I would listen until my teeth would
chatter with fright, and would shiver more and more, as they would tell
of the sights in grave-yards, and the spirits of tyrannical masters, walking
at night, with their chains clanking and the, sights of hell, where
some would be on gridirons, some hung up to baste and the
devil with his pitchfork would toss the poor creatures hither
and thither. They would say: "Carry, you must go to the house,"
and I would not go with one, but have two, one on each side of me. I
remember seeing the negro men laugh at me, but the women would shake
their heads and say: "You better quit skeering that chile." But there
was one pleasure above all the rest, it was to hear any one tell "tales."
When my mother would have a visitor, very frequently the lady would
bring a nurse to care for one child or children, she might bring with her.
Oh, how pleased the black and white children would be to see such visitors.
We would gather around and in every way made our pleasure
known. Would give them doll-rags, nuts, or apples, and in many ways
express our delight at having them come. As soon as they were made
comfortable, the next thing was: "Tell us a tale." And seating ourselves
around on the floor, or in a close group, we would be all attention.
Of course there would be some raw heads and bloody bones, but not so
much as the stories told at night in the cabins.
One of the prettiest stories I ever heard, and never tired of hearing,
that taught me a great moral, was about two girls the children of a
couple who were hard working people.
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