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.

By James Whitcomb Riley

https://www.public-domain-poetry.com/james-whitcomb-riley/told-by-the-noted-traveler-29311