Angels Watching Over Me (Shenandoah Sisters Book #1) (16 page)

‘‘Yes, when was it?’’ said Katie. So I went on to explain that it was the time when Mr. Fox dropped in at Mr. Rabbit’s house and didn’t find anyone except the little rabbits. Old Mr. Rabbit was off somewhere raiding a collard patch, and old Mrs. Rabbit was attending a quilting in the neighborhood. While the little rabbits were playing hide-and-switch, in drops Mr. Fox. The little rabbits were so fat they fairly make his mouth water, but he remembered Mr. Wolf, and he was afraid to gobble them up unless he got some real good reason.

‘‘What happened to Mr. Wolf?’’ asked Katie in a sleepy voice.

‘‘Mr. Wolf, he come roun’ to Mr. Rabbit’s too, en he weren’t too smart. En Mr. Rabbit tricked him, en locked him into his wood chist, en den poured boilin’ water in on him en killed him dead. En so Mr. Fox, he’s wary ob Mr. Rabbit. En de little rabbits, dey mighty skittish, en dey sorter huddle deyse’f up tergedder en watch Mr. Fox. En Mr. Fox, he sit der en study w’at sorter skuse he gwineter make up so’s he kin eat der little rabbits. Bimeby he see a great big stalk er sugarcane stan’in up in de corner, and he clear up his throat en say: ‘Yer! you young rabs dar, come roun’ yer en break me a piece er dat sweetnin’-tree en bring it to me,’ sezee.

‘‘De little rabbits, dey got out de sugarcane, dey did, en dey rastle wid it, en sweat over it, but twan’t no use. Dey couldn’t break it. Mr. Fox, he make like he ain’t watchin’, but he keep on holler’n: ‘Hurry up dar, rabs! I’m a waitin’ on you.’

‘‘En de little rabbits, dey hustle roun’ en rastle wid it some more, but dey couldn’t break it. Bimeby dey hear little bird singin’ on top er de house, en de song w’at de little bird sing wuz dish yer:

‘‘ ‘Take yo’ toofies en gnyaw it,
Take yo’ toofies en saw it,
Saw it en yoke it,
En den you kin broke it.’ ’’

And so it went as I told the story, thinking about my grandpapa and my family as the familiar story rolled off my tongue.

I finally came to, ‘‘But Mr. Fox, he knows what happen to Mr. Wolf, so he button up his coat collar tight en des put out fer home.’’

I stopped, took a deep breath, and looked over at Katie. She had snuggled down under her blanket and was almost asleep.

‘‘But why didn’t Mr. Fox just eat the little rabbits?’’ she asked in a soft voice. ‘‘Why did he want the sugarcane and the water?’’

‘‘He had to find an excuse to eat them. He had to find them being disobedient. If they were bad, then he could punish them. So he told them things to do that he didn’t think they could do.’’

‘‘But why would a fox be afraid of a rabbit?’’

‘‘I don’t know,’’ I laughed. ‘‘It’s just a story to keep young’uns quiet. Half the stories I told Samuel didn’t make any more sense than that.’’

Katie closed her eyes and in a minute or two was breathing deeply. I slipped off her bed, turned the light down low, and went to my room.

So that’s how we began reading and sharing stories with each other.

On most evenings Katie would maybe play something on the piano—sometimes she’d even sing, or we’d sing together. I taught her more of my songs, and she taught me some of hers. Then we’d go upstairs and get into our bedclothes and then would read or tell stories till we got sleepy. One of our favorites was
Pilgrim’s
Progress
. In between times she wanted me to tell her some of the slave stories I knew.

W
ORKING AND
L
EARNING
T
OGETHER
22

I
WOKE UP ONE MORNING FEELING CHILLY. IT had been a little stormy and I guess the weather had turned.

Shivering, I got up and went to Katie’s room. She was gone.

I went downstairs and found her in the kitchen kneeling at the stove.

‘‘The fire went out,’’ she said, glancing up from the open door. ‘‘But I can’t get it started.’’

I went over to take a look.

‘‘Your chunks of wood are too big, Miss Katie. You can’t start a fire without using tiny little bits of dry wood to get them going first. And you gotta have paper first, then you lay little pieces of kindling crossways on top of it, making a little pile. Let’s go outside and get some kindling and I’ll show you how.’’

Katie went out to the woodpile with me. We were about out of kindling, so I set a couple of chunks up on the chopping block to cut some more. Katie watched with I think as much awe to see me handle the ax as I had watching her play the piano. I reckon everybody’s got different kinds of skills, though I didn’t hardly think cutting wood or singing a revival song could compare with playing a minuet by somebody named Mozart.

‘‘Would you show me how to do that, Mayme?’’ said Katie after I’d sent a few little thin slices splintering off the chunk.

‘‘It can be dangerous, Miss Katie,’’ I warned. ‘‘You gotta watch out for your fingers.’’

‘‘But I’ve got to learn to do these things sometime,’’ she said. ‘‘I helped my mama some, but I was never very good at it. I didn’t like to work. But watching you makes me want to learn how. Look at my hands—they’re all soft and smooth. I need to get them toughened up like yours.’’

‘‘I think most white ladies
like
smooth hands, Miss Katie.’’

‘‘Not me. My mama’s hands were rough too after my daddy left for the war.’’

‘‘Okay, then, but you gotta promise you’ll keep your fingers out of the way of the blade.’’

‘‘I promise.’’

I handed her the ax. ‘‘Take it in both your hands, and start that way. Just bring the blade down about an inch from the edge.’’

She tried it but missed the chunk completely. The tip whacked into the chopping block with a thud and stuck. I yanked it out and handed it back to her.

‘‘Try it again. The most important thing is to get a chunk of wood without knots and with nice straight grain. Then you can just splinter the kindling right off the edge.’’

She tried a few more times and got some pieces to slice off. Then we took what we’d cut into the house and I showed her about building the fire. Already Katie had the makings of a blister starting on her right palm.

It was while we were making the fire that I noticed how few phosphorous matches we had left. Katie had to use three or four before she could get one to light. I hadn’t thought of it before. We’d be in a predicament once we started running out of things like that. I knew people had fire long before they invented matches. But I didn’t know how to start one from nothing and didn’t want to try.

After that we started banking up the fire every night to make sure we still had hot coals in the morning. For now there was plenty of firewood out by the barn, though I had to chop up new kindling every couple of days.

That night Katie read to me from a book named
Rollo in London
written by a man called Jacob Abbott. Rollo was traveling around the world with his uncle George. The next day she showed me a whole set of Rollo books in her room.

‘‘What country would you like to know about?’’ Katie asked me. ‘‘South America or Africa or Rome or Paris.’’

‘‘I’m sorry, Miss Katie, but I’ve never heard of any of them,’’ I said. ‘‘I’d never even heard of London before last night. But anything you want to read is fine by me.’’

‘‘I am tired of Rollo anyway,’’ said Katie. ‘‘So tonight I will read to you from
Goody Two-Shoes
. But it will not do for me to do all the reading. You should read too.’’

‘‘But I don’t read too great.’’

‘‘Then you can practice by reading the McGuffey Readers,’’ said Katie. ‘‘That’s how I learned to read.’’

‘‘Would you help me, Miss Katie?’’

‘‘I will go get the first one right now,’’ she said, jumping up. ‘‘I know where they are on the bookshelf. I remember putting them away myself.’’

She returned in a minute holding a little brown book. She handed it to me.

‘‘That’s a funny-looking word,’’ I said, pointing to the cover.

‘‘The Eclectic First Reader,’’
Katie read. ‘‘I don’t know what
eclectic
means either,’’ she said with a little laugh, ‘‘but, here, I’ll find you something to read. I bet you can read just fine.’’

She turned the pages, looking at one lesson after another, then stopped.

‘‘Here’s one,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll start. ‘Come, let us go into thick shade,’ ’’ she began. ‘‘ ‘It is noonday, and the summer sun beats hot upon our heads. The shade is pleasant and cool. The branches meet above our heads and shut out the sun like a green curtain.’ ’’

She stopped and pointed to where she was.

‘‘Now you keep going, Mayme,’’ she said, putting the book in front of me.

‘‘Okay, I’ll try,’’ I said. ‘‘ ‘The . . . grass is . . . soft to . . . our feet,’ ’’ I began slowly, ‘‘ ‘and the clear—’ ’’

I hesitated. ‘‘What’s that next word?’’

‘‘Brook,’’ said Katie.

‘‘ ‘—and the clear brook . . . washes . . . the r-r-oot . . . washes the roots of the trees.’ ’’

‘‘I knew you could do it,’’ said Katie. ‘‘That was very good. Keep going, and I’ll read along with you to make it easier.’’

‘‘ ‘The cattle can lie down to sleep in the cool shade,’ ’’ we read out loud together, ‘‘ ‘but we can do better. We can raise our voices to heaven. We can praise the great God who made us.’ ’’

As we read, Katie waited a moment to let me try each word alone, then said it to help me along. Pretty soon, as I got more comfortable with it, I felt like I was reading it myself even though she was saying it with me. She was a natural-born teacher.

We finished the little story together.

‘‘ ‘He made the warm sun and the cool shade,’ ’’ we read, ‘‘ ‘the trees that grow upwards, and the brooks that run along. The plants and trees are made to give fruit to man. All that live get life from God. He made the poor man, as well as the rich man. He made the dark man, as well as the fair man. He made the fool, as well as the wise man. All that move on the land are His, and so all that fly in the air, and all that swim in the sea. The ox and the worm are both the work of His hand. In Him, they live and move. He it is that doth give food to all of them, and when He says the word, they all must die.’ ’’ I couldn’t help smiling when we set the book down.

‘‘Thank you, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘That was fun. It got easier with you helping me.’’

‘‘And every little bit you read will make it easier and more fun,’’ she said. ‘‘So let’s go through the book, and you read every story and learn the words at the end. See, the next story is called ‘The Lame Dog,’ ’’ she said. ‘‘You try to read it by yourself first a time or two, then when you are ready, we will read it together. We’ll do a new one every morning and evening.’’

————

Late one afternoon I was milking the cows by myself. Katie must have been off doing something else. As I milked, without realizing it, I started squeezing in rhythm, humming a tune, and after a while I was singing softly to the time and the sound of the milk spraying out into the bucket.

Singing is what black folks do when they work. The men sang in the fields hoeing cotton and picking corn. Everybody, even the children, had to pick the corn when it was ripe, from sunup till sundown, and I remember the sounds of the singing clear as yesterday. The women sang when they washed the clothes. And us young’uns sang when we worked and played. Singing’s just what black folks did. It made the work go by a heap easier.

As I was milking away, all at once I realized Katie had come up behind me. I looked around and stopped.

‘‘What was that you were singing, Mayme?’’ she asked.

‘‘A song we used to sing.’’

‘‘Sing it again,’’ she said, sitting down on another stool.

I started milking again, got the rhythm of my squeezing going like before, and then started singing along with it.

‘‘Hit’s a gittin’ mighty late, w’en de Guinny-hins
squall,
En you better dance now, ef you gwineter dance a tall.
Fer by dis time ter-morrer night you can’t hardly crawl,
Kaze you’ll hatter take de hoe ag’in en likewise de
maul—
Don’t you hear dat bay colt a kickin’ in his stall?
Stop yo’ humpin’ up yo’ sho’lders—Dat’ll never do!
Hop light, ladies, Oh, Miss Loo!
Hit takes a heap er scrougin’, Fer ter git you throo—
Hop light, ladies, Oh, Miss Loo!’’

I looked over at Katie, and she was smiling and tapping her foot.

‘‘There’s another verse,’’ I told her.

‘‘Oh, keep singing,’’ she said. So I continued, then she joined me on, ‘‘Hop light, ladies, Oh, Miss Loo!’’ We laughed and laughed.

Katie got off the stool, then brought it over, sat down and started to milk the next cow. I watched her pull the pail underneath and just get to milking away. She didn’t seem to mind a bit like she had that first day.

————

I worked on my lessons like Katie had said, reading one new story every morning and another at night.

I’d work my own way through them slowly once, sounding out the words I didn’t know, and then a second time. Katie would sit down with me, and we’d read it aloud together. Within just a few days of practicing, I was reading a lot better than before, though the stories got harder real quick. Sometimes I would do two in a day, sometimes three. I especially liked the one called ‘‘The Snow Dog and Boy.’’