Mammy’s story

One cold, rainy night a little group were assembled around a crackling wood fire in the nursery; Mammy was seated in a low chair, with Tot in her arms; Dumps was rocking her doll back and forth, and Diddie was sitting at the table reading; Aunt Milly was knitting, and the three little darkies were nodding by the fire.

“Mammy,” said Dumps, “s’posin you tell us a tale.”  Tot warmly seconded the motion, and Mammy, who was never more delighted than when astonishing the children with her wonderful stories, at once assumed a meditative air.  “Lem me see,” said the old woman, scratching her head; “I reckon I’ll tell yer ’bout de wushin’-stone, ain’t neber told yer dat yit.  I know yer’ve maybe hearn on it, leastways Milly has; but den she mayn’t have hearn de straight on it, fur ’taint eb’y nigger knows it.  Yer see, Milly, my mammy was er ‘riginal Guinea nigger, an’ she knowed ‘bout de wushin’-stone herse’f, an’ she told me one Wednesday night on de full er de moon, an’ w’at I’m gwine ter tell yer is de truff.”

Having thus authenticated her story beyond a doubt, Mammy hugged Tot a little closer and began: 

“Once ’pon er time dar wuz a beautiful gyarden wid all kind er nice blossoms, an’ trees, an’ brooks, an’ things, whar all de little chil’en usen ter go and play, an’ in dis gyarden de grass wuz allers green, de blossoms allers bright, and de streams allers clar, caze hit b’longed to er little Fraid, named Cheery.”

“A ‘little Fraid,’” interrupted Diddie, contemptuously.  “Why, Mammy, there’s no such a thing as a ‘Fraid.’”

“Lord, Miss Diddie, ’deed dey is,” said Dilsey, with her round eyes stretched to their utmost; “I done seed ’em myse’f, an’ our Clubfoot Bill he was er gwine ’long one time—­”

“Look er hyear, yer kinky-head nigger, whar’s yer manners?” asked Mammy, “‘ruptin’ uv eld’ly pussons.  I’m de one w’at’s ’struck’n dese chil’en, done struck dey mother fuss; I’ll tell ’em w’at’s becomin’ fur ’em ter know; I don’t want ’em ter hyear nuf’n ’bout sich low cornfiel’ niggers ez Club-foot Bill.

“Yes, Miss Diddie, honey,” said Mammy, resuming her story, “dar sholy is Fraids; Mammy ain’t gwine tell yer nuf’n’, honey, w’at she dun know fur er fack; so as I wuz er sayin’, dis little Fraid wuz name Cheery, an’ she’d go all ‘roun’ eb’y mornin’ an’ tech up de grass an’ blossoms an’ keep ’em fresh, fur she loved ter see chil’en happy, an’ w’en dey rolled ober on de grass, an’ strung de blossoms, an’ waded up an’ down de streams, an’ peeped roun’ de trees, Cheery’d clap ‘er han’s an’ laugh, an’ dance roun’ an’ roun’; an’ sometimes dar’d be little po’ white chil’en, an’ little misfortnit niggers would go dar; an’ w’en she’d see de bright look in dey tired eyes, she’d fix things prettier’n eber.