Grandfather Tales

by Richard Chase

  “Go on home now, all of ye! Wake! Awake! Day’s a-goin’ to break!”

  The young ’uns stretched and relaxed again, reluctant to summon their energies for rising and departing. The two windows were graying with a hint of dawn. The lamp’s oil was almost out again and I had scratched out the last of “Green Gourd” by twisting around and writing by firelight.

  Harry and the other father who had joined us got up, and Rhody spoke out.

  “You ain’t told ‘Chunk o’ Meat.’”

  “Why, honey, you’ve heard that a thousand times,” protested Granny.

  “Let Rob tell it!”

  “Rob, you tell it!”

  “Ain’t goin’ to do it,” teased Old Rob.

  “Tell it! I bet that man ain’t never heard it. Tell it to him.”

  “Aw, I reckon he knows it already.”

  I did know it but I didn’t let on. And after a bit more pleading and teasing, Old Rob started—

  The two children slipped off Big Rob’s lap and leaned against Delia’s chair, looking at me while the tale progressed, and giggling with delight as Rob drew near the ending.

  Chunk O’ Meat

  One time there was a little old man and a little old woman and a little old boy. And one evenin’ they were all out in the garden pickin’ beans for supper; and they didn’t have no meat to put in the beans. Well, they picked and picked and the little old woman she got her little tin bucket full, so she went on back to the house. Then the little old man he got his little tin bucket full and he went on back to the house. Well, the little old boy he fooled around and fooled around and his little tin bucket hit wasn’t even half full. He picked along and picked along, just piddlin’ and playin’ in the dirt half the time, and he kept studyin’ about no meat to put in the beans.

  Well, he got to pickin’ on a beanvine that ran along the top of an old holler log there on the back side of the garden—picked along, picked along till he came to the big end of that holler log. And there, right in the mouth of the holler, was a nice chunk of fat-meat. That little old boy he set down his little tin bucket, and picked up the chunk of meat. Then two big eyes opened up and looked out from ’way back in the holler log and that little old boy he snatched up his little tin bucket and made for the house—a-whippity-cut!—right down the middle of the garden a-knockin’ beanpoles and cornstalks every which-a-way. Ran in the house and shut the door right quick. And the little old woman she took his little tin bucket and fussed at him for havin’ it not even half full. Then they all sat down and commenced breakin’ and stringin’ the beans.

  Well, the little old boy he kept that chunk of meat in his hand and directly he slipped out and washed it right quick in the wash basin on the back porch, slipped back in the house. And the little old woman she fussed at him for slippin’ out. And directly they got the beans all broke and strung.

  So then the little old man he went out after a turn of firewood and the little old woman she hung the pot in the fireplace, poured in some water and dumped in the beans. And the little old boy he slipped over to the fireplace and waited till the old woman had her back turned settin’ the table and then he slipped up the potlid right quick and popped that chunk of meat in with the beans.

  Well, the little old man got the wood all cut and he brought it in and throwed it down by the hearthrock, and then he sat down one side the fire to wait for the beans to cook. And the little old woman she got the table all set and she drawed her up a chair and sat down the other side the fire to wait for the beans to cook. And the little old boy he sat down right in the middle of the hearth-rock and doubled his legs up under him. And they waited and waited and directly the beans got done. So the little old woman she scooped up a mess of beans and they all went to the table and got ’em a bait of beans and started in eatin’.

  The little old man tasted his beans, says, “Mm! Meat!” Then the little old woman she tasted hers, says, “Mm! Meat!” The little old boy tasted his, didn’t say nothin’.

  Well, they got done eatin’ and sat down by the fire again, and directly they heard somethin’ comin’ away off, says, “Where’s my chunk of me-e-eat?”

  The little old woman she jumped up and went and got under the bed.

  The little old man and the little old boy sat right on and then they heard it again—comin’ closer—“Where’s my chunk of me-e-eat?”

  And the little old man he ran and got under the bed.

  The little old boy he sat right on, kind of scared and kind of sleepy, and then he heard the gate-chain rattle.

  “Where’s my chunk of me-e-eat?”

  Heard somethin’ climbin’ up on the porch-roof.

  “Where’s my chunk of me-e-e-eat?”

  Then he heard it clawin’ on the house-roof.

  “Where’s my chunk of me-e-e-eat?”

  Then he heard somethin’ scratchin’ in the chimney. Saw soot falling, looked up the chimney, and up there on the smoke-shelf sat a great—big—old—black—hairy—booger,

  “WHERE’S MY CHUNK O’ MEAT?”

  The little old boy he was so scared by then he couldn’t move.

  “W-w-w-what you got sech big eyes for?”

  “Stare you through!

  Stare you thro-o-o-ough!”

  “W-w-w-w-what you got sech big claws for?”

  “Grabble your grave!

  G-r-r-rabble—your gra-a-a-ave!”

  “W-w-w-w-w-what you got sech a bushy tail for?”

  “Sweep your grave!

  Sweep—your—gra-a-a-a-a-ave!”

  “W-w-w-w-w-w-w-what you got sech long, sharp snaggly teeth for?”

  “EAT YOU UP!”

  Old Rob had gradually edged his chair around toward me, and at “Eat you up!” had jumped straight for me. I gasped and grabbed at the edge of the oak chest as my chair went over backwards, and there was a great shout from the children.

  Amidst the laughter the two fathers rose. “Come on, you kids, or you’ll be late for Sunday school. Get your coats on.”

  Someone opened the door, and the room flashed with a bright glare.

  “It’s done stopped snowin’.”

  Everybody filed out to see the snow. The sun was just below the horizon, the eastern sky dear under a long ledge of gray, and cloud-reflected light filtered out over a white world.

  “Come go home with us.”

  “Can’t go. You ’uns stay and eat breakfast.”

  “We’ll have to get on in home now.”

  “Well, come to see us.”

  “All right. You ’uns come.”

  “Come whenever you’re a mind to.”

  “I’ll come.”

  “We’ll be a-lookin’ for ye.”

  The usual parting phrases were repeated as each group made tracks across the snow. And finally there were only the Weavers, Tom, Jeems, and I left in the house. Delia and Sarah were starting a fire in the kitchen cook-stove. Steve and Stan laid themselves across Tom’s bed and slept. Big Rob and Tom dozed in their chairs. Little Rob was out at the woodpile chopping fuel for the breakfast fire. Old Kel was poking chunks together with one of his walking sticks. Granny turned to me.

  “You takin’ down the old songs, too?”

  “Yes’m. I’ve been after songs longer than I have tales.”

  “Tom—Tom!—Get that old hymn book, the one that was your mother’s.”

  Tom got up and went and rummaged in his trunk and brought out the book.

  “Hit’s the old ‘Southern Harmony,’” said Granny. “We got one at home and we get it out every now and then, set it on the table when we’ve cleared away supper—sing all the parts.”

  I came and looked over Granny’s shoulder. It was an aged book, opening longways; tattered at the edges, its back broken and the board covers loose. Granny fingered the yellow pages.

  “Here’s one,” she said, “that we know to sing.”

  I bent closer and read its title: “The Babe of Bethlehem.” There were three staves, and the note-heads
were square and round and diamond-shaped, and one was like a little pennant.

  “Hit’s fa-sol-la singin’,” explained Granny. “Deely she knows the tribble, and Rob the bass. Kel and me, we generally hold the tenor.—Rob! Wake up. Come in here, Deely.”

  Rob woke up; Delia came and sat by Granny London.

  “Law, faw, law, law, law, faw, law,” sang Granny.

  “That’s too high,” said Old Rob. “You pitch it, Deely.”

  Delia tried the pitch, and the quartet tried it with her: “Law, do, mi, law, mi, do, law.”

  Old Rob nodded, and quietly they began to sing:

  THE BABE OF BETHLEHEM

  Ye nations all, on you I call, come hear this de-clar-a-tion,

  and don’t re-fuse this glorious news of Jesus and sal-va-tion.

  To loy-al Jews came first the news of Christ the great Mes-si-ah,

  as was fore-told by pro-phets old, I-sai-ah, Je-re-mi-ah.

  His parents poor in earthly store, as weary they did wander

  they found no bed to lay his head but in an ox’s manger;

  no royal things, as used by kings, were seen by those that found him,

  but in the hay our Saviour lay with swaddling bands around him.

  On that same night a glorious light to shepherds there appear-ed;

  bright angels came in shining flame. They saw and greatly fear-ed.

  The angels said, Be not afraid, although we much alarm you,

  for we appear good news to bear, as we shall now inform you.

  The city’s name is Bethlehem, in which God hath appointed,

  this glorious morn a Saviour’s born, for him God hath anointed.

  By this you’ll know if you will go to see this little stranger,

  his lovely charms in Mary’s arms, both lying in a manger.

  Then with delight they took their flight and winged their way to glory,

  while shepherds gazed and were amazed to hear this wond’rous story.

  To Bethlehem they quickly came the glorious news to carry,

  and in the stall they found them all; ’twas Joseph, the Babe, and Mary.

  The shepherds then returned again to their own habitation;

  with joy of heart they did depart, now they have found salvation.

  O glory, they cry, to God on high who sent his son to save us!

  This glorious mom a Saviour’s born, his name it is Christ Jesus.

  Back and forth Granny turned the pages of the old hymnal as they went from song to song, and the sun of Old-Christmas Day rose to sacred music.

  Sarah and Tom had the table set, but breakfast waited until “The Garden Hymn” was finished—

  O that this dry and barren ground

  in springs of water may abound,

  a fruitful soil become,

  a fruitful soil become,

  the desert blossom as the rose

  and Jesus conquer all his foes,

  and make his people one,

  and make his people one.

  The two boys slept on. We moved to the table, and Tom bowed his head. “Thank thee, Lord, for providin’ this bounty. Bless us and bind us. Amen.”

  Biscuits and coffee were steaming, and we ate without much talk. And soon the Weavers were wrapped to go. “Let ’em be,” Tom had said when Little Rob tried to waken the boys.

  “I don’t aim to sleep. They can stay there, and I’ll see they eat.”

  Granny took my hand. “I’m glad there’s some folks gettin’ interested in the old ways. This new generation don’t know such things, but when they find the old songs and the old tales, they’ll delight in ’em.”

  “There’s no music,” said Uncle Kel, “like the old music.”

  And they departed. Old Kel Weaver stepping carefully and picking his way with the two canes, last of all.

  Jeems and I had our coats on.

  “You fellers don’t have to go.”

  “Got to be movin’. Just go with us.”

  “Feedin’ and milkin’ to do. Come back, and bring this man with ye. We didn’t any more’n get started, Dick. I thought of a dozen more old tales while we eat breakfast.”

  James Turner and I got in the car and made the first wheel tracks in the clean white road.

  THE END

  Appendix

  ABBREVIATIONS

  DASENT: “Popular Tales from the Norse,” Sir George Webbe Dasent. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, 1904.

  ENG.: “English Fairy Tales,” Joseph Jacobs. A. L Burt Co., New York. No date.

  MORE ENG.: “More English Fairy Tales,” Joseph Jacobs. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York and London. No date.

  GRIMM, 1944: “Grimm’s Fairy Tales,” James Stem. Pantheon Books, New York, 1944.

  TYPE: Type number “The Types of the Folk Tale,” Antti Arne and Stith Thompson. Folklore Fellows Communications, no. 74. Helsinki, 1928. Academia Scientiarum Fennica.

  JOSEPH AND THE ANGEL

  This tune is from the singing of Horton Barker of Saint Clair’s Creek near Chilhowie, Virginia. The text is from several sources, oral and printed.

  Shape-notes are widely used in the South, mostly in rural churches. This kind of music notation is simply an aid to sight singing. The do is movable but fixed in shape.

  THE MUMMERS’ PLAY

  From: Marie Campbell’s account of a Kentucky version, given in The Journal of American Folk Lore, vol. 51, no. 199 (Jan.-March, 1938). E. K. Chambers’s The English Folk Play, Oxford at The Clarendon Press, 1933. “John Barleycorn,” One Hundred English Folk Songs, edited by Cecil J. Sharp, Boston: Oliver Ditson Co., 1916. Oral sources: Walter Lam of Page County, Virginia, and Boyd Boiling of Wise County, Virginia. The version of the play as given here comes, in part, from actually performing a mummers’ play with groups of boys at The White Top Folk Festival and at The Recreation Center in Charlottesville, Virginia.—I omitted the Doctor’s long speech (“The Skoonkin Huntin’”) to shorten the play.

  GALLYMANDERS

  From: R. M. Ward, Ben Hicks, Sarah Hicks, Nora Hicks, Anna Presnell, all of Wautauga County, North Carolina. Mrs. Carrington (Cora Clark) Mosby and her sister, Miss Alica Irvine Clark, of Lynchburg, Virginia. Parallels: “The Old Witch,” More Eng., p. 101. “The Two Stepsisters,” Dasent, p. 113. “Mother Holle,” Grimm, 1944, p. 133. Remarks: The giving-out-of-breath is my own invention. “Seen a little gal . . .” came from the two ladies in Lynchburg.—If given a hint that they may do so, children delight in joining-in on both the repeated rigamoroles.

  WICKED JOHN

  From: Mrs. Jenning L. Yowell of Charlottesville, Virginia, and her daughter Alois. Peck Daniel of Bristol, Virginia.—The Devil’s remark at the end has been used as a joke about Hitler. Parallels: Type 330 A. Zora Neal Hurston’s “Mules and Men.” Uncle Remus’s “The Devil and The Blacksmith.” Dasent, “The Master Smith,” p. 105. Grimm, 1944, p. 367. Remarks: Mrs. Yowell called him “Wicked Jack.” Her version started with the “Hillbilly” joke about the old, old man crying beside the road: “My daddy whipped me.” “What for?” “For sassin’ my granddaddy.”—The Saint Peter (St. Patrick) business came from Peck Daniel.—Mrs. Yowell’s second wish was on a shoehammer.—In the original John is an inebriate.—The fire-bush is Cydonia Japonica (Japan Quince), common to Southern yards.

  MUTSMAG

  From: Elijah Rasnik, John Addington, Mag Roberts Hopkins, Web Hubbard, Nancy Shores, Homer Addington (n yrs.), James Taylor Adams, all of Wise County, Virginia. Gratis D. Williams of Boone, North Carolina. Parallels: Type 1119. “Mollie Whuppie,” Eng. Remarks: Mr. Rasnik boomed out the old giant’s voice most terrifyingly, and had Mutsmag answer him in tiny piping tones.

  WHITEBEAR WHITTINGTON

  From: Dicy Adams, Finley Adams, of Wise County. Bill Haga (15 yrs.) at Konnarock, Virginia. Martha Presnell, Mrs. Filmore Presnell, Nancy Ward, R. M. Ward, Mrs. Nora Hicks, Mr. and Mrs. Kel Harmon, all of Wautauga County, North Carolina. Parallels: Type 425, C. Dasent, “East of the Sun and West of the Moon,” p. 2
2. Eng., p. 45. “Black Bull of Norroway,” More Eng., p. 20. Remarks: The white bird is my alteration from Finley’s crow. The naming of each of the three nuts is from Billy Haga. Dicy’s title, “The Three Gold Nuts.”

  THE OUTLAW BOY

  From: John Martin Kilgore of Wise County, Virginia. Remarks: Uncle Johnny insisted that Robin Hood “surely must have been an American.”—Nora Hicks knows the Robin Hood ballad about the rescue of the two boys about to be hung.

  SALLYRAYTUS

  From: Kena Adams of Wise County, Virginia.—Remarks: Baking soda used to be called saleratus in pioneer times. (See Webster.)—Nearly all the elaboration here is my own, from telling the tale to smaller children.—The bear’s remark about jumping is from a “fool Irishman” tale.

  THE OLD SOW

  From: R. M. Ward. Remarks: Mr. Ward had in addition, “Let my middlin’s in.” “O no, you’d middlin’ me out.” (Sic!)—Also, “Let my xxxx’s in.” “O no, you’d butt me out.”

  BOBTAIL AND THE DEVIL

  From: James Taylor Adams, Gaines Kilgore, of Wise County. Ben Hall of Hayesville, North Carolina. G. M. Hogg (72 yrs.) of Blackey, Kentucky. Nancy Ward and Enoch Potter of Wautauga County. Parallels: Type 1030,1036. Grimm, 1944, “Peasant and Devil,” p. 767. Remarks: “That beats Bobtail . . .” seems to me a common byword throughout North Carolina and Virginia.—The hammer-throwing business was in a tale about Sampson and the Devil told by one of the sons of Polly Johnson of Wise County.