Mules and Men

by Zora Neale Hurston

  De Devil passed uh man and he say, “Is you seen uh man in uh buck board wid uh pretty girl wid coal black hair and red eyes behind two fas’ hawses?”

  De man said, “No, Ah speck dey done made it to de mountain and if dey gone to de mountain you can’t overtake ’em.”

  “Jack and his wife wuz right dere den listenin’ to de Devil. When de daughter saw her pa comin’ she turned herself and de hawses into goats and they wuz croppin’ grass. Jack wuz so tough she couldn’t turn him into nothin’ so she saw a holler log and she tole ’im to go hide in it, which he did. De Devil looked all around and he seen dat log and his mind jus’ tole ’im to go look in it and he went and picked de log up and said, “Ah, ha! Ah gotcher!”

  Jack wuz so skeered inside dat log he begin to call on de Lawd and he said, “O Lawd, have mercy.”

  You know de Devil don’t lak tuh hear de name uh de Lawd so he throwed down dat log and said, “Damn it! If Ah had of knowed dat God wuz in dat log Ah never would a picked it up.”

  So he got back in and picked up de reins and hollered to de bull, “Turn, bull, turn! Turn clean roh-hound. Turn bull tu-urn, turn clee-ean round!”

  De jumpin’ bull turnt so fast till he fell and broke his own neck and throwed de Devil out on his head and kilt ’im. So dat’s why dey say Jack beat de Devil.

  “Boy, how kin you hold all dat in yo’ head?” Jack Jones asked John. “Bet if dat lie was somethin’ to do yuh some good yuh couldn’t remember it.”

  Johnnie Mae yawned wide open and Ernest seeing her called out, “Hey, there, Johnnie Mae, throw mah trunk out befo’ you shet up dat place!”

  This reflection upon the size of her mouth peeved Johnnie Mae no end and she and Ernest left in a red hot family argument. Then everybody else found out that they were sleepy. So in the local term everybody went to the “pad.”

  Lee Robinson over in the church was leading an ole spiritual, “When I come to Die,” to which I listened with one ear, while I heard the parting quips of the story-tellers with the other.

  Though it was after ten the street lights were still on. B. Moseley had not put out the lights because the service in the church was not over yet, so I sat on the porch for a while looking towards the heaven-rasping oaks on the back street, towards the glassy silver of Lake Sabelia. Over in the church I could hear Mrs. Laura Henderson finishing her testimony…“to make Heben mah home when Ah come to die. Oh, Ah’ll never forget dat day when de mornin’ star bust in mah heart! Ah’ll never turn back! O evenin’ sun, when you git on de other side, tell mah Lawd Ah’m here prayin’.”

  The next afternoon I sat on the porch again. The young’uns had the grassy lane that ran past the left side of the house playing the same games that I had played in the same lane years before. With the camphor tree as a base, they played “Going ’Round de Mountain.” Little Hubert Alexander was in the ring. The others danced rhythmically ’round him and sang:

  Going around de mountain two by two

  Going around de mountain two by two

  Tell me who love sugar and candy.

  Now, show me your motion, two by two

  Show me your motion two by two

  Tell me who love sugar and candy.

  I tried to write a letter but the games were too exciting.

  “Little Sally Walker,” “Draw a bucket of water,” “Sissy in de barn,” and at last that most raucous, popular and most African of games, “Chirck, mah Chick, mah Craney crow.” Little Harriet Staggers, the smallest girl in the game, was contending for the place of the mama hen. She fought hard, but the larger girls promptly overruled her and she had to take her place in line behind the other little biddies, two-year-old Donnie Brown, being a year younger than Harriet, was the hindmost chick.

  During the hilarious uproar of the game, Charlie Jones and Bubber Mimms came up and sat on the porch with me.

  “Good Lawd, Zora! How kin you stand all dat racket? Why don’t you run dem chaps ’way from here?” Seeing his nieces, Laura and Melinda and his nephew, Judson, he started to chase them off home but I made him see that it was a happy accident that they had chosen the lane as a playground. That I was enjoying it more than the chaps.

  That settled, Charlie asked, “Well, Zora, did we lie enough for you las’ night?”

  “You lied good but not enough,” I answered.

  “Course, Zora, you ain’t at de right place to git de bes’ lies. Why don’t you go down ’round Bartow and Lakeland and ’round in dere—Polk County? Dat’s where they really lies up a mess and dats where dey makes up all de songs and things lak dat. Ain’t you never hea’d dat in Polk County de water drink lak cherry wine?”

  “Seems like when Ah was a child ’round here Ah heard de folks pickin’ de guitar and singin’ songs to dat effect.”

  “Dat’s right. If Ah was you, Ah’d drop down dere and see. It’s liable to do you a lot uh good.”

  “If Ah wuz in power8 Ah’d go ’long wid you, Zora,” Bubber added wistfully. “Ah learnt all Ah know ’bout pickin’ de box9 in Polk County. But Ah ain’t even got money essence. ’Tain’t no mo’ hawgs ’round here. Ah cain’t buy no chickens. Guess Ah have tuh eat gopher.”10

  “Where you gointer git yo’ gophers, Bubber?” Charlie asked. “Doc Biddy and his pa done ’bout cleaned out dis part of de State.”

  “Oh, Ah got a new improvement dat’s gointer be a lot of help to me and Doc Biddy and all of us po’ folks.”

  “What is it, Bubber?”

  “Ah’m gointer prune a gang of soft-shells (turtles) and grow me some gophers.”

  The sun slid lower and lower and at last lost its grip on the western slant of the sky and dipped three times into the bloody sea—sending up crimson spray with each plunge. At last it sunk and night roosted on the tree-tops and houses.

  Bubber picked the box and Charlie sang me songs of the railroad camps. Among others, he taught me verses of JOHN HENRY, the king of railroad track-laying songs which runs as follows: 11

  John Henry driving on the right hand side,

  Steam drill driving on the left,

  Says, ’fore I’ll let your steam drill beat me down

  I’ll hammer my fool self to death,

  Hammer my fool self to death.

  John Henry told his Captain,

  When you go to town

  Please bring me back a nine pound hammer

  And I’ll drive your steel on down,

  And I’ll drive your steel on down.

  John Henry told his Captain,

  Man ain’t nothing but a man,

  And ’fore I’ll let that steam drill beat me down

  I’ll die with this hammer in my hand,

  Die with this hammer in my hand.

  Captain ast John Henry,

  What is that storm I hear?

  He says Cap’n that ain’t no storm,

  ’Tain’t nothing but my hammer in the air,

  Nothing but my hammer in the air.

  John Henry told his Captain,

  Bury me under the sills of the floor,

  So when they get to playing good old Georgy skin,

  Bet ’em fifty to a dollar more,

  Fifty to a dollar more.

  John Henry had a little woman,

  The dress she wore was red,

  Says I’m going down the track,

  And she never looked back.

  I’m going where John Henry fell dead,

  Going where John Henry fell dead.

  Who’s going to shoe your pretty lil feet?

  And who’s going to glove your hand?

  Who’s going to kiss your dimpled cheek?

  And who’s going to be your man?

  Who’s going to be your man?

  My father’s going to shoe my pretty lil feet;

  My brother’s going to glove my hand;

  My sister’s going to kiss my dimpled cheek;

  John Henry’s going to be my man,

  John Henry’s going to be my man.

 
Where did you get your pretty lil dress?

  The shoes you wear so fine?

  I got my shoes from a railroad man,

  My dress from a man in the mine,

  My dress from a man in the mine.

  They talked and told strong stories of Ella, Wall, East Coast Mary, Planchita and lesser jook12 lights around whom the glory of Polk County surged. Saw-mill and turpentine bosses and prison camp “cap’ns” set to music passed over the guitar strings and Charlie’s mouth and I knew I had to visit Polk County right now.

  A hasty good-bye to Eatonville’s oaks and oleanders and the wheels of the Chevvie split Orlando wide open—headed south-west for corn (likker) and song.

  FOUR

  Twelve miles below Kissimmee I passed under an arch that marked the Polk County line. I was in the famed Polk County.

  How often had I heard “Polk County Blues.”

  “You don’t know Polk County lak Ah do.

  Anybody been dere, tell you de same thing too.”

  The asphalt curved deeply and when it straightened out we saw a huge smoke-stack blowing smut against the sky. A big sign said, “Everglades Cypress Lumber Company, Loughman, Florida.”

  We had meant to keep on to Bartow or Lakeland and we debated the subject between us until we reached the opening, then I won. We went in. The little Chevrolet was all against it. The thirty odd miles that we had come, it argued, was nothing but an appetizer. Lakeland was still thirty miles away and no telling what the road held. But it sauntered on down the bark-covered road and into the quarters just as if it had really wanted to come.

  We halted beside two women walking to the commissary and asked where we could get a place to stay, despite the signs all over that this was private property and that no one could enter without the consent of the company.

  One of the women was named “Babe” Hill and she sent me to her mother’s house to get a room. I learned later that Mrs. Allen ran the boarding-house under patronage of the company. So we put up at Mrs. Allen’s.

  That night the place was full of men—come to look over the new addition to the quarters. Very little was said directly to me and when I tried to be friendly there was a noticeable disposition to fend me off. This worried me because I saw at once that this group of several hundred Negroes from all over the South was a rich field for folk-lore, but here was I figuratively starving to death in the midst of plenty.

  Babe had a son who lived at the house with his grandmother and we soon made friends. Later the sullen Babe and I got on cordial terms. I found out afterwards that during the Christmas holidays of 1926 she had shot her husband to death, had fled to Tampa where she had bobbed her hair and eluded capture for several months but had been traced thru letters to her mother and had been arrested and lodged in Bartow jail. After a few months she had been allowed to come home and the case was forgotten. Negro women are punished in these parts for killing men, but only if they exceed the quota. I don’t remember what the quota is. Perhaps I did hear but I forgot. One woman had killed five when I left that turpentine still where she lived. The sheriff was thinking of calling on her and scolding her severely.

  James Presley used to come every night and play his guitar. Mrs. Allen’s temporary brother-in-law could play a good second but he didn’t have a box so I used to lend him mine. They would play. The men would crowd in and buy soft drinks and woof at me, the stranger, but I knew I wasn’t getting on. The ole feather-bed tactics.

  Then one day after Cliffert Ulmer, Babe’s son, and I had driven down to Lakeland together he felt close enough to tell me what was the trouble. They all thought I must be a revenue officer or a detective of some kind. They were accustomed to strange women dropping into the quarters, but not in shiny gray Chevrolets. They usually came plodding down the big road or counting railroad ties. The car made me look too prosperous. So they set me aside as different. And since most of them were fugitives from justice or had done plenty time, a detective was just the last thing they felt they needed on that “job.”

  I took occasion that night to impress the job with the fact that I was also a fugitive from justice, “bootlegging.” They were hot behind me in Jacksonville and they wanted me in Miami. So I was hiding out. That sounded reasonable. Bootleggers always have cars. I was taken in.

  The following Saturday was pay-day. They paid off twice a month and pay night is big doings. At least one dance at the section of the quarters known as the Pine Mill and two or three in the big Cypress Side. The company works with two kinds of lumber.

  You can tell where the dances are to be held by the fires. Huge bonfires of faulty logs and slabs are lit outside the house in which the dances are held. The refreshments are parched1 peanuts, fried rabbit, fish, chicken and chitterlings.

  The only music is guitar music and the only dance is the ole square dance. James Presley is especially invited to every party to play. His pay is plenty of coon dick, and he plays.

  Joe Willard is in great demand to call figures. He rebels occasionally because he likes to dance too.

  But all of the fun isn’t inside the house. A group can always be found outside about the fire, standing around and woofing and occasionally telling stories.

  The biggest dance on this particular pay-night was over to the Pine Mill. James Presley and Slim assured me that they would be over there, so Cliffert Ulmer took me there. Being the reigning curiosity of the “job” lots of folks came to see what I’d do. So it was a great dance.

  The guitars cried out “Polk County,” “Red River” and just instrumental hits with no name, that still are played by all good box pickers. The dancing was hilarious to put it mildly. Babe, Lucy, Big Sweet, East Coast Mary and many other of the well-known women were there. The men swung them lustily, but nobody asked me to dance. I was just crazy to get into the dance, too. I had heard my mother speak of it and praise square dancing to the skies, but it looked as if I was doomed to be a wallflower and that was a new role for me. Even Cliffert didn’t ask me to dance. It was so jolly, too. At the end of every set Joe Willard would trick the men. Instead of calling the next figure as expected he’d bawl out, “Grab yo’ partners and march up to de table and treat.” Some of the men did, but some would bolt for the door and stand about the fire and woof until the next set was called.

  I went outside to join the woofers, since I seemed to have no standing among the dancers. Not exactly a hush fell about the fire, but a lull came. I stood there awkwardly, knowing that the too-ready laughter and aimless talk was a window-dressing for my benefit. The brother in black puts a laugh in every vacant place in his mind. His laugh has a hundred meanings. It may mean amusement, anger, grief, bewilderment, chagrin, curiosity, simple pleasure or any other of the known or undefined emotions. Clardia Thornton of Magazine Point, Alabama, was telling me about another woman taking her husband away from her. When the show-down came and he told Clardia in the presence of the other woman that he didn’t want her—could never use her again, she tole me “Den, Zora, Ah wuz so outdone, Ah just opened mah mouf and laffed.”

  The folks around the fire laughed and boisterously shoved each other about, but I knew they were not tickled. But I soon had the answer. A pencil-shaped fellow with a big Adam’s apple gave me the key.

  “Ma’am, whut might be yo’ entrimmins?” he asked with what was supposed to be a killing bow.

  “My whut?”

  “Yo entrimmins? Yo entitlum?”

  The “entitlum” gave me the cue, “Oh, my name is Zora Hurston. And whut may be yours?”

  More people came closer quickly.

  “Mah name is Pitts and Ah’m sho glad to meet yuh. Ah asted Cliffert tuh knock me down tuh yuh but he wouldn’t make me ’quainted. So Ah’m makin’ mahseff ’quainted.”

  “Ah’m glad you did, Mr. Pitts.”

  “Sho nuff?” archly.

  “Yeah. Ah wouldn’t be sayin’ it if Ah didn’t mean it.”

  He looked me over shrewdly. “Ah see dat las’ crap you shot, Miss, and Ah fa
de yuh.”

  I laughed heartily. The whole fire laughed at his quick comeback and more people came out to listen.

  “Miss, you know uh heap uh dese hard heads wants to woof at you but dey skeered.”

  “How come, Mr. Pitts? Do I look like a bear or panther?”

  “Naw, but dey say youse rich and dey ain’t got de nerve to open dey mouf.”

  I mentally cursed the $12.74 dress from Macy’s that I had on among all the $1.98 mail-order dresses. I looked about and noted the number of bungalow aprons and even the rolled down paper bags on the heads of several women. I did look different and resolved to fix all that no later than the next morning.

  “Oh, Ah ain’t got doodley squat,”2 I countered. “Mah man brought me dis dress de las’ time he went to Jacksonville. We wuz sellin’ plenty stuff den and makin’ good money. Wisht Ah had dat money now.”

  Then Pitts began woofing at me and the others stood around to see how I took it.

  “Say, Miss, you know nearly all dese niggers is after you. Dat’s all dey talk about out in de swamp.”

  “You don’t say. Tell ’em to make me know it.”

  “Ah ain’t tellin’ nobody nothin’. Ah ain’t puttin’ out nothin’ to no ole hard head but ole folks eyes and Ah ain’t doin’ dat till they dead. Ah talks for Number One. Second stanza: Some of ’em talkin’ ’bout marryin’ you and dey wouldn’t know whut to do wid you if they had you. Now, dat’s a fack.”

  “You reckon?”

  “Ah know dey wouldn’t. Dey’d ’spect you tuh git out de bed and fix dem some breakfus’ and a bucket. Dat’s ’cause dey don’t know no better. Dey’s thin-brainded. Now me, Ah wouldn’t let you fix me no breakfus’. Ah git up and fix mah own and den, whut make it so cool, Ah’d fix you some and set it on de back of de cook-stove so you could git it when you wake up. Dese mens don’t even know how to talk to nobody lak you. If you wuz tuh ast dese niggers somethin’ dey’d answer you ‘yeah’ and ‘naw.’ Now, if you wuz some ole gator-back ’oman dey’d be tellin’ you jus’ right. But dat ain’t de way tuh talk tuh nobody lak you. Now you ast me somethin’ and see how Ah’ll answer yuh.”