v GOLDEN 
 
 
THE CAKE-WALK. [See p. 191.] 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER TALES 
 
 BY KUTH McENERY STUART 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
BOOKS BY 
 RUTH McENERY STUART 
 
 A GOLDEN WEDDING. Illustrated. .Post Svo $1.50 
 
 CARLOTTA'S INTENDED. Illustrated. .Post Svo 1.50 
 
 Forget-me-not Edition. Illustrated. ...... 1.25 
 
 STORY OF BABETTE. Illustrated. . . .Post Svo 1.50 
 
 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE i6mo .50 
 
 Forget-me-not Edition. Illustrated .... Svo 1.25 
 OLCJMC{N CROW'S CHRISTMAS POCKETS. Ill'd. 
 
 *./i : : Post Svo 1.25 
 
 IN* S!MPKINSVILLE. Illustrated. .. .Post Svo 1.25 
 
 MtSRiAH's BURNING. Illustrated ... Post Svo 1.25 
 THE/S^CO;*) WOOING OF SALINA SUE. 
 
 Post Svo 1.25 
 
 THE SNOW-CAP SISTERS i6mo, Paper .25 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, N. Y. 
 
 Copyright, 1893, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 
 All right* r turned. 
 
TO 
 
 MY FRIEND 
 
 MR. HENRY MILLS ALDEN 
 
 459199 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A GOLDEN WEDDING 3 
 
 LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON. . . 45 
 
 UNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOMS " 69 
 
 THE WIDDER JOHNSING 95 
 
 CHEISTMAS GIFTS 129 
 
 "BLINK" 157 
 
 JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 189 
 
 CRAZY ABE 217 
 
 QUEEN ANNE . . 249 
 
 CAMELIA RICCARDO 263 
 
 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE OF SIMPKINSVILLE. 307 
 "OH, SHOUTIN'S MIGHTY SWEET" .... 359 
 LUCINDY ... . 363 
 
ILLUSTEATIONS 
 
 THE CAKE-WALK Frontispiece. 
 
 "SMOKE GOT SOCIABLE WAYS, AIN'T 
 
 IT?" Facing p. 6 
 
 THE WEDDING, LONG AGO " 10 
 
 "L LOOK LIKE i AIN'T ONDERSTAN' 
 
 YER GOOD" " 20 
 
 AFTER THE GOLDEN WEDDING ... "34 
 
 "WHO DELY?" " 40 
 
 " TO SEE HER STANDIN' THERE AGAIN, 
 
 A-SAYIN' THEM SAME WORDS" . " 334 
 
 "THE HOUSEHOLD WAS PERPARED FOR 
 
 'EM, EVEN DOWN TO TOM" . . " 350 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 TT was Christmas Eve in New Orleans, and the 
 -*- air was fragrant with the mingled perfume of 
 sweet olive, violets, and roses, while lace curtains, 
 floating in and out of second -story windows, 
 caught and wafted into sunny chambers a hint of 
 orange blossoms lured into untimely bloom by the 
 treacherous wooing of a Southern December. 
 
 So Christmas was coming to two old people 
 who sat to-day on the front porch of a little hovel 
 back of town. Each sat in front of a door, and 
 they were separated by a board partition which 
 divided the house into tenements. A man sat on 
 one side, a woman on the other. Both were old, 
 both black, both silent and contemplative. 
 
 Though he sat back near his door, in the min 
 gled shadow of the low roof and an orange-tree, 
 we perceive at a glance that the old man was 
 characterized, as to personal appearance, by con 
 spicuous baldness, exaggerated in effect by a lux 
 uriant growth of bushy white hair, which clung 
 about his temples, extending in a low line around 
 the back of his head. A scant, grizzly beard cov 
 ered his face and chin, and he was apparently 
 entirely toothless. 
 
4 ; / A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 He had been engaged for several hours in split 
 ting pine kindling, which he tied into little parcels 
 of uniform size. 
 
 After he had finished his task to-day, the old 
 man sat for some time quite still, with an air of 
 alert listening. 
 
 Presently, however, he rose suddenly (though 
 his motions were nervous and labored), and taking 
 his stool with him, reseated himself near the edge 
 of the gallery, exactly opposite a narrow opening 
 made by a broken plank in the partition. 
 
 Knocking here as at a door, while he peered 
 curiously through the aperture, he called out, 
 " Oh, Sister Garrett ! is you home, Sis' Garrett ?" 
 
 As " Sister Garrett " rises to respond to the call, 
 we perceive that she too is very old and bent, 
 while a certain fashion of contracting her brows 
 and looking intently before her shows that her 
 dim-looking eyes are failing in vision. 
 
 She also takes her chair with her as she ap 
 proaches the partition wall, and placing it quite 
 near the opening, seats herself with laborious de 
 liberation. 
 
 The old man inclined his head in a way almost 
 courtly, as he said, by way of greeting : " I sholy 
 is proud ter see you home, Sis' Garrett. I 'lowed 
 dat I ketched de soun' o' yo' footfalls dis rnawnin' 
 on yo' side, an' I listened, an' I 'ain't heerd 'em no 
 mo', an' I kep' a-listenin', 'caze I craved ter heah 
 you a-meanderin' 'round ; but I 'ain't heerd no 
 mo* tell jes now I heerd yer sneeze." 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 5 
 
 The woman laughed. " Is dat so, Br'er Thorm- 
 son ? I know I is a loud sneezer. De idee o' you 
 takin' note o' me a-sneezin' ! Well, well, well ! 
 Business mus' be sort o' slow, sho' 'nough, ef you 
 'ain't got nuttn' better ter do 'n ter set up a-list'- 
 nin' ter me a-sneezin'. De Lord save us ! You is 
 a case, sho !" And Sister Garrett laughed again 
 a peal of high-noted laughter worthy of a light- 
 hearted and a younger woman. The inborn spirit 
 of coquetry never dies in some women, and if it 
 seems to be sleeping, it takes only the inspiration 
 of a masculine presence to rouse it into interest 
 ing play. Sister Garrett was a woman of this 
 type. If it had been hers to die of old age, the 
 coquette in her would still have died young. 
 
 It was the optimistic temper, of which this was 
 an indication, which made her lonely neighbor 
 welcome the sound of her footsteps. 
 
 The stolid old man was entirely guiltless of 
 anything in the least degree personal when he re 
 ferred to her sneezing, and yet the implication of 
 courtesy rather pleased him. He looked through 
 the hole in the wall at the old woman, and 
 laughed. 
 
 " Dey's a sociable soun' ter yo' sneeze, Sis' Gar 
 rett, an' a man livin' like I does by he's lone se'f, 
 he fin's a heap o'comp'ny in a good, frien'ly sneeze 
 a-comin' f 'om 'crost de partitiom. Hit tecks orf a 
 heap o' de lonesorneness o' Chris'mus. Look like 
 hit calls my min' f 'om 'way back yonder, an' brings 
 me ter myse'f, like. Time a pusson gits ole, look 
 
6 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 like Chris'mus is a lonesome day, any way yer 
 tecks it. I trus' you's come home ter stay over 
 Chris'mus, Sister Garrett ?" 
 
 " Yas, sir ; I 'lowed ter come an' set out heah 
 on de po'ch an' sneeze ter keep you comp'ny, 
 Br'er Thormson." 
 
 " How you does run on !" said Thompson, fool 
 ishly ; but the woman continued, more seriously : 
 
 " Yas ; I come home fur good. I'm done beat 
 out an' burned out a-stan'in' over cook-pots, an' I 
 ain't a-gwine ter do it stiddy no mo'." 
 
 "How you gwine do, Sis' Garrett? I knows 
 you ain't a-gwine ter stay home an' set down, 
 dry so !" 
 
 " Huccome you so cuyus 'bout me, Br'er Thorm 
 son ? You is de cuyuses' man ! Huccome you 
 know I 'ain't struck de lottery ?" 
 
 " I jes teckin' a neighborly intruss, Sis' Garrett; 
 I ain't mean no harm." 
 
 " Ef you so neighborly, Br'er Thormson, hue- 
 come you 'ain't axed me is I run out o' terbacker?" 
 
 The old man shuffled to his feet, and soon 
 brought from his room a paper of the weed, his 
 pipe, and a match. 
 
 The old woman took her own pipe from her 
 pocket, and presently two columns of smoke, ris 
 ing from opposite sides, blew into a mingled cloud 
 above the partition, and moved before them tow 
 ard the south, crossing the old woman's yard. 
 
 " Smoke got sociable ways, 'ain't it ?" said she, 
 as she watched the misty cloud. " I puffs an' you 
 
"SMOKE GOT SOCIABLE WAYS, AIN'T IT?' 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 7 
 
 puffs, an' time de partition! gives 'em a chance, 
 de two smokes look like dee des nachelly goes to- 
 gedder." 
 
 "I see dee moves todes de souf," replied the 
 old man, " an' I looks fur a snap o' fros' ter-night, 
 an' I'll be 'j'iced ter see it, ter week up de kin- 
 dlin' trade. Look like a pusson mought starve at 
 dis business ef dis warm winter ain't play out 
 soon." 
 
 " I hates a hot Chris'mus," said the old woman. 
 
 "I hates it an' I loves it," he replied, with a 
 touch of feeling " yas, I hates it, 'caze seem like 
 hit's onnachel an' 'ceitful, like pusson a pusson 
 kyant trus', what 'd put up a warm cheek fur yer 
 ter kiss, an' maybe nex' minute turn de col' shoul 
 der on yer. I hates it dat-a-way ; but ag'in, I 
 loves it on de 'count o' de ricollectioms hit brings 
 me. De nappies' day o' my life was a hot Chris' 
 mus de day I got ma'yed, when I was yong an' 
 full o' sperit." 
 
 The old woman looked at him quickly. <f De 
 Thormsons come f 'om Georgy, ain't dee ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Yas, 'm, dee comes Pom Georgy," he replied, 
 absently. 
 
 Both smoked on in silence for a while. Finally 
 the woman spoke : " Whar you gwine ter eat to- 
 morrer, Br'er Thormson ?" 
 
 " Who, me ? I I I don't know, Sis' Garrett. 
 Mos'ly ev'y Chris'mus I goes roun' an' holps some 
 o' my lady frien's cookin' in de big houses, fetch 
 
8 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 in wood fur 'em, or maybe pick de tukkey, an' dee 
 allus persis'es on me a-stayin' ter dinner but to- 
 morrer look like to-morrer I was jes a-studyhr 
 'bout dat ef I could 'f I could I ain't no cook. 
 Sis' Garrett ; but dar's my big rade rooster step- 
 pin' roun' so high, an' lookin' so lonesome sence 
 ole Muffly strayed orf I was jes lookin' at 'im 
 an' a-studyin' dat ef I could 'f I could ef you 
 could is you ever fricasseed a chicken, Sis' Gar 
 rett ?" 
 
 " Lord save my soul, Br'er Thormson ! I'm a 
 cook, me ! I c'd fricassee a chicken in my sleep, 
 an' dream 'bout some'h'n else at de same time jes 
 put de ingrejums onder my han's." 
 
 " What is de ingrejums, Sister Garrett ?" 
 
 " De ingrejums ter fricassee a chicken ? Nem- 
 mine 'bout dat. You des gimme de chicken, an' 
 I won't pester you fur de ingrejums. I allus keeps, 
 a little seasonin' by me. I couldn't 'spect myse'f 
 fur a cook ef I run out o' my trade-marks." 
 
 The old man was pleased. " You talks like a 
 cook, sho', Sis' Garrett. When you converses dat 
 a-way, look like I c'n smell de steam." 
 
 "You'll smell it, sho 'nough, ef I passes my 
 han' over de pot." 
 
 " Well, ef you say de word, de ole rade rooster '11 
 say he's pra'rs ter-night, an' we'll 'vide up on de 
 fricassee fur Chris'mus dinner. I been studyin' 
 'bout de way you was a-talkin' 'bout de smoke 
 jes now. Maybe de smoke o' our pipes runs to- 
 gedder fur a sign ter me an' you dat we mought 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 9 
 
 mix in an' out a little mo' neighborly an' sociable 
 like. What you say, Sis' Garrett ?" 
 
 " You kill de rade rooster, an' don't fret 'bout 
 de smoke." 
 
 " An' how we gwine 'vide 'im up ? Is you gwine 
 ter pass my part back froo de hole ?" 
 
 " I 'lowed you was teckin' a lesson f 'om de smoke 
 des now. Nex' time you studies a lesson, you 
 study ter de een o' de book. 'Ain't you seed how 
 de smoke blowed over ter my side? Huccome 
 you kyan't come over an' eat dinner wid me ? You 
 ain't pizen an' I ain't pizen, an' Gord knows de 
 shtewed chicken, hit ain't a-gwine ter be pizen." 
 
 The old man rubbed his hands together, smiled, 
 and bowed his acknowledgments in a manner gen 
 uinely elegant. 
 
 " I recedes ter yo' invertatiom wid a full heart, 
 Sister Garrett, an' ef de Lord spares my life, I'll 
 shorely be on han'. You done spoke de fatal 
 word. Time Mr. Highstepper was beginnin' ter 
 pray now !" he added, laughing immoderately at 
 his own wit, as he glanced at the rooster, who, all 
 unconscious, was disporting himself in the sun. 
 " What time you gwine have dinner, Sister Gar 
 rett ?" 
 
 "'Twouldn't be no Christmus dinner ter me, 
 less 'n 'twas late," she replied. " Le's have it at 
 de white folks's time, six o'clock dat is, ef hit 
 suit yo' circumstancial convenience." 
 
 "All right, Sis' Garrett, all right. Six o'clock 
 six o'clock on a Chris'mus ! Dat's de time o' day 
 
10 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 I got ma'yed six o'clock on a warm Chris'mus. 
 I d' know hticcome dat comes back ter me ter- 
 day. I b'lieve hit's de smell o' dem o'ange- 
 flowers. We had 'em dat day ; dee bloomed out 
 o' season, jes like dee is now, an' de bride, she had 
 a whole wreaf ob 'em on 'er haid." 
 
 The woman gave him a quick look, as she had 
 done before. " You say de Thormsons come f om 
 Georgy, ain't yer ?" she asked, eagerly. 
 
 " Yas, 'm, dat what I say ; dee is come f 'om 
 Georgy." 
 
 The old man had risen. " Well, so long, Sis' 
 Garrett," he said, moving away. " I gwine git a 
 han'ful o' corn an' bait up Mr. Highstepper, an' 
 teach 'im 'ligion, 'caze he's boun' fur a hot place. 
 So long!" 
 
 And so they parted. The old woman sat silent 
 ly ruminating a long time that night before going 
 to bed. 
 
 How strange it was that the old man Thomp 
 son had been married on Christmas, and his wife 
 had worn fresh orange-flowers ! How very strange ! 
 All this had happened to her when she was young. 
 She had been a Christmas bride, and had worn 
 an orange wreath ; but of course this was in Lou 
 isiana, and her husband was tall and straight and 
 handsome everything that Thompson was not. 
 Still, it was strange, and the coincidence filled her 
 heart with an old yearning. If she could but meet 
 him once again, this husband of her youth, she 
 would die happy ; but this was more than she 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 11 
 
 could hope for, for it had all happened she had 
 no idea how many years ago. 
 
 It had been an imprudent marriage, ill-advised 
 and unfortunate. She and he had been the prop 
 erty of different families. The evil prophesied 
 had come true. Her husband's owner had moved 
 into another state, and carried all his goods with 
 him, and that had been the end. 
 
 After a brief season of happiness, the marriage 
 had brought her only separation and sorrow, and 
 yet she would not part with the memory of this 
 short period for all else that life had brought her. 
 
 It was late when she rose from her meditations, 
 knelt for an audible prayer of unusual length, and 
 finally climbed into her high, soft bed, where, sur 
 rounded by friends of her youth, and with the sen 
 sation of an orange-wreath lying upon her old head, 
 in dreams she fell asleep. 
 
 The red rooster was killed that night, picked 
 clean to a feather, and early next morning passed 
 through the partition. 
 
 There had been a change in the weather about 
 midnight, and by noon next day a drizzling rain 
 had given way to a light fall of sleet a transition 
 not uncommon in this Southern city. At five 
 o'clock the sleet was still falling, and at six the 
 storm had grown more violent. 
 
 Thompson, rigged cap-a-pie in his foxy broad 
 cloth suit, stood looking out upon the weather. 
 
 It was time to go, so said the silver watch in 
 his waistcoat pocket, and so said the savory odor 
 
12 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 that came through the key-hole and under the 
 barred door which separated the two rooms. 
 
 Thompson did not know what to do. Even 
 ignoring the question of rain and rheumatism, 
 how would it look for a man to go out in such a 
 storm -just for dinner? 
 
 " Hit 'd look like a pusson was clean starved 
 out, ter go 'way out ter dat front gate an' back 
 ag'in, an' come in wet as a drownded rat, jes 
 jes fur grub !" he soliloquized. 
 
 While he stood at the open door, growing mo 
 mentarily more irresolute as the storm rose in vio 
 lence, and more eager as the appetizing steam 
 grew in flavor, there came a rap at the partition. 
 He was there in a moment. 
 
 " Br'er Thormson," said the expectant hostess, 
 " ef you'll len' me a axe I'll prize open de do' 'twix' 
 yo* side an' mine, so's you c'n come froo, ef you'll 
 have de manners an' de perliteness ter nail it up 
 ag'in quick's we gits done dinner. 'Tain't no use 
 fur you ter git drownded out goin' roun', an' de 
 chicken schew, hit's des done up ter de right notch 
 now." 
 
 Thompson was most happy to promise to repair 
 any injury resulting from the unbarring of the 
 door, and it was soon open, and the Christmas 
 feast a present reality. 
 
 " I hates ter ax yer ter fetch yer knife 'n' fork, 
 Br'er Thormson, but I boun' ter do it, 'less'n we'd 
 borrer back 'n' f o'th er else I'd 'suit yer by eatin' 
 wid my fingers " 
 
JL GOLDEN WEDDING 13 
 
 " Scuse me, scuse me, I pray," said Thompson, 
 bowing and smiling ; " I oughter had de sense an' 
 de manners ter fetch ter fetch de conveniences 
 o' de 'casiom ; but I 'ain't been movin' roun' in 
 s'ciety fur fur so long, I 'ain't got no mo' perlite- 
 ness 'n one o' dese heah Hottenpotots er some'h'n' 
 riz in de woods." 
 
 With this profuse apology he disappeared, hob 
 bling into his own room, whence he soon returned 
 with the desired implements, adding also a tum 
 bler and a chair, as he had taken note of these 
 further needs during his apology. 
 
 A second tour through his apartment resulted 
 in the production of a handsome orange branch, 
 which having stuck in a bottle, he placed now as 
 floral ornament in the centre of the table. 
 
 " Look like we ought ter have some sort o' bou 
 quet fur ter glorify our eyes an' witness fur de 
 'casiom," said Thompson, as he stood off in admi 
 ration, "an' ter my eyes dat's purty, an' hit's 
 sweet-smellin' too." 
 
 " Hit's sweet tell yer git a sniff o' de fricassee, 
 an' dat ain't leave no room fur no fainty flower 
 smell," said the hostess, as she placed the steam 
 ing dish opposite Thompson's plate. "Teck a 
 cheer an' set down an' meek yerse'f at home, fur's 
 yer able, Br'er Thormson. What yer see befo' 
 yer ain't sofistercated an' fine, but I gua'ntee hit's 
 clean an' seasonable." 
 
 The dinner was fit for a king. The steaming 
 Btew, filling the room with its essence, both rich 
 
14 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 and delicate, a bowl of snowy, whole-grained rice, 
 a tin plate of roasted sweet-potatoes, gray with a 
 hint of ashes upon their coats, a pone of golden 
 egg-bread, and a pot of coffee, obtrusively aro 
 matic, composed the simple menu. 
 
 It is but fair to observe to his credit that the 
 eager expression of physical hunger gradually 
 faded from his old face as the guest, at the invi 
 tation of the hostess, raised his right hand sol 
 emnly, and, closing his eyes, addressed the throne 
 of grace with a fervent though brief thanksgiving. 
 
 The occasion was in every sense a success, 
 and the conversation of the guest thickly inter 
 spersed with parentheses complimenting the vari 
 ous dishes : 
 
 "Umh ! Dishere gravy tecks me ''way back! 
 
 " Dey ain't none o' dese heah cooks a-circulatin' 
 roun' dese days dat knows de true in'ardness o' 
 cookin'. 
 
 " You got dese dumplin's in dis gravy kivered 
 wid velvet, 'ain't yer ? Dee slips down like a sol- 
 jer gwine home on a furlough. 
 
 "Dis heah co'n-brade 'd meek poun'-cake blush 
 an' clair out. 
 
 " Dese heah pertaters is as sugary and mealy- 
 moufed as a ligislatur candidate !" 
 
 Such as these were the overflowing sentiments 
 of the happy guest, while his hostess, with hos 
 pitable insistence, kept his plate filled. 
 
 At length, however, Thompson warded off fur 
 ther supply by repeated protest that every crack 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 15 
 
 was filled up " clair down ter his boots." He 
 moved back a little, still resting his elbow on the 
 table, while the woman drew her chair round to 
 the fire, and the two fell into comfortable after- 
 dinner conversation. As was but natural, these 
 two, both near the end of their lives, soon drifted 
 into retrospection. 
 
 " Hit's funny," said the old man, after a pause, 
 as he plucked an orange-flower and held it, man 
 fashion, in the hollow of his palm to his nostril 
 " hit's funny how de ref umeries ob a blorsom kin 
 wuck on a pusson's min', an' raise up ricollectioms 
 o' times an' faces." 
 
 He handed the woman a stemless flower. Tak 
 ing it daintily between her thumb and first finger, 
 she smelt it meditatively. 
 
 " An' voices," she added, presently. 
 
 "H-how M you say dat?" 
 
 "An' voices, I say. De flagrams o' dis flower 
 brings back a voice ter me a voice ob ob a 
 frien' o' mine." 
 
 " Yas, hit do bring back voices too. Look like 
 I c'n shet my eyes an' see a whole passel o' darkies 
 a-standin' roun' a ole-time kyabin, an' a one-arm 
 preacher standin' 'ginstde hyearth a-restin' 'is book 
 orn de mantel-shelf ; an' I kin feel myse'f a-walk- 
 in' in wid de purties', high-haidedes', bright-eyedes' 
 black gal in de Nunited States. She was all dressed 
 up in some sort o' white fliffy-fluffy dress, wid a 
 whole wreaf o' dese heah blorsoms on 'er haid, an', 
 laws-a-mussy, ef she warn't purty ! She a-stan'in 1 
 
16 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 up, so black an' shinin', in de mids' o* so much 
 white grandeur, looked jes like one o' dese little 
 slick blackbirds in a snow-bank ! Oh, ef I c'd jes 
 see 'er once-t ag'in! Ef she's in de Ian' o' de livin', 
 I'd know 'er, sho ! In co'se I know she's boun' 
 ter be changed by de blightin' o' time ; but eyes 
 is eyes, she couldn't nuver lose dem flashy-dashy, 
 come-ef-yer-dare black eyes, 'less'n blin'ness strick 
 en 'er ; an' sperit is sperit, an' I know long as she 
 live she's boun' ter hoi' a high haid. We had 
 jes one little baby a peart little boy time de 
 partin' come. I hope Gord spared 'im ter 'er." 
 
 The old woman had been listening alertly all 
 along, but now she peered into the speaker's face. 
 " Ain't you say de Thormsons come f 'om Georgy ?" 
 she asked, eagerly. 
 
 " Y-yas, 'm, dee is. Huccome you keep a-axin' 
 me is de Thormsons come f 'om Georgy ? Is yer 
 knowed any ob 'em ?" 
 
 Her face was troubled. " No, no, Br'er Thorm- 
 son, I 'ain't knowed 'em. I des axin' yer so." 
 
 The old man continued : " Ef hit was Gord's 
 will dat I c'd jes see 'er ag'in once mo' 'fo' I die, 
 an' set down an' talk wid 'er, an' know all 'er ups 
 an' downs sence I lef ' 'er when I went ter Geor- 
 
 gy-" 
 
 " 'Ain't you said you come f'om Georgy, Br'er 
 Thormson ?" 
 
 "Yas, 'm, dat so. I is come f'om Georgy, but 
 dis heah what I'm talkin' 'bout now, hit's away 
 back yonder long 'fo' de 'clarin' o' wah 'fo' my 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 17 
 
 marster move ter Georgy when I was a yong 
 buck. I lived in Louisiana dem days, an' I mar 
 ried, 'ginst de 'visemint o' my marster, a purty 
 little black gal named Cicely, what b'long ter de 
 Morgans on de coas', on de plantation 'j'inin' we's 
 place. In co'se I done passed de mos' o' my life 
 in Georgy, but quick's de wah was over an' Free 
 dom loosen me, I come clair back ter de coas' I 
 wucked my way down a-huntin' fur Cicely ; but 
 'twarn't no use. Her marster done had been kilt 
 in de army, an' look like ev'y thing was gone ter 
 rack V ruin, an' I couldn't heah nuttn', an' no 
 body seem like dee 'membered me, so I come on 
 down heah ter Noo 'Leans an' let 'lone prayin' fur 
 de sight an' keepin' my eyes open, I done guv up 
 de hunt, 'caze I mought be trablin' eas' while she 
 gwine wes', an' ef hit's de Lord's will, He c'n Ian' 
 'er right heah an' ef 'tain't, well maybe hit's 
 fur de bes', 'caze, in co'se, in all dese yeahs she 
 mought o' ceasted ter love me but I ain't look 
 fur dat, 'caze de way my heart hoi' ter her, I 
 b'lieve she done helt ter me too. Ef I c'd jes see 
 'er ! Dey ain't no gals like her dese days. She 
 was de ole-time sort. Yer 'ain't nuver is met up 
 wid no Morgan people f 'om de coas', is yer ?" 
 
 The old man had become so much absorbed in 
 his own past that he did not perceive that the 
 woman was silently weeping. The room, lit only 
 by the faint glow of a low fire and the fitful flick 
 er of an expiring candle, was nearly dark. 
 
 The old woman steadied her voice by an effort, 
 2 
 
18 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 and made a feeble attempt to straighten her 
 stooped figure. 
 
 "You say she got a high haid an' a bright eye 
 Br'er Thormson but you ain't 'low dat maybe 
 grievin' an' say in' nuttn' all dese yeahs mought 
 bring down a proud haid; an' yer know" her 
 voice trembled "y-yer know cookin' over a cook- 
 stove, hit nachelly blurs a pusson's eyes." 
 
 "I knows all dat," he replied, shaking his head 
 emphatically " I knows all dat ; but but you 
 'ain't knowed little Cicely. She warn't none o' 
 de lettin' down sort. In co'se I's perpared ter see 
 'er gray, maybe, an' maybe show age, but ef she's 
 a-livin', I'm plumb sho she got a quick eye an' a 
 high haid yit." 
 
 The old woman's face was twitching nervously. 
 Her dim eyes, doubly dimmed with tears, rested 
 upon the face of the man whom she knew to be 
 the husband of her youth, but there was something 
 in the inborn pride of the woman call it coquet 
 ry if you will which resented the contrast be 
 tween his memory's picture and herself. 
 
 Finally she said, with wonderful control, though 
 the corners of her mouth were quivering: 
 
 " Br'er Thormson, dey's a man what I'd like ter 
 meet up wid ag'in 'fo' I die, please Gord, an' sence 
 you come f'om de coas', maybe you mought o' 
 knowed 'im. He goed by de name o' Smiff, Aleck 
 Smiff " 
 
 " Wh-wh-wh-wh-wha'?" the old man stammer 
 ed, in a bewildered effort to speak ; but she paid 
 no attention to him. 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 19 
 
 " He was a man taller'n you is, but maybe dat 
 was de way he hoi' 'isse'f he hoi' 'isse'f des like 
 a Presiden' an' he comb 'is ha'r high up on top 
 'is haid, des like a rooster wid a proud comb, an' 
 when he'd open 'is mouf ter talk, 'is voice 'd come 
 out brave an' strong, des like de deep notes on a 
 melojum. I'd know dat voice in a chorus o' an 
 gels ! Ef ef I c'd meet up wid dat man, Br'er 
 Thormson, look like my heart 'd turn ter joy, 
 'caze 'caze he he' was my husban'." 
 
 It was all she could do to say these last words, 
 and she caught her breath nervously as she pro 
 ceeded: 
 
 " I'd sholy know 'im ef I c'd ketch de soun' o' 
 dat noble voice. Yer 'ain't nuver is met up wid 
 no man like dat, is yer ?" 
 
 The old man was peering into her face as one 
 dazed. 
 
 " L look like I ain't onderstan' yer good," he 
 said. He was trembling, and his voice, suffering 
 from agitation, exceeded even its usual quality of 
 piping thinness. 
 
 " I say, yer 'ain't nuver knowed no man like dat, 
 is yer, f'om de coas', name Aleck Smiff, wid a fine 
 haid o' black ha'r, an' shinin' white toofs, same as 
 de milk-white grains on a roas'n' ear, an' a voice 
 joyous an' persuadin', like a he-bird's song, an' " 
 
 The old man had been weeping silently, but 
 now he interrupted her by a tremulous wave of 
 his hand, and with a pathetic effort to steady his 
 voice, began to answer her : 
 
20 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 " L look like look like dat when you's a-talk- 
 in' 'bout hit was a long time ago, Cice Sis' 
 Garrett, an' yer know a pusson's voice hit's 
 hit's boun' ter teck on a high note when age 
 stricken 'im an' 'e begin a-frailin' " 
 
 " In co'se I knows all dat," said she ; " I knows 
 all dat. I 'lows fur de wuckin's 'o time on 'im. I 
 ain't spec' ter see 'im skip roun' lively like he done 
 when I knowed 'im ; but de voice, an' de way he 
 comb 'is haid, an' dem shinin' white toofs all dat 
 boun' ter tell on a bordy." 
 
 His head sank heavily on his hand, and he was 
 silent for a time. Finally he said : " Ain't yer 
 know, S-Sis' Sis' Garrett, dat when age an' sorrer 
 stricken a man, ev'ything boun' ter come back on 
 'im? Dat's huccome dee proves de Book what 
 fo'tell de secon' chil'hood. De toofs, dee all draps 
 out, same as a onteethin' baby ; de ha'r on a 
 pusson's haid, hit clair de track too ; an' den 
 look like 'tain' no use fur 'im ter try ter stan' up 
 'g'ins' dese losses like a man, 'caze time dat high 
 note strack 'im he kyan't play no bluff game; he's 
 jes nachelly bleege ter give up, an' 'low dat de 
 times an' de seasons done beat 'im out." 
 
 He hesitated, searching the old woman's face, 
 but she made no sign, and he went on : 
 
 " Dat high note look ter me like hit match wid 
 de gorslin's, an' same as a yong buck git de gors- 
 lin's, an' talk high fur a noterfercatiom ter stan' up 
 an' be a man, hit come on 'im ag'in time he gits 
 ole fur a noterfercatiom dat de battle done fit, an' 
 he 'bleege ter give up de fight and let down 1" 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 21 
 
 He studied his hearer's face for a second pause, 
 but she still seemed looking into space, and was 
 silent. Her pride required that his humiliation 
 should be complete. 
 
 " Look like," he resumed " look like dat high 
 note teck a man twice-t, some'h'n' like de way a 
 ingine blow de trumpit twice-t. Hit blow fus, 
 when de train start orf, ter say dee gwine turn 
 on de steam ; an' bimeby hit blow agin, ter ease 
 up, 'caze de statiom's in sight." 
 
 Another silence. The old man was greatly 
 tried. 
 
 " Ef ef dis man Smiff been a-pinin' fur you in 
 'is heart grief, hit '11 tell on a voice too an' 
 maybe he mought talk high jes f'om time an' 
 sorrer wuckin' on 'im an' an' lonesomeness 
 an' an' all dat." 
 
 There were tears in his voice now. 
 
 " Ef ef I c'd meet could meet up wid Cicely, 
 I'd crave ter fine 'er changed, 'caze I knows ef 
 she warn't, she wouldn't have no use fur a ole 
 man like me." 
 
 He buried his face in his hands and fell to 
 sobbing. 
 
 " Ef ef she was high-haided an' peart-eyed 
 she she mought turn 'er back on me an' 
 maybe not know me. Oh, my Gord ! an' maybe 
 not know me ! But ef 'er haid was low wid de 
 weight o' time like mine is an' 'er eyes was 
 ondimmed wid sorrer like mine is an' 'er heart 
 weak wid yearnin' like mine is " 
 
22 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 His voice, which had failed him piteously at 
 each repetition of the words "like mine is," 
 broke entirely here. 
 
 The woman was now also weeping aloud. Ris 
 ing from her chair, she fell upon her knees at his 
 side. " Hush, Aleck !" she screamed. " Hush, I 
 say ! I can't stan' no mo' ! Oh, my Gord !" Her 
 head fell upon his knees, and her arms were about 
 his body. 
 
 " Glory ! glory be ter Gord !" shouted the old 
 man, burying his face upon her neck, while his 
 arms fell over her shoulders. 
 
 It was many moments before any word was 
 spoken, save a muffled " Glory !" or " Praise 
 Gord !" 
 
 At last, however, the old man wiped his face, 
 and after several futile attempts to speak, said, 
 " Ci-Cicely, wh-whar little Joe ?" 
 
 But she could not answer. Moving her head 
 from side to side, however, she indicated that she 
 did not know. 
 
 The night was far spent when, after having 
 with mingled tears and laughter reviewed their 
 lives, the old couple composed themselves for a 
 quiet talk. Both had been resold soon after their 
 separation, and bore the names of their last 
 owners. 
 
 "You know some'h'n', Cicely," said the old 
 man, smiling, when after an interchange of ex 
 periences they returned to the question of mutual 
 recognition " yer know some'h'n', Cicely, I mis- 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 23 
 
 trusted de seasonin' o' dat fricasseed chicken f 'om 
 de fus'." 
 
 "'Twas de o'ange blorsoms what sot me ter 
 Btudyin', Aleck," said she ; " an" when I'd look 
 acrost de table at yer, an' you 'd talk 'bout 
 marryin' on a Chris'mus, an' havin' de o'ange 
 blooms, seemed like I'd commence ter git warm, 
 an' I'd be close-t up ter reconnizin' yer, an' den 
 you'd say some'h'n' 'bout Georgy, an' I'd be col' 
 as ice agin, des like de chillen a-gropin' roun' 
 arter a switch when somebody holler out, 'Now 
 yer hot !' an' 'fo' dee c'n tu'n roun', 'ner one sing 
 out, * Now yer col' !' An' den when you teched 
 on de baby, I d' know huccome I kep' still 
 look like we was des 'bleege ter be us, an' den 
 right on top o' dat you 'spon' dat you is come 
 f 'om Georgy, an' I was on de rack wid Chris' 
 mus an' de o'ange smell, an' seem like you so 
 p'intedly match an' so p'intedly ain't match wid 
 Aleck. Yer voice is failed yer some, Aleck ; but 
 when I listens ter it good, seem like de ole ring, 
 hit comes back. Ef you'd o' let 'lone talkin' 'bout 
 Georgy, I'd o' knowed it f'orn de fus,. but I 'rnem- 
 bered dat you went ter Atalanta, an' in co'se 
 Georgy, hit put me orf de track." 
 
 "'Tlanta an' Georgy, dee jes de same, Cicely." 
 
 " Is dee ? Well, well ! 'Trav'lin' roun' like 
 
 you's been, a pusson do git educatiom. You 
 
 mus' scuse my grammar, but I 'lowed dee was 
 
 two far countries, maybe 'crost de oceain f'om 
 
24 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 "No, no. 'Tlanta, dat's jes, yer mought say, 
 de quality name, an' de people in de cidy what 
 put on style yer know how dee is dee jes 
 nachelly 'bleege ter teck on some'h'n' ter look 
 like hit stan' fur grandjer, an' dee claims de 
 name o' 'Tlanta dat-a-way ; an' dem what live 
 roun' in de highways an' byways, dee jes teck on 
 de plain name o' Georgy, dry so." 
 
 " Of cose," said she. 
 
 The night was far spent, and the old couple still 
 sat talking living over together in one night of 
 dim retrospection their long lives spent apart. 
 
 They wept and laughed many times over the 
 sorrows and surprises of the reminiscence, and 
 these emotions were pathetically mingled as the 
 mother reviewed the life of their child from his 
 infancy, at the time when the father was taken 
 away, to his maturity, and then to the time of the 
 war, when, to use her own words, " look like 
 time he ketched de name o' freedom, he 'ain't 
 had no sense lef, an' run orf an' j'ined de inemy 
 an' turned Yankee, an' nuver was heerd of no 
 mo'." 
 
 The old man alternated between laughter and 
 tears over her description of the lad, weeping as 
 she emphasized the points of resemblance to his 
 father in matters of comfort to herself, and 
 laughing as she pursued the subject of heredity 
 further, somewhat in this wise : 
 
 "Yas, he was des de spi't 'n' image o' you, 
 Aleck. He walk like you, proud an' bigotified ; 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 25 
 
 but des strack a bow 'crost de fiddle, an' ev'y 
 j'int in 'is bordy look like hit 'd loosen up an' 
 'spon' ter de chune. An' you know de way you 
 use ter wrop an' tie up de middle o' yo' ha'r all 
 de week, an' grease it wid a taller candle ter 
 open it up of a Sunday well, little Joe he favored 
 you dat-a-way. Look like you is los' yo' ha'r 
 purty consider'ble, Aleck," she continued, glanc 
 ing at his bald pate, "but in co'se you 'ain't 
 been half reg'lated. Time I gits some goose- 
 grease an' buggomot an' yarbs, an' bile 'em down 
 good, an' rub 'em in on de full o' de moon, hit 
 '11 come out ag'in ; an' ef it don't, hit '11 nour'sh 
 an' cher'sh de roots good, an' polish de skin. Is 
 yer ever tuck ingon syrup fur yer col', Aleck ?" 
 
 " I 'ain't got no col', Cicely. Huccome you ax 
 me dat?" 
 
 " Look ter me like you's a little hoa'se, ain't 
 yer?" 
 
 " Is I ? Id' know ef I is er not. I 'ain't had 
 nobody ter catechise me 'bout my cornstitutiom, 
 an' take no intruss in me fur so long, I jes tecks 
 myse'f as a fines myse'f, an' ax no questioms. In 
 co'se, my so'e foot, I knowed dat warn't nachel, 
 an' I been a-tamperin' wid it good as I could, but 
 look like hit ain't uiendin' none." 
 
 "Maybe hit crave a new han', Aleck. Lif it 
 up heah on my knee an' lemme see it." 
 
 He raised his foot laboriously, and rested it in 
 his old wife's lap. With a tender hand she slip 
 ped off the heavy shoe, pulled off an almost 
 
26 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 footless sock, and gently unwound the bound 
 ankle. 
 
 " You sholy is you," she said, laughing, as she 
 stroked his old foot. "I'd know dat foot in a 
 crowd, de way de big toe treshpash on de nex' 
 one." 
 
 " Co'se me me," he responded, with a chuckle. 
 " Ef ef I 'lowed I was somebordy else a-puttV 
 he's foot up in yo' lap so sporntanyus, I'd I'd 
 shoot 'im sho, perf essor as I is !" 
 
 The suffering ankle was tenderly manipulated, 
 and pronounced already better for the sympathet 
 ic tending. 
 
 " Dey ain't no 'casiom ter nail up de do' no mo', 
 is dey ?" said the old man, finally, with a smiling 
 glance at the fallen bar. 
 
 " I been a settin' heah ponderin', Aleck," said 
 she, " an' seem ter me, bein' as you an' me Stan's 
 high in de chu'ch, an' dey is so much upro'rious 
 doin's an' goin's on dese days, an' so much scan- 
 dalizin', we ought ter be calt out ag'in f'om de 
 pulpit fur man an' wife ; an' while I ain't say nail 
 de do', I say we better des keep it shet, an' set 
 out on de two sides o' de partition! (ef a warm 
 spell come ag'in) tell over Sunday, an' den we c'n 
 stan' up in chu'ch ag'in, 'caze you know dee 'ain't 
 got nuttn' but 'cep' des my word an' yo' word ter 
 stan' 'twix' us an' scandalizemint, ef dee choose 
 ter p'int a finger at us." 
 
 " What yer mean, Cicely ? Is yer mean fur me 
 ter go home ?" 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 27 
 
 " Yas, Aleck. I b'lieve dat's de bes', tell you 
 talks to Br'er Brown an' git 'im ter call us out in 
 chu'ch." 
 
 " Dat look like foolishness ter me, Cicely." 
 
 " In co'se hit's foolishness 'twix' you an' me, 
 Aleck ; but hit's good hard sense de way wo 
 Stan's 'fo' de worl'. Ef somebordy 'd come in 
 heah an' fin' dat do' open, an' you maybe on de 
 wrong side, all de splainin' we c'd do arterwards 
 hit 'd on'y aggervate de scandal 'fo' de worl'. 
 You go on home now. Hit's 'mos' day, an' you 
 needs a nap o' sleep 'fo' sunup." 
 
 The old man laughed, and waiving further 
 protest, betook himself through the open door 
 to his own apartment. A dim light coming 
 through the window seemed to color the candle- 
 flame a deeper orange. It was the first ray of a 
 rising sun. 
 
 " Oh, Cicely," he called, as he stood, candle in 
 hand, at the door " oh, Cicely, ban' me a ole 
 josey er some'h'n' o' yo's, honey, ter hang up 
 over heah, won't yer ? Dis room look like hit's 
 got a sudden spell o' emptiness, an' seem like hit's 
 lonesome as de grave. I 'feerd I mought go ter 
 sleep an' week up an' mistrus' all dis fur a dream, 
 'less'n I had a ole ap'on er josey er some'h'n' ter 
 ketch my eyes quick's I opens 'em. Hit 'd he'p 
 me ter pass de time tell Sunday." 
 
 " G'way f 'om heah, Aleck ! I ain't a-gwine do 
 no sech of a thing ! I ain't gwine have no josey 
 'ginst me 'fo' de Cornf'ence ; 
 
28 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 an' ef some o' dem busybordy br'ers an' sisters 
 come a-prowlin' roun' heah terreckly ter see de 
 shape o' de scraps you got lef f'om Chris'mus 
 dinner, dee'd spy it out an' set it up 'ginst my 
 c'a'cter mighty quick. You go on ter baid, Aleck, 
 an' ef yer git lonesome you des call out, ' Cicely,' 
 an' I'll 'spon' ter yer, 'caze I's berwildered an' 
 'plexted in my min' much as you is, an' I ain't 
 gwine sleep heavy. Good-night, an' Gord bless 
 yer !" 
 
 " Amen," said the old man as he blew out the 
 candle, and before many minutes a sound of meas 
 ured breathing, coming from both rooms, pro 
 claimed the aged pair at rest in that happy land 
 of youth renewed, of losses restored, of hopes ful 
 filled the land of dreams. 
 
 Parson Brown was duly interviewed, and con 
 curred fully in Sister Garrett's idea of the propri 
 ety of a formal announcement, in the presence of 
 the congregation and of the parties concerned, of 
 the renewed relations of the old people. Indeed, 
 he was quite enthusiastic in his delight in pros 
 pect of the novel occasion, as well as in congratu 
 lations to the soon to be reunited. The old couple 
 expressed some solicitude as to the manner of pro 
 ceeding, to which he reassuringly replied in this 
 wise : 
 
 " Hab no reprehensioms, my deah br'er an' sis 
 ter ; jes leave ev'ything ter me. Ain't I'm a 
 preacher ? Ain't I'm de shepherd o' de flock ? I 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 29 
 
 is er I ain't, one. Ef I ain't, I better ban' in my 
 designation! an' clair out, an' go a-fishin ' ; an' ef 
 I is, I sboly is fittn ter conduc' air cer'mony what- 
 somever what mought arise outn de needs an' de 
 desires o' my flock. Ain't dat so ?" 
 
 It was so. So said Sister Garrett, and so reiter 
 ated Br'er Tbormson's nodding bead. 
 
 " An' as fur yo' part," tbe minister continued 
 " as fur yo' part, embellish yo'se'ves accordin' ter 
 de dictates o' yo' desires an' de succumstances o' de 
 'casiom, an' lookin' neither ter de right ner ter de 
 lef ', walk up de middle island o' de chu'ch at the 
 'p'inted hour, an' teck yo' stan', widout feah an' 
 widout approach, in de presence of a waitin' corn- 
 gergatiom, an' I'll gua'ntee dat ev'ything shill pass 
 orf ter de comfort o' yo' hearts, ter de 'newin' o' 
 yo' sperits, ter de saters/actiom o' de worl', an' 
 ter de glory o'Gord." 
 
 " Amen !" said Sister Garrett. 
 
 " Amen !" fervently echoed Br'er Thormson. 
 
 On Sabbath morning following this, Br'er Brown 
 announced from the pulpit that at five o'clock on 
 that same afternoon, immediately after the closing 
 exercises of Conference, then in session, there 
 would take place in the church a golden wedding, 
 to which all were cordially invited. This was all. 
 He refused further explanation, but laughingly 
 bade the curious " come and see." 
 
 Needless to say, the church was crowded to 
 overflowing, for curiosity ran high, both as to the 
 individuals concerned and the exact nature of the 
 
30 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 promised ceremony. The expectant interest of 
 the waiting congregation proved infectious, and 
 after closing of Conference the dozen or more of 
 ministers present remained, to a man, curious to 
 witness an occasion so rare as a golden wedding. 
 
 After a short interval of some disorder, during 
 which ministers and people engaged in social con 
 versation, laughingly surmising as to whom the 
 bridal party should be, a stir at the door an 
 nounced their approach. 
 
 Had not their dress labelled them as the heroes 
 of the hour, it would have been impossible, so 
 great was the crowd, for them to have made their 
 way up the aisle. The throng, pressing to right 
 and left, gave way, however, and arm in arm the 
 old couple, obeying orders, passed up the middle 
 aisle and took their stand before the pulpit. 
 
 The groom wore his old broadcloth suit the 
 very one, by the way, in which he had been mar 
 ried to this same woman a nameless number of 
 years ago. 
 
 The bride, modestly attired in an old white 
 muslin, might have escaped special notice in a 
 crowd, excepting for a small spray of natural 
 orange flowers which she wore upon her fore 
 head. 
 
 It is a pity to have to write it, but there was a 
 titter of mirth, ill suppressed, unworthy the dig 
 nity of the occasion and the place, as the old pair 
 tottered up the aisle. 
 
 Brother Brown had stepped down before the 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 31 
 
 pulpit, and was ready to receive them. Perceiv 
 ing instinctively that his congregation were not 
 in touch with the spirit of the occasion, he won 
 their attention and deference by a short and ear 
 nest prayer ; then lowering his voice, addressed 
 them solemnly as follows : 
 
 " My deah bredren and sistren in de Lord, you 
 see befo' you a aged couple, bofe o' whom an' each 
 one o' which is no stranger ter you all Br'er 
 Alexander Thormson, a man in good an' reg'lar 
 standin' in de chu'ch, an' Sister Cicely Garrett, 
 lakwisely respected and respectable 'mongst de 
 sisterhood fur stiddy-goin' piety. It is a fac' well 
 known ter dis corngergatiom dat dese two pussons 
 is been livin' nex' do' ter one-'n'er fur de space o' 
 six mont's er sech a matter, save an' exceptin' sech 
 times as Sister Garrett is been livin' out at ser 
 vice; an' when I 'form you o' de fac' dat dee 
 claims dat dee was married ter one-'n'er long 'fo' 
 de wah, an' 'ain't reconnize one-'n'er tell now, 'tain't 
 fur you ter 'spute dey words, 'caze when you cas'es 
 yo' eyes upon 'em now, as dee stan' heah to-day, 
 you can easy conceive o' de fac' dat de lan'marks 
 by which dee could o' been reconnized is well-nigh 
 washed away by de surgin' o' de river- o' time. 
 Dee claims dat dee was j'ined in de holy instate o' 
 matrermony in de ole days, time dee was yong, 
 an' arter meanderin' roun' de worl', eas' an' wes^' 
 norf an' souf, norfeas' an' norfwes,' so ter speak, 
 ter all de p'ints o' de cumpositiom, dee suddently 
 reconnize one-'n'er, an' now, while dee ain't a-ca'- 
 
32 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 culatin' ter ketch up wid all de yeahs what's gone, 
 dee 'low dat dee crave ter come back ter de start- 
 in'-p'int, an' start fresh, han' in han'. By de bless'- 
 in' o' Gord, when dee skivered one-'n'er, dee was 
 bofe free-handed an' free-hearted ; an' now, wid a 
 free han', dee craves ter jine han's ag'in,an' wid a 
 free heart dee craves ter jine hearts once mo' ; an' 
 ef dey hearts is bofe turned dat-a-way, who gwine 
 say de word ter hender 'em ? Ef anybordy got a 
 word agin it, let 'im speak now, er else, as de Bible 
 &&y,fo'everhoV 'is peace" 
 
 He hesitated, casting his eye over the crowd, 
 upon which the silence of attentive listening had 
 fallen. 
 
 " Hit's true," he resumed," dis aged couple is 
 well on in de yeahs, an' look lak dey journey is 
 'mos' done ; but ef dee got de cour'ge ter teck 
 han's fur de las' mile o' de road, 'tain't fur de laks 
 o' us ter rfi'scotir'ge 'em ! An' when I looks at dis 
 o-ole man, ripe in yeahs, as de Book say, an' 'cripit 
 an' f ailin' in steps, an' I know dey's a woman what's 
 willin' ter stan' up an' teck de spornserbility o' 
 follerin' dat man clean tell 'e gits ter de gate o' de 
 kingdom, I bless de Lord, an' say dat woman got 
 cour'ge, sho! She is born inter de light, 'caze hit 
 would be a dark journey fur de onconverted! An* 
 when my eyes pass ter de bride 'tain't no use fur 
 me ter specify but when my eye pass ter de bride 
 what Stan's befo' me now, a-leanin' fon'ly on de 
 arm o' de groom dat same groom what done 
 picked an' choosed 'er out, away back yonder time 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 33 
 
 o' de fallin' o' de stars 'tain't no use fur me ter 
 specify, but I raises my eyes ter Heaven an' I say, 
 Bless Gord fur cour'ge ! De bride ain't show no 
 mo* cour'ge 'n de groom is. Bless Gord fur a 
 brave heart an' a kin' heart an' a true heart ! 
 
 " Wharfore" he continued, " in de face o' de 
 fac's, an' in de presence o' you all, I pernounce 
 'em once mo' man and wife!" 
 
 Turning to the groom, he added, lowering his 
 voice, " I ain't say s'lute yo' bride, 'caze I know 
 she done been s'luted on de former 'casiom ; how- 
 somever, ef you desires ter 'new yo' salutatiom 'fo' 
 de worl', you is free ter do so." 
 
 The old man bent his head and kissed the lips 
 of his old wife. This was taken as the usual sig 
 nal for congratulations, and the congregation be 
 gan to move forward. 
 
 With a wave of his arm, however, the minister 
 indicated that the golden wedding was not yet 
 over. 
 
 Placing bride and groom in chairs within the 
 chancel, he turned again to the congregation. A 
 change of tone denoted that he was now approach 
 ing a new branch of the subject. 
 
 "I guv out dis mawnm'," he began, "dat dis 
 was gwine ter be a golden weddin\ an' what is I 
 mean, my bredren ? Is I mean dat de preacher 
 was rich ? No, you know I ain't. Is I mean dat 
 de groom was rich ? No, you know he ain't. Is I 
 mean dat de bride was rich ? No, you know she 
 ain't. Den what is I mean ? What is de signifi- 
 3 
 
34 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 catiom of a golden weddin' ? Hit's de cilebratiom 
 o' de ma'yage o' two pussons what have de cour'ge 
 ter stan' up 'f o' Gord an' de worl', arter fifty yeahs, 
 an' say, 'Amen ! Dee lived through it, an' dee 
 gwine stan' up ter it !' An' ef dee sorry dee done it, 
 dee nuver lets on. Dat's de weddin' part ; an' de 
 goF part, dat mean dat ev'ybordy 'bleege ter fetch 
 a gol' weddin' present. Now fur de gol' part. In 
 co'se I knows you ain't able ter come up wid pure 
 gol', but look ter me lak dis is a proud occasiom 
 ter do double juty wid sech as you is got, an' you 
 knows yo'se'f dat small change is de Equivalent o' 
 gol' ; an' now I tell yer what I gwine perpose ter 
 do : I 'ain't c'lected no sal'ry fur two mont's, an' 
 ef you'll all come up hearty, yong an' ole, wid de 
 widder's mite, an' swell de collection!, I tell yer 
 what I gwine do : I gwine 'vide up even wid 
 de bride an' groom, an' we'll give 'em a golden 
 weddin' ter de best o' our stability, 'caze when a 
 pair o' ole pussons show de cour'ge what dee done 
 showed ter-day, hit's on'y right ter he'p 'em 'long 
 an' give 'em a start. What you say ?" 
 
 " Amen !" exclaimed an old man in the front 
 pew. 
 
 "Turn up de hat !" The voice came from the 
 body of the church this time. 
 
 " Ole age boun' ter ketch us all 'f we live," said 
 another a white-haired sister. 
 
 It was pretty, the generous spirit of this most 
 ingenuous and sympathetic people. 
 
 The collection was the largest ever known. 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 35 
 
 When it was over, and the congregation, every 
 individual of which had contributed something, 
 had again come to order, the minister, after offer 
 ing a short thanksgiving in the name of the bene 
 ficiaries, announced that before pronouncing the 
 benediction he desired to give a short notice. 
 
 " De bride an' de groom," said he, " wants me 
 ter noterfy dis corngergatiom dat on de former 'ca- 
 siom when dee got ma'yed, dee was j'ined onder 
 de name o' Smiff, bein' as Br'er Thormson at dat 
 time b'long ter de Smiffs, an' seem lak, ef dee 
 goes back ag'in fo'man an' wife, dee boun' by law, 
 ef dee boun' at all, ter teck up dey contrac' onder 
 de same entitlemint dee went by time dee 'sumed 
 de fus spornserbility, an' so now dee gwine leave 
 de name o' Thormson an' teck de name o' Smiff. 
 Dat's de fus p'int ; an' de secon' an* las' p'int is 
 dis : Sis Garrett, jest turned Thormson, and hence- 
 for'ard Smiff, she got a grief on 'er heart on de 
 'count o' a yong son o' hern an' Br'er Smiff 's what 
 strayed orf time o' de wah and 'ain't been heerd of 
 no mo', an' she baigged me ter be sho an' read 
 out from de pulpit ter-day a inscription! o' de 
 yong man, an' ter spressify de fac' dat 'is pa 
 an' ma crave ter meet up wid 'im ag'in. She say 
 he was name Little Joe, Joe Smiff (she don' know 
 ef he helt ter de Smiff, but she sho he cling ter de 
 Joe) ; an' fur de inscription!, de way she got 'im 
 on 'er min', she say he was a lakly yong man, 
 black-complected an' tall an' slim, an' at de time 
 o' de strayin' orf he had orn a blue check home- 
 
86 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 spun suit, an' fur face an' shape, she say he look 
 jes perzac'ly lak 'is pa, an' she furthermo' intreats 
 dis corngergatiora dat ef dee knows any yong man 
 name Joe (or even ain't name Joe, ef he fulfil 
 de yether inscriptioms) what 'ain't kep up wid 
 'is fambly, ter sen' 'im roun' tell dee zamine 'is 
 p'ints an' see ef he ain't b'longs ter dem. Dats 
 de way Sister Srniff done calt it out ter me,butef 
 dis yong man was b'long ter me, I wouldn't cramp 
 de search by no sech changeable inscriptioms. 
 Look ter me lak any black-complected yong man, 
 what is los' 'isse'f f'om 'is ma an' pa, deserve a 
 hearin', 'caze, when a pusson stops ter consider, 
 hit's been a long time sence de 'clarin' o' peace, 
 an' you know a pusson got time ter fatten an' fall 
 orf in all dis time, an' de homespun suit yer 
 kyant fasten dat on 'im no mo', 'caze he's boun' 
 ter been changed 'is cloze in all dese yeahs ef 
 he's fitt'n' to ketch up wid an' when yer come 
 ter lookin' lak 'is pa " the speaker shook his 
 head and smiled " you know dat's boun' ter be 
 in 'is mammy's ricollectiom : you an' me 'd nuver 
 see it, 'caze no yong man gwine look lak Br'er 
 Smiff look now, not speakin' onrespectful o' de 
 groom, 'caze we all on de same track ; but now, 
 on de consideratiorn o' dese p'ints, seem ter me de 
 name o' Smiff '11 do mo' ter ketch up wid dis way 
 ward son dan dese changeable inscriptioms ; whar- 
 fore, I charge you, in de name o' de love o' yo' 
 chillen, ter open yo' eyes ter see an' yo' ears ter 
 heah, an' try ter fin' dis prodigums son fur 'em ! 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 37 
 
 His ma an' pa, dee say dee know he's safe, livin' 
 er daid, 'caze dee's belt 'ira up, day an' night, in 
 de arms o' faith, close-t ter de mercy-seat ; but yit, 
 ef he's in de Ian' o' de livin,' dee craves ter lay 
 dey mortal eyes on 'im ag'in. He was borned 
 on de Morgan plantation, on de coas', an' was 
 sol', 'long wid 'is mammy, 'fo' de wah, ter de 
 Garretts, o' Bayou Gros Tete, f'om w'ich place 
 he crost over ter Placquemem, an' dat's fur as dee 
 knows." 
 
 Turning here toward the ministers, who sat in 
 a row behind the pulpit, he would have invited 
 one of them to pronounce the benediction ; but 
 the tallest of their number, known as Brother 
 Lincoln, had risen, and unbidden was stepping 
 forward. He was a black man of fifty or there 
 abouts, conspicuously handsome and of command 
 ing presence, a delegate from one of the upper 
 parishes. He stepped to the front, as if to ad 
 dress the congregation, hesitated, cleared his 
 throat, swallowed, essayed to speak, but failed 
 to command his voice, and finally, turning sud 
 denly, approached the old woman Cicely, and with 
 a voice broken with a sob, said, "Mammy, heah 
 little Joe." 
 
 The old woman, for the first time during all 
 the trying ceremony, lost her self-control. With 
 a shriek, she threw herself into the arms of her 
 son, whose first word assured her of his identity. 
 
 The old father sobbed aloud, trembling pite- 
 ously, but soon the son drew his mother's with- 
 
88 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 ered little form into a chair beside him, next the 
 old man, and, putting his strong arm around him, 
 drew him to himself. 
 
 There was not a dry eye in the church, and 
 not a few of the more emotional fell to shouting. 
 In the midst of the wildest excitement, Brother 
 Brown, himself weeping, pronounced a faltering 
 benediction, but the congregation were too much 
 wrought up for dismissal. It was quite dark 
 when at last, after innumerable hand - shakings 
 and many embracings father and mother lean 
 ing each on an arm of the son they passed out 
 of the church. 
 
 The story is told, and yet, before we leave 
 them, let us peep in upon the three as they sit 
 at the home fireside on this first evening. They 
 are in the mother's room, and the son occupies 
 the centre chair, while the old parents on either 
 side gaze fondly upon him. 
 
 " Joe," says the old man at length, " wh-whar'd 
 you git de name o' Lincolm, anyhow?" 
 
 " Well, yer know, daddy, I 'ain't meant no onri- 
 spec' ter you, but I 'ain't nuver spect ter see yer 
 no mo', an' you 'ain't had no name what yer 
 mought say was borned ter yer nohow, an' de 
 name o' Smiff look like hit had so much sporn- 
 serbility on it a'ready look like hit's done stood 
 fur so much tell hit don't stan' fur nuttn' no mo' 
 an* I was a-castin' 'bout fur a name what stood 
 fur freedom an' dat's huccome I tuck de name 
 o' Lincolm ; but in co'se, ef you sesso you <Je 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 39 
 
 one ter seh de word an' ef you sesso dat I's 
 boun' ter teck de name o' Smiff, in co'se I'll 
 I'll" 
 
 " No, no ! I 'ain't sesso ! What you say, 
 Cicely?" 
 
 " Don't pester me 'bout no 'titlemints to-night, 
 honey. I des wants ter set down heah an' feas' 
 my eyes on my baby! Ain't 'yer see how he 
 favor you, Aleck? Look at 'is haid. How yer 
 keep it so purty, Joe ?" 
 
 " I jes kyards it out wid a kyardin'-comb, same 
 as I use ter ; but I ain't 'ten' ter it much myse'f. 
 De-Dely, she mos'ly combs an' trains it." 
 
 " Who Dely ?" asked both the old people at 
 once, eagerly. 
 
 He laughed with some embarrassment. " Wh- 
 why, Dely she she's my wife." 
 
 " Umh !" grunted the mother. 
 
 " I sesso too !" echoed the father. 
 
 " Y-yas yas, 'm, I ma'yed ; yas, sir, I ma'yed. 
 Why, mammy, I's gittn' ole, me ! I got I got " 
 
 " What you got ?" asked both together, again. 
 
 "I got I got why, mammy, I got a gal big 
 as you is yas, 'm, I is." 
 
 " 'Ain't I toF yer he was des de perzac' image 
 o' you, Aleck ? I knowed quick as my back was 
 turned, he ma'y. What else you got, Joe ?" 
 
 " Who, me ? I got a whole passel o' chillen 
 boys an' gals, an' an' boys an' gals, an' boys 
 an'" 
 
 " Don't say it over no mo', Joe, 'less'n yer mean 
 
40 A GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 dey ain't no een ter 'em. Go orn an' tell us what 
 dey names. Umh ! Lord have mussy, Aleck ! 
 You an* me's 'bout a dozen gran'mammies and 
 gran'daddies, de way Joe's a-talkin' now. What's 
 de matter wid you, Joe ? Why'n't yer talk, an' 
 tell me dey names ?" 
 
 " I's tellin' yer fas' as I kin, mammy. De oles' 
 one, she name arter you." 
 
 The old woman smiled. " Is she ? Well, well ! 
 name Cicely, eh ?" 
 
 Joe scratched his head. The examination was 
 trying. 
 
 " No, 'm, not ezzac'ly. Yer see, my wife, she 
 name Delia, an' you name Cicely, an' so I put de 
 two names togedder, Cicely an' Delia, an' dat 
 comes out Celia. She name Celia." 
 
 " Mh hm ! Yas, I see. Yer named 'er arter 
 me, an.' calls 'er Celia. I's glad yer splained it 
 out ter me 'fo' yer toF me de name, 'caze ef I'd 
 a-started backwards on dat, I nuver would o' 
 ketched up wid it. An' de boys, what dee 
 names ?" 
 
 " Well, de oles' one, he name Aberham, to 
 match in wid de Lincolm ; an' den startin' dat 
 a-way, I was 'bleege ter finish de set, ,o arter 
 Aberham come Isaac an' Jacob j den come Phil 
 Sheridam an' Gineral Grant, an' " 
 
 "Yer 'ain't thought 'bout namin' none ob 'em 
 Alexander de Great, is yer?" asked the old man, 
 timidly. " Dat's my name, and hit's tooken outn 
 de book; I heerd ole marster sesso." 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING 41 
 
 "I gwine name de nex' one dat, sho, daddy. 
 Hit '11 glorify de whole crowd wid granjer." 
 
 But why try to follow them in their artless, 
 original, and most ingenuous talk ? 
 
 It was late, and all had gradually subsided into 
 silence, when the old man spoke again. He had 
 been for some time looking at the orange branch 
 which still stood in the bottle on the table. "Cice 
 ly," said he, "look ter me like maybe dishere 
 o'ange in de bouquet stood fur little Joe." 
 
 " I had dat in my min' all de time, Aleck ; an' 
 dat's huccome I 'ain't bruck it orf ; but look ter 
 me now like de branch 'ain't did full juty, 'less'n 
 hit's got 'bout a million o' little o'anges on it, ter 
 stan' fur all o' little Joe's boys an' gals." 
 
 "An' I bet yer, ef yer look close-t, you'll fine 
 'em, too," said the old man. 
 
 And it was true. 
 
 c 
 
LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 
 
LAMENTATIONS OF JEEEMIAH 
 JOHNSON 
 
 IT was a hot day in August. Groups of cattle 
 stood about in shady spots chewing their 
 cuds, gazing out with mild resignation upon the 
 gleaming field. Horses here and there rolled in 
 the grass to cool themselves ; restless hogs moved 
 from one mud puddle to another, grunting a pro 
 test against the rising mercury ; noisy hens, set 
 tling themselves about in gossipy squads under 
 the barnhouse floor, chattered as they scratched 
 down into the substratum of moist sand for cooler 
 spots for their feathered breasts. Such was the 
 picture in Judge Williams's barnyard on this par 
 ticular August day. 
 
 At the extreme end of the enclosure, where a 
 little branch wound its way beneath the shade of 
 a sweet-gum tree, a flock of puddle ducks floated 
 about in the shadow ; and here, on the grassy 
 bank, a fat black woman stood before a row of 
 tubs, washing. Across the creek, and it was only 
 a step, and beyond a wild-rose hedge, quite out 
 of sight, perched upon the top crossing of a rail- 
 fence, on guard over the judge's family washing, 
 which lay bleaching in the sun, was the subject 
 
46 LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 
 
 of this sketch Lamentations of Jeremiah John 
 son. 
 
 Out in the full glare of the August sun he sat, 
 with head sunburned and bare. He was black, 
 tall, lank, and unpretty, to put it mildly ; and 
 he wore to-day a single garment which partly 
 covered, but did not ornament, his homely person. 
 A yellow calico dress, buttoned (or rather un 
 buttoned) behind, and caught by a rusty pin mid 
 way between neck and waist^ boasted a long skirt 
 which fell nearly to his feet when he stood, but 
 now, lifted by his projecting knees, it fell in 
 foliated curves, from which the slender black legs 
 dangled as dark stamens project from the yellow 
 calyx of the marsh-lily. 
 
 Lamentations was now twelve years old, and yet, 
 although he was the only child of his mother, he 
 had never possessed a masculine garment of any 
 description. He was the last and only survivor 
 of a family of ten children, and as the others 
 had all been daughters, who had died at va 
 rious ages from infancy up to fifteen years, 
 there were feminine garments of assorted sizes 
 awaiting him at his birth, from the guinea-blue 
 baby-frocks to the large dresses of homespun 
 which lay folded away in his mother's press, an 
 inheritance into which he was slowly and sure 
 ly growing, and from which he would fain 
 have held back, if there had been any relief 
 at the other end ; but Lamentations saw that 
 the only way out of this dilemma was through 
 
LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 47 
 
 it, and so, if be prayed at all, he prayed to 
 grow. 
 
 " Ef I could jes grow past dem gal frocks, I'd 
 be willin' ter die de nex' minute, 'caze den I 
 could die like what I is, an' Aspect myself as I 
 on'y kin 'spect myself in breeches ! I ain't nuver 
 gwine ter git no ambitioms nor no mannishness 
 s'long's I got ter roam roun' in dese heah yaller- 
 buff gal cloe's !" 
 
 In this fashion Lamentations was wont to give 
 vent to his feelings on the subject of his attire ; 
 but he protested secretly, as he found himself the 
 worse always for any open rebellion, his mother 
 often beating him, and declaring that he was 
 "dat proud dat he was a reg'lar ole maid," and 
 that " what was good enough for the angels in 
 Heab'n was good enough for him." This allusion 
 to his departed sisters generally worked her up 
 to the whipping point, and so Lamentations kept 
 a discreet silence, though he rebelled in secret. 
 
 Lamentations' parents, Antony and Priscilla, 
 had been a worldly pair in their youth, and An 
 tony regarded the birth and death of nine daugh 
 ters consecutively as a visitation of Providence 
 for their early sins. 
 
 " It shorely is a visitation!, an' a double visita- 
 tiom," he had lamented. " Fust an' fo'most, de 
 bare fac' o' havin' nine gals han'-runnin' is a visi- 
 tatiom ; an' secon' and hin'most, de losin' ob 'em 
 arter you is got 'em is a double correction! wid 
 de scourgin' rod." 
 
48 LAMENTATIONS OP JEREMIAH JOHNSON 
 
 One evening Antony and Priscilla sat inside 
 their cabin door. It was Sunday, and they had 
 been to meeting. On the Sunday before, they 
 had buried their last child, the ninth. 
 
 The sun was setting behind the hill, and cast 
 ing a last ray over the little cemetery at its foot, 
 brought into clear view the row of graves that 
 held the records of their many losses. 
 
 Antony gazed intently at them for some time. 
 Finally he said : "P'cilla, I b'lieve dat the visi- 
 tatiom's done finished ! I don't b'lieve Gord's 
 gwine ter give an' teck no mo' gals !" 
 
 "Huccome you ca'culatin' so free, I like ter 
 know?" said his wife. 
 
 " Well, Ps been obserbin', an' a-speculatin' ; an' 
 a-settin' heah a-studyin', I's come ter dis conclu- 
 siom " 
 
 " What conclusion! is you come ter, Antony ?" 
 
 " I come ter dis conclusion! dat nine am de 
 fatal figgur. Now you jes lis'n ter me ! Look 
 at de signs o' de nines !" 
 
 "I knows de signs o' de nines," interrupted 
 Priscilla. 
 
 " What signs you know ?" 
 
 " G'way f'om heah, Antony ! You reckin 'caze 
 I ain't learned in the books dat I 'ain't got no 
 education! ! Even a yo'ng kitten, what is got de 
 leastest sense in all creatiom, is got sense enough 
 not ter try ter open hits eyes on dis sinful worl' 
 befo' de nine days o' darkness is out." 
 
 " ' De nine days o' darkness !' Yer jes struck 
 
LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 49 
 
 it right dar, P'cilla. Now we's all jes de same as 
 new-borned kittens befo' Gord. In fac' we ain't 
 'spornserble fur not beirf kittens, an' new-born, an' 
 blins at dat. Now, jes fur de sake o' de argimen- 
 tatiom o' de subjec', let's us supposin' dat all de 
 worP is new-borned kittens, den it toilers, in 
 co'se, dat all de worP is borned bline, which is de 
 case, bein' borned in a state o' sin an mizry. Ain't 
 dat so ?" 
 
 "You goes so fas' I kyan't keep up wid yer, 
 Antony. Say all dat ag'in. I ain't a-gwine ter 
 give in ter nut'n' what mecks me out no varmint, 
 'less'n I sees de proof, ef you is willin' ter argify 
 yo'se'f inter a torm-cat." 
 
 " Hush, P'cilla. You's a-runnin' away wid dis 
 subjec' jes de same's a cat runs away wid a 
 mouse. Now you lis'n ter n_e, 'spornserble, not 
 fur de callin' o' no names, which I ain't a-doin', 
 but fur de sake o' de substantiation! o' de proof." 
 
 " Substantiation of the proof " was too much 
 for Priscilla. The words were well chosen, and 
 gained her respectful attention, while Antony 
 slowly repeated his argument, and in a moment 
 she had agreed that all men were " jes de same 
 a? new-borned kittens befo' Gord." 
 
 "Well," said Antony, " dat's a fixed fac'. 
 Now, ef we's de same as new-borned kittens, 
 don't you see dat we's got ter go froo our nine 
 days o' darkness befo' we comes out in de light?" 
 
 Priscilla saw it. 
 
 "Well, now, ain't de losin' of a baby, even 
 4 
 
50 LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 
 
 ef 'tis a gal baby ain't dat a day o' dark 
 ness ?" 
 
 " Dat's so," said Priscilla. 
 
 " An' ain't a-losin' nine ob 'em goin' froo nine 
 days o' darkness ?" 
 
 Priscilla raised up her face and assented respect 
 fully. She was convinced. 
 
 " Now, look a - heah ! " Antony continued. 
 " We's done passed froo de darkness, an' my b'lief 
 is dat Gord's gwine ter raise de visitatiom an' 
 show us de light dat is, ef we ac's 'spornserble." 
 
 "Antony!" 
 
 " What yer want, P'cilla ?" 
 
 Priscilla eyed him askance as she said, " You 
 talks like you's gitt'n' 'ligion !" 
 
 " I ain't a-sayin' I's gitt'n' 'ligion, P'cilla, but 
 I's a-speakin' f'om de innermos'nesses ob my 
 heart." 
 
 " Antony !" 
 
 " What yer want, P'cilla !" 
 
 His wife smiled faintly as she replied, " De 
 time I'll b'lieve you's got 'ligion '11 be de time 
 yer gits de spring-chicken honger an' stays in de 
 baid all night an' nuver bodders 'long o' no hain- 
 rooses !" 
 
 Antony did not join in the laugh that followed 
 this, but said, seriously : " You is a awful game- 
 maker, P'cilla, an' I ain't a-denyin' dat I's gi'n 
 yer plenty o' 'casion ter meek game o' me. But 
 look heah !" 
 
 He rose slowly from his chair, and, pointing to 
 
LAMENTATIONS OF JEKEMIAH JOHNSON 51 
 
 the little row of graves, now barely visible in the 
 approaching twilight, he said : " Look a-heah 1 
 A-standin' heah to-night, a-p'intin' ter dat row o' 
 gal graves on de hill-side yonder, each one ob 'em 
 which holds a sign an' a symbol ob a double visi- 
 tatiom, in de givin' an' de teckin' ob a gal chile, I 
 stan' up an' say befo' Gord, dat ef He holps me, 
 I's a-gwine ter ac' 'spornserble an' opright, befo' 
 anudder nine graves gits a start on us, becaze 
 Gord don't do nutV by halves, an' ef He's started 
 a-chastisin' us by de fatal nines, He ain't a-gwine 
 ter back down on it !" 
 
 Priscilla glanced toward the row of graves and 
 heaved a deep sigh. Then, slowly turning from 
 her husband, she opened the door of a safe at her 
 side, and taking from it a tin plate of cold bacon 
 and 'greens, and reseating herself with it on her 
 lap, she began to eat them, raising the dark 
 green shreds with her fingers into the air above 
 her head, and slowly lowering them into her 
 capacious mouth. Priscilla was of the earth, 
 earthy. She had mourned heartily and boister 
 ously over each of her nine bereavements, but her 
 bosom was not the home of sorrow, and when a 
 grief fell into it, it was as an acid falling into an 
 alkali. The effect was effervescent, evanescent, 
 and when once the bubbling ceased, the same acid 
 could not stir it again. 
 
 She grew serious at mention of her dead chil 
 dren, and ate the flabby garlands of greens in 
 silence, chewing meditatively, and ruminat- 
 
52 LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 
 
 ing almost sadly over each mouthful before 
 elevating another for inspection and consump 
 tion. 
 
 It was in the spring following this that to the 
 house of Antony and Priscilla came a little son. 
 Antony was in the field " chopping cotton " when 
 the news came to him. He behaved with strange 
 excitement on this occasion, dropping his hoe 
 as he exclaimed : " De visitatiom's done h'isted J 
 Glory be to Gord !" and on the Sunday following 
 he did what, notwithstanding his reformed life, 
 he had never done before. He made a public pro 
 fession of religion, and, in the language of Broth 
 er Williamson, the officiating minister, " Cornse- 
 crated hissef and all o' hisn to de service o' de 
 Lord !" 
 
 Antony expressed great concern as to the selec 
 tion of a name for his son. It must be a Bible 
 name a name that should be an inspiration to 
 the lad as well as a certificate of his father's 
 piety. 
 
 Brother Williamson suggested the names of 
 the gospels, but Antony objected. Matthews and 
 Johns were disgracing the saints all over the coun 
 try now, "and," he contended, "John Johnson 
 wouldn't do nohow, 'caze hit soun's like a pusson's 
 a-stammerin', an' jes as sho as I'd call John John 
 son, I'd git ter Johnin' an' couldn't stop. No, 
 don't gimme none o' dem stutterin' names !" 
 " How 'bout Mark !" ventured Williamson. 
 "Mark Mark," he repeated, reflectively; "a 
 
LAMENTATIONS OF JEKEMIAH JOHNSON 53 
 
 black Mark? Don't you know, Brer Williamson, 
 dat a black mark nuver stan's for no good ?" 
 
 "Dat's so lookin' at it dat-a-way. Dat's so. 
 Well, what yer say ter Luke?" 
 
 "No, sir !" he quickly replied. "'Ain't you jes 
 preached las' Sunday ag'in Lukewarm Christians? 
 Dat won't do." 
 
 Williamson hesitated ; then, counting on his 
 fingers, he slowly said, " Matthew, Mark, Luke, 
 John, Acts Acts is a good name, Brer John 
 son ; s'posin' yer names his name Acts ?" 
 
 Antony hesitated. There was a suggestion of 
 energy in the name even a hint of good works; 
 still, he did not seem quite to like it. Finally he 
 said: "I did know a man once-t what named his 
 boy Ac's, but he come ter it reg'lar. He had all 
 o' Ac's's pardners hand-runnin' Maffew, Mark, 
 Luke, and John; an' hit seems ter rne like goin' 
 backward, somehow like turnin' de 'postles cat- 
 awarmosed, an' treatin' 'em onrespecful, ter name 
 de fust boy Ac's. De fac' is, Brer Williamson, 
 hit looks ter me kind o' deceitful ter do dat 
 hit's like sneaking up berhindt 'em like, an' Maf- 
 few an' Mark an' Luke an' John would somehow 
 be slighted! an' besides, it don't seem as I's 
 ezzacly got a right ter fetch Ac's in heah, ber 
 hindt a whole passel o' Callines an' M'rias an' 
 sech. No; T wants ter fine a name what stan's ter 
 hitse'f like what I could sort o' teck liberties 
 wid movin' outn its place, one dat don't b'longs 
 ter no crowd." 
 
54 LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 
 
 The preacher ventured several other sugges 
 tions, but none seemed to suit. 
 
 Priscilla, with wifely devotion, wished to call 
 the boy Antony, but to this he would not lis 
 ten. 
 
 "No, no," he protested; " my name ain't clean 
 enough. Hit's been mixed up wid too much dev- 
 \\mint ter fit dat little angel o' light. Ef I kin 
 wuck off all de stains what's on it by de time he's 
 obleeged ter ca'y de Johnson part o' it out inter 
 de worP, I'll praise Gord." 
 
 The babe was nameless for a month. 
 
 Finally, one Sunday, Antony came home from 
 church jubilant. He had found the name to suit 
 his fancy. The preacher had read it out of the 
 Bible, and it had a sound of dignity that pleased 
 him. It seemed to be filled with exhortation and 
 warning and spirituality. It was " Lamentations 
 of Jeremiah." 
 
 The little babe winced visibly when, on the 
 next Sabbath, the water of baptism was sprinkled 
 on his unconscious head, and he became, whether 
 he willed it or no, " Lamentations of Jeremiah 
 Johnson." 
 
 No one ever had occasion to doubt the sincer 
 ity of Antony's conversion. It was a quiet facing 
 about, an unemotional turning from sinful ways 
 to a pure life. At first, the good people in the 
 church were hardly satisfied with the "speritual 
 evidences" in his case. They were disappointed. 
 The man who had been the best dancer of the 
 
LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 55 
 
 "double twis'," and could beat every man in the 
 county " cutting the pigeon wing," would certain 
 ly throw some of this muscular vigor into the new 
 life, and they had looked for great gymnastic 
 spiritual manifestations, so to speak, in his con 
 version. 
 
 Perhaps religion in his case would even hallow 
 the " pigeon wing," and sanctify the "double twis' " 
 who knew ? If Antony had worn a dazed vis 
 age and danced down the middle aisle in an ex 
 travagant " fling," his would have been considered 
 a more pronounced conversion. One of the broth 
 ers even whispered his disappointment in church 
 to a neighbor. " I shorely is disapp'inted," he 
 said. " I 'lowed dat maybe Brer Johnson would 
 sort o' stipulate inter grace." But Brer Johnson 
 did not " skipulate." There was nothing sensa 
 tional about his case. 
 
 For eleven years Antony was a quiet, consistent 
 Christian member of Chinquepin Chapel, and it is 
 safe to say that the light of his quiet life did 
 more to reform the morals of the congregation 
 and to raise the standard of personal piety among 
 them than did all the shouting and exhorting done 
 in the chapel during that time, and his death, oc 
 curring when Lamentations was eleven years old, 
 produced a profound sensation. It was as the 
 last years of his life had been full of peace and 
 a holy trust. The only time he was ever known 
 to shout was with his passing breath, when, hav 
 ing invoked God's blessing on his little son, his 
 
56 LAMENTATIONS OF JEBEMIAH JOHNSON 
 
 spirit passed out through a smile on his lips, and 
 he met the grim messenger with a clear though 
 faint " Praise Gord !" 
 
 After Antony's death, Priscilla gave up " crap 
 raisin'" and moved to town. She was a typi 
 cal negro improvident, emotional, gossipy, kind- 
 hearted, high-tempered, vain, dishonest, idle, work 
 ing two or three days in each week and "res'n* 
 up " the remainder, with always a healthy appe 
 tite and a "mizry in de bre's'." 
 
 She had professed conversion several times, and 
 as often become a backslider. The tips of her fin 
 gers led her easily into sin by fastening themselves 
 to her neighbors' goods, but this never brought 
 her into open shame, as did the tips of her toes, 
 for Priscilla was an inveterate dancer, and if a re 
 vival or camp-meeting drew her into the church, 
 it took only a string band or a fiddle to work her 
 ruin. Indeed, it became a byword that "Sister 
 Johnson shouted all winter and danced out o' 
 grace at every May-day picnic." 
 
 Such was Lamentations' mother. During the 
 year of her widowhood, as a visible means of 
 support, she had done the family washing for 
 Judge Williams and his wife; and though the 
 pay for so small an amount of work was pro 
 portionally small, there were perquisites in the 
 shape of a cabin rent free, "cold victuals," and 
 sundry opportunities for exercising the weakness 
 of her finger-tips, which made the situation a de 
 sirable one. Her cabin assigned to her on ac- 
 
LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 57 
 
 count of its proximity to the creek from which 
 she washed stood also conveniently near the 
 hen-house on one side and the vegetable garden 
 on the other, while its one window opened over 
 that dazzling, cooling, glowing, seductive tempta 
 tion to the flesh the watermelon patch ; and so, 
 when Priscilla said that " Gord had been good 
 to her, and she had no 'casion to complain," she 
 meant it. 
 
 Lamentations, as we have said, was twelve years 
 old when this story begins. Tall, black, unkempt, 
 arrayed in ill-fitting frocks, with a falsetto voice 
 and a stammering tongue, he was not a thing of 
 beauty; neither was he counted a joy, but rather 
 a sorrow, in the village of Washington, Arkansas, 
 in which he lived. If suspicion of any sort fell 
 upon him, his appearance went far toward its 
 confirmation, not only on account of his ugliness 
 of person, but his peculiar dress gave him a sort 
 of nondescript character, and seemed to brand 
 him as an evil spirit. 
 
 Priscilla's one maternal act had been sending 
 him to school. The four months of tuition each 
 year had been enough to make him a fair scholar, 
 as scholarship went in the negro free school of 
 Washington. His education was the one thing 
 about him that his mother respected. 
 
 It was vacation now. 
 
 As he sat on guard to-day in the crotch of the 
 fence, he seemed to fall into deep meditation. 
 Ever and anon he cast an anxious glance in the 
 
58 LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 
 
 direction of the sweet-gum tree, where, though 
 out of sight, he knew his mother stood; then 
 he would gaze wistfully at a pair of trousers 
 which lay bleaching on the grass. He was con 
 templating doing something which he feared to 
 attempt. 
 
 "Ef mammy was on'y a-washin' on de wash- 
 boa'd, 'stid o' renchin' an' a-starchin', I could lis'en 
 an' keep up wid her," he said. Finally, however, 
 the temptation became too great. He slid quick 
 ly down from the fence, dropped the yellow dress 
 on the ground, and proceeded hastily to array 
 himself in the judge's pantaloons, suspending 
 them from the shoulders by means of the twine 
 which he took from his whip. 
 
 As the old judge was a short and over-fat man, 
 the trousers were not much in the way of a fit. 
 He now selected a vest from the ground, slipped 
 his long black arms through the capacious arm- 
 holes, buttoned it down the front, and, with his 
 thumbs stuck into the pockets, began to strut up 
 and down, surveying himself with evident pride. 
 O, for a mirror ! He longed to behold himself in 
 masculine attire. Glancing at the sun, he shifted 
 his position, trying to see his own shadow, but the 
 midday hour denied him even this unsubstan 
 tial gratification ; and so, satisfying himself with 
 such a survey as he could get of his outline, he 
 resumed his promenade, and began a half-audible 
 soliloquy : " Dey ain't no use o' talkin' ! mannish- 
 ness comes wid breeches ! Dey sort o' kin. I 
 
LAMENTATIONS OF JEKEMIAH JOHNSON 59 
 
 feels like I mought be de jedge dis minute. I 
 shorely could 'spect myself in dese heah breeches, 
 even ef dey warn't no tighter'n dese, jes so dey 
 had laigs, an' was s'pendered up wid galluses ! I 
 could ac' like a genterman ; an' as I is, I ain't 
 nothin' an' nobody. Ef I jes had sech as dese, I 
 wouldn't be obleeged ter be a-spittin' terbacker 
 an' a-sayin' cuss-words jes ter show what I is, like 
 I does. I mought have some dignificatioms an' 
 mannerficatioms an' " 
 
 His soliloquy was brought to a sudden close 
 by a loud scream from the direction of the sweet- 
 gum tree. It was his mother's voice. Lamenta 
 tions had become so absorbed in self-contempla 
 tion that a drove of hogs had passed behind him 
 unobserved, leaving their footprints on the bleach 
 ing clothes. 
 
 Their only exit lay at the end of the Cherokee 
 hedge, a point near Priscilla, and she had taken the 
 alarm. She knew that their familiar porcine hie 
 roglyphs decorated her precious week's washing. 
 At the sound of her voice, Lamentations turned 
 and saw it all. He was terror-stricken. His first 
 impulse was to get out of the judge's clothing, 
 but haste embarrassed his motions. The twine 
 " galluses " were knotted. 
 
 Finally, just as his mother emerged from be 
 hind the hedge, the judge's apparel fell to the 
 ground, and he stood before her trembling a 
 pitiful nude statue of terror. His yellow dress 
 lay just behind him. To take a backward step 
 
60 LAMENTATIONS OF JEEEMIAH JOHNSON 
 
 would expose the judge's trousers. Nearer and 
 nearer came his mother; still Lamentations moved 
 not, neither did he speak. Finally Priscilla came 
 to a halt, and looking at him in mingled anger 
 and alarm, she began : 
 
 "Fur Gord's sake, what is you a-doin', a-stand- 
 in' up heah in yo' skin, Lamentations o' Jeremiah 
 Johnson ?" 
 
 Lamentations began to cry. This indication of 
 natural emotion fanned the flame of her ire, and 
 she continued : 
 
 " You is de onsettledes', wo-'countes', beatenes', 
 rapscalliones' nigger dat ever holped a po' sin 
 ner ter backslide ! You 'ain't got no mo' sperit 
 'n a suck-aig dorg ! What in kingdom come 
 is you been doin' !" She approached a step near 
 er. "Is you gwine ter speak, you black buz 
 zard?" 
 
 Lamentations was too much frightened to speak. 
 He made a desperate leap in the direction of the 
 yellow dress. Priscilla, thinking he was trying 
 to escape, started and caught him. One of his 
 feet had caught in the twine, and the judge's 
 nether garments trailed after him, becoming more 
 and more entangled about his legs as he danced 
 around his mother, while she laid on blows thick 
 and fast. Oh, the lamentations of Lamentations ! 
 As the pantaloons, flying around, brought their 
 own explanation, she became more and more ex 
 cited, and beat him without mercy. It made no 
 difference which way he turned. Every position 
 
LAMENTATIONS OF JEKEMIAH JOHNSON 61 
 
 presented a bare suggestion for another blow, and 
 it came every time. 
 
 Whether this beating provoked him to wrath, 
 or his brief experience in male apparel wrought 
 an inspiration, we cannot say ; but a change came 
 over Lamentations from this time. He became 
 desperate, and various depredations on hen-roosts 
 and melon-patches, even beyond the judge's do 
 main, were laid at his door. The wearer of the 
 yellow dress became a familiar figure in court, 
 but somehow he always managed to escape con 
 viction. Finally, however, justice sought and 
 found him at home. 
 
 A pair of young Plymouth Rock hens disap 
 peared one night from the roost, and suspicion, 
 confirmed by fresh footprints between the cabin 
 and hen-house, and feathers corresponding with 
 those of the missing chickens hidden in Priscilla's 
 room, fell on the occupants of the cabin. 
 
 The footprints were Lamentations', but his 
 mother had hidden the feathers. 
 
 . On inquiry, it transpired that, the night before, 
 Priscilla had entertained a crowd of her church 
 people on what she had been pleased to call 
 "tucky-hain." Now there were no turkey-hens 
 on the premises, and two fine Plymouth Rocks, 
 nearly as large, were missing. Circumstantial evi 
 dence against them was strong. 
 
 The judge had mother and son arrested and 
 brought into court his own court. 
 
 Priscilla was called up first. She unblushingly 
 
62 LAMENTATIONS OP JEKEMIAH JOHNSON 
 
 denied the accusation in toto, even weeping over 
 the contemplation of such ingratitude as so base a 
 theft would show. She dwelt at length upon the 
 kindnesses they daily received from the judge's 
 family, and wept afresh over the sad lot of " a po' 
 widderless 'oman an' a orphanless boy, wid nobody 
 ter pertect 'em 'less'n it was de jedge, what knowed 
 her po' daid husband," etc. Finally she swore 
 to the truth of all this, and Lamentations was 
 called. 
 
 A murmur of suppressed mirth ran through the 
 court as the tall, gaunt wearer of a white swiss 
 dress stalked gawkily upon the stand. Priscilla 
 meant that her son should look his best on this 
 important occasion, and had arrayed him in the 
 Sunday frock of one of his departed sisters. It 
 had belonged to one somewhat younger than Lam 
 entations, and so the fluted ruffles came just to 
 the knees, which, with his legs and feet, were 
 bare. His sunburned hair, usually fluffing out 
 like a mop, was now braided, and stood up in 
 stiff spikes all over his head. He was nervous 
 and embarrassed. Quickly repeating as nearly 
 as he could the substance of his mother's testi 
 mony, he offered to swear to the truth of it. 
 
 Before presenting the Bible, the judge took 
 occasion to say a word on the sanctity of an 
 oath, and even spoke kindly to the boy as he 
 made a brief allusion to his old father, Antony. 
 Now the one thing sacred to Lamentations was 
 the memory of his father. The judge bade him 
 
LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 63 
 
 think well before laying his hand on the Holy 
 Book, and handed him the Bible. In taking it, 
 Lamentations' hand shook, and it fell upon the 
 floor*. It fell open. As the boy stooped to pick 
 it up, he started took hold of it dropped it 
 and finally, trembling violently from head to 
 foot, he approached the judge, and made a full 
 confession of the theft, humbly begging that he 
 would not spare him, but punish him as he de 
 served. But the judge did spare him, sending 
 both boy and mother home with only a whole 
 some admonition. 
 
 This was the turning - point in Lamentations' 
 life. 
 
 The old judge, believing that his influence had 
 brought the confession, took a new interest in the 
 lad, and the boy in dresses was called from the 
 cabin in the rear lot to serve in the judge's fam 
 ily, and arrayed, at the age of thirteen years, in 
 his first pair of " pants." 
 
 Notwithstanding many faults of character, such 
 as idleness and mischief, Lamentations never be 
 trayed the trust of his benefactor. He was his 
 father's son, and his reformation was honest and 
 complete. 
 
 But this was fifteen years ago. Priscilla died 
 in grace on the last day of April last year, and 
 the May-day picnic was postponed that all the 
 Chinquepin Chapel folk might do her honor. 
 
 Lamentations still holds in the judge's family 
 a position of trust. He is now also the pastor of 
 
64 LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 
 
 Chinquepin Chapel loved by his people and re< 
 spected by all. 
 
 Just after his appointment to this post I hap 
 pened to be in the neighborhood, and knowing 
 something of the young man's history, I went to 
 hear his inaugural sermon. I was struck by his 
 changed appearance. No longer a butt of ridi 
 cule in skirts did I behold, but a serious youth, 
 reading from God's word, and exhorting the peo 
 ple to holier living. Briefly reviewing his life 
 from his youth up, he finally approached the time 
 of his conversion. 
 
 As nearly as I can remember, his words were 
 these : " I was buried an' steeped in sin, my bred- 
 ren, an' every time I tried ter rise an' be a man in 
 my father's image, somethin' bolt me back, an' I 
 'lowed 'twas them frocks, which somehow seemed 
 to keep me in my mother's image not meanin' 
 no disrespec's ter her, my bredren, but it ain't in 
 nature fur a man ter 'spire when 'pearances is sot 
 squarely ag'in 'im ; but I say now, ef dem gal 
 clo'es stunted me in de sperit, it was becaze I was 
 willin' 'ter be holt back, an' wasn't a-strivin' ter 
 rise. But, my dear bredren, de day I was holten 
 down de strongest, Gord callt me, an' I tell yer, 
 my sistren an? bredren, ef ever a mannish sperit 
 was holten down by raiments an' adornments, my 
 sperit was cramped dat day in dat white swist 
 frock ! I jes felt like I warn't no mo'n one o' dese 
 heah sky-rockets a heap o' show-offishness roun' 
 a little black stick an' I 'lowed to myse'f dat I 
 
LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 65 
 
 belonged ter de debble, an' I was ready ter say any 
 false words what he put inter nay mouf, when dat 
 Bible fell on de flo'. An* when I stooped down 
 ter pick it up, what yer reckin I see ? Bless 
 Gord ! I see my own name a-starfin' on top o' 
 de page ! Yes, ray dear bredren, on de top, an* 
 in dese heah big letters! Seemed at fust like I 
 was struck bline, an' I heerd Gord a-callin' my 
 name, * Lamentations o' Jeremiah !' an' de cote- 
 house an' de jedge an' all de people faded outn 
 my sight, an' I nuver felt dat swist frock no mo'n 
 ef it had o' been breeches, an' I seen my old daddy 
 a-layin' on de baid, with his white haid on de pil- 
 ler, an' seemed like I heerd him a-prayin' ter Gord 
 ter teck an' raise up dis heah po' little black chile 
 ter wuck fur Him, an' ter be His faithful soljer 
 an' servant ; an' oh, my bredren, I know den dat 
 Gord done callt me done callt me, an' showed 
 me my name in de book ; an' dar I stood, a ugly 
 black varmint, all furbelowed up in gal finery, an' 
 chuck -full dat minute 0' de jedge's dominicker ! 
 Seemed like I could see myse'f, an' I say ter my- 
 se'f, ' I ain't fitten ter 'spond ter sech a call as 
 dis.' An' a big lump riz up in my froat, big as 
 a whole tucky-hain, but I knowed hit warn't de 
 shubshance o' dat dominicker dat was a-chokin' 
 me ; hit was the shubshance o' sin ! Hit was 
 a-chokin' me, an' I spewed it outn my mouf, an' 
 confessed de trufe, an'de lump went outn my naik, 
 an' peace riz up in my soul !" 
 The "Amens!" and "Glorys!" came in thick 
 5 
 
66 LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH JOHNSON 
 
 and fast from the responsive congregation as Lam 
 entations continued : 
 
 " Yes, Gord call-t me, my bredren, an' showed 
 me my name in de book ; but whar'bouts in de 
 book ? At de bottom o' de page ? No ; He 'ain't 
 lef me on de mo'ners' bench. In de middle o' de 
 page ? No ; He 'ain't sot me in de raids' o' de 
 corngergatiom. Den whar was it, my bredren ? 
 Hit was on top o' de page! Gord done call-t me 
 to de top done stood me heah in de pulpit ; an' 
 by His grace heah I is ! I tell yer, my bredren, 
 some o' dese heah preachers is gradgerated f'om 
 dishere college an' some f'om dat one, but Ps 
 gradgerated fom on high /" 
 
 The excitement and enthusiasm were intense 
 when I rose and quietly withdrew from the 
 chapel, and as I walked homeward the words of 
 the familiar hymn came to me : 
 
 "God moves in a mysterious way 
 His wonders to perform." 
 
 The good old man Antony densely ignorant, 
 but honest in his conviction in the one act of 
 faith that seemed most to betray the darkness of 
 his mind, selected this extraordinary name for his 
 son, and this act became the direct means of his 
 reward, in calling his boy from death unto life. 
 
 I say this confidently, for, after the test of fif 
 teen years, the man most loved among the people, 
 the one held most dear by the suffering, the sick, 
 and the aged among his race, but the one espe 
 cially known as the champion of all small boys, is 
 Lamentations of Jeremiah Johnson. 
 
UNCLE MTNGO'S "SPECUL AXIOMS" 
 
UNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOMS 
 
 T - LORD -A -MUSS Y, boss! You d' know 
 
 JL^ nothin' ! De idee o' you a-stannin' up dar an* 
 axin' me whar I goes to markit ! Hyah ! Hya,h ! 
 
 " Well, you see, boss, my markit moves roun' ! 
 Some days hit's right heah in front o' my risidence y 
 an' den I goes ter markit wid a drap-line an' a 
 hook ; an' some days hit's back heah in de Jedge's 
 giarbage bar'l,an' den I goes wid a hook ag'in a 
 hook on a stick. 
 
 "Don't you go to heavin' an' a-hawkin' an' 
 a-spittin' over my markitin', boss ! I'se clean ef 
 I is black, an' I'se pretickilar ef I does go to mar- 
 kit pomiskyus ! 
 
 " I ain't nuver seed a fresh giarbage bar'l out 
 side o' no quali-ty kitchen do', whar de cook had 
 good changeable habits, whar I couldn't meek a 
 good day's markitin', but I has ter know de hab 
 its o' de cook befo' I patternizes a new bar'l, an v 
 dat bar'l's got ter be changed an' scalted out reg'- 
 lar, ef hit gits my trade, caze I nuver eats stale 
 pervisioms. 
 
 "In cose, boss, I uses 'scretion long wid my 
 hook, 'caze some o' de contentions o' de bar'l ain't 
 fittin' fur no genterman ter eat, but seen as dish- 
 
70 UNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOMS " 
 
 water an* coffee-groun's, dee don't tantalize me, 
 caze dee don't hook up, an' I nuver markits wid 
 no dipper, case hit markits too pomiskyus ! 
 
 " Why, boss, ef you was good-hongry, you?d 
 eat de kyabbage an' little bacon eens arter I's 
 done washed an' biled 'em ! 
 
 "De bacon eens wid de little pieces o' twine in 
 'em looks like dee was jes' lef to be hooked ! I 
 tell yer, boss, de wuckins o' Providince is behelt 
 in de leavin' o' dem twine strings. 
 
 " You see, yer has ter onderstan' how ter 'scrim- 
 inate in markitin'. Dey's diff'ent kinds o' scraps. 
 Dey's kitchen scraps an' dish scraps an' plate 
 scraps. De kitchen scraps I uses mos'ly fur sea- 
 sonin' de green tops o' de ingons, pa'sley stems, 
 cilery leaves an' sech. De dish scraps is de ch'ice 
 scraps. Dee's fowl kyarcases an' ham bones an' 
 roas' beef bones an' de likes. De plate scraps I 
 ain't nuver fooled wid. I ain't come ter dat yit ! 
 I nuver likes ter see de pattern o' nobody's mouf 
 on my victuals ! Yer see, I was raised high, boss, 
 an' I ain't nuver got over it. 
 
 " Talk about gwine ter markit ! I don't want 
 no better markit 'n a f us' - class giarbage bar'l 
 an' 'scriminatiom. Ef I wants ter know who's 
 who, jes' lemme peep in de giarbage bar'l, an' I'll 
 tell yer ef dee's de reel ole-timers er new-sprout 
 ers er jes' out-an'-out po' white trash ! My old 
 mammy use ter say, ' Show me de cloze-line, an' 
 I'll tell yer who folks is !' an' she could do it, too ! 
 but I say, show me de giarbage, an' I'll tell yer 
 ef dee'll parse muster !" 
 
UNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOMS " 71 
 
 The speaker, an aged, white-haired black man, 
 eat, as he talked, on a log of driftwood on the 
 bank of the Mississippi River at Carrollton, just 
 above New Orleans. I often strolled out for a 
 breeze and quiet smoke on the levee during the 
 warm summer evenings, and it was here that I 
 first met Uncle Mingo. He was a garrulous old 
 negro, who lived alone in a shanty outside the 
 new levee, and was evidently pleased in discover 
 ing in me an interested listener. 
 
 In reply to his last remark I said, "But you 
 forget, old man, that many of us ' old-timers,' as 
 you call us, are poor now !" 
 
 He raised his face in surprise. 
 
 " Lord, boss, does you s'pose I's a-talkin' 'bout 
 riches? I's one o' deze befo'-de-war-yers, an' I 
 knows ! I tell yer, boss, hit ain't on'y de money 
 what mecks de diffence, hit's de hit's de boss, 
 I wisht I had de book words ter splain it de way I 
 knows it in heah !" He tapped his breast. " Hit's 
 de de diff'ence in de in de cornsciousness. 
 Dat's de oniest way I kin splain it. Hit seems 
 ter me de ole-time folks had de inside cornscious 
 ness, an' all dese heah new people ain't got nothin' 
 but de outside cornsciousness ! De outside corn 
 sciousness, hit bristles an' swishes an' wags ter- 
 menjus ; but de inside cornsciousness, hit jis lay 
 low an' keep still, an' hit's gentle in de high places, 
 an' when de waters o' tribulatiom runs ag'in it, 
 hit keeps a stiff upper lip an' don't meek no sign. 
 
 "Dar's my ole madam, Miss Annie, now, dat 
 
72 UNCLE MINGO S " SPECULATIOMS " 
 
 nse ter smile on ev'y nigger 'long de coas', so 'f eerd 
 she mought be a-slightin' some o' she's own people, 
 'caze she own so many she don't know half on 'em 
 dar she is now, a-livin' back o' town meckin' 
 yeast cakes fur de Christian Woman's JSfcchange, 
 an', boss, I wish-t you could see her ! 
 
 " You reckin she talk po' mouf ? No, sir ! 
 She's mouf warn't cut out by de po' mouf pat- 
 term ! She nuver lets on, no more'n ef de ole 
 times was back ag'in. 
 
 " I goes ter see her de days my rheumatiz lets 
 up on me right smart I goes ter see her, an' she 
 sets in dat little front room wid de two little yal- 
 ler steps a-settin out at de front do', an' she axes 
 me how I come on, an' talks 'long peaceful like, 
 but she nuver specifies ! 
 
 "No, sir, she nuver specifies ! Fur all you could 
 see, she mought have her ca'ge out at de front do' 
 an' be out dar ter see po' white folks on business. 
 Dat house don't fit her, and Marse Robert's po'trit 
 a-hangin' over dat little chimbly look like hit's 
 los', hit look so onnachel. 
 
 "I axed Miss Annie one day how long she 
 'spec's ter live dat-a-way, an' ef Gord forgives me, 
 I ain't a-gwine ter quizzify her no mo' !" 
 
 The old man hesitated and looked at me, evi 
 dently expecting to be questioned. 
 
 " Why, Uncle, didn't she answer you ?" I said. 
 
 " Oh, yas sir ! She answered me ; she say, 
 'Well, Unc' Mingo, I hardly know. I finds it 
 ve'y pleasant an' quiet out heah !' 
 
73 
 
 " ' Pleasant an' quiet H Lord have mussy ! An' 
 'bout a million o' po' chillen a-rippin' an' a-tarrin' 
 up and down de banquette, an' de organ-grinder 
 drowndin' out de soun' o' ( Ole Sweet Beans an* 
 Ba'ley Grow ' on her little box steps dat minute ! 
 
 "I ain't nuver answered her, on'y jes' tunned 
 my haid an' looked at de crowd, an' she say, 
 ' Oh, de chillen, dee are a little noisy, but I meant 
 in a' some kind o' way is dey got sich a word 
 as soshual, boss?" 
 
 "Social? Yes." 
 
 " Dat's hit in a soshual way she say she fine 
 hit's quiet, 'caze, she say, she ain't made no new 
 'quaintances out dar ; an' den she ain't said no 
 mo', on'y axed me ef de ribber's risin', an' I see 
 she done had shet de do' on my quizzifyin'. An' I 
 say ter mysef, 'New 'quaintances' I reckin not! 
 New 'quaintances in dat mixtry o' Gascons an' 
 Dagos an' Lord knows what ! I reckin not. 
 Why, boss, I kin smell de gyarlic jes' a-talkin' 
 'bout 'em ! De Lord !" 
 
 " Does she live alone, old man ?" I asked. 
 
 " Oh, no, sir, she got 'er ma wid 'er !" 
 
 " Her ma ! I thought you called her ' old 
 madam.' " 
 
 "So I is, boss, Miss Annie's we's ole madam, 
 she's jes' lackin' a month o' bein' as ole as me, 
 but Ole Miss, she's Miss Annie's ma, she's ole, ole. 
 She's one o' dese heah ole Rivolutioners, an' she's 
 gittin' mighty 'cripit an' chil'ish. 
 
 "She's got 'er pa's commission! in de army 
 
74 UNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOMS " 
 
 Bign-t by Gineral Washington. All we ole famb- 
 ly servants knows all dat, 'caze we's seen 'em teck 
 it out an' show de han'write too many times ! 
 
 " Yas, sir, she's a ole Rivolutioner, an' in place 
 o' dat, heah she is to-day a-livin' back o' town 
 gratin' cocoanut an' pickin' out puckons." 
 " Picking pecans ! What do you mean ?" 
 " Ter meek pralines ter sell, boss !" 
 " And how does she sell them, pray ?" 
 " She don't sell 'em, bless yo' heart, no ! My 
 daughter, she sells 'em !" 
 " Your daughter !" 
 
 "Yas, sir, my younges' gal, Calline. She's de 
 onies' one o' my chillen what's lef. She's de 
 baby. She mus' be 'long 'bout fifty." 
 
 "And you have a daughter right here in New 
 Orleans, and live here by yourself, old man ! 
 Why doesn't she come and take care of you in 
 your old age ?" 
 
 " An' who gwine to look arter we's white folks? 
 HP Ole Miss in an' out o' de baid, an' go of 
 arrants, an' do de pot an' kittle wuck, an' ca'y de 
 yeas' cakes ter de .Exchange, an' sell pralines, an' 
 answer de do'-knocker? Yer see, boss, de folks 
 at de .Exchange, dee don't know nothin' 'bout Ole 
 Miss an' Miss Annie. Yer see Calline, she's dee's 
 pertector ! I ain't a-sufferin', boss, I ain't a-suf- 
 ferin' ! An' ef I was, hit would be Gord's will ; 
 but we ain't made out'n de kine o' stuff ter try 
 ter meek weselves comfable, whilst we's white 
 people's in tribulatiom." 
 
' SPECULATIOMS " 75 
 
 I turned and looked at the old man. A ray 
 from the sun, now setting, across the river, fell 
 into his silver hair and seemed to transform it 
 into a halo around the gentle old face. I had 
 often found entertainment in the quiet stream of 
 retrospective conversation that seemed to flow 
 without an effort from his lips, but this evening 
 I had gotten the first glimpse of his inner life. 
 
 " And don't you feel lonely here sometimes, old 
 man ?" 
 
 "I know hit looks ter you dat-a-way, boss I 
 know hit looks dat-a-way but when I sets heah 
 by de water's aidge, you kyant see 'em, but com 
 pany's all arount me ! I'se a-settin' heah an' I 
 ain't settin' heah ! I's away back yonder ! Some 
 times seems like dis levee is de ole plantation, an' 
 out yonder whar de sun's a-shinin' on de water, 
 meckin' a silver road, all de ole-time folks dee 
 comes out dar an' seems like dee talks ter me an' 
 I lives de ole times ag'in ! 
 
 "Sometimes dee comes one by one down de 
 shinin' road, an' sometimes a whole passel on 'em 
 at once-t, an' seems like dee sets down an' talks 
 ter me. 
 
 " Lonesome ! If ever I gits lonesome, all I got 
 ter do is ter come heah on de river-bank an' 
 ponder, and when I 'gins ter speculate, heah dee 
 come, a-smilin' jes' like dee was in de ole days, 
 an' sometimes, boss, you mought come ter de top 
 o' de levee dar, an' you mought look out heah an' 
 see me, a ole black dried-up critter, settin' heah 
 
76 UNCLE MINGO'S "SPECULATTOMS " 
 
 in rags, an' maybe at dat minute I mought be a 
 million o' miles f'om heah, a settin' up on top o 1 
 Ole Miss's ca'ge, a-drivin' my white folks to 
 chu'ch, an' Marse Robert, de one dat was kilt in 
 de army, a little boy no more'n so high, a-settin' 
 up by my side, a-holdin' one rein an' a cluckin' 
 ter de horses ! 
 
 " I tell yer, boss, when I use ter git up on dat 
 silver-mounted ca'ge, wid my stove-pipe hat on, 
 dey warn't nobody what could o' bought me out. 
 I wouldn't o' sol' out ter de Juke o' Englan' ! I 
 was dat puffed out wid stuck-up-ishness !" 
 
 He paused, smiling in happy contemplation of 
 his departed glory. 
 
 " Uncle," I said, " I am going to ask you some 
 thing. What was the matter with you last even 
 ing ?" 
 
 " Istiddy ? Why, boss ?" 
 
 "Well, I was sitting out here on the levee 
 with a party of friends, smoking, and while we 
 laughed and told old jokes, I thought I heard 
 some one sobbing crying out aloud. Peering 
 through the twilight, I saw you just where you 
 sit now. We stopped and listened, and present 
 ly I think yes, I am sure you were laugh 
 ing. Would you mind telling me what was the 
 matter ?" 
 
 " Did you heah me, boss ? I reckin you 'lowed 
 dat I was gone 'stracted, didn't you ?" 
 
 " Well, no, I can't say that, but it did sound 
 queer, out here by yourself." 
 
UNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOMS " 77 
 
 "An* you'd like ter know de 'casion of it, boss. 
 Well, I'll tell yer, but I'se 'feerd, ef I does tell 
 yer, yer'll 'low dat I'se wus 'stracted 'n yer did 
 befo'. Howsomever, hit was dis-a-way : 
 
 " Istiddy mornin' I was a-settin' in my kyabin 
 a-sortin' out my markitin' a-puttin* a pile o' 
 kyabbage-leaves heah like, and de chicken-haids 
 like heah, an pilin' 'em up accordin' ter dey 
 kinds, when, all on a suddint, a picture o } de ole 
 times come up befo' me, an' in de place o* all 
 dese scraps, I see de inside o' Ole Miss's kitchen, 
 an' seemed like I could heah de chicken a-fryin', 
 an' de hot rolls was piled up befo' me, an' 'fo' I 
 knowed it, seemed like I was a-flyin' roun' de big 
 breckf us - table wid a white ap'on on, an' all de 
 diff'ent kinds o' seasonable steams out'n de dishes 
 come a-puflm' an' a-puffin' up in my face, an' I 
 couldn't get shet ob 'em ! 
 
 " I tell yer, boss, I nuver is had my day's mar 
 kitin' look so po' as it did in de presence o' 
 dat visiom o' de ole dinin'-room ! An' when I 
 looked at my chicken-haids, seemed like all dee's 
 eyes was a lookin' at me sort o' gretful, like dee 
 had feelin's fur me, an' like dee 'lowed dat I 
 mought hab feelin's fur dem, seein's we was all 
 havin' hard times togedder. 
 
 " Yer can look at me, boss, an' 'cuse me o' 
 high-mindedness, but my stummick turned ag'in' 
 dat victuals, an' I couldn't eat it ; an' I upped an' 
 put it back in de baskit, an' I baited a swimp- 
 bag an* a hook, an 7 I come out heah ter fish fur 
 
78 UNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOM8 " 
 
 my dinner, 'caze I say ter myse'f, * When giar* 
 bage markitin' goes ag'in' yer, yer kyant fo'ce it !' 
 
 " Hit warn't 'zacly gwine ag'in' me, but hit was 
 gwine ag'in' my ricollectioms, an' dey ain't much 
 diff'ence, 'caze dey ain't much lef o' me les'n 'tis 
 ricollectioms. 
 
 " Well, boss, ef flingin' dat dinner in de ribber 
 was chil'ish in me, Gord was mighty good. He 
 nuver punished me, but humored me, same as we 
 humors a sp'iled chile, an' gimme good luck wid 
 de bag an' line, an' I eat off'n fried cat-fish an' 
 b'iled swimps fur dinner. 
 
 " Well, dat was in de mornin'. Dat was my fust 
 spell o' onsatisfactiom ; an' arter dinner hit sort o' 
 come on me ag'in, an' I got sort o' lonesome, an* 
 long todes evenin' I come out heah fur company. 
 
 " I d' know how 'tis, but I meets all de ole-time 
 folks better out heah on de ribber-bank 'n any 
 place so I set down an' I commenced ter ponder, 
 an' treckly heah dee come ! An' f us' thing I know, 
 seemed like I lef my ole lorg heah, an' slipped 
 out'n my rheumatiz, an' was out in de silver road 
 wid de res', a-flyin' an' a-dancin' roun' wid all de 
 yo'ng boys an* gals what I knowed way back 
 yonder. Seemed like I reely was dar, boss, an' 
 de wah, an de breckin' up, an' all de tribulatioms 
 we been pass froo was blotted out, an' I was 
 yo'ng ag'in ! 
 
 " An' now, boss, come de strange 'speunce dat 
 upsot me. Whilst I was a-dancin' in de light an* 
 ac'in' skittisher 'n a yo'ng colt, I happened ter tu'n 
 
UNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOMS" 79 
 
 my haid roun' an' look todes de levee, an' I see a 
 'cripit, lonesome ole man, a-settin' still on a lorg 
 by hese'f, an' de bones o' 'is laigs a-showin' froo 
 de holes in 'is breeches. 
 
 " Fust, I ain't knowed 'im, tell I looked ag'in, 
 an' den I seed 'twas me, an' seemed like I was 
 a-settin' on de outside aidge o' de worl', an' I 
 kyant tell yer how I felt, boss, but hit sort o' 
 upsot me. I tried ter laugh an' den I cried. I 
 knowed I warn't ac'n spornserble, an' hit was 
 chil'ish in me. Dee does say when a pusson gits 
 ter a sut'n age dee's obleeged ter ac' chil'ish, an' 
 I reckin' I mus' be age-in' ; but whensomuver I 
 comes out heah ter ponder, arter dis, I's sholy 
 gwine ter set heah an' look back, 'caze a-gwine 
 back an' lookin' dis-a-way don't bring no comfort. 
 
 " Ter teck comfort out o' speculations, yer has 
 ter know which een ter start at !" 
 
 It seemed to me that the old man was weaker 
 than usual when he rose to go into his cabin, and 
 he allowed me to take his arm and assist him. 
 When we reached his door, I felt reluctant to 
 leave him alone. " Let me light your candle for 
 you," I said. 
 
 " Candle ! What fur, boss ?" 
 
 " Why, so that you may undress and go to bed 
 comfortably." 
 
 " What use is I got fur a candle, boss ? All 
 dese years I been livin' heah, I ain't nuver is had no 
 light yit. All I got ter do is ter lay down an' 
 I's in baid, an' ter git up an' I's up. I ain't prayed 
 
80 UNCLE MINGO'S 
 
 on my knees sence de rheumatiz struck my lef 
 j'int." 
 
 I slipped a coin into the old man's hand and 
 left him, but the realization of his lonely and 
 feeble condition was present with me as I walked 
 down the levee, across the road, up through the 
 orange-grove to my comfortable home. I realized 
 that age and want had met at my own door. 
 What if the old man should die alone, within 
 reach of my arm, in an extremity of poverty for 
 which I should become personally responsible, if 
 I allowed it to continue ? 
 
 The question of his relief came again with my 
 first thoughts next morning, and when Septima's 
 gentle tap sounded on my door, and she entered, 
 freshly tignoned and aproned when her black 
 arm appeared beneath the mosquito-netting with 
 my morning cup of steaming Mocha, I thought 
 of the lonely old man in the levee cabin and of 
 his tremulous handling of his cooking utensils 
 that moment, perhaps, in the preparation of his 
 lonely meal. 
 
 The picture haunted me, and so the warm 
 breakfast which Septima carried him was sent as 
 much for the relief of my own mind as for his 
 bodily comfort, as was also the dinner which I 
 myself placed on the tray. The boiled heart of 
 a cabbage, with a broad strip of bacon, cut far 
 from the perforation that betrays the string, and 
 the headless half of a broiled chicken with no 
 eye to witness its own humiliation or to glaze in 
 
UNCLE MINGO'S "SPECULATIOHS" 81 
 
 sympathetic contemplation of the old man's en 
 vironment of poverty. 
 
 In the early afternoon, while the sun was still 
 high, I yielded to an impulse to go out and see 
 how my protege was getting along. I found him 
 sitting with head uncovered in the full glare of 
 the afternoon sun, outside his cabin door. 
 
 " Are you trying to bake yourself, Uncle ?" I 
 said, by way of greeting. 
 
 " Oh, no, sir ; no, sir. I's jes' a-settin' out heah 
 teckin' a little free-nigger-fire ;" and he immedi 
 ately began thanking me for my slight remem 
 brance of him at meal-time. 
 
 " You mus' o' been tryin' ter meek my visiom 
 come true, boss, 'caze when I looked at dat breck- 
 fus' dis mornin', hit come back ter me, an' I's 
 ashamed ter tell yer, but I did ac' chil'ish ag'in, 
 an' my froat seemed like hit stopped up, an' I 
 kivered de plate up an' come out heah an' cried 
 scan'lous. Hit looked like Gord was jes' a-sp'ilin' 
 me wid humorin' me dat-a-way. 
 
 " But treckly dat passed orf, an' I come in an' 
 sot down, an' seemed like I was mos' starved, I 
 was dat hongry, but I saved orf a little speck o' 
 ev'ything you sont me, jes 1 so dat ef I los' myse'f 
 in ponderin', an' mistrusted de sho'-nough-ness o' 
 dat breckfus', I could fetch 'em out fur proof, 
 'caze hit don't meek no diffe'nce how big visioms 
 is, dee don't leave no scraps ; an' you know, 
 boss, jes' livin' like I does, ter myse'f, sort o 1 on 
 de aidge bertwix visioms o' de min' an' visioms 
 6 
 
82 UNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOMS " 
 
 o' de eye, I does git mixed up some days, an' I 
 sca'cely knows ef I kin put out my han' an' tech 
 what I sees or not." 
 
 "How long have you been living this wav, 
 Uncle?" 
 
 " Well, I d' know ezzactly, boss. I stayed long 
 wid Ole Miss, down in Frenchtown, s'long's I 
 could meek a little off n my buck an' saw, an' 
 dee quar'ls at me reg'lar now fur leavin' 'em in- 
 specially Ole Miss. She so 'feered I mought git 
 sick an' dee not know. Calline, she comes up 
 mos'ly ev'y Sunday ter see me, an' fetches me 
 clean cloze an' a pone o' fresh braid, an' Ole Miss 
 son's me a little small change, an' I daresn't 'fuse 
 ter teck it, needer, but I ain't nuver used it. 
 Lord no ! I couldn't use de money dee mecks 
 wid dee's white little han's " 
 
 The old man seemed to forget my presence, and 
 his voice fell almost to a whisper. 
 
 " You haven't told me how long you have been 
 here, Uncle." 
 
 " Dat's so, boss dat's so !" he said, rousing 
 himself. "I was a-sayin' 'bout leavin' Ole Miss 
 I nuver liked it down dar, no how, in Frenchtown, 
 whar dee lives. Seemed like I couldn't git my 
 bref good behindt dem close-t rows o' box steps, 
 an' so when I 'scivered dat I could git reg'lar 
 wuck a-sawin' drif'-wood up heah, I come up an' 
 rid down in de kyars ev'y day; but dat was 
 wearin' on me, an' so You ricollec' de time o' de 
 cavin' o' de bank below heah, when two o' my 
 
UNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOMS " 83 
 
 color, Israel an' Hannah, got drownded ? Well, 
 dat sca'd off mos' o' dem what was a-livin' out 
 side o' de new levee, an* dey was a heap o' shan 
 ties up an' down de coas' lef empty, an' I moved 
 inter dis one. Dee's mos'ly caved in now. Ev'y 
 time my daughter heahs now o' de cavin' o' de 
 bank up or down de ribber she comes an' baigs 
 me ter go home but I ain't afeerd, no, I ain't 
 afeerd. Dis bank's got a stronger holt on de 
 main Ian' dan I got on de bank o' Jurdan." 
 
 " You talk about Jordan as if it were nothing. 
 Aren't you ever afraid when you think of it, 
 Uncle?" 
 
 " Afeerd o' what, boss ?" 
 
 " Of dying," I answered plainly. 
 
 He smiled. " Was you afeerd o' yo' pa when 
 you was little, boss ?" 
 
 " Why, certainly not." 
 
 " Den I ain't afeerd nuther. Ain't Gord we's 
 Father ? He done handled me too tender fur me 
 ter be 'feerd o' Him. Yas, He done handled me 
 too tender an' now, when I's gittin' notionate, 
 He's a-spilin' me wid humorins an' indulgins. 
 Afeerd! No, no !" 
 
 The requirements of beauty, as laid down by 
 authorities on the subject, are always resolved 
 into a question of lines and color, of curves and 
 tints a certain synthesis of corresponding parts 
 into a perfect unit of grace. It may, or may not 
 be, that an analysis would demonstrate that the 
 conditions had been for the moment fulfilled in 
 
84 
 
 the unconscious person of this old negro. I 
 know not how this may be, but I am sure I never 
 saw any countenance more spiritual and beautiful 
 than the gentle brown face he turned upward tow 
 ard heaven, as in half soliloquy he thus spoke 
 the childlike trust of his undoubting heart. I 
 understood now how he might even doubt wheth 
 er he might not "put out his hand and touch" 
 the hand of the Giver, who was as real to him as 
 the gifts with which he felt himself "humored 
 and indulged." 
 
 " Except ye become as little children " God 
 give us all such faith as this ! 
 
 " You are not all recollections after all, "Uncle," 
 I said. 
 
 " Not in de sperit, boss jes' in de miri*. Yer 
 see, de sperit kin go whar de min' kyant foller. 
 My min' goes back an' picks up ricollectioms 
 same as you tecks dese heah pressed flowers out'n 
 a book an' looks at 'em. My min' is de onies' 
 book I's got, an' de ricollectioms is pressed in 
 hit same as yo' pressed flowers. 
 
 " Gord ain't forbidden us to gyadder de flowers 
 what He done planted 'long de road, an' de little 
 flowers we picks up an' ca'ys 'long wid us, dee ain't 
 a-showin' dat we's forgittin' we's journey's een." 
 
 I left the old man with a keener regret than I 
 had felt the evening before, and I was annoyed 
 that I could not shake it off. I knew the thing 
 that I ought to do, but it involved inconvenience 
 to me which my selfishness resented. I had cul- 
 
UNCLE MINGO'S " SPJKCULATIOMS " 85 
 
 tivated the old negro to put him into a book, and 
 now I felt impelled to move him bodily into my 
 yard. I could not deal otherwise than gently 
 with this antiquated bunch of aristocratic recol 
 lections, nor treat with dishonor the spirit that 
 soared to heights to which I had not attained. 
 
 I strolled up the levee and back again several 
 times, always turning before I reached the little 
 cabin ; but finally I approached it and seated 
 myself as before on a log on its shady side, facing 
 the old man. "Uncle," I said, plunging head 
 long into the subject, "I want you to come and 
 live in a cabin in my yard. You can't stay here 
 by yourself any longer !" 
 
 " Yer reckin' dee'll min' ef I stays ?" he asked 
 apprehensively. 
 
 " Reckon who'll mind ?" 
 
 " De owners o' de kyabin, boss. Yer reckin' 
 dee'll min' ?" 
 
 " I'm the owner, Uncle, and I don't mind your 
 staying, but I can make you more comfortable in 
 another vacant cabin within my grounds. Won't 
 you come ?" 
 
 The old man looked troubled. " You's mighty 
 kine an' mighty good; but, boss, ef yer don't min', 
 I'll stay right heah." 
 
 "The other cabin is better," I insisted; "the 
 chimney of this is falling now look at it." 
 
 " I know, boss, I know ; hit ain't dat but 
 hit's my white folks. Dee's dat proud dee 
 wouldn't like me ter be berholten ter nobody but 
 
86 TJNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOMS " 
 
 dem. Yer see, I'd be a 'umblin' dem, an' dat 
 ain't right." 
 
 " Well, Uncle," I said, " do you know where 
 I could get a good, steady old man to come and 
 stay in my little cabin and look after things ? I 
 am away a good deal, and I want some reliable 
 man to carry my hen-house key and gather eggs 
 and vegetables for me. I'd give such a man a 
 good home, and take care of him." 
 
 " H-how did you say dat, boss ?" 
 
 I repeated it. 
 
 " Yer reckin' I'd do, boss ?" 
 
 " Well, yes, I think you'll do. Suppose you 
 try it, anyway." 
 
 We moved him over that evening, and he 
 seemed very happy in his new home. He even 
 wept, as, on entering it, he glanced around at its 
 homely comforts ; but he was evidently failing, 
 and it was not long before he often kept his bed 
 all day. 
 
 He had been with us a month, when, one evening, 
 he sent for me. " Set down heah, boss, please, 
 sir," he said. " I wants ter talk ter yer. I's wor 
 ried in my min' 'bout my people my white folks. 
 Dis worrjmint ain't nuver come ter mefurnothin', 
 an' I's 'sturbed in de sperit." 
 
 " Aren't you sick yourself, Uncle ?" I asked, 
 for he looked very feeble. 
 
 " No, sir, I ain't sick. I's jes' a-nearin' home. 
 Some days hit seems ter me I kin heah de ripple 
 o' de water, I's dat near de aidge. De bank's 
 
87 
 
 nigh cavin', but Gord's a-lettin' me down mighty 
 tender mighty tender. 
 
 "But dat ain't what meek me son' fur you, 
 boss. I's troubled 'bout my people. I had a 
 warnin' in my dream las' night, de same warnin* 
 I had when Marse Robert was kilt, an' when Ole 
 Boss died, an' when all we's troubles come ; an' I 
 'spicion now dat hit's Ole Miss gone an' would 
 yer min' 'quirin' 'bout 'em fur me, boss ?" 
 
 Thrusting his hand nervously under his pillow, 
 he brought out a little soiled package, wrapped 
 and tied in the corner of an old bandana handker 
 chief. 
 
 "An' won't yer, please, sir, ter teck dis little 
 package wid yer, an' ef Ole Miss is daid, jes' 
 give dis ter Calline fur me ? Don't 'low nothin' ter 
 nobody else jes' give hit ter Calline, an' say as I 
 sont it. Hit's twenty dollars what I saved f'om 
 my wood-sawin', 'long wid all de change Ole Miss 
 sont me. 
 
 "I done saved it by, 'g'inst de comin' o' dis 
 time fur Ole Miss, an' maybe dee mought be sca'ce 
 o' small change. Dee's address is in dar." 
 
 Untying the handkerchief, I found on a scrap 
 of paper the name of a street and number, but no 
 name of a person. Sometimes pride survives 
 after a fall. 
 
 " Tell Calline," the old man continued, " I say 
 hit's all fur Ole Miss's buryin', an' don't specify ter 
 Miss Annie, caze she's dat proud she moughtn't 
 teck it, but Ole Miss wouldn't kyah she wouldn't 
 
88 UNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOMS " 
 
 kyah. Ef I 'lowed dat Ole Miss would kyah, I 
 wouldn't fo'ce it on her, 'caze I wouldn't have no 
 right but she wouldn't kyah. 
 
 " She nussed me when I was a baby Ole Miss 
 did. 
 
 " My mammy, she nussed Miss Annie reg'lar, 
 an' yer know she an' me is jes' a month older 'n 
 one-'n'er, an' you know how women folks is, boss, 
 jes' changin' roun' an' a-nussin' one-'n'er's babies, 
 jes' fur fun, like. Ole Miss cay'ed me roun' an' 
 played wid me, same as you'd pet a little black 
 kitten, an' soon's I could stan' up dee'd meek me 
 clap an' dance, an' I couldn't sca'cely talk befo' 
 dee had me a-preachin' an' a-shoutin'. 
 
 " Dee had me fur a reg'lar show when dee had 
 company. Dee jes' out an' out sp'iled me. I was 
 jes' riz up wid 'em all, right in de house ; an' den, 
 all indurin o' de war, when all we's men folks was 
 away, I slep' at Ole Miss's do', an' Calline, she 
 slep' on a pallet in dee's room, 'twix dee's two 
 baids. 
 
 " Dat's de reason we loves one-'n'er. We's done 
 seen good an' bad times togedder good an' bad 
 times togedder." 
 
 His voice faltered I looked at him quickly. 
 He seemed suddenly to have fallen asleep. I felt 
 his pulse gently, so as not to rouse him. It was 
 weak and flickering, but not alarmingly so, I 
 thought. Calling Septima, and bidding her sit 
 with the old man for a while, I left him. About 
 bedtime she summoned me to come into the 
 
cabin. Mingo had fainted. He was reviving 
 when I entered, and his eyes moved with un 
 certain glance about the room. 
 
 When he saw me he smiled. " Tell Ole Miss, 
 don't be af eerd," he said ; " Ps a-sleepin' at de 
 do'." 
 
 His mind was wandering. He lay in a semi 
 conscious state for an hour or more, then he 
 seemed to be sinking again, but reaction came a 
 second time. 
 
 " Hit's a-cavin' in ! cavin' in easy an' slow 
 He's a-lettin' me down mighty tender." 
 
 Suddenly a new light shone in his eyes. " Heah 
 dee come down de shinin' road Marster !" 
 
 So the end came. At this supreme moment, 
 when his spirit passed away, his face wore again 
 that expression of exquisite beauty, that illumi 
 nation as with a spiritual light from within, that 
 had glorified it once before when he spoke of the 
 surpassing love of God. 
 
 Early next morning, a neat old colored woman 
 came in haste for Uncle Mingo. It was Caroline. 
 The old lady, " Ole Miss," had died during the 
 night, and Caroline had come for her father. 
 Finding the levee cabin empty, she had made 
 inquiries and been directed here. She was in 
 great distress over her new sorrow, and seemed 
 much disturbed lest the old man had missed her. 
 
 I insisted that I was his debtor to at least the 
 paltry sum needed for his burial and was it not 
 so? We pay directly or indirectly for the priv 
 
90 UNCLE MINGO'S " SPECULATIOMS " 
 
 ilege of hearing sermons ; we pay for stories of 
 self-sacrifice and devotion ; we pay for poetry ; 
 we pay for pictures of saints. I had gotten all 
 these, and what had I given ? One month's rent 
 of an old cabin and a few crumbs from my table. 
 
 And in another sense still, I was old Mingo's 
 debtor. Had he not made known to me the silent 
 suffering of two Southern gentlewomen? And 
 inasmuch as every true Southern man feels him 
 self to be the personal champion and friend of 
 every needy Southern woman, I might now be 
 come, in this small matter, a friend to the lonely 
 lady who hid her pride, as well as her poverty, in 
 the little grief-stricken house on a shabby street 
 " back of town." 
 
 I asked this much, but a dainty note in a tremu 
 lous feminine hand " thanked Monsieur most 
 heartily for all his kindness, and for his present 
 generous offer, but assured him that the privilege 
 of caring for the body of one of the most beloved 
 of her old servants was one which his former 
 mistress could not forego." There was no signa 
 ture ; but what was the need of one ? 
 
 A plain black hearse, followed by a single car 
 riage, in which Caroline sat alone, came in the 
 afternoon for the remains of Uncle Mingo. 
 Moving slowly down St. Charles Street to Canal, 
 they turned down and across, out four, five 
 squares, then down again, till, finally, hesitat 
 ing a few moments, they fell into line with an 
 other hearse that stood before a pair of box-steps 
 
1 SPECULATIOMS " 91 
 
 in a tenement row, and continued to the old St. 
 Louis Cemetery. 
 
 The old lady sleeps her last sleep in a marble 
 bed, the stateliest in a stately row. I started as I 
 read the name : " These people here and in 
 want! Robert 'Marse Robert' Yes No, it 
 cannot be ! We were friends in the army to 
 gether he was killed at Shiloh. Something must 
 be done but how ? I must inquire down town 
 at the Pickwick or maybe through Caro 
 line" 
 
 As, in the old days, Mingo slept outside his 
 mistress's door, so, in a little grave all his own, in 
 the corner of the family lot, he sleeps now at her 
 feet. 
 
THE WIBDER JOHNSING- 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSING 
 
 "Monkey, monkey, bottle o' beer, 
 How many monkeys have we here ? 
 One, two, three 
 Out goes she !" 
 
 ' no use ter try ter hoP 'er. She des 
 gwine f'om fits ter convulsions, and f'om 
 convulsions back inter fits !" 
 
 Sister Temperance Tias raised her hands and 
 spoke low. She had just come out of the room of 
 sorrow. 
 
 Jake Johnson was dead, and Lize Ann Johnson 
 again a widow. 
 
 The " other room " in the little cabin was 
 crowded with visitors the old, the young, the 
 pious, the thoughtless, the frivolous all teeming 
 with curiosity, and bursting into expressions of 
 sympathy, each anxious to look upon the ever- 
 interesting face of death, every one eager to 
 " he'p hoi' Sis' Lize Ann." 
 
 But Temperance held sway on this as on all 
 similar occasions on the plantation, and no one 
 would dare to cross the threshold from " the other 
 room " until she should make the formal announce 
 ment, "De corpse is perpared ter receive 'is frien's," 
 
96 THE WIDDEB JOHNSING 
 
 and even then there would be the tedium of prece 
 dence to undergo. 
 
 It was tiresome, but it paid in the end, for long 
 before midnight every visitor should have had his 
 turn to pass in and take a look. Then would begin 
 an informal, unrestricted circulation between the 
 two rooms, when the so-disposed might " choose 
 pardners," and sit out on the little porch, or in the 
 yard on benches brought in from the church, and 
 distributed about for that purpose. 
 
 Here they would pleasantly gather about in 
 groups with social informality, and freely discuss 
 such newly discovered virtues of the deceased as 
 a fresh retrospect revealed, or employ themselves 
 with their own more pressing romances, as they 
 saw fit. 
 
 There were many present, inside and at the 
 doors, who eagerly anticipated this later hour, and 
 were even now casting about for "pardners" ; but 
 Sister Temperance was not one of these. Now 
 was the hour of her triumph. It was she alone, 
 excepting the few, selected by herself, who were 
 at this moment making a last toilet for the de 
 parted, who had looked upon the face of the 
 dead. 
 
 She was even ahead of the doctors, who, as the 
 patient had died between visits, did not yet know 
 the news. 
 
 As she was supreme authority upon the case in 
 all its bearings, whenever she appeared at the 
 door between the two rooms the crowd pressed 
 
THE WIDDKB JOHNSING 97 
 
 eagerly forward. They were so anxious for the 
 very latest bulletin. 
 
 " F'om convulsions inter fits ! Umh !" repeated 
 the foremost sister, echoing Temperance's words. 
 
 "Yas, an' back ag'in !" reiterated the oracle. 
 " She des come thoo a fit, an* de way she gwine 
 orn now, I s'picion de nex' gwine be a reverind 
 convulsion ! She taken it hard, I tell yer !" And 
 Sister Temperance quietly, cruelly closed the door, 
 and withdrew into the scene of action. 
 
 "Sis' Lize Ann ought ter be helt," ventured a 
 robust sister near the door. 
 
 " Or tied, one," added another. 
 
 " I knowed she keered mo' fur Brer Jake 'n she 
 let orn," suggested a third. "Lize Ann don't 
 mean no harm by her orf -handed ways. She des 
 kep' 'er love all ter 'erse'f." 
 
 So ran the gossip of " the other room," when 
 Temperance reappeared at the door. 
 
 " Sis' Calline Taylor, yo' services is requi'ed." 
 She spoke with a suppressed tone of marked dis 
 tinctness and a dignity that was inimitable, where 
 upon a portly dame at the farthest corner of the 
 room began to elbow her way through the crowd, 
 who regarded her with new respect as she entered 
 the chamber of death, a shrill scream from the 
 new-made widow adding its glamour to her hon 
 ors, as, with a loud groan, she closed the door be 
 hind her. 
 
 A stillness now fell upon the assembly, dis 
 turbed only by an occasional moan, until Sister 
 
98 THE WIDDEB JOHNSING 
 
 Phyllis, a leader in things spiritual, broke the 
 silence. 
 
 " Sis' Calline Taylor is a proud han' ter hoi' 
 down fits, but I hope she'll speak a word in season 
 fur sperityal comfort." 
 
 " Sis' Tempunce callin' out Scripture ev'y time 
 she see 'er ease up," said old Black Sal. " Lize 
 Ann in good han's, po' soul ! Look like she is got 
 good 'casion ter grieve. Seem like she's born ter 
 widderhood." 
 
 " Po' Jake ! Yer reck'n she gwine bury 'im 
 'longside o' Alick an' Steve?" her former hus 
 bands. 
 
 " In co'se. 'Tain' no use dividin* up grief an' 
 sowin' a pusson's sorrer broadcas', 'caze " 
 
 The opening door commanded silence again. 
 
 " Brer Jake's face changin' mightily !" said 
 Temperance, as she stood again before them. 
 "De way hit's a-settlin', I b'lieve he done foun' 
 peace ter his soul." 
 
 " Is 'is eyes shet ?" 
 
 "De lef eye open des a leetle teenchj tinechy 
 bit." 
 
 " Look fur a chile ter die nex' a boy chile. Yer 
 say de lef eye open, ain't yer !" 
 
 "Yas de one todes de chimbly. He layin* 
 catti-cornders o' de baid, wid 'is foots ter de top." 
 
 " Catti-cornders ! Umh !" 
 
 "Yas, an' wid 'is haid down todes de foot." 
 
 "Eh, Lord ! Haids er foots is all one ter po' 
 Jake now." 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSING 99 
 
 " Is yer gwine plat 'is fingers, Sis' Tempunce ?" 
 
 " His fingers done platted, an' de way I done 
 twissen 'em in an' out, over an' under, dee gwine 
 stay tell Gab'iel call fur 'is ban' !" 
 
 "Umh!" 
 
 " Eh, Lord ! An' is yer done comb 'is haid, Sis' 
 Tempunce ?" 
 
 " I des done wropp'n an' twissen it good, an' I 
 'low ter let it out fur de fun'al to-morrer. I 
 knowed Jake 'd be mo' satisfider ef he knowed it 
 'd be in its fus' granjer at the fun'al an' Sis' Lize 
 Ann too. She say she 'ain't nuver is had no sec- 
 on'-class buryin's, an' she ain' gwine have none. 
 Time Alick died she lay in a trance two days, an' 
 de brass ban' at de fun'al nuver fazed 'er ! An' 
 y' all ricollec' how she taken ter de woods an' had 
 ter be ketched time Steve was kilt, an' now she 
 des a-stavin' it orf brave as she kin on convulsions 
 an' fits ! Look like when a pusson taken sorrer so 
 hard, Gord would sho'ly spare de scourgin' rod." 
 
 "Yas, but yer know what de preacher say 
 ' Gord sen' a tempes' o' win' ter de shorn lamb.' " 
 
 " Yas indeedy," said another, a religious celeb 
 rity, " an' we daresn't jedge de Jedge !" 
 
 " Maybe sometimes Gord sen' a tempes' o' win' 
 ter de shorn lamb ter meek it run an' hide in de 
 Shepherd's fol'. Pray Gord dis searchin' win' o' 
 jedgmint gwine blow po' Sis' Lize Ann inter de 
 green pastures o' de kingdom !" 
 
 " Amen !" came solemnly from several direc 
 tions. 
 
100 THE WIDDKB JOHNSINQ 
 
 An incisive shriek from within, which startled 
 the speakers into another awe - stricken silence, 
 summoned Temperance back in haste to her post. 
 
 Crowds were gathering without the doors now, 
 and the twinkle of lanterns approaching over the 
 fields and through the wood promised a popular 
 attendance at the wake, which, after much tedious 
 waiting, was at last formally opened. Temper 
 ance herself swung wide the dividing door, and 
 hesitating a moment as she stood before them, 
 that the announcement should gain in effect by 
 a prelude of silence, she said, with marked solem 
 nity : 
 
 "De corpse is now perpared ter receive 'is 
 frien's ! Ef," she continued, after another pause 
 " ef so be any pusson present is nigh kin ter de 
 lately deceasted daid corpse, let 'em please ter step 
 in fust at de haid o' de line." 
 
 A half-minute of inquiring silence ensued, and 
 that the first to break it by stepping forward was 
 a former discarded wife of the deceased caused 
 no comment. She led by the hand a small boy, 
 whom all knew to be the dead man's son, and it 
 was with distinct deference that the crowd parted 
 to let them pass in. Just as they were entering, 
 a stir was heard at the outer door. 
 
 " Heah comes de corpse's mammy and daddy," 
 one said, in an audible whisper. 
 
 It was true. The old parents, who lived some 
 miles distant, had just arrived. The throng had 
 fallen well back now, clearing a free passage 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSING 101 
 
 across the room. With a loud groan and extend 
 ed arms, Temperance glided down the opening to 
 meet the aged couple, who sobbed aloud as they 
 tremulously followed her into the presence of the 
 dead. 
 
 The former wife and awe-stricken child had al 
 ready entered, and that they all, with the new- 
 made widow, who rocked to and fro at the head 
 of the corpse, wept together, confessed sharers in 
 a common sorrow, was quite in the natural order 
 of things. 
 
 The procession of guests now began to pass 
 through, making a circuit of the table on which 
 the body lay, and as they moved out the door, 
 some one raised a hymn. A group in the yard 
 caught it up, and soon the woods echoed with the 
 weird rhythmic melody. All night long the sing 
 ing continued, carried along by new recruits as 
 the first voices grew weary and dropped out. If 
 there was some giggling and love-making among 
 the young people, it was discreetly kept in the 
 shadowy corners, and wounded no one's feel 
 ings. 
 
 The widow took no rest during the night. 
 When exhausted from violent emotion, she fell 
 into a rhythmic moan, accompanied by corre 
 sponding swaying to and fro of her body a 
 movement at once unyielding and restful. 
 
 The church folk were watching her with a keen 
 interest, and indeed so were the worldlings, for 
 this was Lize Ann's third widowhood within the 
 
102 THE WIDDEB JOHNSING 
 
 short space of five years, and each of the other 
 funerals had been practically but an inaugural ser 
 vice to a most remarkable career. As girl first, 
 and twice as widow, she had been a conspicuous 
 and, if truth must be told, rather a notorious fig 
 ure in colored circles. Three times she had vol 
 untarily married into quiet life, and welcomed 
 with her chosen partner the seclusion of wedded 
 domesticity ; but during the intervals she had 
 played promiscuous havoc with the matrimonial 
 felicity of her neighbors, to such an extent that 
 it was a confessed relief when she had finally 
 walked up the aisle with Jake Johnson, as, by 
 taking one woman's husband, she had brought 
 peace of mind to a score of anxious wives. 
 
 It is true that Jake had been lawfully wedded 
 to the first woman, but the ceremony had occurred 
 in another parish some years before, and was 
 practically obsolete, and so the church, taking its 
 cue from nature, which does not set eyes in the 
 back of one's head, made no indiscreet retrospec 
 tive investigations, but, in the professed guise of 
 a peace-maker, pronounced its benediction upon 
 the new pair. 
 
 The deserted wife had soon likewise repaired 
 her loss, whether with benefit of clergy or not, it 
 is not ours to say, but when she returned to mourn 
 at the funeral, it was not as one who had refused 
 to be comforted. She felt a certain secret triumph 
 in bringing her boy to gaze for the last time upon 
 the face of his father. It was more than the child- 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSING 103 
 
 less woman, who sat, acknowledged chief mourn 
 er, at the head of the corpse could do. 
 
 There was a look of half-savage defiance upon 
 her face as she lifted the little fellow up and said, 
 in an audible voice : 
 
 " Take one las' look at yo' daddy, Jakey. Dat's 
 yo' own Gord-blessed father, an' you ain't nuver 
 gwine see 'im no mo', tell yer meet 'im in de King 
 dom come, whar dey ain't no marryin', neither 
 giviri* in marriage " ; and she added, in an under 
 tone, with a significant sniffle, "nur borryin', 
 nuther." 
 
 She knew that she whom it could offend would 
 not hear this last remark, as her ears were filled 
 with her own wails, but the words were not lost 
 upon the crowd. 
 
 The little child, frightened and excited, began 
 to cry aloud. 
 
 " Let 'im cry," said one. " D'ain't nobody got 
 a better right." 
 
 " He feel his loss, po' chile !" 
 
 " Blood's thicker'n water ev'y time." 
 
 " Yas, blood will tell. Look like de po' chile's 
 heart was rendered in two quick's he looked at 'is 
 pa." 
 
 Such sympathetic remarks as these, showing 
 the direction of the ultimate sentiment of the 
 people, reached the mother's ears, and encouraged 
 her to raise her head a fraction higher than be 
 fore, as, pacifying the weeping child, she passed 
 out and went home. 
 
104 THE WIDDEK JOHNSINQ 
 
 The funeral took place on the afternoon fol 
 lowing, and, to the surprise of all, the mourning 
 widow behaved with wonderful self-control during 
 all the harrowing ceremony. 
 
 Only when the last clod fell upon the grave did 
 she throw up her hands, and with a shriek fall 
 over in a faint, and have to be "toted" back to 
 the wagon in which she had come. 
 
 If some were curious to see what direction her 
 grief would take, they had some time to wait. She 
 had never before taken long to declare herself, 
 and on each former occasion the declaration had 
 been one of war a worldly, rioting, rollicking 
 war upon the men. 
 
 During both her previous widowhoods she had 
 danced longer and higher, laughed oftener and 
 louder, dressed more gaudily and effectively, than 
 all the women on three contiguous plantations put 
 together ; and when, in these well - remembered 
 days, she had passed down the road on Sunday 
 evenings, and chosen to peep over her shoulders 
 with dreamy half-closed eyes at some special man 
 whom it pleased her mood to ensnare, he had no 
 more been able to help following her than he had 
 been able to help lying to his wife or sweetheart 
 about it afterward. 
 
 The sympathy expressed for her at Jake's funer 
 al had been sincere. No negro ever resists any 
 noisy demonstration of grief, and each of her 
 moans and screams had found responsive echo in 
 more than one sympathetic heart. 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSING 105 
 
 But now the funeral was over, Jake was dead 
 and gone, and the state of affairs so exact a resto 
 ration to a recent well-remembered condition that 
 it was not strange that the sisters wondered with 
 some concern what she would do. 
 
 They had felt touched when she had fainted 
 away at the funeral, and yet there were those, and 
 among them his good wife, who had not failed to 
 observe that she had fallen squarely into Pete 
 Richards's arms. 
 
 Now every one knew that she had once led Pete 
 a dance, and that for a time it seemed a question 
 whether he or Jake Johnson should be the coming 
 man. 
 
 Of course this opportune fainting might have 
 been accidental, and it may be that Pete's mother 
 was supercensorious when, on her return from the 
 funeral, she had said, as she lit her pipe: 
 
 " Dat gal Lize Ann is a she-devil." 
 
 But her more discreet daughter-in-law, except 
 ing that she thrashed the children all round, gave 
 no sign that she was troubled. 
 
 For the first few months of her recovered wid 
 owhood Lize Ann was conspicuous only by her 
 absence from congregations of all sorts, as well as 
 by her mournful and persistent refusal to speak 
 with any one on the subject of her grief, or, in 
 deed, to speak at all. 
 
 There was neither pleasure nor profit in sitting 
 down and looking at a person who never opened 
 her lips, and so, after oft-repeated but ineffectual 
 
106 THE WIDDER JOHNSING 
 
 visits of condolence, the sisters finally stopped vis 
 iting her cabin. 
 
 They saw that she had philosophically taken up 
 the burden of practical life again, in the shape of 
 a family washing, which she carried from the vil 
 lage to her cabin poised on her head, but the old 
 abandon had departed from her gait, and those 
 who chanced to meet her in the road said that her 
 only passing recognition was a groan. 
 
 Alone in her isolated cabin, the woman so re 
 cently celebrated for her social proclivities ranged 
 her wash-tubs against the wall ; alone she soaked, 
 washed, rinsed, starched, and ironed ; and, when 
 the week's routine of labor was over, alone she sat 
 within her cabin door to rest. 
 
 For a long time old Nancy Price or Hester Ann 
 Jennings, the two superannuated old crones on 
 the plantation, moved by curiosity and an irresisti 
 ble impulse to "talk erligion" to so fitting a sub 
 ject, had continued occasionally to drop in to see 
 the silent woman, but they always came away 
 shaking their heads and declining to stake their 
 reputations on any formulated prophecy as to just 
 how, when, where, or in what direction Lize Ann 
 would come out of her grief. That she was delib 
 erately poising herself for a spring they felt sure, 
 and yet their only prognostications were always 
 prudently ambiguous. 
 
 When, however, the widow had consistently for 
 five long months maintained her position as a 
 broken-hearted recluse not to be approached or 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSING 107 
 
 consoled, the people began to regard her with a 
 degree of genuine respect ; and when one Sunday 
 morning the gathering congregation discovered 
 her sitting in church, a solitary figure in black, on 
 the very last of the Amen pews in the corner, 
 they were moved to sympathy. 
 
 She had even avoided a sensational entrance 
 by coming early. Her conduct seemed really gen 
 uine, and yet it must be confessed that even in 
 view of the doleful figure she made, there were 
 several women present who were a little less com 
 fortable beside their lovers and husbands after 
 they saw her. 
 
 If the wives had but known it, however, they 
 need have had no fear. Jake's deserted wife 
 and child had always weighed painfully upon 
 Lize Ann's consciousness. Even after his death 
 they had come in, diverting and intercepting 
 sympathy that she felt should have been hers. 
 When she married again she would have an un 
 encumbered, free man, all her own. 
 
 As she was first at service to-day, she was last 
 to depart, and so pointedly did she wait for the 
 others to go, that not a sister in church had the 
 temerity to approach her with a welcoming hand, 
 or to join her as she walked home. And this was 
 but the beginning. From this time forward the 
 little mourning figure was at every meeting, and 
 when the minister begged such as desired salva 
 tion to remain to be prayed for, she knelt and 
 stayed. When, however, the elders or sisters sought 
 
108 THE WIDDER JOHNSINQ 
 
 her out, and, kneeling beside her, questioned her 
 as to the state of her soul, she only groaned and 
 kept silence. 
 
 The brethren were really troubled. They had 
 never encountered sorrow or conviction of sin 
 quite so obstinate, so intangible, so speechless, as 
 this. The minister, Brother Langford, had re 
 membered her sorrowing spirit in an impersonal 
 way, and had colored his sermons with tender 
 appeals to such as mourned and were heavy-laden 
 with grief. 
 
 But the truth was, the Reverend Mr. Langford, 
 a tall, handsome bachelor of thirty years or there 
 abouts, was regarded as the best catch in the par 
 ish, and had he been half so magnetic in his per 
 sonality or half so persuasive of speech, all the 
 dusky maids in the country would have been set 
 ting their feathered caps for him. 
 
 When he conducted the meetings there were 
 always so many boisterous births into the King 
 dom all around him, when the regenerate called 
 aloud as they danced, swayed, or swooned for 
 " Brother Langford," that he had not found time 
 to seek out the silent mourners, and so had not 
 yet found himself face to face with the widow. 
 Finally, however, one Sunday night, just as he 
 passed before her, Lize Ann heaved one of her 
 very best moans. 
 
 He was on his knees at her side in a moment. 
 Bending his head very low, he asked, in a voice 
 soft and tender, laying his hand the while gently 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSING 109 
 
 upon her shoulder, " 'Ain't you f oun' peace yit, 
 Sis' Johnsing ?" 
 She groaned again. 
 
 " What is yo' mos' chiefes' sorrer, Sister John- 
 sing ? Is yo' heart mo' grieveder f 'om partin' wid 
 yo' dear belovin' pardner, or is yo' soul weighted 
 down wid a sense o' inhuman guilt ? Speak out 
 an' tell me, my sister, how yo' trouble seem ter 
 shape itse'f." 
 
 But the widow, though she turned up to him 
 her dry beseeching eyes, only groaned again. 
 
 " Can't you speak ter yo' preacher, Sis' John- 
 sing? He crave in 'is heart ter he'p you." 
 
 Again she looked into his face, and now, with 
 quivering lip, began to speak : " I can't talk heah, 
 Brer Langford ; I ain't fittin'; my heart's clean 
 broke. I ain't nothin' but des a miser'ble out- 
 cas'. Seem lak even Gord 'isse'f done cas' me 
 orf. I des comes an' goes lak a hongry suck-aig 
 dorg wha' nobody don't claim, a-skulkin' roun 1 
 heah in a back seat all by my lone se'f, tryin' ter 
 pick up a little crumb wha' fall f'om de table. 
 But seem lak de feas' is too good fur me. I goes 
 back ter my little dark cabin mo' harder-hearted 
 an' mo' sinf uler 'n I was bef o'. Des de ve'y glimsh 
 o' dat empty cabin seem lak hit turn my heart ter 
 stone." 
 
 She dropped her eyes, and as she bent forward, 
 a tear fell upon the young man's hand. 
 
 His voice was even tenderer than before when 
 he spoke again. " It is a hard lot, my po' sister, 
 
HO THE WIDDER JOHNSING 
 
 but I am positive sho' dat de sisters an' brers o' de 
 chu'ch would come ter you an' try ter comfort yo' 
 soul ef you would give 'em courage fur ter do so." 
 
 "You don't know me, Brer Langford, er you 
 wouldn't name sech a word ter me. I's a sinner, 
 an' a sinner what love sin. Look lak de wus a sin 
 is, de mo' hit tas'es lak sugar in my mouf . I can't 
 trus' myse'f ter set down an' talk wid dese heah 
 brers an' sisters wha' I knows is one-half sperit- 
 yal an' fo'-quarters playin' ketcher wid de devil. 
 I can't trus' myse'f wid' em tell Gord set my soul 
 free Pom sin. I'd soon be howlin' happy on de 
 devil's side des lak I was befo', facin' two-forty 
 on de shell road ter perditiom." 
 
 " I see, my po' sister I see whar yo' trouble 
 
 lay." 
 
 " Yas, an' dat's huccome I tooken toV yer, 'caze 
 I knowed you is got de sperityal eye to see it. 
 You knows I's right when I say ter you dat I 
 ain't gwine set down in my cabin an' hoi' speech 
 wid nobody less'n 'tis a thoo-an'-thoo sperityal 
 pusson, lak a preacher o' de gorspil, tell my soul 
 is safe. An' dey ain't no minister o' de sperit 
 wha' got time ter come an' set down an' talk wid 
 a po' ongordly widder pusson lak me. I don't 
 spect 'em ter do it. De shepherds can't teck de 
 time to run an' haid orf a ole frazzled-out black 
 sheep lak I is, what 'd be a disgrace ter de foP, 
 anyway. Dey 'bleege ter spen' dey time a-coaxin' 
 in de purty sleek yo'ng friskin' lambs, an' I don't 
 blame 'em." 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSING 111 
 
 "Don't talk dat-a-way, Sis' Johnsing don't talk 
 dat-a-way. Sence you done specified yo' desire, I'll 
 call an' see you, an' talk an' pray wid you in yo' 
 cabin whensomever you say de word. I knows yo' 
 home is kivered by a cloud o' darkness an' sorrer. 
 When shill I come to you ?" 
 
 " De mos' lonesomes' time, Brer Langford, an' 
 de time what harden my heart de mos', is in de 
 dark berwilderin' night-times when I fus' goes 
 home. Seem lak ef I c'd des have some reel 
 Gordly man ter come in wid me, an' maybe call 
 out some little passenger o' Scripture to comfort 
 me, tell I c'd des ter say git usen ter de lone- 
 someness, I c'd maybe feel mo' cancelized ter de 
 Divine will. But, co'se, I don't expect no yo'ng 
 man lak you is ter teck de trouble ter turn out'n 
 yo' path fur sech as me." 
 
 " I will do it, Sis' Johnsing, an' hit will be a act 
 o' pleasurable Christianity. When de meetV is 
 over, ef you will wait, er ef you will walk slow, I 
 will overtaken you on de road quick as I shets up 
 de church-house, an' I pray Gord to give me de 
 seasonable word fur yo' comfort. Amen, an' Gord 
 bless yer !" 
 
 Lize Ann had nearly reached her cabin when 
 the reverend brother, stepping forward, gallantly 
 placed his hand beneath her elbow, and aided her 
 to mount the one low step which led to her door. 
 
 As they entered the room, he produced and 
 struck a match, while she presented a candle, 
 
112 THE WIDDEB JOHNSINO 
 
 which he lit and placed upon the table. Neither 
 had yet spoken. If he had his word ready, the sea 
 son for its utterance seemed not to have arrived. 
 
 " 'Scuse my manners, Brer Langf ord," she said, 
 finally, " but my heart is so full, seem lak I can't 
 fine speech. Take a rockV-cheer an' set down tell 
 I stirs de fire ter meek you welcome in my po' lit 
 tle shanty." 
 
 The split pine which she threw upon the coals 
 brought an immediate illumination, and as the 
 young man looked about the apartment he could 
 hardly believe his eyes, so thorough was its trans 
 formation since he had seen it on the day of the 
 funeral. 
 
 The hearth, newly i-eddened, fairly glowed with 
 warm color, and the gleaming white pine floor 
 seemed fresh from the carpenter's plane. Dainty 
 white muslin curtains hung before the little square 
 windows, and from the shelves a dazzling row of 
 tins reflected the blazing fire a dozen times from 
 their polished surfaces. 
 
 The widow leaned forward before him, stirring 
 the fire ; and when his eyes fell upon her, his as 
 tonishment confirmed his speechlessness. She had 
 removed her black bonnet, and the heavy shawl, 
 which had enveloped her figure, had fallen behind, 
 her into her chair. What he saw was a round, 
 trig, neatly clad, youngish woman, whose face, 
 illumined by the flickering fire, was positively 
 charming in its piquant assertion of grief. Across 
 her shapely bosom lay, neatly folded, a snowy 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSINQ 113 
 
 kerchief, less white only than her pearly teeth, 
 as, smiling through her sadness, she exclaimed, 
 as she turned to her guest : 
 
 "Lor 1 bless my soul, ef I 'ain't raked out a sweet 
 'tater out'n deze coals ! I 'feerd you'll be clair 
 disgusted at sech onmannerly doin's, Brer Lang- 
 ford ; but when dey ain't no company heah, I des 
 kivers up my 'taters wid ashes an' piles on de live 
 coals, an' let 'em cook. I don't reck'n you'd even 
 ter say look at a roas' 'tater, would you, Brer Lang- 
 ford?" 
 
 The person addressed was rubbing his hands 
 together and chuckling. " Ef yer tecks my jedg- 
 mint, Sis' Johnsing, on de pretater question, roas'- 
 in' is de onies way to cook 'em." 
 
 His hostess had already risen, and before he 
 could remonstrate she had drawn up a little ta 
 ble, lifted the potato from its bed, and laid it on 
 a plate before him. 
 
 "Ef you will set down an' eat a roas' 'tater 
 in my miser'ble little cabin, Brer Langford, I 
 'clar' fo' gracious hit '11 raise my sperits might 
 ily. Gord knows I wushes I had some'h'n good 
 to offer you, a-comin' in out'n de col'; but ef 
 you'll please, sir, have de mannerliness ter hoi' 
 de candle, I'll empty my ole cupboard clean inside 
 outen but I'll fin' you somdWn 'nother to spressif y 
 yo' welcome." 
 
 Langford rose, and as he held the light to the 
 open safe, his eyes fairly glared. He was hungry, 
 and the snowy shelves were covered with open 
 8 
 
114 THE WIDDEB JOHNSING 
 
 vessels of tempting food, all more or less broken, 
 but savory as to odor, and most inviting. 
 
 "I 'clare, Sis' Johnsing I 'clare !" were the 
 only words that the man of eloquent speech found 
 to express his appreciation and joy, and his enter 
 tainer continued : 
 
 " Dis heah cupboard mecks me 'shame', Brer 
 Langford. Dey ain't a thing fittin' fur sech as 
 you in it. Heah's a pan o' col' 'tater pone an' 
 some cabbage an' side meat, an' dis heah's a few 
 ords an' eens o' fried chicken an' a little passel o' 
 spare-ribs, piled in wid co'n-brade scraps. Hit 
 don't look much, but hit's all clean. Heah, you 
 gimme de candle, an' you retch 'em all down, 
 please, sir ; an' I ain't shore, but ef I don't disre- 
 member, dey's de bes' half a loaf o' reeson-cake 
 'way back in de fur corner. Dat's hit. Now, 
 dat's some'h'n like. An' now pass down de but 
 ter ; an' ef yer wants a tumbler o' sweet milk wid 
 yo' 'tater, you'll haf ter hop an' go fetch it. Lis'n 
 ter me, fur Gord sake, talkin' ter Brer Langford 
 same as I'd talk ter a reg'lar plantation nigger !" 
 
 Langford hesitated. "Less'n you desires de 
 sweet milk, Sis' Johnsing " 
 
 " I does truly lak a swaller o' sweet milk wid 
 my 'tater, Brer Langford, but seem lak 'f o' I'd git 
 itfurmyse'f I'd do widout it. Won't you, please, 
 sir, teck de candle an' fetch it fur me? Go right 
 thoo my room. Hit's in a bottle, a-settin' outside 
 de right-han' winder des as you go in." 
 
 Langford could not help glancing about the 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSING 115 
 
 widow's chamber as he passed through. If the 
 other room was cozy and clean, this one was 
 charming. The white bed, dazzling in its snowy 
 fluted frills, reminded him of its owner, as she sat 
 in all her starched freshness to-night. The pol 
 ished pine floor here was nearly covered with 
 neatly fringed patches of carpet, suggestive of 
 housewifely taste as well as luxurious comfort. 
 
 He had returned with the bottle, and was seat 
 ing himself, when the disconsolate widow actually 
 burst into a peal of laughter. 
 
 " Lord save my soul !" she exclaimed, " ef he 
 'ain't gone an' fetched a bottle o' beer ! You is a 
 caution, Brer Langford ! I wouldn't 'a' had you 
 know I had dat beer in my house fur nothin'. 
 When I was f eelin' so po'ly in my f us' grief, seem 
 lak I craved sperityal comfort, an' I went an' 
 bought a whole lot o' lager-beer. I 'lowed maybe 
 I c'd drink my sorrer down, but 'twarn't no use. 
 I c'd drink beer all night, an' hit wouldn't nuver 
 bring nobody to set in dat rockin'-cheer by my 
 side an' teck comfort wid me. Does you think 
 fur a perf esser ter teck a little beer ur wine when 
 he feels a nachel faintiness is a fatal sin, Brer 
 Langford ?" 
 
 " Why, no, Sis' Johnsing. Succumstances alter 
 cases, an' hit's de succumstances o' drinkirt what 
 mecks de altercations ; an' de way I looks at it, 
 a Christian man is de onies pusson who oughter 
 dare to trus* 'isse'f wid de wine cup, 'caze a sinner 
 don' know when ter stop." 
 
116 THE WIDDER JOHNSING 
 
 " Bat soun' mighty reasonable, Brer Langford. 
 An' sence you fetched de beer, now you 'bleege ter 
 drink it. But please, sir, go, lak a good man, an 7 
 bring my milk, on de tother side in de winder." 
 
 The milk was brought, and the Rev. Mr. Lang- 
 ford was soon smacking his lips over the best sup 
 per it had been his ministerial good fortune to 
 enjoy for many a day. 
 
 As the widow raked a second potato from the 
 fire, she remarked, in a tone of inimitable pathos : 
 
 " Seem lak I can't git usen ter cookin' fur one. 
 I cooks fur two ev'y day, an' somehow I fines a 
 little spec o' comfort in lookin' at de odd po'tion, 
 even ef I has ter eat it myse'f. De secon' 'tater 
 on de hyearth seem lak hit stan's fur company. 
 Seein' as you relishes de beer, Brer Langford, I's 
 proud you made de mistake an' fetched it. Gord 
 knows somebody better drink it ! I got a whole 
 passel o' bottles in my trunk, an' I don't know 
 what ter do wid 'em. A man what wuck an' talk 
 an' preach hard as you does, he need a little some- 
 'h'n' 'nother ter keep 'is cour'ge up." 
 
 It was an hour past midnight when finally the 
 widow let her guest out the back door, and as she 
 directed him how to reach home by a short-cut 
 through her field, she said, while she held his hand 
 in parting : 
 
 " Gord will bless you fur dis night, Brer Lang- 
 ford, fur you is truly sakerficed yo'se'f fur a po' 
 sinner ; an' I b'lieve dey's mo' true 'ligion in com- 
 fortin' a po' lonely widderless 'oman lak I is, what 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSINQ 117 
 
 'ain't got nobody to stan' by 'er, dan in all de ser 
 mons a-goin'; an' now I gwine turn my face back 
 todes my lonely fireside wid a better hope an' a 
 firmer trus\ 'caze I knows de love o' Gord done 
 sont you ter me. My po' little brade an' meat 
 warn't highfalutin' nur fine, but you is shared it 
 wid me lak a Christian, an' I gi'n it ter you wid a 
 free heart." 
 
 Langford returned the pressure of her hand, 
 and even shook it heartily during his parting 
 speech : 
 
 " Good -night, my dear sister, an' Gord bless 
 you ! I feels mo' courageous an' strenk'n'd my- 
 se'f sence I have shared yo' lonely fireside, an', 
 please Gord, I will make it my juty as well as my 
 pleasure to he'p you in a similar manner when- 
 somever you desires my presence. I rejoices to 
 see that you is tryin' wid a brave heart to rise 
 f'om yo' sorrer. Keep good cheer, my sister, an' 
 remember dat the Gord o' Aberham an' Isaac an' 
 Jacob de patriots o' de Lord is also de friend 
 ter de fatherless an* widders, an' to them that are 
 desolate an' oppressed." 
 
 With this beautiful admonition, and a last dis 
 tinct pressure of the hand, the Rev. Mr. Langford 
 disappeared in the darkness, carefully fastening 
 the top button of his coat as he went, as if to 
 cover securely the upper layer of raisin-cake which 
 still lay, for want of lower space, just beneath it 
 within. 
 
 He never felt better in his life. 
 
118 THE WIDDER JOHNSINQ 
 
 The widow watched his retreating shadow until 
 she dimly saw one dark leg rise over the rail as 
 he scaled the garden fence ; then coming in, she 
 hooked the door, and throwing herself on the 
 floor, rolled over and over, laughing until she 
 cried, verily. 
 
 " Stan' back, gals, stan' back !" she exclaimed, ris 
 ing. " Stan' back, I say ! A widder done haided 
 yer off wid a cook-pot !" With eyes fairly danc 
 ing, she resumed her seat before the fire. She was 
 too much elated for sleep yet. " I 'clare 'fo' gra 
 cious, I is a devil !" she chuckled. " Po' Alick 
 an' po' Steve an' po' Jake !" she continued, paus 
 ing after each name with something that their 
 spiritual presences might have interpreted as a 
 sigh if they were affectionately hovering near 
 her. "But," she added, her own thoughts sup 
 plying the connection, " Brer Langford gwine be 
 de stylishes' one o' de lot." And then she really 
 sighed. " I mus' go buy some mo' beer. Better 
 git two bottles. He mought ax fur mo', bein' as 
 I got a trunkful." And here alone in her cabin 
 she roared aloud. " I does wonder huccome I 
 come ter be sech a devil, anyhow ? I 'lowed I 
 was safe ter risk de beer. Better git a dozen 
 bottles, I reck'n ; give 'im plenty rope, po' boy ! 
 Well, Langford honey, good-night fur to-night ! 
 But perpare, yo'ng man, perpare !" And chuc 
 kling as she went, she passed into her own room 
 and went to bed. 
 
 The young minister was as good as his promise, 
 
THE WIDDHR JOHNSING 119 
 
 and during the next two months he never failed 
 to stop after every evening meeting to look after 
 the spiritual condition of the " widder Johnsing," 
 while she, with the consummate skill of a prac 
 tised hand, saw to it that without apparent fore 
 thought her little cupboard should always supply 
 a material entertainment, full, savory, and varied. 
 If on occasion she lamented a dearth of cold dish 
 es, it was that she might insist on sharing her 
 breakfast with her guest, when, producing from 
 her magic safe a ready-dressed spring chicken or 
 squirrel, she would broil it upon the coals in his 
 presence, and the young man would depart thor 
 oughly saturated with the odor of her delightful 
 hospitality. 
 
 Langford had heard things about this woman 
 in days gone by, but now he was pleased to real 
 ize that they had all been malicious inventions 
 prompted by jealousy. Had he commanded the 
 adjectives, he would have described her as the 
 most generous, hospitable, spontaneous, sympa 
 thetic, vivacious, and witty, as well as the most 
 artless of women. As it was, he thought of her 
 a good deal between visits ; and whether the 
 thought moved backward or forward, whether it 
 took shape as a memory or an anticipation, he 
 somehow unconsciously smacked his lips and swal 
 lowed. And yet, when one of the elders ques 
 tioned him as to the spiritual state of the still 
 silent mourner, he knit his brow and answered, 
 with a sigh : 
 
120 THE WIDDER JOHNSING 
 
 " It is hard ter say, my brothers it is hard ter 
 say. De ole lady do nourish an' cherish 'er grief 
 mightily ; but yit, ef we hoP off an' don't crowd 
 J er, I trus' she'll come thoo on de Lord's side yit." 
 
 If there had been the ghost of a twinkle in his 
 interlocutor's eye, it died out, abashed at itself at 
 this pious and carefully framed reply. The wid 
 ow was indeed fully ten years Langford's senior 
 a discrepancy as much exaggerated by outward 
 circumstances as it was minimized in their fire 
 side relations. 
 
 So matters drifted on for a month longer. The 
 dozen bottles of beer had been followed by a 
 second, and these again by a half-dozen. This 
 last reduced purchase of course had its meaning. 
 Langford was reaching the end of his tether. At 
 last there were but two bottles left. It was Sun 
 day night again. 
 
 The little cupboard had been furnished with 
 unusual elaboration, and the savory odors which 
 emanated from its shelves would have filled the 
 room but for the all-pervading essence of berga- 
 mot with which the widow had recklessly deluged 
 her hair. Indeed, her entire toilet betrayed ex 
 ceptional care to-night. 
 
 She had not gone to church, and as it was near 
 the hour for dismissal, she was a trifle nervous, 
 feeling confident that the minister would stop in, 
 ostensibly to inquire the cause of her absence. 
 She had tried this before, and he had not disap 
 pointed her. 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSING 121 
 
 Finally she detected his familiar announce 
 ment, a clearing of his throat, as he approached 
 the door. 
 
 " Lif ' up de latch an' walk in, Brer Wolf," she 
 laughingly called to him ; and as he entered she 
 added, "Look lak you come in answer to my 
 thoughts, Brer Langford." 
 
 "Is dat so, Sis' Johnsing?" he replied, chuck 
 ling with delight. "I knowed sowe'AV 'nother 
 drawed me clean over f 'om de chu'ch in de po'in'- 
 down rain." 
 
 "Is it a-rainin'? I 'clare, I see yer brung 
 yo' umbereZy but settV heah by de fire, I nuver 
 studies 'bout de elemints. I been studyin' 'bout 
 some'h'n' mo'n rain or shine, ./tell yer." 
 
 "Is yer, Sis' Johnsing? What you been study- 
 in"bout?" 
 
 " What I been studyin' 'bout ? Nemmine what 
 I been studyin' 'bout ! I studyin' 'bout Brer 
 Langford now. De po' man look so tired an' fraz 
 zled out, 'is eyes looks des lak dorg-wood blor- 
 soms. You is des nachelly preached down, Brer 
 Langford, an' you needs a morsel o' some'h'n' 
 'nother ter stiddy yo' cornstitutiom." She rose 
 forthwith, and set about arranging the young 
 man's supper. 
 
 " But you 'ain't tol' me yit huccome you 'ain't 
 come ter chu'ch ter-night, Sis' Johnsing?" 
 
 "Nemmine 'bout dat now. I ain't studyin' 
 'bout gwine ter chu'ch now. I des studyin' 'bout 
 how ter induce de size o' yo' eyes down ter dey 
 
123 THE WIDDER JOHNSING 
 
 nachel porportiora. Heah, teck de shovel, an' rake 
 out a han'f ul o' coals, please, sir, an* I'll set dis 
 pan o' rolls ter bake. Dat's hit. Now kiver de 
 led good wid live coals an' ashes. Dat's a man ! 
 Now time you wrastle wid de j'ints o' dis roas' 
 guinea-hen, an' teck de corkscrew an' perscribe 
 fur dis beer bottle, and go fetch de fresh butter 
 out'n de winder, de rolls '11 be a-singin' ' Now is 
 de accepted time !' " 
 
 It was no wonder the young man thought her 
 charming. 
 
 Needless to say, the feast, seasoned by a steady 
 flow of humor, was perfect. But all things earthly 
 have an end, and so, by-and-by, it was all over. 
 A pattering rain without served to enhance the 
 genial in-door charm, but it was time to go. 
 
 " Well, Sis' Johnsing, hit's a-gittin' on time fur 
 me ter be a-movin'," said the poor fellow at length, 
 for he hated to leave. 
 
 " Yas, I knows it is, Brer Langf ord," the hostess 
 answered, with a tinge of sadness, " an' dat ain't 
 de wust of it." 
 
 " How does you mean, Sis' Johnsing ?" 
 
 "'Ain't I tol' yer, Brer Langf ord, ter-night dat 
 my thoughts was wid you ? Don't look at me so 
 quizzical, please, sir, 'caze I got a heavy sorrer in 
 my heart." 
 
 "A sorrer 'bout me, Sis' Johnsing ? How so ?" 
 
 " Brer Langf ord I I been thinkin' 'bout you 
 all day, an' an' ter come right down ter de 
 p'int, I I " She bit her lip and hesitated. " I 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSING 123 
 
 'feerd I done put off what I ought ter said ter you 
 tell look lak hit '11 'mos' bre'k my heart to say it." 
 
 " Speak out, fur Gord sake, Sis' Johnsing, an' 
 ease yo' min' ! What is yo' trouble ?" 
 
 She seemed almost crying. "You you you 
 mustn't come heah no mo', Brer Langford." 
 
 Who me ? Wh-wh-what is I done, Sis' John- 
 sing?" 
 
 "My Gord ! how kin I say it? You 'ain't done 
 nothin', my dear f rien'. You has been Gord's bless- 
 in' ter me ; but but I 'clare 'fo' Gord, how Mn 
 I say de word ? But don't you see yo'se'f how 
 de succumstances stan'? You is a yo'ng man 
 li'ble to fall in love wid any lakly yo'ng gal any 
 day, an' ter git married, an', of co'se, dat's right ; 
 but don't you see dat ef a po' lonesome 'oman lak 
 me put too much 'pendence orn a yo'ng man lak 
 you is, de time gwine come when he gwine git 
 tired a-walkin' all de way f 'om chu'ch in de po'in'- 
 down rain des fur charity ter comfort a lonely 
 sinner pusson lak I is; an' an' settin' heah by 
 myse'f ter-night, I done made up my min' dat I 
 gwine scuse you f'om dis task while I kin stand 
 it. Of co'se I don't say but hit '11 be hard. You 
 is tooken me by de han' an' he'ped me thoo a 
 dark cloud, but you an' me mus' say far'well ter- 
 night, an' you you mustn't come back no mo'." 
 
 Her face was buried in her hands now, and so 
 she could not see her guest's storm-swept visage 
 as he essayed to answer her. 
 
 "You you you you talkin' 'bout you c'n 
 
124 THE WIDDER JOHNSING 
 
 stan' it, Sis' Johnsing, an' an' seem lak you 's 
 forgitt'n' all 'bout me. 11 His voice was trembling. 
 '* I I knows I ain't nothin' but a no-'count yo'ng 
 striplin', so ter speak, an' you is a mannerly lady 
 o' speunce, but hit do seem lak 'fo' you'd send me 
 away, des lak ter say a yaller dorg, you'd you'd 
 ax me could / stan' it ; an' an', tell de truf e, I 
 can't stan' it, an' I ain't gwine stan' it, 'less'n you 
 des nachelly, p'int-blank, out an' out, shets de do' 
 in my face." 
 
 " Brer Langf ord " 
 
 "Don't you say Brer Langford ter me no mo,' 
 ef you please, ma'am ; an' an' I ain't gwine call 
 you Sis' Johnsing no mo', nuther. You is des, so 
 fur as you consents, hencefo'th an' f o'ever mo', in 
 season an' out'n season des my Lize Ann. You 
 knows yo'se'f dat we is come ter be each one-'n'ners 
 heart's delight." He drew his chair nearer, and, 
 leaning forward, seized her hand, as he continued : 
 " Leastwise, dat's de way my heart language hit- 
 se'f . I done tooken you fur my sweetness 'fo' ter- 
 night, Lize Ann, my honey." 
 
 But why follow them any further? Before he 
 left her, the widow had consented, with becoming 
 reluctance, that he should come to her on the fol 
 lowing Sunday with the marriage license in his 
 pocket, on one condition, and upon this condition 
 she insisted with unyielding pertinacity. It was 
 that Langford should feel entirely free to change 
 his mind, and to love or to marry any other wom 
 an within the week ensuing. 
 
THE WIDDER JOHNSINO 125 
 
 Lize Ann arrived late at service on the follow 
 ing Sunday evening. Her name had just been an 
 nounced as a happy convert who rejoiced in new 
 found grace ; and when she stepped demurely up 
 the aisle, arrayed in a plain white dress, her face 
 beaming with what seemed a spiritual peace, the 
 congregation were deeply touched, and, eager to 
 welcome her into the fold, began to press forward 
 to extend the right hand of fellowship to one who 
 had come in through so much tribulation. It was 
 a happy time all round, and no one was more jubi 
 lant than the young pastor, who seemed, indeed, 
 to rejoice more over this recovered lamb than 
 over the ninety-and-nine within the fold who had 
 not gone astray. 
 
 The young girl converts of recent date, never 
 slow to respond to any invitation which led to the 
 chancel, were specially demonstrative in their af 
 fectionate welcome, some even going so far as to 
 embrace the new "sister," while others were 
 moved to shout and sing as they made the tour of 
 the aisles. 
 
 When, however, as soon as congratulations were 
 over, it was formally announced that this identi 
 cal convert, Mrs. Eliza Ann Johnsing, was then 
 and there to be joined in the holy estate of matri 
 mony to the Reverend Julius Caesar Langf ord, the 
 shock was so great that these same blessed damo- 
 sels looked blankly one upon the other in mute 
 dismay for the space of some minutes, and when 
 presently, as a blushing bride, Lize Ann again 
 
126 THE WIDDEB JOHNSING 
 
 turned to them for congratulations, it is a shame 
 to have to write it, but they actually did turn 
 their backs and refuse to speak to her. 
 
 The emotions of the company were certainly 
 very much mixed, and the two old crones, Nancy 
 Price and Hester Ann Jennings, sitting side by 
 side in a front pew, were seen to nudge each other 
 as, their old sides shaking with laughter, they ex 
 claimed : 
 
 "What I to? yer, Sis' Hest' Ann?" 
 
 "What I toP yer, Sis' Nancy?" 
 
 "Dat's des what we toP one-'n'ner Lize Ann 
 gwine do !" 
 
 Though no guests were bidden to share it, the 
 wedding supper in the little cabin that night was 
 no mean affair, and when Langf ord, with a chuck 
 ling, half -embarrassed, new -proprietary air drew 
 the cork from the beer bottle beside his plate, Lize 
 Ann said, 
 
 " Hit do do me good ter see how you relishes 
 dat beer." 
 
 But she did not mention that it was the last bot 
 tle, and maybe it was just as well. 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 
 
CHKISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 CHRISTMAS on Sucrier plantation, and the 
 V-^ gardens are on fire with red flames of salvia, 
 roses, geraniums, verbenas, rockets of Indian shot, 
 brilliant blazes of coreopsis, marigold, and nastur 
 tium, glowing coals of vivid portulaca. 
 
 Louisiana acknowledges a social obligation to 
 respond to a Christmas freeze ; but when a guest 
 tarries, what is one to do ? 
 
 She manufactures her ice, it is true. Why not 
 produce an artificial winter ? Simply because she 
 does not care for it. If she did ? Such things 
 are easily arranged. 
 
 Still, when he comes, a guest, she would not 
 forget her manners and say him nay, any sooner 
 than she would shrug her shoulders at a New 
 England cousin or answer his questions in French. 
 
 She does the well-bred act to the death, sum 
 mons her finest, fairest, most brilliant and tender 
 of flower and leaf to await his coming : so to 
 day all her royal summer family are out in full 
 court dress, ready to prostrate themselves at his 
 feet. 
 
 This may be rash, but it is polite. 
 
 Her grandfather was both ; and so the " Creole 
 9 
 
130 CHRISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 State," in touch with her antipodal brother in 
 ancestor-worship, is satisfied. 
 
 But winter, the howling swell, forgetful of pro 
 vincial engagements, does not come. Still, the 
 edge of his promise is in the breeze to-day, and 
 the flaring banana leaves of tender green look 
 cold and half afraid along the garden wall. 
 
 The Yule log smoulders lazily and comfortably 
 in the big fireplace, but windows and doors are 
 open, and rocking-chairs and hammocks swing on 
 the broad galleries of the great house. 
 
 It is a rich Christmas of the olden time. 
 
 Breakfast and the interchange of presents are 
 over. 
 
 Cautious approaches of wheels through the 
 outer gates during the night, in the wee short 
 hours when youth sleeps most heavily, have re 
 sulted in mysterious appearances : a new piano in 
 the parlor ; a carriage, a veritable ante-bellum 
 chariot, and a pair of bays, in the stable ; guns, 
 silver-mounted trappings, saddles, books, pictures, 
 jewels, and dainty confections, within and piled 
 about the stockings that hung around the broad 
 dining-room chimney. 
 
 For there were sons and daughters on Sucrier 
 plantation. 
 
 An easy-going, healthy, hearty, and happy man, 
 of loose purse - strings and lax business habits, 
 old Colonel Slack had grown wealthy simply be 
 cause he lived on the shore where the tide always 
 came in the same shore where since '61 the 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 131 
 
 waters move ever to the sea, and those who wait 
 ed where he stood are stranded. 
 
 His highest ambitions in life were realized. 
 His children, the elect by inheritance to luxurious 
 ease, were growing up about him, tall, straight, 
 and handsome, and happily free from disorgan 
 izing ambitions, loving the fleece-lined home-nest. 
 
 The marriage of an eldest daughter, Louise, to 
 a wealthy next-door planter, five miles away, had 
 seemed but to add a bit of broidery to the borders 
 of his garment. 
 
 His pretty, dainty wife, in lieu of wrinkles, had 
 taken on avoirdupois and white hair, and instead 
 of shrivelling like a four-o'clock had bloomed into 
 a regal evening-glory. 
 
 So distinctly conscious of all these blessings was 
 the old colonel that his atmosphere seemed al 
 ways charged with the electric quality which was 
 happiness ; but on occasions like to-day, when the 
 depths of his tendernesses were stirred within him 
 by the ecstasy of giving and of receiving thanks 
 and smiles and thanks again from " my handsome 
 wife," " my fine children," " my loyal slaves " 
 ah, this was the electric flash ! It was joy ! It 
 was delight and exuberance of spirit ! It was 
 youth returned ! It was Christmas ! 
 
 In his heart were peace and good- will all the 
 year round, and on Christmas hallelujahs. 
 
 He had often been heard to say that if he ever 
 professed religion it would be on Christmas ; 
 and, by the way, so it was, but not this Christmas. 
 
132 CHEISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 A tender-souled, good old man was he, yet 
 thoughtless, withal, as a growing boy. 
 
 Down in the quarters, this morning, the negroes, 
 gaudily arrayed in their Sunday best, were con 
 gregated in squads about the benches in front of 
 their cabins, awaiting the ringing of the planta 
 tion bell which should summon them to " the 
 house " to receive their Christmas packages. 
 
 In the grove of China-trees around which the 
 cabins were ranged, a crowd of young men and 
 maidens flirted and chaffed one another on the 
 probable gifts awaiting them. 
 
 One picked snatches of tunes on a banjo, an 
 other drew a bow across an old fiddle, but the 
 greater number were giddily spending themselves 
 in plantation repartee, a clever answer always 
 provoking a loud, unanimous laugh, usually fol 
 lowed by a reckless duet by the two " musi- 
 cianers." 
 
 Sometimes, when the jokes were too utterly 
 delicious, the young "bucks" would ecstatically 
 hug the China-trees or tumble down upon the 
 grass and bellow aloud. 
 
 " What yer reck'n ole marster gwine give you, 
 Unc' Torm ?" said one, addressing an old man who 
 had just joined the group and sat sunning his 
 shiny bald head. 
 
 " 'Spec' he gwine give Unc' Torm some hair-ile, 
 ur a co'se comb," suggested a pert youth. 
 
 " Look like he better give you a wagon-tongue 
 ur a bell-tongue, one, 'caz^ yo' tongue ain't long 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 133 
 
 'nough," replied Uncle Tom quietly, and so the 
 joke was turned. 
 
 " I trus' he gwine give Bow-laigged Joe a new 
 pair o' breeches !" 
 
 " Ef he do, I hope dey'll be cut out wid a 
 circular saw !" came a quick response, which 
 brought a scream of laughter. 
 
 " Wonder what Lucindy an' Dave gwine git ?" 
 
 Lucinda and Dave were bride and groom of a 
 month. 
 
 In a minute two big fellows were screaming and 
 holding their sides over a whispered suggestion, 
 when the word " cradle" escaped and set girls and 
 all to giggling. 
 
 "Pity somebody wouldn't drap some o' you 
 smart boys on a corn-cradle an' chop you up," 
 protested the bride, with a toss of her head. 
 
 " De whole passel ob 'em wouldn't make noth- 
 in' but rotten-stone, ef dee was grine up," sug 
 gested Uncle Tom, with an intolerant sniffle. 
 
 " Den you mought use us fur tooth-powder," 
 responded the wit again, and the bald-headed old 
 man, confessing himself vanquished, good-nat 
 uredly bared his toothless gums to join in the 
 laughter at his own expense. 
 
 A sudden clang of the bell brought all to their 
 feet presently, and, strutting, laughing, prancing, 
 they proceeded up to the house, the musicians 
 tuning up afresh en route, for in the regular order 
 of exercises arranged for the day they were to 
 play an important part. 
 
134 CHRISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 The recipients were to be ranged in the yard in 
 Jine, about fifty feet from the steps of the back 
 veranda where the master should stand, and, as 
 their names should be called, to dance forward, 
 receive their gifts, courtesy, and dance back to 
 their places. 
 
 At the calling of the names music would begin. 
 
 The pair who by vote should be declared the 
 most graceful should receive from the master's 
 hand a gift of five dollars each, with the under 
 standing that it should supply the eggnog for the 
 evening's festivities, where the winners should 
 preside as king and queen. 
 
 An interested audience of the master's family, 
 seated on the veranda back of him, was a further 
 stimulant to best effort. 
 
 The packages, all marked with names, were 
 piled on two tables, those for men on one and the 
 women's on the other, and the couples resulting 
 from a random selection from, each caused no little 
 merriment. 
 
 All had agreed to the conditions, and when 
 Lame Phoabe was called out with Jake Daniels, a 
 famous dancer, they were greeted with shouts of 
 applause. 
 
 Phoebe, enthused by her reception, and in no 
 wise embarrassed by a short leg, made a virtue 
 of necessity, advancing and retreating in a series 
 of graceful bows, manipulating her sinewy body 
 so dextrously that the inclination towards the left 
 foot was more than concealed, and for the first 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 135 
 
 time in his life Jake Daniels came in second best, 
 as, amid deafening applause, Lame Phoebe bowed 
 and wheeled herself back among the people. 
 
 Then came Joe Scott, an ebony swell, with Fat 
 Sarey, a portly dame of something like three 
 hundred avoirdupois a difficult combination 
 again. 
 
 That Sarey had not danced for twenty years 
 was not through reluctance of the flesh more 
 than of the spirit, for she was " a chile o' de 
 kingdom," both by her own profession and uni 
 versal consent. 
 
 Laughing good-naturedly, with shaking sides 
 she stepped forward, bowed first to her master 
 and then to her partner, and, raising her right 
 hand, began, in a wavering, soft voice, keeping 
 time to the vibrating melody by easy undulations 
 of her pliable body, to sing : 
 
 " Dey's a star in de eas' on a Chris'mus morn. 
 
 Rise up, shepherd, an* foller ! 
 Hit'll lead ter de place whar de Saviour's born. 
 
 Rise up, shepherd, an' foller ! 
 Ef yer take good heed ter de angels' words, 
 You'll forgit yo' flocks an' f orgit yo' herds, 
 An' rise up, shepherd, an' foller 1 
 Leave yo' sheep an' 
 Leave yo' lamb an' 
 Leave yo' ewe an' 
 Leave yo' ram, an' 
 Rise up, shepherd, an' foller 1" 
 
 Joe took his cue from the first note, and, ac- 
 
136 CHEISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 oommodating his movements to hers, elaborating 
 them profusely with graceful gestures, he fell in 
 with a rich, high tenor, making a melody so tender 
 and true that the audience were hushed in reveren 
 tial silence. 
 
 The first verse finished, Sarey turned slowly, 
 and by an uplifted finger invited all hands to join 
 in the chorus. 
 
 Rich and loud, in all four parts, came the effec 
 tive refrain : 
 
 " Foller, f oiler, f oiler, f oiler, 
 Rise up, shepherd, rise an' f oiler, 
 Foller de Star o' Bethlehem !" 
 
 Still taking the initiative, Sarey now bent easily 
 and deeply forward in a most effusive parlor salu 
 tation as she received her gift ; while Joe, as ever 
 quick of intuition, also dispensed with the tra 
 ditional dipping courtesy, while he surrendered 
 himself to a profound bow which involved the 
 entire length of his willowy person. 
 
 Turning now, without losing for a moment the 
 rhythmic movement, they proceeded to sing a sec 
 ond verse : 
 
 "Oh, dat star's still shinin' dis Chris'mus day. 
 
 Rise, O sinner, an' f oiler ! 
 Wid an eye o' faith you c'n see its ray. 
 
 Rise, O sinner, an' foller ! 
 Hit'll light yo' way thoo de fiel's o' fros', 
 While it leads thoo de stable ter de shinin' crosa 
 
 Rise, O sinner, an' foller ! 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 137 
 
 Leave yo' father, 
 Leave yo' mother, 
 Leave yo' sister, 
 Leave yo' brother, 
 An' rise, O sinner, an' f oiler !' 
 
 A slightly accelerated movement had now 
 brought the performers back to their places, 
 when the welkin rang with a full all-round chorus: 
 
 "Foller, f oiler, f oiler, f oiler, 
 Rise, O sinner, rise an' foller, 
 Foller de Star o' Bethlehem !" 
 
 A few fervid high-noted " Amens !" pathetically 
 suggestive of pious senility, were succeeded now 
 by a silence more eloquent than applause. 
 
 Other dancers by youthful antics soon restored 
 hilarity, however, and for quite an hour the fes 
 tivities kept up with unabated interest. 
 
 Finally a last parcel was held up only one 
 and when the master called, " Judy Collins !" add 
 ing, " Judy, you'll have to dance by yourself, my 
 girl 1" the excitement was so great that for several 
 minutes nothing could be done. 
 
 Judy Collins, by a strange coincidence, was the 
 only " old maid " on the plantation, and, as she 
 was a dashing, handsome woman, she had given 
 the mitten at one time or another to nearly every 
 man present. 
 
 That she should have to dance alone was too 
 much for their self-control. 
 
 The women, convulsed with laughter, held on 
 to one another, while the men shrieked aloud. 
 
138 CHRISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 Judy was the only self-possessed person present. 
 
 Before any one realized her intention, she had 
 seized a new broom from the kitchen porch near, 
 and stepped out into the arena with it in her hand. 
 
 Judy was grace itself. Tall, willowy, and lithe, 
 stately as a pine, supple as a mountain-trout, she 
 glided forward with her broom. 
 
 Holding it now at arm's-length, now balancing 
 it on end and now on its wisps, tilting it at haz 
 ardous angles, but always catching it ere it fell, 
 poising it on her finger-tips, her chin, her fore 
 head, the back of her neck, keeping perfect time 
 the while with the music, she advanced to receive 
 her parcel, which, with a quick movement, she 
 deftly attached to the broom-handle, and, throw 
 ing it over her shoulder, danced back to her place. 
 
 The performance entire had proven a brilliant 
 success, and Judy's dance a fitting climax. 
 
 Needless to say, Judy insisted on keeping the 
 broom. 
 
 The awarding of the prizes by acclamation to 
 Joe Scott and Fat Sarey was the work of a mo 
 ment, prettily illustrating the religious suscepti 
 bility of the voters. 
 
 Then followed a " few remarks " from the 
 speaker of the occasion, and a short and playful 
 response from the master, when the crowd dis 
 persed, opening their bundles en route as they re 
 turned merrily to their cabins. 
 
 The parcels had been affectionately prepared. 
 Besides the dresses, wraps, and shoes given to all, 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 139 
 
 there were attractive trinkets, bottles of cologne, 
 ribbons, gilt ear-rings or pins for the young 
 women, cravats, white collars, shirt-studs, for the 
 beaux, and for the old such luxuries as tobacco, 
 walking-canes, spectacles, and the like, with small 
 coins for pocket-money. 
 
 This year, in addition to the extra and expected 
 "gift," each young woman received, to her de 
 light, a flaring hoop-skirt ; and such a lot of bal 
 loons as were flying about the plantation that 
 morning it would be hard to find again. 
 
 Happy and care-free as little children were they, 
 and as easily pleased. 
 
 Having retired for the moment necessary for 
 their inflation and adornment, the younger ele 
 ment, balloons and beaux, soon returned to their 
 popular holiday resort under the China-trees. 
 
 Though the branches were bare, the benches 
 beneath them commanded a perennial fair-weather 
 patronage ; for where a bench and a tree are, 
 there will young men and maidens be gathered 
 together. 
 
 Lame Mose was there, with his new cushioned 
 crutch, and Phil Thomas the preacher, looking 
 ultra-clerical and important in a polished beaver; 
 while Lucinda and Dave, triumphant in the cumu 
 lative dignity of new bride-and-groomship, hoop- 
 skirt and standing collar, actually strutted about 
 arm in arm in broad daylight, to the intense 
 amusement of the young folk, who nudged one 
 another and giggled as they passed. 
 
140 CHRISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 Such was the merry spirit of the group when 
 Si, a young mulatto household servant, suddenly 
 appeared upon the scene. 
 
 " 'Cindy," said he, " marster say come up ter de 
 house dat is, ef you an' Dave kin part company 
 fur 'bout ten minutes." 
 
 " I don' keer nothin' 'bout no black ogly-lookin' 
 some'h'n-'nother like Dave, nohow !" exclaimed 
 Lucinda flirtatiously, as she playfully grasped Si's 
 arm and proceeded with him to the house, leaving 
 Dave laughing with the rest at her antics. 
 
 The truth was that, confidently expecting the 
 descent of some further gift upon her brideship, 
 Lucinda was delighted at the summons, and her 
 face beamed with expectancy as she presented 
 herself before her master. 
 
 "Lucindy," said he, as she entered, "I want 
 you to mount Lady Gay and ride down to Beech- 
 wood this morning, to take some Christmas things 
 to Louise and her chicks." 
 
 Lucinda's smile broadened in a delighted grin. 
 
 A visit to Beechwood to-day would be sure to 
 elicit a present from her young mistress, " Miss 
 Louise," besides affording an opportunity to com 
 pare presents and indulge in a little harmless 
 gossip with the Beechwood negroes. 
 
 Lady Gay stood, ready saddled, waiting at the 
 door. After a little delay in adjusting the asser 
 tive springs of her hoop-skirt to the pommel of the 
 saddle, Lucinda started off in a gallop. 
 
 When she entered the broad hall at Beechwood, 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 141 
 
 the family, children and all, recognizing her as 
 an ambassador of Santa Claus, gathered eagerly 
 about her, and as boxes and parcels were opened 
 in her presence her eyes fairly shone with pleas 
 ure. Nor was she disappointed in her hope of a 
 gift herself. 
 
 " I allus did love you de mos' o' all o' ole Miss's 
 chillen, Miss Lou," she exclaimed presently, open 
 ing and closing with infantile delight a gay feath 
 er-edged fan which Louise gave her. 
 
 " I does nachelly love red. Red seem like hit's 
 got mo' color in it 'n any color." 
 
 " Dis heah's a reg'lar courtin'-fan," she added to 
 herself, as she followed the children out into the 
 nursery to inspect their new toys, fanning, posing, 
 and flirting as she went. " Umph ! ef I'd 'a' des 
 had dis fan las' summer I'd V had Dave all but 
 
 crazy." 
 
 After enjoying it for an hour or more, she finally 
 wrapped it carefully in her handkerchief and put 
 it for safe keeping into her pocket. In doing so, 
 her hand came in contact with a letter which she 
 had forgotten to deliver. 
 
 " Law, Miss Lou !" she exclaimed, hurrying 
 back, " I mos' done clair forgittin' ter gi' you yo' 
 letter wha' ole marster toP me ter han' you de 
 fus' thing." 
 
 " I wondered that father and mother had sent 
 no message," replied Louise, opening the note. 
 Her face softened into a smile, however, as she 
 proceeded to read it. 
 
142 CHRISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 " Why, you wretch, Lucindy !" she exclaimed, 
 laughing, "you've kept me out of my two best 
 Christmas gifts for an hour. I always wanted to 
 own Lady Gay, and father writes that you are a 
 fine, capable girl." 
 
 Lucinda cast a quick, frightened look at Louise 
 and caught her breath. 
 
 "And I am so glad to know that you are 
 pleased. Why didn't you tell me that you were 
 a Christmas gift when you came ?" 
 
 There was no longer any doubt. Lucinda could 
 not have answered to save her life. The happy- 
 hearted child of a moment ago was transformed 
 into a desperate, grief -stricken woman. 
 
 " Why, Lucindy !" Louise was really grieved to 
 discern the tragic look in the girl's face. "I am 
 disappointed. I thought you loved me. I thought 
 you would be delighted to belong to me to be 
 my maid and not to work in the field any more 
 and to have a nice cabin in my yard and a 
 sewing-machine and to learn to embroider and 
 to dress my hair and to " 
 
 The growing darkness in Lucinda's face warned 
 Louise that this conciliatory policy was futile, and 
 yet, feeling only kindly towards her, she contin 
 ued, 
 
 " Tell me, Lucindy, why you are distressed. 
 Don't you really wish to belong to me ? Why 
 did you say that you loved me the best ?" 
 
 Words were useless. Louise was almost fright 
 ened as she looked again into the girl's face. Her 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 143 
 
 eyes shone like a caged lion's, and her bosom 
 rose and fell tumultuously. 
 
 After many fruitless efforts to elicit a response, 
 Louise called her husband, and together they tried 
 by kind assurances to pacify her ; but it was vain. 
 She stood before them a mute impersonation of 
 despair and rage. 
 
 "You'd better go out into the kitchen for a 
 while, Lucindy," said Louise finally, "and when I 
 send for you I shall expect you to have composed 
 yourself." Looking neither to right nor left, 
 Lucinda strode out of the hall, across the gallery, 
 down' the steps, through the yard to the kitchen, 
 gazed at by the assembled crowd of children both 
 black and white. 
 
 " 'Cindy ain't but des on'y a little while ago 
 married," said Tildy, a black girl who stood in 
 the group as she passed out. 
 
 "Married, is she?" exclaimed Louise, eagerly 
 grasping at a solution of the difficulty. "That 
 explains. But why didn't she tell me ? There 
 must be some explanation. This is so unlike 
 father. We are to dine at Sucrier this afternoon. 
 Go, Tildy, and tell Lucindy that we will see what 
 can be done." 
 
 "Fo' laws-o'-mussy sakes, Miss Lou, please, 
 ma'am, don't sen' me ter 'Cindy now. 'Cindy look 
 like she gwine hurt somebody." 
 
 If she could have seen Lucinda at this mo 
 ment, she might indeed have feared to approach 
 her. When she had entered the kitchen a little 
 
144 CHRISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 negro who had followed at her heels had an 
 nounced to the cook and her retinue, 
 
 " 'Cindy mad caze ole marster done sont 'er fur 
 a Chris'mus-gif ter Miss Lou." Whereupon there 
 were varied exclamations : 
 
 " TJrnph !" 
 
 " You is a sorry-lookin' Chris'mus gif ', sho !" 
 
 "I don't blame 'er !" 
 
 "What you f retain' 'bout, chile? You in 
 heab'n here !" 
 
 "De gal's married," whispered some one in 
 stage fashion, finally. 
 
 " Married !" shrieked old Silvy Ann from her 
 corner where she sat peeling potatoes. " Married ! 
 Eh, Lord ! Time you ole as I is, you won't fret 
 'bout no sech. Turn 'im out ter grass, honey, an' 
 start out fur a grass- widder. I got five I done 
 turned out in de pasture now, an' ef dee sell me 
 out ag'in, Ole Abe'll be a-grazin' wid de res' ! 
 
 " Life is too short ter fret, honey ! But ef yer 
 bouri* ter fret, fret 'bout some'Krt! Don't fret 
 'bout one o' deze heah long-laigged, good-fur- 
 nothin' sca'crows name' Mister Man ! Who you 
 married ter, gal ?" 
 
 " She married ter cross-eyed Dave," some one 
 answered. 
 
 " Cross-eyed ! De Lord ! Let 'im go fur what 
 he'll fetch, honey ! De woods roun' heah is full 
 o' straight-eyed ones, let 'lone game-eyes !" And 
 the vulgar old creature encored her own wit with 
 an outburst of cracked laughter. 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 145 
 
 "Ain't you 'shame' o' yo'se'f, Aunt Silvy Ann ! 
 'Cindy ain't like you; she married wid a 
 preacher" 
 
 " Yas, an' unmarried 'dout no preacher ! What's 
 de good o' lockin' de do' on de inside wid a key, 
 ef you c'n open it f 'om de outside 'dout no key ? 
 I done kep' clair o' locks an' keys all my life, an' 
 nobody's feelin's was hurt." 
 
 While old Silvy Ann was running on in this 
 fashion, Texas, the cook, had begun to address 
 Lucinda : 
 
 "Don't grieve yo' heart, baby. My ole man 
 stay mo' fur 'n ole marster's f'orn heah 'way 
 down ter de cross-roads t'other side de bayou. 
 How fur do daddy stay, chillen?" she added, 
 as she broke red pepper into her turkey-stuffing. 
 
 "Leb'n mile," answered four voices from as 
 many little black pickaninnies who tumbled over 
 one another on the floor. 
 
 " You heah dat ! LeVn mile, an' ev'y blessed 
 night he come home ter Texas ! Yas, ma'am, an' 
 'is lone star keep a lookout fur 'im too a candle 
 in de winder an' a tin pan o' 'membrance on de 
 hyearth." 
 
 Seeing that her words produced no effect, Texas 
 changed her tactics. 
 
 Approaching Lucinda, she regarded her with 
 admiration : " Dat's a quality collar you got on, 
 'Cindy. An', law bless my soul, ef de gal 'ain't 
 got on hoops ! You gwine lead de style on dis 
 planta " 
 10 
 
146 CHRISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 Texas never finished her sentence. 
 Trembling with fury, Lucinda snatched the 
 collar from her neck and tore it into bits ; then, 
 making a dive at her skirts, she ripped them into 
 shreds in her frantic efforts to destroy the hoop- 
 skirt. 
 
 Dragging the gilt pendants from her ears, tear 
 ing the flesh as she did so, she threw them upon 
 the floor, and, stamping upon them, ground them 
 to atoms. 
 
 Attracted next by her new brogans, she kicked 
 them from her feet and hurled them, one after 
 another, into the open fire. No vestige of a gift 
 from the hand that had betrayed her would she 
 spare. 
 
 While all this was occurring in the kitchen, a 
 reverse side of the tragedy was enacting in the 
 house. 
 
 A few moments after Lucinda's departure, while 
 Louise and her husband were yet discussing the 
 situation, another messenger came from Sucrier, 
 this time a man, and again a gift, the " note" 
 which he promptly delivered proving to be a deed 
 of conveyance of " two adult negroes, by name 
 Lucinda and David." Then followed descriptions 
 of each, which it was unnecessary to read. 
 The bearer seemed in fine spirits. 
 " Ole marster des sont me wid de note, missy," 
 said he, courtesying respectfully, "an' ef yer please, 
 ma'am, I'll go right back ef dey ain't no answer. 
 We havin' a big time up our way ter-day." 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 147 
 
 "Why, don't you know what this is, Dave?" 
 
 " Yas, 'm, co'se I knows. Hit's hit's a letter. 
 Law, Miss Lou, yer reck'n I don' know a letter 
 when I see it ?" 
 
 " Yes, but this letter says that you are not to 
 go back. Father has sent you as a Christmas gift 
 to us." 
 
 " Wh wh h how you say dat, missy ?" 
 
 " Please don't look so frightened, Dave. From 
 the way you all are acting to-day, I begin to be 
 afraid of myself. Don't you want to belong to 
 me?" 
 
 " Y y yas, 'm, but yer see, missy, I I I's 
 married." 
 
 The hat in his hand was trembling as he spoke. 
 
 " And where is your wife ?" Could it be possi 
 ble that he did not know ? 
 
 "She s h s he " The boy was actually 
 crying. " She stay wid me. B b but marster 
 des sont 'er on a arrant dis mornin'. Gord knows 
 whar he sont 'er. I 'lowed maybe he sont 'er 
 heah, tell 'e sont me." 
 
 The situation, which was plain now, had grown 
 so interesting that Louise could not resist the 
 temptation to bring the unconscious actors in 
 the little drama together, that she might witness 
 the happy catastrophe. 
 
 She whispered to Tildy to call Lucinda. 
 
 That Lucinda should have been summoned just 
 at the crisis of her passion was most inoppor 
 tune. 
 
148 CHRISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 Tildy stood at a distance as she timidly deliv 
 ered the message. Indeed, all the occupants of 
 the kitchen had moved off apace and stood aghast 
 and silent. 
 
 As soon as Lucinda heard the command, how 
 ever, without even looking down at herself, with 
 head still high in air and her fury unabated, 
 she followed Tildy into the presence of her mis 
 tress. 
 
 Louise was frightened when she looked upon 
 her ; indeed it was some moments before she could 
 command herself enough to speak. 
 
 The girl's appearance was indeed tragic. 
 
 In tearing the ribbon from her hair she had 
 loosened the ends of the short braids, which stood 
 in all directions. Her ears were dripping with 
 blood, and her torn sleeve revealed her black arm, 
 scratched with her nails, also bleeding. 
 
 Below her tattered skirt trailed long, detached 
 springs, the dilapidated remains of the glorious 
 structure of the morning. 
 
 Her tearless eyes gave no sign of weakening, 
 and the veins about her neck and temples, pulsat 
 ing with passion, were swollen and knotted like 
 ropes. 
 
 She seemed to have grown taller, and the black 
 circles beneath her eyes and about her swelling 
 lips imparted by contrast an ashen hue grimly 
 akin to pallor to the rest of her face. 
 
 As her mistress contemplated her, she was 
 moved to pity. 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 149 
 
 "Lucindy" she spoke with marked gentle 
 ness " I showed you all our Christmas gifts this 
 morning ; but after you went out we received 
 another, and I've sent for you to show you this 
 too." 
 
 She hesitated, but not even by a quivering 
 muscle did Lucinda give a sign of hearing. 
 
 "Look over there towards the library door, Lu 
 cindy, and see the nice carriage-driver father sent 
 me." 
 
 Ah ! now she looked. 
 
 For a moment only young husband and wife 
 regarded each other, and then, oblivious to all 
 eyes, the two Christmas gifts rushed into each 
 other's arms. 
 
 The fountains of her wrath were broken up 
 now, and Lucinda's tears came like rain. Crying 
 and sobbing aloud, she threw her long arms 
 around little Dave, and, dragging him out into 
 the floor, began to dance. 
 
 Dave, more sensitive than she, abashed after 
 the first surprise, became conscious and ashamed. 
 
 " Stop, 'Cindy ! I 'clare, gal, stop ! Stop, I 
 say !" he cried, trying in vain to wrest himself 
 from her grasp. 
 
 " You 'Cindy ! You makes me 'shame' ! Law, 
 gal ! Miss Lou, come here to 'Cindy !" 
 
 But the half -savage creature, mad with joy, 
 gave no heed to his resistance as she whirled him 
 round and round up and down the hall. 
 
 " Hallelujah ! Glory ! Amen ! Glory be ter 
 
150 CHRISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 Gord, fur givin' me back dis heah little black, 
 cross-eyed, bandy-legged nigger ! Glory, I say !" 
 
 The scene was not without pathos. And yet 
 how small a thing will sometimes turn the tide of 
 emotion ! By how trifling a by-play does a trag 
 edy become comedy ! 
 
 In her first whirl, the trailing steels of Lucin- 
 da's broken hoop-skirt flew over the head of the 
 cat, who sat in the door, entrapping her securely. 
 
 Round and round went poor puss, terror-strick 
 en and wildly glaring, utterly unable to extricate 
 herself, until finally a reversed movement freeing 
 her, she sprang with a desperate plunge and an 
 ear-splitting " Miaou /" by a single bound out of 
 the back door. 
 
 This served to bring Lucinda to a consciousness 
 of her surroundings. 
 
 Screaming with laughter, she threw herself 
 down and rolled on the floor. 
 
 In rising, her eyes fell for the first time, with a 
 sense of perception, upon herself. 
 
 Suddenly conscience-stricken, she threw herself 
 again before her mistress. 
 
 "Fur Gord sake, whup me, Miss Lou!" she be 
 gan; " whup me, ur put me in de stocks, one! I ain't 
 no mo' fitt'n fur a Chris'mus gif ' 'n one o' deze 
 heah tiger-cats in de show-tent. Des look heah how 
 I done ripped up all my purties, an' bus' my ears 
 open, an' broke up all my hoop-granjer, all on 
 'count o' dat little black, cross-eyed nigger ! I 
 tell yer de trufe, missy, I ain't no bad-hearted 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 151 
 
 nigger ! You des try me ! I'll hoe fur yer, I'll 
 plough fur yer, I'll split rails fur yer, I'll be yo' 
 hair-dresser, I'll run de sew'-machine fur yer, I'll 
 walk on my head fur yer, ef yer des leave me dat 
 one little black scrooched-up sorue'h'n'-'nother 
 stan'in' over yonner 'g'inst de do', grinnin' like a 
 chessy-cat. He ain't much, but, sech as 'e is an' 
 what dey is of 'im, fur Gord sake, spare 'im ter 
 me ! Somehow, de place whar he done settled in 
 my heart is des nachelly my wiV-cat spot" 
 
 Sitting in her rags at her mistress's feet, in this 
 fashion she approached the formal apology which 
 she felt that her conduct demanded. 
 
 Somehow the conventional formula, "I ax yo' 
 pardon," seemed inadequate to the present re 
 quirement. 
 
 She hardly knew how to proceed. 
 
 After hesitating a moment in some embarrass 
 ment, she began again, in a lower tone : 
 
 " Miss Lou, dis heah's Chris'mus, ain't it ?" 
 
 "Yes ; you know it is." 
 
 "An' hit's de day de Lord cas' orf all 'is glory 
 an' come down ter de yearth, des a po' little baby 
 a-layin' in a stable 'longside o' de cows an' calves, 
 ain't it ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "An' hit's de day de angels come a-singin' 
 * peace an' good- will,' ain't it ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Miss Lou" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
152 CHRISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 "On de 'count o' all dat, honey, won't yer 
 please, ma'am, pass over my wil'-cat doin's dis 
 time, mistus ?" 
 
 She waited a moment, and, not understanding 
 how a rising lump in her throat kept her mistress 
 silent, continued to plead : 
 
 " Fur Gord sake, mistus, I done said all de scrip- 
 chur' I knows. What mo' kin I say ?" 
 
 " What what what what what's all this?" 
 
 It was old Colonel Slack, standing in the front 
 hall door. 
 
 At the sound of his voice, the three grandchil 
 dren ran to meet him, Louise following. 
 
 " You dear old father !" she exclaimed, kissing 
 him. " You've grown impatient and come after 
 us!" 
 
 " Certainly I have. What sort of spending the 
 day do you call this ? It's two o'clock now. But 
 what's all this ?" he repeated, approaching Lu- 
 cinda, who had risen to her feet. 
 
 Dave had gradually backed nearly out of the 
 door. 
 
 " Why, Lucindy, my girl ! you look as 'if you'd 
 had a tiff with a panther." 
 
 " Tell de truf e, marster, I done been down an' 
 had a han'-ter-han' wrastle wid Satan ter-day, an* 
 he all but whupped me out." 
 
 " How did you happen to send these poor chil 
 dren to us separately, father ?" said Louise. " They 
 have been almost broken-hearted, each thinking 
 the other was to stay at Sucrier." 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 153 
 
 " Well, well, well ! I am the clumsiest old 
 blunderer ! It's from Scylla to Charybdis every 
 time. I didn't want my people to suspect they 
 were going, just because it's Christmas, you know, 
 and saying good-bye will cast a sort of shadow 
 over things. Dave and Lucindy are immensely 
 popular among the darkies. I knew they'd be 
 glad to come ; it's promotion, you see. Never 
 thought of a misunderstanding. And so you poor 
 children thought I wanted to divorce you, did you? 
 And you, Lucindy, flew into a tantrum and tore 
 the clothes off your back? I don't blame you. 
 I'd tear mine off too. Rig her up again some 
 how, daughter, and let her go up to the dance to 
 night." 
 
 Opening his pocket-book, he took out two crisp 
 five-dollar bills. 
 
 Handing one of them to Lucinda, he said : 
 
 " Here, girl, take this, and don't you tell 'em 
 I said so, but I thought you beat the whole crowd 
 dancing this morning, anyhow. And Dave, you 
 little cross-eyed rascal you, step up here and get 
 your money. Here's five dollars to pay for spoil 
 ing your Christmas. Now, off with you !" 
 
 As they passed out, Lucinda seized Dave's arm, 
 and when last seen as they crossed the yard she 
 was dragging the little fellow from side to side, 
 dancing in her rags and flirting high in air the 
 red fan, which by some chance had escaped de 
 struction in her pocket. 
 
 Magnificent in a discarded ball-dress of her new 
 
154 CHRISTMAS GIFTS 
 
 mistress, Lucinda was the centre of attraction at 
 the Sucrier festival that evening, and when ques 
 tioned in regard to her toilet of the morning, she 
 answered, with a playful toss of the head : 
 
 " What y'all talkin' 'bout, niggers ? I wushes 
 you ter on'erstan' dat I's a house-gal now ! Yer 
 reck'n I gwine wear common ornamints, same as 
 youfiel'-han's?" 
 
"BUNK" 
 
BLINK" 
 
 IT was nearly midnight of Christmas Eve on 
 Oakland Plantation. In the library of the 
 great house a dim lamp burned, and here, in a big 
 arm-chair before a waning fire, Evelyn Bruce, a 
 fair young girl, sat earnestly talking to a withered 
 old black woman, who sat on the rug at her 
 feet. 
 
 "An' yer say de plantation! done sol', baby, an' 
 we boun' ter move ?" 
 
 "Yes, mammy, the old place must go." 
 
 "An' is de 'Onerble Mr. Citified buyed it, 
 baby ? I know he an' ole marster sot up all en- 
 durin' las' night a-talkin' and a-figgurin'." 
 
 "Yes. Mr. Jacobs has closed the mortgage, 
 and owns the place now." 
 
 " Who toP yer, honey ? Is ole marster sesso ?" 
 
 " No, mammy. Father seemed so depressed 
 that I followed Mr. Jacobs out this morning, and 
 asked him all about it, and he told me." 
 
 " He 'ain't talked no way sassy ter yer 'bout it, 
 is he, baby ? 'Ain't put on no 'bove-ish ways ? 
 Deze heah permissiom-merchams, dee puts on a 
 heap o' biggoty an' super/?wousness sometimes 
 
158 "BLINK" 
 
 when dee steps inter de royal kingdoms, an' 'ray 
 deyselves in robes made fur bigger folks." 
 
 " Mr. Jacobs spoke very kindly, mammy. I 
 think he is truly sorry." 
 
 " An' when is we gwine, baby ?" 
 
 " The sooner the better. I wish the going were 
 over." 
 
 "An' whar'bouts is we gwine, honey?" 
 
 " We will go to the city, mammy to New Or 
 leans. Something tells me that father will never 
 be able to attend to business again, and I am 
 going to work to make money." 
 
 Mammy fell backward. " W-w-w-work! Y-y- 
 you w-w-work ! Wh-wh-why, baby, what sort o' 
 funny, cuyus way is you a-talkin', anyhow ?" 
 
 11 Many refined women are earning their living 
 in the city, mammy." 
 
 " Is you a-talkin' sense, baby, ur is yer des 
 a-bluffin' ? Is yer axed yo' pa yit ?" 
 
 " I don't think father is well, mammy. He 
 says that whatever I suggest we will do, and I am 
 sure it is best. We will take a cheap little house, 
 father and I" 
 
 " Y-y-you an' yo' pa ! An' wh-wh-what 'bout 
 me, baby ?" Mammy would stammer when she 
 was excited. 
 
 "And you, mammy, of course." 
 
 " Umh ! umh ! umh ! An' so we gwine ter 
 trabble ! An' de' Onerble Mr. Citified done closed 
 de morgans on us ! Ef-ef I'd o' knowed it dis 
 mornin' when he was a-quizzifyin' me so serga- 
 
" BLINK " 159 
 
 cious, I b'lieve I'd o' upped an* sassed 'ira, I des 
 couldn't o' belt in. I 'lowed he was teckin' 
 a mighty frien'ly intruss, axin' me do we-all's 
 puckon -trees bear big puckons, an' an* ef de 
 well keep cool all summer, an' an' he ax me 
 he ax me " 
 
 " What else did he ask you, mammy ?" 
 
 " Scuze me namin' it ter yer, baby, but he ax 
 me who was buried in we's graves he did fur a 
 fac'. Yer reck'n dee gwine claim de graves in de 
 morgans, baby ?" 
 
 Mammy had crouched again at Evelyn's feet, 
 arid her eager brown face was now almost against 
 her knee. 
 
 " All the land is mortgaged, mammy." 
 
 "Don't yer reck'n he mought des nachelly 
 scuze de graves out'n de morgans, baby, ef yer 
 ax 'im mannerly ?" 
 
 " I'm afraid not, mammy, but after a while we 
 may have them moved." 
 
 The old bronze clock on the mantel struck 
 twelve. 
 
 " Des listen. De ole clock a-strikin' Chris'mus 
 gif now. Come 'long, go ter baid, honey. You 
 needs a res', but I ain' gwine sleep none, 'caze 
 all dis heah news what you been a-tellin' me, hits 
 gwine ter run roun' in my haid all night, same as 
 a buzz-saw." 
 
 And so they passed out, mammy to her pallet 
 in Evelyn's room, while Evelyn stepped to her 
 father's chamber. 
 
160 " BLINK " 
 
 Entering on tiptoe, she stood and looked upon 
 his face. He slept as peacefully as a babe. The 
 anxious look of care which he had worn for years 
 had passed away, and the flickering fire revealed 
 the ghost of a smile upon his placid face. In this 
 it was that Evelyn read the truth. The crisis of 
 effort for him was past. He might follow, but he 
 would lead no more. 
 
 Since the beginning of the war Colonel Bruce's 
 history had been the oft-told tale of loss and dis 
 aster, and at the opening of each year since, there 
 had been a flaring up of hope and expenditure, 
 then a long summer of wavering promise, fol 
 lowed by an inevitable winter of disappoint 
 ment. 
 
 The old colonel was, both by inheritance and 
 the habit of many successful years, a man of 
 great affairs, and when the crash came he was too 
 old to change. When he bought, he bought 
 heavily. He planted for large results. There 
 was nothing petty about him, not even his debts. 
 And now the end had come. 
 
 As Evelyn stood gazing upon his handsome, 
 placid face her eyes were blinded with tears. 
 Falling upon her knees at his side, she engaged 
 for a moment in silent prayer, consecrating her 
 self in love to the life which lay before her, and 
 as she rose she kissed his forehead gently, and 
 passed to her own room. 
 
 Mammy, in spite of her own prediction of 
 sleeplessness, was already snoring before the fire. 
 
" BLINK " 161 
 
 Evelyn could not sleep yet. She felt so keenly 
 that her own decision must be the pivot upon 
 which their future lives must turn, that all her 
 faculties of heart and mind were alert. As she 
 sank into a chair, her eyes fell on the portraits 
 upon the walls. Here were the uniformed soldier 
 brothers, young and handsome, now only a misty 
 memory of her childhood there, in a frame of 
 silver daisies, a baby sister, who had died before 
 Evelyn was born. Only a spirit sister this, and 
 yet to-night her heart went out with a strong 
 yearning to this baby face in a cloud. If this 
 little sister, but a year her senior, had lived, how 
 lovingly the two might plan and work together 
 now ! And here, above the mantel, is the face 
 of her mother. The gentle eyes of the picture 
 seem to shed a benediction upon her as she looks 
 into them, and for a moment the other world 
 and this seem almost to touch, so real does 
 Heaven become when it takes our mothers. 
 
 At last her eyes fall upon mammy, old, faith 
 ful mammy, asleep at her feet, her very presence 
 here an act of devotion, for since Evelyn's 
 mother's death mammy had forsaken her own 
 soft bed, and come here, protesting that she was 
 " gitt'n' clair sp'iled, an' no 'count anyhow, sleepin' 
 in a funniture bed." 
 
 On the table at Evelyn's side lay several piles 
 
 of manuscript, and as these attracted her, she 
 
 turned her chair, and fell to work sorting them 
 
 into packages, which she laid carefully away. 
 
 11 
 
162 " BLINK 
 
 These papers, representing much of labor and 
 patience, were the visible foundation upon which 
 she hoped ultimately to build an independence. 
 
 Evelyn had always loved to scribble, but only 
 within the last few years had the idea of writing 
 for money come to her as a possible escape from 
 threatened poverty. Gleaning those which seemed 
 best of her early writings, she had revised, pol 
 ished, and corrected them so far as she could, and, 
 if the whole truth must be told, she had even 
 sent several manuscripts to editors of magazines, 
 but somehow, like birds too young to leave the 
 nest, they all found their way back to her. With 
 each failure, however, she had become more de 
 termined to succeed, but in the mean time now 
 she must earn a living. This was impracticable 
 here. In the city all things were possible, and 
 to the city she would go. She would at first ac 
 cept one of the tempting situations offered in the 
 daily papers, improving her leisure by attending 
 lectures, studying, observing, cultivating herself 
 in every possible way, and after a time she would 
 try her hand again at writing. 
 
 It was nearly day when she finally went to bed, 
 but she was up early next morning. There was 
 much to be considered. Many things were to be 
 done. 
 
 At first she consulted her father about every 
 thing, but his invariable answer, "Just as you 
 say, daughter," transferred all responsibility to 
 her. 
 
" BLINK " 163 
 
 A letter to her mother's old New Orleans friend, 
 Madame Le Due, briefly set forth the circum 
 stances, and asked Madame's aid in securing a 
 small house. Other letters sent in other directions 
 arranged various matters, and Evelyn soon found 
 herself in the vortex of a move. She had a wise, 
 clear head and a steady, resolute hand, and in old 
 mammy a most efficient deputy. The old woman 
 seemed, indeed, positively ubiquitous as she bus 
 tled about, forgetting nothing, packing, suggest 
 ing, and, spite of herself, frequently protesting ; 
 for, if the truth must be spoken, this move to the 
 city was violating all the traditions of mammy's 
 life. 
 
 " Wh-wh-wh-why, baby ! Not teck de grime- 
 stone !" she exclaimed one day, in reply to Eve 
 lyn's protest against her packing that ponderous 
 article. " How is we gwine sharpen de spade an' 
 de grubbin'-hoe ter work in the gyard'n ?" 
 
 " We sha'n't have a garden, mammy." 
 
 " No gyard'n !" Mammy sat down upon the 
 grindstone in disgust. " Wh-wh-wh-what sort o' 
 a fureign no-groun' place is we gwine ter, 
 anyhow, baby ? Honey !" she continued, in a 
 troubled voice, " co'se you know I ain't got edu- 
 catiom, an' I ain't claim knowledge ; b-b-b-but 
 ain't you better study on it good 'fo' we goes ter 
 dis heah new country ? Dee tells me de cidy's a 
 owdacious place. I been heern a heap o' tales, 
 but I 'ain't say nothin'. Is yer done prayed over 
 it good, baby ?" 
 
164 "BLINK" 
 
 " Yes, dear. I have prayed that we should do 
 only right. What have you heard, mammy ?" 
 
 " D-d-d-de way folks talks, look like death an' 
 terror is des a-layin' roun' loose in de cidy. Dee 
 tell me dat ef yer des nachelly blows out yer 
 light fur ter go ter baid dat dis heah somehV 
 what stan' fur wick, hit '11 des keep a-sizzin' an' 
 a-sizzin' out, des like sperityal steam ; an 9 hit's 
 clair pizen /" 
 
 "That is true, mammy. But you see, we won't 
 blow it out. We'll know better." 
 
 " Does yer snuff it out wid snuffers, baby, 
 ur des fling it on de flo' an' tromp yer foots 
 on it ?" 
 
 " Neither, mammy. The gas comes in through 
 pipes built into the houses, and is turned on and 
 off with a valve, somewhat as we let water out of 
 the refrigerator." 
 
 " Um-hm ! Well done ! Of co'se ! On'y, in 
 place o' water what put out de light, hit's in'ardly 
 filled wid someh'n' what favor a blaze." 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 Mammy reflected a moment. " But de grime- 
 stone gotter stay berhime, is she ? An' is we 
 gwine leave all de gyard'n tools an' implemers ter 
 de 'Onerble Mr. Citified ?" 
 
 " No, mammy ; none of the appurtenances of 
 the homestead are mortgaged. We must sell 
 them. We need money, you know." 
 
 " What is de impertinences o' de homestid, 
 baby ? You f orgits I ain't on'erstan' book words." 
 
"BLINK" 165 
 
 "Those things intended for family use, mam 
 my. There are the carriage-horses, the cows, the 
 chickens " 
 
 " Bless goodness fur dat ! An' who gwine drive 
 'em inter de cidy fur us, honey?" 
 
 " Oh, mammy, we must sell them all." 
 
 Mammy was almost crying. "An' what sort 
 o* entry is we gwine meek inter de cidy, honey 
 empty - handed, same es po' white trash ? 
 D-d-d-don't yer reck'n we b-b-better teck de chick 
 ens, baby ? Yo' ma thunk a heap o' dem Brahma 
 hains an' dem Clymoth Rockers dee looks so 
 courageous." 
 
 It was hard for Evelyn to refuse. Mammy 
 loved everything on the old place. 
 
 " Let us give up all these things now, mammy ; 
 and after a while, when I grow rich and famous, 
 I'll buy you all the chickens you want." 
 
 At last preparations were over. They were to 
 start to-morrow. Mammy had just returned from 
 a last tour through out-buildings and gardens, 
 and was evidently disturbed. 
 
 "Honey," she began, throwing herself on the 
 step at Evelyn's feet, " what yer reck'n ? Ole 
 Muffly is a-sett'n' on fo'teen aigs, down in de cot 
 ton seed. W-w-we can't g'way f'm heah an' leave 
 Muffly a-sett'n', hit des nachelly can't be did. 
 D-d-don't yer reck'n dee'd hoi' back de morgans a 
 little, tell Muffly git done sett'n' ?" 
 
 It was the samo old story. Mammy would 
 never be ready to go. 
 
166 "BLINK" 
 
 " But our tickets are bought, mammy." 
 
 "An' like as not de 'Onerble Mr. Citified '11 
 shoo ole Muffly orf de nes' an' spile de whole 
 sett'n'. Tut ! tut ! tut !" And groaning in spirit, 
 mammy walked off. 
 
 Evelyn had feared, for her father, the actual 
 moment of leaving, and was much relieved when, 
 with his now habitual tranquillity, he smilingly 
 assisted both her and mammy into the sleeper. 
 Instead of entering himself, however, he hesitated. 
 
 " Isn't your mother coming, daughter ?" he 
 asked, looking backward. " Or oh, I forgot," 
 he added, quickly. "She has gone on before, 
 hasn't she ?" 
 
 "Yes, dear, she has gone before," Evelyn an 
 swered, hardly knowing what she said, the chill 
 of a new terror upon her. 
 
 What did this mean ? Was it possible that she 
 had read but half the truth ? Was her father's 
 mind not only enfeebled, but going ? 
 
 Mammy had not heard the question, and so 
 Evelyn bore her anxiety alone, and during the 
 day her anxious eyes were often upon her father's 
 face, but he only smiled and kept silent. 
 
 They had been travelling all day, when sudden 
 ly, above the rumbling of the train, a weak, bird- 
 like chirp was heard, faint but distinct ; and pres 
 ently it came again, a prolonged " p-e-e-p !" 
 
 Heads went up, inquiring faces peered up and 
 down the coach, and fell again to paper or book, 
 when the cry came a third time, and again. 
 
"BLINK" 167 
 
 Mammy's face was a study. " 'Sh 'sh 'sh ! 
 don' say nothin', baby," she whispered, in Eve 
 lyn's ear ; " but dis heah chicken in my bosom is 
 a-ticklin' me so I can't hardly set still." 
 
 Evelyn was absolutely speechless with surprise, 
 as mammy continued by snatches her whispered 
 explanation : 
 
 " Des 'f o' we lef ' I went 'n' lif ' up ole Muffly 
 ter see how de aigs was comin' orn, an' dis heah aig 
 was pipped out, an' de little risidenter look like 
 he eyed me so berseechin' I des nachelly couldn't 
 leave 'im. Look like he knowed he warn't right 
 eously in de morgans, an' 'e crave ter clair out an' 
 trabble. I did hope speech wouldn't come ter 'im 
 tell we got off'n deze heah train kyars." 
 
 A halt at a station brought a momentary si 
 lence, and right here arose again, clear and shrill, 
 the chicken's cry. 
 
 Mammy was equal to the emergency. After 
 glancing inquiringly up and down the coach, she 
 exclaimed aloud, " Some'h'n' in dis heah kyar soun' 
 des like a vintrilloquer." 
 
 "That's just what it is," said an old gentleman 
 opposite, peering around over his spectacles. 
 " And whoever you are, sir, you've been amusing 
 yourself for an hour." 
 
 Mammy's ruse had succeeded, and during the 
 rest of the journey, although the chicken devel 
 oped duly as to vocal powers, the only question 
 asked by the curious was, " Who can the ventril 
 oquist be ?" 
 
168 "BLINK" 
 
 Evelyn could hardly maintain her self-control, 
 the situation was so utterly absurd. 
 
 " I does hope hit's a pullet," mammy confided 
 later ; " but I doubts it. Hit done struck out wid 
 a mannish movemint a'ready. Muffly's aigs allus 
 hatches out sech invig'rous chickens. I gwine in 
 de dressin'-room, baby, an' wrop 'im up agin. Feel 
 like he done kicked 'isse'f loose." 
 
 Though she made several trips to the dressing- 
 room in the interest of her hatchling, mammy's 
 serene face held no betrayal of the disturbing 
 secret of her bosom. 
 
 At last the journey was over. The train crept 
 with a tired motion into the noisy depot. Then 
 came a rattling ride over cobble-stones, granite, 
 and unpaved streets ; a sudden halt before a low 
 browed cottage ; a smiling old lady stepping out 
 to meet them ; a slam of the front door they 
 were at home in New Orleans. 
 
 Madame Le Due seemed to have forgotten 
 nothing that their comfort required, and in many 
 ways that the Creole gentlewoman understands 
 so well, she was affectionately and unobtrusively 
 kind. And yet, in the life Evelyn was seeking 
 to enter, Madame could give her no aid. About 
 all these new ideas of women ladies going out 
 as bread-winners, Madame knew nothing. For 
 twenty years she had gone only to the cathedral, 
 the French Market, the cemetery, and the Chapel 
 of St. Roche. As to all this unconventional 
 American city above Canal Street, it was there 
 
"BLINK" 169 
 
 and spreading (like the measles and other evils) ; 
 everybody said so ; even her paper, L'Abeille, re 
 ferred to it in French resentfully. She believed 
 in it historically ; but for herself, she " never 
 travelled," excepting, as she quaintly put it, in her 
 "acquaintances" the French streets with which 
 she was familiar. 
 
 The house Madame had selected was a typical 
 old-fashioned French cottage, venerable in scaling 
 plaster and fern-tufted tile roof, but cool and 
 roomy within as uninviting without. A small in 
 land garden surprised the eye as one entered the 
 battened gate at its side, and a dormer-window in 
 the roof looked out upon the rigging of ships at 
 anchor but a stone's-throw away. 
 
 Here, in the chamber above, Evelyn installed 
 her father. Furnishing this spacious upper room 
 with familiar objects, and pointing out the novel 
 ties of the view from its window, she tried to in 
 terpret his new environment happily for him, and 
 he smiled, and seemed content. 
 
 It was surprising to see how soon mammy fell 
 into line with the new order of things. The 
 French Market, with its " cuyus fureign folks an' 
 mixed talk," was a panorama of daily unfolding 
 wonders to her. "But huccome dee calls it 
 French ?" she exclaimed, one day. " I been lis- 
 tenin' good, an' I hear 'em jabber, jabber, jabber 
 all dey fanciful lingoes, but I 'ain't heern nair one 
 say polly fronsay, an' yit I know dats de riverend 
 book French." The Indian squaws in the market, 
 
170 " BLINK 
 
 sitting flat on the ground, surrounded by their 
 wares, she held in special contempt. "I hoi's 
 myse'f clair 'bove a Injun," she boasted. "Dee 
 ain't look jinnywine ter me. Dee ain't nuther 
 white folks nur niggers, nair one. SettV dee- 
 selves up fur go-betweens, an' sellin' sech grass- 
 greens as we lef berhindt us growin' in de wil 
 derness !" 
 
 But one unfailing source of pleasure to mammy 
 was the little chicken, "Blink," who, she de 
 clared, " named 'isse'f Blink de day he blinked at 
 me so skancified out'n de shell. Blink 'ain't said 
 nothin' wid 'is mouf," she continued, eying him 
 proudly, "'caze he know eye -speech set on a 
 chicken a heap better'n human words, mo' in- 
 special on a yo'ng half-hatched chicken like Blink 
 was dat day, cramped wid de aig-shell behime, an' 
 de morgans starin' 'im in de face befo', an' not 
 knowin' how 'e gwine come out'n 'is trouble. He 
 des kep' silence, an' wink all 'is argimints, an' 'e 
 wink to the p'int, too !" 
 
 In spite of his unique entrance into the world 
 and his precarious journey, Blink was a vigorous 
 young chicken, with what mammy was pleased to 
 call "a good proud step an' knowin' eyes." 
 
 Three months passed. The long, dull summer 
 was approaching, and yet Evelyn had found no 
 employment. Advertised positions had proven 
 unsuitable or inaccessible, and indeed, sometimes 
 the most inviting but delusions and snares. But 
 Evelyn had not been idle. Sewing for the market- 
 
"BLINK" 171 
 
 folk, decorating palmetto-fans and Easter-eggs, 
 which mammy peddled in the big houses, she had 
 earned small sums of money from time to time. 
 Enforced leisure she recognized as opportunity 
 for study, and her picturesque surroundings an 
 open book. 
 
 Impressions of the quaint old French and Span 
 ish city, with its motley population, were careful 
 ly jotted down in her note -book. These first 
 descriptions she afterward rewrote, discarding 
 weakening detail, elaborating the occasional triv 
 iality which seemed to reflect the true local tint 
 a nice distinction, involving conscientious hard 
 work. How she longed for criticism and advice ! 
 
 A year ago her father, now usually dozing in 
 his chair while she worked, would have been a 
 most able and affectionate critic ; but now She 
 rejoiced when a day passed without his asking for 
 her mother, and wondering why she did not come. 
 
 And so it was that in her need of sympathy 
 Evelyn began to read her writings, some of which 
 had grown into stories, to mammy. The very 
 exercise of reading aloud the sound of it was 
 helpful. That mammy's criticisms should have 
 proven valuable in themselves was a surprise, but 
 it was even so. 
 
 II. 
 
 "A pusson would know dat was fanciful de 
 way hit reads orf, des like a pusson 'magine 
 some'hV what ain't so." 
 
172 " BLINK " 
 
 Such was mammy's first criticism of a story 
 which had just come back, returned from an ed 
 itor. Evelyn had been trying to discover wherein 
 its weakness lay. 
 
 Mammy had caught the truth. The story was 
 unreal. The English seemed good, the construc 
 tion fair, but it was "fanciful" 
 
 The criticism set Evelyn to thinking. She laid 
 aside this, and read another manuscript aloud. 
 
 "I tell yer, honey, a-a-a pusson 'd know you 
 had educatiom, de way you c'n fetch in de dicksh'- 
 nary words." 
 
 "Don't you understand them, mammy?" she 
 asked, quickly, catching another idea. 
 
 " Who, me ? Law, baby, I don't crave ter on'er- 
 stan' all dat granjer. I des ketches de chune, an' 
 hit sho is got a glorified ring." 
 
 Here was a valuable hint. She must simplify her 
 style. The tide of popular writing was, she knew,in 
 the other direction, but the best writing was simple. 
 
 The suggestion sent her back to study. 
 
 And now for her own improvement she rewrote 
 the " story of big words " in the simplest English 
 she could command, bidding mammy tell her if 
 there was one word she could not understand. 
 
 In the transition the spirit of the story was 
 necessarily changed, but the exercise was good. 
 Mammy understood every wood. 
 
 "But, baby," she protested, with a troubled face, 
 " look like hit don't start no mo*; all its granjer 
 done gone. You better fix it up des like it was 
 
" BLINK " 173 
 
 befo', honey. Hit 'mines me o' some o' deze heah 
 fine folks what walks de streets. You know folks 
 what 'ain't got nothiri* else, dee des nachelly 'bleege 
 ter put on finery." 
 
 How clever mammy was ! How wholesome the 
 unconscious satire of her criticism ! This story, 
 shorn of its grandeur, could not stand indeed. It 
 was weak and affected. 
 
 " You dear old mammy," exclaimed Evelyn, 
 " you don't know how you are helping me." 
 
 "Gord knows Iwushes I could holp you, honey. 
 I 'ain't nuver is craved education! befo', but now, 
 look like I'd like ter be king o' all de smartness, an' 
 know all dey is in de books. I wouldn't hoi' back 
 nutKn f'om yer, baby." 
 
 And Evelyn knew it was true. 
 
 "Look ter me, baby," mammy suggested, an 
 other night, after listening to a highly imagina 
 tive story " look ter me like ef ef ef you'd 
 des write down some truly truth what is ac-chilly 
 happened, an' glorify it wid educatiom, hit 'd des 
 nachelly stan' in a book." 
 
 " I've been thinking of that," said Evelyn, re 
 flectively, laying aside her manuscript. 
 
 "How does this sound, mammy?" she asked, a 
 week later, when, taking up an unfinished story, 
 she began to read. 
 
 It was the story of their own lives, dating from 
 the sale of the plantation. The names, of course, 
 were changed, excepting Blink's, and, indeed, until 
 
174 " BLINK " 
 
 he appeared upon the scene, although mammy lis 
 tened breathless, she did not recognize the char 
 acters. Blink, however, was unmistakable, and 
 when he announced himself from the old wom 
 an's bosom his identity flashed upon mammy, and 
 she tumbled over on the floor, laughing and cry 
 ing alternately. Evelyn had written from her 
 heart, and the story, simply told, held all the 
 wrench of parting with old associations, while 
 the spirit of courage and hope, which animated 
 her, breathed in every line as she described their 
 entrance upon their new life. 
 
 " My heart was teched f 'om de fus', baby," said 
 mammy, presently, wiping her eyes ; " b-b-b-but 
 look heah, honey, I'd I'd be wuss'n a hycoprite 
 ef I let dat noble ole black 'oman, de way you 
 done specified 'er, stan' fur me. Y-y-yer got 
 ter change all dat, honey. Dey warn't nothin' 
 on top o' dis roun' worl' what fetched me 'long 
 wid y' all but 'cep' 'caze I des nachelly love yer, 
 an' all dat book granjer what you done laid on 
 me I don 1 know nothin' 't all about it, an' yer got 
 ter teck it orf, an' write me down like I is, des a 
 po' ole nigger wha' done fell in wid de Gord- 
 blessedes' white folks wha' ever lived on dis 
 yearth, an' an' wha' gwine foller 'em an' stay 
 by 'em, don' keer whicherway dee go, so long as 
 'er ole ban's is able ter holp 'em. Yer got ter 
 change all dat, honey. 
 
 " But Blink ! De laws-o'-mussy ! Maybe hit's 
 'caze I been hatched 'im an' raised 'im, but look ter 
 
" BLINK " 175 
 
 me like he ain't no disgrace ter de story, no way. 
 Seem like he sets orf de book. Yer ain't gwine 
 say nothin' 'bout Blink bein' a frizzly, is yer? 
 'Twouldn't do no good ter tell it on 'im." 
 
 " I didn't know it, mammy." 
 
 " Yas, indeedy. Po' Blink's feathers done taken 
 on a secon' twis'," she replied, with maternal so 
 licitude. " I d' know huccome he come dat-a- 
 way, 'caze we 'ain't nuver is had no frizzly stock 
 'mongs' our chickens. Sometimes I b'lieve Blink 
 tumbled 'isse'f up dat-a-way tryin' ter wriggle 'is- 
 se'f outn de morgans. I hates it mightily. Look 
 like a frizzly can't put on granjer no way, don' 
 keer how mannerly 'e hoi' 'isse'f." 
 
 The progress of the new story, which mammy 
 considered under her especial supervision, was 
 now her engrossing thought. 
 
 " Yer better walk straight, Blink," she would 
 exclaim " yer better walk straight an' step high, 
 'caze yer gwine in a book, honey, 'long wid de 
 a'stokercy !" 
 
 One day Blink walked leisurely in from the street, 
 returning, happily for mammy's peace of mind, be 
 fore he had been missed. He raised his wings a mo 
 ment as he entered, as if pleased to get home, and 
 mammy exclaimed, as she burst out laughing : 
 
 " Don't you come in heah shruggin' yo' shoul 
 ders at me, Blink, an' puttin' on no French airs. 
 I believe Blink been out teckin' French lessons," 
 she added, as she shut the gate. And taking her 
 pet into her arms, she continued, addressing him : 
 
178 " BLINK " 
 
 " Is you crave ter learn f ureign speech, Blinky, 
 like de res' o' dis mixed-talkin' settlemint ? Is 
 you 'shamed o' yo' country voice, honey, an' try- 
 in' ter ketch a French crow ? No, 'e ain't," she 
 added, putting him down at last, but watching 
 him fondly. " Blink know he's a Bruce. An' he 
 know he's folks is in tribulatiom, an' hilar'ty ain't 
 bercome 'im dat's huccome Blink 'ain't crowed 
 none ain't it, Blink ?" 
 
 And Blink wisely winked his knowing eyes. 
 That he had, indeed, never proclaimed his roost- 
 erhood by crowing was a source of some anxiety 
 to mammy. 
 
 " Maybe Blink don't know he's a rooster," she 
 confided to Evelyn one day. " Sho 'nough, honey, 
 he nuver is seed none ! De neares' ter 'isse'f what 
 he knows is dat ole green polly what set in de fig- 
 tree nex' do', an' talk Gascon. I seed Blink r istid- 
 d'y stan' an' look at 'im, an' den look down at 'is- 
 se'f , same as ter say, * Is I a polly, ur what ?' An' 
 den 'e open an' shet 'is mouf , like 'e tryin' ter twis' 
 it, polly-fashion, an' hit won't twis', an' den 'e des 
 shaken 'is haid, an' walk orf, like 'e heavy-hearted 
 an' mixed in 'is min'. Blink don' know what 'sporn- 
 serbility lay on 'im ter keep our courage up. You 
 heah me, Blink ! Open yo' mouf, an' crow out, 
 like a man !" 
 
 But Blink was biding his time. 
 During this time, in spite of strictest economy, 
 money was going out faster than it came in. 
 "I tell yer what I been thinkin', baby," said 
 
"BLINK" 177 
 
 mammy, as she and Evelyn discussed the situa 
 tion. "I think de bes' thing you can do is ter 
 hire me out. I can cook y' alls breckf us' soon, an' 
 go out an' meek day's work, an' come home plenty 
 o' time ter cook de little speck o' dinner you an' 
 ole boss needs." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! You mustn't think of it, mam 
 my." 
 
 " But what we gwine do, baby ? We des can't 
 get out'n money. Hit won't do /" 
 
 "Maybe I should have taken that position as 
 lady's companion, mammy." 
 
 "An' stay 'way all nights f'om yo' pa, when you 
 de onlies' light ter 'is eyes ? No, no, honey !" 
 
 " But it has been my only offer, and sometimes 
 I think" 
 
 " Hush talkin' dat-a-way, baby. Don't yer pray ? 
 An' don't yer trus' Gord ? An' ain't yer done 
 walked de streets tell you mos' drapped down, 
 lookin' fur work ? An' can't yer teck de hint dat 
 de Lord done laid orf yo' work right heah in de 
 house f You go 'long now, an' cheer up yo' pa, 
 des like you been doin', an' study yo' books, an' 
 write down true joy an' true sorrer in yo' stories, 
 an' glorify Gord wid yo' sense, an' don't pester 
 yo'se'f 'bout ter-day an' ter-morrer, an' an' an' 
 ef de gorspil is de trufe, an' an' ef a po' ole nig 
 ger's pra'rs mounts ter Heaven on de wings o' 
 faith, Gord ain't gwine let a hair o' yo' haid per 
 ish." 
 
 But mammy pondered in her heart much con- 
 12 
 
178 " BLINK " 
 
 cerning the financial outlook, and it was on the 
 day after this conversation that she dressed her 
 self with unusual care, and, without announcing 
 her errand, started out. , 
 
 Her return soon brought its own explanation, 
 however, for upon her old head she bore a huge 
 bundle of unlaundered clothing. 
 
 " What in the world !" exclaimed Evelyn ; but 
 before she could voice a protest, mammy inter 
 rupted her. 
 
 " Nuver you min', baby ! I des waked up," 
 she exclaimed, throwing her bundle at the kitch 
 en door. " I been preachin' ter you 'bout teckin' 
 hints, an' 'ain't been readin' my own lesson. Hue- 
 come we got dis heah nice sunny back yard, an' 
 dis bustin' cisternful o' rain-water? Huccome de 
 boa'din'-house folks at de corner keeps a-passin' 
 an' a-passin' by dis gate wid all dey fluted finery 
 orn, ef 'twarn't ter gimme a hint dat dey's wealth 
 a-layin' at de do', an' me, bline as a bat, 'ain't seen 
 it?" 
 
 " Oh, but, mammy, you can't take in washing. 
 You are too old ; it is too hard. You mustn't " 
 
 " Ef-ef-ef-ef you gits obstropulous, I-I-I gwine 
 whup yer, sho. Y-y-yer know how much money's 
 a-comin' out'n dat bundle, baby ? Five dollars /" 
 This in a stage-whisper. " An' not a speck o' dirt 
 on nothin'; des baby caps an' lace doin's rumpled 
 up." 
 
 " How did you manage it, mammy ?" 
 
 " Well, baby, I des put on my fluted ap'on an 1 
 
179 
 
 you know it's ironed purty an' my clair-starched 
 neck-hankcher, an' an' my business face, an' I belt 
 up my haid an' walked in, an' axed good prices, 
 an' de ladies, dee des tooken took one good look 
 at me, an' gimme all I'd carry. You know wash- 
 in' an' ironin' is my pleasure, baby." 
 
 It was useless to protest, and so, after a mo 
 ment, Evelyn began rolling up her sleeves. 
 
 " I am going to help you, mammy," she said, 
 quietly but firmly; but before she could protest, 
 mammy had gathered her into her arms, and car 
 ried her into her own room. Setting her down at 
 her desk, she exclaimed : 
 
 "Now, ef you goes ter de wash-tub, dey ain't 
 nothin' lef fur me ter do but 'cep'n ter set down 
 an' write de story, an' you know I can't do it." 
 
 "But, mammy, I must help you." 
 
 " Is you gwine meek me whup yer, whe'r ur no, 
 baby? Now I gwine meek a bargain wid yer. 
 You set down an' write, an' I gwine play de pian- 
 ner on de washbode, an' ter-night you c'n read orf 
 what yer done put down, an' ef yer done written 
 it purty an' sweet, you c'n come an' turn de flut- 
 in'-machine fur me ter-morrer. Yer gwine meek 
 de bargain wid me, baby ?" 
 
 Evelyn was so touched that she had not voice 
 to answer. Rising from her seat, she put her arms 
 around mammy's neck and kissed her old face, and 
 as she turned away a tear rolled down her cheek. 
 And so the " bargain " was sealed. 
 
 Before going to her desk Evelyn went to her 
 
180 " BLINK " 
 
 father, to see that he wanted nothing. He sat, as 
 usual, gazing silently out of the window. 
 
 "Daughter," said he, as she entered, "are we 
 in France?" 
 
 " No, dear," she answered, startled at the ques 
 tion. 
 
 "But the language I hear in the street is 
 French ; and see the ship masts French flags 
 flying. But there is the German too, and Eng 
 lish, and last week there was a Scandinavian. 
 Where are we truly, daughter ? My surroundings 
 confuse me." 
 
 " We are in New Orleans, father in the French 
 Quarter. Ships from almost everywhere come to 
 this port, you know. Let us walk out to the 
 levee this morning, and see the men-of-war in 
 the river. The air will revive you." 
 
 "Well, if your mother comes ? She might come 
 while we were away." 
 
 And so it was always. With her heart trem 
 bling within her, Evelyn went to her desk. " Sure 
 ly," she thought, " there is much need that I 
 shall do my best." Almost reverentially she took 
 her pen, as she proceeded with the true story she 
 had begun. 
 
 " I done changed my min' 'bout dat ole 'oman 
 wha' stan' fur me, baby," said mammy that night. 
 " You leave 'er des like she is. She glorifies de 
 story a heap better'n my nachel se'f could do it. 
 I been a-thinkin' 'bout it, an' de finer that ole 
 
" BLINK " 181 
 
 9 oman ac', an* de mo 1 granjer yer lay on 'er, de 
 better yer gwine meek de book, 'caze de ole gemp- 
 lum wha' stan' fur ole marster, his times an' sea 
 sons is done past, an' he can't do nothin' but set 
 still an' wait, an' an' de yo'ng missus, she ain't 
 fitten ter wrastle on de outskirts ; she ain't noth 
 in' but 'cep' des a lovin' sweet saint, wid 'er face 
 set ter a high, far mark " 
 
 " Hush, mammy !" 
 
 " Tm a-talkin' 'bout de book, baby, an 1 don't you 
 interrup 1 me no mo 1 ! An' I say ef dis ole 'oman 
 who* stan' fur me, ef-ef-ef she got a weak spot in 
 'er, dey won't be no story to it. She de one wha' 
 got ter stan' by de battlemints an' hoi' de fort." 
 
 " That's just what you are doing, mammy. 
 There isn't a grain in her that is finer than 
 you." 
 
 " 'Sh ! dis ain't no time fur foolishness, baby. 
 Yer 'ain't said nothin' 'bout yo' ma an' de ole black 
 'oman's baby bein' borned de same day, is yer ? 
 An' how de ole 'oman nussed 'em bofe des like 
 twins? An' an' how folks 'cused 'er o' starvin' 
 'er own baby on de 'count o' yo' ma bein' puny ? 
 (But dat warn't true.) Maybe yer better leave 
 all dat out, 'caze hit mought spile de story." 
 
 " How could it spoil it, mammy ?" 
 
 " Don't yer see, ef folks knowed dat dem white 
 folks an' dat ole black 'oman was dat close-t, dey 
 wouldn't be no principle in it ! Dey ain't nothin' 
 but love in dat, an' de ole 'oman couldn't he'p 
 'erse'f, no mo'n I could he'p it! No right-minded 
 
182 " BLINK " 
 
 pusson is gwine ter deny dey own heart. Yer 
 better leave all dat out, honey. B-b-but deys 
 some'hV else wha' been lef out, wha' b'long in 
 de book. Yer ain't named de way de little mistus 
 sot up all nights an' nussed de ole 'oman time 
 she was sick, an' an' an' de way she sew all de 
 ole 'oman's cloze ; an' an' an' yer done lef ' out 
 a heap o' de purtiness an' de sweetness o' de 
 yo'ng missis ! Dis is a book, baby, an' an' 
 yer boun' ter do jestice !" 
 
 In this fashion the story was written. 
 
 "And what do you think I am going to do 
 with it, mammy ?" said Evelyn, when finally, hav 
 ing done her very best, she was willing to call it 
 finished. 
 
 " Yer know some'h'n', baby ? Ef-ef-ef I had 
 de money, look like I'd buy dat story myse'f. 
 Seem some way like I loves it. Co'se I couldn't 
 read it ; but my min' been on it so long, seem 
 like, ef I'd study de pages good dee'd open up ter 
 me. What yer gwine do wid it, baby?" 
 
 " Oh, mammy, I can hardly tell you ! My 
 heart seems in my throat when I dare to think 
 of it ; but Pm going to try it. A New York 
 magazine has offered five hundred dollars for a 
 best story -Jive hundred dollars ! Think, mam 
 my, what it would do for us !" 
 
 " Dat wouldn't buy de plantation! back, would 
 it, baby ?" Mammy had no conception of large 
 sums. 
 
 " We don't want it back, mammy. It would 
 
183 
 
 pay for moving our dear ones to graves of 
 their own ; we should put a nice sum in bank ; 
 you shouldn't do any more washing ; and if we 
 can write one good story, you know we can write 
 more. It will be only a beginning." 
 
 " An' I tell yer what I gwine do. I gwine pray 
 over it good, des like I been doin' f 'om de start, 
 an' ef hit's Gord's will, dem folks '11 be moved in 
 de sperit ter sen' 'long de money." 
 
 And so the story was sent. 
 
 After it was gone the atmosphere seemed 
 brighter. The pending decision was now a fixed 
 point to which hope, no longer a vague abstrac 
 tion, tended. 
 
 The very audacity of the effort seemed inspira 
 tion to more ambitious work, and during the long 
 summer, while in her busy hands the fluting- 
 machine went round and round, Evelyn's mind 
 was full of plans for the future. 
 
 Finally, December, with its promise of the mo 
 mentous decision, was come, and Evelyn found 
 herself full of anxious misgivings. 
 
 What merit entitling it to special consideration 
 had the little story ? Did it bear the impress of 
 self -forgetful, conscientious purpose, or was this 
 a thing only feebly struggling into life within 
 herself not yet the compelling force that indel 
 ibly stamps itself upon the earnest labor of con 
 secrated hands? How often in the silent hours 
 of night did she ask herself questions like this ! 
 
 At last it was Christmas Eye again, and Satur- 
 
184 "BLINK" 
 
 day night. When the days are dark, what is so 
 depressing as an anniversary an anniversary 
 joyous in its very essence ? How one Christmas 
 brings in its train memory-pictures of those gone 
 before ! 
 
 This had been a hard day for Evelyn. Her 
 heart felt weak within her, and yet, realizing that 
 she alone represented youth and hope in the little 
 household, and feeling need that her own cour 
 age should be sustained, she had been more than 
 usually merry all day. She had clandestinely 
 prepared little surprises for her father and mam 
 my, and was both amused and touched to discover 
 the old woman secreting mysterious little parcels 
 which she knew were to come to her to-morrow. 
 
 " Wouldn't it be funny if, after all, I should 
 turn out to be only a good washer- woman, mam 
 my ?" she said, laughing, as she assisted the old 
 woman in pinning up a basket of laundered 
 clothing. 
 
 " Hit 'd be funnier yit ef Pd turn out inter 
 one o' deze heah book-writers, wouldn't it ?" And 
 mammy laughed heartily at her own joke. "Look 
 like I better study my a-b abs, f us', let 'lone put- 
 tin' 'em back on paper wid a pen. I tell you 
 educatiom's a-spreadin' in dis fam'ly, sho. Time 
 Blink run over de sheet out a-bleachin' 'is^Wdy, 
 he written a Chinese letter all over it. Didn't 
 you, Blink ? What de matter wid Blink any 
 how, to-day?" she added, taking the last pin 
 from her head-kerchief. "Blink look like he 
 
"BLINK" 185 
 
 nervous some way 's evenin'. He keep a-walk> 
 in' roun', an' winkin' so slow, an' retchin' 'is 
 neck out de back do' so cuyus. Stop a-battin' 
 yo' eyes at me, Blink ! Ef yo' got some'h'n ter 
 say, say it 1" 
 
 A sudden noisy rattle of the iron door-knocker 
 mammy trotting to the door the postman a 
 letter ! It all happened in a minute. 
 
 How Evelyn's heart throbbed and her hand 
 trembled as she opened the envelope ! " Oh, 
 mammy !" she cried, trembling now like an aspen 
 leaf. " Thank God!" 
 
 "Is dee d-d-d-done sont de money, baby?" 
 Her old face was twitching too. 
 
 But Evelyn could not answer. Nodding her 
 head, she fell sobbing on mammy's shoulder. 
 
 Mammy raised her apron to her eyes, and 
 there's no telling what "foolishness " she might 
 have committed had it not been that suddenly, 
 right at her side, arose a most jubilant screech. 
 
 Blink, perched on the handle of the clothes- 
 basket, was crowing with all his might. 
 
 Evelyn, startled, raised her head, and laughed 
 through her tears, while mammy threw herself at 
 full length upon the floor, shouting aloud. 
 
 " Tell me chickens ain't got secon'-sight !" she 
 exclaimed, finally, wiping her eyes. " Blink see'd 
 he see'd Laws-o'-mussy, baby, look yonder 
 at dat little yaller rooster stan'in' on de fence. 
 Dat what Blink see. Co'se it is !" 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COUETSHIP 
 
 TESSEKIAH BROWN, a fat, bow-legged fel- 
 ^J low of forty years or thereabouts, enjoyed the 
 double distinction of being the fattest man as 
 well as the oldest bachelor of his color on the 
 plantation. 
 
 He had been a general beau in colored circles 
 ever since he had begun to wear shoes to church, 
 about twenty-five years ago. The " young ladies " 
 he had "gone with" and "had feelin's about" 
 were now staid matrons, mothers of grown sons 
 and daughters, and yet Jessekiah had never been 
 known to speak a serious word of love to any 
 woman. 
 
 It was a common thing for the old wives on the 
 place to say, as they sat together on the levee and 
 laughed to see him still playing the beau, "Po* 
 Ki ! I don't b'lieve pos'tive he know how ter out 
 an' out cote a gal !" 
 
 And this was true, or at least it was half the 
 truth. The other half was that Jessekiah had 
 never been able to make up his mind decidedly as 
 to the identical woman he wished to marry. 
 
 His was a case of ultra all-round susceptibility 
 resulting in an embarrassment of emotions. It is 
 
190 JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 
 
 probable that a certain indecision amounting to a 
 psychological idiosyncrasy had descended to Ki 
 by direct maternal inheritance, as it is related on 
 reliable authority that his good mother had been 
 utterly unable, even while she stood at the bap 
 tismal font with her babe, to decide whether his 
 name should be Jesse or Hezekiah, and an embar 
 rassed effort to change it at the last moment re 
 sulted in the unique cognomen which distin 
 guished him through life. 
 
 There had been times in Jessekiah's life when 
 he had almost decided that some special woman 
 was the undisputed possessor of his affections, but 
 they were fleeting moments. 
 
 On the old levee just opposite his present cabin 
 he had once been sitting with Diana Forbes, a 
 copper-skinned lass of seventeen years, for whom 
 he had long confessed a soft spot in his soft heart, 
 and the moonlight and a white gown she wore on 
 that occasion had settled the question for the 
 moment. 
 
 He had even gotten as far as "Roses" in his 
 avowal of love, when a silvery laugh, descending 
 all the way from high C to inaudibility, had float 
 ed to him from the quarters. 
 
 Jessekiah could never propose to another girl 
 while he heard Silv'y Simms laugh, and so, in 
 stead of saying "Roses is red an' vi'lets blue," 
 and becoming hopelessly involved on the second 
 line, he had coughed and remarked : 
 
 " Roses smells a heap mo' sweeter, ter my min', 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 191 
 
 'n honeysuckles does. Which you lak de moes', 
 Miss Diana ?" 
 
 And so the crisis had passed. 
 
 The only distinction Ki had attained as a per 
 son of superior years among the youth of the 
 plantation was the title of brother. 
 
 " Brer Brown " had long ago " professed," and 
 while never attaining any celebrity either as a 
 speaker or worker in the fold, neither had he in 
 troduced shame in any shape, which was saying a 
 good deal. 
 
 Ki's life, as care-free as that of the humming 
 bird that flits at will from flower to flower, and 
 apparently as sunny and bright, was yet not with 
 out its trials. For years a certain single woman 
 on the place, as huge as himself, hence familiarly 
 known as " Fat Ann," had been his Mte noire. 
 
 It was not enough that every one took special 
 delight in teasing him about her, but the woman 
 herself, in spite of years of avoidance on his part, 
 seemed to have a fancy for him. 
 
 The bitterest hours of Ki's life had been on ac 
 count of Fat Ann. 
 
 Any joke that threw their names together, any 
 premeditated pairing off of couples that left him 
 as her escort, was regarded as great fun. And it 
 was one of those jokes that never wear out. 
 
 So it happened that on a certain memorable oc 
 casion Ki, suddenly finding himself allotted to 
 walk with her at a cake walk, actually disgraced 
 his manhood by genuine tears. 
 
192 JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 
 
 Happily, however, they were not shed in Ann's 
 presence, and when she met him with a smiling 
 salutation, and took his arm with her best effort 
 at a flourish, there was something within him that 
 felt challenged to a best effort for in his heart 
 poor Jessekiah was something of a gentleman 
 and the result was that, amidst uproarious cheer 
 ing, Ki and Ann, fat, bow-legs, and all notwith 
 standing, took the cake. 
 
 This teased Ki even more than the walking had 
 done. Nor was this all : it brought him suddenly 
 up to the point of revolt. 
 
 When he went home that night his frame of 
 mind was altogether unbecoming a Christian, not 
 to say a Methodist. 
 
 Instead of going quietly to his cabin and to 
 bed, as he should have done, he walked out upon 
 the levee alone, and with head uncovered in the 
 moonlight, while he mopped off his forehead, he 
 swore that he wouldn't, so help him, " stan' one 
 speck mo' o' dis cornfounded, doggorned, plague- 
 taked nornsense !" ' 
 
 He had wept before he had stepped out into the 
 arena with Ann to walk for the cake, and now, 
 having done his duty fully, manfully, having ami 
 ably served as her "pardner" for the remainder of 
 the evening, and courteously escorted her home, 
 having deposited his own portion of the hated 
 cake in the river, he wept again. 
 
 When Ki joined his companions in the field 
 next day, there was something in his face which 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 198 
 
 forbade any allusion to the incident of the night 
 before. It was a new dignity, the dignity 'of a 
 fixed resolve. 
 
 As he had walked alone at midnight on the 
 levee after spending his emotion in tears, he had 
 reviewed the situation with a calm scrutiny, and 
 he saw clearly that there were but two honorable 
 ways out of his dilemma. 
 
 He could not run away. The world beyond the 
 community of the coast meant little more to Ki 
 than the planet Mars. An open revolt would be 
 a personal insult to the lady in question. To be 
 forever freed from all association with this hated, 
 detested woman, he must either marry or die. 
 
 Life was sweet to Ki. Death, even palliated 
 with the consolations of religion, had never lost 
 its terror to him. Marriage, on the other hand 
 Ki actually giggled foolishly to himself as he 
 contemplated it as an actual probability had al 
 ways been an inviting prospect, and so to-night, 
 sitting alone beneath the stars, he registered a 
 vow a sacred vow to marry. 
 
 The resolution had no sooner possessed him, 
 however, than he began to question himself as 
 to whom, of all the girls he knew, he should 
 select. 
 
 For one thing, she must be slim. If there was 
 anything that in his present state of mind he 
 hated more than everything else in creation, it 
 was fat. He ran over in his mind the names of 
 the several slender girls of his acquaintance, hesi- 
 13 
 
194 JESSEKIAH 
 
 tating and chuckling afresh over each at the idea 
 of her actually becoming Mrs. Brown. 
 
 The enumeration complete, he found himself 
 sadly lapsing into his old state of indecision. He 
 would to-night, at the toss of a penny or per 
 haps it would be better to say at the toss of her 
 head have been happy to wed any one of seven 
 sweet dusky maidens, varying as to complexion, 
 temper, and general character, but all willowy and 
 slender. 
 
 A realization of his irresolution even now, in 
 the extremity of his woe, filled him with dismay, 
 but his desperation had carried him for once safe 
 ly beyond the possibility of retreat. 
 
 If he could not in a moment make up his mind 
 whom he most desired, he could at least resolve 
 that he would not put his foot out of his cabin, 
 excepting to go to the field, until he should decide. 
 
 Calmed with this resolution, Ki finally repaired 
 to his cabin, and found forgetfulness in sleep. 
 
 A week passed, and another. In the evenings, 
 seated alone upon his door-step, or within the 
 broad crotch of a log of drift-wood that lay em 
 bedded in the outer levee beyond his gate, Ki still 
 agonized in indecision. 
 
 The threatened failure of the old embankment 
 had last year sent a new levee into the heart of 
 the plantation, and for a considerable distance 
 here it ran close against a nest of negro quarters. 
 Ki's cabin, sitting somewhat apart from the others, 
 at the point of divergence of the two banks, com- 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 195 
 
 manded an easy approach to both. The low land 
 between the two levees, a safe play-ground for the 
 children when the river was low, was now covered 
 with shallow water. 
 
 After a third week of painful indecision, Ki 
 made a little progress. He decided that he could 
 never decide and of this decision was born a plan 
 of relief. 
 
 " Look lak I mus' be one o' deze heah reg'lar 
 Mormondizers, an' want 'em all," he had been 
 moaning to himself, when suddenly his reverie 
 began to take shape in this fashion : " Ef a man 
 go a-huntin' all day, an' can't meek up 'is min' what 
 bird he want ter shoot, he gwine come home wid 
 a empty game-bag ev'y time." 
 
 Then something within him had seemed to an 
 swer. "Yas, an' de bes' thing he c'n do is ter 
 stay home an' set a trap, an' pray Gord ter sen' de 
 right bird ter 'im." 
 
 It was an inspiration. Ki was so pleased with 
 the idea that he answered it aloud : " Dat's hit ! 
 Dat's hit ! Dat's des what I gwine do. I gwine 
 buiP me a gwine buil' me a gwine buil' " and 
 he fell to meditating again. " Gwine buil' me a 
 fine fancified seat, right out heah on dis ole levee, 
 side o' dis lorg, an' an' de fus' gal dat sets in it 
 My Gord ! whyn't I thunk about dis befo' ? De 
 fus' gal what set down in it gwine be Mrs. Jesse- 
 kiah Brown ef she do lak I say /" 
 
 He was happier than he had been since the cake- 
 walk. Throwing himself down upon the grass, he 
 
196 JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 
 
 rolled over and over, chuckling aloud. The chair, 
 a quaint affair made of pine saplings, and finished 
 with arms of gnarled twigs, was the work of sev 
 eral mornings, and when at last it was finished, 
 even to the not inartistic braiding of cross-twigs 
 into an easy head-rest, Ki was as happy over it as 
 a child with a new toy. 
 
 " Come 'long, Mis' Brown, honey. Teck yo' seat, 
 my love, an' set down," he exclaimed, giggling 
 foolishly as he moved back to his notch in the log, 
 and glanced up at the imaginary occupant of the 
 seat. 
 
 He felt almost as if his wedding invitations 
 were already out ; and yet no sooner did he pict 
 ure any special one enthroned beside him than his 
 mind reverted with a pang to half a dozen others. 
 His only safety lay in the sacredness of his oath. 
 He had sworn, and called on God to witness his 
 pledge, that he would ask the first woman who sat 
 here to marry him, and he would do it. 
 
 For the first week after its completion Ki 
 watched the chair from his window with a timor 
 ous nervousness, expecting, hoping, and yet fear 
 ing at any time to look out upon the future Mrs. 
 Brown. 
 
 But a month passed, and she did not come, and 
 although Ki managed to preserve a calm exterior, 
 and had replied to all inquiries as to his retire 
 ment that he "had done got tired out o' s'ciety 
 an' had done settled down," he was growing des 
 perately weary of it. 
 
JESSBKIAH BKOWN'S COURTSHIP 197 
 
 The " settling down " had, however, by slow 
 degrees resulted in a decidedly improved state of 
 affairs at Ki's cabin. 
 
 When the little one-roomed hut had been only 
 a place to keep his garden tools, to hang up his 
 saddle, and to " turn in " himself as a last resort 
 to sleep at night, it had been a small matter that 
 the front yard was overrun with cockleburs and 
 " jimsonweed " ; that the rank, malodorous gourd- 
 vine that straggled over the remains of last year's 
 bean poles to embrace his mud chimney was a har 
 bor for wasps, lizards, and the brilliant spiders 
 that spun their filmy wheels in every available 
 space. It hadn't mattered that the corners of his 
 room and his mosquito -netting were decorated 
 with this same delicate tracery, and that the high- 
 water mark from the last crevasse had supplied 
 the walls of his apartment with a unique dado of 
 decay a dado done in low brown tones, with 
 strong stucco effects in green, close - clinging 
 mosses. 
 
 It is, possibly, not exceptional that a very start 
 ling apparent incongruity should sometimes exist 
 between a bachelor's apartment and the gorgeous 
 ly - attired gentleman who goes forth from the 
 same to enter the most exclusive inwardness of 
 most exclusive society. A finely feathered he- 
 bird has been known to take daily flight, joining 
 a flock of very high fliers, from a roofless nest of 
 mud and straw and unwashed rags. 
 
 It had been enough for Ki to know that the 
 
198 JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 
 
 pine press in the corner of his hovel held in safe 
 preservation his silk hat, dress suit, and the va 
 rious delicate appointments of a gentleman's toi 
 let ; that a cake of very strongly scented sweet 
 soap of a marbleized reddish color lay wrapped 
 in tin-foil beside a boot-shaped bottle of " hair- 
 ile " that for potency of perfume put both gourd- 
 vine and jimsonweed to shame ; and that his va 
 ried assortment of scarfs, scarf-pins, handker 
 chiefs, and the like was safe from wind or weather 
 in a shell-covered box made by one of his earliest 
 sweethearts. 
 
 Here also were a little folding-comb with a mir 
 ror within its handle a vest-pocket convenience 
 for last toilet touches at church doors and front 
 gates a gorgeous walking-cane, and cotton um 
 brella. In fact, as to the matter of toilet furnish 
 ings, Ki was quite up to the requirements of a 
 finished society man, and he had, besides, what he 
 would probably have called an " innard " grace of 
 manner. It would have come outward and mani 
 fested itself in mannerisms if there had been any 
 chance for it, but, as he himself lamented, " How 
 kin a feather-bed teck orn manners ?" 
 
 Ki was too hopelessly fat to cultivate anything 
 more than the negations, so to speak, of manners 
 polite. His strength lay rather in the avoidance 
 of inelegancies than in the attempt to assume im 
 possible graces. 
 
 A genial amiability is ofttimes a surer guaran 
 tee of social success than a figure of artistic pro- 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 199 
 
 portions, and yet Ki would have given all he 
 owned or hoped to possess of personal attractive 
 ness for the power to bend at the waist when he 
 lifted his stove-pipe hat. 
 
 We have said that during the period of his re 
 treat he had improved the condition of his home. 
 Indeed, when two months had passed, the freshly 
 whitewashed little cabin that sat smiling through 
 a cool green garment of butter-bean and morning- 
 glory vines, in the midst of a riotous mass of sun 
 flowers, hollyhocks, and zinnias, was in no way 
 recognizable as the recent neglected hovel. 
 
 While the trap to catch his bird was out upon 
 the levee, Ki, with loving care, was getting the 
 nest in order, and although he was eager at times 
 for his mate, there were moments when the tor 
 tures of indecision were distinctly sharpened with 
 a dread lest her coming should involve a life-long 
 regret. 
 
 While he had chopped down the mud crawfish 
 chimneys along his garden walk and strewed it 
 with white shells, somehow he had been unable to 
 think with pleasure of any other girl than Han 
 nah Frierson, a willowy yellow maid, tripping up 
 and down the walk ; and yet, within the cozy 
 corner of his porch, where he had placed a bench 
 just broad enough for two among the vines, the 
 brown, piquant face of another insistently and be- 
 witchingly met his eye. She who seemed nat 
 urally to stand on the little step-ladder to gather 
 butter-beans was a third. And yet another, by a 
 
200 
 
 strange persistency, struck his fancy as the dainty 
 creature who should occupy the chair upon the 
 levee. Her delicate, shapely wrist seemed in his 
 imagination just fitted to lie over its rustic arm, 
 and her slender foot would, he was sure, just 
 about rest on the log where he sat. 
 
 He somehow had a feeling that maybe he 
 wasn't quite sure, but maybe it would be pleas 
 ant to lay his hand upon her foot and pat it. 
 Would that be lover-like? He doubted that it 
 was exactly the correct thing to do ; and yet, 
 while he sat and looked at the end of the log, the 
 impulse to reach out and touch the imaginary 
 foot resting upon it always came so irresistibly 
 that he chuckled over the very thought. 
 
 Notwithstanding the fact that Ki was distinct 
 ly in a courting frame of mind, there were times 
 when he would in desperation have retreated from 
 his vow and started out again, hoping to make his 
 choice, had it not been for his dread of meeting 
 Fat Ann, and that he was resolved, with all the 
 hitherto dormant decision of his tardy manhood, 
 he would not do no, not if he died. He hated, 
 despised, abhorred the very thought of her with 
 a morbid intensity heightened by solitude and 
 long-suffering. Even yet, when he recalled the 
 picture he and she must have made as they prom 
 enaded before the company arm in arm for the 
 cake, cold chills ran down his back, and he talked 
 bitterly to himself. 
 
 "De idee o' dat great big apple - flitter, what 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN S COURTSHIP 201 
 
 'ain't got no mo' shape 'n a spinnin'-turtle, a-wad- 
 dlin' by my side matchin' fatness wid fatness ! 
 My Lord ! De mo' I ponders on it, de mo' mad 
 der an' pervokeder I gits ! De idee ! A gal 
 what 'ain't got no mo' wais'-line 'n a 'n a 'n I 
 isf" 
 
 The summer was waning. Ki was now an ac 
 knowledged recluse. And though his little home 
 grew prettier and more attractive ; though his 
 wages, untaxed by the demands of society, lay 
 for the first time in his life a growing account to 
 his credit ; though his chair sat, clover-scented 
 and picturesque, on the brow of the levee at his 
 door, waiting to hold in its open arms the future 
 mistress of the manse ; though the nest grew 
 daily more attractive and the waiting mate with 
 in it more eligible, never a bird had perched upon 
 the limb prepared to entrap it. 
 
 A few of the settled married folk and some of 
 the boys had strolled out, partly from curiosity 
 and a desire for a friendly chat, but as Ki was 
 rather taciturn they had been satisfied to consider 
 this a last idiosyncrasy confirming his bachelor 
 hood, and had not returned. 
 
 The girls missed him in an impersonal sort of 
 way ; but beaux, real marrying fellows, full to 
 overflowing of direct sentiment, were plentiful, 
 and so were skiffs and fishing-lines and blackberry 
 patches. They hadn't time to think seriously of Ki. 
 
 At last it was an evening near the end of Sep 
 tember. Ki, dispirited and sad, oppressed with 
 
202 
 
 that worst vacancy of the heart, a sense of having 
 no one to care for him, had strolled out, following 
 the old levee to the most distant point of its out 
 ward curve, and here he sat down. 
 
 He had seen several rowing parties start out in 
 skiffs, and even now, though they were but float 
 ing black lines in the distance, he caught occa- 
 sionalty in a breath of wind the sound of laughter 
 mingled with the witching notes of a harmonicon. 
 He was desperately lonely and blue. 
 
 The sun was nearly down when at last he rose 
 wearily to go in. He had proceeded some dis 
 tance when the rustic chair came within range of 
 his vision. The recent sunlight reflected from the 
 river into his eyes embarrassed his sight some 
 what, and bright spots were dancing before them, 
 yet in a flash came the impression that there was 
 something unusual in the appearance of the chair. 
 The very idea startled him so that some moments 
 passed before he dared confirm the suspicion by a 
 second glance, and he was so maddened with a 
 sort of stage-fright that he staggered a little when 
 he did finally look again. 
 
 It was true. Some one was comfortably seated 
 in the chair beside the log, taking the evening 
 breeze. He could see the flutter of a flounce in 
 the wind as he slowly and falteringly approached, 
 his heart in his throat, breathing hard. Sudden 
 ly he stopped, leaned forward, ducked his head 
 down, looked intently for a moment, and, falling 
 like a log, rolled down the inside of the levee. 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN S COURTSHIP 203 
 
 It was Fat Ann. Let us hope that his record 
 ing angel took note of the poor fellow's anguish 
 of soul as, when he reached the bottom, he ejacu 
 lated, with a groan, " Good Gord !" If he did, 
 the exclamation was surely not registered as pro 
 fanity, but was rather entered as a prayer on the 
 credit side of his account. 
 
 Ann, conscious only of unsuspicious friendly 
 feeling, seeing him fall, hurried to the spot. 
 
 "Fur Gord sake, Brer Brown, huccome you 
 twissen so sudd'nt orf de aidge o' de levee ?" she 
 exclaimed, breathlessly. 
 
 Ki lay still where he had fallen, at the water's 
 edge. 
 
 " Po' Brer Brown done tooken wid a fit ! Wait 
 tell I come an' he'p you up," she continued, meas 
 uring the difficult descent with her eye. 
 
 This was a stimulant. Ki groaned aloud to 
 show that he still lived. If she should come to 
 him, he felt that he would die outright. 
 
 The girl, misinterpreting the groan as an in 
 dication of serious disaster, hurried to his aid. 
 Somehow, in attempting the steep declivity, her 
 foot slipped. 
 
 Whether, sliding like an irresistible avalanche, 
 she carried Ki into the water with her, or whether 
 she rolled clear over him, and he afterward fell in 
 in his effort to rescue her, it is hard to say. Cer 
 tain it is, however, that when after some time 
 they reappeared arm in arm over the brow of the 
 levee, both bore marks of a recent baptism. 
 
204 JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COUKTSHIP 
 
 That Ki was passing through another baptism 
 of fire was evinced by the expression of dull de 
 spair that had settled over his face, as well as by 
 a suspicion of incoherency in his speech. 
 
 Through it all, however, he had never quite for 
 gotten that he was a gentleman and that Ann was 
 a lady. Neither had he forgotten his oath, nor 
 that he was a Christian and a Methodist. 
 
 Now that it was, so far as she knew, all over, 
 Ann, overcome with a sense of the ludicrous, 
 shook with suppressed laughter. Her own effort 
 at control fortunately kept her from realizing that 
 Ki had several times distinctly sobbed, even while 
 he made such polite remarks as he could command 
 to the lady upon his arm. 
 
 " I 'clare, Miss ur a Miss Ann, seem lak I 
 los' my ekalubium. Dis heah levee ain't fitt'n' fur 
 no plump lady ur a I means hit ain't ter say 
 fitt'n' fur nothin' but but billy goats. I trus' you 
 'ain't fractioned none o' yo' dislocutioms, Miss 
 Ann." 
 
 Ann had not yet found her voice. Still trem 
 bling somewhat from the shock, chilled with her 
 wet skirts, and a bit hysterical withal, she shook 
 so that when they reached the chair Ki felt im 
 pelled, by sheer courtesy, to steady her by laying 
 his hand upon her shoulder as he bade her be 
 seated. Then, moving off, he took his seat, not 
 within the notch at her side, but astride the most 
 distant end of the log. 
 
 " I 'clare, Brer Brown," said his guest, finally. 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 205 
 
 "I sholy is glad ter set down an' wring out my 
 frock." And after a pause : "Umh ! Dis heah 
 cheer des fits me, lak you done had tooken my 
 measure fur it. Was you studyin' 'bout me, Brer 
 Brown, when you made it?" 
 
 Ki, looking dazed, only blinked, and fortunate 
 ly she did not wait for an answer. He sat wiping 
 off his clothing with his handkerchief, while great 
 drops of perspiration trickled down his face, and 
 an occasional quiver like summer lightning played 
 about the corners of his mouth. 
 
 Long after there was any need for it he con 
 tinued to rub his trousers legs and the sleeve of 
 the one arm that had been submerged. He was 
 trying, with all the strength of a resolve grown 
 strong by patient waiting, to bring himself to ac 
 cept the conditions of his oath. He had prayed 
 over this matter. He had trustingly begged the 
 Lord in His infinite wisdom to send the right 
 woman to him. And there sat Ann the answer 
 to his prayers Ann, whom all his manoeuvre had 
 been planned to avoid. 
 
 After he had wiped his coat and she had wrung 
 her gown until both acts were growing palpably 
 absurd, and the silence was becoming momenta 
 rily more painful, Ki ventured to look up at the 
 woman whom he must ask to be his wife. For a 
 moment he was tempted to throw himself back 
 ward and roll into the outer depths of the Missis 
 sippi. The chill of its waters was still upon him, 
 however, and, shivering at the thought, he turned 
 
206 JESSEKIAH BROWN S COURTSHIP 
 
 from it to glance once more at his bride-elect. Of 
 course she would accept him. Who ever doubts the 
 descent of a dreaded and evidently impending evil? 
 
 Ki's proposal scene had been arranged for 
 years, and he knew it all by heart from beginning 
 to end ; but that old formula beginning with 
 "Roses red" would never do now. He had fan 
 cied that when he should come to the "Sugar is 
 sweet, an' so is you," the dainty little miss might 
 be a trifle coy, and he should have to insist upon 
 it. She might even protest, " I ain't no sweeter'n 
 you is." But if Ann should say so silly a thing 
 to him, he would scream he felt it. 
 
 The moments were passing. He had several 
 times taken off his hat and wiped it, only to be 
 reminded that it had never been wet, and now he 
 did so again. 
 
 Finally Ann spoke. "Yo* cabin do look 
 mighty sweet, Brer Brown," she said. " Settin' 
 whar it do, hit mus' ketch all de breezes an' be 
 mighty cool. Ain't it ?" 
 
 Ki breathed fiercely. " No, Miss ur a Miss 
 Ann," he replied, swallowing a lump in his throat. 
 "Hit's pow'ful hot; an' an' yit" he could 
 hardly control his agitation enough to speak 
 "an' yit I's afeerd ter leave de winders open o' 
 nights, 'caze de lizards an' scorpions an' snakes is 
 awful bad roun' my cabin an' an' rats ; deze 
 heah grea' big fox-rats. Dey dey des runs roun' 
 my room at night lak squir'ls in de woods ; an' 
 an' skunks, too. Dey comes roun' reg'lar, a whole 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 207 
 
 g 
 
 passel ob 'era, an' an' ur a bats, an' an' 
 ur a squinch-owls, an' an' " 
 
 " De laws-a-mussy, Brer Brown, you ain't sesso ! 
 An' does you sleep heavy wid all sech varmints 
 a-swarmin' roun' o' nights ?" 
 
 "Sleep heavy? Who, me? I ur a I " 
 He was gaining time. "I nuver sleeps heavy, 
 Miss Ann. No, ma'am, I I nuver sleeps heavy. 
 Yer see, mos'ly ev'y night I has de nightmares, 
 an' an' sometimes I gits up in de middle o' de 
 night, an' seem lak I 'magines I hears robbers, an' 
 I des teck a stick an' whup ev'ything in de room. 
 I taken my bolster one night, an' an' I beat it all 
 ter pieces 'gins' de side o' de bed in one o' deze 
 heah nightmares. I tell yer, I's I's a dange'ous 
 sleeper, Miss Ann !" 
 
 " Umh ! Look ter me lak you oughter have 
 some light sleeper ter stay wid you, Brer Brown, 
 an' teck kyar you." 
 
 Ki swallowed again. "B-b-but, yer see, Miss 
 Ann, I's afeerd I mought kill 'em 'fo' dey'd week 
 up, don't yer see ? Dat's de onies' trouble. I des 
 tecks de load out'n my gun 'fo' I goes ter bed, an* 
 hides all de knives an' forks 'caze, yer know, a 
 pusson could job a pusson's eyes out wid a fork 
 an' den I des lays down an' goes ter sleep. Dey 
 does say how sometime' a pusson do load a gun in 
 his sleep." 
 
 " Whee ! You all but scares me, Brer Brown. 
 Don't you nuver git lonesome by yo' lone se'f, 
 Brer Brown ?" 
 
208 
 
 Here was a real opening. His heart thumped 
 so that he heard it. He could hardly speak. 
 
 " Y-y-yas, 'm. I I gits I gits lonesome some 
 nights some nights when when de de dorgs 
 comes onder my cabin an' howl an' " 
 
 " Dat's a mighty bad sign, Brer Brown. Is dey 
 cry two times an' stop ?" 
 
 Ki coughed. "N-no, Miss Ann. Dat what 
 meek me fine it so strange. Dey say ef a dorg 
 howl two times an' stop, hit's fur a man ter die ; 
 but but deze heah dorgs dey keep a-cryin' three 
 times an' stop three times an' stop ; dat's a sho 
 call fur a 'oman ter die. Ef ef I had air mam 
 my ur a any 'oman pusson stayin' wid me, 
 I'dI'd look fur ter lose 'er, sho." 
 
 " Umh ! Dat's mighty strange. How long is 
 dey been comin', Brer Brown ?" 
 
 "Des des deze las' few nights an' I done 
 tried ev'y way I kin ter get shet ob 'em but dey 
 won't go." 
 
 " My Lord ! You done got me 'mos' too 
 skeer'd ter go home, Brer Brown. But I mus' 
 travel ; hit's gitt'n' late." She rose. 
 
 " D-don't don't go yit, Miss Ann." He began 
 to gasp again. " S-set down. I I des berginnin' 
 ter talk ter yer good. I I was des a-sayin' " 
 
 She sat down again. Ki mopped his forehead. 
 
 " What was you sayin', Brer Brown ? I 'clare, 
 seem lak I kin see dorgs' shadders runnin' 'long 
 de levee. I mus' be gitt'n' home. You done got 
 me rattled." 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 209 
 
 " I des say I say, don't hurry yo'se'f I des 
 I des a-sayin' " 
 
 He mopped his forehead again, and his ears, 
 and the back of his neck. 
 
 "I was des a-sayin', Miss Ann, it's it's awful 
 hot heah ter-night des lis'n at me, * awful hot !' 
 I 'ain't got no manners. Hit's pretty toler'ble 
 warm heah, Miss Ann, ain't it? I I des a-pus- 
 firin' lak rain." 
 
 "Hit's cool an' winny ter me, Brer Brown. 
 Look how de win' blowin' my hat strings. I 
 'dare I mus' go. Hit's gitt'n' plumb dark." 
 
 "B-b-but I gwine tell yer, Miss Ann, dat of 
 co'se I I does feel lonesome heah some nights 
 an' I ur a I feels " 
 
 If he could only bring in the " Roses red " and 
 be done with it ! 
 
 "An' of co'se sometimes I craves fur com 
 fur comp'ny." 
 
 "I knows how you feels, Brer Brown, dat I 
 does ! I done been lonesome myse'f, an' I knows 
 de mizry ! I often 'lowed I'd come over heah an' 
 see yo' fancified cheer, what I done heerd de chil- 
 len all talkin' 'bout, an' talk wid you, but I 'ain't 
 had de cour'ge ter do so, tell dis evenin' I was 
 a-passin' by, an' I seen Betty Taylor a-settin' heah 
 lak a queen, a-fannin' herse'f " 
 
 " Wh - wh - wh - what what you say, Miss 
 Ann?" 
 
 "I say, of co'se, when I seen Betty Taylor 
 a-settin' heah in yo' high-back cheer, big as life 
 14 
 
210 JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 
 
 howsomever she ain't no thicker'n a stick o' sugar 
 cane I 'lowed I could come too." 
 
 Ki never knew how he kept from falling at this 
 juncture. 
 
 " Wh-when when is you see Miss Miss Betty 
 heah, Miss ur a Miss Ann ?" 
 
 " She was heah when I come when you was 
 settin' orn de aidge o' de levee. When she got 
 up, I sot down, an' I had des sca'cely tooken my 
 seat when you was tooken wid wid a some'h'n' 
 Another an' done so cuyus. What was you sayin', 
 Brer Brown, 'bout bein' so lonesome ?" 
 . Ki was grinning so he could hardly speak. 
 " Who, me ? I was des a-sayin' I 'clare, Miss 
 Ann, what was I sayin' ?" 
 
 "You sayin' some'h'n' 'bout lonesomeness " 
 " Is I ? I 'clare I f orgits. Who-who-who I say 
 was lonesome ?" 
 
 "You, yo'se'f. You say sometimes you feels 
 lak You ain't say what you feels lak." 
 
 " I I 'clare, Miss Ann ! Hit's so hot ur a 
 so col' ur a I means ter say hit's so warm up 
 heah ter-night Look lak I done los' de thread 
 o' my speech, Miss Ann I" And he actually 
 giggled outright. 
 
 Ann was seized with a sudden panic. She felt 
 sure that a spell of some dreadful kind was com 
 ing upon him. 
 
 She was afraid to stay, and yet she feared that 
 if she started to go he might seize her, and beat 
 her as he had beaten the things in the nightmare. 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 211 
 
 She was sure he would presently do something 
 sudden. If he would only tumble down the levee 
 again, she would be relieved, for then she could 
 run and call for help. 
 
 It was quite dark now, and growing really 
 chill. 
 
 Suddenly Ki sneezed. Starting as if she were 
 shot, poor Ann sprang with surprising agility 
 from her chair, and, facing round, started in a 
 steady trot toward the quarters. 
 
 It seems too much that she should have rolled 
 off the edge of the levee a second time, and really 
 it would not have happened but for the darkness 
 and the fright, which blinded her utterly. 
 
 Even after she realized that Ki was not madly 
 pursuing her, she had fled in unabated terror from 
 an imaginary pack of howling dogs, rats, and rep 
 tiles, fearing at each step the flapping into her 
 face of the wings of owl or bat. 
 
 Her second tumble was perhaps a happy acci 
 dent, for while for a moment it was as if the end 
 of all things had come, she soon rallied, unhurt, 
 to find herself safely in the road leading to her 
 own door. 
 
 When Ki realized that he was alone, he threw 
 himself on the grass again, and laughed until he 
 cried. 
 
 It was perhaps two hours later, when, gorgeous 
 ly attired in his dress suit, a zinnia and a sprig of 
 mint in his button-hole, equally polished as to 
 
212 JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 
 
 boots and beaver, and redolent of sundry perfumes 
 of the toilet, he emerged from his embowered cot 
 tage, and started, clearing his throat and giggling 
 ever and anon as he went, to the cabin where lived, 
 with her mother, the umber lass Betty Taylor. 
 Never once did his courage fail him, never did he 
 falter, never look back. The string of Cupid's 
 bow had been drawn nearly to the point of snap 
 ping, but now that it had sprung, the arrow sped 
 without a waver straight to the mark. Looking 
 neither to right nor left, nor behind him, nor yet 
 within, fluttering and giggling only as the arrow 
 whizzes from the very speed and directness of its 
 flight, Ki proceeded to make his first unequivocal 
 declaration of love. 
 
 There have been more graceful suitors perhaps 
 than our poor hero. Others there have been more 
 fluent of thought, more gifted in speech, but it is 
 doubtful whether upon the ear of woman ever fell 
 a more ardent avowal than that which greeted 
 the surprised but not offended ear of the nut- 
 brown mayde with the slender slender waist, who 
 was seen in the tender moonlight that night to 
 walk arm in arm with Ki up the levee and take 
 her seat by his side in the rustic chair. And Ki 
 sat in the crotch of the log. 
 
 And when he saw that her slim foot rested just 
 where he fancied it would on the end of the branch 
 beside him, he clasped his hands tightly behind 
 his head until he could steady himself. 
 
 The announcement of the engagement created 
 
JESSEKIAH BROWN'S COURTSHIP 213 
 
 a tremendous sensation on the plantation. The 
 first one to whom Ki personally confided it was 
 Ami. Somehow since his happiness his heart had 
 gone out to her to a degree that was distinctly 
 brotherly. 
 
 " I wanted ter be de f us one ter tell yer, Miss 
 Ann," he said, in a tone mellow with friendly 
 feeling, as they returned from the field together, 
 " 'caze you an' me's been des, as yer mought say, 
 lak brother an' sister together fur so long " 
 
 Ann laughed. " Dat's des de way I felt, Brer 
 Brown, an' dat's huccome I went up an' sot in yo' 
 cheer las' week ter tell you 'bout I gwine marry, 
 but look lak you sort o' sca'ed me orf." 
 
 " How you say dat, Miss Ann ? You gwine 
 marry ! Who who you 'low ter marry, Miss 
 Ann?" 
 
 " Is you tooken notice ter dat little slim yaller 
 musicianer what play de bones at de cake-walk? 
 He come f'om de Teche. He an' me been keepin' 
 comp'ny ever sence." 
 
 " What ! Hursh ! You don't say !" 
 
 "Yas, I does say. You been stayin' home so 
 close-t, fixin' up fur Betty, you 'ain't kep' up wid de 
 news. But look heah, Brer Brown " she low 
 ered her voice " co'se I knows you's a perf essin' 
 man, an' you gwine do what's right, but but is 
 you tol' Betty 'bout 'bout dem nightmares ?" 
 
 Ki hesitated, and there was a twinkle in his eye 
 when he said : " I nuver has 'em on'y in de sum 
 mer, Miss Ann, an' we don't 'low ter marry tell 
 
214 
 
 nex' month ; but tell de trufe, I 'ain't kep' nothin 1 
 back f'om Miss Betty. But look heah! Fs mo' 
 tooken up wid yo' marryin' 'n I is wid me an' Miss 
 Betty's. An' you say ever sence de cake-walk?" 
 
 " Yas, sir. He say when he seed me step out so 
 mannerly an' taken yo' arm But co'se he des 
 run orn ter me dat-a-way." 
 
 "Well done! An' Miss Betty say dat same 
 word ter me." 
 
 Both laughed. 
 
 " Is she ? But Betty allus is liked de fat style; 
 but fur me, gi' me de slim style ! Hones', Brer 
 Brown, I'd o' give all I owned de night o' dat 
 cake-walk ef you er me, one, had o' been slim. I 
 des dashed out reckless ter hide my feelin's. Ef 
 air one of us had o' moped ur stepped heavy, dey'd 
 o' had de laugh on us !" 
 
 " Dat's so ; an' look lak de laugh on our side 
 now. Well, Miss Ann, I wushes you joy, an' I shek 
 yo' han'." 
 
 "An' I shek yo' han', Brer Brown." 
 
CRAZY ABE 
 
CEAZY ABE 
 
 THE suggestions of the place, the hour and 
 the season, were all of repose the place, the 
 broad, breezy gallery of an old plantation house ; 
 the hour, after breakfast ; season, the late summer. 
 
 The vine -clad gallery, itself an invitation to 
 shade and rest, held inviting accommodations 
 in the way of willow chairs and hammocks, all 
 languidly swaying with an air of nonchalant hos 
 pitality. 
 
 The after-breakfast hour, usually a contempla 
 tive one from which one surveys the day's duties, 
 was here, from the very promise of an idle day 
 which the prospective view afforded, especially 
 an hour of rest. 
 
 Gastronomically speaking, it was the interval 
 between waffles and watermelon, while the breeze, 
 with the fragrant coolness of the night still in it, 
 was shaking the lace curtains all over the house, 
 chasing out the breakfast odors, before the little 
 darky in homespun made her first tour with cold 
 water from the spring which she served from her 
 brass-bound bucket, with dipper and dipping cour 
 tesy. 
 
 How sweet everything was I 
 
218 CKAZY ABE 
 
 There was nothing to dissipate the idea of rest. 
 Even the sewing-machine in the corner of the hall 
 hid its suggestion of labor beneath its cover, and 
 became a holder of palmetto fans, recklessly lend 
 ing its treadle in a creaking song to any child who 
 cared for the holiday measure. 
 
 It was the waiting time on the plantation, the 
 growing season, and, of all nature's activities, 
 what is so restful as the unconscious energy of 
 growth ? 
 
 "Behold the lilies, how they grow!" So the 
 cotton-fields spreading out before me grew. They 
 toiled not, neither did they spin, but wore an as 
 pect of serene repose, in restful ignorance of the 
 vigor that was transforming their juices into the 
 bone and sinew of the natural body of a giant 
 king of commerce. 
 
 Across the fields, the negroes lounged about the 
 doors of their cabins or rolled on the grass, smok 
 ing, gossipping, sunning themselves yielding to 
 the drowsy influences of the hour and the season. 
 
 Everything in view was removed from the in 
 tense. Even the gleaming plaids of the blacks, in 
 whose costumes we look always for a pronounced 
 bit of color, were subdued into soft tints by near 
 ly a year of weather and wear. 
 
 The roses blooming along the walk to the gate 
 were the listless, softly-tinted, faintly-perfumed 
 teas ; and from the vine about the gallery hung 
 scattering sweet honeysuckles, bending and sway 
 ing holding no opinion against a breeze too 
 
CRAZY ABE 219 
 
 gentle to compel acquiescence, but which played 
 lazily at will with the ever-assenting crepe-myrtle 
 blooms, the most frivolous little gigglers that ever 
 compromised the dignity of a stately tree. 
 
 There was surely nothing that offended me in 
 this first view of the old plantation. 
 
 I had come here to rest, and I felt sure I had 
 come to the right place. 
 
 The overseer's family, who occupied the house, 
 I soon found to be quiet, uninteresting, and, fort 
 unately, unobtrusive people, who contented them 
 selves with ministering to my material comfort, 
 wisely ignoring the question of my further enter 
 tainment. 
 
 This gave me just the freedom which I craved, 
 and, in a big square room, with a huge dormer- 
 window looking out upon the roof, I soon found 
 the most delightful of summer retreats where, safe 
 from intrusion, I could read, or think, or dream, 
 undisturbed by the world, the press, or the devil. 
 
 As I am a newspaper man, these terms will be 
 recognized as designating the fiends who pursue 
 the busy man of my profession. 
 
 Although this old place had belonged to my 
 grandfather, it had passed out of the family, ex 
 cepting the small interest which I still held, many 
 years ago ; and so I congratulated myself that 
 there was probably no person living there now 
 who would feel any special interest in my grand 
 father's grandson. 
 
 To have discovered even a devoted old slave 
 
220 CKAZY ABB 
 
 who would entertain me with reminiscences of 
 my revered grandparents, would have been ob 
 jectionable as an intrusion upon my rest. 
 
 It pleased me better to lounge upon my grand 
 father's old, heavy mahogany bed to count the 
 very blue, very double, and very regular roses that 
 bordered its paper tester, and to wonder if he 
 never wished the roses were red. 
 
 Was he satisfied with the appointments of this 
 apartment, artistically considered ? Was he of 
 the same sturdy sort as the old four-posted, un 
 wieldy bed? I rather fancied the idea that he 
 was, and then it pleased me to observe that the 
 bed was solid and not veneered, as even good old 
 things sometimes are. 
 
 These were restful wonderings restful because 
 there was no danger of their being confronted 
 with answers. 
 
 I did, indeed, seem sometimes almost to read a 
 solution of my queries in a certain stern look which 
 I perceived in the eyes of an old, faded portrait 
 of my grandfather, which hung over the mantel 
 piece, but I soon discovered that this glance of 
 severity was perceptible only from this one point 
 of view. The light from the dormer-window, fall 
 ing upon my grandfather's face, made him frown 
 upon me whenever, during the day, I lounged upon 
 his bed ; but the same eyes beamed with mild ap 
 proval when, in the opposite corner of the room, 
 I amused myself by taking down from a lofty old 
 bookcase the cobwebbed remains of his ancient 
 library. 
 
CKAZY ABE 221 
 
 Thus encouraged, I found myself frequently 
 pouring over these musty old volumes. 
 
 It was when thus engaged that the thought 
 came to me that possibly, in the perusal of these 
 works, I might form some estimate of the mental 
 status of my grandfather ; but, somehow, I did not 
 find the old volumes deeply interesting. 
 
 As relics, I revered them ; and I was pleased to 
 realize that, being bound in calf, they were sub 
 stantial, like my grandfather's bed, and, I was 
 assured, like himself ; but when I opened one of 
 them, and read on its title-page " History of 
 Chronic Phlegmasiae," I felt that it would be te 
 dious. 
 
 I was glad to reflect, however, that my grand 
 father, who was not a physician, must have been 
 a man of considerable intelligence to have cared 
 for this book. 
 
 Perhaps he studied medicine, and treated his 
 own slaves. If so, I wondered if he ever gave 
 them bread pills ; but one look at his honest face 
 satisfied me on this point. 
 
 He was not a man of shams. 
 
 I wondered, then, if his negroes had been sub 
 ject to " phlegmasise," and did he treat it success 
 fully? 
 
 All of these, it will be perceived, were surface 
 reflections, so far as the book was concerned. 
 
 There were a few Latin books in the collection. 
 
 It seemed to me that my grandfather smiled 
 upon me with something like conscious pride as I 
 
222 CRAZY ABE 
 
 glanced from the page of " Cicero Delphini " to 
 his face. 
 
 The bond of sympathy between us here was 
 again superficial, however. It lay merely in my 
 appreciation of his appreciation of Cicero. 
 
 Most of our middle-aged men of to-day spent 
 their college years in the army. I fought under 
 Lee. A man can't have everything. I am glad, 
 however, since my grandfather died before Lee's 
 day, that he knew Latin. 
 
 I finally took down a well-worn volume. 
 
 Here, I said, is evidently an intimate friend of 
 my grandfather. 
 
 I hoped, while I brushed the accumulation of 
 dust from its cover, that this friend might not also 
 introduce himself to me in an unknown tongue, 
 and so I was quite happy when I perceived it to 
 be Fielding's " History of a Foundling." 
 
 I had heard much of Fielding's pure English, 
 and so I proceeded with delight to cultivate my 
 grandfather's friend on this high ground of liter 
 ary excellence. 
 
 I am both proud and sorry to say that I did not 
 like this book, and as I glanced frequently from 
 its pages to my grandfather's face, I found my 
 self wondering if he could have sifted this Eng 
 lish of all sense and taken it only as English. 
 
 I confess I found it difficult to do so, and as I 
 progressed in my reading, my grandfather's ap 
 proving smile grew irritating to me, and so, that 
 I might retain my reverence for him while I fa- 
 
CRAZY ABE 223 
 
 miliarized myself with this classic, I crossed the 
 room, and, throwing myself across the bed, fin 
 ished the book beneath his frown of condemna 
 tion, which, of course, I appropriated to the ob 
 jectionable sub -stratum, which lay ill -concealed 
 beneath a luxuriant but transparent growth of 
 choice words. 
 
 My room was never lonely. When I grew tired 
 of the library, or of the grandparental eye, or of 
 a certain enormous hair sofa, with neck-breaking 
 bolsters fitting into its ends, I drew my chair into 
 the cozy little alcove at my dormer-window and 
 dreamily surveyed the landscape. 
 
 There was an insinuating young lizard that 
 came every day to my window, and as he nimbly 
 sprang from the wisteria vine that hung about 
 the sill to the brown shingles of the roof, I was 
 amused to see him change his color to suit his 
 support or, his constituency so to speak and so 
 I often fell into reflections on politics and various 
 things. 
 
 The ways of a lizard have many counterparts 
 in every-day life. 
 
 The scene from my dormer-window was exten 
 sive, commanding a pretty view of spreading 
 fields in front, while to the right extended corn 
 fields, orchard, and vegetable garden the imme 
 diate appointments of the homestead. 
 
 It was from this vantage-ground of vision that 
 I first became interested in Uncle Abe. 
 
 Looking in the direction of the cornfields, my 
 
224 CRAZY ABE 
 
 eye naturally fell upon his lonely figure, as he sat 
 from early morning until night on his narrow, 
 vine-clad cabin porch. 
 
 The fact that he was commonly known on the 
 place as " Crazy Abe," and was evidently a help 
 less paralytic, served to label him as an uncon 
 scious, semi-animate object, just valuable, in the 
 pretty sketch which my window framed, as a bit 
 of local color. 
 
 Knowing that he was the last one of my grand 
 father's old slaves, I regarded him pictorially as 
 a forlorn and expressive tail-piece to the last chap 
 ter of the old regime. 
 
 Some day he would not be there, and the book 
 would be closed. 
 
 This invested him with a sort of pathos apart 
 from his personality. 
 
 As I regarded him from my window day after 
 day, I found myself desiring the thing which I 
 had dreaded. I wished that he might recognize 
 me. It would have been pleasant to hear him 
 say : " Your grandfather used to do thus or so," 
 or " your grandmother was gentle, or haugh 
 ty, or merry." I sometimes contemplated visit 
 ing the old man, and knocking at the door of 
 his memory, but the indications were not in 
 viting. 
 
 The old woman who tended him pronounced 
 him "clair 'stracted," and assured me that he 
 would "a heap 'd- ruther talk ter varmints 'n ter 
 argify wid humans." And so, in my morning 
 
CRAZY ABE 225 
 
 walks, I found myself instinctively avoiding his 
 cabin. 
 
 Often, as I sat inside my window, I saw him 
 talking, apparently to himself, and his merry 
 laughter floated up to me more than once. 
 
 It was to me like the last fitful flicker of an 
 expiring candle. 
 
 I found myself growing somewhat sentimental 
 over the old fellow, and had already resolved that 
 I would visit him and try the effect of an intro 
 duction, when one morning I was unexpectedly 
 called to his side by discovering him to be in 
 great distress. 
 
 Looking down, I perceived that he was weep 
 ing violently, while a negro man, rapidly cutting 
 the weeds with a scythe, was approaching quite 
 near the little cabin. 
 
 It was curiosity, perhaps, as much as sympathy, 
 which led me in haste to the scene. 
 
 As I neared the porch, the overseer stepped 
 forward and explained that " nothing was the 
 matter." 
 
 " I have ordered these vines and weeds cut 
 away from the old fellow's porch, and he's mak 
 ing a fuss about it ; that is all," he said. 
 
 I glanced at the trembling, weeping figure in 
 the corner of the little gallery. 
 
 It was the impersonation of weakness and dis 
 tress. 
 
 " Why do you insist on cutting the weeds ?" I 
 asked. 
 
 15 
 
226 CRAZY ABE 
 
 "Why shouldn't I?" was the answer. "The 
 fact is, I have humored the old creature in this 
 nonsense until he thinks he can have everything 
 his own way." 
 
 " Humor him once more, won't you ?" I asked. 
 "It is a negative sort of indulgence, to say the 
 least of it, and, from his appearance, I hardly 
 think he will trouble any one long." 
 
 I gained my point. 
 
 " How long has the old man been helpless ?" I 
 asked, as we walked away. 
 
 "I don't know," he said, "they say he was 
 taken suddenly while ploughing, and that he had 
 been one of the best hands on the place. He was 
 as you see him when I came here four years 
 ago." 
 
 " Paralysis, is it ?" 
 
 "Paralysis. You'll find a few like him on al 
 most all the plantations. We always look after 
 'em, when they peg out." 
 
 On the morning after this, I was sitting in my 
 sanctum, when a little negro girl came to my 
 door, and said, timidly : 
 
 " Crazy Abe say how he crave ter see yer, ef 
 'tain't no trouble ; ef yer please, sir." 
 
 " ' Crazy Abe,' did you say ?" 
 
 " Yassir. He say, ef 'tain't no trouble ; ef yer 
 please, sir," she repeated. 
 
 " Pll be there, directly," I said ; and, curious to 
 know the meaning of my invitation, I hurried 
 down forthwith. 
 
CBAZY ABE 227 
 
 I shall never forget the picture that greeted 
 me as I approached the old man. 
 
 Laughing nervously, while big tears rolled 
 down his cheeks, he extended both his trembling 
 hands toward me. 
 
 It was a moment before he could command his 
 voice. 
 
 "An' dis is Marse Torm's chile!" he began, 
 finally. " Did I ever 'spec' ter see de day ! Bless 
 Gord fur de sight ! Set down, honey, set down !" 
 
 Mute with surprise, I drew a chair from his 
 room and obeyed. 
 
 Leaning forward, the old man surveyed me crit 
 ically. 
 
 " De name an' de voice an' de likeness !" he 
 said, continuing his inspection. " Look like my 
 yo'ng marster done come back f'om de sperit Ian' 
 an' stan' 'fo' me ag'in !" 
 
 " And so you think I look like my father ?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " 'Tain't lookin' like 'im, Marse Torm. Seem like 
 yer is Vsse'// Even ter de name ! Look like 
 my heart was stirred ev'y time I seed yer cross 
 de yard; but I 'ain't seed yer close twell now, an' 
 when I heerd yer voice istiddy, look like all my 
 white people riz up like ghos'es an' pass 'fo' my 
 eyes ! All night long I been a-studyin' over de 
 soun' o' de voice, an' 'ain't place it, and dis mawnin' 
 I ax Mr. Smiff who you is, an' when he say yer 
 name, I knowed yer was Marse Term's baby, an' 
 I sont fur yer. 
 
228 CRAZY ABB 
 
 "I knowed yer'd come when I sont fur yer ! I 
 knowed yer'd come !" 
 
 He here asked me a few questions about my 
 family, which were soon answered. 
 
 I was mystified beyond expression. His mind 
 seemed perfectly clear, and his memory was true 
 and strong. 
 
 " I driv yer pa an' de bride down ter Camden 
 in de ole ca'yage de day dee ma'yed. How it 
 comes back ter me, a-lookin' in yer face, Marse 
 Torm ! Yer see, in de 'vision o' de prop'ty, I fell 
 ter yer oncle Edwin, an' I grieved, 'caze I wanted 
 ter go wid yer pa, 'caze I set de heapes' sto' by 
 him, an' dee lemme drive de ca'yage ter sort o' 
 cornsolate me, 'caze I warn't a-gwine 'long wid 'im. 
 Yer see dem days we had ter trabble a day an' a 
 night ter git ter Camden, an' de big ca'yage goin' 
 froo de woods looked like a cha'yot wid de big 
 lights on de sides, an' heah berhindt come 'long 
 de waggin-load o' niggers dat was a-gwine wid 
 Marse Torm, an' berhindt dat ag'in de waggin-load 
 o' trunks. 
 
 " Seem like all de lightnin'-bugs in de woods 
 come out dat night an' swarm roun' us, ter glorify 
 de percessiom wid light. Look like we was trav- 
 ellin' 'mongs' de stars, an' I claimed dat de bride 
 an' de groom was de sun an' de moon. 
 
 " I tell yer, dat was a glorious night. Marse 
 Torm call-t back ter de niggers in de waggin dat 
 dee could sing ef dee want ter, an' I tell yer dee 
 made dem ole woods ring ! I b'lieve dem light- 
 
CRAZY ABE 229 
 
 nin'-bugs come out ter heah de music dee say 
 varmints got a yeah fur chunes an' I know, when 
 I f us' sot heah on dis po'ch, dey was a little liz 
 ard what M come out 'n meander roun' me quick's 
 I'd whistle." 
 
 I regarded the old man with in creasing wonder. 
 Was this " Crazy Abe," the old creature whom I 
 saw laughing at the winds and talking to himself 
 every day? I remembered his distress of the 
 evening before, and resolved to touch upon the 
 subject which occasioned it, though I approached 
 it with caution. 
 
 " I see you have a nice shady place here, Uncle 
 Abe, but isn't it too close for you ?" I asked, by 
 way of introduction, as I glanced at the heavy 
 bamboo vine that formed a thick bower about 
 him, while around the gallery grew a dense bed 
 of weeds, conspicuous among them the wild sun 
 flower and bitter-weed. 
 
 A change seemed to pass over the old man's 
 face as he answered : 
 
 "Dee's all I got lef, Marse Torm !" 
 
 I felt sure I had touched his weak point. It 
 was a mistake. His insanity was in some way 
 connected with the weeds. 
 
 While I was searching for a diverting remark, 
 he turned his feeble eyes upon me and said : 
 
 " Marse Torm, kin I talk ter you ?" 
 
 "Why, certainly, say anything you choose to 
 me." 
 
 " I nuver talks ter nobody, but 'cep' but 'cep' 
 
230 CRAZY ABB 
 
 I'll have ter 'splain it out ter yer, Marse Torm. 
 Yer know dee calls me Crazy Abe, an' I 'ain't 
 blame 'em. 
 
 " When a ole 'cripit crittur like me commence 
 ter teck on ter 'isse'f, hit's 'bleege ter look dat-a- 
 way, but I's pass a keerin' fur de way I looks, 
 Marse Torm. 
 
 " I's de same as gone f 'om de worl', an' I done 
 set my face todes de far shore, but I gwine tell 
 yer 'bout de way I bides my time. 
 
 " Yer see, Marse Torm, I been a-settin' out on 
 dis po'ch, dis is five summers, sence de mizry 
 stricken me in de laigs an' I kyant walk, an' de 
 f us' summer I sot heah, de sperit warn't squenched 
 in me good. 
 
 " Seem like I wanted ter git up an* go ; an' den 
 I couldn't, an' den I pass froo a long, dark day o* 
 lonesomeness. Seem like I longed fur folks ter 
 come an' see me an' talk wid me, an' sometimes 
 dee'd come, but mo* times dee 'ain't come. 
 
 " Yer know folks is got plenny ter do 'dout 
 foolin' wid ole 'cripit folks like me. An' den, 
 when nobody 'ain't come, an' de days come an' go 
 so slow, I couldn't do nut'n but ponder on de ole 
 times ; an' whilst I was lonesome like an' sorrow 
 ful, one day one o' dese heah little hummin' birds 
 come a-buzzin' froo de vines purty an' little an' 
 shinin'. I d' know how 'twas, Marse Torm, but 
 all on a suddint hit 'minded me ob a little yaller 
 wife I had, when I warn't no mo'n, yer mought 
 say, a boy. 
 
CRAZY ABE 231 
 
 " Hit was so peart an' little, an* nuver stay 
 in one place, an' seem like hit warn't made fur 
 no cage. 
 
 "Well, hit sot me ter noticin', an' I'd watch 
 fur it ter come back, an' I call-t it Silvy, ter 
 myse'f. 
 
 " Dat was Silvy's name, an' de mo' I studied it, 
 de mo' seem like hit favored Silvy. 
 
 " I nuver will forgit de day ole boss bought 
 Silvy an' brung 'er home. Dey warn't a yo'ng 
 buck on de place what had any sense lef, quick 's 
 he looked at 'er, an' I d' know huccome but 
 some way womens is notionate she tuck me ! 
 
 " An' Gord, how I loved 'er ! I was clair sp'iled 
 wid she a' choosin' o' me, an' I commence ter 
 speculate 'bout my looks, an' I'd meek 'ten' like 
 I had business wid ole boss, an' meek up all kine 
 o' 'scuses ter go up ter de house, jes' so I c'd 
 peep in de hack-rack look'n-glass an' see Silvy 's 
 ch'ice. 
 
 " I wouldn't o' let 'er do a turn o' work ef I 
 c'd o' saved 'er, an' when I'd see 'er in de fiel', a- 
 hoein' in de rows wid de big black wenches, an' 
 she so purty an' sweet an' shinin', I 'lowed ter 
 myse'f dat dem little roun' wris'es warn't made ter 
 fling no hoe. 
 
 " Ef I could o' did de way I wanted wid 'er, I 
 b'lieve I'd o' sot 'er up in one o' dese heah glass 
 sto'-cases, wid a satin- silk -velveck dress on, an' 
 flung lumps o' sugar at 'er. Yer see, I loved 'er 
 a fancy fashion. 
 
232 CRAZY ABE 
 
 " Well but, Marse Torm,you's a-gittin' tired!" 
 
 " No, no ! Go on ! I am interested," said I ; 
 and in truth I was. 
 
 " Well, lovin' 'er dat-a-way, hit nachelly struck 
 my min' ter buy 'er free. 
 
 " I jes' longed ter see 'er come an' go, any way 
 de notion teck 'er, an' so I axed boss, an' he was 
 mighty good. 
 
 " He see de way I was all bruck up wid lovin' 
 'er, an' he 'lowed dat he'd meek it easy fur me 
 dat payin' me fur wuck 'f o' hours an' arter times, 
 I mought buy her free fur two hon'red dollars 
 less 'n he guv fur 'er. 
 
 " You see, Silvy warn't much good ter ole mars, 
 ter. 
 
 " He bought 'er fur a sort o' house-gal an' hair 
 dresser, an' dee say she sassed de white folks reg'- 
 lar, an' I don't 'spute it, 'caze she had a lively 
 tongue, git 'er started, an' dat's huccome dee sont 
 'er in de fiel', an' I reckin boss would o' sol' 'er 
 'cep'n fur me o' marryin' 'er. 
 
 " Ole marster nuver done sech as dat. 
 
 " Well, I wucked 'long fur fo' years, an' I 
 had mos' 'nough ter buy 'er, an' I was happy tell 
 I was mos' drunk wid happiness ; an' Silvy, she 
 was powerful sot on freedom, an' 'treckly, 'bout 
 dis time, heah come de prormus dat Gord gwine 
 ter sorn us a little baby, an' I was dat mixed 
 up wid joy an' sorrer dat I 'ain't knowed what 
 ter do. 
 
 " In cose, I was 'joyed like any human, but I 
 
CRAZY ABB 233 
 
 was sca'ed dat ef boss knowed it, he mought back 
 out o' de trade an' raise de price on Silvy. 
 
 "An' Silvy, she was a-hurryin' o' me, yearly 
 an' late, ter wuck an' save ter meek up de money, 
 so dat when de baby come, hit mought come free ; 
 an' jes' 'bout dat time, Silvy upsot a kittle o' bilin' 
 water an' scalted her foot, an' had ter lay up in 
 de house ; an' yer know, Marse Torm, she 'lowed 
 ter me dat she done it a-purpose, 'caze she knowed 
 dat ef she kep' a-gwine in de fiel', folks was gwine 
 ter talk. 
 
 " Well, dat time I had all de price, lackin' twen 
 ty-five dollars, an' I kuowed I didn't had no mo' 'n 
 'bout three mont's ter git it, an' so I'd wuck, sack- 
 in' cotton seed an' sech, all night, some nights, an' 
 well, Marse Torm, de evenin' I tuck de money 
 up ter de house, ter ole marster, I 'ain't seed de 
 way I put my foot. Seemed like I was bline, an' 
 dizzy, an' my cornscience stricken me, too, 'bout 
 foolin' ole boss, 'caze seemed like I was a-stealin' 
 f'om 'im, 'caze I knowed dat he nuver s'picioned 
 'bout we's baby on de road ter freedom, stid o' 
 b'longin' ter him. 
 
 " I b'lieve I'd o' up an' toP 'im, but Silvy, she'd 
 teck on ef I named it, an' call me a fool an' sech. 
 
 " Silvy knowed a heap o' names ter keep a fel 
 ler down, so I 'ain't named it ter boss, on'y gi'n 'im 
 de money, and he call-t in ole Miss an' de overseer 
 ter witness dee names ter de paper, an' dee signt 
 'em down, an' I started out wid de free-paper. 
 
 " I was proud as de President o' dese Nunited 
 
234 CKAZY ABE 
 
 States, but feelin' sort o' mean 'long wid it, same 
 's a man mought feel wid a chicken hid in his hat, 
 on'y wuss. 
 
 " Well, treckly I started out, boss, he call-t me 
 back, an' I see him whisker someh'n in ole Miss's 
 ear, an' ole Miss she brung me a little bundle, an' 
 she say : * Heah, Abe', she say, * Heah's a little 
 present fur Silvy.' An' she ain't said no mo,' an' 
 when I got ter de kyabin an' me an' Silvy git done 
 laughin' an' cryin' an' j'icin' over de free-paper, I 
 'membered 'bout de little bundle what ole Miss 
 gi'n me ; an', Marse Torm, what yer reckin hit 
 was ? Gord ! Yer could o' heern a pin drap 
 when we opened dat bundle ! 
 
 "Hit was a whole passel o' ole Miss's baby- 
 cloze. 
 
 "I tell yer, Marse Torm, my white folks was 
 Gord's own people. 
 
 "Seem like ole Miss was a -say in': 'You po' 
 chillen 'ain't need ter hide yer baby ; teck it you 
 welcome ter it.' 
 
 " I jes' nachelly sot down an' cried, I did, Marse 
 Torm, an' love my white folks mo' an' mo'; but 
 Silvy 'ain't cried none, on'y jes' count de tucks in 
 de long dress an' hoi' up de lace 'g'inst de light an' 
 laugh. 
 
 " But Silvy 'ain't claim ter have 'ligion. She 
 was a proud little gal. 
 
 " But I cried good, an* my heart went out strong 
 ter ole Miss Heah Silvy been wropped up in big 
 shawls, claimin' ter be chillin', an' mos' a-sweatin' 
 
CRAZY ABE 285 
 
 ter death ter keep de secret, an' a scratchin' 'er 
 so'e foot ev'y day ter keep out 'n de fiel'. 
 
 " Well, bimeby de baby come a purty little 
 yaller gal-chile, jes' like 'er ma, an' I was proud 
 as a king, an' den, one day, ole marster axed me 
 ef I ain't a-gwine ter buy myse'f free, an' I laugh 
 an' say : ' No, sir, I ain't a-cravin' arter no free 
 dom. I ain't nothin' but a reg'lar nigger.' 
 
 " I heap'd ruther teck all de extries ter buy 
 fineries fur my two purties, an' I done it, too. 
 
 " Well, time passed 'long. Dee say time fly 
 look ter me dem days like she travel in a blue 
 streak like de lightnin', an' 'fo' I knowed it, de 
 baby was a-stan'in' 'loney, a-holtin' on ter de cheers, 
 an' growin' purtier an' purtier ev'y day, an' 'long 
 'bout dis time I hates ter tell yer 'bout it, Marse 
 Torm 'long 'bout dis time dey was a tall, yaller, 
 free-nigger preacher what come ter preach in de 
 Baptis' Chu'ch. 
 
 " I 'ain't liked 'im when I fust sot eyes on 'im. 
 
 " He was one o' dese heah long - face, long- 
 coat-tail, long-laig, long-pra'r preachers. He 
 was tall an' slim he was dat slim tell he was 
 narrer, an' sort o' cock-eyed. Look like he kep' 
 one eye on Heaven, an' helt on ter sin wid de 
 yether one, an' he was powerful sot on visitin' 
 'mongs' de sisters. 
 
 " 'Tain't no use for me ter talk 'bout it, Marse 
 Torm ; but one night, whils' Silvy was gone ter 
 ineetin' at de cross-roads, an' I was a-teckin' kyar 
 de baby, de little gal tuck ter croupin'. All de 
 
236 CRAZY ABE 
 
 white folks, an' my own color, too, dee done de 
 bes' dee could, but 'twarn't no use. 
 
 " When Silvy come back, an' I heerd her say 
 good-night ter de preacher at de do', she come in 
 an' see de little gal a-layin' in my arms daid. 
 
 " 'Twarn't sick mo'u 'bout f o' hours. 
 
 " Well, Marse Torm, in cose I was all tarrified 
 wid grief an' bruck up 'bout losin' de little gal, 
 but I had Silvy, an' I blessed Gord fur what was 
 lef. 
 
 " Seem like my sperit was raised ter Heaven, 
 like, an' Silvy look like she got 'ligiouser an' 'lig- 
 iouser, an' mo' sot on de preacher, but I 'ain't 
 s'picioned nothin' tell one night she 'ain't come 
 back no mo', an' when I look, I see she done had 
 tuck all 'er cloze an' gone she an' de preacher 
 claired out in de night. 
 
 " I 'ain't nuver f ollered 'em. He was mo' her 
 sort 'n a black wuckin' nigger like me; but I 
 knowed ef I sot eyes on 'im, I'd o' kill-t 'im, but 
 'twouldn't o' bettered me none, an' I 'ain't blamed 
 'er an' I 'ain't begrudged buying her free, nuther. 
 
 " She warn't none o' yer cage birds, she warn't ! 
 
 "Look, yonner she come !" 
 
 I turned quickly. A little humming-bird flut 
 tered, hovered over the flowers a moment, tasting 
 here and there, and was off across the yard to the 
 crepe myrtles. 
 
 The old man smiled as he watched it. 
 
 " I 'ain't got nothin' ag'in' 'er. 'Twas jes' in nat 
 ure. She warn't my kine !" He spoke meditative- 
 
CRAZY ABE 237 
 
 ly, and suddenly his face brightened, as pointing 
 to a little yellow butterfly, he exclaimed : " Look, 
 Marse Torm, yonner de baby ! She comes ter 
 see me mos'ly ev'y day. 
 
 " De f us' time I reconnized 'er, hit sot me ter 
 mos' cryin'. I 'membered how I used ter love 'er 
 an' play wid 'er an' dance 'er on my foot ; an' 
 whils' I was a-studyin' on it, bless Gord ef de lit 
 tle yaller thing 'ain't come an' pyercbed on my ole 
 daid foot a minute, an' den riz up an' flied back 
 ter de Kingdom." 
 
 " The Kingdom ?" I repeated, questioningly. 
 
 " I f orgits you don't know, Marse Torm. All 
 my people's done gone inter de Kingdom but 
 'cep' me, an' seem sometimes like dee's onpatient 
 an' calls me ter come ; an' when I looks over 
 yonner 'cross de fence an' see de corn tassels 
 a-wavin' an' a-beckonin' at me, seem like dee's 
 my folks what done crossed over, an' dat's hue- 
 come I calls de corn-fiel's de Kingdom. 
 
 " Look at 'em now, Marse Torm, jes' seem like 
 dee's a baigin' me ter come. 
 
 " I d' know how 'tis, 'caze in cose dis is all in 
 my min', 'caze Gord's sperits ain't flyin' roun' 
 in butterflies an' sech ; but dat little yaller one 
 what I calls de baby, hit 'ain't nuver is come f'om 
 no place but de Kingdom, an' fly back de same 
 way. 
 
 " Seem like Gord was so min'ful o' me in 
 my lonesomeness, like He wants ter lemme see 
 dat de baby 'ain't forgittin' me, but dat she 
 
238 CEAZY ABE 
 
 b'longs tor de Kingdom an' 'bleeged ter go back 
 ag'in." 
 
 I was assured now that the old man was not 
 insane, and so I ventured to ask, "And what 
 about these weeds, Uncle Abe ?" 
 
 He laughed. " Oh, dee's all my little f ambly 
 dee jes' nachelly b'longs ter me. 
 
 " Silvy an' de baby dee 'ain't nuver 'zac'ly 
 b'longed heah, nohow, an' dee comes an' goes. 
 
 " Silvy, she jes' come ter me fur a little spell, 
 'caze I was strong an' willin' ter holp 'er same 
 as de hummin'-bird teck what she want an' go 
 an' de baby, she b'longed ter de Kingdom. 
 
 " Gord on'y loaned 'er fur a season. But deze 
 heah little black haids, roun' heah," he chuckled 
 as he said it, " dee jes' nachelly growed up ronn' 
 my foots." 
 
 The sound of the dinner-bell, and the simul 
 taneous invitation by a little white- shirted, black- 
 legged chap who ran up to the cabin shouting, 
 " Dinner radey !" put an end to my visit. 
 
 I left the old man with a feeling very differ 
 ent from that with which I had approached him ; 
 but bidding him good-by and promising to come 
 again, I followed the little negro into the house. 
 
 I needed no reminder of my promise to repeat 
 my visit. 
 
 Next morning, having seen from my window 
 that he was in his accustomed seat, I stepped over 
 to Abe's cabin, taking him as a treat a dozen of 
 my best cigars. 
 
CKAZT ABB 289 
 
 To my surprise, he declined them, though evi 
 dently pleased with the attention. 
 
 "No, no, sir,'' he protested. " Ef I sot up heah 
 puffin' a c^gar, I'd git ter 'lowin' I was white, 
 sho' 'nough ! 
 
 " I's sp'iled 'nough now, a settin' up heah ringin' 
 a bell whensomever I wants a drink o' water, 
 same 's white folks." 
 
 * I've come this morning for some more of 
 your story, Uncle Abe," said I, drawing up my 
 chair. 
 
 " Yer wants me ter 'splain 'bout all dese yo'ng 
 black haids, does yer ?" Glancing at the weeds, 
 he laughed as he had done before, but as he be 
 gan, his face took on a tinge of sadness. 
 
 " I toP yer, Marse Torm, how watchin' fur Silvy 
 an' de baby comin' an' goin' started me ter huntin' 
 'bout fur company. 
 
 "Well, I has ter tell yer how 'twas arter 
 Silvy lef me. I jes' nachelly wilted down, like 
 same as a plant de fros' done struck an', 
 in cose, I bruck up in my kyabin an' I went back 
 an' live wid my daddy. He was livin' den, an' 
 him an' he's wife, an' he's wife's gal, Dorcas 
 what she had 'fo' she married my pa dee lived 
 togedder. 
 
 " I allers call-t Dorcas sister ; howsomever she 
 warn't no kin ter me, no mo'n our mammy an' 
 daddy dee married, but we was riz f'om chillen 
 togedder. 
 
 " Dorcas, she was one o' dese heah plain, brown, 
 
240 CRAZY ABE 
 
 straight, strong-arm, strong-ban*, regular wuckin' 
 gals, dat go an' come an' 'ain't say much ; an' 
 when I come home all bruck up, like I was, 
 Dorcas show dat sense not ter name my trouble 
 to me ; but jes' look like she 'ain't nuver f orgittin' 
 me, a-men'in' my cloze, an' dee was a-needin' it, 
 too 'caze Silvy, she didn't had no men'in' ways, 
 somehow, not sayin' nothin' ag'in' 'er but Dorcas, 
 she 'tend ter me same 's a good sister, an' cook 
 my victuals reg'lar an' nice, ain't nuver guv me 
 no druggy coffee, and keep my flo' all a-shin'in' 
 an' white, wid lye she meek in de hopper she 
 'ain't use dis heah cornsecrated lye, like Silvy 
 an' she jes' nachelly looked arter me, an' when I'd 
 'gin ter mope roun', she'd meek 'ten' like she ain't 
 seein' it, an' maybe pop corn ober de fire ob a 
 evenin'. 
 
 " But I was dat se'f -conceited, I tuck it all, 
 same as I'd teck de sun an' de rain, an' 'ain't see 
 it, an' a year pass dat-a-way, an' a heap o' de 
 boys come a-co'tin' Dorcas, but look like she 'ain't 
 crave ter marry, an' I 'ain't s'picion nothin' tell 
 one Sadday night. 
 
 " Ev'y Sadday night Dorcas kill-t a chicken fur 
 my Sunday dinner, an' I knowed she sot a heap 
 o' sto' by dem chickens. 
 
 " Well, one Sadday, she done had kill-t all but 
 'cep jes' two, an' dee was sort o' pets, pickin' an' 
 eatin' roun' de house, an' know dey names, an' she 
 say ter me, she say, 'Abe,' she say, ' which is de 
 purties' hain, Yaller-laig ur Speckle ?' An' I say, 
 
CEAZT ABE 241 
 
 'Speckle heap de purties',' an' 'fo' I knowed it, she 
 done had kill-t Yaller-laig, an' 'ain't kill-t Speckle 
 jes' on de count o' me a-praisin' 'er. 
 
 " Well, dat open my eyes, 'caze yer know, Marse 
 Torm, gals dee don't bodder long wid sech as dat 
 fur no brudders. 
 
 " Well, yer know folks kyant grieve fo'ever 
 dee jes' nachelly kyant do it an' so bimeby Dor 
 cas an' me, we tuck up an married; an' now, when I 
 looks back, seem like all my life b'longs ter Dorcas. 
 
 " She was strong an' kine an' nuver-forgittin', 
 an look like I was 'pen'in' on 'er fur ev'y thing 'fo' 
 I knowed it. 
 
 " Well, we had a whole passel o' chillen. An' 
 now, whils' I was a-settin' heah, bidin' my time, 
 waitin', yer mought say, an' noticin' fust de 
 hummin'-bird an' den de baby, one day I was a- 
 lookin' up in dis heah vine, an' a long branch seem 
 like hit was a-reachin' ter me, quiet like, an' gentle 
 an' strong, an' I see de vine was a-holdin' de sun 
 out'n my eyes, an' a-temperin' de win' on my 
 back, an' all on a suddint, seem like hit was Dor 
 cas, jes' standin' by my side an' watchin' over me 
 'fo' I knowed it jes' de same way I 'skivered 'er 
 in de flesh. 
 
 " An' when de vine growed down ter touch my 
 haid, seem like hit was sof an' strong like Dor 
 cas's ban', an' I put it froo de back o' my cheer, 
 an' I baiged 'em tell dee nailed de cheer ter de 
 flo', so's dee kyant breck it orf a-movin' it ; an' 
 now it done growed stronger an' stronger, tell I 
 16 
 
242 CRAZY ABE 
 
 c'n lean my haid ag'in' it, an' seem like hit's Dor 
 cas, hit so stiddy an' 'ain't nuver leave me. 
 
 " Well, seem like I was happy wid findin' Dor 
 cas, an' bimeby I commence ter notice two o' deze 
 yaller flowers, like yer see yonner, two o' derii 
 black-face ( nigger-haids ' a-growin' on one stem, 
 right heah by my side, an' dee 'minded me ob a 
 pair o' twin babies Dorcas an' me had ; an' f'om 
 dat I jes' nachelly commenced ter pick out all our 
 little fambly roun' de po'ch, an' dee comes ev'y 
 year. 
 
 " Yer see dat thistle growin' dar, Marse Torm. 
 I was wantin' ter pull it up, 'caze seemed like hit 
 'ain't b'longed ter my little crowd ; an' I reached, 
 an' reached, an' I couldn't git it, an' I was a-feerd 
 ter ax anybody else, less'n dee mought pull up 
 some o' de chillen, an' so I lef it 'lone tell de 
 fros' come, an' when de win' commence ter teck it 
 orf, same as goose fedders, tell hit was mos' gone, 
 I knowed hit come ter 'mine me ob a little ejiot 
 chile o' ourn. 
 
 "Hit growed up purty an' peart an' fine, tell 
 seem like de blight stricken it, an' same as de 
 thistle-haid go ter de win', all he's little senses 
 look like dee blowed away. 
 
 "An' when I knowed de thistle come to 'mine 
 me o' him, I was glad I 'ain't pulled it up, 'caze 
 he's got the same right as the res', an' I knows 
 when I meets 'im in the Kingdom he'll be whole 
 an' soun' like de balance. 
 
 " Look at 'im now, Marse Torm. 
 
CRAZY ABE 243 
 
 "He was jes' dat-a-way 'fo' de blight teched 
 'im." 
 
 The old man looked with an expression of 
 simple fondness upon the handsome purple bloom 
 just opening at his feet, and seemed for a moment 
 to lose himself in contemplation. 
 
 " What about these over here ?" I asked, point 
 ing to a row of pot-plants on the opposite end of 
 the gallery, conspicuous among them a gorgeous 
 red geranium, aggressively brilliant now in its 
 scarlet bloom. 
 
 " Oh, dee's de white folks !" he replied, laugh 
 ing. " Dee's de quality all but 'cep' dat big 
 rade geranejum in de square box, I calls hit Mr. 
 Meyers !" 
 
 He laughed heartily here, and in response to 
 my look of inquiry, proceeded to explain. 
 
 " You d' know nothin' 'bout Mr. Meyers, Marse 
 Torm. He was a rade-haid, rade-face overseer 
 what we all had indurin' o' de wah what 'ain't 
 done nothin' but jes' spit terbacker an' cuss. 
 
 " I d' know huccome dat geranejum 'mines me 
 o' Mr. Meyers. 
 
 "Seem like hit look at me biggoty-fied an' 'ain't 
 hoi* itse'f in, an' I don't call it nothin' but Mr. 
 Meyers, jes' fur granjeur ; an' some days when de 
 win' strack it an' look like he go ter teckin' on too 
 'bove-ish, I cusses 'im jes' doggon' an' sech but 
 I 'ain't mean no harm. 
 
 "Some mornin's, when yer hears me a-laughin' 
 out heah, I ain't doin' nothin' but a-devilin' Mr. 
 
244 CEAZY ABE 
 
 Meyers, jes' ter pass de time, 'caze I knows he kyant 
 cuss back, but I 'ain't mean no harm jes' a-passin' 
 de time." 
 
 I looked at my watch and rose to go, express 
 ing, as best I could, my pleasure in the visit, and 
 as I started away I added, hardly measuring my 
 words : 
 
 " I hope you'll be better soon, Uncle Abe." 
 
 " I ain't sick !" he answered quickly. "I's on'y 
 stricken fur a warnin', and when the time come, 
 I don't look fur no pain. 
 
 " Seem like hit'll be jes' de same way as de 
 warnin' come like now I's heah and now I ain't, 
 but I's radey, bless Gord, whensomever de call 
 come. 
 
 " Good-by, Marse Torm, good-by ! Come an 7 
 see me ag'in 'fo' yer go. Good-by ; Gord bless 
 yer !" 
 
 And a tremulous shake of the half -palsied hand, 
 a smile and a tear were the last I saw of Uncle 
 Abe. 
 
 It was perhaps an hour after this that, looking 
 from my window, I saw a crowd, negroes and 
 whites, rushing toward the little cabin, while a 
 voice called out in alarm : 
 
 " Come quick ! Crazy Abe look like he done 
 daid !" 
 
 I was there in a moment. 
 
 It was as he had prophesied. 
 
 There had been no pain. The same smile rested 
 on the peaceful face, but the tear was dry. The 
 
CBAZT ABE 245 
 
 head, fallen back, rested on the softly matted ten 
 drils of the faithful vine. 
 
 As I approached, a little yellow butterfly rose 
 from its resting-place in the white hair and flew 
 over to the cornfields. I watched the pale yellow 
 wings until they finally disappeared in the waving 
 field. 
 
 Stirred by a sudden breeze, the corn-tassels 
 threw up their heads ; long, green leaves raised 
 themselves, like joyous arms, and flapped in the 
 wind. 
 
 The figure was finished. 
 
 There was joy in the Kingdom. 
 
QUEEN ANNE 
 
QUEEN AKKTE 
 
 IT was late in the evening, and I was driving 
 in leisurely fashion over the picturesque road 
 that lies in Arkansas between the good old towns 
 of Washington and Columbus. Sensitive to the 
 beauties of wild nature, as most city-bred people 
 are, I had enjoyed every foot of my drive, and 
 now, when a shaft of sunlight from low in the 
 west suddenly penetrated the wood about me, I 
 drew rein, that I might enjoy the scene for a 
 moment. 
 
 Autumn tints, barely visible before, seemed sud 
 denly to burst into living flame, sumach, maple, 
 and sweet-gum glowing with their respective fires, 
 while here and there a vivid buckeye sent up a 
 burning torch of scarlet bloom. And behold rev 
 elations of life on every side ! The bois (Tare 
 hedge, from whence a moment ago came only 
 suspicious twittering, was now alive with flutter 
 ing gray figures. 
 
 On a gray branch just above me perched a 
 plumed squirrel, while a brilliant green snake 
 twisted himself in and out of a clump of leaves 
 so like himself in color that no less a detective 
 than the sun would have betrayed him. 
 
250 QUEEN ANNE 
 
 A cloud of autumn leaves, crisped and sere from 
 early frost, rose on a sudden breeze and crossed 
 the road, and lo, as they fell before me, I per 
 ceived among them a covey of partridges. An 
 other gust leaves filled the air again, and when 
 they fell once more, the partridges, too, were 
 gone. 
 
 And now, just at my side, leaning against an 
 old charred stump how strange that I hadn't 
 seen her before ! was a little plantation darky. 
 
 Only a "little nigger" standing beside a coun 
 try road, as natural a feature of the landscape as 
 the bois d'arc hedge behind her, or the cotton- 
 field beyond, quite as ubiquitous a variety of life 
 here as the band of guinea fowl that played their 
 metallic music in rivalry with the cow bell's a 
 stone's throw away, or the scrub outdoor hog 
 that upturned a molehill within reach of her arm. 
 
 A round little face, black as a raven's wing 
 a mop of sun-burned hair, red as a fox's brush 
 a diminutive figure, erect, and in slenderness like 
 a bamboo reed nervous bare toes that burrow 
 in the sand a tattered garment of faded home 
 spun how the sun revealed it all as she stood 
 there in its full glare by the roadside ! 
 
 " And who is this ?" I asked, smiling, as soon 
 as I could recover myself, for in truth the sud 
 den revelation of this near human presence sur 
 prised me greatly. 
 
 " Name Queen Anne," she answered directly, 
 unabashed and serious. 
 
QUEEN ANNE 251 
 
 " Queen Anne ! And what are you queen of, 
 pray ?" I asked, laughing now. 
 
 She looked at me curiously a moment, and 
 shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " I don' know, sir, less'n I des queen o' de wil 
 derness." 
 
 Her utter lack of self -consciousness attracted 
 me. 
 
 " And what is your majesty doing, wandering 
 out unattended, so late in the evening ?" I con 
 tinued, playfully. 
 
 "I d' know nothin' 'bout no majesty," she re 
 plied with naive directness. " They ain't nothin' 
 b'longin' ter me roamin' roun' heah as I knows on. 
 Ain't no pusson heah but 'cep' me an' granny." 
 
 Following her glance, I now saw, lying in the 
 shadow of the stump, an aged negress, yawning 
 and stretching waking from sleep. 
 
 " Your grandmother ?" I asked. 
 
 " Yas, sir. I fetches 'er out ev'y day ter see 
 folks a-passin'. She des foolish in de haid f'om 
 ole age, an' I has ter min' 'er." 
 
 The old creature, perceiving me, began a high- 
 noted harangue, unintelligible excepting for the 
 word " bacco," which, with her outstretched hand, 
 served to interpret the whole. 
 
 I was sorry to have none of the weed with me, 
 but I threw her a coin, and promising the child 
 to bring some tobacco on my return, I started on. 
 
 Before turning into the deep wood beyond, I 
 drew rein again for a moment, and looked back. 
 
252 QUEEN ANNE 
 
 There was something in the extreme youth and 
 diminutiveness of this little child, out of sight of 
 human habitation, holding guard over her irre 
 sponsible charge, that attracted me rather pain 
 fully. 
 
 They were crossing the road as I looked back, 
 the old creature supporting herself on the little 
 girl's shoulders. 
 
 It was a pretty picture. How vividly it comes 
 back to me to-day ! 
 
 If this had been all ; if I had never come back 
 that way, little Queen Anne and all her uncon 
 scious picturesqueness would have remained only 
 a central figure in a casual memory sketch, but as 
 it is, I feel like taking off my hat in the presence 
 of the memory of the simple-hearted child who 
 stood barefoot in the road on that autumn even 
 ing. 
 
 Business detained me, and it was several weeks 
 before I returned. 
 
 Ere I realized my proximity to the spot, I per 
 ceived the child standing again in the shadow 
 of the same stump by the roadside. 
 
 Drawing from my pocket the package of to 
 bacco, to which I had added some candy, wonder 
 ing the while if Queen Anne would remember me, 
 I turned to address her, when I perceived that she 
 was weeping. 
 
 " Granny done daid !" she exclaimed, sobbing 
 aloud. 
 
 Had she discerned a note of sympathy in my 
 
QUEEN ANNE 253 
 
 previous interview with her, that she waited here 
 to tell me of her sorrow ? 
 
 I was much moved by the insignificant, grief- 
 stricken child, and exclaimed, impulsively, "Why, 
 why, why, I am very sorry. And what are you 
 doing with yourself, child ?" 
 
 " Marse John seh he gwine look out for a kine 
 pusson to teck me you seems lak a kine pusson. 
 Does you know air kine lady wha' need a handy 
 lill gal ter wait on 'er ?" Thus, between sobs, she 
 told me why she hopefully awaited my return. 
 
 I did know a certain kind lady at home, and 
 a certain baby who needed just such service, but 
 yet I hesitated. 
 
 What did I know of this wild, wayside weed ? 
 What did her guardians know of me ? 
 
 "And who is this ' Marse John'?" I asked, 
 evading the appeal. 
 
 "He we'all's new boss. He seh he'd teck me 
 'isse'f, but he's one o' deze heah ole-yo'ng-bache- 
 lor mans, wha' ain't married nur nothin' dey 
 don't need no handy pusson roun' J em. Yon' 'e 
 come now !" 
 
 Glancing down the road I perceived, approach 
 ing, a man on horseback. He was apparently 
 young, though his hat was drawn down so as to 
 obscure his face. 
 
 Something strangely familiar in the pose of the 
 man attracted me, and when he came up, halting 
 in the shadow of the buggy, he raised his hat. 
 
 " John !" 
 
254 QUEEN ANNE 
 
 " Ben !" 
 
 How delightful are these unexpected meetings ! 
 
 My room-mate at college, my chum, my best- 
 beloved boy-friend, John Goodwynn, was at my 
 side, looking into my face, grasping my hand. 
 
 When last I had heard of him, five years before, 
 
 he held a professorship in College, and had 
 
 pledged his life to science. 
 
 Explanations came quickly. 
 
 "Eyes gave out inherited this old place 
 came here for rest but pshaw ! when a man 
 loves a thing going up to the house now for a 
 microscope digging a pond for my cows I find 
 study for a year. Come on up to the house, old 
 boy ; got a lot of curios there. The sight of you 
 is better to my eyes than a year's rest. Married, 
 are you you wretch ?" 
 
 " Yes, and happy as June-bugs, we three !" 
 
 " Three ! Ha, well, and this third party ?" 
 
 " Ben, junior, of course, and in need of a handy lit 
 tle pusson, des like Queen Anne here, to wait on him. 
 You see I've been making friends with her majesty." 
 
 "Say, Ben, are you in earnest about that?" he 
 asked, as we started to the house, " for if you 
 are, it's all right. The little pickaninny hasn't 
 kith or kin to interfere, and I know she'll be safe 
 with you, old fellow." 
 
 And so, after talking the matter over, it was 
 decided. 
 
 And this is how we got Queen Anne. 
 
 The child never appeared so diminutive as the 
 day I led her in to meet my wife. 
 
QUEEN ANNS 255 
 
 " Allow me," said I, with mock ceremony, " to 
 present to you her Majesty, l Queen Anne,' queen 
 o' the wilderness, alias ' a handy lill gal to wait 
 on a kind lady !' " 
 
 Taken by surprise, but in no wise abashed, the 
 child responded with a ducking courtesy, as she 
 said, " How yer come orn, lady !" 
 
 My wife laughed outright, though she cordially 
 extended her hand, and pleasant relations were 
 forthwith established. 
 
 Our year-old boy, with childish intuition, held 
 out his arms to her at once, to her infinite delight, 
 and from that moment never had veritable queen 
 more loyal subject than he. 
 
 Queen Anne's resources as an entertainer were 
 unfailing, and her fund of song, dance, and story 
 as inimitable as inexhaustible. 
 
 The religious instinct, so strong in her race, 
 seemed to dominate her every other sense, and, 
 though gleaned from ignorant and superstitious 
 teachers, her ideas had all a substratum of 
 truth. 
 
 Most of her plays were artless imitations of 
 religious services, of one sort or another. 
 
 1 recall a verse which seemed a favorite with 
 her, and which she truly excelled in singing. It 
 ran like this : 
 
 " Yo'ng chillen, you should love de Lord, 
 An' keep yo' giarmints clean, 
 Fo' fear dat you should fall in sin 
 An' jedgmint roll between." 
 
256 QUBEN ANNE 
 
 This seemed essentially an emotional perform 
 ance, and begun in a low, vibrating tone, rose 
 tremulously and swelled to the last line, when 
 all things awful seemed in order, her hands be 
 gan to clap, body to sway, and when "jedgmint 
 rolled" from her lips, over she rolled bodily 
 limp, insensible. 
 
 There was no ridicule in this. It was mere 
 imitation, pure and simple. 
 
 Her wide-eyed wonder over the novelties of 
 the city was as amusing as refreshing ofttimes, 
 and her alacrity in grasping new ideas led her 
 occasionally into queer little mistakes. 
 
 On the occasion of her first receiving a card 
 from one of two lady callers, she turned immedi 
 ately to the other, and asked, "Did you come in 
 widout no ticket ?" 
 
 A favorite pastime with her was standing at 
 the gate " choosing ladies " from gayly dressed 
 passers. 
 
 Standing thus, one day, she called to the ser 
 vant next door, " Oh, Tildy, is y'all got a pianner 
 over to yo' house ?" 
 
 " Yas," came the answer, " We got a upright 
 piano. What sort is yo' madam got ?" 
 
 " We'all got a downright one," she replied, un 
 hesitatingly, but quickly slamming the gate, she 
 indignantly came in. 
 
 One warm day, my wife having taken her down 
 town, gave her a glass of soda-water. 
 
 She had never seen the effervescent drink be- 
 
QUEEN ANNE 257 
 
 fore, and drank it with childish delight, but in 
 a few moments she grasped my wife's arm in 
 terror. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Mar'gret, I sho'ly is pizened !" she 
 exclaimed. " Dat fizly stuff is a-shootin' me in 
 de nose !" 
 
 But why recall more of the little girl's blun 
 ders ? She was with us for three years, and we 
 never saw the shadow of a lie in her honest black 
 face, nor touched a disloyal chord in her affec 
 tionate heart. 
 
 "Miss Mar'gret" was in all things her ideal 
 lady, "Marse Ben" her model gentleman, the 
 baby her constant loved companion, I had almost 
 said her idol. 
 
 One day our baby waked up with flushed face, 
 and the following morning the doctor said that 
 dread name, " scarlet fever." 
 
 Unwilling to have her unnecessarily risk con 
 tagion, we sent Queen Anne to a neighbor, though 
 she pleaded piteously to remain. 
 
 On the fourth day, the crisis of the disease was 
 approaching, and the doctor's cab was at the gate 
 many times. 
 
 While we sat in the early twilight, anxiously 
 watching the little sufferer, the door opened so 
 softly that we did not know she had entered until 
 Queen Anne knelt at the cradle between us. 
 
 " P-1-e-a-s-e, Miss Mar'gret, don't sen' me away," 
 she begged. " I 'ain't nuver is disobeyed you be- 
 fo', an' I ain't afeered." 
 17 
 
258 QUEEN ANNE 
 
 We could not send her back. No one would 
 have taken the risk of receiving her. 
 
 And so she stayed. She was but a little child, 
 and in an hour was fast asleep on the floor, but 
 during the long days of tedious convalescence 
 following she was untiring in her childish devo 
 tion. 
 
 The first evidence of returning consciousness 
 that our baby gave was in following her with 
 languid eyes about the room, even before he 
 raised his feeble arras to her. 
 
 He was playing about the room when Queen 
 Anne took the fever. 
 
 We nursed her as we had done our own, but 
 the doctor said from the first that there was no 
 hope. 
 
 It was pitiful to hear her laugh aloud in her 
 delirium, the same gushing laughter that in health 
 told of a happy heart, and the little convalescent 
 at her side would echo it, delighted, and perceiv 
 ing our serious expressions, looked in questioning 
 wonder from our faces to hers. 
 
 She had been in a stupor all morning of the day 
 she died, and in the evening, while we sat watch 
 ing her, she started up suddenly, a bright smile 
 illuminating her face as she began feebly to sing 
 her favorite song : 
 
 " Yo'ng chillen, you should love de Lord " 
 
 Her voice broke several times over the words, 
 " keep yo' giarmints clean," and her breath came 
 filowly. 
 
QUEEN ANNE 259 
 
 "We opened the window to give her air, and a 
 last ray of the evening sun covered her for an 
 instant, and when it went out it carried with it 
 the pure spirit of little Queen Anne. 
 
 She had gone with clean garments into the 
 Master's presence. 
 
CAMELIA RICCARDO 
 
CAMELIA EICCAEDO 
 
 C AMELIA RICCARDO was a belle in her 
 set. 
 
 If you had seen a picture of her fair face, sep 
 arated from its surroundings, you would have 
 said she might have been a belle in any set ; that 
 is, if soft black eyes, cheeks like damask roses, 
 hair long, black, and braided, and lips made up 
 of rosy curves, go to constitute that feminine at 
 traction commonly so called. Taken with the 
 limitations of a most circumscribed environment, 
 however, her possibilities of "belledom" narrow 
 down to a single set; and that this "set" was 
 rather far down in the social scale, we perceive at 
 a glance by the very tokens that augment both 
 her attractiveness and her opportunities within 
 this limited circle. 
 
 Could anything be more picturesque than her 
 unconsciously aesthetic dress of red merino, 
 shrunken through constant washing to undue 
 shortness of waist, and lengthened, regardless of 
 aught save modesty, by a flowered flounce of an 
 tique design, while about her neck gleamed the 
 gaudy colors of a brilliant green-and-red figured 
 cotton kerchief? Could anything be more piq- 
 
264 CAMELIA RICCAKDO 
 
 uant than her ever-changing attitudes, each ex 
 pressive of some vivacious emotion, and each a 
 marvel of uncultured grace ? At a distance of 
 several feet to left, to right, and above her, 
 hung, in artistic alternation, orange - branches 
 fruit-laden, pineapples, bananas, plantains, cocoa- 
 nuts, and every fruit that lends itself to suspen 
 sion by stem or hair ; while beneath these lay, 
 stacked on shelves in pyramids or ranged after 
 the fashion of mosaics in conventional designs, a 
 tropical profusion of the smaller fruits. 
 
 The fruit-stand was hers, and she was belle of 
 the French Market. 
 
 The elaborate decoration of her stall the pret 
 tiest in all the market was her own handiwork, 
 and if you said one day that the arrangement was 
 perfect, on the morrow you would think it plain, 
 in contrast with the new design of the morning. 
 
 And she was smart ! Ask the butchers in the 
 market or try to take advantage of her in a trade ! 
 She would sell to half a dozen customers at once, 
 giving each his correct change, while she smiled 
 on a seventh ; and no one of them all would pass 
 on without receiving a twofold favor, lagniappe 
 and a smile, either of which would insure his re 
 turn. If you but stopped to look at her oranges, 
 she threw two or three into a dainty paper sack 
 and put it confidingly into your hands, while the 
 pretty lips said in a voice as musical as an ideal 
 "trala!" "Fi'cenM" 
 
 Did you hesitate, another orange was recklessly 
 
CAMELIA RICCARDO 265 
 
 dropped in and the same voice said "lagniappe" 
 in two more music notes and with an air that 
 seemed to say, " Since it's you !" You bought 
 the oranges, of course ; or, if you didn't, the man 
 behind you did, and so what was the difference ? 
 
 Diagonally across from Camelia's stand was 
 that of a young Sicilian, Immanuel Prebasco by 
 name, known throughout the market as "Dago 
 'Manuel," to distinguish him from a fellow-coun 
 tryman of the same name, who " would fight any 
 man who called him a Dago." The other one was 
 an " Italian bawn," he would have you know, and 
 would "tich-a you weeth-a wan blague eye who 
 you call-a wan-a Dago !" as he was wont to say 
 upon provocation ; and his sturdy fist, raised 
 menacingly, gave emphasis to his threat. 
 
 This 'Manuel was not so proud. He often said, 
 with amiable philosophy : " Wen somebody call-a 
 me wan-a Dago, s'pos-a I break-a he's head w'ad's 
 the differend ? I am wan-a Dago, all-a same !" 
 And his lounging attitude, as he yawned and 
 stretched himself, exemplified with equal truth 
 the genuineness of his sentiment. 
 
 Dago 'Manuel's one strong point was his love 
 for Camelia. She was his vision of the night, his 
 day - dream ; and, unfortunately, half his days 
 were spent in dreaming, for his business partook 
 of the gentle spirit of his philosophy. It was 
 comfortable, but it was slow. Needless to say, 
 'Manuel was lazy. Basking in the sunlight of ac 
 cidental propinquity, he lived happy days in gaz- 
 
266 CAMELIA KICCARDO 
 
 ing fondly upon the materialization of the image 
 of his dreams, and took no thought for the mor 
 row. Camelia was near him it was enough. He 
 could even talk over the heads of her customers 
 to her, when she had time to listen, for, it must be 
 understood, she was a woman of business. 
 
 "Loan-a me wan-a bunch-a banana, 'Manue?/" 
 she called out to him one morning. " I am all-a 
 sell oud 1" 
 
 " Take-a my whole shorp !" he answered, and, 
 lowering his tone as he hung his best bunch up in 
 her stall for her, he continued, tapping the bosom 
 of his checked flannel shirt : " Take - a the boss 
 too, eh, Camelia ?" 
 
 " Wad I wan' weeth-a you, 'Manuel" 
 
 He leaned against the end of her stall on his 
 folded arms, getting his handsome face very 
 near hers, as he answered : " I lorv-a you J Tha's 
 nod-a good rizzen fo' mague you wan* me, eh, Ca 
 melia?" 
 
 She stepped aside to serve a customer, but was 
 soon back again. It was late, and the morning 
 rush was over. 
 
 "'Manuel, I wan'-a ass-a you sometheen," said 
 she. " You theen thaz a good-a rizzen f o' me to 
 marry weeth-a you ?" 
 
 " 'S the bez rizzen, Camelia !" 
 
 Another customer came and went, buying more 
 of the borrowed bananas, but Camelia had soon 
 resumed her place. The subject seemed not very 
 distasteful to her. 
 
CAMEUA KICCAKDO 267 
 
 " You say thaz the bez rizzen, eh, 'Manuel f If 
 thaz the bez rizzen, then I muz-a ged marry 
 weeth abou' twenny-fi' young mans. Every wan 
 mague me thad sem rizzen /" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders and laughed ; but 
 'Manuel frowned visibly and straightened himself, 
 as he replied : " Thing you god-a mo' senz, blif 
 everytheen all-a them fool-a mans tell-a you, Ca- 
 melia. God-a no business tell-a you sometheen 
 ligue thad !" 
 
 "Ees thad so, 'Manuel f You theen thad 
 business ees just-a fo' you, eh?" And she ran 
 off, laughing, to meet a crowd of buyers ; and the 
 coquette was for the moment merged into the 
 keen little woman of trade. 
 
 'Manuel was out of spirit. He strolled moodily 
 across to his own stall, hesitated in front of it, 
 then, languidly selecting a specked apple from a 
 picayune pile, threw it, with indolent force that 
 told of reserve strength, across the levee. It 
 rolled and bumped and bounced along the wharf 
 until suddenly, disappearing in a hole in a broken 
 plank, it fell into the river below. Another fol 
 lowed, and another, all sharing the same fate. 
 
 " Throw-a yo' prorfit in the riv' poody straight, 
 eh, 'Manuel" said a neighbor Dago, by way of 
 pleasantry. 
 
 " 'Manuel ees-a good-a short, yas ! Keel every 
 time-a ! Blif 'e ged mo' ridger shoot-a dork 'n 
 sell-a banana," another added, laughing. 
 
 'Manuel was in no mood for retort. Folding 
 
268 CAMELIA RICCARDO 
 
 his arms, he strolled leisurely around to the op 
 posite side of his stall, abstractedly re-arranged a 
 row of pyramids of black -edged bananas, and 
 finally, drawing out from under the lowest shelf 
 a box of lemons, he seated himself astride its ex 
 treme end, so that its contents were beneath his 
 hands ; and now, taking their stained wrappers 
 from the decaying lemons, he proceeded deliber 
 ately to re-wrap them in fresh papers. It was the 
 work of an hour, during which time he rose occa 
 sionally, exchanged a pile of bananas for a nickel, 
 and returned moodily to his task. 
 
 Finally, having finished, he pushed the box 
 back with his foot, and calling to a neighbor, 
 " Mine-a my shorp for-a me !" he strolled through 
 the market and seated himself on the last of a 
 row of stools at a coffee-counter. 
 
 It was near noon on Sunday morning. The 
 half-past eleven-o'clock bell had rung nearly half 
 an hour ago. Butchers on all sides were scraping 
 stalls, opening ice-boxes, and packing up, pre 
 paratory to leaving when the noon gong should 
 sound its command. A few who did not care to 
 wait for the chance custom of tardy marketers, 
 had already closed their shops and were hurrying 
 away. 
 
 Camelia had cleared and boxed in the lower 
 shelves of her stall, and piled the remaining fruit 
 on the top, intending to go home as soon as her 
 little brother should come to take charge. She 
 sat now, with a wooden cigar-box, her "cash 
 
CAMKLIA KICCAKDO 269 
 
 drawer," open upon her lap, while she hastily 
 counted the receipts of the morning. 
 
 "Severty-fi', eighdy, eighdy-fi'," she counted 
 aloud, as she added nickels to the sixth dollar of 
 fractional coins that lay in her red-merino lap. 
 She was so intent on counting that she seemed 
 not to notice that a man had seated himself at 
 her side. When at last she did look up, however, 
 it was evident from her unchanged expression 
 that the man was no stranger. 
 
 " I thing, me, yo' lill han' is too pritty f o' coun' 
 money, Camelia," he said ; " 'twas nod made fo' 
 thad." 
 
 " Tague-a yo' han' a-way, M'sieu Fran9ois ! I 
 show you terregly for-a w'ad my han' ees mague !" 
 and she raised her palm threateningly. "You 
 mague me /o'gid all-a my cound," she fretfully 
 added. 
 
 " I know yo' coun', lill gal, five dolla' an' eighty- 
 five cen'. I mague, me, deze mornin', nine'y cen' 
 more as you, on nutting bud mutton chorp. Al- 
 togedder, deze week, mague 'ondred an' twenny- 
 five dollah cleah prorvit." And he rattled the 
 silver contents of a little white canvas bag and 
 laid it at her side. 
 
 " I theen-a you muz-a be gedd'n verra reech-a, 
 M'sieu Fran9ois." 
 
 "I got 'nough, theng God !" he answered, and 
 then he added, tenderly, "Got 'nough /o' two, 
 Camelia ! W'ad you say ?" 
 
 "Well, of coze I say geev-a me wan-a 'alf," 
 
270 CAMELIA KICCAKDO 
 
 and she playfully laid her hand on the canvas 
 bag. 
 
 His head bent lower. 
 
 "You can 'ave 'alf, lill Caraelia ! H'only the 
 'alf w'ad you tague muz draw wan prize, an' you 
 muz 'ave to tague the prize ad the sem tarn !" 
 
 Camelia seemed very obtuse. "Tha's-a mo' 
 bedder yed. Was-a the prize, M'sieu Fran- 
 9ois ?" 
 
 The Gascon rose and looked about him. There 
 was no one near. He made a profound bow, and, 
 with his hand pressed against his breast, said im 
 pressively : " Fran9ois Leboeuf, ghrade-ghran'son 
 of Alphonse Leboeuf, w'ad 'ave that sem stan' in 
 the Frenge Moggit w'en General Jackson fighd 
 wid doze cotton-bale, N offer 'imselve to you!" 
 
 "W'ad I god-a do weeth-a Genera' Jackso' ?" 
 she answered, pettishly. 
 
 " N-u-t-t-i-n-g ! I h'only wan let you know oo 
 eet ees w'ad wan' marry wid you." 
 
 "Of coze, M'sieu Fran9ois, I know you ees 
 wan-a gread man ! I know you ees the fines'-a 
 man een the Frenge-a Mogged, bud M'sieu 
 Fran9ois, you know some-a-theen ?" 
 
 " W'ad ees thad, lill Camelia ?" 
 
 " You don'd-a sude me, M'sieu Fran9ois !" 
 
 The Gascon was furious. " Thaz all you god-a 
 say to Jean Fran9ois Leboeuf, w'ad 'ave so far 
 /bgid ees phride to h'ass you marry wid eem ?" 
 
 "Thaz all, M'sieu Frangois. Thaz-a the only 
 rizzen I won' marry weeth-a you. 'F I thoughd 
 
CAMELIA BICCAKDO 271 
 
 you would-a sude me, I would just-a soon marry 
 weeth-a you 's weeth-a some orther mans." 
 Her tone was gentle, apologetic, humiliating. 
 " Thing w'ad you say ! 'Tis yo laz chanze, Ca- 
 melia ! The ghrade-ghran'son of Alphonse Le- 
 boeuf don 1 wan 1 befool wid, no!" 
 
 "I don'-a fool weeth-a you, M'sieu Fran9ois. 
 'F I thoughd you would-a sude-a me, I wou'n care 
 northeen 'boud-a Genera' Jackso' an' doze cotto'- 
 bale w'ad fighd weeth-a heem. Would marry 
 weeth-a you all-a same." 
 
 "Sacra W'ad the dev' ! W'ad you talk 
 aboud, Camelia ? General Jackson an' doze cot 
 ton-bale 'ave nutting to do wid me /" 
 
 "Then for-a w'ad ees you spik aboud them 
 every time you ass-a me marry weeth-a you ?" 
 
 " 'Tis my phride ! H'all doze family of Le- 
 boeuf 'ave ghread p-h-ride." 
 
 Camelia rose, tied her hat-strings, and, in the 
 most unemotional way possible, said : " My money 
 ees all-a cound, M'sieu Fra^ois, an' my brorther 
 ees -a come. Goo' -by!" and, quietly turning 
 away, she left him left Jean Fran9ois Leboeuf, 
 the richest butcher in the market, standing, in the 
 midst of his harangue, as she would hardly have 
 left the humblest suitorleft him rejected in 
 dignant. 
 
 He stood gazing after her a moment, muttered 
 something about "the dev'," but finally, recov 
 ering himself, he shrugged his shoulders and 
 laughed actually laughed, as he drew from his 
 
272 CAMELIA RICCARDO 
 
 breast-pocket a package of cigarettes, lit a match 
 with one stroke down the side of his trousers, 
 puffed once, twice, and walked off. 
 
 Besides being the richest, Franois was also the 
 handsomest butcher in all the market. Tall, dash 
 ing, heavily moustached, and be -diamonded, he 
 was as thoroughly lionized in his set as an Eng 
 lish cotton-buyer or a popular leader of the ger- 
 man in another. "Monsieur Franyois" seemed to 
 his admiring neighbors to have all the elegancies 
 of a man of the world. . He threw into the open 
 basket of the Sister of Charity, who paused at his 
 stall on her daily rounds, cutlets that would have 
 sold for much, with a reckless nonchalance that 
 must have delighted the ghost of his " ghrade- 
 ghran'f odder," and made his soul repose in peace 
 ful pride. Men who have grandfathers of whom 
 they are proud should always give to the poor 
 with a loftiness of mien that makes the gift seem 
 to be reminiscent of generations of bounty. Mon 
 sieur Fran9ois realized this, and, in a different 
 way, the Sister of Charity realized it too from 
 her opposite standpoint, in the less blessed office 
 of receiving. She, at least, realized something 
 which made her smile very appreciatively and 
 bow very low, as she did not smile and bow to 
 the rest of the butchers. Whether it was the 
 presence of greatness which she perceived in the 
 oft-resurrected grandpbre, at which she smiled, as 
 does the babe who sees an angel in its sleep, or 
 whether she was sordid and earthly enough in her 
 
CAMELIA KICCAEDO 273 
 
 heavenly vestments to defer thus to the greater 
 quantity and better quality of the alms, we can 
 not say. The thing visible was more meat, more 
 smiles but let us not judge. Monsieur Fran9ois's 
 role in it all was that of My Lord Bountiful, and 
 it was becoming to him. 
 
 There were other aristocratic points, too, about 
 Monsieur Fran9ois. For one thing, he lived in his 
 own house, an inherited home, and his sisters 
 played the piano. No firemen's ball or Sunday 
 picnic of the French quarter, that thought much 
 of itself, was en rbgle without his name on one or 
 two of its important committees. Those of his 
 confreres of the market who enjoyed the honor of 
 knowing him socially considered him somewhat 
 incomplete as to appearance without a badge of 
 some such distinction on his breast. 
 
 Camelia Riccardo was not in his set. She lived 
 humbly, very humbly, in a lowly-squatting, beavi- 
 ly-shedded oyster-shop, near the market. Its two 
 windows, one of which was nailed up for the ac 
 commodation of inside shelves, looked out from 
 under the shed roof like a pair of bad eyes from 
 a scowling face, which seemed to bear a family 
 resemblance to the Riccardo p&re, who was one- 
 eyed, dark, and grim. 
 
 Besides selling oysters and fruit at home, Nich 
 olas Riccardo peddled vegetables and small fruits 
 from his wagon through the streets, but there was 
 a pathetic languor about all he did. It was pa 
 thetic in its opposition to anything like enter- 
 18 
 
274 CAMELIA RICCARDO 
 
 prise, in its contempt of success. You caught it 
 in the minor key in which he drawled out : "Swee' 
 po-ta-ders ten cen' a buck-e-e-t;" in the slow, 
 rickety movement of his unwashed wagon-wheels; 
 in the sunburnt, unkempt coat and mane of his 
 uncurried pony. 
 
 Camelia had the energy as well as the beauty 
 of the family, and since she had gone into the 
 market as bread-winner, they were seeing better 
 days. Still, they were poor. Their front room, 
 festooned with strings of garlic and pepper-pods, 
 and furnished with counter and shelves, was shop, 
 restaurant, and parlor combined. The corners of 
 its floor were filled with piles of onions and pota 
 toes, and as you approached its one door, you 
 were greeted with the smell of garlic. It was like 
 the father's breath. Outside the door was the 
 fruit -stand, and here, tending shop, while her 
 father took his siesta, Camelia spent her after 
 noons. If sales were slow, and they generally 
 were, she filled the intervals industriously, knit 
 ting the broad cotton lace that adorned the Sun 
 day frocks of the entire family feminine her 
 mother, self, and five little sisters. 
 
 Every one in the market knew that Frangois 
 was not the least ardent of Camelia's suitors, 
 and he was pronounced her " bez chanze " by 
 all. There was that in the manner of this 
 eligible parti, however, which offended Camelia: 
 it was a lack of deference. She could have 
 defined it in no better way than she expressed 
 
CAMELlA EICCAEDO 275 
 
 it to himself, when she said, "You don'd-a sude 
 me." 
 
 He did not suit her. Dago 'Manuel, on the con 
 trary, was all respectful devotion. He worshipped 
 her. The day after her rejection of Fra^ois, 
 'Manuel came and talked to her again. He hated 
 his dashing rival as only those who love can hate. 
 
 " Seem to me, Camelia, thad-a fool Gascon 's god 
 plenny cheek, yas talk every day weeth-a you," 
 said he, when for the first time that morning he 
 found her at leisure. 
 
 He had strolled across to her, as was his wont, 
 and stood now lazily pressing the blade of his pen 
 knife in and out of its handle against the end of 
 her stall. He spoke with marked indirectness, 
 gazing into space an uncultured way of ap 
 proaching an embarrassing subject by an assump 
 tion of carelessness. 
 
 Camelia took the cue. She could be indifferent, 
 too. Seizing an improvised dust-brush a bunch 
 of turkey-tail feathers tied together she began 
 in nonchalant manner to dust the top rows of 
 fruit, while she replied : 
 
 " 'S-a very nize young man, 'Manuel 'S-a very 
 ridge-a." 
 
 'Manuel lifted his glance from space and focused 
 it directly into her face as he said : " Ridges don' 
 mague somebody 'appy, Camelia !" 
 
 She stopped dusting, folded her arms, and, tap 
 ping her left shoulder nervously with the brush, 
 said slowly : "Know sometheen, 'Manuel ? Thad-a 
 
276 CAMELIA BICCAKDO 
 
 man wa's goin'-a ged marry weeth-a me, 's god-a 
 mague plenny money, yas !" 
 
 She even ventured to look into his face, as she 
 added : " I am ti\ me, of bein' po' !" 
 
 'Manuel was almost savage now as he asked : 
 " You goin' marry weeth-a Fran9ois, Camelia ?" 
 
 She dusted her own skirt -front abstractedly 
 with the turkey-tails as she answered with naive 
 coyness : "'S god-a nize houze, 'Manuel/ Sez to 
 me, sez, ' Camelia, I goin'-a geeve-a you wan-a fine 
 piano.' " 
 
 " Piano ! Holy Sain' ! Wad you goin'-a do 
 weeth-a wan piano, Camelia ?" 
 
 She laughed. It was ridiculous. Dropping the 
 duster on the shelf, she raised both hands and 
 looked at them, turning them over, showing now 
 their dimpled brown knuckles and now the red 
 palms. 
 
 "Sez to me, sez, ' Camelia, yo' lill-a han' ees too 
 pritty fo' coun' money. 'S just-a nize fo' diamon' 
 ring an' a play piano.' " 
 
 'Manuel scowled. " 'F 'e say some-a-theen ligue 
 thad to you 'gain, 'm goin'-a kill 'im ! 'S god-a 
 no business loog ad yo' han'." 
 
 She had gone far enough. With a pretty 
 movement, she lay her right hand close beside 
 'Manuel's, that rested its dark length now on the 
 edge of her stall. His looked ugly, sinewy, mas 
 culine, strong, against the plump little one beside 
 it. She held it there a moment in silence ; then, 
 regarding 'Manuel with a strange, half -serious air, 
 she said : 
 
CAM ELI A RICCARDO 277 
 
 "Thing yo' ban' loog-a mo' stronger than-a 
 mine, 'Manuel; bud thing mine mague-a mo' 
 money than-a yoze." 
 
 'Manuel made no reply, and she continued : 
 "Seem to me, 'Manuel, thad ban' muz-a nod eg- 
 speg theze-a wan to work for a-heem !" 
 
 " Fo' God's sague ! Wad-a you talk, Camelia ? 
 Theez-a ban's willin'-a work fo' thad-a wan ! ToP 
 eem so, tousan' o' time !" 
 
 There was silence for a moment. Finally Came 
 lia spoke again. " Wen thad-a ban' beat theze-a 
 loan mague-a money, can 'ave it /" 
 
 Then, laughing and blushing as if she had said 
 too much, she ran off to the other end of her stall. 
 But 'Manuel had caught her serious tone. He fol 
 lowed her with eager eyes, as one dazed, for a 
 moment ; then crossed over to his own stand. 
 
 Later that day Fran9ois came again and talked 
 with Camelia. He was in love with the beautiful 
 girl, and, besides, her indifference piqued while 
 it surprised him. Camelia, nervous and excited 
 over the thing she had just said to 'Manuel, now 
 flirted recklessly with the Gascon. 
 
 'Manuel looked at them, and saw, but did not 
 perceive, them. His heart was too full of new 
 sensations to admit a jealous pang. There comes 
 a time to most of us and woe to him to whom it 
 never comes when we first seem to meet our 
 Selves, face to face ; when we are humiliated and 
 confused by the contrast between this real self 
 and the ideal self that had made us self-respecting. 
 
278 CAMELIA RICCAKDO 
 
 In our consciousness of endogenous growth, from 
 the heart outward, we had felt sure of our devel 
 opment, for had not our hearts gone out of us 
 with each aspiration ? As the banana - stalk, 
 conscious only of the perfect leaf sent heaven 
 ward from its heart, is shocked when it beholds 
 its garment of rags mirrored in the stream, so we, 
 in this first startling interview with self, are cha 
 grined at the ultimatum of our heart's best im 
 pulses. We blush to see that they had scarcely 
 risen above our heads before they were riddled 
 by the first passing breeze, and the ideal charac 
 ter in which we fancied ourselves clothed is but 
 a wind-riddled, rusty fringe of broken resolutions. 
 
 'Manuel had no formulated standards. He had 
 not so much as a vague conception of an ideal, 
 and in this first moment of self-consciousness of 
 real living he could not have given his experi 
 ence a name. He only knew suddenly that he was 
 a lazy, miserable, good-for-nothing dreamer, and 
 he did not know this quite clearly ; yet this 
 knowledge, imperfect as it was, this picture, dark 
 ly seen, of his real self, was quickly offset by an 
 other a possible self the self whose manliness 
 Camelia had challenged ; and thus, from his first 
 introspection, began to evolve his first ideal an 
 ideal with strength corresponding to the weakness 
 which he saw in the real picture. 
 
 He sat with his back to the market, facing the 
 river, and there was a strange new look in his 
 classic face. He held his strong right hand out 
 
CAMELIA KICCAKDO 279 
 
 before him, opening and closing it with such 
 force as to bring all its powerful muscles into 
 play. Then he stretched out his long, sinewy 
 leg, doubled his fist and struck his hard, mus 
 cular thigh, as he muttered between his clenched 
 teeth: 
 
 "My God! My God! The dev' ain' got no 
 shame ! 'F I was a man, I wou'n-a had-a face to 
 lorv' 'er ! Gred, big, lazy loafer ! Wad for 
 somebody ain'-a kill me ? My God ! I swea' 
 yas, I swea' am a man/" 
 
 Then he suddenly rose to his feet, and, looking 
 neither to right nor to left, walked out on the 
 wharf toward the river, leaving his fruit-stand 
 without guard. He was living his first joyous 
 birth-moment of spiritual life the life that was 
 stirred within him by one glimpse of a woman's 
 love ! What were material values in a moment 
 like this the loss of a customer more or less? 
 Camelia loved him loved him as he was for 
 what he might be. 
 
 He continued his walk until he reached the 
 river's edge and there stood, looking down upon 
 the deep eddying water and seeing nothing. He 
 recalled Camelia's words ; saw again the love- 
 look that had risen unbidden to her eyes in one 
 unguarded moment ; saw the little hand that lay 
 beside his ; heard again her challenge, her prom 
 ise ! Tears rose to his eyes. " I swear I swear ! 
 Before God, I swear !" These were his only 
 spoken words, and here, alone with his heart, he 
 spoke them in Italian. 
 
280 CAMELIA RICCABDO 
 
 He lingered a long time at the water's edge ; 
 when he returned to the market, Camelia had 
 gone, and he, too, gathered up his fruit and went 
 home. 
 
 Next day 'Manuel did not appear in the mar 
 ket, and on the next his stall was empty. He 
 had come in the evening with Raphael, his young 
 cousin, a lad of thirteen years, and taken away 
 all his remaining stock in trade. He had made 
 no explanations. He lived " away up in Boulig- 
 ny," several miles above the market, and his coming 
 or going was not deemed of sufficient importance 
 to warrant a journey of inquiry thither, though 
 there were surmises in regard to his absence, and 
 jests enough of them. Days passed, and yet he 
 did not come, and everybody laughed and looked 
 at Camelia. Francois waxed especially facetious 
 over it, and one morning he perpetrated a joke at 
 the expense of the absent, which caused no little 
 merriment, and threw Camelia somewhat off her 
 guard. Improvising a placard from the top of 
 an old pasteboard box, he hung it over the de 
 serted stall. It bore these words : " Cloze for 
 repare" 
 
 Camelia could not read the words, but she 
 caught their spirit of ridicule, and the sign had 
 hardly swung when she climbed up, tore it 
 down, and threw it in the Gascon's face ! Then, 
 without a word, she turned and went to her own 
 stall. This exhibition of loyalty to 'Manuel was 
 
CAMELIA RICCARDO 281 
 
 taken as a betrayal of tender sentiment, and the 
 little crowd that had gathered about Fra^ois 
 looked at each other with surprised glances, 
 and there were exclamations : 
 
 O ho !" 
 
 " Spunky lill gal, yas !" 
 
 " That's what's the matter, eh ?" 
 
 And one facetious young butcher touched 
 Fran9ois under the ribs and said : " Might 's 
 well give up, young man ! B'lieve you got no 
 chance." 
 
 But no one asked Camelia any more questions 
 about 'Manuel. She wondered, as did every one 
 else, as to the cause of his absence, but she con 
 cealed her anxiety so well that every one thought 
 she knew. 
 
 'Manuel lived in a small corner hovel up in the 
 sixth district, and kept, like most of his country 
 men, a little fruit and oyster shop. Raphael 
 tended shop during the mornings, while 'Manuel 
 sold in the market ; and in the afternoons, while 
 'Manuel took charge, the boy hawked the perish 
 able wares through the streets. 
 
 The first few days that 'Manuel spent at home 
 were passed in deep thought. He had sworn an 
 oath, sworn it with all the strength of his resur 
 rected manhood, and he swore it again twenty 
 times a day, as the memory of Camelia's little 
 hand beside his own, and of the one brief glimpse 
 into her heart that her womanly words had given 
 him, recurred to him. He would prove himself 
 
282 CAMELIA BICCAEDO 
 
 worthy in the one material way in which he had 
 been lacking. He would make money like a man, 
 and Camelia should use it like a woman, yes, 
 like a lady! And he would begin now. He 
 walked up and down, up and down his little shop 
 out through the narrow, dirty back yard, be 
 tween piles of empty barrels and boxes think 
 ing, thinking. 
 
 It is easy to swear. Ah, and when one is filled 
 heart and soul with an indomitable will, it is easy 
 to do. The question in 'Manuel's mind now was 
 only "How?" He looked about him, upon the 
 picture of waste and dirt, as at a blank wall. 
 There seemed no answer to his demand for suc 
 cess in the dilapidated piles of lumber, in the 
 paltry stock of over-ripe, decaying fruit, in the 
 inquiring face of the dependent boy at his side. 
 
 But soon, under the force of his resolve, the 
 elements of failure round about him began to 
 rearrange themselves, and the combination as 
 sumed, vaguely at first, the form of a new word 
 Success. 
 
 And the first letter of the new word was 
 wrought in cleanliness. Load after load of trash 
 was carted away from 'Manuel's back yard, to 
 make way for a new guest, whose name was 
 Thrift. 'Manuel had formulated his plan, and 
 found relief in the labor it involved. All day 
 long he worked with the plane and saw ; and 
 soon disreputable-looking contributions of the 
 old lumber-pile began to shine beneath his hand 
 
CAMBLIA RICCABDO 283 
 
 as fresh planks, adorned, as the work progressed, 
 with points and scallops. Before a week had 
 passed, there stood in his back yard a handsome 
 set of shelves in pyramidal form. It was twice 
 as large as his present stand in the market, and 
 from its top arose a canopy, spreading, umbrella- 
 fashion, over the whole, and the canopy was bor 
 dered with points and scallops, the embroidered 
 planks of the lumber-pile. 
 
 Then came the painting green and white and 
 red, Italy's own colors. The red, too, was the 
 tint of Camelia's cheek, the white was the ivory 
 of her teeth, and the green was the hue of the 
 kerchief that lay about her neck and 'Manuel 
 was satisfied. 
 
 Raphael had assisted 'Manuel as he could ; and 
 while they worked, the two were frequently in 
 close conversation. 'Manuel was often emphatic, 
 always serious, but Raphael would frequently 
 shake his head and scream with laughter. He 
 was a beautiful boy, and his life of trade had 
 made him shrewd and quick. If 'Manuel had 
 possessed his young cousin's energy, things might 
 have progressed more smoothly between him and 
 Camelia from the first. 
 
 Finally the work of art and love was finished. 
 At midnight 'Manuel and Raphael put it on a 
 wagon and took it down to the market, and 
 when the sun rose across the river, its beams fell 
 on a structure the like of which had never been 
 seen in the place ; and 'Manuel was not there to 
 
284 CAMELIA BICCAEDO 
 
 explain. He and Raphael had packed the debris 
 of the old stall into the wagon and carried it 
 away, before day. 
 
 The sudden appearance of a marble front on 
 Fifth Avenue would hardly cause more conster 
 nation in the world of fashion than did Dago 
 'Manuel's new fruit-stand in the body social of 
 the French Market on that memorable morning. 
 The sausage-women tapped each other on the 
 shoulders and whispered. The butchers walked 
 around it, examined, criticised, and laughed, but 
 all acknowledged that it was " Dog-gone poody !" 
 If they were astonished at the sudden erection 
 of the structure, they were utterly confounded 
 the next morning, when its shelves were tastily 
 decorated with evergreens and furnished with 
 fruits, and a pretty girl took her place before it, 
 and began singing in her soft Italian voice, 
 " Cheap-a banana ! 'S-a very nize apple !" over 
 and over again. 
 
 Buyers were attracted, as well as neighboring 
 competitors ; and the little saleswoman, and 
 'Manuel, who had appeared during the morning, 
 were both kept busy until the bell rang for clos 
 ing. 
 
 Day after day 'Manuel and his pretty clerk 
 came, and the business grew. 'Manuel was polite 
 to Camelia always, but he was too busy now for 
 much neighborly courtesy. He had introduced 
 the " young lady " as " Miss Marie Cantero," his 
 " saleslady," but had vouchsafed to no one, not 
 
CAMELIA RICCARDO 285 
 
 even to Camelia, any explanation further than 
 this and she was too proud to ask him. As 
 time went on, the rival beauty continued to at 
 tract, and Camelia had to share her patronage 
 with her. If business waned, Marie introduced 
 some new attraction. Now, it was a loud-talking 
 parrot that cried " Cheap-a banana !" while every 
 body stopped and laughed and bought. Now, 
 Marie herself appeared in a dazzling new cos 
 tume, while her laughter was loud and conta 
 gious, and her use of slang rather remarkable. At 
 the end of three months, the canopied stall did 
 the principal business in the market, and 'Manuel 
 rented neighboring stands and kept them all 
 busy. 
 
 When a year had passed 'Manuel was still 
 prospering. During this time Camelia had had 
 many suitors, who loved her for her beauty, but 
 each one had gone away with his head down. 
 Fran9ois had repeated his offer of himself and his 
 money several times, but at length the strange 
 truth was forced upon him that she would not 
 accept him. He called her a " crezzy lill fool " 
 for thus standing in her own light, but all his 
 arts failed to effect a change in her mind ; and 
 he realized at last that he was finally rejected. 
 
 Of course, he went and talked with her some 
 times still, to keep up appearances ; and, when 
 teased about her, he deported himself as became 
 a man of the world. 
 
 " Oh-h ! Camelia ees one nize lill Dago gal, an' 
 
286 CAMELIA RICCABDO 
 
 good -lookin', yas lud" with a shrug of his 
 manly shoulders, "me, I don' wan' marry one 
 Dago. I 'ave a lill pleasure talk wid 'er daz 
 all !" 
 
 And then, to emphasize his position, he would 
 add : " 'Spose me, I was marry wid 'er, and dad 
 one-eye Dago pass by my 'ouse, sing oud, 
 * Swee' po-ta-ders, ten-cen'-a-buck-e-e-e-t !' Yi, yi ! 
 You could knock me down with a fedder ! Oh 
 yas, Camelia 's one nize lill gal, an' poody ! poody 
 ligue magnolias ! But no, no ! Me, I don' wan' 
 marry dad fodder-in-law." 
 
 In this wise Fran9ois set himself right with 
 the market gossips, saved the imperilled dignity 
 of the Leboeufs, and handled Camelia's name 
 like a gentleman. , 
 
 'Manuel in the meantime was making money. 
 He had never visited Camelia in her home. Be 
 fore the day of his inspiration, he had loved her 
 hopelessly, as one might become enamoured of a 
 particular star, knowing that he might never 
 reach it, and it would not descend to him. Since 
 his awakening he had been absorbed with his one 
 object making money enough to become eligi 
 ble to her under the imposed condition. 
 
 It had never occurred to him to doubt her, nor 
 yet to nourish her preference with endearing at 
 tentions. The charmed words she had spoken 
 had not been all sweet. There was a bitterness 
 not to be ignored in their underlying implication 
 of his unworthiness. 
 
CAMELIA RICCARDO 287 
 
 He would not go to her again until every 
 vestige of sloth should have fallen from him, and 
 he could approach her clad in the trig, smart 
 garments of success until he could offer her as 
 much money as " thad sassy Gascon " had dared 
 offer her. 
 
 Whatever pleasure Camelia might have felt in 
 his prosperity was utterly spoiled by jealousy of 
 his pretty clerk. It was plain that 'Manuel was 
 in love with her. Did they not sit together 
 every day on the same lemon-box and count 
 over the receipts of the morning ? He was even 
 seen once to pin her overskirt for her ! Of course, 
 he was in love with her ; else why should he pin 
 her overskirt ? And the bold little thing had gig 
 gled all the time he was pinning it ! What was 
 'Manuel thinking about, to fancy such a creature ? 
 
 Such as these were Camelia's unspoken thoughts, 
 but she never by one word criticised Marie. Not 
 she. She would not "give herself away" after 
 that fashion. She would wear a bright face, flirt 
 with every new-comer, and keep on good terms 
 with Marie if it killed her ! 
 
 Time passed. It was Christmas night. Camelia 
 sat alone on her father's door-step. The day had 
 been a long and trying one to her. Marie had 
 carried everything before her all the morning in 
 the market. The children at home, sticky with 
 Christmas sweets and boisterous with holiday 
 license, had finally succumbed to fretful sleepi 
 ness and gone off to bed. And Camelia herself 
 
288 CAMELIA RICCARDO 
 
 felt so weary. The city about her, in its unu 
 sual quiet its stillness exaggerated by contrast, 
 from following upon a hilarious Christmas-eve 
 seemed to be sinking into the heavy stupor of 
 satiety. It was falling into a drunken sleep. 
 Nobody came to buy. There was no sound save 
 of the drowsy diminishing motion of the rocker 
 in which her mother nodded, and her father's 
 half-drunken snore. She thought Christmas was 
 the worst day, the longest day, in the whole 
 year. Her hands lay idly in her lap, and she fell 
 into the universal habit of holiday retrospection. 
 
 How certain crises in our lives come back to 
 us at Christmas ! And we smile, and shudder oft- 
 times, too, as we realize how unconsciously we 
 met them. How the retrospection dignifies the 
 commonplace things of life ! How it makes us 
 quail in contemplation of the awful possibilities 
 of each passing hour, every trivial event! We 
 laugh in our hearts, too, as we remember how 
 we agonized over this or that trifle the trifle 
 perpetuated in memory only by the agony that 
 impressed it there the trifle marked now only 
 by a tear-stain. And how strangely interspersed 
 are these tear-stains ! In the wrong places ! "Ah, 
 me !" we say do we not, every one of us? with 
 the Amens to our Christmas communings with 
 self? And we mean? That depends. There is 
 a terrible vagueness in this voicing of a sigh. If 
 the sigh go upward, the heart is better for the 
 aspiration. Between the "ah" and the "me" 
 
CAMELIA BICCARDO 289 
 
 there is, mayhap, a prayer a renewed consecra 
 tion of self a reaching after the best, the real 
 things of life. 
 
 "Ah, me!" said little Camelia, sitting in the 
 dimly -lighted doorway to-night. There was a 
 pathos in the very mildness of the ejaculation, 
 for Camelia did not hesitate at profanity, on oc 
 casion. Not that she swore. " CussV an' swear- 
 in* " she regarded as a strictly masculine preroga 
 tive ; but she ran the gamut of mild irreverence 
 twenty times a day, introducing the devil into 
 the society of the saints and the Deity on the 
 faintest provocation the disputed price of an 
 orange, or a torn armhole the result of a tip 
 toed reach for a preferred pineapple. 
 
 There was no passion in the laconic "Ah, me !" 
 her only words to-night. It was but a pathetic 
 confession of weariness, of helpless regret. She 
 simply knew that she was miserable and lonely, 
 and that the light had gone out of her life. She 
 longed for bed-time and sleep and forgetfulness 
 for escape from intrusive memories of recent hu 
 miliations. The review of the year had been a sad 
 picture of her defeat and Marie was the victor. 
 
 The little clock in the back room struck eight 
 only eight, and the evening had been so long ! 
 At eight o'clock last Christmas, where had she 
 been ? This and that had happened and so the 
 year began again to pass before her. 
 
 A firm step on the banquette startled her. It 
 was 'Manuel. He had stopped, spoken, and seated 
 19 
 
S90 CAMELIA KICCAKDO 
 
 himself at her side ere she could recover herself 
 enough to speak. 
 
 How slender and handsome he looked in his 
 closely-fitting store- clothes ! Camelia had never 
 seen him before in other than his market dress. 
 He was actually resplendent to-night. And when 
 he bent his head close to her, and told her in seri 
 ous way that, having fulfilled the conditions, he 
 had come to claim the promised hand, she could 
 not find voice to answer him. All things were 
 changed. The wretchedness of the last hour re 
 ceded suddenly into the dim past. It might have 
 been a year ago. 
 
 While she only looked into his face and said 
 nothing, 'Manuel went on talking. He spoke in 
 Italian; told her the story of his struggle, his wait 
 ing, his success, and how, through it all, he had 
 thought only of her. 
 
 And now, he had come to claim her. He looked 
 into her eyes and awaited her answer. She had 
 had time to compose herself a little, and Marie's 
 face had risen up before her. Her heart seemed 
 turned to ice. Instead of replying to his question, 
 she asked frigidly as always, speaking English. 
 
 "For-a w'ad ees Marie sen' you off?" 
 
 Oh-h-h ! Wad you talk ligue thad, Camelia ? 
 Marie tut, tut, tut !" And he burst out laugh 
 ing. He seemed more amused than disturbed by 
 this unforeseen difficulty. 
 
 "Marie ees-a hV to me. Get fif-a-teen dollar 
 de mont," he continued. "Never seen Marie J n 
 
CAMELIA RICCABDO 291 
 
 my life-a, on'y in- a market," and now he drifted 
 seriously into Italian again. 
 
 He talked for an hour, and when he rose to go 
 he held her hand and something glistened on her 
 finger. 
 
 It was a gold ring, and its pattern was of two 
 hands clasped. He had said a sweet, pretty thing 
 about the appropriateness of the design, when he 
 placed the ring on her finger, and Camelia thought 
 it the most beautiful speech she had ever heard. 
 If she had known the word, she would have called 
 'Manuel a poet. 
 
 She sat and watched his slender receding figure 
 until it disappeared in the shadows. And then 
 she looked down at her hand ; 'Manuel had kissed 
 it when he put the ring upon it. Raising it now 
 to her face, she laid the spot, still conscious of the 
 touch of his lips, against her cheek, and blushed 
 by herself on the doorstep. 
 
 And this was Christmas ! Surely Christmas 
 was the happiest day in all the year ! 
 
 In a month they were married. The engage 
 ment was made no secret from the first, and 
 everybody seemed pleased. Marie, indeed, ap 
 peared quite delighted ; but Camelia, remember 
 ing her own sorrow, felt sure she laughed to 
 hide a heavy heart. Francois was most gushing 
 and profuse in congratulations, and sent, with his 
 card attached by a broad white satin ribbon, the 
 handsomest of all the bridal presents a deco 
 
292 C AMELIA RICCARDO 
 
 rated liqueur set, mounted in silver plate, with a 
 bottle of anisette to drink the bride's health. 
 
 Frangois, by the way, was married, three days 
 before Camelia's wedding, to his second cousin, 
 living "down in the Third." They were married 
 in the Cathedral before the high altar, and had 
 six bridesmaids, " every wan pritty ligue wan 
 pink, and every wan my corzen !" Franois re 
 marked afterwards. 
 
 Camelia's wedding, on the contrary, was con 
 ducted according to her own ideas, on economical 
 principles. But 'Manuel spent money in presents 
 without stint. In addition to the wedding outfit, 
 which was his gift, he presented his bride with a 
 "full set of jewelry," even including watch and 
 chain a gorgeous opera-chain with golden tassels 
 and every piece was set with an amethyst. 
 
 Old Nick, Camelia's father, shed real tears from 
 his good eye when she left home, but he congrat 
 ulated himself on gaining so progressive a son-in- 
 law. 'Manuel took Camelia to a little home of 
 her own, not a shop, but a neat little cottage, one 
 side of which was rented, and brought in money 
 every month. 
 
 Was she happy? Look into her face on this 
 first day, when, having strolled several times 
 through the four rooms of her new home, she 
 at last seats herself in a little rocking-chair and 
 tries to realize things. She has drawn her rocker 
 into the small chamber next her own this is to 
 be Raphael's room and her seat here between 
 
CAMELIA RICCABDO 293 
 
 the doors commands a view both ways, back and 
 front. She sees the kitchen shelves behind the 
 shining new stove, and thinks how ornamental 
 they will be, with coverings of embroidered pa 
 per and new tin furnishings. She is so glad that 
 they will show all the way from the parlor. The 
 gorgeousness of her own bedchamber quite intox 
 icates her with delight. She has turned her chair 
 so that, whenever in repose, her eyes fall upon 
 the Victoria bed. It is this imposing structure, 
 with upholstered scarlet canopy, red-tasselled mos 
 quito-bar, and lace-covered pillows, that dignifies 
 the whole house. And the fringed, red-bordered 
 towels on the towel-rack look so assertively aris 
 tocratic. How superior to the roller- towel and 
 tin basin of her father's house ! And it is all 
 hers, and 'Manuel is hers, and she is 'Manuel's ! 
 
 Presently, her attention, satisfied with contem 
 plation of the other apartments, fell upon the lit 
 tle room in which she sat. The arrangement of 
 the furniture here did not suit her. As she re 
 garded it, she hummed a tune and rocked her 
 self briskly back and forth, keeping time to the 
 merry air with the rocking of her chair. Here 
 was a bureau in a dark recess, with no light on 
 its mirror, and a bed in a close corner opposite a 
 window, so that its occupant would get plenty of 
 light full in his face. How little men knew about 
 arranging a house ! The plan for a better distri 
 bution of the furniture came to her. It came first 
 as a suggestion to her mind, and then seemed to 
 
294 CAMELIA EICCAKDO 
 
 pass quickly down through her arms into her 
 hands. Her fingers fairly tingled to effect, the 
 improved arrangement. She quickened her tune 
 and the motion of her chair. Finally, the wom 
 an's instinct conquered. Rising hastily from her 
 chair, she peeped out to see where 'Manuel and 
 Raphael were. They sat with her father, who 
 had escorted them home, on the front steps, talk 
 ing (for this January had borrowed a day from 
 June for Camelia's wedding), and she saw that 
 their cigars were just lighted. She would have 
 plenty of time to make the desired change before 
 the smoking should be over. It would not do for 
 'Manuel to discover her moving furniture on this 
 first day. She would be ashamed she had felt 
 strangely shy even when she had walked through 
 the house with him but after it should be done 
 she would not care, the improvement would be so 
 apparent. 
 
 Taking the little bureau by its high shoulders, 
 she moved it easily on its porcelain rollers. She 
 laughed to herself as she pushed it up beside the 
 window, and the little mirror, reflecting her own 
 face, laughed back at her even threw up its 
 head and laughed as it tilted backward. She 
 gave the bed a gentle pull now. It protested 
 with a noisy creak, and Camelia went and closed 
 the door. Returning now, she pulled and tugged 
 at the cumbersome four-poster until, having got 
 ten it out of its corner, she could step behind it 
 She would push it out ; it would be easier. 
 
CAMELIA RICCABDO 295 
 
 Just as she was throwing her weight against 
 the bed, she happened to look up and saw that the 
 mosquito -netting had caught against the wall. 
 On disentangling it, she bared, not a nail, as she 
 had suspected, but a porcelain knob. Here was a 
 door. It must lead to a closet a shelved closet, 
 no doubt the joy of every housewife's heart and 
 'Manuel had not shown it to her ! It was to be a 
 surprise ! She would look in ! She did look in. 
 Horrors ! What was this ? Hanging all around, on 
 pegs against the wall, were Marie Cantero's clothes! 
 She knew them all. Here were dresses, aprons, 
 slippers even that hateful overskirt ! She grew 
 dizzy. What did it all mean ? 'Manuel had told 
 her that he had never seen Marie excepting in the 
 market. Had 'Manuel lied to her? Poor little 
 Camelia ! She had found a skeleton in her closet 
 on her wedding-day ! Pressing her hands to her 
 head, she leaned heavily against the side of the 
 door. A sound startled her. She thought it was 
 a footstep. What if 'Manuel should come now ? 
 It would never do. Hurrying on tiptoe to the 
 door, she turned the key, and, returning, closed 
 the closet door, and with nervous strength pushed 
 the bed back where she had found it. 
 
 The face in the little mirror looked at her sor 
 rowfully as she moved the bureau into its old 
 place, and, rocking forward, it fell, like a bowed 
 head, crestfallen. Cautiously unlocking the door, 
 and glancing backward to assure herself that 
 everything was just as she had found it, she left 
 
296 CAMELIA RICCARDO 
 
 the room with a shudder, as if it held a corpse, and 
 went back into the kitchen. 
 
 'Manuel's parrot, perched on top of the safe, 
 flapped her wings as Camelia entered, and cried, 
 keeping her whole vocabulary thus in practice, 
 " Cheap-a banana !" It seemed an insult, so close 
 ly was the bird associated with Marie. 
 
 " Shut yo' mouth-a, you fool !" she exclaimed 
 resentfully, as she hurriedly left the kitchen and 
 sought her own room. Drawing her chair to the 
 side window here, she sat down to collect her scat 
 tered senses. How her temples throbbed ! If she 
 could only have escaped to weep, it would have 
 been a relief ; but this was impossible. She would 
 keep a cheerful face, for her own dignity's sake, 
 but how long the day seemed! 
 
 In the weeks that followed, a vague, restless 
 doubting seemed ever present with her. She 
 almost doubted the sincerity of 'Manuel's devo 
 tion and its permanence. The secret of the closet, 
 like a Jack-in-the-box, seemed ever threatening to 
 spring out at her, and she found herself growing 
 nervous when she passed the door, or the place 
 where she knew it was, for the bed concealed it. 
 This had, no doubt, been the object of the arrange 
 ment. She saw little of Raphael. 'Manuel had 
 put him into the market and kept him busy all 
 day, and so he went early and came late. She 
 had tried once to ask him something about Marie, 
 but he evaded an answer, she thought, with some 
 embarrassment, and then she went into her own 
 
CAMELIA BICCABDO 297 
 
 room and wept. Why were Raphael and 'Manuel 
 conspiring to deceive her about this girl this 
 brazen girl whose odious finery was concealed in 
 her house ? 
 
 One day, when Raphael and 'Manuel were both 
 away, she locked both doors of Raphael's room 
 and peeped again into the little closet. The 
 clothing hung as on the first day. 
 
 In a few days she went again. One suit was 
 gone! She grew faint, and grasped the side of 
 the door for support. Marie had been there ! 
 She must have come during the night and taken it. 
 Here was further mystery. She had been troubled 
 before ; now she was injured, indignant, outraged ! 
 She had come to feel almost comfortable about 
 the affair, and had persuaded herself that there 
 was some simple explanation of the presence of 
 the dresses. She would even have asked about it, 
 had not pride sealed her lips. 
 
 Such as these were her thoughts now. In truth, 
 she had never for one moment been satisfied. 
 The closet and its secret had always been a horror 
 to her. But the uncertainty of the past was as 
 joy to the wretchedness of the present moment, 
 for now she was desperate. Slamming the door 
 so that the house shook, she went into her own 
 room. She was too angry to weep, too nervous 
 to work. 
 
 After moving about the house abstractedly for 
 an hour, now mechanically arranging the articles 
 on her toilet, now standing at the open window^ 
 
298 CAMELIA KICCAKDO 
 
 gazing vacantly into space, she suddenly started, as 
 by a fresh impulse, back into the closeted chamber. 
 The slammed door swung open, revealing the 
 hanging garments. She had resolved to take the 
 matter into her own hands, which she did literally 
 now, gathering the dresses into a bundle and 
 carrying them into the kitchen. She glanced at 
 the clock. It was not yet noon by an hour, and 
 Raphael and 'Manuel would not be home for din 
 ner before nearly one o'clock. She would end 
 this wretched business now forever ! When 
 Miss Marie Cantero should sneak into her house 
 again, she could whistle for her finery ! Opening 
 the stove-door, she started the fire with a handful 
 of shavings, and first into the flame put a muslin 
 overskirt. She laughed aloud as the flame burst 
 into fresh life over the combustible fabric ; and 
 she laughed again as she thought of Marie's con 
 sternation when she should come for her things 
 and find them all gone. 
 
 What would she do ? Would she have the face 
 to inquire about them ? If Marie should, what 
 would she herself do ? She would shrug her 
 shoulders and say she knew nothing about it. 
 Why should she know ? Nobody had told her. 
 But Marie wouldn't ask her she wouldn't dare ! 
 This would end the whole hateful affair forever ! 
 It would be neatly and quietly settled ! 
 
 She laughed a laugh of self-gratulation as, open 
 ing the stove-door again, she thrust upon the 
 waning flame a gaudy, lace-covered skirt. The 
 
CAMELIA RICCARDO 299 
 
 eagerness with which the blaze seized upon the 
 flimsy finery seemed in sympathy with her own 
 passion. Its fiery espousal of her cause soothed 
 her. The stove was her friend. The voice which 
 roared through its narrow pipe was the voice of 
 triumph, of exultation. It was the counterpart 
 of her own laughter, and when it would have 
 subsided, the gray ashes in the grate should not be 
 more tenacious of their secret than she. She had 
 found companionship in the little stove before, 
 during the long days when 'Manuel was away. 
 The secrets involved in the preparation of sundry 
 new dishes dishes which 'Manuel had praised 
 were they not all between her and her little 
 friend of the plastic temper ? 
 
 Camelia was not capable of analysis, but she 
 was conscious of the charm of companionship 
 which came from the personality with which she 
 had unconsciously invested the little stove. And 
 now, as she fed it with the only available and 
 tangible elements of her distress, it seemed, in its 
 greedy consumption of the novel fuel, in its hi 
 larious demonstration of delight, to have followed 
 her into the realm of passion. The consciousness 
 of sympathy soothed her spirit, as the genial 
 warmth did her body. 
 
 Presently the fire subsided. Camelia glanced 
 at the chair on which she had thrown the cloth 
 ing. A single dress remained. She held this 
 garment up before her. She would prolong the 
 joy of its destruction by a last lingering inspec' 
 
300 CAMEUA BICCABDO 
 
 tion. How it recalled special days of Marie's 
 triumph! How vulgarly she had flaunted the 
 gaudy flouncings of the skirt ! And 'Manuel had 
 tolerated her liked her even now held a secret 
 about her ! 
 
 There were bright-red spots on Camelia's cheeks 
 as she opened the stove-door, and as she looked 
 in, she saw that there were bright-red coals with 
 in its grate. She would lay this last garment, 
 which seemed an embodied indignity, upon the 
 ardent bosom of her friend, who would quickly 
 avenge it, and then they would laugh together, 
 she and the little stove. 
 
 Catching the edge of a flounce with a toasting- 
 fork, she had leaned forward to thrust it into the 
 fire, when a step startled her. The door had 
 opened before she turned, and 'Manuel and Ra 
 phael walked in. 
 
 'Manuel regarded her in questioning astonish 
 ment, but she met his glance defiantly. He was 
 frightened. He had never seen such a look in 
 his wife's face before, and he did not in the least 
 understand it. He was first to speak. He ap 
 proached her gently. " Wa's the mather weeth-a 
 my lill-a wife ?" 
 
 His tenderness was more than she could stand. 
 She resented it as an insult in the face of her 
 wrongs. The fountains of her wrath, long pent 
 up, now burst forth in a deluge of violent abuse. 
 She had endured much, and was proceeding 
 decently and quietly to dispose of the whole 
 
CAMELIA KICCARDO 301 
 
 affair, but she was caught, and she didn't care. 
 She charged both 'Manuel and Raphael with de 
 ception, conspiracy, insult ; told them that she 
 had known it from the first, and had put up with 
 everything until the girl had had the impudence 
 to sneak into her own house, and now she had 
 sworn she wouldn't stand it a day longer no, she 
 wouldn't ! Finally, however, her anger spent 
 itself, and she fell to weeping. 
 
 The truth of the situation slowly revealed 
 itself to 'Manuel. He had been strangely obtuse, 
 but he saw it all now, and he was greatly troubled. 
 Beckoning to the boy to follow, he left the room. 
 There were but a few words of conversation 
 between the two, and 'Manuel's attitude was that 
 of entreaty. In a moment both returned to the 
 kitchen, and Raphael, taking up the dress from 
 the floor where Camelia had dropped it, and 
 gathering slippers, stockings, and ribbons that 
 lay strewn around, disappeared with them through 
 his room into the little closet. Camelia, with her 
 head buried in her arms over the table, saw noth 
 ing of this. 
 
 'Manuel approached his wife now, and, taking 
 her arm, gently, but firmly, raised her up. 
 
 "Come, Camelia," said he. "Been-a mague 
 wan beeg miztague ! 'S all righd now." Camelia 
 resisted moodily, and he added, " Can'd you truz-a 
 
 His voice was so troubled, so tender, that it 
 moved her, and she suffered him to lead her, sob- 
 
302 CAMELIA KICCAKDO 
 
 bing afresh, into Raphael's room. He led her to 
 a chair, and, stepping to the closet door, rapped 
 impatiently. 
 
 " Say ! Hoary up in-a tha !" said he. 
 
 In a moment the door opened. Camelia looked 
 up. A quick scream escaped her, as Miss Marie 
 Cantero, in all her glory, emerged from the closet. 
 
 "'Ave-a cha'," said 'Manuel, indicating a seat 
 opposite Camelia. 
 
 Turning to her now, he said, "Tague wan- a 
 good loog, Camelia. Never 's goin'-a see Miss 
 Marie no mo'." 
 
 That young lady now rose, took from her head 
 hat, ribbon, net, and one by one the feminine 
 garments fell to the floor, and Raphael, in long 
 breeches and flannel shirt, stood before her. The 
 boy laughed nervously, but Camelia was too much 
 wrought up for laughter yet. She was humil 
 iated beyond expression. She looked reproach 
 fully at her husband. 
 
 " For-a w'ad ees-a you neva was-a tell me biffo*, 
 'Manuel" said she. 
 
 " 'Ad 'o prormize ^Raphael neva was a goirf-a 
 tell-a nobody! Neva thoughd-a my lill-a wife 
 was afrai' trus'-a me !" 
 
 He spoke sorrowfully. There was a pathos in 
 his gentleness. Camelia felt it. She' might even 
 apologize for her mistrust some time, but she had 
 not the grace to do it now. She preferred a 
 lateral retreat through a change of subject. 
 With childish diplomacy, she asked, 
 
CJLMELIA EICCARDO 303 
 
 "For-a w'ad ees you an' Raphael come-a so 
 soon to-day, 'Maimed f 'S nod leb'n o'clog yed !" 
 
 'Manuel held his open watch to her. It was 
 nearly one, though the little clock on the shelf 
 said " five minutes before eleven." It had stopped 
 there when Camelia shook the house, slamming 
 the closet door. 
 
 Marie had never appeared in the market after 
 'Manuel's wedding-day, for Raphael's contract 
 ended then. 
 
 When 'Manuel had resolved to bestir himself, the 
 main difficulty in the competition with Camelia in 
 making money seemed to lie in her superior at 
 tractiveness over himself. He would not have had 
 this otherwise, but just now in a business sense 
 it was in his way. While at home, working on 
 his stall, he had expressed his difficulty to Raphael 
 in this wise : " Nobody's a goin'-a stop-a buy some- 
 a-theen from wan-a orgly man, when wan-a pritty 
 lill-a gal ligue Camelia's a sell-a close by eem." 
 
 This led to the wish for a pretty clerk some 
 shrewd, bright girl who might beat Camelia 
 at her own game. It was then that 'Manuel 
 conceived the idea of Raphael's assuming the 
 disguise. It would be just the thing. Raphael 
 had beauty, wit, and experience, and the plan 
 would steer clear of the embarrassment of deal 
 ing with a strange girl. 'Manuel offered good 
 pay and swore secrecy, but he had to beg and 
 bribe a long time before the boy would consent. 
 
 The market people never knew what became 
 
304 CAMELIA RICCABDO 
 
 of Marie. Some said that she had committed 
 suicide in a fit of jealousy on 'Manuel's wedding- 
 day, and Raphael was so pleased with this solu 
 tion that he carried a suit of his discarded cloth 
 ing and left it one night under the wharf at the 
 river's edge. This was the dress Camelia had 
 missed from the closet. Some one must have 
 stolen it, for Raphael never heard of it, and when 
 he went to look for it, it was gone. 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE OF 
 SIMPKINSVILLE 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE OF SIMP- 
 KUSTSYILLE 
 
 'VE been kissed once-t with a reg'lar beau 
 kiss by Teddy Brooks." 
 
 The puffs of smoke from old lady Sarey Mi- 
 randy Simpkins's pipe came faster after she had 
 spoken. 
 
 " But I never kissed back. Hev you ever been 
 kissed that-a-way, 'th a reg'lar beau kiss, Sis So 
 phia Falena ?" she continued, turning toward her 
 sister, who sat, also smoking, beside her. 
 
 " Twice-t." 
 
 "Who by?" 
 
 " Once-t by Jim Halloway, time he spoken the 
 word fo' me to marry 'im, an' an' by another 
 person for a far'well." 
 
 "An' you kep' two all these years an' never 
 told 'em out, an' here I felt guilty a-hidin' one. 
 Who was that various secon' smarty what done 
 it to you, Sis ?" 
 
 " He weren't no smarty, Sarey Mirandy. He 
 were Jim Dooley, an' it were time he 'listed in 
 the army." 
 
 " Did you kiss back, Sophia Falena ?" 
 
 " YasIdid!" 
 
308 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 " I 'lowed as much. You was jest the samplin' 
 sort o' young one to tas'e any new-fangled eatin's 
 that was passed 'round. Ricollec' time you tas'e 
 the bull-frog Tom Andrews kilt an' cooked, an' I 
 gagged jest a-lookin'at you ?" 
 
 The old lady, Sarey Mirandy, chuckled at the 
 memory. 
 
 "Yas, I ricollec'. An' I ricollec' how I allus 
 eaten some o' po' ol' Mammy Hester's possum 
 shtew which you wouldn't so much as tas'e. 
 But that weren't how I kissed Jim Dooley back." 
 
 " What put kissin' into yo' head to-night, Sis ? 
 It's mighty funny, 'cause I was a-settin' here 
 thinkin' 'bout kissiu' too an' I can't tell when 
 I've studied about sech a thing befo'." 
 
 "I don' know. I was jest a-thinkin'. Some 
 times it do me good to set an' think 'way back." 
 
 "Well, I tell you how I reckon kissin' come 
 into my head. I was jest a-thinkin' s'joosiW." 
 
 " S'posin' what, Sis ?" 
 
 "Well, s'posin' all round. S'posin' Jim Doo 
 ley had of came back from the wah, fo' one thing." 
 
 A faint blush suffused the thin face of the 
 speaker at the very audacity of that which her 
 supposition implied. 
 
 " An' s'posin' Sonny hadn't of taken to birds 
 an' died. An' s'posin' the bank hadn't o' failed. 
 Why, Sis, I could set here an' s'pose things in 
 five minutes thet 'd make everything different. 
 S'posin' time Teddy Brooks give you that spe 
 cial an' pertic'lar kiss, you had jest ef not to say 
 
309 
 
 kissed back, not drawed away neither. S'posin' 
 that !" 
 
 " Well, Sis, since we got on the subjec', I've 
 s'posened it more 'n once-t pertic'lar sence I see 
 how oP an' run - down the pore feller is. Sally 
 Ann Jones 'ain't been even to say a half-way wife 
 to 'im. Seem like ev'ry time she lays a new baby 
 in the cradle fo' him to rock she gets fatter an' 
 purtier, an' mo' no 'count ; an' pore Teddy, he sets 
 an' rocks the flesh clean off'n his bones. Yas, Sis, 
 I've thought o' that s'posin' many a time, but it's 
 a vain an' foolish thought if not a ongodly one. 
 But the one I've s'posened about most is Sonny." 
 
 Both women sighed. 
 
 "Somehow, I can't get used to thinkin' 'bout 
 Sonny dyin', no way. No two girls ever had a 
 better brother 'n Sonny. Sonny was a born genius 
 if th' ever was one. Perfesser Sloan e down to 
 Spring Hill say hisself they warn't a young man 
 in the county thet helt a candle to Sonny fo' head- 
 learnin' not to speak o' Sonny's manners. An' 
 when I set an' look at this houseful o' stuffed 
 birds in glass cases an' think o' what Sonny might 
 o' been Well, maybe it was God's will for Sonny 
 to take to birds, 'stid o' drink or card-shufflin'like 
 some brothers." 
 
 " It's mighty funny, Sis, for you an' me to be 
 sett'n up here s'posin' an' lookin' back at this per- 
 tic'lar time when it so p'intedly behooves us to be 
 lookin' ahead. Lemme see that paper ag'in. Yas, 
 here it is in plain 'Merican : * Failure of the Cot- 
 
310 
 
 ton King's Bank of Little Rock' a whole col- 
 ume. Nobody to read that would think of its 
 sett'n' two oP women to studyin' 'bout kissin', now, 
 would they ? What you reck'n we better do, Sis ? " 
 
 " God on'y knows an' He 'ain't tol' me yet. 
 'Twouldn't be no use to try takin' boa'ders, would 
 it?" 
 
 " 'Twouldn't be right, Sis. They 'ain't nobody 
 in town to boa'd out but them as are boa'din' 
 a'ready, an' 'twould be jest the same as askin' 'em 
 to leave an' come to us 'special as we got the 
 fines' house." 
 
 "'Twould look that -a- way, wouldn't it? I 
 thought about takin' in quiltin', but there ag'in, 
 you know th' ain't mo' quiltin' give out to be did 
 than Mis' Gibbs can do an' she half crippled too. 
 No, no. 'Fore I'd give out thet you an' me'd 
 take in quiltin', I'd starve that I would." 
 
 " I taken notice to a pertic'lar word you spoke 
 jest now, Sis, 'bout * God knows.' You ricollec' 
 what the hymn say ? 
 
 4 ' ' Hev we trial or temptation, 
 Take it to the Lord in prayer.' 
 
 Seem to me like our trial been followed by two 
 temptations a'ready. It's mos' nine o'clock, an' 
 I'm goin' to read my chapter an' then lay this 
 case o' you an' me out clear, on my knees, befo' 
 the Lord an' do you do the same, Sis, an I b'lieve 
 we'll be d'rected." 
 
 Lighting her candle, old lady Sophia passed 
 noiselessly into her own room. 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 311 
 
 Her sister sat for some time longer in thought; 
 then she, too, after shovelling some ashes over the 
 coals upon the hearth, took her candle and went to 
 bed. 
 
 The Misses Simpkins were twins, and at the 
 time of the civil war they had been fair, blooming 
 country maidens both, and they were now, since 
 the death, a year ago, of "Sonny," their bachelor 
 brother, the sole representatives of a family that 
 had stood with the best in the Arkansas commu 
 nity in which they lived a family whose stand 
 ards and traditions had been religiously observed 
 in all things by the twin daughters upon whose 
 frail maiden shoulders had devolved responsibil 
 ities hitherto unknown to the women of the name 
 of Simpkins. Their mother and grandmother had 
 had slaves at their call, and by frugal care had ac 
 cumulated what there, in those days, was counted 
 as wealth. Such, indeed, is affluence yet in this 
 inland country of simple living. 
 
 It had been the fate of the twins to see this fort 
 une slowly dissipated. 
 
 They had worn their inherited frugality itself 
 threadbare in the determination to " live like paw 
 an' maw would like to have us live " and thus 
 far they had succeeded. 
 
 Sonny, whose life, viewed retrospectively, 
 seemed even to their loving eyes a failure, had 
 been, when living, their pride and joy. 
 
 Sonny was in truth a gentleman. His one year 
 at college, which he left for the army in '61, had 
 
312 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 sufficed to introduce him into new realms of 
 thought and, it may be, had diverted activity 
 from his hands to his brain. Certain it is that 
 he never grasped the changed situation after the 
 war, and the sisters and he had finally sold all the 
 farm-lands, reserving only the few acres surround 
 ing the homestead. The proceeds, deposited in 
 the failing bank, had yielded an income quite ad 
 equate to their modest needs. 
 
 Sonny had called himself a naturalist ; and so 
 he was in a sweeter, broader sense than he 
 knew. He was as nature had made him, a true- 
 hearted, unsophisticated gentleman. 
 
 He had, despite his country rearing, a certain 
 courtliness of manner, and the sparse oasis of gray 
 that surmounted his else bald pate gave him, at 
 least to his fond sisters' eyes, somewhat the air of 
 a college professor. 
 
 Sonny had never done an ungentle thing in 
 his life, nor apparently questioned the wisdom of 
 his own mode of living. For more than twenty 
 years he had been satisfied to pursue his chosen 
 study and take no note of time. 
 
 On Sunday mornings he always donned his 
 old broadcloth suit and beaver, harnessed the old 
 horses, which he still called " the ponies," and 
 drove " the girls " to church. 
 
 If they had all grown old, Sonny did not know 
 it. He visited the nicest girls in the village with 
 the same gallant dignity with which he had vis 
 ited their mothers ; and had he lived, he would 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 313 
 
 have been ready to recite to their daughters all 
 his selected verses about women and love when 
 the time should come. 
 
 But Sonny was found one day, with a live bird 
 still grasped in his hand, lying dead beneath a 
 tree. Presumably he had climbed and fallen. 
 
 And now to the lonely sisters had come a 
 second trial. Into their shadowed door had 
 stalked, unbidden and unexpected, the informal 
 guest called Poverty, with her startling command 
 of " Work !" 
 
 It was dinner-time on the day following the 
 conversation recorded before they reverted to the 
 theme again. 
 
 " Well," said Miss Sarey Mirandy, " hev any 
 thing come to you, sis, thet we can do ?" 
 
 " Hev anything come to you, Sis Sarey dear ?" 
 
 " Yas, it has. An' I'm 'fraid it's small comfort. 
 Th' ain't but two things I can do, an' them's sewin' 
 an' cookin'. Th' ain't any sewin' needin' to be 
 did in Simpkinsville more 'n them as are a'ready 
 doin' it can do, an' as fo' cookin', you know how 
 much chance they is in that less 'n a person 'd 
 hire out, which I can't do, not while ma an' pa's 
 'ile-painted po'trait looks down from that chimbly 
 at you an' me. Tell the truth, Sis, what to do, I 
 don't know. Hev you thought 'bout it consider'- 
 ble?" 
 
 11 Yas, I have, Sis. You can cook an' sew, an' I 
 can ca'culate figgurs, an' we got a-plenty o' house- 
 room, an' we're right on the public road, an' " 
 
314 
 
 " In the name o' goodness, Sis, hun, 're you 
 wanderin', or what 're you drivin' at ?" 
 
 "Well, they's jest this much to it, Sis Sarey 
 Mirandy, I've got a idee, an' my idee is thet it's 
 the idee an' that's all they is to it." 
 
 Miss Sarey Mirandy readjusted her spectacles 
 and scrutinized her sister's face. 
 
 " Well, go on, honey. You've done got me 
 wrought up !" 
 
 "Why, it's this an' I'd never o' thought o' 
 sech a thing if it hadn't o' been for my trip to the 
 city, along with me subscribin' to that magazine, 
 both of which you know, hun, you pretty solemn 
 discountenanced. I seen it tried in the city, an 1 
 the magazine is continual tellin' how it works 
 everywhere 
 
 " But for gracious sakes alive, Sis, what is the 
 thing ?" 
 
 " It's a Woman's ^Exchange that's what it is !" 
 
 " But, Sis, hun, we 'ain't got nothin' to start it 
 with." 
 
 "That's jest the beauty of it. They get 
 started on nothin'. We jest give out thet the 
 Exchange is started, an' everybody who does any 
 sort o' work to sell sends it in, an' we sell it for 
 her an' deduc' ten pre cent. You see ?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know as I do." 
 
 Well, here : S'posin' ol' Mis' Gibbs, 'stid o' 
 totin' her heavy comforters all 'round the country 
 an' losin' maybe two whole days' time a-sellin' one 
 for two dollars, jest sends 'em in here, an' we sell 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 315 
 
 'em for her. She gets ten from one dollar 
 leaves ninety cents, an' nine an' nine's eighteen, 
 eight an' carry one She gets " 
 
 " You don't mean she gets eight dollars ? 
 'Twouldn't never do in the world. People 
 wouldn't pay it. An' besides, I thought you 
 said she wouldn't have to carry none?" 
 
 " Don't put me out, Sis ; I'm all frustrated 'f 
 I jest had a slate ! Now I got it. You don't 
 carry at all. Ought's a ought, an' nine an' nine's 
 eighteen. She'd get a dollar V eighty cents, an' 
 we'd get the two dimes. Then you could put 
 any kind o' cooked things in an' sell em. Them 
 lemon pies o' yours 'd sell like hot cakes." 
 " An' who'd get the pre cent on them, Sis ?" 
 
 "Well, reely, hun, I I hardly know. We 
 got to deal fair. We might give it to charity. 
 How'd it do to give it to Mis' Gibbs to make up 
 the deduct on the comforters ?" 
 
 "That might do if it's got to be give; but 
 look's if it would naturally belong somewheres, 
 don't it ?" 
 
 " It do seem so. Maybe we might keep that 
 fo' rent o' the room." 
 
 " Well, I don' know. If we do, we had ought 
 to give it out, so's every person 'd understand." 
 
 " Then, maybe nex' thing some smarty 'd be 
 offerin' to give a room an' sell rent free." 
 
 " Even so, Sis, if it's principle, it's got to go so, 
 but" 
 
 She closed her eyes in thought. 
 
316 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 "Seem to me if we make an' sell both 
 
 we got a free right to collet for both." 
 
 " w hy, yas. That's so that's so. An' yet 
 if we sell our pies for a quarter, an' Mis' Stith 
 send in some thet gets deducted seem like we're 
 gett'n' a advantage over her." 
 
 " We get that by settitf 'em, Sis. If she want 
 the whole quarter,, let 'er sell 'em herself." 
 
 " That's so, of co'se. Well, how'll we start 
 hun?" 
 
 " Why not have it called out in church? It's 
 a good, helpful work." 
 
 And so it was done. 
 
 When, on Sunday following, the minister 
 stepped aside to read the notice, Miss Sophia 
 Falena grew so flurried that she untied her bon 
 net-strings. Her sister, however, though snif 
 fling vociferously herself, nudged her, and she 
 tied them again, and only cleared her throat at 
 short intervals. 
 
 The notice simply called a meeting of all inter 
 ested in the project, which was duly set forth on 
 the next day at the Simpkins residence. 
 
 The response was most encouraging, all the 
 chairs in the house and one from the kitchen be 
 ing called into requisition to seat the attendants. 
 
 Miss Sophia's voice trembled distinctly, as did 
 the hand that held the paper from which she read, 
 standing in the midst of the assembly, her " Idees 
 on the Subjec'," which she had thought best to 
 commit to paper. 
 
317 
 
 It was a trying ordeal, but her sister had seen 
 to it that a glass of water stood at her elbow, and 
 at the first quaver of her voice Miss Sarey thought 
 best to step behind her and fan her solicitously. 
 
 The meeting was in all respects a success. Be 
 sides the assorted bits of advice, which all gave 
 freely on the spot, each promised to "enter" 
 something. 
 
 While Miss Sophia Falena, an atlas balanced 
 upon her knee, made a note of articles promised, 
 Miss Sarey Miranda passed around raspberry 
 vinegar and crullers on an old silver tray. 
 
 The two were similarly attired in gowns of 
 shiny black silk, whose swishing sound at every 
 movement seemed, with the clink of the high 
 goblets against the silver waiter, reminiscent of a 
 bygone and more prosperous period. 
 
 The change wrought in the Simpkins household 
 by the new enterprise was marvellous. 
 
 It was as if time had turned backward and 
 they were young again, so quickly did they move 
 about, so animatedly discuss the numerous details 
 of preparation. 
 
 After considerable parley they decided to use 
 the mahogany centre-table for cakes and articles 
 of special showiness, while fancy-work could be 
 advantageously displayed on the piano. If the 
 time should come again when they cared to hear 
 music in the house, they could move the things. 
 Miss Sophia, who had been from home more than 
 her sister, hated to open the old piano anyway. 
 
318 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 Indeed, she was once heard to say, " When that 
 pi&no is shut an' kivered up, a person can look at 
 it an' think music, because the shape seems to 
 favor it ; but jest open it, an' I declare Methusa- 
 lum ain't nowhere. It makes a person ponder on 
 death an' eternity." 
 
 The twins were much interrupted by company 
 during the first days after the announcement ; 
 such as had not been able to attend the meeting 
 dropping in as occasion allowed. 
 
 Some even came after tea to talk it over, as did 
 their next neighbor and his old wife, when he 
 facetiously announced, " I heerd th' was a wom 
 an's exchange over here, an' I come to see if I 
 couldn't change off my oF 'oman for one o' you 
 twinses air one thet '11 come." 
 
 This joke travelled and was perpetrated by all 
 the good-humored happy husbands in the county, 
 to the unfailing delight of every one present. 
 
 The Exchange opened briskly. The centre- 
 table fairly groaned beneath its burden of cakes 
 - " White - Mountain," " Lady Washington," 
 Confederate layer," " Marble," " Dolly Varden," 
 "General Lee," and a score of others, iced and 
 decorated with reckless elaboration; while in the 
 centre, completing the effect of a spread feast, 
 stood under glass, it is true a glowing pyramid 
 of wax fruits. 
 
 The piano was a bazaar of many-hued zephyrs, 
 from the miniature sacques and stockings of 
 shrimp-pink and kindred raw tints, relegated by 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 319 
 
 provincial taste to the adorning of babes, to the 
 chinchilla and purple capes, suggestive of grand 
 mothers' rheumatic shoulders. 
 
 On a side table, wrapped in snowy linen, were 
 heaped loaves of home-made bread, buns, rolls, 
 lemon-pies the home contribution. 
 
 A stream of people were coming all day, ex 
 amining things, pricing, but rarely buying. In 
 deed, nearly all had something in stock to sell. 
 
 The two old ladies flitted briskly about, ever 
 and anon putting their heads together, only to 
 dart off in other directions, as busy and buzzy 
 as two happy house-flies on a sunny day only 
 the bright red spots on their cheeks testifying to 
 the unusual agitation of their minds. 
 
 That they had need of tact, discretion, and 
 judgment, not to mention patience, a bit of con 
 versation, caught up at random, will perhaps best 
 illustrate. 
 
 " An' who sent in this curious cake, Miss Simp- 
 kins?" 
 
 The querist was a patroness of influence. 
 
 " Kate Clark sent in that'n, Mis' Blanks. It's a 
 'will-o'-the-wisp,' made out'n five times sifted 
 flour 'n' whites of eggs. She says she made it up, 
 name an' all." 
 
 " Seem to me, she'd have 'bout all she could do 
 makin' up rhymin' po'try. What price does she 
 put on it ?" 
 
 "She wouldn't name no sum. She says she 
 never prices the work of her mind in money, an' 
 
320 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 that cake is jest the same to her as a po'try-verse. 
 She'll be grateful for whatever it '11 fetch." 
 
 " Well, I vow ! Time a person taken to writin' 
 po'try seem like they all but lose what little sense 
 they got. How you goin' to sell it 'thout no 
 price ?" 
 
 " Well, we 'lowed that anybody thet M want it 
 'd deal fair. I s'pose bein' as they's nothin' but 
 eggs, an' only the half o' them, in it, they mus' be 
 consider'ble flour. An' si/tin? it five times you 
 know that's worrisome work. An' the eggs is 
 well beat, you can see that. Don't you reck'n 
 it's wuth two bits ?" 
 
 " Maybe it is for them as are willin' to buy a 
 quarter's wuth o' wind. When I want air, I'll go 
 out-do's an' sniff it ! That's all I'm askin' fo' 
 mine, an' it iced all over, an' eight whole eggs in 
 it, an' them beat sep'rate, an' a cup o' butter, not 
 mentionin' the other things, nur the extrac*. They's 
 a spoonful o' v'nilla extrac' in my cake if they's a 
 drop, for I dashed it in by my eye an' I've got 
 what you call big eyes, come to measurin' food 
 stuffs." 
 
 The speaker's little blue eyes snapped sharply, 
 and she sniffed twice in hesitation ere she pro 
 ceeded, with some embarrassment: 
 
 "If you goin' to charge twenty-five cents fo' 
 Kate Clark's pile o' baked bubbles you can lift 
 it an' see it's nothin' else you better rub that 
 twenty-five off o' my iced cake an' put a forty on 
 it That's it, a four an' a ought ; an' whoever 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 321 
 
 buys mine gets four dimes' wuth o' good nourish 
 ment, if I do say it." 
 She moved on apace. 
 
 "I see Kitty Baker's sent in a lot o' things. 
 Well, them as want to eat after Kitty can that's 
 all /got to say." 
 
 " Kitty's a well-meanin' girl, Mis' Blanks, an' 
 needy too. S'posin' you don't say nothin' like 
 that to nobody. I see the flour is caked some 
 roun' the edges of her cakes, but that ain't sayin' 
 they's anything wrong with her cookin'." 
 
 " Why, Miss Sarey Jfi-randy Simpkins ! I'm a 
 perfessin' Christian, as you know an' tryin' to 
 live up to my lights. I wouldn't say nothin' to 
 injure Kitty /o' nothin\ Them remarks I make 
 to you is jes' to say 'twix* you an' me an' the bed- 
 pos'. One o' my motters is, ' Live an' let live,' an 1 
 another one" she added with a laugh-"* What 
 don't pizen, fattens.' What you askin' fo' yo' 
 lemon-pies, Miss Simpkius ?" 
 
 " Twenty -five cents, Mis' Blanks." 
 " Mh hm ! I s'pose they're made by yo' ma's 
 ol' recipe three eggs to the pie, savin' out the 
 whites to whip up fo' the top ?" 
 
 "'Deed, Mis' Blanks, Sis made 'em, an' I 
 couldn't tell you jest how she po'tioned 'em ; 
 but I know she ca'culated that they come to eigh 
 teen cents apiece, not countin' firewood, which, 
 sence pore Sonny's gone, we have to hire to have 
 cut." 
 
 " CertVy an' yet, I'd think a little thing like 
 
 21 
 
822 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 a pie you could slip in whils' the other things are 
 bakin'." 
 
 " That's so, we do ; an' yet ? Do you think 
 two bits is too much for 'em, Mis' Blanks ?" 
 
 "Law, child, the idee! I was jest a-thinkin' 
 this. You know, business is business, Miss Simp- 
 kins, an' I was jest a-thinkin' they can't, noways, 
 be more 'n Jive eggs in a pie even if they was 
 guinea eggs an' they's eight in my cake an 1 
 it iced an" 1 flavored. Jest rub out that four, 
 please 'm, an' put a five on my cake, will you ? 
 'Cordin' to the gen'ral valliation it's wuth a half- 
 a-dollar if it's wuth a cent. Well, I mus' be goin'. 
 What you chargin' fo' yo' bread, Miss Simp- 
 kins ?" 
 
 The old lady addressed scarcely found voice to 
 answer, 
 
 " Ten cents a loaf, Mis' Blanks." 
 
 " Well, you better gimme a loaf, please 'm. You 
 see, makin' cake an' bringin' it to the Exchange, 
 I didn't bake to-day. I s'pose you make with 
 salt-risin', don't you?" 
 
 " No, Mis' Blanks, we raise with 'eas'-cakes." 
 
 " Jest so it don't tas'e hoppy I ain't pertic'lar, 
 but from hoppy bread Oliver me. Well, good-by, 
 Miss Sarey Mirandy, honey, good-by, an' I'm goin' 
 to pray for you to succeed. Lemme know who 
 buys my cake. I do wish I could be there to see 
 it cut. Well, good-by again. Law, here comes 
 Mis' Brooks with a bundle big as a Chris'mas- 
 tree. I must stop an' see what she's fetchin'. I 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 323 
 
 do declare this here Woman's .Exchange does 
 tickle me all but to death. Simpkinsville 'ain't 
 been so stirred up sence the fire. Howdy, Mis' 
 Brooks ? I see you keepin' the ball a-movin' !" 
 
 " You better b'lieve I wasn't goin' to be outdid 
 by all you smart seamsters an' fancy cooks." 
 
 And Teddy Brooks's wife, drawing off its loose 
 wrapping of paper, set upon the table a gorgeous 
 pair of old brass candelabra. 
 
 " How's them for antics ?" she exclaimed, rest 
 ing her hands upon her fat hips and stepping back 
 ward. 
 
 These candelabra had been the proudest pos 
 session of Teddy's mother to the day of her death. 
 To sell them seemed sacrilege to the loyal mind 
 of Miss Sarey Mirandy. 
 
 " Are they for sale ?" she asked, with an effort 
 at composure. 
 
 " Why, yes indeedy. Of course they're for sale, 
 Miss Simpkins. 'Ain't nobody else brought in no 
 antics? They're the special specialities they sell 
 in Exchanges, antics are. I wanted to fetch over 
 Teddy's ma's gran'ma's bellowses. The wind's 
 all out of 'em, an' they're no good 'cept'n as an 
 tics, which I naturally despise. But Teddy taken 
 it so hard I had to leave 'em, to keep the peace. 
 You ask if they're fo' sale. Ain't ev'rything here 
 fo' sale, Miss Simpkins ?" 
 
 "Ev'rything thet is is, of course, but they's 
 some things that ain't. Sonny's birds ain't, nor 
 pa's an' ma's 'ile- painted po'traits, nor none o* 
 
324 
 
 them things which them as are gone seem to stan' 
 guard over." 
 
 " Well, the way I look at that is, if the spirits 
 that stan' guard over things, as you say, would 
 jest keep 'em dusted an' cobwebbed off, so's we 
 could be sure they was keepin' up with 'em, they'd 
 be some sense in it. Teddy took on some over 
 sellin' the ol' things, but I tol' him he hisself was 
 the only Brooks antic I cared to keep. How much 
 you reck'n I ought to get for 'em, Miss Simp- 
 kins ?" 
 
 "I'm 'feerd I was too ol' a frien' to ol' Mis' 
 Brooks, Sally Ann, to put a price on them can- 
 delabras; but you're at liberty to put whatever 
 tag you like on 'em an' Sis an' me '11 do our 
 part, fair an' square. I see they's one dangle 
 missin' on this one." 
 
 " Yes, I give it to the baby to cut 'is eye-teeth 
 on, an' he dropped it an' it snapped. The things 
 're no manner of account. They cost a hundred 
 dollars, an' I doubt if I'll get ten for 'em, but 
 I'm goin' to start 'em at that anyway. I'm dyin' 
 for a swingin' silver-plated ice-pitcher, an' have it 
 I will. I've got the price all to seven dollars. 
 Teddy laid it by to have the children's pictures 
 took, but I told him the young ones could see 
 their pictures in the side o' the ice-pitcher." And 
 Mrs. Brooks laughed heartily at her own wit. 
 " When I can swing back in my red-plush rockin'- 
 chair an' tilt ice-water out of a silver-plated pitch 
 er, I'll feel like some. I see you've got lots o* 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 325 
 
 goodies for sale. I'm bound to have something from 
 th' Exchange for supper. What kinds have you 
 got ?" She slipped a piece of liquorice-root from 
 her pocket to her mouth as she began a circuit of 
 the room, chewing vigorously the while. "Bet 
 ter do up that choc'late layer for me, Miss Simp- 
 kins," she said finally. " Teddy don't eat choc' 
 late, but I don' know but he's better off 'thout 
 cake, anyway. Jes' charge it, please, to Teddy 
 Mr. Theodore Brooks that's it. Might's well 
 open a 'count here first as last, 'f you're goin' to 
 have choc'late fixin's that's the one thing I c'd 
 get up in my sleep to eat an' I don' know's I'll 
 bother bakin', if you're goin' to have bread. Jest 
 lay by a couple o' loaves every day, please 'm." 
 
 When Mrs. Brooks passed out, the sisters, from 
 their opposite corners of the room, managed to 
 exchange glances, and both sighed. 
 
 When the first day was over, all the bread and 
 rolls were sold ; indeed, nearly all the housewives 
 who had taken this first step in bread-winning 
 went home with bought loaves under their arms. 
 
 It was only after some days, when the gorgeous 
 array of sweets was growing stale, that the sisters 
 and their patronesses began to realize that there 
 were few buyers of luxuries in their frugal little 
 village. 
 
 Besides several purchases of Mrs. Brooks, there 
 had been but one cake sold. The " will - o'-the- 
 wisp" had passed on the second day into the 
 possession of a certain pale young telegraph 
 
operator, the same who was " keeping company " 
 with its poetic fabricator. 
 
 Perhaps the materialistic circle of housewives 
 whose substantial contributions were further so 
 lidifying before their eyes should be pardoned 
 the numerous pleasantries expended on this pur 
 chase. 
 
 That the objects of their mirth, two ethereal 
 young persons, dealing professionally in commod 
 ities so unsubstantial as poetry and electricity, 
 should choose " wind cake " for nourishment, was 
 a combination too prolific of humor to be passed 
 by. The portly contributor of the still unsold 
 eight -egg cake waxed especially facetious over 
 it ; and on the occasion of the unanimous vote of 
 " stockholders," to send the entire stale lot as a 
 donation to the inmates of the poorhouse, she 
 even went so far as to withdraw hers from them, 
 and to bear it in her own hands, as a gift, to her 
 friend the poetess, who, she declared, should have 
 " one good bite o' solid substance, if she never 
 had another." 
 
 Thus she did, after all, enjoy the delight of 
 "seeing it cut," while she sampled its flavor. 
 Then, between slices, it was such a joy to drop 
 delicate insinuations about the telegraph operator, 
 and to glean points as to the expected wedding ; 
 while she saw to it that a few good seed, in the 
 shape of admonitions as to the nutritive properties 
 of certain foods, were let fall during the visit. 
 For she was a motherly soul and a Christian. 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 327 
 
 The exclusion of confections, excepting those 
 supplied to order, practically converted the Ex 
 change into a bakery ; for the fancy depart 
 ment, after passing through a fading process, 
 had shrunken, through many withdrawals, until a 
 single glass case an unused one among Sonny's 
 possessions held the entire stock. 
 
 Screened from the odium of professional bread- 
 making by the prestige of the "Exchange," the 
 Misses Simpkins were thus enabled to earn in this 
 simple manner a modest living. True, the voca 
 tion had its trials, but there were compensations. 
 
 If their delicate wrists and arms were deco 
 rated with a succession of bracelets in the shape 
 of burns from the oven doors ; if they agonized 
 many nights over the intricacies of numerous 
 recipes sent in by kind advisers, and were oft 
 disquieted in spirit by the vicissitudes of salt- 
 rising, compressed yeast, or potato-leaven ; it was 
 yet a new, youth-restoring life to be always pro 
 fessedly and really busy with work that left no 
 time for repinings. It was a sweet, secret pleas 
 ure to Miss Sarey Mirandy to make the loaves 
 Teddy Brooks paid for as large as she dared 
 without attracting notice. And sometimes, on an 
 niversaries which, perhaps, she alone cherished 
 of their young days, it pleased her tender maiden 
 heart to slip a few raisins into his loaf, with a 
 suspicion of cinnamon, in loving memory of his 
 boyish fancies. 
 
 For some time she was tortured with a dread 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 that some one should offer to buy the candelabra. 
 Should such a time come, she would calmly reply 
 that they were already sold, when from an old 
 stocking she would produce one of the ten-dollar 
 coins that represented her own funeral expenses. 
 It should buy Teddy's wife a swinging pitcher, 
 and the candelabra would descend by will at her 
 death to Teddy's daughter his mother's name 
 sake. 
 
 For a long time she scarcely left the house, 
 fearing her sister should sell them during her ab 
 sence. Indeed, at times she was in such a state 
 of suppressed panic over the matter that she 
 would gladly have bought them outright, were it 
 not for gossip. 
 
 People would talk. In her calm moments, she 
 knew that no one in Simpkinsville would pay half 
 the amount asked for useless, old-fashioned bric-a- 
 brac that they had seen all their lives. In fact, she 
 had often heard the women jokingly wonder who 
 would buy " Mis' Brooks's antics," and " if, be 
 cause she'd visited in Washington" a distant 
 town in the State, noted for its social distinc 
 tion " she was the only person in Simpkinsville 
 who knowed about swingin' ice-pitchers." When 
 they " had change to fling away, they'd buy ice- 
 pitchers for themselves, an' not swap it off for 
 glass Noah's-ark dingle-dangles." 
 
 So in time Miss Sarey grew to feel pretty 
 secure about the candelabra, and at night, when 
 her sister knitted or nodded beside her, she would 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 329 
 
 often half-close her eyes, and, looking at the glass 
 pendants, seem to see, as the fire sparkled from 
 the prisms, bright memory pictures of her youth 
 ful days. A rosy-faced girl with curls, her young 
 self, often smiled at the retrospective old woman 
 from the familiar scenes, and Teddy was there and 
 Sonny, and another a boy who had not come 
 home from the war and every one was young, 
 and the trees were green, producing nuts, berries, 
 persimmons, or sustaining grape-vine swings, as 
 reminiscence required. Only the missing dangle, 
 on which Sally Ann's baby had cut his teeth, 
 made a painful gap in the panorama. 
 
 In this vacant place Teddy, grown pale-faced 
 and weary, seemed somehow always to stand, and 
 while she looked at it all the other pictures went 
 out. So she would turn the defective side to the 
 wall. 
 
 When the winter had passed, the Exchange 
 had gone through some changes, shaping itself 
 to the needs of the community by contraction or 
 extension, according to indication. A few, who 
 seemed especially fitted to become at once its 
 patrons and beneficiaries, had resented its over 
 tures as an insult, as did Mrs. Gibbs, the re 
 spected quilter of comfortables. From every 
 point of view the Exchange was an offence unto 
 her sensitive nostrils. To its bid for her patron 
 age she had protested with a sniff that " she hed 
 never ast no mo' 'n they was wuth fo' her quilts, 
 an' the day she took off two dimes on one she'd 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 own that she owed jest that much to every per' 
 son as ever bought one. As fo' totin' 'em 'round 
 the country, she didn't know as 'twas anybody's 
 business in special. The roads was free, and 
 she reckoned her rheumatism was her own not 
 but what she'd be glad to give it to anybody 
 that was honin' to take keer of it. As to her 
 time, she hadn't bound herself out to nobody 
 but the good Lord, an' she 'lowed to claim the 
 time he gave her till he changed it for eternity, 
 when she guessed she'd take that too, ef the 
 Simpkinsville folks didn't have no objections. 
 The only visitin' she ever done was takin' orders 
 in the spring o' the year and deliverin' her money's 
 wuth to a cent in the fall. Them that thought 
 she gadded too much was welcome to do 'thout 
 comforts an' freeze, jest to give her the hint." 
 
 The truth was that the social side of Mrs. 
 Gibbs's profession was her very life. A habit of 
 spending a day with her patrons at both ends of 
 each transaction kept her in touch with the home 
 lives of the people. If she had conducted her 
 business through an agent, she would long ago 
 have shrivelled out of existence. There was much 
 in her work to develop an interest in what to 
 outsiders might seem trifles such, for instance, 
 as which among her patrons' families kicked in 
 their sleep and in her social rounds it became 
 her pleasure to discover whether the solution lay 
 in the eating of hot suppers or in guilty con 
 sciences. 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 331 
 
 She would hold up before her a quilt that was 
 " clean kicked to strips before the battin' was mat 
 ted," and exclaim with a grunt that was half a 
 chuckle, " Hot suppers ! Like as not fried chicken 
 at eight o'clock all winter long !" And then she 
 would unwittingly smack her lips. 
 
 Though theoretically respecting the quiet sleep 
 ers, whose quilts, although often "made out'n the 
 back brea'ths of ol' skirts, lasted their time out," 
 it was nevertheless true that their greater patron 
 age fostered nearer friendships with such as were 
 able to bid her remain to steaming waffles and to 
 send her home in a wagon. 
 
 If the Exchange failed to fulfil all its possibili 
 ties in some directions, it did unforeseen duty in 
 others, especially supplying an oft-felt want in 
 the open door which it soon offered to the passing 
 stranger. 
 
 Simpkinsville had never boasted a hotel, and so 
 it naturally came about that, in the common par 
 lance of the village, travellers understood that 
 " at the .Exchange they could get comfortably et 
 an' slep' " for a reasonable consideration. 
 
 This was robbing no one, as previously it had 
 been an unwritten law of hospitality of the town 
 that strangers be entertained gratis. It seemed 
 odd that its leading family that which not only 
 lent the dignity of its solitary gabled front to its 
 highest eminence, but had bequeathed to Simp 
 kinsville its name and traditions should have 
 been first to put a pr^ce on the bread broken with 
 
332 THE WOMAN S EXCHANGE 
 
 a stranger; but such is the irony of fact, for, with 
 a sensitiveness revealed to the close observer by 
 the slight pursing of their lips, which perhaps the 
 wayfarer interpreted as having a mercenary mean 
 ing, these two old ladies did actually charge him 
 twenty-five cents who consumed a hearty meal, 
 reducing the bill with minute scrupulousness to 
 fifteen and even to ten cents to such as failed in 
 appetite. Further than this their most rigorous 
 consciences did not lead them, as they agreed that 
 it was " wuth a dime to cook things an' then not 
 see 'em et." 
 
 That they were sensitive to their changed so 
 cial relations through the ever-present atmosphere 
 of trade was evinced by a conversation one night, 
 when Miss Sophia Falena broke a long silence by 
 saying, 
 
 " Sis, hun, I been figgurin' to see how we can 
 contrive to move the Exchange out'n the parlor. 
 When we do have outside comp'ny, I declare I 
 hate to set 'em 'round that centre-table piled up 
 with sech as we been raised to offer our comp'ny 
 free an' it fo' sale. Time the Jenkses come in 
 last week, an' we sat 'round so solemcholy, every 
 now 'n' ag'in glancin' at the table, which was cov 
 ered up with mosquito-nett'n', I vow if the thing 
 didn't seem to me like some sort o' dead corpse, 
 an' 's if we were some way holdin' a wake over 
 it an' oughtn't to laugh out loud." 
 
 Her sister chuckled nervously. 
 
 " It's funny, Sis, but d' you know, I thought 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 333 
 
 about that too, an' maybe I oughtn't to say it, but 
 it 'minded me o' pore Sonny's buryin', an' ma's an' 
 pa's. But I don't see feow we can help it. We 
 might clear off the table entire, an' put the bread 
 an' rolls on shelves. I never knew of no dead 
 person bein' laid on a shelf not literal, though 
 the way they're forgot they might 's well be." 
 
 " Let's do it, Sis, an' get shet o' that ghostly 
 covered table. Maybe you didn't take notice to 
 it, but last Sadday, when ol' Mis' Perkins sidled 
 up to the table so stately an' raised up the nettin', 
 she said the identical pertic'lar word thet she said 
 time she taken a last look at Sonny ; * Jes' as nat 
 ural as life,' says she, jes' so. Of course, she was 
 referrin' to Inez Bowman's case o' wax fruits, but 
 it gimme the cold shivers to see her standin' there 
 again, a-sayin' them same words. An' they's an 
 other thing strikes me, Sis. When a day or a 
 night boa'der do drop in, it seems to me the house 
 mus' seem sort o' gloomy with nobody in it but a 
 lot o' dead glass-eyed stuffed birds an' two ol' la 
 dies which you know to outsiders we are, Sis 
 an' them dressed in black, solid as Egyp'. Seem 
 to me it's enough to sort o' take away a travellin' 
 man's appetite. How'd it do fo' you an' me to 
 bas'e a little white ruchin' in the neck an' sleeves 
 o' oivr black comp'ny dresses not meanin' no dis- 
 respec's to the dead, but in compliment to the 
 livin' ?" 
 
 " Well, ef you say so, Sis, hun. Seem like our 
 first duty is to the livin'. Maybe if we do lighten 
 
334 
 
 our mo'nin' a little, these worldly drummers an' 
 sech won't feel called to talk religion to us like 
 they do. I can see it comes pretty hard on 'em." 
 
 " An' I declare, maybe it's foolish, but I do wish 
 Tom wasn't a black cat. He looks mighty dole 
 ful, layin' asleep on the hearth of evenin's. A pink 
 ribbon 'roun' his neck wouldn't look too worldly, 
 would it not for the pore soulless beast, hun, of 
 course, but for us ?" 
 
 " Why, no, I reck'n not or a blue one. The 
 blue bow on my valedict'ry is purty faded, but if 
 you think it 'd do, why, th' ain't no use in keepin' 
 it no longer. If Sonny had o' lived an' married 
 which, for a man, as long as they's life they's 
 hope they might in time o' been sech as would 
 care fo' they ol' auntie's valedict'ry. That rib 
 bon cost five dollars a yard in Confed'rit money, 
 an' 'tain't all silk, neither but for a cat " 
 
 " 'Tain't any too good fo' Tom, Sis he been a 
 faithful ol' cat. But they's another p'int on my 
 mind. Don't you think maybe we better open up 
 Sonny's room an' sun it good an' reg'late it, so's 
 if we're pushed fo' room we could let comp'ny 
 go up there to sleep ? As 'tis, we can't sleep mo' 'n 
 three strangers no way, an' if a crowd was to 
 come-T-not thet they're likely But I b'lieve if 
 we'd do it, we'd be relieved ourselves. As long as 
 we keep it shet tight, jest the way Sonny left it, 
 we'll feel like death is locked in an' I don't know 
 as it's Christian. What you say, Sis?" 
 
 " Well, maybe you're right, dearie. S'pose we 
 

 . . 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 335 
 
 go up in the mornin' together. I've done started 
 up there three times a'ready, an' my knees trem 
 bled so they give way under me but if you was 
 with me, maybe You don't s'pose strangers 
 would mind sleepin' with so many birds, do you ?" 
 
 "Cert'n'y not. Why should they, les'n may 
 be they was high-strung, an' their mind got ex 
 cited ? Ef so, they might imagine they was all 
 singin' at once-t, quick as the light was out. If 
 sech a person was to try to sleep there well, I 
 dunno. They's thirty-one hundred an' sixty-three 
 stuffed birds in that garret room, an' all in sight 
 o' the bed." 
 
 "Shucks, Sis ! you're talkin' redic'lous I vow if 
 you ain't! D' you s'pose any right-minded man 
 would think o' sech as that ? Of course we ain't 
 goin' to put no skittish person to sleep in Sonny's 
 room, no way jest reel gentlemen, an' only them 
 if we're pushed." 
 
 "It cert'n'y do behoove us to take in all we 
 can hones', Sis, for seem like the Exchange money 
 don't mo' 'n to say hardly pay our boa'd, some 
 how." 
 
 The truth was, the profits of bread-making were 
 steadily shrinking. Not only did Teddy Brooks's 
 loaves grow larger and larger as he waxed paler 
 and more careworn, but among the "customers" 
 of the Exchange there was scarce one whose cir 
 cumstances did not seem to the old ladies an ap 
 peal for generosity hardly one who was not, as 
 they said, "mo' in need 'n we are." 
 
It would have been a hopelessly weary business 
 but for its rich perquisites in opportunities of 
 sympathy and helpfulness. 
 
 The spacious garret chamber was thrown open 
 none too soon, as only a week later it was called 
 into unexpected requisition through the arrival, 
 late one evening, of a party of five dust-begrimed 
 travellers, whom the ladies would have feared 
 to receive had they not been accompanied by a 
 neighbor who had taken charge of their horses, 
 and who, in a whisper aside, announced them as 
 " Uncle Sam's men, with a-plenty o' greenbacks." 
 
 While the strangers sat at supper that night, it 
 was pathetic to see the solicitous scrutiny with 
 which their hostesses scanned their faces in turn, 
 eager for some sign by which to decide whom of 
 them all should be counted worthy to sleep in 
 Sonny's bed. 
 
 A chance remark settled the question. 
 
 " Well," said one, " I believe we are in the land 
 of the myrtle and orange." 
 
 " Hardly," rejoined another ; " but better yet, 
 we are in the country of the night-singing mock 
 ing-bird. Do you ladies ever hear them at night ?" 
 he added. 
 
 " From the up-stairs bedroom," replied both sis 
 ters at once, while Miss Sophia continued, 
 
 "The winders open right out into the magi- 
 nolia-trees, where they set an' sing all night long, 
 some nights." 
 
 The stranger's eyes beamed. 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 337 
 
 " How delightful ! If one might be so fortu 
 nate ?" he replied with a rising inflection, smiling. 
 "It's yore room, sir, for the night," both said 
 together, again exchanging glances, " with which 
 ever one o' the other gentlemen you choose. They's 
 a wide, easy-sleepin' bed in it, a-plenty broad fo' 
 two. An' if you want to hear the birds sing, jest 
 open any winder you like. They's four, not count- 
 in' the dormers, an' they all open into trees, an' 
 every tree's full o' birds' nests." 
 
 " Isn't that remarkable ? Are all the trees here 
 full of nests ?" the stranger asked. 
 
 " No, sir. Sonny Mr. Stephen Decatur Simp- 
 kins, our brother thet's passed away he had a 
 gift. He got 'em to nestin' there." 
 
 " He was a lover of birds, do I understand ?" 
 The sisters exchanged glances again, and Miss 
 Sarey answered simply, 
 
 " Yas, sir. He was a naturalist." 
 "Ah, indeed." 
 
 Around the speaker's mouth played that ghost 
 of a smile which, being interpreted, means amused 
 incredulity, while the conversation, becoming gen 
 eral, passed to other things. 
 
 With such an introduction, an hour later, Mr. 
 John Saunders, of the Smithsonian Institution of 
 Washington City, accompanied by his associate, 
 Ezra Cox, proceeded, candle in hand, to the mod 
 est roof-chamber that held the life-work of Ste 
 phen Decatur Simpkins, naturalist. 
 
 The next morning, though the twins appeared 
 22 
 
338 
 
 at breakfast in their fresh white-ruched dresses, 
 and Tom sauntered around the table resplendent 
 in a blue neck-ribbon, the ends of which hung to 
 his knees, a distinct depression marked the spirit 
 of the household. 
 
 Despite their best efforts in the direction of 
 cheerfulness, the twins were haggard and wan. 
 
 The eyes of their guests, on the contrary, 
 beamed with pleasure, especially those of the oc 
 cupants of the upper chamber. 
 
 In the first interval of silence after serving the 
 dishes, Miss Sarey Mirandy, turning to the stran 
 gers, asked timidly, 
 
 " May I ask, sir, what perf ession you gentlemen 
 perfess ?" 
 
 " Certainly, madam," replied John Saunders, his 
 eye twinkling ; " the three at your left, Messrs. 
 Green, Brown, and Black men of color, you per 
 ceive are members of the National Geological Sur 
 vey, whom Congress has sent out here to hunt up 
 some mineral specimens. My friend here, Mr. Cox, 
 and I my name is Saunders are from the Smith 
 sonian Institution at Washington City, at pres 
 ent loafers, as we are off on a vacation. We are 
 called scientists, I believe. Naturalists is a name 
 we like better ; but really " he hesitated for a 
 moment as if to gain entire seriousness "but 
 really, here, in the presence of your brother's 
 beautiful work, we should appropriate the name 
 timidly with heads uncovered. Is this collec 
 tion of birds known in the State, may I ask ?" 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 339 
 
 "Well, yas, sir. I reckin 'tis. 'Tain't never 
 been to say hid. It's been right here. TV ain't 
 nobody, black nor white, in the county but knows 
 they're here." 
 
 "It is not registered. I know of all the im 
 portant recorded collections in America. I won 
 der if you ladies realize what a treasure you pos 
 sess. My friend and I studied it until our candle 
 burned out. Then we crept down and begged 
 those of our friends and burned them up besides 
 one we found in the dining-room. I hope we 
 didn't disturb you, ladies ?" 
 
 The sisters exchanged glances and colored. 
 
 " Th' wasn't to say 'xactly noise enough to dis 
 turb nobody, sir, if we'd knew what it was ; but 
 th' ain't nobody slep' up in Sonny's room sence he 
 passed away tell now, an' the sound o' every foot 
 fall seemed like him back ag'in so we naturally 
 kep' list'nin' for 'em to stop ; an', to tell the 
 whole truth, sir, when we heard 'em so late, not 
 knowin' nothin' 'bout you gentlemen, we got 
 nervous an' scared like, 'n' we got up an' dressed 
 an' set up the livelong night, 'th our valu'bles 
 all in reach not thet you gentlemen look like 
 peddlers, which even ef you was, you might be 
 hones'" 
 
 The professional gentlemen present thought it 
 unsafe to look at one another, while they expressed 
 the sincere sorrow they felt at so unfortunate a 
 contretemps. 
 
 The occasion of their late hours, however, soon 
 
340 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 became the absorbing theme, resulting in a full 
 restoration of confidence. 
 
 John Saunders's enthusiasm was genuine. 
 
 "I actually counted sixty-one beautiful speci 
 mens not existing in any registered collection," 
 he said, addressing his companions. 
 
 " An' they wasn't all easy got, neither," replied 
 Miss Sophia. " Why, Sonny slep' in a crepe-myr 
 tle-tree ev'ry night for a week once-t, jest to find 
 out how a little he-bird conduct hisself if he 
 changed places with his settin' wife, or jest enter 
 tained 'er settin' on a limb beside her." 
 
 Her interlocutor smiled. " And how was it, do 
 you remember?" 
 
 " Well, reely how was it, Sis ?" 
 
 " 'Deed, sir, I disremember. Either he did 'r 
 he didn't one. I clean forget, but but it's put 
 down in the book." 
 
 " So there is a book ?" 
 
 " They's five leather - backed books, sir, with 
 nothin' but sech as that in 'em. Sis an' me 've 
 read in 'em some, an' for anybody that keered for 
 sech, I s'pose it's good readin'. They's one thing, 
 it's true, an' thet's more 'n you can say fo' the 
 triflin' novels thet folks pizins their minds an' 
 principles with." 
 
 " You have, indeed, a valuable possession here 5 
 ladies. Have you ever thought of selling it ?" 
 
 " Sellin' Sonny's birds ? No, sir. No mo' 'n 
 we'd sell pa an' ma's 'ile-painted po'trits or Son 
 ny's Confed'rit clo'es, ragged as they be. No, 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 341 
 
 sir. They's some things thet money don't tech. 
 We wouldn't sell them birds, not ef we got ten 
 cents a head for 'em an' that's mo' 'n most of 
 'em 'd be wuth, even if they was baked in a pie 'n' 
 the crust an' gravy thro wed in." 
 
 " But, my dear ladies," said Mr. Cox, " they 
 are worth far more than that. As a collection 
 they are worth considerably more than a dollar 
 apiece " 
 
 " Sis," said Miss Sarey Mirandy, " the gentle 
 man don't understand. Them birds, sir, ain't 
 nothin' but feathers an' skin, an' it full o' rank 
 pizen arsenic. Th' ain't a blessed thing in 'em 
 but raw cotton, an' it physicked, an' nine out'n 
 every ten of 'em never was no count fo' neither 
 cookin' nur singin'. We wouldn't deceive you 
 'bout 'em. But if they was birds o' paradise 
 caught before the fall o' Adam, jest swooned 
 away, an' li'ble to come back to life any minute, 
 'n' you offered us the United States Mint for 'em, 
 even so, th' ain't fo' sale no ways" 
 
 This was somewhat a rebuff to the first over 
 ture of the Washington scientist, who, indeed, 
 seriously meant that the Institution should become 
 possessed of the new-found treasure, if possible. 
 
 He had inserted the edge of a wedge, however, 
 and was satisfied to wait before pressing it. 
 
 Breakfast over, it was but natural that Miss 
 Sophia should follow the visitors into the parlor, 
 while she, with evident and pathetic pride, exhib' 
 ited the additional species there. 
 
342 
 
 When a half-hour later she rejoined her sister in 
 the kitchen, she was so full to overflowing of this 
 tender theme that some time elapsed before she 
 remarked, in a tone betraying a secondary interest, 
 
 " Well, I reckin Sally Ann '11 have her swing- 
 in' pitcher after all, 'cause I've done sol' the can- 
 delabras " 
 
 Miss Sarey stood kneading dough, with her 
 back to her sister. She came near falling for a 
 moment. 
 
 " Wh what you say, honey ? H who bought 
 what ?" 
 
 She kept on kneading and did not turn. 
 
 " That slim, light - complected one, I say, has 
 done bought ol' Mis' Brooks's candelabras, 'n' I 
 mus' say, I never sol' a thing with a worse grace. 
 I'm a-puttin' the ten dollars which he give for 
 'em here in this pink vase on the dinin'-room 
 mantel - shelf, an' do you give it to Sally Ann, 
 honey. I don't want nothin' to do with it, nor 
 with her neither. She gets me riled enough to 
 all but back-slide 'th her 'xtravagance 'n' super- 
 /?wousniss." 
 
 Miss Sarey had not realized until now how at 
 tached she had herself become to the old cande 
 labra. Their shimmering prisms were crystallized 
 memories. Themselves, their long-familiar fan 
 tastic shapes, were friends, antedating in associa 
 tion any surviving friendship. 
 
 When she had completed her task, great beads 
 of perspiration stood upon her pale brow. 
 
343 
 
 Passing out, she nervously seized the ten dol 
 lars and hastened to the parlor. The purchaser 
 stood admiring his new possession. 
 
 Laying the money before him, she said, with a 
 masterful effort at composure, 
 
 "Tbey's been a mistake made, sir. Them can- 
 delabras is already sold." 
 
 " Indeed ? I'm sorry," he said, bowing; and as 
 she moved away, he added, "I should be glad to 
 give five times the price if they could be se 
 cured !" 
 
 Miss Sarey Mirandy hesitated. 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 There was something almost tragic in the ap 
 prehension expressed in this one word. 
 
 The offer was repeated. 
 
 Fifty dollars ! Half her secret hoard ! In a 
 twinkling the sum resolved itself into a differ 
 ence in the quality of a shroud and coffin. With 
 out apparent hesitation she replied firmly, 
 
 "The lady thet's bought 'em don't ca'culate to 
 sell 'em, thank you, sir." And, her old heart 
 thumping absurdly, she went out. 
 
 Declining the fifty dollars had seemed a simple 
 matter of decision and principle at the moment, 
 and the offer a bribe to her loyalty ; but all day 
 as she moved about the house her secret kept 
 growing, first naturally, from the germ, as the ex 
 travagance seemed to grow in enormity, and then 
 by accretion, as one by one the sundry deceptions 
 it would involve gathered about it. 
 
344 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 Of course she would "deal fair." Sally Ann 
 should have the fifty dollars. But this soon be 
 came the slightest consideration. 
 
 She must not be known as the purchaser not 
 even to her sister. If she hadn't told her of that 
 long-ago kiss, it would be different. Sally Ann 
 would naturally tell every one the price she got 
 and she would ask questions. 
 
 Excepting for the amount, she might arrange 
 it so that Miss Sophia Falena would have to pay 
 Sally Ann, when she could honestly say that she 
 had herself sold them to the stranger. But the 
 price ! 
 
 Should she pay Sally Ann herself, and even say 
 that the purchaser wished to remain incog. ? Miss 
 Sophia would tell the whole story price and 
 all. 
 
 Even fancying all these difficulties passed, 
 where should she hide the things ? Her sis 
 ter, "the greatest rummager thet ever drawed 
 breath," would be sure to come across them. 
 How would she ever convey them from the par 
 lor for temporary concealment in the top of her 
 mahogany wardrobe ? The pendants tinkled like 
 bells if they were moved. 
 
 At what critical moment on the departure of the 
 guests would she dare to have them disappear? 
 
 Miss Sophia would be sure to ask searching 
 questions. She had already " wondered how the 
 gentleman was goin' to tote 'em." 
 
 Again and this aggravated her mental panic 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 345 
 
 Sally Ann might come in at any moment. Miss 
 Sophia would refer to the sale, and all would be 
 lost. This was verily the most trying ordeal in 
 all her experience. 
 
 For the first time in her life she was shame 
 faced and afraid, responding even to her sister's 
 enthusiastic remarks about Sonny in an incoherent 
 manner. 
 
 In the midst of her greatest apprehension the 
 front gate was heard to slam, and Sally Ann 
 Brooks did actually appear, coming up the path. 
 
 Seeing her enter, however, Miss Sophia said, 
 " Sis, you set Sally Ann down in the parlor an' talk 
 to her, honey. I'm 'feer'd if I'd see her tickled 
 over that ten dollars I might not be polite. Maybe 
 if a more Christian spirit comes to me, I'll come 
 in after whiles ; but it's mos' supper-time, any 
 how." 
 
 As she passed through the parlor to receive 
 Mrs. Brooks, Miss Sarey was astounded to per 
 ceive the " red - complected " coveter of the an 
 tiques still standing before them. 
 
 If the devious ways of deceit had been an old- 
 travelled road to her, her dilemma would have 
 been less trying. 
 
 Not to introduce those who chanced to meet in 
 her parlor would be a social dereliction of which 
 she was incapable. To do so in the present in 
 stance would invite disaster. She did not hesitate. 
 Come what would, she would be a lady worthy 
 the name of Simpkins. 
 
346 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 What she said at the door was, 
 
 " Walk right in the parlor, Sally Ann, an' I'll 
 make you 'quainted with a gentleman thet's here 
 from the North." 
 
 " Law, Miss Simpkins !" exclaimed Teddy's 
 wife, shrinking back, "I 'ain't got on no corset 
 nor nothin'. I jest run over in my Mother-Hub- 
 bard as I was. I wouldn't go before a strange 
 gentleman the way I am, nohow, for nothin'." 
 
 One crisis was safely passed. Trembling with 
 in, and with two solferino spots upon her thin 
 cheeks, Miss Sarey Mirandy invited Mrs. Brooks 
 into her own room. 
 
 " We hear you've got a hou&eful o' Yankees,'* 
 said the guest, taking a rocking-chair ; " but Mr. 
 Jakes says they're reel nice, an' he says the way 
 they're a-praisin' up Mr. Sonny Simpkins roun' 
 town you'd think he might o' been George Wash- 
 in'ton, or maybe Jeff Davis hisself." 
 
 " Yas, Sally Ann. It's been mighty gratifyin' 
 to Sis an' me to hear them as knows a-praisin' 
 of Sonny. One of 'em's been a-studyin' over 
 Sonny's books the livelong day." 
 
 " Is that so ? If they read them books they mus > 
 shorely be educated. Kitty Clark's beau says they 
 been a-telegraphtin' all day to Washin'ton an' 
 he says the name o' Simpkins has gone over the 
 wire more 'n once-t, though neither he nor she 
 nor I got any right to tell it. Three of 'em, 
 you know, 's been out to Mr. Jakes's farm all 
 day, a-spyin' out dug-up things with a spy-glass. 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 347 
 
 Mr. Jakes is diggin' a new cow -pond, an' they 
 do say he's dug up enough to undo the whole 
 Bible. That's the way the talk's a-goin', but I'm 
 thankful to say I was raised a good 'Piscopal 
 church-woman not sayin' nothin' 'gainst the Bap 
 tists, Miss Simpkins an' the prayer-book don't, 
 in no place I ever opened it, make no mention 
 o' Mr. Jakes's cow-pond, nor the ins an' outs of 
 it. An' talkin' 'bout the Church, Miss Simpkins, 
 fetches me to what brought me here, not that I 
 needed any excuse ; but this is Lent, you know, in 
 our church, an' we're 'xpected to make some sort 
 o' sacrerfice if not fastin', some other an' I 
 thought 'stid o' denyin' myself spring onions or 
 maybe choc'let, since Teddy's mind seems to run 
 on 'em consider'ble, I'd come over an' get them 
 candelabras o' his ma's, an' set 'em back on the 
 mantel where she left 'em. Don't you think the 
 Lord might take that the way it's meant, for a 
 Lenten off'rin' ?" 
 
 " I do, indeed, Sally Ann, an' a good one." 
 And she added in a moment, " 'Cause you know, 
 honey, they might o' sold for what 'd fetch con 
 sider'ble worldly vanities." 
 
 " Yes 'm, so they might, tho' I doubt if th' ever 
 would." 
 
 A moment's silence followed, broken finally by 
 Miss Sarey. 
 
 " But I'd advise you, Sally Ann, child, to ex 
 amine yore deed pretty close-t, before you offer 
 it to the dear Lord, 'cause you know, honey, He 
 
348 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 sees the inside inness o' all our purposes. Sup 
 pose somebody now was to offer to buy them 
 candelabras V pay a big price, cash down. How 
 'bout Lent, honey ?" 
 
 The old lady's heart was thumping furiously. 
 
 "Well, Miss Simpkins, tell the truth, they 
 couldn't get 'em not if they offered me the first 
 price of 'em." 
 
 Teddy Brooks's wife's eyes filled with tears as 
 she continued, 
 
 "Teddy seems right porely these days, Miss 
 Simpkins ; an' another thing I come to ask you 
 was, if you had any more o' that blackberry wine 
 o' yores left. It helped him a heap las' spring. 
 Some days I get so worreted the way he seems 
 a-failin', seem like if he'd get good V strong, I 
 wouldn't care fo' no thin' else." 
 
 When Miss Sarey went for the wine, she moved 
 with the alacrity of a happier and younger wom 
 an than she who had entered the room ten min 
 utes before. While she had the opportunity, she 
 thought it but safe to look into the kitchen in 
 passing, and to say, 
 
 " Sis, I don't know 's you'd better bother comin' 
 in. I'll make yore excuses to Sally Ann." 
 
 " Well, maybe it's jest as well, though I was 
 jest untyin' my apron to go in guess I'll tighten 't 
 up ag'in an' pick these berries." 
 
 For the first time in years Miss Sarey Mirandy 
 kissed Teddy's wife at parting, and bade her 
 "keep good heart an' not forgit thet the good 
 
THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 349 
 
 Lord loved her an' hers." And as she turned to 
 go in, she drew a long, free breath, as she said 
 to herself, " An' yet some folks '11 set up an' 
 say th' ain't no sech a thing as special provi 
 dence." 
 
 It was quite tea-time now, and in the rush of 
 last preparations she had no opportunity for con 
 fidential talk with her sister until supper was 
 ready. 
 
 She stood at one end of the table, bell in hand, 
 while her sister moved about, touching here and 
 there, preparatory to taking her station at the 
 other end. 
 
 " Well, what do you think, Sis ? Sally Ann has 
 done took the candelabras home," she said, plung- 
 ing into the subject. 
 
 Miss Sophia stared. " But they're bought an' 
 paid for, Sis hun an' I tol' you so V the price 's 
 in the vase." 
 
 " I've done give the money back, dearie, an' it's 
 all fixed. D' you reckin' I'd let a little foolishness 
 like that stan' in the way o' gettin' Teddy's ma's 
 candelabras back to 'im an' he porely, too ?" 
 
 " I hope you dealt fair, honey. Did you tell 'er 
 they was sol' ?" 
 
 " No, but I ast 'er if she'd take a offer, V she 
 said she wouldn't take a hundred dollars for 'em. 
 I reckin' she's consider'ble worreted about Teddy. 
 I got a bottle o' wine out to send 'im, but she was 
 so loaded up with the candle-sticks, she said she'd 
 sen' back for it. I reckin' Sally Ann means bet- 
 
850 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 ter 'n we give 'er credit for. She looked purty 
 'nough to eat to-night. No wonder she taken 
 pore Teddy's eye." 
 
 " Well, I'm glad they're back. What did you 
 tell the gentleman thet bought 'em ?" 
 
 "I tol' 'im they was a'ready disposed of, an 
 thet you didn't know it which was true." 
 
 " Mh hm. I s'pose it was, though I'm not right 
 shore. I trus' neither of us '11 ever be pushed to 
 say nothin' thet won't stand in the Jedgment fo' 
 the truth, Sis. Ring the bell, honey. An' don't 
 ferget to offer secon' cups o' tea. Wait yore 
 placket-hole's a-gappin' ; lemme pin it. That's 
 it. Kitty, Kitty ! Come here, Tom ! I declare, 
 Tom gets his neck-ribbon awful twisted. Ring 
 now, Sis !" 
 
 The entertaining of five strange, college-bred 
 men, who talked familiarly of things beyond their 
 ken, albeit the bird-theme was a bond of sympa 
 thy between them was a somewhat formidable 
 undertaking to these old, timid women of narrow 
 and hitherto protected lives, though they had con 
 gratulated themselves many times to-day that 
 " the household was perpared for 'em, even down 
 to Tom." 
 
 When supper was over to-night and Mr. Saun- 
 ders, with a formality that was significant, begged 
 an interview with the ladies in the parlor, they 
 were seized anew with a vague mistrust. 
 
 These Yankee men, who wore the United States 
 initials "promiscuous" about their persons, and 
 
THE WOMAN^ EXCHANGE 351 
 
 made so free with the telegraph, might be 
 What ? Spies ? Detectives ? 
 
 Neither confided to the other what, in truth, 
 was but a suspicion of a suspicion, as they repaired 
 together to their chambers to secure their turkey- 
 tailed fans and fresh hemstitched handkerchiefs, 
 and slip bits of orris-root into their mouths. 
 
 The gentlemen were already assembled, and the 
 meeting lost nothing, but rather gained in for 
 mality, on the entrance of the twins, who, bowing 
 slightly, proceeded to seat themselves side by side 
 upon the sofa. 
 
 " Ladies," said Mr. Saunders, rising, " yesterday 
 a party of tired men came to your door, asking 
 for supper and a night's lodging. They had come 
 from a distant brilliant city, with its art-galleries, 
 its institutions of learning, its glare, its music. 
 Coming into this little inland Arkansas town, 
 they expected to find rich, deep forests and fertile 
 fields, tilled by true-hearted children of the soil. 
 Within your hospitable door they hoped for what 
 Solomon meant when he said, * A dry morsel, and 
 quietness therewith,' as they were both hungry 
 and tired. Instead of a dry morsel, you have 
 given us sumptuous fare, ladies. And for the 
 quietness we sought, we have found what shall 
 I say ? the stillness of a temple, where, instead 
 of sleeping, we have since sat in reverence. Two 
 of us have spent a day and half a night in studying 
 the beautiful life-work of Mr. Stephen Decatur 
 Simpkins. Here we have found science, art, lit- 
 
352 THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE 
 
 erature, romance, poetry, music for the birds at 
 our windows have filled the night with melody. 
 
 "There are in the world but two larger personal 
 collections of birds than that we find here. There 
 is none so exquisitely perfect in every detail. I 
 have not found a gun-shot in a single specimen, 
 gentlemen, nor a ruffled feather " 
 
 " Th' ain't but thirteen shot birds there," inter 
 rupted Miss Sarey Mirandy, " an' them was give 
 to Sonny. He spent five years livin' 'mongst 'em 
 so 's they'd know 'im, before he ever ketched one. 
 An' then, he never took 'em in nestin' time, less 'n 
 he got both the he and the she. He never left a 
 mo'nin' bird in his life, or a new -hatched nest, 
 Sonny didn't." 
 
 There was something very like a quaver in John 
 Saunders's voice when he resumed his speech. 
 
 " All the valuable known collections, ladies, are 
 on exhibition in public institutions. As its repre 
 sentative, I am authorized to say to you that the 
 United States Government wishes to place the 
 work of Mr. Simpkins in the Smithsonian Institu 
 tion at Washington " 
 
 Simultaneously, as if electrified, the twins rose 
 to their feet. Miss Sophia first found voice. 
 What she said, in a quavering tremor, was this : 
 
 " If I may please speak, sir, Sonny lived a peace 
 ful an' law-abidin' citizen clean since the wah, an' 
 he hedn't no more hard feelin's to them he fit ag'in' 
 'n we've got not a bit. If, after all these years, 
 the North see fit to converscate his pore voiceless 
 
birds thet show themselves how harmless Sonny 
 spent his time not havin' even to say a shot in 
 'em why, all we got to ask is, jest wait a few 
 more years till two ol' women pass away, an' then, 
 why, if the North cares for 'em, they'll be nobody 
 lef ' to claim 'em." 
 
 As she sat down, her sister spoke. 
 " Them words we let fall to you Northerners 
 'bout Sonny's Confedrit uniform wasn't intended 
 fo' no insult to you gentlemen. We jest prize it, 
 bein' his sisters, 'cause seem like it's got all his 
 young shape in it yet thet's all. Th' ain't a liv- 
 in' bit o' strife mixed in our feelin's 'bout it not 
 a bit. Thet's all we got to say, I reckin' ain't 
 it, Sis ?" 
 
 John Saunders was not the only man present 
 who found it necessary to use his handkerchief 
 before he could trust his voice again. There was 
 a very tender note in it when he said, 
 
 "I have blundered shamefully, my dear ladies, 
 and I beg you to forgive me. Your brother's 
 property is yours. No power on earth can take 
 it from you. The war and confiscation are no 
 more. Were Mr. Simpkins living, he could desire 
 no greater honor than national recognition as one 
 of America's first naturalists. This is what we 
 would accord him now. His work lies buried in 
 this little town. In the National Museum thou 
 sands will visit it daily. His portrait will hang 
 beside it, and his poetic and exhaustive treatises 
 adorn the public libraries. These books alone. 
 23 
 
354 
 
 describing numerous hitherto unclassified species, 
 and giving original methods of capture and pres 
 ervation, are worth several thousand dollars. I 
 am not yet authorized to offer a specified sum. 
 We cannot always pay as we should like to, but 
 I can guarantee that to the estate of Mr. Stephen 
 Decatur Simpkins the United States will pay cer 
 tainly not less than ten thousand dollars for the 
 collection entire it ought to be double that. 
 We feel quite sure that when you ladies fully un 
 derstand, you will not let any feeling stand in the 
 way of his getting his full honors." 
 
 For answer, the sisters turned to each other, 
 opened their arms, and fell sobbing each upon the 
 other's shoulder. Thus they sat for some mo 
 ments, and when they raised their heads they 
 were alone. 
 
 " I hope," said Miss Sophia, wiping her eyes, " I 
 hope pa an' ma 's been a-lookin' on an' a list'nin', 
 Sis. 'Twould make 'em happier, even in Heaven." 
 
 " Yas an' Sonny too, dearie. I hope he's been 
 present though I doubt if he'd keer so much. I 
 b'lieve he'd enjoyed more bein' up-stairs las' night, 
 a-studyin' the birds with them gentlemen." 
 
 " I reckin you're right, Sis, an' maybe he was. 
 I don't b'lieve the good Lord 'd hinder 'im if he 
 wanted to come." 
 
 If some supposed the fortune coming to the 
 Misses Simpkins would prove a death-blow to the 
 
355 
 
 Exchange, they were mistaken. A comfortable 
 income gave its machinery just the lubrication it 
 needed for smooth and happy working according 
 to the pleasure of its proprietors. 
 
 Three years have passed since Sonny's collection 
 of birds went to Washington, and every spring 
 the sisters plan to go north to visit it at the Insti 
 tution; but each season finds Teddy Brooks " look- 
 in' so porely," that Miss Sarey Mirandy finds an 
 excuse to put it off. When pressed, she did even 
 say once to her sister, 
 
 " Though Sally Ann is growin' in grace ev'ry 
 day, an' '11 make a fine woman in time if she lives, 
 you can't put a ol' head on young shoulders an* 
 like as not before we'd be half way to Washin'- 
 ton, she'd run out o' light-bread an' feed Teddy on 
 hoe-cake, which always was same as pizen to 'im, 
 even in his young daye." 
 
"OH, SHOUTIN'S MIGHTY SWEET" 
 
"OH, SHOUTIN'S MIGHTY SWEET" 
 
 PLANTATION PARTING HYMN 
 
 o 1 
 
 ( H, shoutin's mighty sweet 
 
 When yer shout when yer meet, 
 An' shek han's roun', an' say : 
 " Bless Gord fur de meetin' ! 
 Bless Gord fur de greetin' !" 
 Shoutin' comes mighty easy dat a- way. 
 
 But ter shout when yer part, 
 An' ter shout Pom yo' heart, 
 
 When yer gwine far away, far away, 
 Wid-a lettin' go han's, 
 An' a-facin' strange lan's 
 
 Shoutin' comes mighty hard sech a day. 
 
 " Glory" sticks in yo' th'oat 
 
 At de whistle o' de boat, 
 Dat cuts lak a knife thoo yo' heart ; 
 
 An' "Hallelujah" breaks 
 
 At de raisin' o' de stakes 
 Dat loosens up de ropes ter let 'er start. 
 
360 " OH, SHOUTIN'S MIGHTY SWEET " 
 
 But ef yer fix yo' eye 
 
 On de writin' in de sky, 
 Whar de " good-byes " is all strucken out, 
 
 An' read de prormus clair 
 
 Of another geth'rin' there, 
 You kin say far'well, my brothers, with a shout. 
 
 Den shout, brothers, shout I 
 
 Oh, tell yo' vict'ry out, 
 How neither death nur partin* kin undo yer. 
 
 Look fust at yo' loss, 
 
 But last at de cross, 
 Singin' glory, glory, glory hallelujah ! 
 
LUCINDY 
 
LUCINDY 
 
 WHEN Lucindy's eye do shine 
 Lak a ripe, ripe muscadine, 
 An' 'er lips sticks out 
 In a tantalizin' pout, 
 I counts Lucindy mine. 
 
 When she droop 'er eyes so shy, 
 Lak she gwine ter pass me by, 
 
 An' des afore she pass 
 
 Drap 'er hankcher on de grass, 
 My courage rise up high. 
 
864 
 
 LU CINDY 
 
 When she sets up in de choir, 
 
 An' 'er voice mounts higher an' higher, 
 
 In unisom wid Jim's, 
 
 A-singin' o' de hymns, 
 I sets back an' puspire. 
 
 When she lean down on 'er hoe, 
 'N' dig de san' up wid 'er toe, 
 An' look todes me an' sigh, 
 Des lak she 'mos' could cry, 
 I don't know whar ter go. 
 
ITJCINDY 
 
 When she walk right down de aisle 
 At de cake-walk wid a smile, 
 An' she an' yaller Jake 
 Ketch han's an' win de cake, 
 I steam an' sizz an' bile. 
 
 When she claim me fur her beau, 
 An' den dance de reel wid Joe ; 
 An' when she swing me by, 
 Squeeze my han' on de sly 
 I don' know whe'r or no. 
 
LUCINDY 
 
 Tell de trufe, Lucindy's ways 
 Gits me so upsot some days 
 Dat, 'cep'n dat I knew 
 Dat's des de way she do, 
 I'd do some damage, 'caze 
 
 Some days when she do de wus 5 , 
 Ef 'twarn't dat I hates a fuss, 
 An' loves 'er thoo an' thoo 
 Wid all de ways she do, 
 De least I'd do'd be cuss. 
 
 THE END 
 
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