“Is this Uncle Stephen Demby?”

“Yas, honey; dat’s meh name! I jes’ got in fum crabbin’. Lemmy put meh paddles un’er de house ter keep dese carelessom’ gre’t-gran’chillun ub mine fum fin’in’ ’em. Dem two gals, Marfy an’ Muhtilda, out da in de watah sorf crabbin’ is meh gran’chillun. An’ jes’ look at dem two boys er ridin’ dat cow ub Mars Pinckney’s; dem is meh gre’t-gran’chillun, an’ dey monstus bad. (Ef’n you don’ git of’n dat cow I’ll whup you till da ain’ no bref in you!) Dar’s three ub dem boys, an’ dey name Stephen, Saul an’ Bonypart, an’ like ez not de one name Bonypart is ridin’ dat cow’s calf. Deah gre’t-gran’mammy gibs ’em too much cawn bred, an’ hit natchelly puts noshuns in deah haids.”

“Do you live here?”

“Yas’um; but de road don’ go no fudder. You’r sho’ly on de rong road, chile; dat’s de road ter de Royal Oak, an’ de road you on is wha dey bin haulin’ oyster shells, ter fix de road you lef’.”

“Uncle Stephen, I know exactly where I am, and I have come to see you, and want you to tell me all about Talbot County before the war, so that I can put it in my magazine.”

“Well, bless meh soul an’ body, an’ meh body an’ soul. Heh! heh! heh! Jes’ speckin’, I reckon, futto see Mars Pinckney ’roun’ heah; I’m sho’ he bin meckin’ ’mirations at yer. Uh foxhoun’ don’ lub uh fox hunt mo’ dan de ladies ’roun’ heah lub Mars Pinckney, an’ I heah Mars John Charles Tilghman say ter ole Mars Nickey, ‘He is ez hainsome ez de son ub King Dabid-Ab-so-lum, dat got kilt by uh mule.’ Mules wuz ornry in dem days. Now, how you gwine ter put Talbot County in yo’ mag’zine? You jes’ tezin’ po’ ole Stephen. You see I’s al’ays libbed wid de qual’ty, an’ ain’ easy ter fool. Now, you sho’ly ain’ got uh mag’zine?”

“Indeed I have, dear Uncle Stephen.”

“Well, what we gwine ter cum ter. Ef’n meh dear ole Missis had ebin seed one ub huh chillun ridin’ on one ub dem one-wheel t’ings she’d uh tuck an’ spanked huh an’ kep’ huh in bed fuh two weeks; but ter t’ink ub uh lubly young mistis like you is, habin’ uh mag-zine—chile, I is libbed too long. It’s mos’ ez bad ez ghoses an’ witches.”

“Uncle Stephen, don’t you think I could manage a magazine and put the nicest sort of stories in it?”

“Well, den, what good it gwine ter do you? I wish de one dat ’sploded at Petersbu’g had nuffin in it but stories. Why, honey, it blowed up an’ kilt fo’ thousan’ mules, an’ I dunno how many millions ub solders, an’ de good Lawd only nose how many plantations. Is you got uh pa? Well, chile, you will twiss yo’ po’ pa’s feelin’s sum ub dese days ornless you stop playin’ wid mag-zines.”

“Why, Uncle Stephen, you are too old to have been a soldier in the civil war.”

“Indeed I wuz, honey, an’ I wuz skeer’d stiff! You see dey tuck me ter Easton, gib me toddy, ’fused me, an’ ’swaded me ter go. I’s got uh pension, fuh I drobed uh fo’-hoss mule team fuh six monfs. I didn’ keah fuh de wah; fac’ is, I kep’ ’way fum de battlefields. I wud uh bin uh exerter, but wuz fear’d ter ezert! So I jes’ had ter pine fuh ole mars, ole miss, an’ Sookey. Sookey’s meh wife, an’ she al’ays wid ’em. She use ter look fuh ole mars’ specks, an’ keep de flies of’n ole miss.”

“Uncle Stephen, my magazine is a kind of book that comes out every month and has pretty stories in it, and they tell me that you can tell a pretty story.”

“Heh! heh! heh! mistis, I al’ays know’d I wuz uh qual’ty niggah.”

“So I have brought you a nice bundle of tea, tobacco, and a new straw hat, for I want you to tell me all about yourself and something about Talbot County before the war.”

“Well, I s’pose dey name books arfter mag’zines, kase dey big soun’in’ t’ings? I’s pow’ful bleeged ter you fuh de tea, ’baccy an’ de hat. I’ll hab ter teck dis sweet blue ban’ of’n de hat, kase it will skeer de fish an’ keep ’em fum bitin’. You mus’ be fum de Souf?”

“No, I am from the North.”

“Well, you mus’ uh had uh mammy fum de Souf, den.”

“Maybe, Uncle Stephen. And now tell me something about the Eastern Shore of Maryland, Talbot County, before the war.”

“Well, hunny, I cum outin’ uh fambly dat lib wha you see dem tall elm, hoss chestnut an’ big oak trees. De place name Otwell. I wuz bo’n da—and so wuz meh fava an’ his fava. Meh fava’s name wuz Phil Demby, an’ Pawson Demby, de ’stinguis’ Babtis preecher, is meh brudder, an’ name arfter meh fava. None of my fambly wuz free niggahs, er ’longed ter po’ white trash. My muvva she named Phillis. Dey called huh Arnt Phillis; an’ she libbed at Otwell, an’ wuz Mars Nickey’s favorite cook. All de niggahs on dat plantation slep’ wid sheets on deah beds. Mars Nickey didn’ hab, an’ he wouldn’ hab no common niggahs. When de oberseers cum ter de po’ch ter git deah orders, dey al’ays stood wid deah haids unkivvered, rain er no rain; dey know’d deah place. An’ Chrismus Ole Mars gib all de serbents toddy, but ef’n dey get tipsy, he whup ’em sho’! Meh muvva, Phillis, wuz de fus’ cook at Otwell. Chile, she wuz uh cook! but one ub de slow-paced sort. Nowdays dey cook uh ham in fo’ hours; dem days it tuck meh muvva two days, an’ dem wuz Mars Nickey’s orders.

“How-some-eber ev’yt’ing wuz slow in dem days. Dey use ter teck uh gre’t big silver tank dat hilt boutin uh gallon, er mebby two gallons, an’ fill it wid mint julip, an’ it had two gre’t big han’les jes’ like ram’s hohns on de sides. An’ Saul an’ Damon—dey wuz de house serbents—dey meck de julips (I use ter holp when dey ve’y busy, an’ tase de julip an’ see ef’n it sweet nuff), an’ when de gemmen cum in fum fox hun’in’, Saul an’ Damon wud pars ’roun’ de tank; an’ you kyant tell how slow dey wud drink fum dat tank. An’ when dinner time cum it tuck ’em boutin fo’ hours, sometimes mo’n fo’, an’ sometimes all nite futto eat dinner. Dey riz bees, an’ dey meck peach brandy, an’ dey drink what you call peach an’ honey. How cum dey don’ drink peach an’ honey dese days? Why, de ve’y bref ub it mecks you feel nice.

“Fo’ de wah all de hom’ny wuz bet in uh gre’t big morter; de hom’ny dey mecks nowdays is nuffin ter hit. All de wheat wuz cut wid uh cradle, an’ when dey all in uh row swingin’ deah cradles, sayin’ nuffin an’ lookin’ so full ub condidence, it remin’ you ub de fus’ ub de flood tide in de creek—mus’ go on. Uncle Reuben al’ays tuck de haid row. Swing he cradle same ez Sampson. Steambo’ts cum once uh week dem days, an’ dey tuck all day ter cum, an’ dey stay all nite, an’ go ’way nex’ mawnin’. Now dey cum in fo’ hours, an’ fo’ er five uh day.

“People ebin dance slower dem days; use ter dance de min-e yet. Mars Tilghman co’tin’ Mis Henrietta, an’ he bow ter huh same ez uh tall poplar when de win’ blow hyard; an’ ez fuh Miss Henrietta, she jes’ ez graceful ez uh putty kitten, an’ stylish ez uh unbroken thurrybred colt. Ef’n de flo’ had uh bin kivverd wid de hunard-leaf roses, an’ she wuz uh dancin’, she wudn’ mash one. Many uh time, thoo de wintah, I’b seed ’em dance. I’d bin de haid waitah at ‘Otwell’ ef’n I hadn’ bin so waluble futto breck de steers an’ colts. Ole Mars’ he had de gre’tes’ confluence in meh ’rasity, an’ I wuz al’ays ’roun’ de kitchen, kase, ez I befo’ tole you, meh Muvva Phillis de haid cook. Mam Juby, she de secon’ cook, and ’sis’ mammy.

“Why, hunny, ebin de peaches an’ watahmillions wuz bigger dem deys, kase dey didn’ grow up so fars; dey tuck deah time; an’ ez fuh oysters an’ fish, why dem days you cud walk out in dat cobe not fudder dan yo’ nees, an’ git all de oysters you wan’, an’ set rite at dat stake an’ pull in de fish tell you go ’stracted, an’ de wile ducks quackin’ all ’roun’ you. Dat’s de stake Leetle Billy wuz uh fishin’ at when de shirk pull him ove’bode. Leetle Billy wuz uh ornry niggah, al’ays playin’ de fiddle, mus’rattin’, tellin’ ghose stories, fishinin’ on Sunday, an’ dancin’. Mo’n dat, he nebber ’longed ter de chuch, an’ it wan’ no use ter talk ter him. How-some-eber, ev’ybody liked Billy; al’ays peart, al’ays hab ’baccy in he pocket, an’ gib lib’ly. Billy wuz uh qua’ chap; he wan’ lazy, but he didn’ lub hyard wuck. Well, he tied he bote at dat ve’y stake, an’ jes’ fuh fun, befo’ de tide tu’n an’ de fish bite, he put uh gre’t big sorf crab on he hook, flung de bait out, tied de line ’roun’ he leg, tuck his fiddle out an’ ’mence ter play jigs an’ sich like. Bimeby he wen’ uh sleep, an’ uh shirk cum ’long an’ tuck dat bait, pulled po’ Billy ove’bode, an’ Billy wen’ uh skeetin’, bobbin’ up an’ down like uh passel ub ’scovey ducks bavin’ deah sef, an’ prayin’ fas’ ez he cud git de watah fum he mouf. Billy say he wuz jes’ prayin’ dat de fiddle wudn’ git los’, but Cap’n Stitchberry sez he nebba heahd uh moanah pray mo’ pow’ful. Mo’n dat, ef’n Cap’n Stitchberry hadn’ cum ’long in he pungy wid uh load ub oyster shells, an’ kotch Billy when he wuz fai’ly sailin’ ’long, de shirk wud hab ’stroyed Billy. Mars Innis Randolph says, ‘Dey kyant tell whedder de niggah wuz uh fishinin’ er de fish wuz uh niggerin’.’ Dat’s de way people gits talked boutin dat fishes on Sunday.

“Dem days dear ole Mars Nickey had seben sons, an’ dey all wen’ Souf in de wah; all got kilt ’ceppin’ Mars Pinckney, name arfter uh Bishop, an’ he wuz de wiles’ an’ de gayes’, an’ he didn’ git uh scratch. Dem chillun gittin’ kilt, wid me leabin’ Ole Mars, meck him seck an’ breck his hyart. (’Skuse dese teahs, young mistis!) So he died! Meh pappy Demby use ter ’long ter Mars Nickey’s fava, an’ dribe de fo’-in-han’ an’ rid’ ’hine in de saddle when Mars Nickey drobe in de gig. Bof ub ’em wuz name Nickey, an’ he wuz de fif’ Nickey dat wuz bo’n at Otwell. I heah Leetle Billy say dat he heah Mars Tilghman say dat he heah Mr. Stevens say—de man dat use ter run Mars Nickey’s win’ mill—dat de fus’ Mars Nickey cum ober de bay wid uh man name Klumbus, an’ dey ’scover Talbot Kounty. Dat wuz in de time ub de Petracks. [Patriarchs.]

“Dem days dey had what you call gigs. ’Cose you nebber saw one ub dem ole-time gigs. Well, you almos’ had ter git up in ’em wid uh leetle ladder, dey so tall an’ stylish. Dey wuz fuh two hosses tandy, one in de shaf’, de udder in de lead. Dat’s de way dey wen’ co’tin’, an’ dey wo’ silk stockin’s, an’ no pants, ’ceppin’ ter deah knees. Pappy say ev’ything wuz slow in dem days, ’ceppin’ de race hosses, foxhoun’s, an’ de young; an’ de ole marsters, dey luck so peart an’ ’squisit’ in deah silk coats an’ socks, silk all ober, dat de young ladies cudn’ resis’ ’em. Dem days som’times dey had three er four wibes. One mistis hardly hab de hunnysuccle growin’ ober huh grabe ’fo’ dey git annurr wife. I had five wibes mehsef. Heh! Heh! Heh!

“When Pawson Demby, meh brudder, got ’ligion, den I got ’ligion. ’Fo’ dat I use ter ride race hosses, an’ me an’ Mrs. Rodgers’ Ned, an’ Mars Nickey’s Big Billy (you see dey had two Billys, an’ dey use ter call one Big Billy an’ de udder Leetle Billy) use ter play de fiddle, an’ two waitahs fum Myrtle Grobe, Hesakiah Sprouts an’ John Poney, use ter play de flute an’ banjo, an’, hunny, people use ter cum fum Kyarline an’ Qweens Anne’s County futto heah us play, ‘Wha You Gwine, Sistah Sue?’ ‘Rosin de Bow,’ ‘Debbil ’mong de Tailors,’ ‘Yaller Cow,’ an’ sich like.

“Meh deah chile, I cud tell you heap mo’ ’boutin dem days; but when I look ober da—Ole Mars’ gone, all de hoss ches’nut, elms an’ poplars (dey call dem Lombardy poplars) dead—de apple an’ de peach archard ’stroyed wid age, de cobe wha dey use ter swim de hosses so shaller dat uh kildee kin wa’k ’cross, an’ wussa yit, de man what wuz wonce uh oberseer libbin’ in de ole house, how you ’speck I feel? An’ much ez I lub de ole place, I’s ’fear’d ter go da; fuh dey tell me Leetle Billy plays de fiddle an’ dances in de yard sometimes, an’ he bin dead six monfs nex’ harves’. Ef’n I hadn’ preserbation in meh hyart, an’ ’long ter de chuch, I’d be ’fear’d ter lib heah. Do you ’long ter de chuch? Ef’n you don’ git salbation rite ’way, den yo’ mag’zine will bloom jes’ like de blossoms on dem crabapple trees, an’ you will long fuh de chuch jes’ ez much ez uh hen longs fuh huh los’ chickens. Ef’n I hadn’ jine de chuch I, tu, mout be uh ghose like po’ Billy—he died fum eatin’ tu much watahmillion he stole—an’ I mout uh bin wid him.

“Ef’n Ole Mars wuz libbin’ dem crabapple trees wud hab uh new fence ’roun’ dem. Das wha’ he burried Cicero, he favorite p’inter dog. Hunny, I will nebber fogit dat name; I recommember it jes’ ez well ez I recommember yistiddy. All de niggahs in de mansion call him Cis, an’ it meck Ole Mars ’stracted. He stan’ us all, young an’ ole, leetle an’ big, Aunt Phillis, tu, all in uh line, befo’ de po’ch, an’ he say: ‘Dem me, ef’n I don’ sell you all ter Georgy ef’n you don’ stop callin’ dat dog Cis. He’s uh gre’t dog, an’ name arfter uh gre’t man; I won’ hab it. I will wuck de plantation wid free niggahs ’fo’ I hab it.’ An’ he tell de leetle niggahs dey kyant play ’roun’ de po’ch fuh uh monf ef’n dey don’ learn ter call dat dog Cicero. Den he meck us all say arfter him, C-i-c-e-r-o, C-i-c-e-r-o, C-i-c-e-r-o—Cicero!

“When he wuz uh young dog, boutin two year ole, Ole Mars cum fum partridge shootin’ one day, an’ all de dogs jump out de wagon at de po’ch ’ceppin’ Cicero; he wuz almos’ tu tired an’ sleepy ter mobe. But when Mammy Phillis call him he got hongry rite ’way; jump out an’ struck he haid ’gin de iron scraper dey teck de mud of’n deah boots wid, an’ kill hissef. Hongry an’ thusty ez Ole Mars wuz, he wep’! An’ he say, ‘I wan’ you an’ Reubin ter dig uh grabe un’er dem crabapple trees, an’ in de mawnin’ we will burry him.’ An’ so de nex’ mawnin’ Uncle Reubin an’ I wuz stan’in’ by de grabe meddowtatin’, an’ heah wuz me, heah wuz Uncle Reubin, an’ heah wuz Cis. Pres’ny Marster cum an’ put Cis in de grabe, an’ I thowd uh spade full ub uth on Cis; an’ Uncle Reubin riz up his haid, an’ he say, ‘Mars Nickey, ain’ you gwine ter say nuffin?’ An’ Mars Nickey he luck like his hyart wud breck, an’ he say ‘Nuffin, Reubin!’ Den Uncle Reubin thowd in uh spade full ub uth, lean on he shovel an’ sorter whispuh like, ‘Den I will say he wuz uh good ole dog!’

“Marster’s favorite dogs wuz houn’s; he lub ’em so he nebber low you ter call uh houn’ uh dog. An’ he had seben hosses dat done nuffin but hunt ober dem dogs; an’ dey wuz hosses, fuh it tuck uh hoss ub qual’ty ter kerry him; he wuz uh pow’ful man. Fus’ you read de Bible, hunny, boutin de time King Dabid wuz all dress up in his new nuniform an’ whup de Flistins, an’ den teck uh look at Ole Mars’ pictur, you sho’ly wud think King Dabid favo’d Ole Mars, he so hainsome; an’ Mars Pinckney de ve’y spit ub him! When Mars Nickey git on he hun’in’ close he glitter jes’ same ez uh star! Yaller wes’ (yaller wuz he favorite color), no pants ’ceppin’ ter de nees, an’ dey yaller; an’ green welwet cote—bless meh soul an’ body, an’ meh body an’ soul, he look jes’ like King Solomon mus’ uh look when he wen’ struttin’ arfter annurr wife. An’ when he blow he hohn an’ you heah de houn’s moanin’ an’ Jedge Kyarmichael’s, Mars Lloyd’s, Kun’l Winders, an’ Mars Tilghman’s an’ all de qual’ty dogs cummin’ troo de cawn fields almos’ nockin’ down de cawn, an’ all ub ’em carryin’ uh chune, chile you’d almos’ wish yo’sef uh houn’! Yas, indeed, hunny, dem wuz days futto recommember. An’ sich hosses Ole Mars had; dey jes’ jump an’ hunt. Da ain’ no hosses dese days like de hosses dem days. Fuh instinct, like Don Won, Black Nite, Jew-drap, Junius, Fanny Esler, an’ Sky Lark. Jes’ cum in meh quarter an’ I’ll show de pictur ub dem hosses. I done lef’ ’em ter Mars Pinckney when I die; you see, I wan’ ter keep ’em in de fambly.

“Mars Nickey had he quare ways, tu, jes’ like udder people. Fuh instinct, he wud nebber lite he cigah fum uh match, al’ays fum uh cole uh fire, stuck on uh fork; an’ I lub ter tote de fork ter him—sho’ futto gimmy uh levy. When he shabe he nebber look at uh glass; jes’ wa’k all ’roun’ de room meddowtatin’ an’ shabin’, an’ shabin’ an’ meddowtatin’, kase he wo’ no whiskus, an’ ’spise uh beard. One time I nebber will fogit; Mars Jimmy cum fum Woodstock, had his fiddle in de kerridge an’ wuz full ub peartness. He wuz dribin’ Robbin an’ Red Bird tandy togedda—jes’ cum futto see he pa—an’ tho’t he wuz ve’y fine wid uh mustache on he lip. Ole Mars wuz in uh fine umuh, wid uh barsket full ub mushrooms on he ahms, but when he see dat mustache on Mars Jimmy, he say, cussin: “You kyant lite tell you cut dat hyah orf.”

“I recommember one thing mo’ I fogot. Ef you wants ter git uh good view ub de ribber, an’ be tu fur fum de house ter heah Billy’s fiddle, jes’ teck dat parf, an’ hit’s uh nice leetle wa’k ter dat grobe ub cedar trees, an’ when you gits da you will see what’ll s’prise you. Ole Marster lubbed ev’yt’ing dat wuz good—an’ da’s wha he burried he good an’ favorite foxhoun’s. I kyant read, but I nose ev’y name on dem houn’s toomstone poses. He nebber done anyt’ing ’dout hit rashnal, an’ he sho’d dat ’sponsibility when he name he foxhoun’s. Lite-foot wuz uh booful houn’; neck almos’ ez long ez uh goose’s, an’ sich long, sorf ears, gre’t big brown eyes, an’ sech uh signifyin’ ’spression ’bout he haid, dat when he los’ de sent, an’ bay an’ look at de sky, hit made yer raal sad. He wuz so swif’ an’ nimble dat he skeercely tech de uth, an’ hardly bresh de jewdraps fum de clober.

“Chimes had uh tongue dat wuz ez sweet ez uh martingale’s, same ez uh bell. Jefferson wuz uh gran’ feller, white all ober, ’ceppin’ uh yaller spot on he lef’ side, not much bigger dan uh new moon. He wuz ve’y stylis’ an’ clean, ’pear’d like he wuz dressup all de time. He wuz ez brabe ez Mars Pinckney, an’ ez gentle ez uh lam’—’ceppin’ uh black dog cum ’long; den da wuz trubble. Mars Nickey didn’ like nuffin black hissef, ’ceppin’ de niggahs, so he ’cided ter hab no mo’ black houn’s er black sheep on de plantation, all fuh de lub ub Jefferson.

“But Ole Mars had one houn’ he lub mos’; he wan’ so pow’ful fas’, but he wuz al’ays true. Ef de sent wuz cole, er ef’n it wuz uh los’ sent, you’d heah ’em say, ‘Wait tell Jerry cum ’long, he will pick it up;’ an’ de young an’ de ole houn’s had condidence in him, an’ ’spected him. His name wuz Jerry-Myah, an’ Ole Mars say he gib him dat name kase Jerry-Myah wuz uh profit.”