X MISTER BAD ’SIMMON TREE

“Look at that big old grape tree, Mammy Phyllis,” said Mary Van, as she ran beside the little boy gathering wild flowers in the woods back of the house.

“That’s not a grape tree, Mary Van—it’s a grape vine,” corrected Willis.

“’Tain’t, it’s a tree, isn’t it, Mammy?”

“It’s a vine,” he emphasized with a shake of her arm.

“Make him stop, he’s knocking my flowers.”

“Dey ain’t no use youall ’sputin’ ’bout Miss Wile Grape. Bofe uv yer’s got hit right. She uster be Miss Wile Grape Vine ’fo’ she take an’ marry ole man Holl’r Tree. Now she call herse’f Miss Grape Vine Tree.”

“Where’s Old Man Holl’r Tree?”

“Yond’rs him,—standin’ b’hime Miss Wile Grape. Dey’s er heap er men fokes hidin’ b’hime der ole ladies in dis worl’, too! Yas, suh! an’ dey’s er heap uv ’ooman fokes dat act jes’ like Miss Wile Grape done whin Mist’r Wise Oak tell her long time ergo ter stop keepin’ comp’ny wid Holl’r Tree. Mist’r Wise Oak tell her Holl’r Tree ain’ fit’n fur nuthin’ but ter hide possums in.

“She say, ‘I doan keer ef he can’t do nuthin’, I kin make er livin’ fur bofe uv us, but I’m jes’ bleeg ter have sumbody ter lean on.’

“He say, ‘Doan git er long s’ fas’, Wile Grape; lay low fur er while, an’ ’twon’ be long ’fo’ young Johnnie Live Oak’ll reach out an’ ax you ter lean on him.’

“She say, ‘No, I ain’ gwine ’ginst Holl’r Tree jes’ ’caze he’s gettin’ ole an’ ball.’

“Miss Crab Apple tell her, ‘Dat’s right, grab yer fus’ chance, ’caze yer ain’ gwina git no mo’.’ Dat hu’t po’ lit’le Wile Grape’s feelin’s, an’ she sorter wilt an’ creep on de groun’ tell Miss Bizzy Bee come an’ tell her Holl’r Tree say ef she doan come on, he gwine tumble ter pieces. Den she lif’ up her haid an’ git Bob Win’ ter take her up ter Holl’r Tree, an’ she bin dar ev’r sense, tryin’ ter hide his ole ugly se’f; an’ de wurser he look, de mo’ purty leaves an’ grapes she try ter kiv’r ov’r him.”

“What’d Miss Crab Apple say?” Mary Van wanted to hear the gossip.

“Nobody ain’ lis’n ter whut she say, ’caze she so sour an’ mean, ev’ybody keep out’n her way.”

Willis darted ahead. “Look, Mammy, look at the persimmons!” and he began hurling stones towards the tree.

“Nobody doan want no green ’simmons, boy.”

“They’re not green, they’re yellow,” and another stone followed.

“Let dem ’simmons ’lone, I tell yer—dey ain’ fit’n fur nothin’, doan keer ef dey is yaller. De fros’ got ter fall on ’em ’fo’ eb’n possums’ll eat ’em.” She added, under her breath, “Like dese heah sour fokes dat don’t nuv’r git sweet tell trub’le hit ’em.”

“I don’t care, I’m going to knock ’em down anyway.”

“Ahah, you gwine be hard-haid’d jes’ like ’Simmon Tree wus whin he wus er lit’le hard-haid’d boy tree, an’ his ma tell him ter stop sassyin’ old fokes.”

“Who did he sassy?” Willis looked with indecision at the stone in his hand.

“I ain’ gwine tell yer nuthin’ tell yer th’ows dat rock down an’ gits fur nuf fum ’Simmon Tree ter keep him fum lis’nin’ ter whut I says, ’caze he ’memb’rs long time ergo whin all de trees wus waitin’ ter see which one gwine have de fines’ crap er chillun. Early hyah in de spring, ’fo’ Jack Fros’ go ter see Miss White Snow, Dandy Lion come peepin’ out; all de trees bowin’ an’ swingin’ derse’fs erbout axin’ de news ’bout der chillun. Dandy Lion say, ‘Don’t yer heah lit’le Weepin’ Will’r cryin’ an’ holl’rin’ ov’r yond’r now?’ Sho’ nuf dar she wus tellin’ her ma ’bout lit’le Maple Tree an’ all uv ’em pushin’ her out fus’ ter see ef Jack Fros’ fixin’ ter pack his trunk.”

The stone slid noiselessly from Willis’s hand, while Phyllis led the way beyond the green persimmons.

“Did Jack Frost bite little Willow Tree?”

“He don’t bite ’em less’n dey gits hard-haid’d an’ sassy him. But hyah come lit’le Aspin, an’ lit’le Sugar Maple, an’ dey says Lit’le ’Simmon Tree an’ de res’ uv de tree chillun is reddy ter come, soon es ole Unk’ Sun warm up de room fur ’em er lit’le. Bimeby, all uv ’em gits der haids an’ hands out, ’cep’n Pine Tree chile. Ev’ybody axin’ Miss Vilet, an’ Miss Honey-suckle an’ all uv ’em wharbouts Pine Tree chile wus at. Pres’ntly ole Tall Pine say, he do: ‘Jes’ ’ten’ ter yer own biznes’, my boy know whut he doin’. He ain’ gwine come up hyah rippin’ an’ tar’in’ ’roun’, an’ den hatt’r stan’ dar an’ die in his tracks. Whin enny er my fambly comes up in de woods, dey comes ter stay,’ sez he: ‘De res’ er you all goes off in de winter time, but me an’ my fokes stays right hyah; darfo’, I done lernt my chillun ter git er good start ’fo’ dey comes thu!’

“I tell yer, Pine Tree chile wus workin’ hard ter tap wat’r so he kin keep up wid de res’ er de trees atter he jines de woods.”

“How can he tap water?” interrupted Willis.

“Dey taps hit wid der roots. Sometimes er pine tree whut ain’t no big’r’n my han’ is got roots fifteen foots long. An’ I tell yer Pine Tree tellin’ de trufe, his boy know der fambly bleege ter have wat’r ter live on, an’ he ain’t gwine take no stan’ in dis woel he know he can’t keep up wid. De trees dey talks ’bout him mouty bad at fus’, but he don’t pay no ’tenshun ter ’em, he jes’ mine his own biznes’, an’ bimeby he git big ’nuf ter look on de top uv all ’em.”

“Did he look down on the top of Mist’r Wise Oak?” broke in Willis.

“Tall Pine so high an’ straight hisse’f, he ain’t thinkin’ ’bout de top er nobody’s haid. He know Mist’r Wise Oak’s de big’es’ man on Tinker Knob an’ he proud ter keep comp’ny wid him.”

“Who was running against Wise Oak?” the race for mayor still lingering in his mind.

“Well, son, dar wus er heap uv ’em dat want ter git in, but dey can’t git nobody ter put ’em up. Lombody Poplar ax Holl’r Tree ter put him up, but Holl’r Tree tell him ter look at hisse’f, an’ see how fokes ’ud t’ar him ter pieces. He say he dunno howcum.

“Holl’r Tree say, ‘Whut’s you done ter make fokes vote fur you? You doan give no fruit, an’ you too stingy ter eb’n stretch yer arms out an’ make shade fur ennybody.’

“Lombody say, ‘Yer doan want me ter spile m’ shape does yer?’

“Holl’r Tree say, ‘Dat’s hit. You thinks too much ’bout yer own se’f ter serve de woods.’ But I ain’ got time ter tell yer all whut de trees talks erbout. I jes’ wanter tell yer ’bout whut Mist’r bad ’Simmon Tree got.

“Whin he wus er lit’le boy tree, he all de time bein’ hard-haided an’ makin’ fusses twixt de trees er de beastes er enybody dat ’ud lis’n ter him. His ma whoop him er heap ’bout tellin’ tales, an’ meddlin’ in fokes’ ’fars, but ev’y time Bob Win’ come thu de woods ’Simmon Tree’d lean way down ter de groun’ totin’ tales ter sumbody. One time Mist’r Brindle Cow come walkin’ long thu de woods, huntin’ fur some nice lit’le chaws er wile flow’rs, an’ ’Simmon Tree hol’r fur him ter come set down an’ talk ter him. Mister Brindle say he ain’ got no time ter fool wid chillun. Wid dat ’Simmon Tree holl’r back: ‘Yer bet’r take time, ’caze ev’y body know you done bin runn’d out’n de pastur’.’ Whoopee! Mist’r Brindle Cow give er jump an’ lan’ hisse’f ’pon top er dat sassy little tree, an’ I tell yer he nuv’r lef’ dar tell he had tromp ’Simmon Tree clean down ter de groun’. Den he curl his tail in de air an’ go bellerin’ back ter de pastur’.

“’Simmon Tree sorter raise up one fing’r, den he lif’ his haid up er lit’le bit, but he hurt so bad near ’bout his foots dat he cry an’ beg sumbody ter please hope him up.

“Jes’ den Mist’r Man an’ his lit’le boy come ridin’ thu dar on Miss Race Hoss. Mist’r Man stop, he do, an’ say, ‘Look at dat nice lit’le ’Simmon Tree sumbody done tromp’d down. I’m gwine tie hit up an’ give hit er chanct,’ sez he. So him an’ de lit’le boy liftes hit up, an’ ’Simmon Tree holl’r, ‘Oh! Lawdy! yer’s killin’ me,’ but dey ties him up an’ put sticks up ’ginst him ter keep him fum fallin’ down, an’ ’tain’ long ’fo’ de hu’t part wus kur’d tergeth’r fine, an’, by de time he wus grow’d up, nobody cud tell he ev’r wus er bad lit’le boy dat mos’ got kilt by his badness. Oh, he wus er starchy lookin’ tree I tell yer. Look like he wus de fines’ lookin’ uv all de tree chillun.”

“One day Bob Win’ put on his fine linnin duster an’ he come er projeckin’ an’ frolickin’ ’roun’ de Reed gals down in de Cane Break. Dey has er heap er fun, I tell yer. Bob allus crackin’ his jokes ter ’em tell dey mos’ die fallin’ ’ginst one nuth’r laffin’.

“’Simmon Tree git so mad ’caze he can’t fly ’roun’ an’ projeck wid de gals like Bob, dat he ’fuse ter speak ter Bob’s howdy. Bob he sorter laf an’ flutt’r ’Simmon Tree’s leaves back’ards. ’Simmon Tree git mad es fire den, an’ he tell him ter ‘clar out!’

“He say, ‘You does er heap er braggin’ an’ blusterin’ in dese parts Bob Win’, but I ain’ nuv’r seed nuthin’ in yer but bad mann’rs.’

“Bob say, ‘I see yer done forgit de les’n Brer Brindle Cow learnt yer whin you wus lit’le.’

“’Simmon Tree say, ‘I ain’ skeer’d er all de Mist’r Cows in de pastur’, an’ you th’ow’d in ter boot. You ain’ nuthin’ but er win’ bag ennyhow.’

“Bob Win’ say, ‘Git reddy, suh, we gwine proof whose de bes’ man ’fo’ sundown.’

“Bob go ax his pa, ole man Harricane, ter loan him his cyarpet bag, he tell him he want ter take sum fightin’ close ’long on er trip he gwine on thu de woods. Ole Kerlum-bang Thunder say he gwine ’long ter see de fun. Po’-Down Rain say he gwine too, but Bob tell ’em he doan want nobody ter hope him.

“Po’-Down Rain says he ain’ gwine hope nobody, he say, ‘Mist’r Wise Oak sont fur me er mont’ ergo, an’ I ain’ had time ter go yit, but I’m gwine now, ’caze I wants ter see you whin you tu’ns yose’f loose.’

“Ole Kerlum-bang Thund’r say, ‘I ain’ gwine hu’t nobody, I’m jes’ gwina shoot off er few fier wurks, an’ rat’le ’roun’ er lit’le.’

“Bob see he can’ do nuthin’ wid ’em, so he start off. Fus’ he come sorter sof’ whrrrrrrrr, whuuuuuuuu. All de trees lafs an’ howdy’s ter one nuth’r ’cep’ ’Simmon Tree. He ’fuse ter russ’le so much es er leaf. Bob come Brrrrrrrrr, sorter strong like, de leaves on de groun’ try ter hop up an’ cap’r wid dem on de trees, an’ de Reed gals wus jes’ laffin’ an’ th’owin’ derse’fs erbout scand’lous. ’Simmon Tree ain’ flutt’r er leaf, ’cep’n whin he bleeg’d ter. Bob Win’ come Brrrrrrrr, Whrrrrrrrr, Brrrrr, Brrrrrrrr, Whrrrrrr, Zuzuzuzuzuzuzuzuzuzuzuzuzuzzzzzzzzzz, whoopee! I tell yer he’s comin’ now! He rip an’ t’ar, he do, ringin’ an’ twistin’ ev’ything dat gits in his way. Ole Kerlum-bang Thunder give er clap an’ tetch off er fier crack’r dat skeer de Cane Break fokes mouty nigh ter death. Po’-Down Rain come right ’long b’hime him. He wet dem woods mouty nigh ter flood times. Ole Kerlum-bang drop his chunk er fier on a passel er big fier-crackers, an’—”

“And Roman candles, and sky rockets!” added Willis.

“Yas, an’ de fus’ thing you knows Bob Win’ had done swep’ up dat groun’ b’fo’ him clean es yo’ ma’s parler floor. He step up ter ’Simmon Tree an’ ax him ef he got ennything ter take back.

“’Simmon Tree say, ‘I done tole yer I ain’ gwina pass wurds wid no sich er blow hard es you is.’

“Bob Win’ grab him ’roun ’de trunk, he do, an’ give er good twis’ on his haid, but dat nuv’r done no harm, an’ ’Simmon Tree hit him back es good es he sen’. Bob take him by de arms an’ twis’ wid all his might, but ’Simmon Tree laff in his face, an’ twis’ back at him. Den Bob give er runnin’ jump an’ wrop hisse’f ’long ’bout ’Simmon’s foots. Well, suh, dat een’ de fight. Bob hit him in de weak part, an’ ’Simmon Tree broke an’ come, kerblum’, an’ splint’r’d hisse’f all ov’r de groun’.”

“Mammy, I thought you said Mister Man cured him, so he was bigger and stronger than all of the rest?” Mary Van had a good memory but Phyllis was ever ready to answer the interruption.

“Aha, aha, you ’members dat does yer? An’ dat’s jes’ whut he wus—mo’ finer’n all uv ’em ’cep’n in dat weak place his hard haid make, whin he wus er lit’le bit’r tree. An’ er gal er boy”—she looked earnestly into each face—“kin be sassy an’ hard-haid’d whin dey’s lit’le, an’ whin dey gits grow’d up an’ ’gins ter rass’lin’ wid triberlations, de ve’y fus’ fight dey gits in, dat weak bad, hard-haided place gwine give way fus’, an’ dey’ll splinter all ter pieces jes’ like ’Simmon Tree done.”

“Can Bob Wind whip all the trees?”

“He sho’ kin, son, dat is, enny uv ’em dat’s so big’rty an’ hard-haid’d dey can’t lis’n ter nobody. I tell yer dar’s er plenty er Bob Win’s ter whoop all de biggerty hard-haids ’mongst de men fokes, too.”

“I bet there isn’t any Bob Wind that can whip my papa.”

“No, my Lawd, dat dey ain’t,” she laughed softly, then added: “Howcum you reck’n yo’ pa come ter be sich er big man?” she stopped to hear his answer.

“Cause he’s my papa,” defended the child.

“’Tain’t no sich er thing. Plenty fokes gots papa’s ’sides you. Hit’s ’caze he got de bignes’ ter mine whut his ole lady say ter him ev’y onct in erwhile. Come ’long, we ain’ gwine git er Lawd’s bit er dinn’r ef we doan git out er dese hyah woods.”