How ’Rasmus Paid the Mortgage

"How ’Rasmus Paid the Mortgage" by Charles Battell Loomis is a humorous story that follows the adventures of Rasmus, a quirky and resourceful character who embarks on a comical journey to pay off a mortgage. Set in a rural American backdrop, the narrative combines elements of satire and charm, illustrating Rasmus's unconventional methods and his interactions with colorful townsfolk. Through witty dialogue and engaging situations, Loomis highlights themes of ingenuity and perseverance, making it an entertaining and lighthearted read.

• Short story

								
A DIALECT STORY

I

      Oh, de wolf an’ de har’ dey had a great fight.
        (Down on de ribber de wil’ geese is callin’.)
      De har’ pulled de wolf’s teeth so’s he couldn’ bite.
        (A-callin’ me to my long home!)
      Said de wolf to de har’, “Don’ hit so hard.”
        (De dew on de hollyhock’s all a-dryin’!)
      An’ he killed de har’ w’en he co’t him oaf his guard.
        (Ah’ll dry up an’ go home!)

Up the vista formed by a narrow, tortuous Virginia lane, came Uncle
’Rasmus, an aged darky, singing one of the songs of his race that
never grow old--because they die young, it may be.

As he hobbled along the path, he talked to himself, as was his wont:

“Golly! Ah mus’ hurry up, o’ de fo’kses won’ hab no dinnah; for, be
jabers, ’tis mesilf that has got to git riddy dthat same. Och, worra!
worra! but ’tis no synekewer Oi’m havin’, an’ dthat’s dther trut’.”

Just then his watch struck five minutes to six, and he ran off toward
the homestead of Squire Lamar, saying, as he did so, in his quaint
way: “Veepin’ Rachel! der boss will kick der live out mit me.”

Before the war Squire Lamar had been the richest man in Oconee
County; but the conflict had ruined him, and he now had little except
his plantation, horses, and stables. He lived in his ancestral house,
which was heavily mortgaged, with his wife and children.

’Rasmus, his only servant, an ex-slave, supported the family by
collecting dollars--at night.

As he ran toward the house, he saw Squire Lamar on the veranda. Just
then a horseman dashed up. He was the sheriff of Oconee County.
’Rasmus took advantage of the commotion, and ran into the kitchen to
cook the dinner. On seeing the squire, the sheriff called out to him:
“The mortgage on this place will be foreclosed if the $3600 due is
not forthcoming by to-morrow noon.”

“Alas!” said the squire; “you see how we are situated. I haven’t a
dollar, and wouldn’t know how to earn one if I had.”

At this juncture, ’Rasmus, who had cooked the dinner during the
conversation, came up and said: “Massa, Ah’s a free man, Ah know Ah
is; but avick, ’t is a mighty shmall wan Oi’d be if I wouldn’t help
out a poor omadhaun like yerself. ‘Caed mille fail the Bryn Mawr
dolce far niente.’ Zat ees mon motto, an’ so, deah massah, I will
guarantee to git de money by to-morrow noon.” Then turning to the
sheriff, he said in a manly tone that contrasted ill with his ragged
garments: “Ye maun fash awee, laddie, doon the skim.”

After a few more words, the sheriff, who was really a kind man at
heart, rode off, saying he would be on hand the next day, and if the
money were not forthcoming, he would march them all off to the county
jail, ten miles distant. After blowing the dinner-horn, ’Rasmus
hobbled off to his humble cottage.

II

On arriving at his cabin, ’Rasmus took a bolster-case full of dollars
from under the bed, and proceeded to count them. There were just
$3000. “Now, Ah mus’ git $600 more before to-morrow, or else me poor
masther’ll be wor-r-rkin’ in the chain-gang. Ach, Himmel!” said the
good old darky, his eyes suffused with tears, “if dot took blace, it
zeems as if mein herz would break.”

He calmly decided on a plan of action, however. Waiting until night
had flung over the earth a pall, through which the silvery moon cast
shimmering beams aslant the quivering aspens of the forest, and the
snoring of the birds told him that nature slept, he left his house
and walked briskly off to the highway.

About that time a lawyer was riding along the road on horseback, with
a wallet containing a share of an estate worth $600, which he had
secured for an old woman.

’Rasmus saw the traveler, saw the horse, saw the wallet.

The traveler saw no one. He was blind--drunk.

’Rasmus cut a stout bludgeon.

The traveler ambled on.

’Rasmus clasped the bludgeon.

The traveler continued to amble.

’Rasmus stole up beside him....

The traveler lay in the ditch.

’Rasmus jumped on the horse, the wallet in his hand, and galloped
home, stabling the beautiful animal in his cabin to avoid being
suspected of the murder.

Placing his shoe in front of the one window of the cabin, that none
might see him, he counted the money, and found it amounted to just
$600, which, together with the $3000, formed the sum required by
the sheriff. This made him so happy that he picked up a banjo and
played Wagner’s “Götterdämmerung” through once or twice, accompanying
himself on his throat in a rich tenor. He then turned out the gas and
retired, to sleep as only a good, unselfish soul can.

III

It is 11:45 A. M. The squire and his family, who have heard nothing
from ’Rasmus, are on the veranda, anxiously awaiting the arrival of
the sheriff.

11:50 A. M.! Is ’Rasmus dead? Has the sheriff relented?

11:55. Good lack! The sheriff is seen galloping toward the house, and
yet there is no sign of ’Rasmus.

That individual, who is nothing if not dramatic, is sitting behind
the house on horseback, awaiting the stroke of twelve.

The door of the ormolu cuckoo-clock in the kitchen opens, the cuckoo
advances. At her first note the sheriff jumps from his horse; at the
second he walks sternly upon the veranda; at the third he asks for
the money; at the fourth and fifth they tell him that ’Rasmus has
disappeared; at the sixth, seventh, and eighth he handcuffs them all
together; at the ninth, tenth, and eleventh he jumps on his horse
and rides off, dragging them behind him; and at the twelfth ’Rasmus
trots leisurely out from behind the house, and, opening a carpet-bag,
counts out $3600 in silver!

The astonished sheriff puts the money into his pocket, gives Squire
Lamar a receipt in full for it, unlocks the handcuffs, and the family
resume their wonted places on the veranda.

But all was not yet done. ’Rasmus still had his bludgeon with him,
and a few deft strokes on the sheriff’s head were all-sufficient.
’Rasmus then took back the money and gave it to Squire Lamar. Then he
told them all to remain perfectly still, and whistling three times,
an amateur photographer made his appearance, adjusted his apparatus,
and took their pictures.

Sarony could have wished for no better subjects. On the broad veranda
lay the old lady prone on the floor, reading the “Tallahassee Inland
Mariner”; at her side sat her daughter, Turk-fashion, shelling a
pea; while the son and heir reclined near by, reading an account by
a Prussian officer of the third battle of Bull Run. The father,
weighted down with dollars, snored in the background.

And beaming on them all with the consciousness of having done his
best and done it well, old ’Rasmus stood, singing ventriloquially, so
as not to injure the picture, this negro plantation song:

      De ribber Jordan I can see,
        Toujour jamais, toujour jamais;
      Mein liebe frau, ach, she lofes me,
        Fair Jeannie het awa!
      Then I wen’ daown the caows to milk,

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