Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 39, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 October 1887 — EXCSSIVELY HONEST. [ARTICLE]

EXCSSIVELY HONEST.

BY OPIE P. BEAD.

Very few negro preachers have abandoned the pulpit on account of the vanities of recent religion or the dishonorable transactions which have been imputed to the cloth. Among the very—we may say solitary—few may be reckoned old Gus Marcus. Mischief-breed-ers—-and they are to be found in nearly every congregation—declared that old Gus gave up the calling which he had so long pursued because his people failed to pay him adequately, but those who had most largely partaken of the old man’s rigid casuistry knew that he could no longer associate with co-work-ers who, while on their way to prayermeeting, marked with calculating eye the height of the chicken-roost, and who heard, with the keen ear of interest, the turkey’s sonorous gobble. Gus moved to town, rented a small shanty, and opened a vegetable store. He hung up a motto, which, with almost pardonable pleonasm, declared: “Widout no honesty dar ain’t no man dat desarves ter prosper,” and was explaining it to several members of his former flock when a white man entered, and, after looking around a few moments, said: “By the way, I left my umbrella in here this morning. It’s lying over there. Hand it to me, please. ” Gus stared at him. “I say, hand it to me, please.” “Look vere, mister, I doan know yer name, but I’se gwine ter be perlite wid yer; so, jes’ lemme tell yer ter go on erbout yer biznesss erfairs an’ doan’ come ’roun’ yere projickin’ wid me w’en I’se got erfairs ter Ten’ ter. ” “I tell you that I left that umbrella Here, and I want it. “Oh, I knows mighty well w’ut yer tells me. De closest ’quaintances I

eber had ain’ ’cased me o’ bein deef. Oh, yas, I knows w’ut yer says. ” “If you don’t give me that umbrella 11l go after an officer. ” “Dat’s one o’ de rights o’ de ’Merican citizenship, sah, sot down by the consertution an’ ’fended by de Preserdent; but dar ain’ no clause in de langwidge ter make er pusson gin np de property dat he’s dun ’cumerlated. I’se had dat ’brella er long time, sah; longer den yerse’f has been able ter ’dorse fur yerse’f at de banks in dis town. Bought dis 'brella wid some mighty hard-’arned money. Go on, mister; go on, fur I’se in er ’scussion wid sum o' mer frien’s.” The man hurriedly withdrew. Old Gus continued: “Dat’s de way it is. Dat w’ite man, es he had been fotch up right, mout er been er honest pusson, but ez it is, he gwine ’roun’ de neighborhood tryin’ ter cheat folks outen dar rights. I tell yer, dis yere worl’ is going ter rack mighty fas’; an de preachers, ’stead o’ tryin’ ter stop it, 'pear to be smilin’ on de ’formance.” The claimant of the umbrella, accompanied by an officer, entered the store. * “Oldman,” said the officer, “this gentleman claims that umbrella.” “las, sah, yas; an’ he mout claim do moon, but dat doan mean dat he gwine git it. It’s my ’brella, sah; bought an’ paid fur. I ken go an’ show yer w’ar I bought it—show yer de very place. ” “How long have you had it?” “ ’Bout two years. ” “Must have kept it well.” “I has, sah. I alius takes kere o’ de property dat de Lawd lets me ’cumerlate. ” “My name is R. D. Lane,” said the claimant. “Hand the umbrella here a moment. ” Old Gus began to argue, but the officer seized the umbrella and handed it to the claimant, who, moving a silver slide, disclosed his name. “Old man,” said the officer, “that is sufficient. It is clear that you are a thief. ” “Git outen dis house, bof o’yer. Git out. Wen er man comes slip pin’ ’roun’ yere writin’ his name on my property w’en I ain’t lookin’, w’v, I ain’t got no use fur him. I tell yer w’ut,” turning to his friends, “I’ll hatter lock up dis yere house tighter. Dat triflin’ white pusson will slip in an’ write his name on all dese yere cabbages an’ cowcumbers. I reckon es he wuz ter write his name on me w’en I is ersleep he’d take me erway, too. Oh, my dyin’ sinner frien’s, we all hatter be mighty keerful. It pains me ter say so, but it is er plum’ flatfooted sack. Wall, es ever’body wuz hones’ I doan reckon half de folks would know w’ut ter do wid dar spar’ time. But it is sad ter think erbout, Brudder John; powerful sad.”—Arkansaw Traveler.