will never be forgot.”
Father Christmas strutted once around the “stage” and retired toward the door. Then out came a figure in a woman’s long rumpled dress, with a paper-bag mask tied up into two horns, a cow’s tail fastened on behind and a cowbell on each hip, a dead rabbit in one hand and a frying pan in the other.
“In comes I, Old Bet,
as ugly as can be;
and every man within this house
must now be kissed by me.”
Old Bet pretended to try to kiss Tom and Old Rob who played up with a loud show of resistance. Bet retired and another masked boy came forth in an oversize coat, with stalks of wheat and mistletoe in his hat and a short club in his hand.
“In comes I, Old Barleycorn, the best in the land;
I’ll fight and I’ll fall, for the sake of you all.”
The next boy wore a tall pointed cap down over his whole face, two holes cut for his eyes. Red paper streamers flowed from the peak of the cap. From under his coat a long flannel nightgown trailed down to his feet.
“In comes I, Mister Pickle Herring,
for to join this dance;
I had to wear grandma’s nightdress
’cause I couldn’t find my pants.”
A boy with his face rouged all over, red nose, red ears, red neck, now mounted another boy who was wearing a horse’s head made of two slabs of cardboard carton. The horse trotted forward with the red-faced one astride.
“I am the doctor pure and good
and with my pills I’ll stop the blood.”
The horse whinnied and kicked up a heel and took the doctor back to the door corner. Only one actor remained—a little homed devil with his face blackened. He had red and yellow streamers tied around neck, arms, and waist. He did not present himself—instead he rather tried to keep hidden behind the others. Now Old Bet and Barleycorn came forward together and the following dialogue took place with shouts and gestures:
“Old Barleycorn, the play’s begun;
We’ll fry this hare and have some fun.”
“We’ll beat it and whale it
and cut it in slices,
and take an old pot
and boil it with spices.”
“We’ll fry this hare!”
“We’ll boil it, I said!”
“Fry it!”
“Boil it!”
“We’ll fry it and no more be said;
for if you dare to boil this hare,
with my pan here I’ll crack your head!”
“My head’s made of iron!
My neck’s made of steel!
You can crack all you want,
you can’t make me feel!”
“I’ll cut your old coat full of holes
and make the buttons fly!”
“I’ll cut you small as little flies
and use you up to cook mince pies!”
“I’ll make your blood run cold as clay;
I’ll fry YOU, and throw the hare away!”
Bet and Barleycorn went to it with club and frying pan. After a brief and noisy battle, Bet thrust her frying pan forward like a sword and gave a great slash at Barleycorn’s middle, and Barleycorn fell prone before the fireplace.
All the actors chanted in unison:
“Now, Old Bet, see what you’ve done!
You’ve killed our own belov-ed one!”
“Horrible! Terrible! See what I’ve done!
I’ve cut him down like the evening sun!”
The actors all gathered about the corpse and wept and wailed, and then Bet shouted:
“Is there a doctor to be found
to cure this deep and deadly wound?
Is there a doctor near at hand
to heal him again and make him stand?”
The horse brought the Doctor at a fast gallop. The Doctor dismounted, and the weeping boys stood aside.
“Hold my horse, Pickle Herring.”
“Will he kick?”
“No.”
“Will he bite?”
“No.”
“Take two to hold him?”
“No!”
“Hold him yourself then.”
“What’s that, you sassy rascal!”
“I got him, sir.”
Pickle Herring took hold of the frayed rope that served the horse for a tail. Doctor and corpse and Old Bet now held the stage.
“What’s your fee?”
“Eleven guineas, nine pounds, nineteen shillings, eleven pence, three farthings, six pecks of gingerbread for me, and six loaves of oats for my horse.”
“That’s too much.”
“I’ll throw off the gingerbread, and the oats.”
At this the horse whinnied and kicked indignantly, but Pickle Herring finally gentled him down again by promising him a bale of water and a bucket of hay.
“What can you cure?”
“The itch, the stitch, the stone, the bone,
the young, the old, the hot, the cold,
the measles, the wheezles, the spots, the gout,
and if there’s nineteen devils in I can bring twenty out.”
“Here! Dose him out of this bottle.”
“What’s in it?”
“Three quarts of nim-nam,
one ounce of brains of a saw-horse,
one pound of marrow out of a stool leg,
one pint of pigeon’s milk, strained through a side of sole leather,
stewed in an old sow’s horn, and stirred with a frogs feather.”
“Ill hold up his head; you dose him.”
The doctor raised Barleycorn’s head and Bet plied the bottle. The corpse jumped up.
“Good morning to you all!
A-sleeping I have been,
and I’ve had such a sleep
as the like was never seen;
but now I am awake
and alive unto this day;
so we shall dance a little
and end this play.”
The actors joined hands in a ring and wheeled once around with noisy buck-and-wing antics. Then they sprawled together in an all-pile-on tangle of legs and heads and arms. They began to extricate themselves, and above the merriment the voice of the little black devil rose from beside the door as he advanced on us with his broom.
“In comes I, Little Devil Doubt!
If you don’t give us money I’ll sweep ye all out!
Money we want, money we crave!
If you don’t throw us money,
I’ll sweep ye to your grave!”
He swept vigorously toward Old Rob who backed away in mock alarm reaching in all his pockets for money, while all the kids shrieked and threw a shower of pennies at the little black devil. The boys, on all fours, rooted for pennies, and broke out in fresh scrambles as the grown-ups treated them with new showers of coins. Finally, the last penny was swept from where it had rolled under the bed, and the laughter subsided.
“You ’uns divide it up equal, now,” said Old Kel. “That’s the way we always done.”
The mummers pooled their earnings in Old Bet’s frying pan, and marched out singing:
“We are not London actors
that act upon the stage,
but we are country plowboys
that work for little wage:
Love and joy come to you,
and to you a wassail too;
and God bless you and send you a happy new year,
and God send you a happy new year.
Good master and good mistress,
as you sit by the fire,
remember us poor plowboys
a-plowing in the mire:
Love and joy come to you—”
As we began re-settling ourselves, the boys came back in the door carrying masks and costumes which were piled on Tom’s trunk by the far window. Tom led the Doctor and Devil Doubt out to the kitchen where they began removing rouge and burnt cork with much splashing and giggling. I had set my chair over by Granny and Uncle Kel.
> “How’d you come to know all that play, Uncle Kel?”
“Hit used to be done on Old Christmas when I was a kid. The old folks showed us how.”
“Kel and me,” said Granny, “we’re the only ones left that know it. We say it over to one another regular, whenever Christmas time sets in, just to keep it from pintblank fadin’ out of mind.—That first song the boys sang: now that don’t really belong in the mummin’ play. Hit was Steve’s idea to sing it.”
Tom and two clean-faced mummers joined us again. The boys had settled themselves on the floor near the hearth and up against the chimney corners. Steve and another big boy brought in a huge green-oak log for the fire.
ABOUT EIGHT O’CLOCK . . .
“You young ’uns better go on back home now,” spoke up Sarah. “The show’s over.”
“We want to hear Rob tell ‘Gallymanders,’” said Rhody. “Sue and Helen been askin’ me for it, and I told ’em Rob would tell it for us.”
“Tell ‘Wicked John and the Devil’!” This from Steve.
“No, I’ll tell ‘Gallymanders’ first before them least young ’uns go to sleep and have to be toted home.”
As Old Robin drifted into the tale his voice threw out a widening circle of magic until even the littlest young ’uns hushed, were absorbed, gone far away into another world. The older people watched the children’s faces in quiet and tender amusement.
Gallymanders! Gallymanders!
One time there was a stingy old woman lived all by herself. So stingy she didn’t eat nothin’ but ashcakes and water. Well, she was gettin’ old and she had to have somebody to help her with the housework and all, so she sent across the water and hired her a girl. Now this girl she was mean, lazy, worked just enough to get around the old woman. Didn’t care how she made up the beds, didn’t half wash the dishes, swept the dirt anywhere she could hide it, just messed along and slut’s wool gathered up all over the house.
Now, the old woman had to go to the store one day. Hit was a right far piece from where she lived at. So she told that girl she was goin’, told her what work she wanted done up ’fore she got back. Then she says to her, says, “And while I’m gone don’t ye dare look up the chimney.” Then she throwed her bonnet on her head and put out.
So that girl she peeked out the door and watched till the old woman was good and gone, then she ran right straight to the fireplace, hunkered down on the hearthrock, and looked up the chimney. Saw a big long leather bag up there on the smokeshelf. Took the poke-stick and gouged it down. Grabbed it up and jerked it open. It was full of big silver dollars and twenty-dollar gold pieces. Well, that girl she took it and broke and run. Out the door she flew. Ran down the road a piece, then she took out across the pasturefield. Came to an old horse standin’ out there.
“Good girl! Good girl! Please rub my old sore back. Rub it for me and I’ll ride ye.”
“I ain’t goin’ to dirty my pretty white hands. I’m rich! Got no time to fool with ye.” And on she went. Came to an old cow.
“Good girl! Good girl! Please milk my old sore bag. Milk me and strip me, and you can have some milk.”
“Ain’t goin’ to dirty my pretty hands. Got no time to fool with such as you. I’m rich now.” She went right on. Came to a peach tree.
“Good girl! Good girl! Please pull off these sprouts so they won’t choke me so bad. Just prune me a little and you can eat some of my peaches.”
“Ain’t goin’ to do it! But I’m goin’ to eat me some peaches anyhow.” And she cloomb up in the peach tree, commenced eatin’ off all the good ripe peaches. Eat so many she got sleepy and went on off to sleep sittin’ up there in the forks of that tree.
Well, the old woman she got back late that evenin’, went in the house and hollered for that girl; and when nobody answered she jumped over there and looked up the chimney, and saw her moneybag was gone. She throwed up her hands and run ’round jest a-squawlin’. Took out the door and run around the house till she saw which-a-way that girl’s tracks went, and down the road she put—a-hollerin’ every breath:
“Gallymanders! Gallymanders!
All my gold and silver’s gone!
My great long moneypurse!”
Came to the horse—
“Seen a little gal go by here,
with a jig and a jag
and a long leather bag
and all my gold and silver?”
“Yes, ma’m!” says the old horse. “Come on! I’ll show ye which-a-way she went.” So the horse and the old woman went gallopin’ off across that pasturefield, the old woman’s skirts jest a-floppin’. Came to the fence and the old woman scooted under it and on she went.
“Gallymanders! Gallymanders!
All my gold and silver’s gone!
My great long moneypurse!”
Came to the cow—
“Seen a little gal go by here,
with a jig and a jag
and a long leather bag
and all my gold and silver?”
“Yes, ma’m!” says the cow. “She went right yonder way. You’ll soon catch her.” On she run.
“Gallymanders! Gallymanders!
All my gold and silver’s gone!
My great long moneypurse!”
Came to the peach tree—
“Seen a little gal go by here,
with a jig and a jag
and a long leather bag
and all my gold and silver?”
“Yes, ma’m!” says the peach tree. “She’s up here right now. You want her?”
“Yes, I want her,” says the old woman.
So the peach tree bent over and dropped that girl out—bumped her right flat on the ground. And the old woman grabbed her and snatched back that moneypurse, and then she took hold on the girl and shook her around considerable, pulled a switch and switched her legs till she run her off from there. Went on home and hid her moneybag back up the chimney.
Well, the old woman she stayed by herself a right long time but she couldn’t get her work done up, so she fin’lly sent over the ocean again and hired her another girl. Now this girl was all right: good hand to work. Holp the old woman right well. She never let a shred of slut’s wool gather up anywhere in the house. But the old woman treated her awful mean. Wouldn’t let her have a thing to eat hardly, kept pilin’ more ’n more work on her; but the girl she done the best she could, never said nothin’, just worked right on.
So it wasn’t long till the old lady she had to go out to the store again. Called that girl, told her what’n-all to do ’fore she got back, says, “And while I’m gone don’t ye dare look up the chimney. Ye hear?” And off she went.
Well, that girl she went on about her work: milked the cow and fed the pig and the chickens, washed the dishes and scoured the pots, swept all the floors and made up the beds, scrubbed the kitchen floor, dusted, straightened up everything, swept the yard, churned, hoed the garden, split firewood and carried it in—and then she was done. So she got out her knittin’ and sat down in front of the fireplace. She tried awful hard not to think about looking up the chimney but she just couldn’t keep it off her mind. She stopped her knittin’ after a while, bent over—then she pushed back in her chair and commenced knittin’ and rockin’ again—
“Ain’t a-goin’ do it! I ain’t goin’ do it!”
Then she got tired of knittin’, let her knittin’ rest in her lap and stopped rockin’. “Now what in this world do you reckon she’s got hid up that chimney?—No, I ain’t goin’ to look. Ain’t goin’ do it! Ain’t goin’ do it!” Took up her knittin’ and rocked some more.
Well, directly she couldn’t stand it no longer. “No harm in just lookin’,” she says. So she stooped down and looked right square up the chimney.
“Well, what in the world is that old thing?” she says. Took the poke-stick and gouged it down. Opened it up and then she dumped all that gold and silver out in the floor.
“My! Ain’t that pretty!” she says. And she got down on the floor and pl
ayed with all them silver dollars and twenty-dollar gold pieces a while—piled ’em up, made little pens and fences, till fin’lly she got tired of playin’. So she put all the money back in the moneybag and tried to put it back up the chimney, but it wouldn’t go. She tried and she tried, but ever’ time it ’uld fall back down. Got the shovel in one hand and the poker in the other—push it up again, and down it come. So she gave up and just left it layin’ there in the ashes. Then she got to studyin’ about the old woman findin’ it out on her, and she got so scared she left there a-runnin’.
Grandfather Tales Page 2