When the Stage Was Stopped.
"Camp down into that char thar, son," said the Old Cattleman with much heartiness."Which I'm waitin' for that black boy Tom to come back; I sends him for my war-bags.No, I don't need 'em none, only I've got to give this yere imbecile Tom money.Them Senegambians is shore a pecooliar people.They gets a new religion same as you-all gets a new hat, an' they changes their names like some folks does their shirt.Which they're that loose an' liable about churches an'
cognomens!
"As for money, take this boy Tom.He actooally transacts his life on the theery that he has prior claims on every splinter of my bank-roll.Jest now he descends onto me an' e'labe'rately states his title to ten pesos.Says he's done j'ined a new church, an' has been made round-up boss or somethin' to a outfit called, 'The Afro-American Widows' Ready Relief Society,' an' that his doos is ten chips.Of course, he has to have the dinero, so I dismisses him for my wallet like I says.
"Does them folks change their names? They changes 'em as read'ly as a Injun breaks camp; does it at the drop of the hat.This yere Guinea of mine, his name's Tom.Yet at var'ous times, he informs me of them mootations he's institooted, He's been 'Jim' an' 'Sam' an'
'Willyum Henry,' an' all in two months.Shore, I don't pay no heed to sech vagaries, but goes on callin' him 'Tom,' jest the same.An'
he keeps comin' when I calls, too, or I'd shore burn the ground 'round him to a cinder.I'd be a disgrace to old Tennessee to let my boy Tom go preescribin' what I'm to call him.But they be cur'ous folks! The last time this hirelin' changes his name, I asks the reason.
"'Tom,' I says, 'this yere is the 'leventh time you cinches on a new name.Now, tell me, why be you-all attemptin' to shift to "Willyum Henry?"'
"'Why, Marse,' he says, after thinkin' hard a whole lot, 'I don't know, only my sister gets married ag'in last night, an' I can't think of nothin' else to do, so I sort o' allows I'll change my name.'"A moment later the exuberant and many-titled Tom appeared with the pocket-book.My old friend selected a ten-dollar bill and with an air of severity gave it to his expectant servitor.
"Thar you be," he observed."Now, go pay them doos, an' don't hanker 'round me for money no more for a month.You can't will from me ag'in before Christmas, no matter how often you changes your name, or how many new churches you plays in with.For a nigger, you-all is a mighty sight too vol'tile.Your sperits is too tireless, an' stays too long on the wing.Which, onless you cultivates a placider mood an' studies reepose a whole lot, I'll go foragin' about in my plunder an' search forth a quirt, or mebby some sech stinsin' trifle as a trace-chain, an' warp you into quietood an' peace.I reckons now sech ceremonies would go some ways towards beddin' you down an'
inculcatin' lessons of patience a heap."
The undaunted Tom listened to his master's gloomy threats with an air of cheer.There was a happy grin on his face as he accepted the money and scraped a "Thanky, sah!" To leave a religious impression which seemed most consistent with the basis of Tom's appeal, that dusky claimant of ten dollars, as he withdrew, hummed softly a camp-meeting song:
"Tu'n around an' tu'n yo' face, Untoe them sweet hills o' grace.
(D' pow'rs of Sin yo' em scornin'!)
Look about an' look aroun', Fling yo' sin-pack on d' groun'.
(Yo' will meet wid d' Lord in d' mornin'.)""Speakin' about this yere vacillatin' Tom," said the old gentleman, as he watched that person disappear, "shiftin' his religious grazin'
ground that a-way, let me tell you.Them colored folks pulls on an'
pulls off their beliefs as easy as a Mexican.An' their faith never gets in their way; them tenets never seems to get between their hocks an' trip 'em up in anythin' they wants to do.They goes rangin' 'round, draggin' them religious lariats of theirs, an' Inever yet beholds that church which can drive any picket pin of doctrines, or prodooce any hobbles of a creed, that'll hold a Mexican or a nigger, or keep him from prancin' out after the first notion that nods or beckons to him.Thar's no whim an' no fancy which can make so light a wagon-track he won't follow it off.
"Speakin' of churches that a-way: This yere Tom's been with me years.One day about two months ago, he fronts up to me an' says:
"'I'se got to be mighty careful what I does now; I'se done j'ined.Igives my soul to heaven on high last night, an' wrops myse'f tight an' fast in bonds of savin' grace wid d' Presbyter'an chu'ch.Yes, sah, I'm a christian, an' I don't want no one, incloodin' mysc'f, to go forgettin' it.'
"This yere news don't weigh on me partic'lar, an' I makes no comments.It's three weeks later when Tom cuts loose another commoonication.
"'You rec'llects,' he says, 'about me bein' a j'iner an' hookin' up wid d' Presbyter'ans? Well, I'se done shook 'em; I quit that sanchooary for d' Mefodis.' D' Presbyter'an is a heap too gloomy a religion for a niggah, sah.Dey lams loose at me wid foreord'nation an' preedest'nation, an' how d' bad place is paved wid chil'ens skulls, an' how so many is called, an' only one in a billion beats d' gate; an' fin'lly, las' Sunday, B'rer Peters, he's d' preacher, he ups an' p'ints at me in speshul an' says he sees in a dream how I'm b'ar-hung an' breeze-shaken over hell; an', sah, he simply scare dis niggah to where I jest lay down in d' pew an' howl.After I'se done lamented till my heart's broke, I passes in my resignation, an'
now I'se gone an' done attach myse'f to d' Mefodis'.Thar's a deal mo' sunshine among d' Mefodis' folks, an' d' game's a mighty sight easier.All you does is get sprunkled, an' thar you be, in wid d'
sheep, kerzip!'
"In less'n a month Tom opens up on them religious topics once more.
I allers allows him to talk as long an' as much as ever he likes, as you-all couldn't stop him none without buckin' an' gaggin' him, so what's the use?
"'I aims to excuse myse'f to you, sah,' says Tom this last time, 'for them misstatements about me leavin' d' Presbyter'ans for d'
