Rensselaer Republican, Volume 16, Number 32, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 April 1884 — MISTRESS URSIE CARLISLE. [ARTICLE]

MISTRESS URSIE CARLISLE.

L “Is dis here de place whar dey wants a cook?” I turned from the kitchen table,where I had vainly been endeavoring to bring order out of dire confusion. “Who told you I wanted a cook?” I inquired. “One man ’et lives on de joining place ter us. He come ter town to get some pervishuns Sat’y night, an’ he he’rd ’em say at de sto’ you was wantin’ er cook, —an’ I low’d as Ixwi tired er pickin’ cotton, I’d cum.” W I felt encouraged. All of her predecessors, v ho had numbered four in twice as many days, had informed me that “a cullur’d gentmnn or lady had riccummended me to them,” so I said, “What’s your n*.me?” “Hussie Washington. Kylisle. Dat’s my name. I’se got a mighty gran’ name, ma’am, but no purs’ ’tall.” “Can you cook?" “Lord, yes, chile. I kin cook. Der ain’t no kind er cookin’ I can't do. I give er supper down ter my house no later ’en las’ Sundy night; an’ dem niggers low et dem things was der bes’ things ever dey stuck er toof inter. An’ lord knows dey stroyed ennuf,” she added in rather a melancholy retrospect. “Well, I will give you a trial," I said. “And I wish you would come in now and put this kitchen in order.” And she did. In an incredibly short space of time she had everything spotlessly clean and neat, and was ready for further orders; and so begun my acquaintance with Mistress Ursie Carlisle. Punctually with Saturday night her “ole man" arrived, and was brought in for my inspection. “Miss Louisy,dis here’s my ole man.” Aunt Ursie weighed nearly 200 pounds, and the “ole man” barely 100. I inquired his name. Ole man Charlie Burton," said Aunt Ursie. “But,” I objected, “you told me your name was Carlisle. How can that be if yeur husband’s name is Burton ?” “So hit is; so dey bofe is. I was borned Kylisle, an’ I specte ter die Kylisle, an’ I doan,t perpose ter go foolin’ an’ changin’ er my name for no nigger. Dis here ain’t de fus’ husbin’ had, an’ more’en likely ’twqn’t be de las’. You tell Miss Louisy good day, ole man, an’ cum along, ’cause I mus’ be gitten’ back ter dem vittles.” n. “Miss Louisy,” remarked my handmaiden one morning, “dis here Bible er yourn’s jes’ like Miss May’s Bible, my young mistis’, et I used ter nus’. Miss May, she used to read ter me outen it, an’ tell me ’bout der jedgemin’ day, an’ all dem cu’ous kind er things. Miss Louisy, what does you think ’bout der jedgemin’ day enyhow ? lax Miss May dat once, an’ she’low et der wuz gwine ter be mighty heap er ’citement den, but hit wan’t gwine ter las’ long. “But dat ain’t what I cum ter see you *bout- I cum ter tell you dere’s gwine ter be a derbatin’ at the church ternight, an’ I lowed Fd go cause ’tain’t gwine ter cos’ me nnthin*. Sis Temple, she say, she'd cum by fer me if I went” “What are they going to debate about?” I inquired. “Hit’s den regler s’ci’ty, an’ dey hez er speakin’ ev*y munt Dey s is _ gwine ter prove which is der, deanes’, der nigger et washes in der summer an’ doan wash in der winter, or der one et washes in der winter an’ doan wash in der summer, and I want’s ter he’r ’em, an’ ter cas’ my vote.” “How are you going to vote?" »- “Who, me? Lord, honey, I’se gwine ter-cas’ my vote wid der summer ducks; cause when cole wether comes, I never wets my skin fer no man. “Well, I wish after you settle the question, you would try and get Mrs. Carter a cook,” I said. “She has been without one for a long time. I can’t understand it.” “Well, chile, I’ll try; but I ain’t gwine to promise, cause dey’s dun read her out in church." q

“Read her out in church? What do you mean?” • ’‘Well, whenever der white ladies wants er cook, dey sls, lets Brnd’r Stinsen know an’ he reads her name out in church, an’ den he say: ‘Sis Temple, or whoever wuz der las’ one et worked dere, will please rise an’ give her character.’ Den Sis Temple, she rise an’ she low ez how they dun been cookin’ sos Miss Carter, an’ she low ez she didn’t s’pose az no right-minded cullud pusson ud res’ satisfied ter stay dere, and den she tole how Miss Carter kept ev’ything locked up, an’ never, by no chance, lef ’ dem keys outen her han’s; an’ how she wuz alius a cumin’ in der kitchen an* her messin’ an’ er medlin’ long der vittals, an’ er saying she wanted dis here fixed dis way, an’ tother thing tother way. An’ Sis Temple Ipw, she did, et she wuz raised to cook by fus-class white folks, an’ she couldn't stan’ no sich ways ez dem, an’ she lef’. An’ arter dat dey took der vote on hit, an’ frum der way dein niggers ’spress deyselves, I doan spec dat white ’oinan’s gwine ter ’suade none Uy ’em ter step roun’ in dat kitchen soon. You he’er my rackit.” 111. ! , “Miss Lonisy,” asked Aunt Ursie later on, “is yer got time ter-day fer ter do a little writin’ fer me, ’cause I wants mighty bad fer ter git er letter off somehow ter Wash. He’s my son ets in der penitenshey, an’ I ain’t he’rd from him in ar long time. I dun save a little money ter sen’ him. Dey put him in dere five years cum dis spring, an’ der Lord knows when dey's gwine ter let him cum back ter me. Der mos’ uv der folks, dey looks down on Wash, an’ der ole man, he doan take any count er him, cause, you see, he my fust husbin’s chile; but I loves him, cause, Miss' Louisy, he’s der onliest boy I'segot, an’ he wuz alius good ter me. “I knows he didn’t ’tend ter kill dat nigjger, ’cause he jes’ stuck him wid his pocket-knife, an’ he tole me hisse’f he didn’t. An’ now his wife dun gone an’ mair’d agin, an’ his little chillun, dey goes roun’ wid dey close all to’d an’ raggit, an’ dey never gets enuf ter eat, ’cepting I gives hit ter ’em. An 5 when I thinks maybe I won’t nebber see Wash no mo’, I feels like if de Lord wuz willin’ ter takejne I wouldn't have no ’sputin’ wid Him ’bout it.”

And Aunt Ursie threw her apron over her bead, and sobbed aloud, while 1 felt strongly tempted to follow suit. “I will see a friend of mine, a lawyer,” I said, “and ask him to inquire about your son.” “Thanky, ma’am, Miss Louisy; thanky, ma’am. De Lord He knows der ain’t nothin’’t all I won’t do fer you es you’ll jes’ fin’ out ’bout Wash fer me. Dey didn’t nebber hab no rite ter sen’ him der no how, ’cause es der doctor had er jes’ lis’en ter me, dat nigger wouldn’t never died. Dese here doctors, dey comes a-messin’ an’ a-meddlin’ wid fokes' insides an’ er pickin’ fokes’ po’kets an’ ha’f der time der ain’t got no noshun what’s der the matter. Es dat ar doctor,” said Aunt Ursie, gradually raising her voice to concert pitch in her excitement, “es dat ar doctor bed er lis’ened ter me, dat nigger boy’d er bin here now—you hear me talk ? ’Cause I tole him jes what ter do.” “What did you advise?” I inquired, willing to divert her mind from her troubles. “Who, me ? I ’vised allum ter draw der parts tergedder, atruosum to sodder ’em. Dat’s what I ’vised, and gent’men, if dat white man’d minded me dat boy wouldn't nebber died. I knows ’bpnt sick fokes, I doz, an’ I ain’t gwine ter low rate myse’f fer nobody; ’cause no later’n last week Sis Temple she cum roun’ heah an’ she ’lew she hadn’t slep’ nun for fo’ nights, ’cause der nuroligy hurt her so bad in her leg. An’ I tole Sis Temple fer to get nine strans er yarn offen a black sheep and nine strans offen a white un, an twis’ ’em togedder nine times, an' wrap ’em roun’ dat leg, an’ whatever she do not ter put dat leg outen der bed fust in der mornin’—an’ she dun hit." “Well?” I inquired. “Well, you dun see Sis Temple here dis mornin’, didn’t you ?” “Yes.” “You ain’t seed no signs er nuroligy about her, is you ?” “No.” “Well, den,” and Aunt Ursie retired, with an air of dignified triumph, to the recesses of her own apartment. A few weeks after I told her that I had seen a lawyer about her son, * and he had discovered that "Wash’s” term had expired the previous spring, but that for various and sundry misdemeanors he had been remanded for six months longer. If no other mishap occurred she might look for him before Christmas. Herjhappiness knew no bounds, and she went about her duties singing with unnecessary vigor her favorite hymn: Ole Satan i>hot dat bait at me, He shot by rat ter kill me; Der ball pass by and down ter hell. Sing good news gone ter Calnyin, until I felt compelled, on behalf of the neighbors, to remonstrate. IV. As the time for the return of the prodigal drew near she began to prepare for him, and was constantly making excursions “down town” to expend her earnings in “sumthin’ ’nuther fer Wash.” Like all of her race, she had no idea of taking thought for her health, and if anything suggested itself to her mind that he would like, she would, at the first possible moment, go in search of it, regardless of wind or weather. I expostulated with her on discovering her drenched to the skin after one of her nightly expeditions, but I might as well have reasoned with an infant. “I des went for dese here han’kerche’fs, Miss Louisy; I seen ’em in der winder dis morin’, but neber had no money wid me den ter git ’em fer Wash." The next morning I missed the sound of the biscuit-beater, and on investigation found Aunt Ursie 11 in bed, with a husky voice and rapid pulse. The symptoms soon developed into that scourge of the race, pneumonia, and before many days I knew that my faithful servant was leaving me forever. She could not realize herown danger, and it was pitiful to hear her count the .days before her boy’s coming and enu-

merate the little gifts she had in store for him. i’ . “Hit seems like es my head ud jus' stop buttin’ a minnit I could? thinker sumthin’ et ud do me good," she said, one day toward the last. “Dere’s dat cake got ter be made ’fore Wasli gits heer, an’ Lord knows, I ain’t gwine trus’ dat nigger you dun got in da kitchen, Miss Louisy, ter shake a stitck at it.” “I will have it made for you, Aunt Ursie,” I said. 1 “I’m thousan* times erbleeged ter yer, chile, but I wants ter have er han’ in der mixin’ er dat cake myself, *caus<; Wash alters did love der way I cook his vittles. How long you spec’ it will be ’fo’ I’m up agin ?” “Not long, I hope,” I said, not looking at her; but something in my face batrayed me, and she made a fruitless effort to rase herself on her pillows, and asked, excitedly: “You don’t think I'm gwine ter die, does you, Miss Louisy ? Fer do good Lord's sake don’t let nothin’ ’tall happen to me ’fo’ my boy gits heer, ’cause dair won’t be nobody fer ter make hit seem like home ter him if I ain’t heer. His wife’s dun leP him, an’ his. little chillun’s’ all fergot him, an’ dair ain’t nobody keers ter see him but me. Don't you think der good Lord nil spar me jes’ ter see him wunce mo’?” I could not speak; I could only turn my head away and take her hand. Her voice had grown weaker even as she spake, yet still she turned her failing eyes upon me, as though I had power to s|ay the coming of the grim messenger who already waited beside her. “Miss Lonisy,” she resumed, 'in so faint a whisper I could scarcely catch the words, “you’se been mighty good and kine ter me, an’ I thanks you fer it, an’ when Wash cams I wants yer ter give him all dem little things, an’ ax him, fer my sake, fer ter try an’ do rite an’ live rite, an’ not git inter no mo’ trouble; an’ tell him, es de good Lord had er bin willin’, I’d waited fer him, tell him howdy fer me —an’—tell—him —good-by!”— New Orleans TimesDemocrat.