Read Ebook: That Old-Time Child Roberta: Her Home-Life on the Farm by Sea Sophie Fox

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Ebook has 466 lines and 21798 words, and 10 pages

"Why not drive some of the others, Uncle Squire, so you can come in to prayers?"

"I dun turn em all out, en dey's gorn, de Lord unly knows whar. If I'd unly know'd it en time now. But I'll show 'im--I'll show 'im. I gwiner be mity solid wid 'im, en mebbe heel larn arfter while dat he aint his own master."

At other times it was a mule.

"Mis July, dat mule dun tore down dat rock fence ergin. I bounter fix it or de stock will git out en go orf, you knows dat ez well az I duz. Dat mule's yours, en you kin do what you please wid him, but ef he 'longter me I'd sell him de fus chance I git. Dat mule nuff ter mek er man strike hees gran-daddy."

Now, it was a well-known fact that Mrs. Marsden had tried several times to sell the mule, and old Squire had always declared "the mule was the most valuable animal on the place, and it was just giving him away to sell him at the price offered."

Polly was Squire's granddaughter, and inherited his want of reverence for sacred things. She was very, very trying, especially on one occasion I will tell you about.

Roberta gathered the children together, took her Catechism and primer, and went down to the summer-house. She noticed that Polly's expression was sulky, and that she was rolling her eyes at Dilsy. But Polly was always tormenting Dilsy. Dilsy was a little hunchback negro, that everybody but Polly felt sorry for and tried to turn the soft side of life to.

Roberta was not much discouraged by Polly's actions, still she knew it was a great deal pleasanter to teach her when she was in a good humor, and concluded to resort to a strategy to mollify her.

The child was a close observer of nature, and knew how indispensable to germinate seed was a mellow, rightly prepared soil, and what service sunshine and timely rainfalls were to growing crops. So she intuitively drew an analogy in her childish way between the soil the plow-man turns over and the human heart.

Now, if there was one thing that Polly delighted in more than another it was the game of "Chick-a-mie, chick-a-mie, craney-crow."

So the children joined hands and moved around and around in a circle, singing:

"Chick-a-mie, chick-a-mie, craney-crow, Went to the well to wash my toe, When I got back my chickens was gone. What o'clock is it, old Buzzard?"

Then they would fly around looking for the chickens. At least all of them but Polly would. Polly always took the part of old Buzzard, so she could flop down in Dilsy's seat, although she knew she would have to get right up.

Somehow, that evening Roberta's strategy did not seem to have accomplished its object, judging from Polly's expression. Still she hoped for the best. Polly was the biggest, so she always begun with her.

"Who made you, Polly?"

No answer immediately; then,

"Dunno fur sarten, spec' 't wuz Gord."

A lump gathered in the child's throat. Her bump of reverence was so largely developed it distressed her to see a want of it in others; she said "it hurt her feelings."

She passed it by, however, and ventured on another.

"What else did God make?"

"Dunno fur sarten, never seed 'im wuken'."

"For shame, Polly! God made all things. Say 'God made all things.'"

"No, never. Never made Dilsy thar. Dilsy nuffin' but er scrap he throw'd erway when he got fru cutten' out de grow'd-up ones."

"For shame, Polly! Don't you know everybody has to be little and grow up."

"No, never! Adam and Eve wuz born'd grow'd up."

"Well, that was because they were the first people on earth, and there was nobody to be papa and mamma for 'em, and take care of 'em, when they were little."

"Dat's like Dilsy thar. Dilsy never had no daddy."

"Well, Polly, you haven't answered my question yet. Say 'God made all things.'"

"No, never! God never made mammy's twins--no mo' dan he made Dilsy thar. Dey iz prezak like dem monkeys I seed de time I went en town ter de circus."

Now Polly was not an impartial judge of the twins, for she had been installed as their nurse, and she hated to nurse.

"For shame, Polly! Those nice little babies. And then, besides, as God made all things, he made monkeys too, of course."

"No, never! You can't make me berleeve dat. Gord nerver wase hees valerbel time maken' monkeys."

That was the "last straw that broke the camel's back." After trying so hard to be patient, and especially as she knew it was nothing but pure contrariness in Polly, for only the Sunday before she had answered every question correctly, and added some pious interpolations exceedingly gratifying to her young teacher.

So she got up, went to her refractory pupil, and lifted her forefinger by way of giving emphasis to her words.

But Polly, recognizing that her little mistress's temperature was rising, felt a proportionate rise in her own, rolled her eyes till nothing but the whites were visible, and stuck her lower lip out.

It would be impossible to conceive of a creature uglier or more aggravating looking than Polly, when she did that way.

In a flash, down came Roberta's little soft pink palm on her cheek.

Mrs. Marsden happened to be passing on her way to the quarters to visit a sick servant, and witnessed the performance. She was amused, but worried too, that Roberta had allowed herself to be so provoked, for it almost made a farce of the whole thing; and she knew how much in earnest her little daughter really was. The child's flushed cheeks and flashing eyes brought back, O so vividly! another face and another pair of flashing orbs so like hers. There were tears in Mrs. Marsden's eyes when she went in the summer-house and took her seat on the bench that circled around it.

"Did you strike Polly, daughter?"

"Yes 'em, Mamma."

"What did you strike her for, daughter?"

"She wouldn't say her lesson, Mamma, and she knew it all the time. And she rolled her eyes at me so, and stuck out her lip and looked so ugly, I just couldn't help it, that's all."

"I am sorry, daughter, that you gave way to your temper so. For remember, you are only the sower that plants the seed, and God takes care of all the rest. If you really try to teach Polly, and she won't be taught, you mustn't make a personal thing of it, but just leave it with God. Then, again, daughter, unless you practice self-control, teaching others is a farce. I know Polly has been very trying, indeed. But I want you to show a real forgiving spirit, as one should always show when one is working for the Master. I want you to tell Polly you are sorry you struck her. For you are sorry, I know--I see it in your face."

A kind of staccato snuffle was heard in the direction of Polly.

Roberta gave another look at the surly, unprepossessing countenance, then said, in a low voice:

"I will, Mamma, if you will let me hide my face in your lap while I am saying it."

"But why hide your face in my lap, daughter?"

"Because--because--Mamma--I am afraid--if she looks at me as she did before, that I will slap her again. I don't believe I could keep from it this evening; I am all out of sorts."

Afterwards that observation of Polly's, "Dilsy never had no daddy," caused Roberta no little thought. Really, she was no better off than Dilsy, she reasoned, for of course the child did not take in the full significance of the imp's meaning. Nobody ever told her that her papa was dead. Indeed she had been taught to pray for him every night. She felt sure he was living. But, where? Why did he not come home and pet her, like other little girls' papas she knew--pet her, and make her beautiful, sad mother smile sometimes. For it seemed to the child that she grew sadder and sadder all the time. There was nobody she could talk to about him, for her mamma's eyes filled with tears at any chance allusion to him. Aunt Betsy nearly snapped her head off when she asked her a question, and Uncle Squire, chatty as he was upon every other subject, would squint his eyes in a knowing way, puff out his cheeks, and answer, "Lay o'ers ter ketch meddlers." Yes, there was one person she was sure she could coax into telling her why her papa never came home to see them all, and that was dear, good Mam' Sarah, the weaver. When Aunt Betsy scolded Mam' Sarah, she would get down on the floor by Aunt Betsy and hug her tight around the knees and say, "God love you, Mistiss," to show her she wasn't mad at her for scolding her. That was "religion," mamma said. Aunt Betsy would cry, and say:

"Get up, Sarah, you make me ashamed of myself."

Yes, she would go to Mam' Sarah at the loom-house. It was considered a great treat by Roberta to go down to the loom-house. That was where the wool, cotton, and flax was carded, spun, and wove, then manufactured into winter and summer clothes for the negroes on the place. Yard upon yard of beautiful red and black flannel, blue and brown linseys, and blue and white striped cottonades, for the women, jeans for the men, and that coarse fabric called tow-linen made from the refuse of flax. The wonderful counterpanes, I have mentioned before, were manufactured there and the linen for sheets and towels. Let me tell you something curious while I am on the subject of the loom-house: Roberta's grandmother raised silk-worms in the room adjoining. She fed them on mulberry leaves. Mam' Sarah told Roberta they made a noise like wind while they were feeding. Those worms spun fluffy balls of silk, called cocoons, that the old lady reeled her silk thread from. She had all the silk thread and embroidery floss she needed.

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