They went on and went on, and the old man he tried to outwalk her but she pulled right on in behind him. And fin’lly he gained on her a little; then he saw a big sycamore ’side the road, so he thought he’d see could he get shet of her; ran over to that tree and went to climbin’ it. But she saw him, and the next thing he knowed here she come right on up in the tree a-pullin’ the door up with her. He cloomb plumb to the top and sat down in a fork; and she got out on a limb right beside him and there she sat a-holdin’ on to that door. Neither one of’em spoke a word.
Well, directly here came a gang of robbers down the road and they walked over there under that tree and sat down to divide out the money they’d stole that day. The old man was scared to death they’d look up there and shoot him down, but they kept watchin’ about the money they were pullin’ out their pockets. And just about the time the robbers got all their money in a big pile the old woman says, “Old man, I can’t hold on to this door much longer.”
He whispered to her, says, “O law, old woman! Don’t you let go that thing! They’ll shoot us down out of here, both of us!”
“Why, I’m bound to drop it!”
“Hush! Don’t talk so loud! If you drop that door, old woman, I’ll kick ye out of here, sure’s the world.”
“Well, I can’t help that,” says the old woman; and her holt slipped—
A-WHAMMITY BANG!
BANG! CLATTERY BANG!
WHAM-BANG!
—down through the tree that door rattled; and time she let go her holt the old man hauled his foot back and let her have it. The old woman she tumbled down out of there, and the door it would get caught on the limbs and then she’d light on top of it; then it ’uld turn over with her and they’d fall again, but somehow or other every time the door caught she’d light on in, and when the door hit the ground there was the old woman a-sittin’ right on it! Her clothes was sort of mussed up but she wasn’t even scratched.
Well, them robbers had pulled out and they were a mile away from there time the door and the old woman hit the ground. When they heard all that racket up above they thought it was the end of time—and they’d run for life!
They quit runnin’ after they were good and gone: slowed up and started talkin’ about it. They took notice that the rest of the sky wasn’t fallin’ and they got to wonderin’; so fin’lly they stopped and sent one rogue back to find out what’n-all had happened.
So one of’em went on back and slipped around, slipped around and looked out from behind some bushes—and there was the old woman a-standin’ guard over all that money and a-gatherin’ it up in her skirts; the old man he was just hangin’ around.
Well, that robber he didn’t know whether she was a witch or what, with her apron burnt off and her face all blacked up and her hair all scorched out every which-a-way; but he came on out the bresh sort of scared-like, and eased on over there closer to her until fin’lly he was up fairly near the tree. Then the old woman she went to singin’. The rogue he tried to think of somethin’ to say, so directly he told her, says, “You sure can sing good.”
“Yes,” she says, “I always did like to sing. Can you sing?”
“No, I never was any good at singin’.”
“Did ye ever have your tongue clipped?”
“No, don’t know as I ever did.”
“Why, that’s what’s the matter you can’t sing! Stick your tongue out here.”
The old woman looked at his tongue right hard, says, “Law me! No wonder you can’t sing! Hold right still now and I’ll clip your tongue for ye: won’t charge you a cent.”
So she tucked her skirts in her belt so’s not to drop her money; and then she ran her hand in her blouse-front where she’d laid a couple of clothespins that mornin’, that kind—you know—that have got a little steel spring in ’em.
“Stick out your tongue. Jest a little farther now.”
And she clipped them clothespins on the man’s tongue. He couldn’t see down on his face there and he thought sure’s the world she’d done clipped his tongue off. He broke and run—tore up the bushes gettin’ away from there!
The other robbers saw him comin’, hollered at him, says,
“What was it?”
“What made all that racket?”
“Did ye get our money?”
“Thaw thaw thawm! Thaw thong-n-n, thaw!” was all he could say.
And they thought he’d done got witched and was runnin’ crazy, so all the robbers jumped up from there and down the road they flew! They ran plumb over the boundary and never was seen again.
The old woman she finished gatherin’ up that money—the old man he had snitched him a few dollars while she wasn’t lookin’—and she started on back home holdin’ it in her skirt and hit just a-jinglin’. And she never had to do a lick of work from then on.
And the old man he tagged right on in home behind her; he decided he’d not leave her after all—not right then, anyhow.
“Law!” said Granny. “That’s like Sam and Sooky, and I’ve not thought of that ’un for over forty years. Wait till I light my pipe.”
Kel handed her his twist and knife. She sliced off a bit of tobacco, rubbed it in her palm, and let it run in her little reed-stemmed clay pipe. Stan had a lit splinter ready for her. She puffed slowly a time or two, and then leaned over, pipe in hand.
“I reckon it’ll all come to me—”
Sam and Sooky
Well . . . Sam and Sooky they got married and started in housekeepin’.
“I’m goin’ to farm, Sooky. What you goin’ to do for your occupation?”
“Why, I don’t know.”
“How are ye about cardin’ wool?”
“Oh, I can card. Allus did see ’em card when I was back home with my mammy.”
So Sammy went and worked on the public roads till he got him enough money to buy Sooky a pair of wool-cards, brought ’em on home. And next day Sammy went to clearin’ for a little garden patch, and Sooky she got holt of an old fleece and sat down and went to cardin’. The cards—you know—they always make a sort of scrapin’ fuss, and Sooky heard ’em sayin’—
Lazy! Lazy! Lazy!
“I ain’t no sech a thing!”
Lazy! Lazy! Lazy!
“You hush now! If you say that again I’ll throw ye in the fire.”
Lazy! Lazy! Lazy!
Sooky threw the cards in the fire, and went to sweepin’ and dustin’ and housekeepin’.
Sammy came in that evenin’. “How much cardin’ did ye get done?”
“Ain’t done none!”
“How come?”
“I throwed the con-founded things in the fire!”
“You did? Why in the nation did ye do that?”
“I went to cardin’ and your blame’ old cards kept callin’ me Lazy! Lazy! I told ’em to hush and they just kept right on, so I burnt ’em up.”
“Law me! You’ll have to get ye some other occupation. How are ye about spinnin’?”
“Oh, I can spin. Allus did see ’em spin when I was back home. My mammy, she all the time spun.”
So they eat supper—cornbread and water—and went on to bed.
Sammy went on back to workin’ on the roads next day; worked till he got enough money for to buy Sooky a big spinnin’ wheel; took him a few days that time. Toted the big wheel on home to Sooky. And the next day he went on with his clearin’. And Sooky she pulled the wheel out in front of the fire and went to spinnin’. The old wheel started whirrin’.
Widder-r-r! Widder-r-r! Widder-r-r!
“I ain’t no widow-woman neither!”
Widder-r-r! Widder-r-r! Widder-r-r-r-r!
“You hush! I ain’t no sech a thing! I got me a man; he’s out yonder a-workin’ in the bresh!”
WIDDer-r-r! WID-D-D-der-r-r-r! Widder-r-r!
“I’ll fix ye, ye hateful thing—callin’ me a widder!” Sooky got the axe and busted that wheel into kindlin’ wood; laid it on the fire.
Sam came home. “Where’s your
wheel at?”
“Hit’s there in the fire.”
“O law, Sooky! What ye done now?”
“I ain’t goin’ to take nothin’ off no old spinnin’ wheel and hit callin’ me a widder like it done. I burnt it up for tellin’ lies on me that-a-way.”
Well, Sam told Sooky not to bother no more about any occupation. So they eat their cornbread and had water to drink and went on to bed.
Next mornin’ he says to her, says, “Sooky, I’m gettin’ tired of nothin’ but cornbread to eat. How are ye about biscuits?”
“Oh, I can cook biscuits. My mammy she cooked the best biscuits you ever tasted. I allus seen ’em cook when I was back at home.”
Sam he went back on the county roads again till he’d worked out a twenty-four-pound poke of flour; took it on in home. Next mornin’ he went on a-grubbin’ and pilin’ bresh in his garden patch.
Sooky she took and dumped that whole twenty-four pounds of flour out on the kitchen table, but ’fore she turned around to get her lard and water and start mixin’, a gnat was buzzin’ at her nose; and when she went to swat at it she knocked it in the flour. So she tried to get it out; looked for it, and looked for it, but she couldn’t find it. And fin’lly she gathered up the corners of the oilcloth and took her flour on out in the yard; and then she started fannin’ the flour to look for that gnat. She fanned it and fanned it till she fanned it every bit out in the grass. Never did find that gnat.
Sam came in; nothin’ but two little corncakes sittin’ there on the table. “Where’s my light-bread biscuits, Sooky?”
“Do you want to eat biscuits with gnats in the dough?”
“Why, no.”
“Well, a gnat got in my flour and I tried and I tried to get the blame thing out, but the flour was all gone ’fore I could find it.” And she told him where the flour was at. So they eat their cornbread and water and went on to bed.
Next mornin’ he says to her, says, “Sooky, I’m gettin’ tired of just water to drink. How are ye about cookin’ coffee?”
“Oh, I can cook coffee. My mammy she allus did make the best coffee—when I stayed back home.”
So Sammy he worked out ten pounds of coffee, and brought it on home.—That was back in old times when they didn’t have nothin’ but green coffee beans: had to parch it and grind it at home.—So Sam handed the poke to Sooky, told her to have some good coffee for his supper that night; and he went on out to clear some more bresh.
Sooky she set the big pot on the fire, and when the water went to b’ilin’ she dumped that ten pounds of green coffee beans in it and put in a big chunk of fat-meat.
Sam came in about dark. Cornbread and water on the table.
“Where’s my coffee, Sooky?”
“That coffee you got, hit ain’t no ’count. I been b’ilin’ on it since twelve o’clock and hit’s as raw now as when I put it in the pot.”
Sammy went and looked in the pot, and there was his ten pounds of coffee—ruint.
Well, next mornin’ Sam never said nothin’ at all to Sooky. Went on out and went to clearin’ his little patch of new ground. And about three o’clock Sooky went out to pick some blackberries. She didn’t have her skirt pinned up very good, and after she’d got about a mile from the house the briars jerked her skirt off. She was pickin’ so hard off’n a big heavy-loaded blackberry patch she never noticed her skirt was gone; went on pickin’, pickin’, picked on around to the other side of the patch; and then she scraped her knee against some briars—and she felt, and then she looked, and she didn’t have a sign of a skirt on.
“O law!” she says. “Do you reckon this is me!
She went on back and hid in the bresh close to where Sam was clearin’, hollered, “Sammy!”
“What?”
“Where’s Sooky at?”
“Why, she’s at the house, I reckon.”
Sooky says to herself, says, “Well! If Sooky’s at the house and here I am out in the bresh—then it ain’t me. I wonder who it is!”
And right about then I left from down there. So I don’t know whether Sooky ever did find out who it was or not.
There were now five of the “least young ’uns” asleep on Tom’s bed. A couple of boys in the chimney corner stretched and gaped, got up for another drink of water, and then settled themselves near Tom to watch him at his carving. The block of wood seemed to be shaping into a little man with his legs apart and fists clenched over his breast as though holding something.
“Well,” called out Old Rob, “we done had about enough throwin’ off on the womenfolks; here’s a tale that’s the other way around.”
The Two Old Women’s Bet
One time there were two old women got to talkin’ about the men folks: how foolish they could act, and what was the craziest fool thing their husbands had ever done. And they got to arguin’, so fin’lly they made a bet which one could make the biggest fool of her husband.
So one of’em said to her man when he come in from work that evenin’, says, “Old man, do you feel all right?”
“Yes,” he says, “I feel fine.”
“Well,” she told him, “you sure do look awful puny.”
Next mornin’ she woke him up, says, “Stick out your tongue, old man.” He stuck his tongue out, and she looked at it hard, says, “Law me! You better stay in the bed today. You must be real sick from the look of your tongue.”
Went and reached up on the fireboard, got down all the bottles of medicine and tonic was there and dosed the old man out of every bottle. Made him stay in the bed several days and she kept on talkin’ to him about how sick he must be. Dosed him every few minutes and wouldn’t feed him nothin’ but mush.
Came in one mornin’, sat down by the bed, and looked at him real pitiful, started in snifflin’ and wipin’ her eyes on her apron, says, “Well, honey, I’ll sure miss ye when you’re gone.” Sniffed some more, says, “I done had your coffin made.”
And in a few days she had ’em bring the coffin right on in beside the old man’s bed. Talked at the old man till she had him thinkin’ he was sure ’nough dead. And fin’lly they laid him out, and got everything fixed for the buryin’.
Well, the day that old woman had started a-talkin’ her old man into his coffin, the other’n she had gone on to her house and about the time her old man came in from work she had got out her spinnin’ wheel and went to whirlin’ it. There wasn’t a scrap of wool on the spindle, and the old man he fin’lly looked over there and took notice of her, says, “What in the world are ye doin’, old woman?”
“Spinnin’,” she told him, and ’fore he could say anything she says, “Yes, the finest thread I ever spun. Hit’s wool from virgin sheep, and they tell me anybody that’s been tellin’ his wife any lies can’t see the thread.”
So the old man he come on over there and looked at the spindle, says, “Yes, indeed, hit surely is mighty fine thread.”
Well, the old woman she’d be there at her wheel every time her old man come in from the field—spin and wind, spin and wind, and every now and then take the shuck off the spindle like it was full of thread and lay it in a box. Then one day the old man come in and she was foolin’ with her loom, says, “Got it all warped off today. Just got done threadin’ it on the loom.” And directly she sot down and started in weavin’—step on the treadles, throwin’ the shuttle and hit empty. The old man he’d come and look and tell her what fine cloth it was, and the old woman she ’uld weave right on. Made him think she was workin’ day and night. Then one evenin’ she took hold on the beam and made the old man help her unwind the cloth.
“Lay it on the table, old man—Look out! You’re a-lettin’ it drag the floor.”
Then she took her scissors and went to cuttin’.
“What you makin’, old woman?”
“Makin’ you the finest suit of clothes you ever had.”
Got out a needle directly and sat down like she was sewin’. And there she was, every time the old man got back to the house, workin’ that
needle back and forth. So he come in one evenin’ and she says to him, “Try on the britches, old man. Here.” The old man he shucked off his overalls and made like he was puttin’ on the new britches.
“Here’s your new shirt,” she told him, and he pulled off his old one and did his arms this-a-way and that-a-way gettin’ into his fine new shirt. “Button it up, old man.” And he put his fingers up to his throat and fiddled ’em right on down.
“Now,” she says, “Let’s see does the coat fit ye.” And she come at him with her hands up like she was holdin’ out his coat for him, so he backed up to her and stuck his arms in his fine new coat.
“Stand off there now, and let me see is it all right.—Yes, it’s just fine. You sure do look good.”
And the old man stood there with nothin’ on but his shoes and his hat and his long underwear.
Well, about that time the other old man’s funeral was appointed and everybody in the settle-ment started for the buryin’ ground. The grave was all dug and the preacher was there, and here came the coffin in a wagon, and fin’lly the crowd started gatherin’. And pretty soon that old man with the fine new suit of clothes came in sight. Well, everybody’s eyes popped open, and they didn’t know whether they ought to laugh or not but the kids went to gigglin’ and about the time that old man got fairly close one feller laughed right out, and then they all throwed their heads back and laughed good. And the old man he ’uld try to tell somebody about his fine new suit of clothes, and then the preacher busted out laughin’ and slappin’ his knee—and everybody got to laughin’ and hollerin’ so hard the dead man sat up to see what was goin’ on. Some of’em broke and ran when the corpse rose up like that, but they saw him start in laughin’—laughed so hard he nearly fell out the coffin—so they all came back to find out what-’n-all was goin’ on.
Grandfather Tales Page 11