Told By "The Noted Traveler"

Coming, clean from the Maryland-end     Of this great National Road of ours,     Through your vast West; with the time to spend,     Stopping for days in the main towns, where     Every citizen seemed a friend,     And friends grew thick as the wayside flowers, -     I found no thing that I might narrate     More singularly strange or queer     Than a thing I found in your sister-state     Ohio, - at a river-town - down here     In my notebook: Zanesville - situate     On the stream Muskingum - broad and clear,     And navigable, through half the year,     North, to Coshocton; south, as far     As Marietta. - But these facts are     Not of the story, but the scene     Of the simple little tale I mean     To tell directly - from this, straight through     To the end that is best worth listening to:     Eastward of Zanesville, two or three     Miles from the town, as our stage drove in,     I on the driver's seat, and he     Pointing out this and that to me, -     On beyond us - among the rest -     A grovey slope, and a fluttering throng     Of little children, which he "guessed"     Was a picnic, as we caught their thin     High laughter, as we drove along,     Clearer and clearer. Then suddenly     He turned and asked, with a curious grin,     What were my views on Slavery? "Why?"     I asked, in return, with a wary eye.     "Because," he answered, pointing his whip     At a little, whitewashed house and shed     On the edge of the road by the grove ahead, -     "Because there are two slaves there," he said -     "Two Black slaves that I've passed each trip     For eighteen years. - Though they've been set free,     They have been slaves ever since!" said he.     And, as our horses slowly drew     Nearer the little house in view,     All briefly I heard the history     Of this little old Negro woman and     Her husband, house and scrap of land;     How they were slaves and had been made free     By their dying master, years ago     In old Virginia; and then had come     North here into a free state - so,     Safe forever, to found a home -     For themselves alone? - for they left South there     Five strong sons, who had, alas!     All been sold ere it came to pass     This first old master with his last breath     Had freed the parents. - (He went to death     Agonized and in dire despair     That the poor slave children might not share     Their parents' freedom. And wildly then     He moaned for pardon and died. Amen!)     Thus, with their freedom, and little sum     Of money left them, these two had come     North, full twenty long years ago;     And, settling there, they had hopefully     Gone to work, in their simple way,     Hauling - gardening - raising sweet     Corn, and popcorn. - Bird and bee     In the garden-blooms and the apple-tree     Singing with them throughout the slow     Summer's day, with its dust and heat -     The crops that thirst and the rains that fail;     Or in Autumn chill, when the clouds hung low,     And hand-made hominy might find sale     In the near town-market; or baking pies     And cakes, to range in alluring show     At the little window, where the eyes     Of the Movers' children, driving past,     Grew fixed, till the big white wagons drew     Into a halt that would sometimes last     Even the space of an hour or two -     As the dusty, thirsty travelers made     Their noonings there in the beeches' shade     By the old black Aunty's spring-house, where,     Along with its cooling draughts, were found     Jugs of her famous sweet spruce-beer,     Served with her gingerbread-horses there,     While Aunty's snow-white cap bobbed 'round     Till the children's rapture knew no bound,     As she sang and danced for them, quavering clear     And high the chant of her old slave-days -             "Oh, Lo'd, Jinny! my toes is so',             Dancin' on yo' sandy flo'!"     Even so had they wrought all ways     To earn the pennies, and hoard them, too, -     And with what ultimate end in view? -     They were saving up money enough to be     Able, in time, to buy their own     Five children back.         Ah! the toil gone through!     And the long delays and the heartaches, too,     And self-denials that they had known!     But the pride and glory that was theirs     When they first hitched up their shackly cart     For the long, long journey South. - The start     In the first drear light of the chilly dawn,     With no friends gathered in grieving throng, -     With no farewells and favoring prayers;     But, as they creaked and jolted on,     Their chiming voices broke in song -             "'Hail, all hail! don't you see the stars a-fallin'?             Hail, all hail! I'm on my way.             Gideon[1] am             A healin' ba'm -             I belong to the blood-washed army.             Gideon am             A healin' ba'm -                 On my way!'"     And their return! - with their oldest boy     Along with them! Why, their happiness     Spread abroad till it grew a joy     Universal - It even reached     And thrilled the town till the Church was stirred     Into suspecting that wrong was wrong! -     And it stayed awake as the preacher preached     A Real "Love"-text that he had not long     To ransack for in the Holy Word.     And the son, restored, and welcomed so,     Found service readily in the town;     And, with the parents, sure and slow,     He went "saltin' de cole cash down."     So with the next boy - and each one     In turn, till four of the five at last     Had been bought back; and, in each case,     With steady work and good homes not     Far from the parents, they chipped in     To the family fund, with an equal grace.     Thus they managed and planned and wrought,     And the old folks throve - Till the night before     They were to start for the lone last son     In the rainy dawn - their money fast     Hid away in the house, - two mean,     Murderous robbers burst the door.     ...Then, in the dark, was a scuffle - a fall -     An old man's gasping cry - and then     A woman's fife-like shriek.         ...Three men     Splashing by on horseback heard     The summons: And in an instant all     Sprung to their duty, with scarce a word.     And they were in time - not only to save     The lives of the old folks, but to bag     Both the robbers, and buck-and-gag     And land them safe in the county-jail -     Or, as Aunty said, with a blended awe     And subtlety, - "Safe in de calaboose whah     De dawgs caint bite 'em!"          - So prevail     The faithful! - So had the Lord upheld     His servants of both deed and prayer, -     HIS the glory unparalleled -     Theirs the reward, - their every son     Free, at last, as the parents were!     And, as the driver ended there     In front of the little house, I said,     All fervently, "Well done! well done!"     At which he smiled, and turned his head     And pulled on the leaders' lines and - "See!"     He said, - "'you can read old Aunty's sign?"     And, peering down through these specs of mine     On a little, square board-sign, I read:             "Stop, traveler, if you think it fit,             And quench your thirst for a-fip-and-a-bit.             The rocky spring is very clear,             And soon converted into beer."     And, though I read aloud, I could     Scarce hear myself for laugh and shout     Of children - a glad multitude     Of little people, swarming out     Of the picnic-grounds I spoke about. -     And in their rapturous midst, I see     Again - through mists of memory -     A black old Negress laughing up     At the driver, with her broad lips rolled     Back from her teeth, chalk-white, and gums     Redder than reddest red-ripe plums.     He took from her hand the lifted cup     Of clear spring-water, pure and cold,     And passed it to me: And I raised my hat     And drank to her with a reverence that     My conscience knew was justly due     The old black face, and the old eyes, too -     The old black head, with its mossy mat     Of hair, set under its cap and frills     White as the snows on Alpine hills;     Drank to the old black smile, but yet     Bright as the sun on the violet, -     Drank to the gnarled and knuckled old     Black hands whose palms had ached and bled     And pitilessly been worn pale     And white almost as the palms that hold     Slavery's lash while the victim's wail     Fails as a crippled prayer might fail. -     Aye, with a reverence infinite,     I drank to the old black face and head -     The old black breast with its life of light -     The old black hide with its heart of gold.