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Title: The Eatonville anthology
Author: Zora Neale Hurston
Release date: January 23, 2025 [eBook #75183]
Language: English
Original publication: United States: Negro University Press, 1926
Credits: Steve Mattern
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EATONVILLE ANTHOLOGY ***
THE EATONVILLE ANTHOLOGY
By ZORA NEALE HURSTON
The Messenger
The World's Greatest Negro Monthly
Volume VIII
September, October, November, 1926
I
+The Pleading Woman+
Mrs. Tony Roberts is the pleading woman. She just loves to ask for
things. Her husband gives her all he can rake and scrape, which is
considerably more than most wives get for their housekeeping, but she
goes from door to door begging for things.
She starts at the store. “Mist’ Clarke,” she sing-songs in a high
keening voice, “gimme lil’ piece uh meat tuh boil a pot uh greens wid.
Lawd knows me an’ mah chillen is SO hongry! Hits uh SHAME! Tony don’t
fee-ee-eee-ed me!”
Mr. Clarke knows that she has money and that her larder is well
stocked, for Tony Roberts is the best provider on his list. But her
keening annoys him and he arises heavily. The pleader at this shows all
the joy of a starving man being seated at a feast.
“Thass right Mist’ Clarke. De Lawd loveth de cheerful giver. Gimme jes’
a lil’ piece ’bout dis big (indicating the width of her hand) an’ de
Lawd’ll bless yuh.”
She follows this angel-on-earth to his meat tub and superintends the
cutting, crying out in pain when he refuses to move the knife over just
a teeny bit mo’.
Finally, meat in hand, she departs, remarking on the meanness of some
people who give a piece of salt meat only two-fingers wide when they
were plainly asked for a hand-wide piece. Clarke puts it down to Tony’s
account and resumes his reading.
With the slab of salt pork as a foundation, she visits various homes
until she has collected all she wants for the day. At the Piersons, for
instance: “Sister Pierson, plee-ee-ease gimme uh han’ful uh collard
greens fuh me an’ mah po’ chillen! ’Deed, me an’ mah chillen is SO
hongry. Tony doan’ fee-ee-eed me!”
Mrs. Pierson picks a bunch of greens for her, but she springs away
from them as if they were poison. “Lawd a mussy, Mis’ Pierson, you
ain’t gonna gimme dat lil’ eye-full uh greens fuh me an’ mah chillen,
is you? Don’t be so graspin’; Gawd won’t bless yuh. Gimme uh han’full
mo’. Lawd, some folks is got everything, an’ theys jes’ as gripin’ an
stingy!”
Mrs. Pierson raises the ante, and the pleading woman moves on to the
next place, and on and on. The next day, it commences all over.
II
+Turpentine Love+
Jim Merchant is always in good humor--even with his wife. He says he
fell in love with her at first sight. That was some years ago. She has
had all her teeth pulled out, but they still get along splendidly.
He says the first time he called on her he found out that she was
subject to fits. This didn’t cool his love, however. She had several in
his presence.
One Sunday, while he was there, she had one, and her mother tried to
give her a dose of turpentine to stop it. Accidently, she spilled it
in her eye and it cured her. She never had another fit, so they got
married and have kept each other in good humor ever since.
III
Becky Moore has eleven children of assorted colors and sizes. She has
never been married, but that is not her fault. She has never stopped
any of the fathers of her children from proposing, so if she has no
father for her children it’s not her fault. The men round about are
entirely to blame.
The other mothers of the town are afraid that it is catching. They
won’t let their children play with hers.
IV
+Tippy+
Sykes Jones’ family all shoot craps. The most interesting member of the
family--also fond of bones, but of another kind--is Tippy, the Jones’
dog.
He is so thin, that it amazes one that he lives at all. He sneaks into
village kitchens if the housewives are careless about the doors and
steals meats, even off the stoves. He also sucks eggs.
For these offenses he has been sentenced to death dozens of times, and
the sentences executed upon him, only they didn’t work. He has been fed
bluestone, strychnine, nux vomica, even an entire Peruna bottle beaten
up. It didn’t fatten him, but it didn’t kill him. So Eatonville has
resigned itself to the plague of Tippy, reflecting that it has erred in
certain matters and is being chastened.
In spite of all the attempts upon his life, Tippy is still willing to
be friendly with anyone who will let him.
V
+The Way of a Man with a Train+
Old Man Anderson lived seven or eight miles out in the country from
Eatonville. Over by Lake Apopka. He raised feed-corn and cassava and
went to market with it two or three times a year. He bought all of his
victuals wholesale so he wouldn’t have to come to town for several
months more.
He was different from us citybred folks. He had never seen a train.
Everybody laughed at him for even the smallest child in Eatonville had
either been to Maitland or Orlando and watched a train go by. On Sunday
afternoons all of the young people of the village would go over to
Maitland, a mile away, to see Number 35 whizz southward on its way to
Tampa and wave at the passengers. So we looked down on him a little.
Even we children felt superior in the presence of a person so lacking
in worldly knowledge.
The grown-ups kept telling him he ought to go see a train. He always
said he didn’t have time to wait so long. Only two trains a day passed
through Maitland. But patronage and ridicule finally had its effect
and Old Man Anderson drove in one morning early. Number 78 went north
to Jacksonville at 10:20. He drove his light wagon over in the woods
beside the railroad below Maitland, and sat down to wait. He began to
fear that his horse would get frightened and run away with the wagon.
So he took him out and led him deeper into the grove and tied him
securely. Then he returned to his wagon and waited some more. Then he
remembered that some of the train-wise villagers had said the engine
belched fire and smoke. He had better move his wagon out of danger. It
might catch afire. He climbed down from the seat and placed himself
between the shafts to draw it away. Just then 78 came thundering over
the trestle spouting smoke, and suddenly began blowing for Maitland.
Old Man Anderson became so frightened he ran away with the wagon
through the woods and tore it up worse than the horse ever could have
done. He doesn’t know yet what a train looks like, and says he doesn’t
care.
VI
+Coon Taylor+
Coon Taylor never did any real stealing. Of course, if he saw a chicken
or a watermelon or muskmelon or anything like that that he wanted he’d
take it. The people used to get mad but they never could catch him. He
took so many melons from Joe Clarke that he set up in the melon patch
one night with his shotgun loaded with rock salt. He was going to fix
Coon. But he was tired. It is hard work being a mayor, postmaster,
storekeeper and everything. He dropped asleep sitting on a stump in
the middle of the patch. So he didn’t see Coon when he came. Coon
didn’t see him either, that is, not at first. He knew the stump was
there, however. He had opened many of Clarke’s juicy Florida Favorite
on it. He selected his fruit, walked over to the stump and burst the
melon on it. That is, he thought it was the stump until it fell over
with a yell. Then he knew it was no stump and departed hastily from
those parts. He had cleared the fence when Clarke came to, as it were.
So the charge of rock-salt was wasted on the desert air.
During the sugar-cane season, he found he couldn’t resist Clarke’s soft
green cane, but Clarke did not go to sleep this time. So after he had
cut six or eight stalks by the moonlight, Clarke rose up out of the
cane strippings with his shotgun and made Coon sit right down and chew
up the last one of them on the spot. And the next day he made Coon
leave his town for three months.
VII
+Village Fiction+
Joe Lindsay is said by Lum Boger to be the largest manufacturer of
prevarications in Eatonville; Brazzle (late owner of the world’s
leanest and meanest mule) contends that his business is the largest in
the state and his wife holds that he is the biggest liar in the world.
_Exhibit A_--He claims that while he was in Orlando one day he saw
a doctor cut open a woman, remove everything--liver, lights and heart
included--clean each of them separately; the doctor then washed out the
empty woman, dried her out neatly with a towel and replaced the organs
so expertly that she was up and about her work in a couple of weeks.
VIII
Sewell is a man who lives all to himself. He moves a great deal. So
often, that ’Lige Moseley says his chickens are so used to moving that
every time he comes out into his backyard the chickens lie down and
cross their legs, ready to be tied up again.
He is baldheaded; but he says he doesn’t mind that, because he wants as
little as possible between him and God.
IX
Mrs. Clarke is Joe Clarke’s wife. She is a soft-looking, middle-aged
woman, whose bust and stomach are always holding a get-together.
She waits on the store sometimes and cries every time he yells at her
which he does every time she makes a mistake, which is quite often. She
calls her husband “Jody.” They say he used to beat her in the store
when he was a young man, but he is not so impatient now. He can wait
until he goes home.
She shouts in Church every Sunday and shakes the hand of fellowship
with everybody in the Church with her eyes closed, but somehow always
misses her husband.
X
Mrs. McDuffy goes to Church every Sunday and always shouts and tells
her “determination.” Her husband always sits in the back row and beats
her as soon as they get home. He says there’s no sense in her shouting,
as big a devil as she is. She just does it to slur him. Elijah Moseley
asked her why she didn’t stop shouting, seeing she always got a beating
about it. She says she can’t “squinch the sperrit.” Then Elijah asked
Mr. McDuffy to stop beating her, seeing that she was going to shout
anyway. He answered that she just did it for spite and that his fist
was just as hard as her head. He could last just as long as she. So the
village let the matter rest.
XI
+Double-Shuffle+
Back in the good old days before the World War, things were very simple
in Eatonville. People didn’t fox-trot. When the town wanted to put on
its Sunday clothes and wash behind the ears, it put on a “breakdown.”
The daring younger set would two-step and waltz, but the good church
members and the elders stuck to the grand march. By rural canons
dancing is wicked, but one is not held to have danced until the feet
have been crossed. Feet don’t get crossed when one grand marches.
At elaborate affairs the organ from the Methodist church was moved
up to the hall and Lizzimore, the blind man presided. When informal
gatherings were held, he merely played his guitar assisted by any
volunteer with mouth organs or accordions.
Among white people the march is as mild as if it had been passed on
by Volstead. But it still has a kick in Eatonville. Everybody happy,
shining eyes, gleaming teeth. Feet dragged ’shhlap, shhlap! to beat
out the time. No orchestra needed. Round and round! Back again,
parse-me-la! shlap! shlap! Strut! Strut! Seaboard! Shlap! Shlap! Tiddy
bumm! Mr. Clarke in the lead with Mrs. Mosely.
It’s too much for some of the young folks. Double shuffling commences.
Buck and wing. Lizzimore about to break his guitar. Accordion doing
contortions. People fall back against the walls, and let the soloist
have it, shouting as they clap the old, old double shuffle songs.
’Me an’ mah honey got two mo’ days
Two mo’ days tuh do de buck’
Sweating bodies, laughing mouths, grotesque faces, feet drumming
fiercely. Deacons clapping as hard as the rest.
“Great big nigger, black as tar
Trying tuh git tuh hebben on uh ’lectric car.”
“Some love cabbage, some love kale
But I love a gal wid a short skirt tail.”
Long tall angel--steppin’ down,
Long white robe an’ starry crown.
’Ah would not marry uh black gal (bumm bumm!)
Tell yuh de reason why
Every time she comb her hair
She make de goo-goo eye.
Would not marry a yaller gal (bumm bumm!)
Tell yuh de reason why
Her neck so long an’ stringy
Ahm ’fraid she’d never die.
Would not marry uh preacher
Tell yuh de reason why
Every time he comes tuh town
He makes de chicken fly.
When the buck dance was over, the boys would give the floor to the
girls and they would parse-me-la with a slye eye out of the corner
to see if anybody was looking who might “have them up in church”
on conference night. Then there would be more dancing. Then Mr.
Clarke would call for everybody’s best attention and announce that
_’freshments was served! Every gent’man would please take his lady by
the arm and scorch her right up to de table fur a treat!_
Then the men would stick their arms out with a flourish and ask their
ladies: “You lak chicken? Well, then, take a wing.” And the ladies
would take the proffered “wings” and parade up to the long table and be
served. Of course most of them had brought baskets in which were heaps
of jointed and fried chicken, two or three kinds of pies, cakes, potato
pone and chicken purlo. The hall would separate into happy groups about
the baskets until time for more dancing.
But the boys and girls got scattered about during the war, and now they
dance the fox-trot by a brand new piano. They do waltz and two-step
still, but no one now considers it good form to lock his chin over his
partner’s shoulder and stick out behind. One night just for fun and
to humor the old folks, they danced, that is, they grand marched, but
everyone picked up their feet. _Bah!!_
XII
+The Head of the Nail+
Daisy Taylor was the town vamp. Not that she was pretty. But sirens
were all but non-existent in the town. Perhaps she was forced to it by
circumstances. She was quite dark, with little brushy patches of hair
squatting over her head. These were held down by shingle-nails often.
No one knows whether she did this for artistic effect or for lack of
hair-pins, but there they were shining in the little patches of hair
when she got all dressed for the afternoon and came up to Clarke’s
store to see if there was any mail for her.
It was seldom that anyone wrote to Daisy, but she knew that the men of
the town would be assembled there by five o’clock, and some one could
usually be induced to buy her some soda water or peanuts.
Daisy flirted with married men. There were only two single men in town.
Lum Boger, who was engaged to the assistant school-teacher, and Hiram
Lester, who had been off to school at Tuskegee and wouldn’t look at a
person like Daisy. In addition to other drawbacks, she was pigeon-toed
and her petticoat was always showing so perhaps he was justified. There
was nothing else to do except flirt with married men.
This went on for a long time. First one wife then another complained of
her, or drove her from the preserves by threat.
But the affair with Crooms was the most prolonged and serious. He was
even known to have bought her a pair of shoes.
Mrs. Laura Crooms was a meek little woman who took all of her troubles
crying, and talked a great deal of leaving things in the hands of God.
The affair came to a head one night in orange picking time. Crooms was
over at Oneido picking oranges. Many fruit pickers move from one town
to the other during the season.
The _town_ was collected at the store-postoffice as is customary
on Saturday nights. The _town_ has had its bath and with its
week’s pay in pocket fares forth to be merry. The men tell stories and
treat the ladies to soda-water, peanuts and peppermint candy.
Daisy was trying to get treats, but the porch was cold to her that
night.
“Ah don’t keer if you don’t treat me. What’s a dirty lil nickel?” She
flung this at Walter Thomas. “The everloving Mister Crooms will gimme
anything atall Ah wants.”
“You better shet up yo’ mouf talking ’bout Albert Crooms. Heah his wife
comes right now.”
Daisy went akimbo. “Who? Me! Ah don’t keer whut Laura Crooms think. If
she ain’t a heavy hip-ted Mama enough to keep him, she don’t need to
come crying to me.”
She stood making goo-goo eyes as Mrs. Crooms walked upon the porch.
Daisy laughed loud, made several references to Albert Crooms, and when
she saw the mail-bag come in from Maitland she said, “Ah better go in
an’ see if Ah ain’t got a letter from Oneido.”
The more Daisy played the game of getting Mrs. Crooms’ goat, the
better she liked it. She ran in and out of the store laughing until
she could scarcely stand. Some of the people present began to talk to
Mrs. Crooms--to egg her on to halt Daisy’s boasting, but she was for
leaving it all in the hands of God. Walter Thomas kept on after Mrs.
Crooms until she stiffened and resolved to fight. Daisy was inside
when she came to this resolve and never dreamed anything of the kind
could happen. She had gotten hold of an envelope and came laughing and
shouting, “Oh, Ah can’t stand to see Oneido lose!”
There was a box of ax-handles on display on the porch, propped up
against the door jamb. As Daisy stepped upon the porch, Mrs. Crooms
leaned the heavy end of one of those handles heavily upon her head. She
staggered from the porch to the ground and the timid Laura, fearful of
a counter-attack, struck again and Daisy toppled into the town ditch.
There was not enough water in there to do more than muss her up. Every
time she tried to rise, down would come that ax-handle again. Laura
was fighting a scared fight. With Daisy thoroughly licked, she retired
to the store porch and left her fallen enemy in the ditch. None of the
men helped Daisy--even to get out of the ditch. But Elijah Moseley, who
was some distance down the street when the trouble began arrived as the
victor was withdrawing. He rushed up and picked Daisy out of the mud
and began feeling her head.
“Is she hurt much?” Joe Clarke asked from the doorway.
“I don’t know,” Elijah answered, “I was just looking to see if Laura had
been lucky enough to hit one of those nails on the head and drive it
in.”
Before a week was up, Daisy moved to Orlando. There in a wider sphere,
perhaps, her talents as a vamp were appreciated.
XIII
+Pants and Cal’line+
Sister Cal’line Potts was a silent woman. Did all of her laughing down
inside, but did the thing that kept the town in an uproar of laughter.
It was the general opinion of the village that Cal’line would do
anything she had a mind to. And she had a mind to do several things.
Mitchell Potts, her husband, had a weakness for women. No one ever
believed that she was jealous. She did things to the women, surely. But
most any townsman would have said that she did them because she liked
the novel situation and the queer things she could bring out of it.
Once he took up with Delphine--called Mis’ Pheeny by the town. She
lived on the outskirts on the edge of the piney woods. The town winked
and talked. People don’t make secrets of such things in villages.
Cal’line went about her business with her thin black lips pursed tight
as ever, and her shiny black eyes unchanged.
“Dat devil of a Cal’line’s got somethin’ up her sleeve!” The town
smiled in anticipation.
“Delphine is too big a cigar for her to smoke. She ain’t crazy,” said
some as the weeks went on and nothing happened. Even Pheeny herself
would give an extra flirt to her over-starched petticoats as she
rustled into church past her of Sundays.
Mitch Potts said furthermore, that he was tired of Cal’line’s
foolishness. She had to stay where he put her. His African soup-bone
(arm) was too strong to let a woman run over him. ’Nough was ’nough.
And he did some fancy cussing, and he was the fanciest cusser in the
county.
So the town waited and the longer it waited, the odds changed slowly
from the wife to the husband.
One Saturday, Mitch knocked off work at two o’clock and went over
to Maitland. He came back with a rectangular box under his arm and
kept straight on out to the barn and put it away. He ducked around
the corner of the house quickly, but even so, his wife glimpsed the
package. Very much like a shoe-box. So!
He put on the kettle and took a bath. She stood in her bare feet at
the ironing board and kept on ironing. He dressed. It was about five
o’clock but still very light. He fiddled around outside. She kept on
with her ironing. As soon as the sun got red, he sauntered out to the
barn, got the parcel and walked away down the road, past the store
and out into the piney woods. As soon as he left the house. Cal’line
slipped on her shoes without taking time to don stockings, put on one
of her husband’s old Stetsons, worn and floppy, slung the axe over her
shoulder and followed in his wake. He was hailed cheerily as he passed
the sitters on the store porch and answered smiling sheepishly and
passed on. Two minutes later passed his wife, silently, unsmilingly,
and set the porch to giggling and betting.
An hour passed perhaps. It was dark. Clarke had long ago lighted the
swinging kerosene lamp inside.
XIV
Once ’way back yonder before the stars fell all the animals used to
talk just like people. In them days dogs and rabbits was the best of
friends--even tho both of them was stuck on the same gal--which was
Miss Nancy Coon. She had the sweetest smile and the prettiest striped
and bushy tail to be found anywhere.
They both run their legs nigh off trying to win her for
themselves--fetching nice ripe persimmons and such. But she never give
one or the other no satisfaction.
Finally one night Mr. Dog popped the question right out. “Miss Coon,”
he says, “Ma’am, also Ma’am which would you ruther be--a lark flyin’ or
a dove a settin’?”
Course Miss Nancy she blushed and laughed a little and hid her face
behind her bushy tail for a spell. Then she said sorter shy like, “I
does love yo’ sweet voice, brother dawg--but--but I ain’t jes’ exactly
set in my mind yit.”
Her and Mr. Dog set on a spell, when up comes hopping Mr. Rabbit wid
his tail fresh washed and his whiskers shining. He got right down to
business and asked Miss Coon to marry him, too.
“Oh, Miss Nancy,” he says, “Ma’am, also Ma’am, if you’d see me settin’
straddle of a mud-cat leadin’ a minnow, what would you think? Ma’am
also Ma’am?” Which is a out and out proposal as everybody knows.
“Youse awful nice, Brother Rabbit and a beautiful dancer, but you
cannot sing like Brother Dog. Both you uns come back next week to gimme
time for to decide.”
They both left arm-in-arm. Finally Mr. Rabbit says to Mr. Dog. “Taint
no use in me going back--she ain’t gwinter have me. So I mought as well
give up. She loves singing, and I ain’t got nothing but a squeak.”
“Oh, don’t talk that a’ way,” says Mr. Dog, tho’ he is glad Mr. Rabbit
can’t sing none.
“Thass all right, Brer Dog. But if I had a sweet voice like you got,
I’d have it worked on and make it sweeter.”
“How! How! How!” Mr. Dog cried, jumping up and down. “Lemme fix it for
you, like I do for Sister Lark and Sister Mocking-bird.”
“When? Where?” asked Mr. Dog, all excited. He was figuring that if he
could sing just a little better Miss Coon would be bound to have him.
“Just you meet me t’morrer in de huckleberry patch,” says the rabbit
and off they both goes to bed.
The dog is there on time next day and after a while the rabbit comes
loping up.
“Mawnin’, Brer Dawg,” he says kinder chippy like. “Ready to git yo’
voice sweetened?”
“Sholy, sholy, Brer Rabbit. Let’s we all hurry about it. I wants tuh
serenade Miss Nancy from de piney woods tuh night.”
“Well, den, open yo’ mouf and poke out yo’ tongue,” says the rabbit.
No sooner did Mr. Dog poke out his tongue than Mr. Rabbit split it with
a knife and ran for all he was worth to a hollow stump and hid hisself.
The dog has been mad at the rabbit ever since.
Anybody who don’t believe it happened, just look at the dog’s tongue
and he can see for himself where the rabbit slit it right up the middle.
Stepped on a tin, mah story ends.
Transcriber’s Notes
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
Perceived punctuation errors have been silently corrected.
The section heading XIV has been added.
Otherwise spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.
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