In communities that have preserved such occasions of eloquence, the women-of-words or men-of-words, like teachers, see themselves as preservers of order, decorum, tradition, and continuity. In the West Indies one still finds oratorical contests in the form of a tea meeting (an elaboration of a testimonial session, with prizes for the “ABCDs”: “A is for Attention, B is for Behavior, C is for Conduct, and D, my friends, is for what we shall have tonight, Decorum”). In the cities, where the eloquence traditions have devolved almost totally to the churches, men-of-words are still regarded as “heavy upstairs” and are sometimes called “street-corner philosophers.”
As often as not, the stories are cautionary; they illustrate how disorderly and unmannerly people act, and what happens to them when they do. They are moral stories, often in the form of how certain animals got to be the way they are because of their misbehavior. For example, in “What Makes Brer Wasp Have a Short Patience,” the strange shape of the wasp is accounted for by his continued unmannerly laughing.
Unlike most of the stories in this book, these tales have strong endings, for that is where the moral truth lies. This point is generally hammered home by the narrator through a generalization about behavior—such as the discussion of promises at the conclusion of “The Poor Man and the Snake” or the proverb in “Being Greedy Chokes Anansi.”
1. John C. Branner, How and Why Stories (New York: Henry Holt, 1921), 80.
34
WHAT MAKES BRER WASP HAVE A SHORT PATIENCE
Creatures don’t all stay just the way God made them. No sir. With the mistakes made, and accidents, and natural debilitation, and one thing or another, they became different as time goes on, until sometime later they are hardly the same thing at all.
At one time, Brer Wasp looked very different from the way he does today. He was big on company, and he loved to talk, and joke, and cut the fool. He was one person that had to have his laugh.
One day, he was walking on a path, and he met up with Brer Mosquito. Now, Brer Mosquito and his whole family weren’t very big at all, but they took themselves mighty seriously. Brer Mosquito and his pa planted a little patch of ground together, but they always called it the plantation. They talked so big about their crops and land and everything that you would have thought that they had a twenty-mile place. Now, Brer Wasp loved to draw Brer Mosquito out on the subject.
That same week, there had been a heavy frost, and all the sweet-potato vines died and turned black and everybody was forced to dig for the early potatoes. And Brer Wasp, after he had passed the time of day with Brer Mosquito, and inquired about his family, asked him about his pa’s health and how he had made out with his crop. “We made out fine, Brer Wasp,” Brer Mosquito said; “just too fine. We had the biggest crop you ever have seen!” “The potatoes were big, then?” “I tell you, sir! They were huge! You have never seen such potatoes!” “How big are they, Brer Mosquito?” Brer Wasp questioned him. “My friend,” Brer Mosquito said, puffing out his chest and reaching down and pulling his little britches tight around his little leg, “Most of our crop came up bigger than the calf of my leg!”
Well, sir! Brer Wasp looked at Brer Mosquito’s poor little leg, and as he thought about those “huge potatoes,” he had to laugh to himself. Now, he tried to mind his manners, but his chest and face swelled up, and his eye water ran out of his eyes, and he burst out laughing right in Brer Mosquito’s face. He laughed and he laughed till his sides hurt him. Whenever he thought he would stop, he looked at that ridiculous leg that stood there like a toothpick, and he laughed more than ever. His sides hurt him so much he had to hold them in with both his hands and rock himself back and forth.
“What makes you have to do that?” Brer Mosquito asked him. “You had better explain yourself. That is, if you can act sensible!” Brer Wasp gasped out, “Good lord, Brer Mosquito, looking for the biggest part of your leg is like hunting for the heaviest part of a hair! How big those huge potatoes must be, if you say they are as big as that!” And he laughed again till his sides hurt so bad that it wasn’t enough just to press them—he had to grab them in both his hands and squeeze.
Brer Mosquito was so annoyed that he felt like fighting Brer Wasp right on the spot. But then he remembered that Brer Wasp was kind of nasty when he got in a row. So he just drew himself up, and stuck out his mouth, and said, “Laugh, you no-mannered devil! Laugh! But take care that the day doesn’t come when somebody laughs at you the same no-mannered way!” And he went away so blistering mad that his two little coattails stuck straight out behind him.
But that didn’t stop Brer Wasp. All the way to his house he had been laughing so hard that he had to stop now and catch his breath. At last he got home and started to laugh some more and tell his family about Brer Mosquito.
Just then his wife got a good look at him, and she hollered out, “For crying-out-loud, Brer Wasp! What’s happened to your stomach?” Brer Wasp looked down where his waist had been and he could hardly see it.
He lost all notion of laughing right then. He looked again and he saw what all that shaking, and pushing, and squeezing had done to him. He was almost in two! Even his little hand could reach around his waist. He remembered how big it had been, and he saw how much he had shrunk up, and he was afraid to so much as sneeze.
Then he remembered what Brer Mosquito had said to him. He remembered all those people he had been joking about and laughing at so hard and for such a long time and he thought about how now the others were going to have their turn to laugh at that little waist he had now. He got so that he couldn’t get that shameful thing out of his mind. And that is why he has such a short patience! Everywhere he goes he thinks somebody is ready to laugh at him. If anyone so much as looks at him, he gets so mad that he is ready to fight.
And that isn’t the worst, because from that day to this day, he can’t laugh anymore, because if he does, he will burst in two!
—North Carolina
35
BETWEEN THE FIDDLER AND THE DANCER
There was once an old man who had a son, and he taught him to play the fiddle. This was an amazing, magic fiddle, though, and in the hands of a small boy it could really lead him into some bad, bad trouble. So the father told the boy, “ Whatever you do, don’t touch my fiddle!” The boy said, “No, sir, I won’t do that.”
But you know how these boys are, and as soon as his father was gone he went and took down the fiddle and he went down to the crossroad and just started playing away. When he commenced to play, an old witch jumped out of the bush and said to him, “Son, if you can play longer and stronger than I can dance, you can kill me. But if I can dance longer and stronger than you can fiddle, I will kill you.” And she went on. “When you see my two feet peeling and bleeding, and I drop to one knee, you’ll see I’ll still be dancing. If you see my skin peel off all the way to my elbow, I’ll still be dancing. When you see me bleeding, and falling on my head, my feet will still be in the air dancing.”
Just as the boy drew back the bow and was starting to fiddle, his friend the drummer-boy appeared. The boy threw him his tobacco and the drummer-boy tore it in half and threw it back, and away they went, fiddling and knocking the old tambourine.
Now his father could hear the music, it was carrying that far, and he knew his son was in trouble then, one way or the other, because this was a magic fiddle. So he grabbed his cutlass and ran back to the crossroad where he could hear the music. He snuck up on the boy and took the fiddle away while the witch was turned away dancing, and couldn’t see him, and he commenced to play. Now the witch danced and danced until she couldn’t dance any longer, and the old man took his cutlass and just cut off the witch’s head.
From that day to this, they say that “a hard-headed bird never makes good soup,” so those boys better listen and mind the older people.
Nine pence to make the heart content;
If you want any more, you got to find it out yourself.
—Bahamas
36
BEING GREEDY CHOKES ANANSI
One time, Anansi lived in a country that had a queen who was also a witch. And she decreed that whoever used the word five would fall down dead, because that was her secret name, and she didn’t want anyone using it.
Now, Buh Anansi was a clever fellow, and a hungry one too. Things were especially bad because there was a famine, so Anansi made a little house for himself by the side of the river near where everyone came to get water. And when anybody came to get water, he would call out to them, “I beg you to tell me how many yam hills I have here. I can’t count very well.” So, one by one he thought they would come up and say, “One, two, three, four, five,” and they would fall down dead. Then Anansi would take them and corn them in his barrel and eat them, and that way he would have lots of food in hungry times and in times of plenty.
So, time went on and he got his house built and his yams planted, and along came Guinea Fowl. Anansi said, “I beg you, missus, tell me how many yam hills I have here.” So Guinea Fowl went and sat on one of those hills and said, “One, two, three, four, and the one I’m sitting on!” Anansi said, “Cho!” [sucking his teeth], “you can’t count right.” And Guinea Fowl moved to another hill and said, “One, two, three, four, and the one I’m sitting on!” “Cho! you don’t count right at all!” “How do you count, then?” Guinea Fowl said, a little vexed at Anansi. “Why this way: one, two, three, four, FIVE!” He fell dead. And Guinea Fowl ate him up.
This story shows that what they say is right: “Being greedy chokes the puppy.”
—Jamaica
37
THE DOINGS AND UNDOINGS OF THE DOGOSHES
I tell you, good manners will get you lots farther in this world than good looks. And if you want to have good manners, you got to listen to those that know what good manners are. But then, some folks don’t want to hear any advice from anybody. And you can generally be mighty sure that that kind of folks are going to land right in the middle of trouble sooner or later.
Take the dogoshes. As nice critters as there ever was to look at, but they just naturally had bad manners and they wouldn’t take the advice of those who knew what was right. That’s how it comes about that there aren’t any dogoshes in the world anymore. They weren’t fit to live because they wouldn’t listen to anybody.
The dogoshes were created by the Good Lord, just like the rest of the critters, and on Sunday morning they all went to church meetings along with the other folks. And the preacher told them how they had to behave themselves at church, how they had to stand up when they sang, and how they had to get down on their knees when they prayed, and how they mustn’t talk or fool around during the sermon, and how they had to put something besides tin buttons in the contribution box when it was passed around, and how they must be sure not to look around themselves every time somebody came into the church—because all of that was nothing but bad manners.
Well, sir, the dogoshes didn’t feel very well acquainted with the other critters because they had just been created yesterday, as you might say, and they didn’t have much time to visit around with their neighbors. So they were curious about who had feathers or scales or hair or who had just nothing at all on their bodies. When they got into the church they just had to look whenever they heard somebody walking up the aisle with squeaky shoes on, because they wanted to know who it was or what they looked like and how they were dressed.
But there was only one door in the back of the church, and the folks had to sit with their backs to the door. And when anybody came in, the dogoshes turned their heads around and looked at them until they had come way up in front, and went over to the left-hand amen corner and sat down. By that time somebody else had come in the door again, and before they had time to untwist their necks, they started staring at the new people. And they would watch them until they had passed down to the front and sat down in the left-hand amen corner too.
Well, then, it kept on happening the same way till the necks of the dogoshes were twisted around and around until they just naturally choked to death with their curiosity. And when the Good Lord saw the dogoshes choked to death because they didn’t have any manners in church, he said he guessed he better not make any more folks of that kind. And he never did. And that’s the reason there aren’t any more dogoshes in the world.
And the next time you go to meeting, child, keep your eyes on the preacher, no matter what is happening behind you.
—American South
In the early times, Ba Yau was a plantation overseer. He would take provisions from the plantation and bring them to his two wives in the city. But when he brought them he told his wives, “When you eat, you must spread your fingers.” Now when he said this, the first wife did not understand very well what he meant. He told the second wife the same thing, and she understood that when he brought them things, they were not to eat them alone, they were to share half with others, for you must eat with people, not keep all for yourself.
Now the first wife, whenever she cooked, she ate. Then she went outside, and spread her fingers, and said, “Ba Yau said when I eat I must spread my fingers,” Ba Yau brought her much bacon and salt fish, but she always ate it alone. When Ba Yau brought the things for the second wife, she shared with other people.
Not long afterward Ba Yau died, and nobody brought anything to the wife who had spread her fingers to the air. She sat alone. But to the one who had shared things with others, many people brought things. One brought her a cow, one brought her sugar, one brought her coffee.
Now, one day, the first wife went to the second, and she said, “Sister, ever since Ba Yau died, I have been hungry; no one brought me anything. But look how many people have brought provisions for you!” The second wife asked her, “Well, when Ba Yau brought you things, what did you do with them?” She said, “I ate them.” Then the second wife said again, “When Ba Yau said to you, ‘You must spread your fingers,’ what did you do?” She said, “When I ate, I spread my fingers in the air.” The second wife laughed. “Well, then, the air must bring you things, because you spread your fingers for the air. For myself, the same people to whom I gave food now bring me things in return.”
—Surinam
39
DON’T SHOOT ME, DYER, DON’T SHOOT ME
Don’t shoot me, Dyer, don’t shoot me
Don’t shoot me, Dyer, don’t shoot me.
With all the pigeons around now dead
And I’m alone, just me here
Don’t shoot me, Dyer, don’t shoot me.
Well, this is a fellow they call Dyer, who loved to go out hunting. He went up to the mountain shooting pigeons, and he shot so well, and so many, that there was only one pigeon left in the whole world. And this pigeon flew through the pines singing:
Don’t shoot me, Dyer, don’t shoot me
Don’t shoot me, Dyer, don’t shoot me.
With all the pigeons around now dead
And I’m alone, just me here
Don’t shoot me, Dyer, don’t shoot me.
The pigeon, when he saw the hunter, said, “Don’t shoot me,” but Dyer wasn’t going to listen at all, and he let go, Pow! and the pigeon dropped to the ground. As he dropped he began singing:
Don’t pick me up, Dyer, don’t pick me up
Don’t pick me up, Dyer, don’t pick me up.
With all the pigeons around now dead
And I’m alone, just me here
Don’t pick me up, Dyer, don’t pick me up.
So Dyer thought to himself, “What is happening here? Why shouldn’t I pick you up?” But he is amazed that this dead bird is singing to him, and afraid too. “Well,” he said, “I won’t pick you up this time, but I’m going to throw you in my bag and carry you home!”
When he went home that night, he took the only pigeon left in the world and put on the kettle with hot water and he threw it in, took it out, and started plucking.
Don’t clean me, Dyer, don’t clean me
Don’t clean me, Dyer, don’t clean me.
And I’m alone, just me here
Don’t clean me, Dyer, don’t clean me.
He said, “What are you saying? I’m going to clean you up and cut you up and cook you and eat you.” Well, the bird sang now:
Don’t cut me up, Dyer, don’t cut me up.
Don’t cut me up, Dyer, don’t cut me up.
With all the pigeons around now dead
And I’m alone, just me here
Don’t cut me up, Dyer, don’t cut me up.
He cut him up and threw him in the pot. The bird sang now:
Don’t stew me, Dyer, don’t stew me
Don’t stew me, Dyer, don’t stew me.
With all the pigeons around now dead
And I’m alone, just me here
Don’t stew me, Dyer, don’t stew me.
Even when he was cut up into fine pieces, the bird kept singing. Now, in the pot, he’s still singing, “Don’t stew me up.”
So finally he was cooked and Dyer went to eat him. The bird now started to sing:
Don’t eat me, Dyer, don’t eat me
Don’t eat me, Dyer, don’t eat me.
African American Folktales Page 15