Instantly two tense little bodies were snuggling up
close to Uncle Rastus, and two little voices an
swered in concert: “Oh, yes, Uncle Rastus, Mamma
told us he was a very good little boy, who wouldn’t
tell a lie, not even when he thought he was going
to be punished for cutting down his Father’s fav
orite cherry tree.”
“Well, now, Honeys,” continued Uncle Rastus,
“do you know, some of dese here smart-alecky
boys what think de done larn’t mo’n wuz ever writ
in de book, been er fellin’ me dat hit -wuz all a
mistake erbout George Washington fellin’ his Pa de
truf erbout dat cherry tree dat day. Dey say little
George he been playin’ wid a Nigger boy name Ike,
and dat day when he got into dat cherry tree scrape,
and Marse Washington come out dar in de gyarden
projickin’ roun’ and ’skivered dat tree, he holler
for George right straight, and when George come his
Pa jes looked at him lak he gwine eat him erlive,
and ax him right pint blank, ‘George, who cut down
dat cherry tree?’ Dat little boy’s bref was jes
erbout skeert clam outen his body, and he sho
know’d he’d git de peelin’ tuck off’en his back if
he tol’ his Pa de truf erbout dat business, so he
hung his head, and mumbled: ‘Father, Ike done
it,’ and de ole man thought he say, ‘Father, I done
it.’ Ole Marse was so proud kase he thought de
boy was actin’ lak a man, and ’fessin’ up to his
mischief, dat he lowed as how he wouldn’t whip
him dat time, kase, lak as not, de sprouts would
come up frum de root anyhow.
“De want no foolishness bout de way George
Washington jerk out his sw’od and went after dem
Britishers, howsumever, when dey kep on pesterin’
him bout de ’ligion of his country, and tryin’ to
PINEY WOODS SKETCHES
Uncle 'Rastus on George Washington
The Golden Age for February 18, 1909.
’stortion all sorts of taxes outen us on de little
craps we managed to make ’tween time when we
wa’nt out fightin’ dem Injuns; and when dey tuk
and come over to his country to make him do lack
dey say he mus’, De Lawsee! he line up dem s.u
jers o’ his’n, and he jump onto dem Britishers, and
so dey know’d it, he done licked de slack out’en
dey breeches, and son’t ’em home er sky-windin’
“George Washington sho didn’t b’lieve in mixin’
up wid none dem Furriners. He say: ‘Let 'em
alone, let ’em alone, if de jes got to tight, let ’em
fight it out twixt de selves, but we sho ain’t gwinter
have ’em over here given us none uv dey sass.’
“Jumpin’ Jemima!” Uncle Rastus made a grab
just in time to keep his pole from spinning out into
the water. Cautiously he pulled in his line, and
reached out his hand to take the floundering fish, but
just before his fingers closed over it, back it splash
ed into the water. “Shucks,” he growled, “Now
ain’t dat too bad, dat sholy was a fine trout. Guess
he must ’uv weighed most four pounds.” Uncle
Rastus continued to shake his head regretfully as
he gathered up the fishing tackle. Picking up the
little string of fish, he handed them over to liitle
Sam. “Take dese home to your Mamma, honey;
dey ain't much, bout, enough to make de water tase
good,” and the old man looked reproachfully at the
string of little fishes as if it were their fault they
hadn’t grown any larger.
As they plodded home in the gathering twilight
Uncle Rastus continued to brood over the lost fish,
but just before he turned the little boys in at their
gate, he stopped, looked thoughtful for a moment,
and then as if having settled a very weighty matter
in his mind, he said: “Chillun, I reckon we better
not say nothin’ ’bout dat big trout what fell back,
kase it ’nd sound kinder unreasonable to yer Ma.
and I ain’t gwinter have her nor nobody else ’er
thinkin’ you can’t tell de truf' des same as George
Washington.” Uncle Rastirs broke into a low,
amused chuckle and still shaking his head doubt
fully, he added: “He mought ’er tole de truf' ’bout
dat cherry tree all right, but I reckon es dat boy
stuck plum tight to the truf all his life, he mus’
sholy never have had no chance to go a fishin’.”
A Cordial Inbitation.
Good-bye, Bill; come to see us some Sunday, why
don’t you? Just let us know when you are cornin’
and we’ll skim a mud-hole and knock the old blind
guinea on the head.
* 6”.
TLc centric People.
Perhaps the most of my readers never thought of
rhe fact that many of those persons who are more
or less noted for their eccentricities, are exceedingly
sensitive about their peculiarities. Some of them
may enjoy being regarded by others as eccentric,
but these are the exceptions. A dull person, of ec
centric ways, may not feel injured when others
make sport of him; yet even such a person must be
pained sometimes by critical remarks against him.
Is is certain that the eccentric person who has much
talent and a great deal of self-respect is often griev
ed by observing signs- of ridicule at his oddities,
although he may suppress his real feelings in the
presence of others. It is a mistake to suppose that
a bright man or woman of this class has any pleasure
in displaying his or her eccentricities. Such an one
often tries to avoid the appearance of being odd
or erratic. He prefers to have no attraction of this
kind. He would be like other people in this respect,
if he could; but eccentricity is a part of his nature.
By a strong will, and constant watchfulness over
himself, he may succeed in measurably smothering
his most prominent peculiarities, if he know what
they are; and it is probable that some people of this
type do thus succeed. But would it be well if such
a person could entirely free himself from his eccen
tricities? Some would answer that it would not be
wise or well, for why should one desire to be just
*By "Violet Ross”
like all other people? The fact is, some very ec
centric people are the foremost leaders in the com
munity, in respect to originality of thought and man
ner of expression. One exapaple of this kind appear
ed in a former editor of “The Interior,” of Chicago,
now dead, Rev. Dr. W. C. Gray. It is said that he
was exceedingly eccentric, and also that he often
felt ill at ease on account of his oddness. He suf
fered because of it. But he was a most brilliant
man and editor. People of this class are apt to be
shy and they refrain from being at social gatherings.
One purpose that I have in writing this article is to
urge my readers to never act toward an eccentric
person in a manenr which would indicate to them
that you were making sport of them on account of
such a characteristic. To act thus is to deeply wound
that one’s heart, and perhaps also to lead him to
detest and avoid you. It is proper for one to laugh
at a witticism or an amusing story, but it is improp
er to ridicule another for eccentricities which he
wishes that he did not have.
iC. IT. iWETHERBE.
I Think I Thunk a Lie.
I used to think when I was young,
And my heart was free from guile,
That there was grief in every tear,
Ami joy in evejw smile,
But thinking now of what I thunk,
1 think 1 thunk a lie.
1 used to think about myself,
And think that I would be
A governor or a president,
Or else a. general like Lee.
But I have waited long in vain,
Whilst years rolled slowly by,
And thinking now of what I thunk,
I think I thunk a lie.
I used to think the ladies were
All sweetness combined;
That they were all God’s last and best
Os perfectness refined;
That they were not half pads and paint,
But angels from on high;
But thinking now of what I thunk,
1 think 1 thunk a lie.
I used to think Hie public schools
Would fill a long felt need,
By teaching all our boys and girls
Just how to spell and read;
But their red tape and rottenness
Is everywhere the cry,
And when I think of what I thunk,
I think I thunk a lie.
The niggers, too, I used to think,
If once they were set free,
Would make good, honest citizens,
Like white folks used to be.
But they have wandered far from grace,
The chickens still roost high,
And thinking now of what I thunk,
I think I thunk a lie.
I used to think the town police,
With all his blue and brass,
Would never sleep upon his post,
Nor let a. criminal pass.
That on blind tigers they would keep
An ever-watchful eye,
But thinking now of what I thunk,
I think I thunk a lie.
I used to think the poor Chinee
Was worse than “Melican” man,
That we should missionaries send
With civilization’s plan.
But thinking now of late events
Beneath our Southern sky,
I rather think that what I thunk,
Was “wusser” than a lie.
—O. T. Dozier.
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