# Tales of the Home Folks in Peace and War/The Late Mr. Watkins of Georgia
### THE LATE MR. WATKINS OF GEORGIA
#### HIS RELATION TO ORIENTAL FOLK-LORE

Owing to the fact that I have compiled and published from time to time such stories of the Southern plantations as chanced to fall in my way, an opinion has gone abroad that if I am not a genuine professor of the science of folk-lore I at least know all about the comparative branch of the subject. There is no mystery as to how this impression got abroad. I beat my forehead in the dust at the reader's feet and make a full confession. It is all owing to the wonderfully learned introduction to the volume of plantation stories called "Nights with Uncle Remus." There is nothing egotistical in my characterization of that introduction. I speak as a spectator,—an outsider, as it were. I am not a bit proud of it, but I marvel at it. Where did I get hold of all the information that seems to be packed in those unobtrusive pages, and how did I have the patience to string it out ​and make it fit so the joints would n't show? It is the habit of man, the world over, to stand in awe, secret or avowed, of that which he does not understand. When I say, therefore, that the introduction is wonderfully learned, I mean that I do not understand it.
To that introduction I owe my reputation abroad (very much abroad) as a student or a professor of folk-lore. To that introduction also the reader owes the curious narrative (or narratives) which I have concluded to put on record here, in order (if I may be so fortunate) to put an end to a bitter dispute that has raged and is still raging in the various folk-lore societies in Europe and Asia, from Jahore to London,—a dispute that is not the less bitter or demoralizing because it is carried on in seven different languages and thirteen different dialects.
The way of it was this. On the 16th of February, 1892,—the date is in my note-book, though it is not of the slightest importance,—I received a communication from Sir Waddy Wyndham, one of her Majesty's officials at Jahore. Sir Waddy evidently had plenty of time at his command, for his letter contained fourteen sheets of note-paper, con​taining by actual count two hundred and eleven words to the page. The envelope to the letter had a weather-beaten appearance. It was literally covered with post-marks, save the address and one little spot in a corner, where some one, evidently a postal-clerk in Georgia, had written, "All for Joe!" Sir Waddy's cramped handwriting was trying, but I managed to make out that he had read with great pleasure the learned introduction to the plantation stories, and was proud to know that he and his coadjutors in India and other parts of the world had so worthy a co-worker in the fertile fields of South America. Without further introduction he would take the liberty of sending me a story which he regarded as the key to the folk-lore of India. "If you can find even a trace of this story on the South American plantations," he wrote, "you will solve a riddle that has been puzzling us for years, and give the science of folk-lore a new claim to the consideration of the thoughtful." The story that Sir Waddy sent is interesting enough to narrate here. I have taken the liberty to tell it in my own way,—which is decidedly not the way of a professional folk-lorist.

#### THE SYMPATHETIC VINE

At a certain place, which is marked by a river, a furrow, a hedge, and a range of hills, there dwelt a prince who made his people very unhappy. A Brahmin, going into the forest to do penance, had told the prince that there was a great supply of gold in his dominions.
"How shall I get it?" the prince inquired.
"Dig for it," said the Brahmin.
"Where shall I dig?" asked the prince.
"In the space of land," replied the Brahmin, "that is marked off by a river, a furrow, a hedge, and a range of hills."
The Brahmin, after receiving the kindest treatment, took his leave and went forward into the forest. The prince immediately summoned his subjects and told them that, as there was to be a great scarcity of food the next year, the best thing they could do would be to become farmers.
"You have little land," said the prince, "but I have plenty. Go yonder where the land is marked off by a river, a furrow, a hedge, and a range of hills. Dig there, and make the ground arable. The mists will rise ​from the river and help you, and the dew will fall from the hills and make the soil sweet."
So they went, some gladly, but others with a bad grace.
"How shall we begin?" asked one old man.
"Dig," said the prince.
"When we have dug, what then?" asked a young man.
"Continue to dig," replied the prince.
Now, the prince, being afraid that the people would find the gold and hide it, took his stand by a tree on the range of hills and watched them, and at night when they could no longer work he caused the laborers to pass near him, in single file, so that he might question them. To each he said, "What have you found?" and the reply was, "Nothing but the trouble of digging."
This happened day after day, and the workers got no rest except the little they found at night. The young men asked when it could end, and the old men shook their heads. Life is a little span, but greed runs from generation to generation. So the people dug and dug from day to day, and the prince sat by the tree and watched them.
​At last, one day, an old man, while digging wearily, turned up a lump of gold. It was dingy and dirty, but he knew it was gold because it was hard and very heavy. After this, it seemed that the field was full of gold, and when night had come, each took a lump, intending to give it to the prince who was watching by the tree. So they came to him, and an old man said, "Your high mightiness, we have found something."
But the prince answered not a word. He sat there still and cold. A quick-growing vine had wrapped around his body, crushing his bones and strangling him. The Brahmin, coming out of the forest, saw the people gathered together. He went to them and said, "What you have found is yours; what your master has found is his."
So they went to their homes, leaving the prince dead and covered with ants.
I need not quote Sir Waddy Wyndham's letter, nor recite the history of this legend as he had traced it through the several Indian dialects. It struck me as being very tame at best, lacking both the humor and the picturesque verity (if I may say so) of plantation stories with which I am familiar.
​For a time Sir Waddy's letter and the story, and all his remarks about Bidpai and other fabulists passed out of my mind. But one day, a few months ago, while adjusting the fixtures of the pump near the kitchen door, I overheard a conversation between my cook, Mrs. Edie Strickland, and Mrs. Caroline Biggers, a colored lady who cooks for a neighbor, and this conversation reminded me of Sir Waddy Wyndham's Indian story. I concluded at once that I had found it here, somewhat disfigured, it is true, but still able to speak for itself. Without loss of time, I reduced the story I had heard in the kitchen to writing, and sent a brief outline of it to Sir Waddy. Perhaps this was a mistake, and yet my intentions were of the best. I regret now that I violated a rule made several years ago, not to reply to letters from strangers. No doubt Sir Waddy regrets it too, but it is only fair to say that no word of complaint has ever come from him. Nevertheless, some one has sent me an envelope containing slips from an Indian newspaper, though neither the name of the paper nor the date accompanies them, and I gather from these that a most furious controversy has been going on ​among the professors of folk-lore in that far-away country. One communication charges that Sir Waddy Wyndham has been deceived, first by his own imagination, and second by "a South American impostor." There is no doubt that the writer of the communication is a very learned man, and he touches on the folk-tales of India in a way that shows his familiarity with the foot-notes and appendices of a great number of volumes. The next in order is a card from Sir Waddy himself, who explains that the attack on him and his "South American correspondent" is the result of a professional grudge, Sir Waddy having refused to admit that either the Indian story or the alleged South American "fragment" is intended to typify the eclipse of the sun.
I have reason to believe that this unhappy controversy has spread or is spreading to other countries, and, in order to prevent any misconception or misunderstanding,—seeing that the outline of the American story on which Sir Waddy bases his defense is imperfect,—I deem it best to give here a correct version of the story as told by Mrs. Caroline Biggers to Mrs. Edie Strickland, and repeated ​to me by Mrs. Biggers a few weeks ago. This can be done in the language of Mrs. Biggers, who is a pleasant and fairly well educated young woman.
"I thought Miss Edie done mighty funny when she told me you wanted to see me," said Mrs. Biggers, striving to hide her embarrassment. She laughed and went on. "I declare, if you had n't come out there just when you did, I would have been gone gone. Yes, sir, I would. If I could tell tales like my grandmother did, I could keep you up at night. But nobody can tell tales unless they 're sitting in front of a big wood fire, where the sparks will fly out and spangle right before your eyes. My grandmother always said that what was a good tale at night was mighty weak talk in the daytime. And I reckon it 's so, because she was a mighty old woman. I can tell you what I told Miss Edie, but I know mighty well it won't sound right." Whereupon Mrs. Biggers settled herself, and told

#### THE STORY OF MR. WATKINS

"Maybe you did n't know much about the Watkinses. Well, they lived in Jasper ​County, and a mighty big family it was. Some of 'em was good people, but one—old Mr. Watkins—was mean as gar-broth. He was mean and rich. You take notice, and 'most all the time you 'll see the meanest folks have more money than anybody else. I don't know why it is, unless it 's because they are just too mean to spend it. Well, this Mr. Watkins was so mean that he had all the chincapin-trees, and all the chestnut-trees, and all the muscadine vines, and all the plum-bushes on his place cut down to keep the children from getting them. Now, you know that wa'n't right, was it? I tell you, now, when anybody gets that mean, something will certainly happen to 'em.
"It seemed like everybody knew how mean this Mr. Watkins was, and they tried to shun him. When people went by his house going to church, or coming back from frolics, they 'd stop talking and laughing. Some of 'em would say, 'Hush! Mr. Watkins may be out on his front porch;' and then they 'd go by just like somebody was dead in the house. And my grandmother used to say that sometimes they 'd hear noises like somebody was in great pain.
​"But Mr. Watkins did n't pay any attention to how people done, so long as they did n't come bothering him. He was all crippled up like he had the palsy or something, and he had to be moved about from room to room. He could walk a little by holding on to two of his negroes and shuffling along, but in general they toted him about on a chair. Once a week he went to town. They toted him out to his buggy and wrapped a blanket around his legs, and then a little negro, about the size of Miss Edie's Zach, got in the buggy and drove him to town. There he 'd get his jimmy-john filled, and then he 'd go back home and sit in his front porch and talk to himself all day when he was n't dozing.
"I can't tell it like my grandmother did. She used to get started, and she 'd stand up on the floor and shuffle around and roll her eyeballs and skeer us children mighty near to death.
"Now, you 'd think that nobody would be afraid of Mr. Watkins, weak and crippled like that; but he had everybody on his place under his thumb. Temper! he was rank poison. And cuss! my grandmother used to ​say he 'd lean back in his seat and cuss till he 'd make the cold chills run up and down your back. He could sit right still and run the chickens out of the garden and drive the dogs off the place. Now, you know a man must be mighty mean when he can stay right still and do all that.
"This was during the week-days. On Sunday—well!" Here Mrs. Biggers raised both hands vigorously, and then permitted them to fall helplessly in her lap. "That was the day he let his meanness come out, sure enough. I know you ain't ready to believe what I 'm going to tell you. The children believed it because my grandmother told it at night when she was combing her hair. She said her grandmother was well acquainted with Mr. Watkins, because she lived on a joining plantation. Some things she heard tell of, and some she saw with her own eyes. I told you that Mr. Watkins was rich. Well, I don't know whether he had much money, but he had a heap of negroes. And he made 'em work. Yes, sir, work! Up in the morning by the crack of day—work, work—until dark, and, if the moon shone, until away in the night. And that wa'n't all. ​No, sir! He made 'em work Sundays! I 'm telling you the truth. Sundays! I know that it don't look like the truth, but my grandmother heard her grandmother tell about it, and this much she saw with her own eyes.
"Yes, sir! That old man, crippled and trembly as he was, made his negroes work on Sunday same as any other day. He 'd make 'em tote him out to the field and put him up on a stump close by the big road, and there he 'd stay all day. If he saw anybody coming along the road, he 'd wave his stick, and the negroes would lay down in the field till the people went by. Then he 'd wave his stick, and the negroes would get up and go to work again.
"I don't know how long this went on—I can't tell it like my grandmother did, because she went through the motions; but Mr. Watkins made his negroes work Sunday after Sunday. They worked until he waved his walking-cane or called them, and then they 'd come and tell him how much they had done. Then they 'd take him off the stump and put him in his chair and tote him to the house.
"Well, one Sunday, while the negroes were ​at work, a man passed along the road, and Mr. Watkins did n't wave his cane. But the negroes stopped work anyhow and looked at him. The man was tall and dark-looking. He had on black clothes, and he rode a big black horse. When he came close to Mr. Watkins there was a flash of fire. Some said the man's horse hit his shoe against a flint rock and made the blaze, and some said not. My grandmother did n't know how that was, because her grandmother was n't there to see. But there was the tall dark man riding a big black horse, and there was the flash of fire, and there on the stump was Mr. Watkins.
"Well, sir, when the time come for the negroes to quit work, Mr. Watkins did n't wave his cane, and so they kept on until it got too dark to work. Then they went to where Mr. Watkins was perched up on the stump, and asked him if it was time to quit. He wouldn't say anything, so they hung around and did n't know what to do. They thought they could smell brimstone; but they wa'n't certain. Anyhow, when they tried to lift Mr. Watkins off the stump they could n't budge him. No, sir! They ​could n't budge him. Some of the negroes run to the house and told Mr. Watkins's family, and they got torches and went to see about it.
"Well, sir, Mr. Watkins had done growed to the stump. I know you won't believe me, because I 'm half laughing when I tell you about it, but my grandmother, she could tell it with a straight face. She was old and settled. Yes, sir! Mr. Watkins was growed to the stump, and they could n't pull him loose. First they pulled and then they tried to prize him up. But there he was. It seemed like the stump had fastened to him somehow. They sent for the doctor, but you know yourself the doctor could n't do nothing for a man in that kind of a fix. He might drench him with horse medicine, and even that would n't do any good. Mr. Watkins was there on the stump, and no doctor could n't take him loose. The doctor came, but what good could the doctor do? He just looked at Mr. Watkins and felt of him, and looked at the stump and felt of it, and then he shook his head and rubbed his chin. You know how it is when a doctor shakes his head and rubs his chin. That was the way it was with Mr. Watkins.
​"People come and looked at him, but they could n't do any good, and, after so long a time, the negroes dug the stump up and put it in a wagon with Mr. Watkins and carried 'em both home. There they was, Mr. Watkins and the stump. Then when the time come to bury Mr. Watkins, they had to bury the stump with him. I won't blame you if you don't believe all this, but my grandmother vowed that her grandmother saw Mr. Watkins on the stump, and if you could hear her tell it you 'd feel like every word of it was so, and you 'd never forget it as long as you lived."
This is the story the rough outline of which has caused such a commotion among the folk-lore students and scholars in India, in Bombay and Jahore. There are symptoms that the controversy is to be transferred, in part at least, to these shores, and I feel it to be due to all concerned that a true version of the story of the late Mr. Watkins of Georgia, together with all the facts in the case, should be laid before the public. No one can regret more than I do that any act or word of mine, however well intended, should have provoked, even indirectly, a controversy that has ​resulted in the resignation of Sir Waddy Wyndham as secretary of the Folk-Lore Society of Jahore, a position he has adorned during the last five years.
The question arises, What bearing has the Indian folk-lore story on the final episode in the career of the late Mr. Watkins of Georgia?