§ 318 On Her Own Motive Power
I am reliably informed that this one really happened down in Winston-Salem, which is the only town in North Carolina that parts its name with a hyphen. A lady who lives there was my informant. She heard it from her pantry window one summer afternoon.
Her cook, Aunt Cilly, was sitting in the kitchen door. The organizer of a new lodge was entreating Aunt Cilly to become a charter member. At length and with eloquence he painted the advantages of belonging to the society. He pointed out its manifold advantages. To begin with, it had a beautiful name made up of noble long words. Its ritual was impressive, its uniform dazzling. Practically every member would hold office, and so forth and so on.
In silence Aunt Cilly harkened until the solicitor ran dry. Then she spoke:
“Tell me dis, Br’er Sawyer, befo’ you goes any fu’ther—do dis yere lodge of your’n fune’lize de daid?”
“To tell you de truth, Sista’, we ain’t quite got ’round to dat part yit,” confessed the orator. “Dey’s been so much else to do. But in due time we aims to ’range ’bout de sick benefits an’ de buryin’ fund an’ all dat.”
“Br’er Sawyer, bresh by,” commanded the sagacious Aunt Cilly. “Yo’ new lodge done lose its taste fur me already. I ’members whut happen’ to dat shiftless flight-haided Fanny Meriwether whut lived jest a little piece up dis same street. Yere two years ago she took an’ up an’ j’ined one of dese yere new-fangled lodges w’ich a strange nigger got up in dis town, same ez whut you’s aimin’ to do now. An’ dat lodge didn’t specify ’bout no buryin’ money, neither. Well, Fanny Meriwether hauled off one day an’ died widout ary cent of money laid by fur to fune’lize her. An’ whut wuz de upshot? W’y, she laid ’round de house daid fur goin’ on three days an’ den dat pore gal had to git to de cemetery de best way she could.”