from, if you gave them the chance.
Usaph leaned on a fence by Thomasâs slave quarters. There werenât many slaves round, mostly older people and little pot-bellied children. Most of the strong slaves were off on rental to the government, working on the fortifications round Richmond. Usaph didnât feel crowded by black eyes therefore. In a clumsy rush he pulled the letter not only open, but very nearly apart.
Dearest husban Usaph [he read], I take my pen in han to rite to you. My pen is rude. My ink is pail, my love of you will never fale my sweetest husban Usaph. My sole cries for you, yore my turtle dove in the crevers of the rock darlin Usaph. An my arms cry out and my lips say sweet Jesus â¦
Usaph pressed his thigh against the fence of the Thomas slave quarters, hoping that the dumb wood would turn to feminine flesh, Ephieâs flesh. When she said arms and lips she meant her sweet body. A Valley woman, unlike a slum Yankee, didnât go in for immodest particulars. But the pink skin of her groin would have wept as she wrote. And what consolation did she have? No more than he did, he hoped, and all he had was a fence.
Unless she had this Decatur . The thought caused Usaph to begin to weep. He left the fence, tottering a bit with grief for her, for himself. But, of course, he thought, in the midst of his tears, if that had happened she wouldnât send letters by him. Anyhow, Usaph Bumpass decided to forget the question. The posts were bad, letters were meant to be a joy. And you could chase your tail mistrusting a woman like Ephie.
Its bin a hot summer Usaph here at youre Aunt Sarries. Youd think you was down in my neck on the woods. Thays snaiks everwhers, ol Montie lifts a hay bale in the barn tâother day an theyâs a copperhead sittin there as if he oned Aunt Sarries. Still its good to be out of the way of the Yankees. I sore ole Mr. Chales from Mount Jackson the other day at a funrale hier an he tole me the Yankee cavlry would of bin over our place at Strasburg twies this summer. I hates to think of it an so I don.
Everyone says you boys is gone drive that Maclellin all the way back over to Phildelfier before the first snows. England gone tell ol Abe to call it quits an leave us be an youll be back for Crissmas an will be plantin corn in Strasburg agen nex summer. Pray the Lord God it be so. Even Mr Deckater Cate a paynter whos bin through thinks it likly. An he professis to luv Abe. Though no critter could luv that scowndrell as much as Mr Cate sais he dos. His a teese that Mr Cate, he gose roun the farms painting poortrades of the yonge an Aunt Sarrie payd him to paint me. When you come home will hang it up in the frunt parler back in Strasburg.
Done let anythin happen to you darlin husban for yore wife cudden stan it. I hev made a deal with the Lord so youll be safe an come back safe. Its paneful to write you an not be able to touch. Roses is red violets is blue, I swear to the hevvens I luv you.
Yore adorin spouse
Mrs Ephephtha Bumpass
Aunt Sarrie sez done worry on the matter of yore pappyâs grave. She sez not even Yankees trubbels graves.
Lovin E.B.
He kissed the letterâs open page and dropped tears on its riotous spelling. She could spell her name, his, the Lordâs. But that was about all she could guarantee.
It came to him that he was shivering. Ephie became a blood fever, you didnât easily get over a letter from her.
6
Usaph had met her in the fall of â59. Usaphâs daddy, who was himself ailing, had news of his elder brother, an overseer on a plantation at Pocataligo in South Carolina. The brother was said to be dying and Usaphâs father felt one of the family should go and visit him, for there were no other Bumpasses down that way. He asked Usaph to go, to take letters and greetings, a bottle of brandy and a little money. Usaph had never before been east of Manassas Gap. Heâd only heard of the cotton-growing South, of the rice
Usaph leaned on a fence by Thomasâs slave quarters. There werenât many slaves round, mostly older people and little pot-bellied children. Most of the strong slaves were off on rental to the government, working on the fortifications round Richmond. Usaph didnât feel crowded by black eyes therefore. In a clumsy rush he pulled the letter not only open, but very nearly apart.
Dearest husban Usaph [he read], I take my pen in han to rite to you. My pen is rude. My ink is pail, my love of you will never fale my sweetest husban Usaph. My sole cries for you, yore my turtle dove in the crevers of the rock darlin Usaph. An my arms cry out and my lips say sweet Jesus â¦
Usaph pressed his thigh against the fence of the Thomas slave quarters, hoping that the dumb wood would turn to feminine flesh, Ephieâs flesh. When she said arms and lips she meant her sweet body. A Valley woman, unlike a slum Yankee, didnât go in for immodest particulars. But the pink skin of her groin would have wept as she wrote. And what consolation did she have? No more than he did, he hoped, and all he had was a fence.
Unless she had this Decatur . The thought caused Usaph to begin to weep. He left the fence, tottering a bit with grief for her, for himself. But, of course, he thought, in the midst of his tears, if that had happened she wouldnât send letters by him. Anyhow, Usaph Bumpass decided to forget the question. The posts were bad, letters were meant to be a joy. And you could chase your tail mistrusting a woman like Ephie.
Its bin a hot summer Usaph here at youre Aunt Sarries. Youd think you was down in my neck on the woods. Thays snaiks everwhers, ol Montie lifts a hay bale in the barn tâother day an theyâs a copperhead sittin there as if he oned Aunt Sarries. Still its good to be out of the way of the Yankees. I sore ole Mr. Chales from Mount Jackson the other day at a funrale hier an he tole me the Yankee cavlry would of bin over our place at Strasburg twies this summer. I hates to think of it an so I don.
Everyone says you boys is gone drive that Maclellin all the way back over to Phildelfier before the first snows. England gone tell ol Abe to call it quits an leave us be an youll be back for Crissmas an will be plantin corn in Strasburg agen nex summer. Pray the Lord God it be so. Even Mr Deckater Cate a paynter whos bin through thinks it likly. An he professis to luv Abe. Though no critter could luv that scowndrell as much as Mr Cate sais he dos. His a teese that Mr Cate, he gose roun the farms painting poortrades of the yonge an Aunt Sarrie payd him to paint me. When you come home will hang it up in the frunt parler back in Strasburg.
Done let anythin happen to you darlin husban for yore wife cudden stan it. I hev made a deal with the Lord so youll be safe an come back safe. Its paneful to write you an not be able to touch. Roses is red violets is blue, I swear to the hevvens I luv you.
Yore adorin spouse
Mrs Ephephtha Bumpass
Aunt Sarrie sez done worry on the matter of yore pappyâs grave. She sez not even Yankees trubbels graves.
Lovin E.B.
He kissed the letterâs open page and dropped tears on its riotous spelling. She could spell her name, his, the Lordâs. But that was about all she could guarantee.
It came to him that he was shivering. Ephie became a blood fever, you didnât easily get over a letter from her.
6
Usaph had met her in the fall of â59. Usaphâs daddy, who was himself ailing, had news of his elder brother, an overseer on a plantation at Pocataligo in South Carolina. The brother was said to be dying and Usaphâs father felt one of the family should go and visit him, for there were no other Bumpasses down that way. He asked Usaph to go, to take letters and greetings, a bottle of brandy and a little money. Usaph had never before been east of Manassas Gap. Heâd only heard of the cotton-growing South, of the rice
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