The Marengo Jake Stories: The Tales of Jake Mitchell and Robert Wilton Burton

M'renger

Jake is now a citizen of Auburn. He confesses as much, and he would not deny that his present estate is lowly. His clothes hang in picturesque tatters about his person; his wool rises in a grizz[l]y shock above his crownless hat; his walk is an apologetic shambling; his smik, though broad, discloses but a solitary tooth standing like a tombstone in memory of its departed fellows. Not withstanding these tokens of present poverty and decay, Jake was once the petted child offortune. His present condition is that of a man who has fallen from a great height-a broken down aristocrat whose most precious possession is the memory ofa glorious past. Time can not efface that memory; adversity can not dim its splendor[.] On the contrary, as years and privations accumulate it grows brighter and brighter, and what once shone with the pale light ofa star, now floods the chambers ofmemory with the strength and brilliance ofa sun. "You talks 'bout raisin' taters, Miss Purreleen," says Jake, puncturing the earth with his finger and inserting a sweet potato slip in the opening, "you des oughter seed de taters what we raised on ole Moster's plantation down in M'renger. D'aint no room in dis one-horse town for de sort 0' tater patches ole Moster had. De littles' one he plant was fa' hunderd acres, an' dat warnt de onlies' one he had. Hit was des a little spot cloast to de house whar he raise yams an' de like 0' date De patch whar he raise deze yer nigger chokers hit had more'n a thousan' acres in hit. "What he want wid so many taters? Law! Miss Purreleen, efyou hadder knowed how many niggers ole Moster had you wouldn't a ax dat question. His niggers kiver de yeth wuss'n a swarm 0' deze yer low cusses what I year de whi' folks readin' 'bout in de paper. He had three hunderd yaller gals an' three hunderd ginger-cake gals what was des 'bout grown, an' three hunderd fryin' size gals, sides de mens an' de ole womens. He use to make me wash all dem gals' fe[e]t ever' night de lawd sen'. "Yas, ma'am, hit was a toler'ble big job to wash all dem nine hunderd gals' feets ever' night, but you see, Miss Purreleen, I had a monst'ous big tub for to wash 'em in. De tub hit was made out'n one 0' dem big turnips what we raise down dar in M'renger, an' mighty nigh all dem gals could put dey feets in hit at de same time. Law! how dem sassy yaller gals love to slosh de water on me. Dey was likely gals, for a fack. I was ha'f dead to mar' one 0' dem gals, but you neenter to tell Majane. I ax ole Moster for one of 'em, but he 'low' I was too black. I was de onlies' rale black nigger ole Moster had. Dat's how come I marr'd Majane. When folks can't git tater pooden dey has to take black ber' pie. "Oh, yes, ma'am, de taters we raise was fine. Dey was so big we mas' in ginnerly had to cut 'em up wid a cross-cut saw 'fa' ever we could cook 'em, an' de folks use to come f'om ten mile all roun' to git dat saw-dus' to make poodens out'n. Sometimes dem gals'd buH' up a big fire in de fiel' an' roas' one 0' clem taters des for fun. Dey put one een in de fire an' dey set down on de yuther een. You des oughter seed 'em, Miss Purreleen-three hunderd yaller gals an' three hunderd ginger-cake gals des 'bout grown, an' three hunderd fryin' size gals, all settin' on de een 0' one tater an' waitin' for de yuther een to roas'. "Yas, ma'am, dey was plenty 0' money down dar in M'renger, an' I speck efyou was to go down dar now hit's dar tell yit. Ole Moster had money in ever' pocket, an' he had two banks ofit in 'Moplis, an' ar one 0' em was bigger'n dat tater bank you had las' year. Ole Miss had 'fa' quilts made out'n hunderd dollar bills, an' she had a gale...