How Big Black Burl Sewed it Up in His War-cap.

By the time the Fighting Nigger had made an end of blowing his trumpet, the shadows of the long summer twilight had deepened into the shades of night, reminding him that it was high time he should be looking after the comfort of his captive guest. While the blowing and roaring had been going on from the stump, the young Indian had remained seated on the cabin door-sill, tranquilly smoking his pipe, the odorous contents of which showed forth at long and regular intervals in a dull-red glow from the dusky shadow of the cabin-shed. Taking him in, Burl hospitably yielded up to his guest his own bed—the bear-skin bed he was so proud of and loved so much to sleep on—spreading for himself instead a buffalo-rug on the floor. In a little while the spirit of sleep had descended on every weary soul in the fort—all save the wakeful Grumbo, who, crouched on his bear-skin out there under the shed, maintained, as was his habit, vigilant watch through the livelong night.

Now that his great adventure had been brought to a happy end, the Fighting Nigger must once more doff his bear-skin cap—the cap of war—and don, instead, his coon-skin cap—the cap of peace; hang his battle-ax up on the wall, and lay his hand to the plow; muzzle his war-dog, and bridle his plow-horse; and leave the war-path in the forest to tread the peace-path in the field.

Accordingly, early next morning, having duly discharged his office as host for the time being, and left his guest to a pipe of tobacco and quiet meditation, Burl was about betaking himself to his labors in the field, when his little master came running out to his cabin with word that Miss Jemima wished to speak with him before he left the fort. Respectfully uncapping himself even before reaching her presence, the faithful fellow came, and showing the left shoulder and bushy head of him from round the edge of the door and looking side-long into the room where his mistress was sitting, said in answer to her summons, "Yes 'um."

"I have sent for you, Burl," began Mrs. Reynolds with kindly seriousness of tone and manner, "to tell you how thankful I am for the good and brave part you have done by me and my poor fatherless boy, and to reward you in the best way I can." Here she paused.

"Yes 'um," said Burl, not knowing what else to say, and looking hard at Grumbo, who, as if he had been summoned too, had followed his master, and now, seated on his haunches in the door-way, was listening with grave attention to what was going on—hoping, no doubt, that severe measures were at last about to be taken with regard to the red barbarian.

Mrs. Reynolds resumed: "While you were gone, Burl, I sat here in my great distress and made a solemn promise to myself and to Heaven, that if you were permitted to bring me back my child alive and well, I would give you your freedom at once, as the only fitting reward I had it in my power to bestow for so great a proof of your fidelity and love to us."

"Now, Miss Jemimy!" exclaimed Burl in a tone of remonstrance, the water welling up in his great ox-like eyes.

"Yes, but I must do it," rejoined his mistress. "Heaven has heard my prayer, and I must keep my promise. Faithful and good have you been to us, and richly deserve the reward I offer. Would it were in my power to give you more."

"Now, Miss Jemimy!" repeated Burl, in the same tone, "you needn't, indeed you needn't." And seeing that his mistress had had her say, he seized upon the subject with sudden energy, and thus unburdened his mind: "Miss Jemimy, I don't want my freedom; I 's no use fur it. Hain't I got de bes' mistus in de worl' an' de finest little marster? Hain't I got a gun an' a dog? Plenty to eat an' plenty to w'ar? A whole cabin to myse'f, an' Saturday ev'nin's to go a-huntin' an' a-fishin' ef I likes? De only thing I hain't got an' would like ter hab—dough dat's no fault uf yourn, Miss Jemimy—is a white skin. Ef I had a white skin, den might I hab my freedom an' know whar's my place an' who's my comp'ny. As I is, turn me out free an' whar's my place? No whar. Who's my comp'ny? Nobody. Too good fur common niggers, not good 'nough fur white folks. What den would I be? A Ingin I s'pose. Sooner be Grumbo dar dan a Injun. Den Miss Jemimy wants to make a red varmint uf her ol' nigger. Git out! 'Scuse me, Miss Jemimy; I didn't go to say dat ter you. But I's bery glad an' thankful to hear you talk dat way. Makes me gladder to be what I is, so glad to be what I is, I won't be nothin' else ef I kin he'p it."

Deeply touched at this new proof of fidelity and self-sacrifice, yet not a little amused withal at the droll shape in which it came, Mrs. Reynolds rejoined: "Well, Burl, you can do as you please, but so far as my will and wishes can make you free, free you are from this day forth, either to go and play or stay and work. My promise is given, never to be recalled."

"Den, Miss Jemimy," replied Burl with look and tone of deep respect, "ef you's gwine ter let me do 's I please, w'y den, I pleases to stay."

Then, showing the whole of himself, excepting one arm and one leg, from round the edge of the door-way, and now rising into the oratorical, Burlman Reynolds proceeded to give his opinions upon the subject, having already expressed his feelings. "Miss Jemimy," with an impressive gesture, "dare's reason in all things. Now, ef I had l'arnin', could read in a book, write on paper, figger on a slate, count up money, tel de names of de mont's, an' alwus say how ol' I is when axed, an' all sich things like white folks, w'y den, dare'd be some sense in a great he-nigger like me doin' what I please, gwine whar I please—free-papers in pockets. But ef I has my freedom an' hain't got l'arnin' to match it, den would I be like—like—" looking about him for a comparison, till chancing to cast his eye on his dog, a thing pat suggested itself. "W'y, Miss Jemimy, one uf de red varmints me an' Grumbo chawed up yisterdy had on a blue coat an' ruffle shirt along with his ragetty rawhide tags an' fedders. Thought I neber seed nothin' look so scan'lus. 'Red varmint,' says I to him, 'coat an' no breeches won't do, shirt an' no breeches won't do.' An' now says I to Miss Jemimy, 'Freedom an' no l'arnin' won't do no mo' dan shirt an' no breeches.'

"Now, look at de Injuns." [Presenting the subject in another light.] "Dey has der freedom, kin do what dey please, kin go whar dey please, an' what do dey do? Don't do nothin' but hunt an' fish an' fight. Whar do dey go? W'y, jes' a-rippin' an' tearin' all ober da worl', 'sturbin' peacable people, keepin' dem mizzible an' onsituwated. So you see, de Injun, dough he has his freedom, ain't nothin' arter all but a red varmint. An' fur why? Beca'se he hain't got l'arnin' fur to tell him what to do wid his freedom, dat's why. So dey needs somebody to tell 'em what to do an' make 'em do it. Yes, an' dar's some white folks, too, who hain't got l'arnin' an' don't know much better what to do wid dare freedom dan Injuns an' free niggers, dough dey don't think so demselves, an' would knock a nigger down fur sayin' it. An' dem's my 'pinions on dat p'int.

"An' Miss Jemimy" [here Burl lowered his voice and looked at his mistress with solemn earnestness], "have you forgot how I promised Mars Bushrod I'd do what I could fur his wife an' pore little boy? All a pore nigger could fur white folks in dat way, an' wouldn't neber stop a-doin' it? An' s'posin' ef I was ter leabe 'em now, what would dey do? Who-o-o'd——" Here he choked up and broke down, and clapping his coon-skin cap on his head and pulling it down over his eyes, Burl turned abruptly and walked hurriedly away. Ten minutes after, mounted on his plow-horse, and with the big round tears playing at leap-frog down his face, he was riding along the bridle-path through the woods on his way to the corn-field, singing at the top of his huge, melodious voice:

"Squirly is a pretty bird."

And that morning the sylvan wilds were kept resounding with the heart-easing, blithesome music which bespoke the thankfulness and the gladness of the singer's heart. It was the happiest morning he had ever known in all his life, and yet, despite an unaccountable accident of birth that had brought into the world so noble a soul with an ebony hide and fleecy head, the poor fellow had known a thousand mornings nearly as happy. He was having his reward. But at about eleven o'clock the singing suddenly ceased—so suddenly, indeed, that any one who might have been listening would have said, "Assuredly something unusual has happened to Burlman Reynolds; something has struck him—perhaps an Indian bullet."

But when, in answer to the dinner-horn, the plowman came riding slowly home, it was evident from his unwonted seriousness of look and manner that a thought had struck the mind, not a bullet the body of Burlman Reynolds. It was further evident from the absent-minded way in which he fed Cornwallis, throwing him two dozen instead of one dozen ears of corn; and further still, from the absent-minded way in which he fed himself, leaving his bacon untoasted and eating nothing but bonny-clabber and corn-dodgers. Nor again that day was there an echo in the woods to tell that Big Black Burl was at his cheerful labors in the field. Yet, though the voice was silent, the heart went singing on, and the burden of the tune it sung was, "Bery glad an' bery thankful." That evening after supper, having smoked a sociable pipe with his Indian guest in the twilight under his cabin-shed, Burl picked up his coon-skin cap and, without putting it on, carried it in his hand with profound respect to Miss Jemimy's door, where by early candle-light, she was putting Bushie to bed. Showing one shoulder and his bushy head from round the edge of the door-way, he looked in, and by way of breaking the subject uppermost in his thoughts, cleared his throat and said, "Yes 'um."

"Well, Burl, what is it?" kindly inquired his mistress.

"'Scuse me, Miss Jemimy, but I's come to tell you I's been thinkin'——" pausing; and as he still hesitated, his mistress said: "Yes, so you have; I knew as much already, not having heard a song from you since dinner-time. Out with it, then; I am ready to hear you."

"Well, Miss Jemimy, it's jes' dis. We's all pore mortal creeters, made of clay, you know; no tellin' who'll be took away fus', who'll be lef' behin'." Another pause.

"Nothing could be truer, Burl," rejoined his mistress; "and yet not always right pleasant to think of. But go on, and speak your mind freely."

"Well, Miss Jemimy, bein' sich pore mortal creeters as we is, dare's no tellin' who'll be took away fus', who'll be lef' behin'. 'Scuse me, ef you please."

"And you are thinking that you might be left behind," added his mistress.

"You've hit it 'zac'ly on de head, Miss Jemimy; dat's jes' de thing I's wantin' to say, but was afeered uf hurtin' feelin's. Hope you don't think hard uf me fur havin' sich thoughts. But bein', as I wus sayin', de pore mortal creeters we is, some pussons is boun' to drap off sooner dan oders, some boun' to be lef' behin'; an' dar's no tellin' who de whos will be. Sich things mus' happen, an' nobody's fault, you know."

"It is all just as you say, Burl," replied his mistress. "So go on without more ado, and tell me exactly what is in your mind, and no fear of hurting feelings."

"Thank you, Miss Jemimy, fur talkin' dat way; it makes me easy. So I'll go on an' tell it all, jes' as I's been thinkin' it. Eber sence late dis mornin' I's been sayin' to myse'f out yander in de corn-fiel': 'We's all pore mortal creeters made uf clay—no tellin' who'll be took 'way fus', who'll be lef behin'. Den s'posin',' ses I, 's'posin' ef my good missus an' sweet little marster might be took 'way fus', an' der ol' nigger lef' behin', what den? W'y, mebbe jes' dis: some white man I neber liked or neber knowed might come 'long a-sayin' to me: "You belongs to me now, I's paid my money fur you; you go plow in my fiel', go chop in my woods, go mow in my medder; I hain't bought yo' wife an' chil'en—no use fur dem; so jes' make up yo' min' to leabe 'em an' come 'long." Den Burlman Rennuls be very sorry he didn't take what his good mistus wanted so much to give him long time ago.' So I goes on thinkin' it ober an' ober eber go long, till ses I to myse'f, 'I'll go to Miss Jemimy dis bery night an' say to her: "Miss Jemimy," ses I, "we's all pore mortal creeters made uf clay, no tellin' who'll be took away fus', who'll be lef' behin';" an' my good missus will know what I mean.' So I's come an' sed it. But min' you, Miss Jemimy, min' you now, I'm 'tirely willin' to work fur you an' my little marster all my days—'d ruther do it. But sich a thing might happen dat you two might be took away fus', an' yo' ol' nigger lef' behin'. Den I'd a leetle ruther be free. I don't know, arter all, but freedom's a bery good thing to hab eben ef we hain't got l'arnin' to match it. Dat is, ef we kin hab it an' not let it make fools uf us—set us a-thinkin' we's got nuthin' to do but lay in de shade an' kick up our heels. A nigger needn't make sich a show uf his freedom as de red varmint uf his ruffle shirt an' blue coat; jes' tie it up in a snug little bundle to tote along wid him an' let folks know he has it, an' dat'll be 'nuff fur any use. So I's thinkin' I'll come an' say: 'Miss Jemimy,' ses I, 'bein' as you want so much to do it, w'y den, ef you please, jes' write it down on a piece uf paper how, in case you an' my little marster might be took away fus', you wants yo' ol' nigger to hab his freedom.' Den I'll sew it up in my b'ar-skin cap, to keep it till de time comes, ef de time mus' come, so I kin say to de fus' white man who comes 'long a-claimin' me, 'I yi, my larky,' pullin' out my free-papers. But, min' you now, Miss Jemimy, I don't want you to be a-thinkin' dat I'll be a-hopin' fur de time to come so I kin go rippin' an' tearin' 'bout de country, like some no-'count, raggetty, dirty free niggers I's seed afore now, who, beca'se dey could do what dey pleased, didn't please to do nuthin'. 'T ain't so. I's sed it afore, an' I'll say it ag'in, I'll do what I kin fur my good missus an' my sweet little marster—all a pore nigger kin fur white folks in dat way, an' won't neber stop a-doin' it; an' I mean to keep my word."

And right willingly did Miss Jemimy according to her faithful servant's wishes, writing it down on a "piece of paper," clear and full, not forgetting to take such steps as should make the document good and valid in the eyes of the law. Then, having wrapped it up carefully in a piece of buckskin made water-proof and sweat-proof by bear's-grease rubbed in, Burl, with an awl and two wax-ends, sewed it up securely in the crown of his bear-skin cap. And, as the poor fellow was never left behind, there it remained for the rest of his days, with never a hope that he might some day have occasion to use it—never one regret that he had not accepted at once the priceless blessing it offered.