Gritny people

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y.

The gumbo and pies were not only a pride to Aunt Susan, but were things of great marvel to the whole colored population the full length of the river “coast.” Of course the pies were best when yams were in season. But with a little “sweet milk” and a dash of vanilla extract, she was able to work wonders with the commoner variety of sweet potato, and few of her patrons knew the difference; unless they had some knowledge of truck gardening and were “well-posted ’bout potato-time.”

Like all good cooks, Aunt Susan was careful not to reveal to her dusky sisters the secret of her original recipes. And if any white person asked her to tell how she prepared some of her dainty concoctions, she never went beyond saying: “Honey, de firs’ thing you gotta have is a black han’.”

The telling of stories was a thing Aunt Susan looked to with the discrimination of a true judge of oral literature. Her patrons were free to pass the whole night in her shop, sitting before the cheerful fire on the hearth, provided they had a good [2] story to tell or a good song to sing, whatever the model might be; it being understood that pies and gumbo were available for the growing appetite, and drip coffee could be furnished when needed to soothe the husky throats of the indefatigable singers. If the season happened to be summer, bountiful pitchers of lemonade with raspberry syrup took the place of black coffee; and every one could “lap up limonade an’ spread joy to a comfut.”

Alcoholic drinks were taboo. Not because Aunt Susan had any religious scruples; for she frankly admitted she was “no licentage Chrishtun;” but because she felt that “a nigger in licker ain’ no fittin’ comp’ny for nobody decen’, Chrishtun or w’atsomeever.”

It mattered little if a “member” hadn’t any money. If he could tell an interesting story, his credit was good until the end of the week, at which time he was expected to pay. Failing in this, he was declared “on-finanshul,” and was denied the privilege of the house until he reinstated himself.

A black space on the side wall carried the various accounts marked up in chalk; a stroke for each pie or plate of gumbo, in one column; and a like marking for the drinks in another column. As each mark stood for a nickel, it was an easy matter to reckon when the time came for settling up.

Although unable to read, Aunt Susan’s manner of counting and making change had the accuracy of a primitive Chinese abacus-Pythagoricus. On the mantelshelf she kept a blue bowl half-filled with grains of corn. If a dollar bill were given in settlement of an account, grains of corn equalling the amount of the bill were counted out on the table. Then the strokes on the wall were counted, and as many grains of corn were taken from the whole; the remaining grains representing the change to be returned. Fortunately, the patrons seldom presented her with anything higher than a two dollar bill. However slow the process, the method was sure; and even though she had to change a five dollar note now and then, no one ever complained of wrong count.

Aunt Susan was a kindly, soft-voiced, full-bosomed woman, about sixty years old. She had no family of her own; but living with her, as a sort of charge, was a blind man named Tom Lakes, some twenty years her junior. She had known Tom from his early childhood, and had always taken a motherly interest in him; mending his clothes, cooking his meals, and taking care of his money for him, long before he married and met with the horrible accident which caused his blindness.

Tom married a young woman who came to the village [4] a stranger,—“some wile Georgia nigger out de wilderness,” as she was called by Tom’s friends, few of whom had any regard for her because of her arrogance and “scawnful ways.”

After his marriage, Tom continued to pay his daily visits to Aunt Susan; helping her peel potatoes, clean crabs for the gumbo, chop wood, and redden the floor with brick-dust; just as he had always done. These little attentions awakened a feeling of resentment in the suspicious mind of the scornful Georgia lady. Tom was kind to her and provided for every humble need; but why must he go and do work for another woman?... And his visits at night; going to take part in the singing and story-telling with other people before Susan’s fireplace;—another thorn in her jealous soul. Every invitation from Tom to go along with him, she refused; preferring to remain at home, brooding and wondering. She was sure something more than “ole lady” interest held Tom to Aunt Susan. No woman kept a man’s money unless there was something secret between them,—and the man with a “natchal wife of his own”.... “Who? Do I look like I got any green in my eye, keep me from seein’ w’at direction de win’ blowin’ in?—Tom mus’ be take me for a fool!”

So she mused to herself when he was away by day; [5] brooding deeper on the seeming deception when he was away at night revelling in the pleasant flow of song and story and the wholesome regalement of crab gumbo and sweet potato pie.

“Maybe her min’ done change at las’. An’ maybe she’ll go ’long wid me tonight to Sis’ Susan house,” thought Tom, as he dragged a chair out on the front gallery and sat down in the shade of the honeysuckle vines.

“Bell alright; ’cep’ for her nasty, jealous-hearted ways,” he argued to himself.

The afternoon was hot and still. A quivering, dancing heat was visible in the brilliant sunlight. Not a leaf stirred on the chinaberry trees by the front fence. A few dejected chickens hid under the castor oil bush by the step, their wings drooping, their mouths open, panting like jaded runners after a weary race.

Bell was inside, looking after the pot of crawfish boiling on the charcoal furnace. The swampy smell of the crawfish mingled with the odor of red pepper, floated through the house and over the gallery, where Tom was already in a deep slumber.

Bell came out to the front door and looked at him, then went back to the kitchen. She sat down, gazing at the pot on the furnace, a strange expression creeping over her face. For a long time she sat like one in a profound study. Her eyes contracted, and she began to gnaw her thumb nail abstractedly, a mask-like vacancy covering her face with dark inscrutability. Passing her hand across her face slowly, she got up and looked at the boiling crawfish. They were bright scarlet; they were done. Taking a colander from the wall, she put it in the dishpan on the table; then, lifting the pot from the fire, she emptied the seething mass into the colander, [7] shaking it well until all the water was out, then put it on the window-sill to cool. Passing her hand across her mouth in a cryptic manner, she went again to the front door and looked at Tom furtively. He was sleeping soundly. She went back to the kitchen, and taking the dishpan of hot water from the table, walked out to the front gallery.

“He wouldn’ know.... It’s so easy to trip,—to stumble. For de handle to slip out my han’”.... The thoughts went chasing through her mind, as she stood over him with the steam rising from the crawfish water like an ominous mist.

“Dey say linseed oil good for scaldin’.... Tom got some in a bottle yonder in de woodshed.... I know how to look aft’ him. Den he gotta stay ’way from Susan”....

An unearthly yell started the quivering air.... The dishpan fell to the floor with a jangling crash. “Have mercy! Lawd, have mercy!” Tom’s reiterated cry sounded across the yard with pathetic appeal, the scalding water tinctured with red pepper torturing him viciously.

No one saw the savage deed but the frightened chickens hiding under the castor oil bush, and Bell swore that it was an accident. She was arrested [8] and sent to jail, but Tom maintained that she was innocent; believing Bell’s flimsy story that she had stumbled against his foot.

“Who? Tom ain’ nothin’ but a plumb fool,” commented Seelan, as she left the house after her visit of sympathy.

“Ain’ Tom know it never was Bell practice habit to th’ow trash water in de front yard?... Comin’ clean th’oo de house to de front do’ to empty a dishpan o’ scaldin’ water? Shucks! Tom des natchally childish.”

“You sho is right,” agreed Felo. “I ain’ never like Bell from de firs’ beginnin’. I ain’ trus’ no ooman w’at got side-b’yeards growin’ ’long-side her jaws like Bell got. Da’s a bad sign.”

After the bandage was removed from Tom’s eyes, the doctor told him that he was hopelessly blind. His face took on a look of sudden despair, and in a pleading tone, he said:

No one spoke. After a few seconds, Susan took hold of his hand, her affectionate grasp, more eloquent than any spoken word, revealing to him the awful truth of the doctor’s statement.

“Sweet man, Jesus,” he exclaimed, raising his head [9] imploringly; “please tell me w’at po’ Tom goin’ do!”

“You goin’ go home wid Susan, an’ set in yo’ chair yonder ’fo de fire,” came the soft-toned, comforting reply. “An’ Susan goin’ look aft’ you des like she did befo’.”

Then leading him by the hand, they left the doctor’s office and started up the coast towards home.

Bell was tried before a jury, but as there was no available witness to give testimony in the case, she was acquitted as innocent and ordered by the court to go back to Georgia. “Back to de wilderness, whah she b’lonks.” As Tom’s friends declared, with picturesque indignation.

In honor of his coming to live with Susan, the old house was “treated to a fine fixin’-up.” The clapboard front was given a coat of pink-wash, and the horseshoe over the door painted a vivid green. New turkey red curtains were hung on all the windows; [10] a new white marbled oilcloth was bought for the long guest table in the middle of the room; fresh shelf coverings of newspaper cut in fantastic scallops were put in the safe and on the pot shelf against the wall; and the hearth bricks and chimney-piece were treated to a new coat of red ochre. The floor was scrubbed and sprinkled with brick dust; the cypress benches, scrubbed and rubbed until the water-waves of the grain took on the appearance of old satin. And Tom’s chair beside the hearth was given a comfortable cushion covered with a piece of old plaid shawl. The mantelshelf was hung with garlands of garlic and bay leaf, long strings of red pepper pods, and bunches of onions. Two brightly-polished tomato cans, supporting cocoanuts, filled the place of ornaments at each end of the mantelpiece; and in the center stood a venerable steeple-top clock, telling that it was near the time for the “members” to arrive. A glowing fire of magnolia burrs and driftwood burned on the hearth; and the place had an impressive air of humble, medieval cheer.

Aunt Susan came in from the next room, followed by Tom carrying an armful of driftwood. She helped him put it on the pile in the chimney-corner, then led him to his chair, handing him a corncob pipe, which she lighted with an ember from the [11] ashes. He began smoking, and Susan busied herself fixing the pies in the safe, and raking the coals of fire about the large iron pot of gumbo on the hearth. She had the air of the true mistress of the inn. The careful precision with which her green-and-yellow head-handkerchief was tied, and the dignity with which she wore her stiff-starched gingham apron, might be looked upon as badges of innate cleanliness and gentility.

Another entertaining detail was her cascade of bosoms in their snug-fitting sacque of gray woolen, making one think of those large, healthy, double-breasted Dutch women Rembrandt loved to paint with such startling fidelity.

“If any de members hyuh tonight raise de queshton concernin’ Bell, you ain’ goin’ leave ’um specify, is you?”

Walking over to his chair, Susan put her hand on his shoulder, and said quietly:

“Is you ever known me to tamper wid de devil aft’ I done beat ’im out my track?”

“You right, Susan. Da’s sufficien’,” he answered, and went on with his peaceful smoking.

The first member to arrive was Scilla, a tall, buxom, good-natured young woman with a snub nose and surprised-looking eyes. Her dress was a guinea blue, of plain make, the “josey” very close-fitting. Her head was bare; and her only ornamentation, a pair of large, flat, pearl earrings, which seemed to heighten the bizarre expression of her humorous face and the velvety sheen of her ebon complexion.

“But no, Sis’ Susan! W’at you an’ Mr. Tom doin’, settin’ hyuh in de dark together like ole folks? Nobody ain’ come yet? Dis de right night, ain’ it?”

“For Gawd sake, Scilla, don’ be so boist’us,” Susan replied, getting up to light the lamps on the table, and quietly putting them in their places.

“O ’scuse me, Sis’ Susan; I didn’ know y’all was holin’ a wake,” returned Scilla playfully.

“Gal, set down an’ be still like people,” said Tom. [13] “You ain’ bin hyuh for a week, an’ you mus’ be got some news to tell, ’side yo’ random talk. Susan, bring de gal a cup o’ coffee an’ leave her git to business.”

“Da’s right, Mr. Tom. I wan’ make you laugh ’bout my w’ite folks,” Scilla answered.

Susan brought her a cup of coffee, and took a seat on the opposite side of the table. Scilla helped herself generously to sugar, and as she stirred her coffee, began her gossip.

“You ain’ goin’ b’lieve me w’en I tell you I ain’ workin’ for Miss Mimi no longer.” (Looks of astonishment from Tom and Susan.) “I des had to leave. You know, dey say niggers ain’ got no principle. But dey got a whole lot o’ w’ite folks w’at ain’ a bit better.”

“Scilla, ain’ you shame to scandalize de people you gits yo’ livin’ from?” Susan asked in honest surprise.

“Who? Sis’ Susan, I ain’ say’n nothin’ w’at ain’ true. Is Miss Mimi ever paid you anything for de many times I comed hyuh an’ borried yo’ gahlic an’ peppers an’ seas’nin’ an’ things to put in her vittuls w’en she had big comp’ny to her house? Try’n to make a show, an’ lookin’ to de niggers to help her out?... Who? Dat ain’ w’at I calls principle.”

“Gal, don’ talk so fas’,” Susan told her. “I’m knowin’ Miss Mimi ever since she was a baby-chile.”

“But she done los’ her baby-ways now; an’ you ain’ know her since she growed up an’ got ways like dey say us niggers got.”

“Scilla, you sho is crittacul,” said Tom. “Go ’head an’ talk w’at you start to talk.”

Scilla looked towards Susan for permission to go on. Finding no objection, she continued:

“’Tain much to tell. I des wan’ let you know I lef’ Miss Mimi ’cause I des natchally got tired seein’ her losin’ her self-respec’, an’ hyeahin’ w’ite folks talkin’ ’bout her behin’ her back evvy time dey seen me. Bein’ a nigger, how could I make ’um shut dey mouth? So de bes’ thing for me to do was to quit.”

“You didn’t go ’way hap-hazzud, widout givin’ notice, did you?” Susan inquired, with a note of severity in her voice.

“No,” Scilla answered. “We come to a understannin’ a whole day befo’ I lef’.... ’Twas on a Sad’dy mawnin’; an’ she was goin’ have comp’ny for dinner de nex’ day; an’ she say she want me to try and git her some vi’lets for de table, same as I always bin doin’.

“You see, evvy time she gived a big dinner, she [15] had to have flowers for de front room an’ de dinner table; an’ nothin’ but vi’lets would please her. She ain’ had but a few scat’rin’ vi’lets in her own yard; so w’at she mus’ do but sen’ me all over Gritny to git vi’lets from anybody w’at had ’um in dey gahden.—An’ she ain’ offer to pay for ’um, no.

“So you kin un’stan how shame’ I felt;—callin’ at people gate an’ axin’ for vi’lets for Miss Mimi, an’ ain’ had a dry nickel to pay for ’um.

“One nice w’ite lady dey calls Miss Tillie, always gimme w’at she had in her gahden. But some dem stingy Dutch people w’at had plenny vi’lets, wouldn’ gimme nothin’.

“One day, one ole red-head lady tol’ me I was lyin’. Dat Miss Mimi ain’ sont me for no vi’lets; dat I was beggin’ ’um for my own self.... Den I got mad.—People takin’ me for a fatal rogue; an’ I ain’ had no way to convince ’um I was jes’ try’n to do de w’ite folks wishes. So I went straight back an’ give Miss Mimi de complete un’stannin’, an’ let her know ’bout her position wid de vi’lets de same as mine. Den I tol’ her I’d come cook de dinner dat Sunday, an’ help her out wid de comp’ny; but she cert’ny had to git somebody else to hunt flowers for her; ’cause it sho made me feel strange to have all Gritny suspicion me on a cheap li’l thing like a few scat’ring vi’lets.”

As she paused for breath, Tom gave an emphatic grunt by way of surprise, and asked rather dubiously:

“So da’s how come you quit? I thought w’en you commence to talk you was goin’ tell somh’n; but you done talked all ove’ yo’ mouth an’ ain’ tol’ nothin’ yet.”

“Who, Mr. Tom?” Scilla returned, having recovered sufficiently to being another pasquinade. “You ain’ think I’m play’n’, is you? Jes’ lemme git started talkin’ ’bout w’ite folks funny ways, an’ you sho will lissen w’at I’m tellin’ you.... But lemme shet up,” she added hurriedly; seeing the form of another visitor entering the front door. “’Cause hyuh come Mr. Felo; an’ too many witness ain’ good w’en it come to havin’ a coat-scrape.”

As he came into the room, he saluted the house with an eloquent gesture, then exclaimed, raising his right hand high above his head:

“Peace an’ happiness to de castle; an’ glad titus (tidings) to who-some-ever gathered hyuh tonight in Gawd’s name!”

Going over to the fire, he shook hands with Tom; then turning to the women, said:

“Sis’ Susan, how you do? An’ ole loud-mouth Scilla, w’at you got to say?”

Scilla laughed good-naturedly at the sally, and before she could reply, Tom said:

“Leave Scilla stay quiet, Felo, for Gawd sake. She done talk so till my head feel feev’ish lis’nin’ at her.” Then addressing Scilla, he said: “Gal, shet yo’ mouth, an’ leave Felo tell us how him an’ Sis’ Fanny gittin’ ’long yonder.”

Sis’ Fanny was Felo’s mother. She was a small, gentle-mannered, energetic old woman, whose sole interest in life was the comfort and welfare of her numerous grandchildren. She sold cakes and vegetables about the village for a livelihood; accepting from Felo whatever assistance he felt inclined to give her from his limited income as butler “to Mr. Amos house, ’cross de river.”

“Ma Fanny home, yonder”; Felo answered, “runnin’ roun’ worrin’ ’bout dem no-count chillun. She well; but she cert’ny a p’ovokin’ ole soul ’bout dat hog she got yonder. She ain’ sattafy havin’ seven head o’ chillun to wait on her, but gotta wait for me to come home from ’way ’cross de river on Sunday, for me to run all over Gritny to hunt slop. Da’s w’at make me so late gittin’ hyuh tonight; had to tote slop from fo’ diffunt places.”

“Who, Mr. Felo?” Scilla exclaimed in astonishment. “Had to tote slop on Sunday, an’ big All Saints Day, too?”

“Hog got to eat on Sunday same as people, ain’t it?” Felo asked, rebukingly.

“You gotta watch out whah you take slop from dese days, Mr. Felo,” she advised warningly. “Some people got nice slop, an’ some people slop is sho treach’ous. My cousin, down de coas’, had a hog w’at got his th’oat cut clean thoo, from eatin’ slop w’at had razor blades in it. Sho did. An’ ever since dat time, my cousin make her chillun sif’ evvy bit o’ slop dey brings home.”

“How come Sis’ Fanny don’ sell de hog?” asked Susan. “Hog meat bringin’ good price at the butcher shop dis time o’ year.”

“Da’s w’at I bin tellin’ her”; said Felo, “but she so [19] cawntrary she won’ lissen. She say she keepin’ it to be a mother hog.”

The sudden arrival of Nookie put an end to any further intimate details which might have embroidered Felo’s domestic plaint. Her fantastic attire, as well as her dramatic entrance, made her the immediate object of attention.

She was a fat, glossy-black young woman, with shining eyes and teeth, fully conscious of the charms of both. Her dress was an antiquated blue silk creation of long-past glory; the skirt much-beruffled; the basque-front prodigal with “coffee-dipped” oriental lace, cascading from her neck far below the waist line. Her hat was a piece of home-evolved millinery, large and laborious; made of plaited pink crepe paper, a home-cured sea gull encompassing its luxuriant dimensions, with outspread, tethered wings. She carried a long handled parasol of blue silk, rich in rents and uncovered ribs; and over her arm was a faded, black cashmere cape, with remnants of fringe and ravished beads.

“But no, Nookie!” Susan exclaimed, after she had recovered from her surprise. “Whah you bin paradin’ today, droped-up in all yo’ curuss clo’se an’ gommux (garments)? Dis ain’ no Mardi Gras day.”

“Maybe Nookie bin yonder to de simmetery to put flow’hs on somebody grave. You know dis All Saints day,” volunteered Felo, with a playful smile. “No I ain’t,” replied Nookie, arranging her lips with studied care so as to display the whiteness of her fine teeth. “I des come from up de road; from seein’ dat ooman w’at give birth to a baby half-chile an’ half-turtle.”

“Nookie, set down an’ stop yo’ humbug, for Gawd sake,” said Tom, reprovingly. “You ain’ talkin’ to no chillun.”

“Gawd knows, Mr. Tom”; she assured him, “I ain’ tellin’ no false. Ain’t you bin read de newspaper day-befo’ yistiddy? Evvybody was talkin’ ’bout it. An’ I say: I’m goin’ see for myself. De paper say dey was goin’ sell it to de Chaddy Hospitle for $8,000 to put in a’kahol. An’ dey had flocks o’ people goin’ up yonder in misheens to see it. Dey say de ’ooman husban’ ain’ had nothin’ to do but stan’ at de front do’ an’ c’leck all dem fifty-censes in a hat. Dey was chargin’ only a dime; but de crowd got so plennyful, dey had to raise de price to fo’-bits. So I thought I better go see befo’ dey raise it higher.”

“Nookie, stop yo’ random, an’ talk somh’n people kin b’lieve w’en dey lissen at you.”

“Gawd knows, Sis’ Susan,” declared Nookie with emotion, “w’at I’m say’n is de dyin’ truth from hyuh to heav’n. I bin yonder an’ seen de chile, sho’ nuff. An’ I bet if you seen all dem people droppin’ money in de hat, it goin’ make you feel like wishin’ you had bawned de chile yo’ own self. Yas Ma’am, I bin went to look at it.”

“An’ ain’ seen nothin’ but a ill-form chile,” scoffed Felo. “Somh’n kin happen to any fam’ly.”

“Who, Mr. Felo?” she retorted. “I know w’at I seen. I went ’long-side de bed, an’ w’en I look at him, de chile commence wavin’ his li’l turtle han’ at me, an’ I say: ‘Feet help body!’—An’ I ain’ wait to see no mo’. ’Cause I know if dat thing start to talk, da’s goin’ be de end o’ de worl’. So I broke out de house an’ made for de road.”

“Mr. Felo, g’way from hyuh!” Nookie replied, with apparent irritation. “You might know a heap o’ things ’bout keepin’ house for w’ite folks an’ lookin’ after Sis’ Fanny hog yonder, but Gawd got a whole lot o’ seecut ways you sho don’ know nothin’ ’bout.”

“Sho is.” Nookie continued. “I know one cullud [22] lady back o’ Gritny, was comme ça one time; an’ she went to go take her daughter place an’ wash for a strange w’ite ooman. An’ w’en she went in de shed to fix de tubs an’ things, w’en she raise up de tub, she seen it full o’ duck feathers. Den a li’l w’ile aft’wuds, w’en her chile was bawn, ’stid it havin’ natchal furze und’ de arms an’ on de ches’, like people got; de thing had duck feathers growin’ on him. An’ evvy time it rained w’en he growed up, he had to go swimmin’ in de cunnal. Sho did. An’ he live’ to be thirty-some-odd years old; w’en he got drownded try’n to harpoon a buf’lo feesh.”

“Gal, come set down to de table an’ take a li’l nur’shment.” Then addressing Susan: “Give de gal a plate o’ gumbo, Sis’ Susan. She talkin’ out her head bein’ hongry an’ patigue aft’ dat long walk she had up de road.”

Susan got up and filled a plate with gumbo and put it on the table. Nookie went over to Felo and gave him a gentle slap of appreciation on the back of his head, saying to him, as she sat down to eat:

Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of old Uncle Foteen; a venerable, picturesque relic [23] of antebellum days, leaning heavily on a broom handle walking stick.

Felo placed a chair for him near the fire; and after taking his tattered hat and walking stick and putting them on the bench across the room, Susan handed him a cup of coffee, giving him kindly greeting:

“Unc’ Foteen, we sho please’ to see you. You ain’ bin hyuh for a long time. But look like evvything alright wid you; an’ you got yo’ good strank yet.”

“Yas, Sis’ Susan,” he replied thoughtfully, nodding his impressive white head. “Ole Foteen still hyuh ’munks de livin’ to wait on de fam’ly an’ give thanks in de kingdom. W’en I puts my right foot down, I say: Thank Gawd. An’ w’en I takes my lef’ foot up, I say: Praise de Lawd.”

“Drink yo’ coffee, Unc’ Foteen; an’ lemme fix you a plate o’ gumbo, an’ you kin eat ’fo de fire to yo’ sattafaction,” said Susan, uncovering the fragrant pot.

Being sometime valet to “ole Marse Sylvain,” coachman to Mamzelle Olympe, and impressive major domo of the dining-room on every festive occasion.

After emancipation was declared, and old Foteen was given his freedom, he asked to remain with the family in the old capacity; and he was given a home in the quarters, rent free as long as he lived; wages for his services; and was taken care of with every attention due so worthy a retainer.

One by one, the members of the family passed on to the Great Beyond, none remaining to enjoy the luxury of the fine old house and carry on the splendid family tradition except Madame Guillaume [25] and young Sylvain, her son; who was away availing himself of the benefits of one of the “big Yankee colleges”;—a fact both abhorrent and inexplicable to many of Madame’s unreconstructed Creole friends.

Picturesque and solitary, she lived on through the changing years, dreaming of the fateful past and looking forward with childish expectation to the home-coming of her accomplished son.

Her daily life was ordered with little change from the old-time dignity and convention: Aunt Choote and her numerous children looking after the household and kitchen; Uncle Foteen driving her to church on Sunday in the old creaking barouche, taking part in her sentimental reminiscences, and sharing the fitful dreams and wandering fancies of forgetfulness that became actualities to both their weary minds.

One morning old Choote announced to the astonished members of her family that Madame Guillaume was “ceasded.”

Going to the bedroom door with the customary cup of early morning black coffee, there was no response to her gentle knock. She approached the bed-side fearfully, and lifting the mosquito net, found her old Madame “stone-col’, her body hyuh an’ her soul yonder.”

Young Sylvain being abroad with a party of tourists, the funeral was held without his being present. Several weeks later, he was expected home, and the lonely old house was undergoing elaborate preparations befitting his return. Uncle Foteen was going about, a pathetic figure, re-living the seeming reality of his past importance; mistaking young Sylvain for his old master, and telling everyone he met, that “ole Marse Sylvain done come home, an’ de fam’ly goin’ have big jubilation.”

When Sylvain arrived, Uncle Foteen embraced him with unrestrained emotion; calling him master; giving him lively accounts of the imaginary doings of the departed family; and rejoicing in the prospect of driving him to church on Sunday, “to show him off to all Gritny, settin’ up proud in de barouche, ’long wid Ma’am Guillaume, Mamzelle Olympe, an’ all dem chillun.”

Sylvain soon discovered that the old man’s memory was uncertain, and he humored his infirmity. “He bin childish for a good w’ile,” Choote told him. “An’ he mistake evvbody for somebody else bin dead a long time.”

Knowing her husband’s vagaries would be overlooked with understanding sympathy, Choote permitted Uncle Foteen to take his old post in the [27] diningroom and preside in the usual, formal way. When evening came and Sylvain was called to dinner, he arose to go, a reluctant, solitary guest. On entering the diningroom, he was amazed to find the table arranged for six persons. No detail was overlooked. The guest linen and fine china had been brought out; cape jasmines, his mother’s favorite flowers, were in the old rock crystal bowl as a center piece; and the quaint old silver candlesticks, lugubrious with towering white candles, lighted the silent room with an eerie glow he remembered as a little child. Uncle Foteen, in his faded uniform, was standing behind his chair, ready to see him comfortably seated in the master’s place at the head of the table.

Leaving Sylvain’s chair, he visited the vacant chairs each in turn, sliding them in place gently, until each imaginary member of his respected family was seated in the accustomed manner. Each in turn, throughout the various courses of the meal, he visited the spectral guests, watching attentively as he saw them in fancy helping themselves to the tempting food; and smiling with grateful pleasure on beholding his honored family gathered once more in convivial assembly.

It was a well-known tale in the village; a tale Uncle Foteen loved to repeat. The facts were real [28] to him; the occasion, a memorable one; and the actors, living personalities. No one thought of arguing with him the verity of his story, or regarding his vision as a worthless, fleeting dream. It was a fancy that brought him comfort and solace to brighten the hours of his waning years. He knew that his beloved white folks lived again, and he walked and talked with their gentle spirits wherever he happened to be.

“Po’ ole soul sho havin’ a party by his own self wid dat plate o’ gumbo.” Scilla remarked softly.

“An’ he ain’ to be blame for it, either.” replied Nookie. “’Cause Sis’ Susan gumbo des natchally make you leche li doigts ,—like my ole man use to say, ’fo he went away.”

“Whah old ugly Plunkum gone, Nookie?” asked Felo. “Nobody ain’ seen him for Gawd knows how long.”

“An’ nobody ain’ carin’ to see him, either; if dey [29] feels like I feel ’bout ole Plunkum,” she answered disdainfully.

“Go ’long, gal, wid yo’ reckless talk,” said Susan. “Leave Plunkum come back home tomorrow, an’ nobody but you goin’ turn out full fo’ce to give him welcome; an’ you know it good.”

“Who, me, Sis’ Susan? It be only one way you see me turn out to give Plunkum welcome. An’ dat’ll be to cut his head in fo’ diffunt ways,—shawt an’ long, an’ wide an’ deep. An’ cut de palms his feets in de bargain, so he can’t run no mo’. Yas Ma’am.”

“Gawd knows, Nookie,” said Tom, speaking slowly, “for a young ooman w’at bin well-raise’, you sho kin make a whole lot o’ nigger noise.”

“Anybody come to be a nigger, Mr. Tom, w’en dey git mixed up wid a nasty Pharisee like ole Plunkum ... layin’ up in my house for seven long mont’s aft’ he done marry me lawful; livin’ on my good bounty, an’ ain’ done a lick o’ work, an’ ain’ thinkin’ ’bout doin’ none; lookin’ for me to feed an’ suppoat him; an’ raisin’ a roocus w’en I refuse to leave him put on de w’ite folks clo’se I was washin’, so’s he could go ’long wid de Odd Fellows purrade an’ strut like Pompey!... Who?... You know yo’self, Mr. Tom, Gawd ain’ goin’ be patient wid a rogue like dat.”

“An’ it tuck you seven long mont’s to make up yo’ min’ ’bout Plunkum ways?” Scilla asked, quizzically.

“I was lookin’ ove’ my min’ for a long time ’bout w’at I was goin’ do,” she answered. “But my passion struck me all at once. So one evenin’, w’en Plunkum had plague’ me so till I des couldn’ stan’ it no longer; I up wid my potato-stomper was stannin’ on de pot shelf, an’ I played de thing all up an’ down de back his head, till he vomit.... Den w’en I seen him look so mizzabul an’ downcas’; I went an’ fix him some sedlitz powders to quiet him.

“I fix de blue paper one in a cup o’ water firs’, an’ made him drink it; den I fix de w’ite paper one in de cup, an’ made him drink dat.... An’ people, you ain’ goin’ b’lieve me w’en I tell you; ’twasn’ no time befo’ dey had to ride him to de hospital in de groc’ry wagon, de tawment inside him was carryin’ him such a road! Yas Lawd.... Dat nigger was fit to explode any minute. An’ he sho did holler an’ cry.

“W’at dey did to him yonder, I ain’ never hyeah’d tell. But he mus’ bin make up his min’ to go some yuther direction; ’cause Plunkum ain’ never come back to my house.”

“An’ you call yo’self a Chrishtun, an’ practice [31] devilment like dat?” Felo asked, reprovingly. “Is Plunkum any child o’ Gawd?” she asked, indignantly. “De Bible say: overcome yo’ enemy; don’t it?... Plunkum ain’ nothin’ but gutter water!”

The running laughter of the women at this juncture broke into a merry peal. Uncle Foteen awakened from a pleasant doze and looked around bewildered, just as the stentorian sound of a man’s voice was heard outside, exclaiming:

“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’! Who is you? Makin’ all dis racket up in hyuh so soon, an’ night ain’ begin to fall good yet.”

“Take a chair, an’ set down, Nat; an’ take dat hat off yo’ head w’en you come befo’ comp’ny.”

Nat rolled his large, shining eyes at her in playful annoyance, and walked over to the chair and sat down; throwing his hat across the floor with a sweeping gesture.

[32]

Nat was a notable personality in the village, and was the exclusive pride and perennial delight of every one along the coast. He was a composite of farmer, philosopher and clown; with the face of a contemplative monk and the manner of a harmless mountebank. He was very black and very bow-legged; the latter being accepted by him as a fortunate asset rather than a calamity. It served him as an individual trade mark in his calling, which was that of truck gardening. His vegetables, he declared, were unlike the product of any other planters of seeds; they were distinctive, facsimiles of himself, and he took great pleasure in making it known. Everybody knew his “bow-legged punkins an’ bow-legged egg-plants”; and no other vendor could boast of the “bow-legged butterbeans and fat bow-legged squash” like Nat’s.

He peddled his seasonable wares through the village in a large, flat basket made of willow slats, placed on top of a clumsy sled built of rough-hewn cypress fence pickets, dragged by an unshorn, meditative old mule he called Maybe-so. Walking bare-footed Nat followed behind; his loose-fitting blue cottonade trousers flapping about his dusty ankles; a broad-brimmed Chinese-looking hat made of palmetto, tilted humorously on his round woolly head.

As he went along, he kept up a confidential conversation [33] with the mule, about the weather; the condition of the road; the pest of bugs on the young potato plants; or any subject that occupied his mind when he was not vociferating the virtues of his bow-legged merchandise to attract the attention of chance customers.

He also had a company of two or three nondescript dogs following in his wake. They seemed to understand all his moods and movements; looking at him with rapt interest when he talked to them; and watching with appealing glances when he shouted some vehement command. They knew they were not to move another step when they heard him call to Maybe-so, and saw the old mule stop before the gate of one of his regular customers. They would sit down in the road precipitously and wait patiently while an argument ensued; and as soon as orders were given to march, they rose up with renewed anticipation; and with tails erect, they started off as soon as Maybe-so made the first step.

If at any time they disregarded the rule, Nat would call to the mule to halt; the dogs would be reprimanded for being “too much in a hurry,” and would be told to “wait till Nat’s ready to go. Nat ain’ fol’rin’ you; you fol’rin’ Nat .”

Whether they wanted to buy or not, the people [34] came out to greet him as soon as they heard the sound of his superb voice. He would stand in the road and call out his rhythmic chant, announcing himself, his wares, his companionable mule and family of dogs:

After the bartering was finished, Nat would take up the reins again; and as soon as the mule heard him say, “Nat’s gone,” off he would start; the dogs following with wagging tails, apparently pleased with the thought of another pilgrimage.

“You mus’ bin strollin’ out today. I see you got on yo’ shoes an’ a clean shirt, an’ done took off yo’ cottonade breeches; but you ain’ laid aside dis ole palmeeter hat. W’at Rose doin’, she can’t look after you no better, an’ make you dress yo’self ’cawdin’ to de season?”

“W’at Rose got to do make her so busy?” she asked in surprise. “Nobody but Roxy an’ you in de house to bother ’bout, ain’t it?”

“Rose ’tenshun so taken up wid dat sweet Lucy wine she git yonder to Mr. Camille sto’, Sis’ Susan, she don’ know de diffunce twix’ July an’ Janawerry.”

“Ain’t Roxy ole enough to take charge an’ look aft’ yo’ clo’se an’ things for you?” asked Felo.

“Roxy ole enough,” Nat answered assuringly, “but she too occapied lookin’ aft’ dem boys, an’ makin’ matrimony wid evvy one comin’ ’long de road.”

“Unc’ Nat, ain’t you shame?” Scilla exclaimed. “Settin’ hyuh befo’ all dese people, scand’lizin’ yo’ own chile name like dat?”

“Roxy ain’ shame, is she?” he replied bluntly. “She ain’ talkin’ ’bout it, but dat ain’ keepin’ people from knowin’ she totin’ somh’n under her a-pun right now, is it?”

“Y’oughta chastise her if you feel sho you ain’ makin’ no mistake,” said Tom.

“Mistake or no mistake,” commented Nookie, “y’oughta quit yo’ blabbin’ ’bout it.”

“W’at y’all mean?” Nat asked with impatience. “Roxy ain’ commit no terr’ble crime, is she? She ain’t hurt nobody fatal. Roxy ain’ did nothin’ but follow de feelin’s of a natchal ooman, curuss to know somh’n convincin’ concernin’ de seecut workin’ of a ’ooman life. An’ all she done was de li’l thing some foolish ole misun’stannin’ people done classify in de bad lis’ und’ de headin’ o’ sinful ways.”

“Den you means to uphol’ Roxy ’long de brazen road she takin’?” asked Scilla, staring at him in amazement.

“I means to keep my min’ from gittin’ upset ’bout somh’n I ain’ got no cuntrol over. Roxy jus’ like she come hyuh to dis life; wid evvything jus’ like ’twus inten’ to be. An’ Roxy ain’ no diffunt from you an’ no yuther wimmins. An’ nature ways is Gawd ways; an’ I ain’ got no right to meddle. An’ you can’t say I ain’ correck, if you wan’ leave yo’self tell de true.”

“Dah, bless Gawd!” Felo exclaimed with enthusiasm. “Unc’ Nat, you sho spoke somh’n dat time.”

“W’at you know ’bout wimmin ways, ole ugly Felo?” Nookie inquired indignantly. “Is you done come to be a big jedge, like all de yuther hypocrite niggers w’at spen’ all dey time livin’ ’munks de w’ite folks?... Lookin’ down scawnful on yo’ own color ways; tryin’ to make us nigger people pattun aft’ de w’ite folks?”

“Anybody heard me say a word ’bout w’ite folks bein’ diffunt?” Felo demanded, looking about from one to the other. “Far as I bin able to ’zern, dey ways resemble each-another. Only de w’ite folks ways mo’ seecut.... Dey thinks a heap ’bout w’at dey doin’. Dey does it on de sly. ’Tain’ nobody business.... But you never see ’um lose dey self-respec’. Dey puts on a front, an’ dey all gits by. Dey hides dey looseness, an’ you gotta give ’um praise. But look at de cullud folks. How dey do?... Dey ain’ stop to bother ’bout self-respec’; w’at people goin’ think. Dey jus’ cuts loose.... Dey natchal as de cattle an’ fowls’ an’ things. An’ Gawd de only man to tell if dey doin’ somh’n wrong.”

“Y’all better stop talkin’ to one-’nother so plain. Firs’ thing you know, you goin’ be sorry.”

Almost immediately she became aware that her [38] fears were needless; for she heard outside the sound of voices mingled with the drone of weird music played on a comb covered with tissue paper; and she knew that other members had arrived.

Soongy was his aunt, and was extravagantly proud of his musical ability. “Dink ain’ no master min’ by no means”; she would say, when speaking of his attainments, “but he sho got it all in his head. An’ nobody ain’ learned him, either.”

Dink’s repertoire was a remarkable one. It included all the “himes” and mellows and “Dr. Watts” sung by the Baptist and Methodist congregations, reaching from “Wes’wego ferry landin’, [39] clean down de coas’ to Gritny in de Eas’ Green”; all the “ballets” and “sinful songs” disseminated by “backsliders” and “evil-workers”; and many haunting fragments of “make-up songs,” the invention of Dick’s harmonious mind.

His voice, whether used for singing, or for making music through the comb, was true and melodious; having the clear, sensuous timbre of adolescence that won the admiration of his most orthodox listeners. “De Sperret goin’ stop his shoo-fly ways one dese days; an’ den dey ain’ goin’ be nobody kin tetch him raisin’ his voice to give Gawd de praise he done helt back for so long;” the old church members would comment, after having listened to some of the “shoo-fly ballets.”

After friendly greetings were exchanged all around, and the new arrivals were seated comfortably, Susan asked Carmelite:

“W’at you doin’ on dis side de river tonight? You ain’ give up yo’ place to Miss Newgeem house, is you?”

“Yas ma’am,” Carmelite answered languidly. “I bin lef’ her a long time.”

“Yas ma’am; I ain’ idle,” she answered reassuringly. “I’m sewin’ on quilts, yonder to my house. An’ I sho got some nice ones to sell. Made out o’ [40] all kind o’ pretty scraps I gethered up ’munks de w’ite folks; an’ dey ain’ cos’ me a nickel.”

“An’ quilts goin’ suppoat you an’ put clo’se on yo’ back, an’ puvvide you wid shoes an’ vittuls an’ things?”

“If I can’t sell ’um, I sho kin raffle ’um.” Carmelite answered with conviction. “An’ make much as I made workin’ up in Miss Newgeem scrooched-up kitchen; onsatafied an’ fretful as I was all de time.”

“Who? Miss Newgeem de wrong one to make people feel please. She got such fussy ways, she ain’ to be please her own self. So da’s w’at make me quit an’ go yonder to my quilts; whah I ain’ had to worry ’bout bein’ plagued all day long.”

“But Carm’lite,” began Soongy, by way of pleasant argument, “don’t you fin’ sewin’ on quilts is mo’ taxin’ work den cookin’ for a small fam’ly like Miss Newgeem got? I fin’ it mo’ combinin’, me.”

“’Tain de cookin’, Soongy,” Carmelite explained. “It’s all de hum-bug you gotta do: passin’ de dishes thoo hot water befo’ you brings ’um to de table. An’ a fresh plate for evvy diffunt dish dey [41] has to eat. An’ you know yo’self, how long it take for dishes to dreen aft’ you done pass ’um thoo hot water, an’ dey gotta be wipe besides.

“An’ Miss Newgeem got a whole lot o’ Japanee china dishes so thin you kin see thoo ’um, an’ you gotta be careful how you tetch ’um. So one day, I say to myself: I’m goin’ put de things in de oven an’ heat ’um all at once an’ be done. So I put de plates an’ de cups in de oven, an’ push de stove-do’ half-to, an’ set down to wait on ’um. An’ chile! Aft’ a w’ile, I could hyeah dem things crackin’ up in de oven,—an’ I ain’ never had tetch ’um.

“An’ w’en I open de stove-do’ an’ looked at ’um,—chile, de dishes was so wreckded, it took me three dish towels to pull out one plate.”

“You had good sense to go yonder to yo’ quilts,” Felo murmured in a humorous undertone.

“I was goin’ leave her any way, so dat ain’ bin de thing made me quit,” Carmelite answered, artlessly. “Miss Newgeem des natchally had too much shiftin’ o’ de dishes for de fewness o’ de vittuls; an’ I ain’ never bin used to eatin’ light.” At this reference to food, Susan became conscious of a sense of lax hospitality, whereupon she said: “Dey got plenny gumbo in dat pot you see stannin’ on de h’af; an’ plenny sweet potato pies yonder [42] in de safe; so you ain’ need to feel strange ’bout breakin’ yo’ fas’—lessen you bin et heavy befo’ you come hyuh dis evenin’.”

The suggestion was opportune. Smiles of appreciation from one to the other showed that the invitation was agreeable to all.

Susan went to the safe and distributed plates to the women, and Nat and Felo began placing chairs around the table. She filled the plates with a generous portion of snowy rice and fragrant gumbo, and the women arranged them on the shining new oil cloth.

“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’!” Nat exclaimed. “Sis’ Susan, you sho spoons out dat gumbo wid a tantalizin’ scent! Set down, members, an’ smack yo’ lips; an’ Gawd bless de cook for de feas’ dis evenin’.”

They gathered about the table with lively interest and sat down and began eating. Uncle Foteen was sleeping quietly before the fire. Dink was sitting across the room, looking on with wistful glances, and making querulous music on the comb. On discovering his aloofness, Susan called to him: “Boy, put dat comb out yo’ han’, an’ come set to de table an’ eat yo’ vittuls. You ain’ hongry?”

“Yassam. But I come ’way from home in a hurry, an’ my haid ain’ comb’.”

“Boy, take dat comb you got in yo’ han’ an’ pass it thoo’ yo’ head, den come set to de table.”

Having a better knowledge of the nature of Dink’s hirsute endowment than Susan had, Soongy came to the rescue.

“Leave ’im be, Sis’ Susan,” she told her. “Leave ’im eat whah he settin’. Wid dem grape-twisses Dink got on ’is head, it’ll take ’im all night to git thoo bat’lin wid ’um.”

Accepting the plausibility of Soongy’s statement, Susan took Dink a plate of gumbo and left him to enjoy it in his quiet corner alone. She went back to the table to see that Tom was made thoroughly comfortable, and to ply her guests with coffee and pies, and refill their plates with rice and gumbo if they wanted more. Their enjoyment was keen and genuine; enlivened with much playful banter and merry laughter, and amusing gossip about the doings and sayings of the “w’ite folks;” which, after a while, developed into a sort of philosophic commentary.

Nat’s oratory was in full flower, and Felo applauded him, an encouraging ally. Always unorthodox [44] in his views, his over-enthusiasm now became offensive to the women, and their dissenting voices began to fill the room with shrill echoes. Susan realized that a harsh dispute was imminent and something had to be done to prevent it. The fortuitous whimpering of Dink’s comb arrested her attention, and she welcomed the plaintive sound as a divine interruption. Fixing her eyes on the front door, she arose from her chair with unusual energy, and tapping her spoon on her plate with a ringing sound, she called out:

“Stop dis racket up in hyuh! Y’all take my house for a honky-tonk? Quit yo’ racket an’ try an’ talk like people.”

Her positive tone brought immediate silence. Everyone looked uneasily towards the door, anticipating the entrance of some accusing moderator of the peace. Seeing no one appear, Nat said:

“Gawd knows, Sis’ Susan, you oughta stop play’n chillun tricks, ole as you is. W’at sattafaction you fin’ try’n to frighten people like dat?”

“You ain’ too ole to make racket, is you?” Susan asked quietly. “An’ w’at sattafaction you fin’, mult’plyin’ words an’ ’sputin’ wid wimmins till you stirs ’um up to hot blood an’ spiteful wranglin’,—an’ und’ my roof, too? W’at you gotta say ’bout it?”

“For Gawd sake, stop y’all quoilin’ an’ set down,” interposed Tom. “Y’all had to wait till big Sunday to gether hyuh an’ make a ruckus?... Susan, whah dat boy gone wid de comb? Tell him to blow music on de thing an’ change dese niggers ’maginashun.”

A second request was unnecessary. Dink’s appetite being gratefully appeased, his mental attitude was one of harmonious sociability. Adjusting the tissue paper on his comb, he put the outlandish instrument to his lips and began playing with spirit the old shout called “De W’ite Horse Pawin’ in de Valley.” The merry melody floated through the room, the infectious lilt taking possession of the listeners’ thoughts and holding them captives to its insistent appeal. They began to sway gently to-and-fro, their bodies, like their minds, intoxicated by the captivating rhythm. The women began to hum; a low, melodious hum, like the far-away sound of a colony of wood birds awakening at day-break. Then the men joined the humming, and the sound recalled the droning of distant village church bells, floating over quiet fields at sunset. And the mingling of the voices made one think of the rumbling of November winds chasing among the telegraph wires.

After a while, Felo began to sing the narrative [46] lines of the song, the others taking up the burden, and responding with growing fervor after each line:

The tuneful tumult awakened Uncle Foteen from his peaceful sleep, and he looked around the room bewildered, uncertain of his whereabouts. What did the gathering mean? Why were they sitting around the long white table, singing church songs? Whose wake was it? Who were they waiting for in the dim, lamp-lighted room?

“If dat candle burn out befo’ Marse Sylvain git [48] hyuh, we gotta put Ma’am Guillaume away. You know, we ain’ ’lowed to keep her too long.”

“Unc’ Foteen, lemme fix you some coffee an’ milk,” Susan said pleasantly; meaning to divert the old man’s thoughts. “An’ you all members, stop w’at you singin’,” she called to the chorus, “an’ sing somh’n w’at goin’ make Unc’ Foteen feel gay.”

Obeying Susan’s request, Dink began playing a rollicking melody on the comb; patting his foot vehemently on the brick-sprinkled floor, to mark the even time.

“Boy!” Felo called out to him indignantly, causing Dink to immediately stop playing. “Quit yo’ ratty music, an’ play somh’n decen’ w’at goes wid Sunday an’ fittin’ for Chrishtun people to sing.”

“Don’ pay ’im no ’tenshun, li’l boy,” Susan interposed. “Dis house my meetin’-house; an’ if dey got people in de buildin’ displease wid de himes an’ music an’ things, den leave ’um go some yuther place an’ hunt till dey finds de thing w’at suits ’um. So go ’head, li’l boy, an’ play an’ sing jes’ like yo’ min’ tell you.”

Further objection was useless after this declaration. Dink laid his comb on the bench along-side of him, and leaning back against the wall, began singing gaily:

It was a glorious moment. He knew that he was soloist supreme; that the song was his individual possession, and nobody would venture to sing it with him. He had them in his power. He would make Felo listen, whether or no. Almost rapturously he went on:

Having reached the end of the verse, his eyes skimmed the room for looks of approval. Several of the listeners were smiling appreciatively. Drawing a deep breath, he extended his chest imposingly, and went on with the chorus:

Dink looked appealingly at his aunt, and as he crossed over to Nat’s chair, Soongy answered for him:

“Boy, you sho got a gif’ straight from Gawd, quiv’in’ in dat th’oat o’ yone,” Nat said to him, patting him on the head patronizingly.

“A gif’ straight from de devil,” muttered Felo, looking at Nat and batting his eyelids with impatience.

“Since w’en you got to be so frien’ly wid de devil, he done showed you how to make ’videnashun ’twix w’at b’lonks to him an’ w’at b’lonks to Gawd?”

“Is Gawd give people gif’s to th’ow ’way, tellin’ ’bout devilment,—goin’ ’round singin’ all kind o’ sinful random; ’stid o’ raisin’ up dey voice to give praise to de things Gawd done sanctify?”

“W’at things de boy tol’ about in de song you cunsider Gawd ain’ sanctify?” Nat asked solemnly. “Can’t be de man watchin’ for de moon to come up behin’ de ’simmon tree. Dat ain’ natchal? Gawd ain’ sen’ de moon to shine, an’ make de water move, an’ help de plants to grow in de groun’, an’ give light so people kin know de right road from de wrong?—Dat ain’ natchal?... An’ Gawd ain’ make de sap rise in de young ooman an’ de young man, stirrin’ ’um up like de sap stirrin’ in de ’simmon tree, till dey feels somh’n curuss drawin’ ’um to’ads one-’nother?” He went on. “Dat ain’ natchal?

“An’ Gawd ain’ make de mawkin’-bird sing, settin’ in de aw’inge tree in de moonlight whah ’is ole lady kin ketch de a-ko ’is voice, w’en she settin’ lonely on top de aigs in de nes’?—Dat ain’ natchal?...

“Des like Gawd make de young man lif’ up ’is tenshun w’en he hyeah de soun’ o’ de young gal voice, comin’ up de lane, singin’ bol’ so she kin ’tract ’im?—Dat ain’ natchal?... Shucks! Ole crazy nigger. You gotta study yo’ lesson a heap [52] mo’, befo’ you go ’roun’ hyuh preachin’ to people so biggidy.”

Appearing fully satisfied with the delivery of his colorful remonstrance, Nat turned to Dink and said quietly:

“Boy, go yonder an’ play on yo’ comb till you make dese squinched-up niggers ’maginashun change, an’ dey finds out dat de sperret got yuther ways o’ movin’ ’um ’sides preachin’ on Bible texes an’ things.”

“Dah, bless Gawd!” Nookie exclaimed. “Unc’ Nat done win. Done put Mr. Felo out on a home run.”

“Who?” Felo replied, with calm amazement. “Felo goin’ stay right hyuh wid y’all till de party break up.”

His resolve was greeted with merry laughter and good-natured raillery; during which, Dink went back to his seat and began playing on the comb:

He came to the refrain, and every voice took up the words, singing with increasing fervor, until the song rolled like a pæan of deliverance:

The stirring refrain was drawing towards the end, when the door opened and another member came in.

A strange mystery surrounded Gussie’s origin. A mystery known to no one except old Aunt Fisky, [54] the kindly colored woman with whom he lived, the only mother he had ever known.

There were many legends related regarding Gussie’s origin, his birth, and his abandonment by his white family; some ribald, some romantic; any of which Gussie never troubled himself to comment on or disprove. He knew that he was white; that Aunt Fisky had raised him from infancy, and had given him her name; that he had lived his inconsequent years among illiterate Negroes; that it was sheer madness to hope to be received as a fellow-man by white people who despised him; and that life was nothing more than a merry game for anyone who could play it with a reckless spirit.

And so he spent his days among his chosen companions, resigned to his humble fate; satisfied with old Aunt Fisky’s motherly attentions, and the squalid atmosphere of the poor shanty they called home; comfortable with the boisterous young colored women who permitted him to bestow upon them the freedom of his prodigal affection; and companionable with the roustabouts and longshoremen with whom he worked and gambled and caroused; imbibing their thoughts and ideas, adopting their dialect, and imitating their manners and ways.

“W’at you know ’bout singin’, ole w’ite nigger?” Felo asked, half-jestingly. “Sho time to stop, w’en you come lopin’ up in hyuh an’ wan’ sing.”

It was a thrust that went deeper than Felo intended. Gussie understood that the feeling with which he was accepted by his colored companions was something more like tolerance than a feeling of genuine friendship; and the fact, unpleasant as it was, made him conscious of a natural sense of race pride and prejudice not easily overlooked.

“I know I’m w’ite, ole ugly nigger. But you ain’ got to tell me ’bout it. I bin knowin’ you ever sence we was chillun playin’ together; but you ain’ need to talk like dat befo’ all dis crowd.”

“Gussie,” Susan called to him quietly, “put yo’ hat yonder, an’ set down, an’ don’ ack so boist’us. You ain’ bin hyuh for over three weeks, an’ now you come an’ wan’ raise a confusion? Go set down an’ ack like people.”

Taking in the awkwardness of the situation with admirable tact, Carmelite asked:

“Gussie, how much Aun’ Fisky chahges for a dozen duck aigs? I got one muskovy duck home yonder I wan’ set befo’ de weather git too col’.”

“She bin gittin’ two-bits a dozen for ’um.” Gussie answered sullenly. “But she ain’ got no mo’, now.”

“Go ’way from hyuh, Gussie,” Carmelite answered, laughing. “W’at Mr. Gully wan’ do wid duck aigs in a baker-shop?”

“Who? Dey had a weddin’ yonder in Gritny las’ night?” Inquired Susan, eager to hear further particulars.

“Yas’m.” Gussie replied, becoming more amiable. “Dat w’ite ooman dey call Maggie Hutson. ’Twas her weddin.’”

“Lawd!” exclaimed Nookie in tones of great surprise. “You mean to say ole Maggie Hutson done got her a husban’, aft’ de sinful life she bin carryin’ all dese years up an’ down de road wid so many diffunt mens?... Lawd! Gussie, tell it agin; so I kin lissen if w’at you tellin’ is somh’n true.”

“Sho Gawd is.” Gussie assured her. “Maggie got her one husban’; an’ had her one sho-nuff weddin’, wid all de church bells ringin’; went ridin’ all thoo de town, settin’ back on de ca’idge seat ’long-side her fright’nes’-lookin’ skinny old man; wid a weepin’ veil hangin’ down ove’ her face, an’ a aw’inge flower wreath settin’ ’cross her fawid; jes’ a-bowin’ an’ smilin’ at people, like she wan’ show ’um she kin put on wreath an’ veil even if she is look like somebody come off a bad street.... Sho did. ’Twas like a fatal purrade goin’ roun’ Gritny.”

“Lawd, people! Lissen w’at Gussie sayin’.” Nookie exclaimed, laughing heartily. “Settin’ up in a ca’idge, wid aw’inge flowers on her head, brazen as she is! Lawd, people! Don’t you know da’s comical?”

“W’at make Maggie ain’ got de right to put aw’inge flowers in her head if da’s her pleasure?” Came Nat’s dissenting voice. “Y’all niggers sho like to fin’ somh’n wrong wid yuther people ways. Maggie got a right to put mustud-greens, an’ twis’ [58] cow-pea vines in her head if she fin’ it make her look good; an’ if da’s de way her min’ be workin’.”

“But, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla essayed to explain in behalf of the sisterhood, “de wimmins gotta think a li’l somh’n ’bout form an’ fashion, ain’t dey?... Wearin’ aw’inge flowers public like dat sho is redic’lus; cheap as Maggie bin made herself yonder in Gritny wid de mens.”

Getting up from his chair and gesticulating with both arms, as though addressing a crowd on an open road, Felo called out:

“Stan’ back, members! Stan’ back, an’ make room. ’Cause us sanctified sisters done commence pitchin’ rocks an’ stones.”

“Scilla ain’ spoke nothin’ w’at ain’ true,” Gussie interposed. “Evvybody yonder know Maggie hist’ry.”

At this point Susan’s rumination became audible: “An’ all dem w’at don’t, dey ain’ goin’ be long findin’ out, w’en yo’ mouf start runnin’.”

“Can’t help from knowin’ w’at I know, Aun’ Susan,” Gussie replied hurriedly in self-vindication. “Ain’ I bin worked for Maggie, spadin’ her garden, an’ w’ite-washin’ her kitchen; an’ bin had de freedom o’ de whole house, day-time an’ night-time, too?”

“Stop right whah you is, Gussie; befo’ you try to make we-all b’lieve you had de freedom o’ somh’n else besides.”

“Money ain’ nothin’ but money w’en somebody got somh’n to sell, ain’t it?... An’ one man ain’ look much diffunt from a yuther man in de dark,—even if he do be w’ite.”

“Look, Gussie!” He heard her call. “Black or w’ite,—w’ichever color you wan’ call it,—but you ain’ in no bar-room. Either yonder on de levee-front. So you better talk diffunt talk, if you wanna stay hyuh a li’l w’ile soshable dis evenin’.”

“I ain’ try’n to ack ugly, Aun’ Susan.” Gussie insisted. “I jes’ wan’ p’int out how Maggie try’n to make herself look like somh’n she ain’t . Da’s all.”

Nat leaned forward in his chair, and clasping his knees with his brawny black hands, braced himself for a philosophic argument.

“Nobody ain’ wan’ dispute Gussie dat he bin seen de aw’inge flowers an’ things Maggie had settin’ on top her head,” he went on. “But w’at we does wan’ know: Is Gussie bin able to see de change w’at moughta took place in Maggie tahminashun; an’ [60] w’at de feelin’ inside de ’ooman was,—direckin’ Maggie to do w’at she was cunsider right?... You know de sperret ways is sho myste’rous. An’ people gotta move accawdin’, w’en it strike you un-beknownce.”

“Who?... Yas indeed.” Carmelite agreed. “Sweet man Jesus is a heart-fixer an’ a mind-regalator, too.”

“An’ nobody ain’ need to scawn Maggie aw’inge flowers, either”; Susan added with calm assurance, “’aft de church ain’ found ’um comical, an’ de pries’ done sprinkle ’um wid holy water.”

Felo got up and gave the fire a vigorous poke, and turned to the company, saying:

“Stop y’all preachin’ on Maggie, for Gawd sake; an’ take yo’ tex’ from somh’n cuncernin’ we-all color. Maggie ain’ nothin’ to we-all, no way.”

“You sho right, Felo,” Aunt Susan concurred. “An’ thank you for sayin’ so.... An’ look,” she suggested genially, “some you mens oughta go yonder in de shed an’ fetch me a few sticks o’ wood for dis fire, befo’ it git too low.”

Gussie and Felo left the room to get the wood. Susan began pottering about the hearth. Nat fixed a pipe of tobacco, lighted it, and gave it to Tom; [61] then fixed one for himself and sat down and began smoking. Uncle Foteen was nodding in his chair by the fireside. Dink began playing softly on the comb, the women humming pleasantly with him, the soothing melody of “Po’ Moanuh got a Home at Las’.” Before long, the wave of discord had passed on, and the room became pervaded with a flood of harmony; the potent spell of music lifting their emotional natures to a sense of quiet, singing ecstasy and spiritual introspection. Felo and Gussie came in with several sticks of wood, and before putting them down, stood listening attentively.

“Lay ’um down easy, an’ leave Unc’ Foteen sleep.” Susan told them in a half-whisper.

“Y’all peaceful an’ nice now,” Felo remarked, “but you sho goin’ have noise up in hyuh w’en de circus come. Yonder Lizzie Cole an’ Chester Frackshun comin’ outside. So you better make up yo’ min’ to lissen at a loud racket w’en dey git hyuh.”

They took the announcement indifferently, and continued to sing until the new arrivals appeared in the doorway.

Although the daughter of a genteel, respected Baptist minister, Lizzie gave no evidence of possessing a single trait resembling dignity, discretion, docility, or any other element reflecting the reputed influence of the holy church, or the divinity of mortal man.

She earned her livelihood as a maid of any task, wherever chance might lead her. And however onerous the duties imposed upon her, she seldom failed to transliterate into vocal records of lasting mirth the nature of any experience.

Chester Frackshun was a tall, gaunt, pecan-faced young man; with a high-pitched voice and mincing manners. By a strange whim of inconsistent Fate, Lizzie was endowed with every masculine characteristic that Chester lacked; and Chester possessed many of the feminine traits that Lizzie could never hope to assume. These discrepancies, it would seem, welded the unusual bond of friendship existing between them. Chester depended on Lizzie with a feeling of childish trust; knowing that she would champion his weakness and timidity. And Lizzie was devoted to him because he relied on her protection, [63] and because he amused her, and understood her humor as well.

Chester usually worked as cook on the passenger boats running across Lake Pontchartrain, up the Amite river, from New Orleans to the French Settlement. Lizzie had made a number of trips with him, working as chambermaid, getting small pay but having a “good time an’ plenny fun laughin’ at de Cajuns.”

Sometimes Chester would take a position as cook with a large family in the city; and frequently managed to have Lizzie with him, doing odd jobs and making the time pass merrily while it lasted. They shared many humorous experiences, and their retelling of them was always a feature of any gathering where they happened to be present.

[64]

Lizzie was dressed in a severely plain gray woolen dress, the tight-fitting basque spanning her uncorseted luxuriance like a huge bandage about to give way under the pressure. Her head was bare, and her hair arranged in innumerable little plaits wound with shoestrings. Chester wore a stiff-bosomed pink shirt, with a celluloid collar; an ill-fitting piqué vest, frayed and yellow with age; and a purple cravat decorated with a splendid blue glass ball, which declared itself a lady’s hatpin rescued to serve a more eccentric purpose. His clothes were of a light blue shade; and his shoes, orange yellow.

“Hi! good cittazun niggers. W’at y’all doin’ up in hyuh? How you do, Aun’ Susan? Hi! old compair Tom. Good evenin’ evvybody.—An’ you too, ole roustabout Gussie.”

“Gal, stop yo’ racket,” Susan said, going over to her and speaking quietly. “Don’t you see somebody sleepin’? W’at ailin’ you? You bin had somh’n to drink comin’ ’long de road?”

“Who?” Lizzie echoed, unmindful of Susan’s admonition. “Lizzie ain’ seen nothin’ but gutter water ’long de road, Sis’ Susan; an’ you know Lizzie too well-raise’ to tackle dat.”

“Chester, how you do?” Scilla coquetted, trying to embarrass him. “You sho look sweet.”

“Chester do alright w’en he let alone,” Lizzie answered quickly. “But de boy bin complainin’ he delicate an’ healt’y, an’ you know we comed a long way to make visit wid y’all dis evenin’; an’ we kind o’ dry roun’ de th’oat. An’ Sis’ Susan you could’n’ len’ Chester a bucket an’ leave him go yonder to Mr. Camille sto’ an’ git some col’ stimmalashun, so we kin drink to each-another healt’; could you?”

“You ain’ on no steamboat ’munks deck-hans, Lizzie,” Susan replied with sharp sarcasm. “An’ you know good I ain’ ’low no drinkin’ up in my house, either.”

“O ’scuse me, Miss Smiley,” Lizzie apologized, affecting a grandiloquent air. “I sho did forgot you was sanctify.”

“Gal, set down, an’ drink some coffee, an’ stop yo’ dev’lish ramblin’.”

“Coffee ain’ sattafyin’ to de stummic, Mr. Tom”; Chester’s mild falsetto made timely comment, “’specially w’en you bin used to lickers mo’ nur’-shin’.... You goin’ drink coffee, Lizzie?” He asked her wonderingly.

“Boy, set down, an’ don’ show people how ignun you is,” Lizzie answered, scowling playfully and pretending to be greatly annoyed. “Don’t you [66] know ’tain manners an’ behayviah to scawn de of’rins o’ de house?... Bow yo’ head an’ tip yo’ hat to Miss Smiley coffee. An’ w’en we git yonder to Gritny, den you kin say thang Gawd to dat cup o’ limmon gin in Mr. Cholly Groos bar-room.”

Chester sat down obediently, everybody laughing heartily at the amusing by-play.

Going over to the fire, Lizzie sat down on the floor near Tom’s chair; took off her shoes and spread out her feet to warm them before the pleasant blaze. As she settled into a comfortable position, she heard several grunts of surprise from the women. Gazing at the fire, she said with delightful unconcern:

“I know I’m simple; but I sho likes to make myself at home, whah-ever I goes.... An’ dese pair o’ feets Lizzie got, cert’ny is tired; all de walkin’ me an’ Chester bin doin’ yistiddy an’ today.”

“W’at walkin’ you an’ Chester got to do?... You ain’ workin’?” Came the chorus of inquiry.

“Workin’?” Lizzie echoed, looking around from one to the other. “I know I ain’ bin play’n.... An’ dem nasty heroes sho ain’ goin’ think Lizzie play’n, if ever I ketch up wid ’um close enough to lay my han’s on ’um, an’ leave my passion run reckless.... Who?... Dey sho will call it workin’, w’en Lizzie commence workin’ on ’um.”

“Chester, w’at ail Lizzie?” Gussie asked. “She talkin’ out her right min’, ain’t she?”

“Lizzie got her good sense,” Chester answered. “She know w’at she sayin’. An’ she ain’ fraid to tell you, if you wan’ know.”

“But how many settin’ in dis room goin’ be witness Lizzie done right if dey go to put Lizzie in jail?”

“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’!” Nat exclaimed. “You ain’ kilt nobody, is you?”

“I ain’ mean to kill nobody, Unc’ Nat,” she assured him. “All Lizzie wan’ do, is wreck de nasty heroes so dey own fam’ly won’ recanize ’um; da’s all.”

“Gal, stop makin’ riddles, an’ talk plain, for Gawd sake,” Susan said, impatient to learn the scandal. “Who you talkin’ ’bout, any way?”

“Ain’t y’all hyeah’d w’at dey done to Chester las’ Saddy night, w’en he was comin’ home from ole Aun’ Critty Briscoe wake, yonder to my Pa church?”

“Who?... Done w’at?... Tell it.” They prevailed upon her with eager curiosity.

“Ain’ found out yet,” Lizzie informed them, with [68] growing enthusiasm. “But Gawd ain’ goin’ leave me miss ’um. Da’s de main reason I’m goin’ to church wid Chester tonight w’en we leave hyuh.... So I kin follow behin’ an’ lay ’um out, if dey start any humbug like las’ week.”

“But you ain’ tol’ yet anything ’bout w’at dey did,” Gussie said to her casually.

“Some y’all kin laugh, if you like, ’bout w’at dey done to Chester.” Then with a look of suspicion towards Gussie: “An’ some yuther ones better think on w’at dey hyeah me tell I’m goin’ do, if I ketch ’um dead to rights.”

“W’at make you gotta look at me so crittacul? I bin had any traffic wid Chester, you wan’ th’ow suspicion on me ’bout w’at was did to ’im?”

“Chester,” Lizzie called to him peremptorily, “ain’t you said you could see in de moonlight plain, dey was’n all dark-skin mens w’at meddled you an’ pulled off yo’ clo’se, an’ sont you runnin’ thoo de street wid nothin’ on but yo’ undershirt?”

“Sho did,” Chester answered firmly. “Dey had one de mens sho did look bright-skin to me.”

“Right down on de Morgan railroad, jes befo’ [69] you git to de pastur,” Chester answered. “I was goin’ along, singin’ to myself; ain’ stud’in ’bout nobody; w’en all at once, three or fo’ mens spring out de bushes, an’ say to me: ‘Pull off dat lady undershirt you got on, ole Betsy!’ ... An’ befo’ I had time to cunsider w’at was goin’ happen, dey had grab hold o’ me, an’ pulled off my clo’se befo’ I knowed it.

“I commence strug’lin’ wid ’um to git loose; an’ I bit at ’um an’ hollered so loud, till dey had to lemme go. Den I broke out runnin’, an’ ain’ stop till I got home.... An’ ain’ had a Gawd’s blessed piece o’ clo’se on but a thin undershirt.”

“W’at business you got to know?” Lizzie demanded, speaking with growing excitement. “It make any diffunce to anybody if Chester feel like he wan’ put on a lady undershirt? Dat ain’ give people no right to meddle Chester on de high road, an’ ’zamine his body to see w’at kind o’ und’-clo’se de boy got on.... But wait till Lizzie ketch up wid ’um! Jes’ wait.... Y’all sho goin’ see how Lizzie goin’ ’zamine de nasty Hellians, once she got her two han’s on ’um! Who?... None y’all ain’ never seen Lizzie Cole w’en her passion done struck her powerful!”

“Cha-cha-cha, Lizzie,” Susan said contemptuously, “stop yo’ tongue from runnin’ so fas’. You know guinea-hens kin make a loud racket w’en dey be in de weeds, off to dey-self.”

“Who? Aun’ Susan,” she answered quickly, “You ain’ think Lizzie talkin’ random to make y’all laugh, is you? You know I ain’ never bin had no chillun, an’ all my strank is my own.... An’ I promise my Gawd to sho do my bes’ an’ a li’l mo’, w’en de time come for me to take my sattafaction.”

“Strank ain’ de onlies’ thing Lizzie countin’ on, Unc’ Nat,” she assured him. “You know it don’ take no time to stick a needle in somebody nabel w’en you wan’ do ’way wid ’um.”

This statement was greeted with general laughter, during which Lizzie’s expression was one of serious amazement. As soon as their laughter and playful comment subsided, she continued:

“I ain’ makin’ up nothin’ out my ’maginashun. W’at I’m say’n is natchal fac’s. You pass a needle thoo somebody nabel, an’ tain nobody but Gawd kin tell w’at dey died from.”

“An’ you expec’ we-all to b’lieve a tale like dat?” Felo asked with disdain.

“Y’all know how Unc’ Peesah died sudden las’ [71] New Yeahs,” Chester announced solemnly. “But you ain’ never hyeah’d w’at kilt ’im, is you?”

“Colic; so dey tell me”; Soongy answered, “from eatin’ too much buttermilk an’ cucumber sallit befo’ he went to bed.”

“Whah Unc’ Peesah could git cucumbers in Jannawerry?” Nat demanded. “Don’t you re’lize w’at you say’n ain’ sinetiffic?”

“You sho right, Unc’ Nat,” Chester concurred. “Colic ain’ had a thing to do wid it. ’Twas a fatal needle sont Unc’ Peesah ’way from hyuh. An’ nobody don’ know it better’n me.”

“Lawd, Chester!” Nookie exclaimed in surprise. “W’at hidden myst’ry dis is you done got mixed up in? Lemme hyeah you tell ’bout it.”

“Chester,” Lizzie called to him abruptly, “pass yo’ han’ ’cross yo’ mouf an’ wipe it dry.... You know, dey got mo’ ways o’ spreadin’ de news besides puttin’ it in de newspaper.... Wipe yo’ mouf, boy, an’ say no mo’.”

For a few moments there was a general silence, all eyes fixed upon Chester expectantly. Presently Gussie spoke:

“Lizzie, w’at make you wan’ control Chester an’ keep de boy from talkin’?”

“’Cause talkin’ is ketchin’,” Lizzie answered. “An’ some people got a reckless way o’ speakin’ dey [72] words twice an’ makin’ ’um diffunt. So you gotta watch out an’ keep from tellin’ too much. An’ any way, de boy done wiped his lips; an’ me an’ Chester jus’ ’bout ready to fix we-all mouf for some o’ Sis’ Susan gumbo, befo’ we start out for church, yonder to Gritny.”

Getting up from the floor, she shook herself like a hen emerging from a dust bath, kicked her shoes aside, and called out with energy:

“Come on, Sis’ Smiley, lemme help you fix de plates. Dey got two hongry niggers hyuh kin outeat a mul’tude o’ Izzalites.” Then looking at Chester, she said to him boisterously: “Boy, drap yo’ ole long self over to dis side de table an’ try’n’ look like you got a intrus’ in de things goin’ on!... You ain’ never heah’d tell ’bout gumbo befo’?”

Chester simpered good-naturedly and took a seat at the table. When the gumbo was served, Lizzie sat down alongside of him and they began eating. Dink’s whimpering music was heard over in the corner of the room, waking like a timely invitation, and several members began humming softly.

Gussie, eager for conversation, was about to speak; when Nat, preferring to have no irrelevant distraction, held up his hands for silence, rolling his eyes ominously. Gussie obeyed the sign, and the humming [73] flowed on uninterrupted. By degrees it gathered volume, sustained and fervent; every one surrendering unconsciously to the ingratiating lilt of the pulsing melody.

Tom sat humming with his hands to his head, his elbows resting on his knees. Susan was sitting opposite, swaying to and fro in rhythmic contemplation. Nat sat upright with his head resting against the back of his chair, his brawny hands clasping the chair legs. Uncle Foteen sat with his eyes closed, every now and then intoning a low “A-men.” The women accentuated the rhythm as they hummed, with a gentle patting of the feet. And Felo’s spasmodic interpolation of a picturesque word or a fragmentary line from the song proper, added rare charm to the fleeting tuneful moments.

Lizzie and Chester were eating with evident enjoyment, apparently interested in the obligato of voices. Having finished her gumbo, Lizzie leaned back in her chair, and in a spirit of careless mischief began singing lustily the old street song,

Felo’s loud reprimand brought her song to an abrupt close. Glowering with indignation, he called to her:

“Gal, git out o’ hyuh wid yo’ strumpet ways! W’at you take dis place to be, anyhow? You better go out yonder on de road, an’ play wid yo’ kind, if you can’ ack right w’en you git ’munks people w’at know how to be decen’.”

“But no, Mr. Felo,” Lizzie answered with genuine surprise. “You ain’ mean to call me out my name like dat, is you?”

“W’at you is, if you ain’ a strumpet?” Felo asked with vehemence. “I ain’ hesitate to call you a double strumpet; reckless as you is;—on-cuncernin’ of you bein’ a preacher daughter, an’ plenny ole enough to know better.”

“Look!” She called to Lizzie. “Ain’t you say you an’ Chester was goin’ to church yonder to Gritny?”

Lizzie looked at Susan without replying. Going over to her, Susan took her by the arm, saying:

“If you is goin’, den y’all two better start befo’ it git too late.” Then turning to Felo, she said: “Felo, go yonder in de side yard an’ fetch me a pitcher o’ cistun water.”

“Good thing I ain’ let my tongue cut loose an’ say evvything my min’ tol’ me to say to dat ole rusty [75] w’ite-folks nigger.... It mus’ bin Gawd tol’ you sen’ him out de room. Sis’ Susan.”

“An’ Gawd expec’in you to go ’way from hyuh befo’ Felo git back. So don’ was’e time talkin’, but go ’long ... Chester, yonder yo’ hat. Take Lizzie wid you to de New Hope church an’ see ’f you can’ make her pray. Go ’long, now, bofe of you; an’ no hard feelin’s.”

Fully aware of Susan’s positive character, and feeling convinced that further argument was useless, Lizzie made ready to leave with silent magnanimity. She walked over to the fireplace proudly, saying with a haughty air:

“Chester, pay Miss Smiley de change comin’ to her, till I put on my shoes.”

“Good-night to y’all fellow-Chrishtuns,” Lizzie said with spurious geniality. “An’ much oblige’ for yo’ manners an’ behavior.”

“Da’s right, Lizzie”; he said to her, “don’ go ’way from hyuh wid yo’ feelin’s upset ’bout somh’n [76] was said to you. Good-night to you; an’ Gawd go wid you.”

“Go to Hell!” She told him; pushing Chester through the open door and slamming it after her.

The road which Lizzie and Chester had to take from Susan’s cook shop down to church in the village, was a lonely, desolate stretch of about two miles. The few homes along the river front were poor, depleted reminders of old plantation days, few and far between, and setting far back from the road. If one took the railroad track running parallel with the high levee, unless the moon was shining, there was no other light to show the way but the clear glimmer of the stars; provided there was no mist in the sky or dripping fog creeping along the land. If one took the path on the top of the levee, the reflection from the electric lights on the New Orleans’ side of the river helped to point out the puddles and uneven places, and the vagrant cows that selected the grassy prominence for their somnolent ruminating.

After a while one came to the cotton seed oil mills with their spreading wharves built over the water, and the numerous electric lights and occasional patrolling [77] nightwatchman offered a certain sense of protection. But it was not until one had passed through the long aisles of cotton seed in sacks, and bales of lint piled to a great height and covered with suspicious-looking tarpaulins, from under which imaginary ruffians might spring unawares, that a wholesome feeling of courage came to one before entering the village. Then, there was Mr. Cholly Groos’s bar-room, just at the edge of the town; and the thought of his inspiriting lemon-gin always made one “step light an’ ready to face the devil.”

Having traipsed the lonely distance with little or no conversation between them, Lizzie at length proposed going to Mr. Cholly’s for a comforting cup before proceeding to her father’s church at the back of the town. Chester was agreeable and they hurried forward, talking pleasantly.

“Well, I jus’ wan’ know sho if you got money. ’Cause I don’ care if I get good an’ drunk tonight; ole Felo done got me feelin’ so upset,—callin’ me out my name like he did, yonder befo’ all dem people.”

“W’at good gittin’ drunk goin’ do you?” Chester asked reprovingly. “’Tain’ goin’ hurt Felo none, is it?”

“Nasty, scawnful, w’ite-folks nigger,” she muttered with deep contempt. “I ain’ goin’ leave myself res’ till I git even wid ’im.... You watch me.”

“Ain’ Felo a member de New Hope church?” Chester insinuated with artful meaning. “Felo over hyuh evvy Sunday night; an’ dey ain’ got no under-groun’ workers kin tell you somh’n ’bout Felo tracks?”

“Boy, you sho got a good head,” Lizzie answered. “Stay wid me; an’ no matter w’at happen, ’twon’ be nobody but Chester an’ Lizzie.... W’at you say?”

“Gawd grant it,” he answered. And laughing merrily, they walked on towards the glimmering light from the bar-room door, a welcome beacon at the head of the street.

They soon reached the place, and as Lizzie entered, followed by Chester, she called out gaily:

“Two big cups o’ limmon-gin, Mr. Cholly. An’ po’ ’um out heavy; ’cause me an’ Chester feelin’ kind o’ weak an’ puny dis evenin’.”

Across the room several men were playing cards. Recognizing Lizzie, one of them said to her:

“How come you don’ stop play’n wid Chester, an’ git you a sho-nuf man w’at kin give you a good time, an’ show you somh’n natchal befo’ ole age come creepin’ up on you?” [79] Lizzie stopped drinking, and glaring at him angrily, she answered with clinched teeth:

“Good thing Mr. Cholly stannin’ hyuh, ole nigger. ’Cause I sho would tell you somh’n mo’ besides ‘damn yo’ nasty soul an’ go to Hell.’” After which, she gulped the remainder of her lemon-gin and stalked out of the room, leaving Chester to take care of the payment.

She waited for him outside, and when he came to her, they started off together. As they walked along, the awkward silence was broken now and then by Chester’s subdued humming. Lizzie appeared to be occupied with some burdening thought.

At last they reached the church door. The place was quite crowded and the members were singing lustily. Lizzie recognized the funeral hymn, which caused her some surprise. As they entered, a young woman named Lethe greeted them, and Lizzie asked her:

“One ole lady dey calls Aun’ Milly,” Lethe informed her. “Sis’ Amy Hollan’ Ma. Come fum Peach Awchud, yonder to Bayou Bah-tah-yuh.”

“Gawd knows, Lizzie,” she went on, “I ain’ never [80] got de straight ’bout de thing. You know, Aun’ Amy bin drunk for mos’ a week, an’ nobody ain’ bin able to git de right news fum ’uh.”

“An’ dey bring de ole lady all de way from Peach Awchud hyuh, to sing ove’ ’uh?” Lizzie asked, half-playfully.

“Lizzie, don’ ply me wid a whole lot o’ queshtun I ain’ able to answer. All I know, I’m goin’ tell you, if you wan’ lissen.”

“Come set hyuh an’ talk ’bout it,” Chester suggested, leading them to a bench in the corner and sitting down. “Now, go ’head.”

“Well, you know,” Lethe began again, “me an’ my brether Booguloo took a skiff soon dis mawnin’, an’ went down Harvey Cunnal to see my cousin Dootsy, cookin’ yonder at de camp for dem mens pickin’ moss to Li’l Coquille bayou.”

“How much a pound dey gits for black moss, Lethe?” inquired Chester, interrupting her story.

“Boy, shet yo’ mouf!” Lizzie commanded sharply. “Lethe ain’ talkin’ ’bout sellin’ no moss. She talkin’ ’bout de ole lady call Aun’ Milly,—layin’ yonder ’ceasded. (Deceased.) Don’t you hyeah ’um singin’ ove’ ’uh? Shet up, an’ lissen.”

“Well, like I was goin’ say: me an’ Booguloo was [81] helpin’ my cousin Dootsy spread de green moss in de sun to dry on de bushes growin’ on de side de cunnal bank; w’en w’at we seen comin’ roun’ de ben’ up de cunnal, but a skiff cov’ud over wid a muskeeter-bar up on cane reed poles, lookin’ like a natchal bed floatin’ on de water; an’ wavin’ up an’ down,—shinin’ in de sun like a cream-color flag.

“Booguloo say: ‘But w’at dis thing is?... Somebody ain’ use’ to muskeeters, an’ gotta ride in big daylight, settin’ up und’ a muskeeter net?... Dis ain’ no cheap people. Dis mus’ be qual’ty folks.’

“I say: Maybe somebody sick, an’ dey bin took ’um to de doctor, yonder to Gritny. You know muskeeter-bite bad for de fever; so maybe da’s w’at make dey put up de muskeeter net.

“Bime-by de skiff come a li’l closer, an’ we seen dey had a ole cullud man pullin’; an’ a big fat dark-skin ooman settin’ on de back seat.

“Booguloo give a good look, an’ he say: ‘Sho is, Lethe. Da’s Aun’ Amy own-self. An’ I bet she drunk as a policeman on Mahdi Gras day!’

“An’ Booguloo was right, too. ’Cause w’en de skiff come close enough for us to call to Aun’ Amy, [82] she look like somebody simple; an’ she could hardly talk.

“I say: Aun’ Amy, you mus’ bin heard de muskeeters was bad out hyuh soon in de mawnin’, ain’t you?

“She look at me like somebody jus’ woke up, an’ she say: ‘Da’s w’at de tell me.’ Talkin’ slow, like her tongue mos’ pah’lize.

“I say: An’ dey goin’ take ’uh all de way to Gritny to wake ’uh, an’ have de berrin’?

“Booguloo say: ‘Look Mister; go ’head wid yo’ skiff. Hurry up an’ pull Aun’ Amy yonder to Peach Awchud, an’ leave ’uh learn somh’n mo’ concernin’ w’at dey goin’ do wid ’uh Ma. ’Cause she ain’ look like she know nothin’ ’bout de po’ ole soul.’

“So dah whah de skiff went on down de bayou. An’ [83] I ain’ know nothin’ futher, till I got hyuh to de church dis evenin’, an’ foun’ all de members singin’ ove’ Aun’ Milly.”

The amusing recital furnished Lizzie with keen enjoyment and she was laughing heartily. When Lethe had finished, Chester asked her:

“But how dey got de ole lady way from Peach Awchud so quick? Peach Awchud mo’n eighteen miles down the bayou. How dey brought ’uh up?”

“Dey fetched ’uh up in de skiff, rolled up in a blanket; wid Aun’ Amy settin’ on de back seat und’ de muskeeter net, speechless drunk, like she was w’en me an’ Booguloo seen ’uh dis mawnin’. An’ ’uh oldes’ daughter, Frozine, was waitin’ at de head o’ de cunnal wid Mr. Antoine groc’ry wagon; an’ dey brung ’uh straight hyuh to de church ’bout two hours ago.”

“She settin’ up yonder on de front row, pah’lize drunk, try’n to sing. An’ nobody can’ get de po’ soul to budge.”

“Aun’ Amy mus’ be got a flas’ hide somewhah in ’uh pocket,” ventured Chester. “She still drunk from soon dis mawnin’ till now.”

“Mus’ be,” agreed Lethe. “Sis’ Fanny an’ Frozine bin try’n to git Aun’ Amy home to ’uh house, to [84] drink some strong coffee, but she keep on say’n, talkin’ like somebody goin’ sing:

“Den w’en Frozine try to coax ’uh home, she say, jes’ like she singin’:

“Sis’ Fanny keep on say’n to ’uh: ‘Da’s alright, Sis’ Amy; yo’ Ma ain’ goin’ be lef’ alone. Come go home wid me, an’ drink some strong coffee to bring yo’ strank back, an’ you goin’ feel better.’”

“It soun’ like it oughta be pitiful,” said Lizzie, with a light laugh. “But it sho goin’ start me gig’lin’, if I go in yonder whah Aun’ Amy settin’, an’ lissen at w’at she say’n. So set hyuh wid me, Lethe, an’ leave us talk till we feels like joinin’ wid de singin’.”

Chester got up to go. “Well, y’all kin set hyuh long as you please,” he said, “but I’m goin’ up yonder in front to view Aun’ Amy an’ watch w’at goin’ on. Look for me, Lizzie, w’en you git ready to go.”

Left to themselves, now came the time for comment and confidences. Lethe was a notorious gossip, and Lizzie, being an omnivorous listener, there was little need to fear a moment of monotony during the time they were together. Not a member present escaped criticism or ridicule; Lizzie’s keen enjoyment helping to encourage Lethe’s loquacious humor. And when her knowledge of the doings and sayings of her colored friends was exhausted, she was able to recount any number of ludicrous stories about “de w’ite-folks”; irrespective of their station; whether they were “nothin’ but parties an’ parties [86] wid no fam’ly o’ people,” or “p’yo w’ite-folks wid high-up connection.”

Desiring a share of the honor of entertaining, Lizzie told some of her amusing adventures on the steamboat when along with Chester; of her visit to Susan’s cook shop that evening, and her unpleasant encounter with Felo; which account she embroidered elaborately for the better satisfaction of the amazed Lethe, whom she soon discovered to be Felo’s particular friend.

“An’ you say you lef’ Felo yonder to Susan cook shop?” Lethe asked with curious interest.

“Lef’ him yonder eatin’ an’ drinkin’, wid Scilla an’ Soongy an’ Carm’lite an’ Nookie, an’ Unc’ Nat an’ some yuther mens,” Lizzie informed her. “An’ maybe dey got a heap mo’ wimmins by now, ’cause you know I’m bin gone from yonder a good w’ile.”

This was unwelcome news to Lethe. Her forehead settled into a deep frown, and gazing into space, she thought aloud:

“An’ de ole smooth-tongue hypocrite goin’ come home long aft’ hours tonight, w’en I be in bed, an’ goin’ say he jus’ come from Mr. Amos house, ’cross de river.... But wait;—I’m goin’ fix him dis blessed night o’ my Lawd, sho as I’m bawn.”

“W’at you mean, Lethe? You goin’ to Sis’ Fanny house an’ wait till Felo come home?”

“Wa’t you think goin’ take me to Sis’ Fanny house, w’en I got a good house o’ my own?” she returned, with a show of impatience.

“Lizzie, ain’t you know Felo bin stay’n wid me to my house evvy Sunday night for a long time? You ain’ think Felo come all de way clean ’cross de river jes’ to go to de New Hope church, is you?”

“I know he all time braggin’ ’bout bein’ a good Chrishtun,” Lizize said, with cautious innocence. “But I ain’ never heayh’d ’im bring yo’ name in de queshtun no time.”

Lethe’s mind was busy chasing after her wandering thoughts. “So da’s w’at make him come late all de time,” she ruminated. “Goin’ yonder to Susan cook shop. Den comin’ hyuh wid a lie in ’is mouf, ’bout Mr. Amos keepin’ ’im late.”

“Mens is mens, Lethe,” Lizzie consoled her. “An’ you think Felo gotta be diffunt from de res’ dese niggers, jes’ because he bin livin’ to Mr. Amos house so long an’ know somh’n ’bout w’ite-folks ways?.... Who? It sho goin’ take a better man den ole ’ceitful Felo to keep me from havin’ my pleasure, w’en de worl’ so big an’ handy to play [88] ’roun’ in.... Git up from hyuh, Lethe; an’ rub dem wrinkles out yo’ face, an’ leave us go up yonder an’ sing ove’ Aun’ Milly.... Come on. Dey done start “Po’ Li’l Jesus,” an’ ’twon’ be long befo’ de whole buildin’ be rockin’.... Come on, lessus go.”

Lethe looked at her dejectedly. “Go ’head, an’ sing much as you please,” she said, “I’m goin’ home.”

The first of these, interpreted by many of his unsympathetic friends as a sort of unseemly arrogance, which they called his “biggidy ways,” won for him the name of “w’ite-folks nigger.” While the second brought him the assurance of a permanent [89] home, and fixed his standing as a member of the household, a sort of heir by annexation;—“joint arran’ de fam’ly,” as he called it. As he and Mr. Amos had been playmates from early childhood, his connection in reality was more like that of a faithful friend, than the position of a common servant without rights and privileges. And to keep faith with Mr. Amos and hold his confidence and lasting respect, was next to keeping his covenant with God.

When he came back to work the day after his visit to Susan’s cook shop, he was conscious of something having happened which might shake this feeling of trust; and the burdening thought troubled him sorely. Try as he would, he was unable to free himself of the haunting fact or invent a reasonable excuse to explain his somber mood, which he was certain would not escape Mr. Amos’s attention. Song, at all times an easy means for expressing the gladness or turbulence of his emotional soul, now deserted him completely. And when he tried to pray, his mind went groping about in a wilderness of mist and fog, unable to find a word or thought that would bring him any spiritual relief.

To elude Mr. Amos was out of the question; because it was an understood custom, that Felo must [90] sit across the room and talk while Mr. Amos ate; giving a detailed account of his week-end trip across the river, with the doings and sayings of his colored friends, most of whom Mr. Amos knew from early childhood. It was always a delightful conference, and Mr. Amos encouraged it with genuine interest.

A quiet evening spent at home alone with Felo, he declared, was sure to be an evening of picturesque thought and spontaneous, refreshing entertainment. Because humble Felo had more to offer in the way of colorful, living literature, than one could ever expect to find at the colorless teas and elaborate dinner parties of many pseudo-literary white friends.

In the center of the table was a shallow dark green [91] bowl filled with dainty, pink wild mimosa blossoms; the unusual color combination together with the acquisition of the rare little flowers, causing Mr. Amos to wonder in silent admiration. After a while he said to Felo:

“Ma ain’ got no time to play wid no garden; wid all dem chillun an’ dat hog she got to look to.”

“Who goin’ buy tetch-me-not flow’rs, w’en dey got ’um growin’ wil’ like grass, all up an’ down de railroad track?”

“Well,” said Mr. Amos, “wherever they came from, they’re very lovely; and I suppose I must thank you for bringing them to me.”

Felo made no reply, but sat looking at the floor vacantly. His silence was unusual and Mr. Amos wondered at it. Felo was always ready for conversation. Was there anything the matter, Mr. Amos asked him.

Folding his arms slowly, he leaned forward on his knees and looked away from Mr. Amos as he spoke:

“Man, eat yo’ foods, for Gawd sake; an’ don’ ask so many inquis’tun queshtun. Git thoo so I kin wash dese dishes an’ go yonder to my room.”

“What’s the matter with you tonight?” Mr. Amos asked with a show of impatience. “Are you sick? Are you tired? Anything the matter at home?”

“Man, don’ plague me,” he answered appealingly. “Be still an’ don’ worry me. Do I look like anybody sick?”

“You look about as healthy as somebody dead and buried,” Mr. Amos answered, smiling playfully. “What happened to you that you look so forlorn and friendless?”

“Nobody but de devil sont you hyuh to plague me tonight. My feelin’s is my feelin’s; an’ nothin’ ain’ goin’ change ’um. So ’tain no use talkin’ an’ try’n tell w’at make ’um so.”

“Alright, deacon,” Mr. Amos answered, with an air of feigned indifference. “If you think there’s nothing I can do to help you smooth out the kinks, whatever they are, so be it.”

Felo remained silent until Mr. Amos was about to leave the room. Seeing him start towards the stairway, he asked:

“Well, y’oughta stay home some time an’ git yo’ night-res’.... All time runnin’ out in de night air an’ fros’, exposin’ yo’self like you does; wid de win’ searchin’ ’roun yo’ ankles an’ things, an’ blowin’ ’cross yo’ body an’ keep you lookin’ so puny.”

“How about yourself?” Mr. Amos asked him. “You don’t seem to be concerned about the night air and the wind when you go rambling about? I suppose being a deacon of the church, you have some special arrangement with God to temper the elements to your convenience?”

“Look. Leave dat be jes’ like it is,” he said abruptly, “I’m thinkin’ ’bout who got to look aft’ you w’en you git flat o’ yo’ back an’ can’ help yo’self no mo’. ’Tain nobody but Felo got to be plague’ wid you. Da’s de one thing make me cuncern yonder wid de [94] future.... But de main thing I ax you,—befo’ you commence all dis heavy comasation,—is you goin’ out tonight?”

“Well, w’en I git thoo in de kitchen, I wan’ talk wid you confidenshun.”

“I’ll be upstairs, ready to listen to your tale of rape or robbery, whichever it might be. But come with a different face than the one you wear now. I don’t want to have bad dreams tonight.”

After finishing all his chores in the kitchen, Felo went through the house, seeing that all the windows and doors were fastened, before he went upstairs. Going into the room where Mr. Amos was, he found him lying on the bed reading, with the cat asleep on his chest. The cat, like Mr. Amos, was one of Felo’s constant worries. He didn’t know which one of them was “de wusser.” It was a splendid excuse for him to expostulate.

“Y’awter put dat ole cat out-doahs. All two of you keep dis place lookin’ like a fatal rabbit-nes’, [95] de way yo’ hair be fallin’ ove’ evvything. I kin shake dem blankets till my two arms be stiff, an’ de hair yet hanging’ to ’um. An’ de onles way to git y’all hair off des flo’-rugs,—I gotta git down on my knees an’ brush ’um wid a swiss-broom.”

“Keep on!” Felo began again. “One dese nights you goin’ see dat same cat cut yo’ breath fum you; lay’n ’cross yo’ buzzum like dat.... An’ some dese w’ite-folks only goin’ be too glad to say ’twan nobody but nigger Felo did ’way wid you. An’ who you reckon goin’ be hyuh in de house to put it on de cat, aft’ dey done spread de news?... Nobody. Da’s who.”

“Did you come up here to give a lecture on the cat? Or did you say you had something worrying you, and you wanted to talk about it?”

“I come up hyuh to look aft’ yo’ comfut,” he replied, taking a pillow from the opposite side of the bed and making ready to arrange it under Mr. Amos’s head.

“Hyuh; lemme slip dis pilluh und’ yo’ head; an’ leave dat ole cat slide down further on yo’ stummic, whah ’tain so dang’us.”

This little attention performed, Felo sat down in [96] the rocking chair and began looking about the room, uncertain how to start his communication. After an awkward silence, he asked:

“What have you got to say?” Mr. Amos questioned, without looking away from his book.

“Man, put yo’ book down, an’ be soshable,” he commanded. “You ain’ sattafy peepin’ up in books all day long, you gotta come hyuh at night-time strainin’ yo’ eyesight over agin?... W’a’s de matter, you don’ wan’ talk?”

“No; I want to listen,” said Mr. Amos, closing the book and putting it aside. “What have you to tell me?”

“I wan’ tell you ’bout a upsetment me an’ Lethe had las’ night,” he began apologetically. “I know Lethe done blabbed it all over Gritny by now; an’ I know she goin’ tell Miss Tilly; an’ Miss Tilly sho ain’ goin’ miss tell you soon’s she see you; so I wan’ tell you de whole thing so you know de straight tale w’en you hyeah it fum somebody else.”

Whereupon he gave a careful account of his visit to Aunt Susan’s cook shop; the members he met and talked with there; his misunderstanding with Lizzie, and his late visit to the church; where he learned that Lethe had gone home in a sullen frame of mind over some wilful misinformation communicated to [97] her by the vengeful Lizzie. Leaving the church with the wake in full swing, he told how he went to Lethe’s house, to find that she had gone to bed. He knocked on the door and she got up and let him in; finding fault with him for coming so late; and asking why he hadn’t spent the night with the women he began the evening with so pleasantly at Susan’s.

“I say to ’uh: For Gawd sake, Lethe, don’ try an’ raise no humbug late in de night like dis. I ain’ come hyuh to make no squawble over any lie Lizzie Cole done hatched up jes’ for spite.

“I say: I come hyuh like I do evvy Sunday night; ’cause I wan’ see you, an’ ’cause I thinks somh’n ’bout you.... So dah whah I commence to undress myself, an’ went to bed, ’cause I was sleepy.”

“Went to bed!” Mr. Amos exclaimed in playful amazement. “In Lethe’s house?... I didn’t know that was part of the religious obligation of a deacon of the church on Sunday night?”

“Dah ’tis again,” Felo commented, looking thoroughly abashed. “Da’s de main reason I ain’ nev’ wan’ tell you nothin’ seecut. You all time wan’ twis’ things to make people look foolish.... Ain’ Lethe an’ me bin knowin’ each-another for a long time?... Ever sence she come yonder fum [98] Tuckapaw Parish,—an’ oughta be un’stan’ w’at our feelin’s is by now?”

“Then I suppose Lethe is what your Bible calls a concubine. You remember Solomon had several hundred. But you must be careful not to have more than two or three in Gretna. The ways of the church have changed since Solomon’s day; and a deacon in Gretna is expected to hold a high head among his people.”

“Man, leave de Bible be; an’ quit reachin’ way back yonder in ainshen days to git somh’n to make game o’ people, an’ call ’um out dey name dat-a-way. Lethe alright. An’ I kin give ’uh de praise ’bove inny cullud ooman I know w’at ain’ got no husban’.”

“Marry who?” He asked in open-eyed amazement. “You wan’ me marry Lethe wid de high temper she got,—an’ jealous-hearted like she is, too?... Man, you ain’ know w’at you say’n. You gotta see Lethe in a high passion like I seen ’uh las’ night, befo’ you fix it in yo’ min’ dat me an’ Lethe oughta marry each-another.”

Besides, Lethe was suspicious-minded; he went on enumerating. She was ready to believe anything anybody told her. She had a tongue that wagged at [99] both ends and blabbed everything she knew. It’s bad for a nigger to be like that. But could she tell what happened without exposing herself too? Maybe she didn’t care about her reputation. But what would the white folks think of him when they heard it? How would he ever reinstate himself in the church if they brought him up before the moderator to make explanation? The elder and the deacon were supposed to be more sanctified than common members. But maybe Lethe wouldn’t say anything after all.... But what made her listen to that lying Lizzie, and ’cuse him of having other women? Did he ever miss one Sunday night with her since they fixed up the understanding between them?... But that’s the way with a jealous-hearted woman; you never know what she is going to do. And you just got to wrassle with them when they won’t listen to reason; and leave them to take their comings, no matter how cheap it makes you feel when everything is over.

“De mo’ I tried to talk easy an’ persuade ’uh she was wrong,” Felo continued, “de mo’ louder she answer back; searchin’ in ’uh min’ for nasty names to make me shame;—an’ me lay’n up in de bed strug’lin to git some sleep. All at once, I raise my voice an’ say to ’uh: ‘Lethe, for Gawd sake don’ be so shameless. Try an’ shut yo’ evil-thinkin’ fly-trap [100] an’ lay down an’ ax Gawd to help you pray.’ She ain’ said a word; but I seen ’uh reach over to de pot-shelf an’ grab a skillet, an’ turn ’roun an’ commence to come ’cross de room. Dah whah I jumped out de bed, an’ was huntin’ on de flo’ for my pants, w’en she say: ‘Whah you think you goin’?’

“I say: Lethe, I ain’ come hyuh tonight to make no brawl wid no foolish ’ooman. I’m goin’ yonder to Sis’ Fanny house whah I b’long, an’ lay down wid a peaceful min’, an’ not be upset wid a shameless thing like you is.

“She say: ‘You goin’ home, is you?... Well, w’en you does go, I wan’ tell you ’tain’ nobody but me an’ Gawd be witness you goin’ ’way from hyuh cripple....’

“An’ dah whah she made at me wid de skillet, jes’ w’en I was pullin’ on one my pants laigs. I drapped de thing on de flo’, an’ grabbed hol’ the skillet an’ wrenched it out ’uh han’; w’en she come up at me full-fo’ce, like she wan’ scratch my face, either butt me,—dang’us-lookin’ as innybody you ever seen.

“I ain’ stop to consider ’bout w’at to do; but I up wid de skillet an’ plastud it ’cross ’uh face haphazzud. An’ de nex’ thing I knowed, I seen three teeth lay’n on de flo’, knocked clean out de front ’uh mouth....

“Did I felt ’shame’?” Felo answered, slightly disconcerted by Mr. Amos’s unexpected reproof. “Da’s another subjec’.

“De thing w’at worried me mo’n anything else, was how I could git home all dem five long blocks ’dout anybody seein’ me, aft’ I had re’lize I comed away widout no pants on;—slippin’ long de street in de moonlight wid blood all ove’ my und’shirt, runnin’ de risk o’ somebody comin’ up on me an’ takin’ me for a rogue done commit murder, befo’ day in de mawnin’.

“I knowed Lethe could take care ’uhself. An’ I knowed she had salt in de house; so I knowed soon she had stop de bleedin’ from de mouth, she be out o’ danger.

“So w’en I reached home an’ got in bed, I sho did wrassel wid my soul, an’ prayed hard to fall asleep. But Gawd mus’ bin vex wid me.... ’E helt de sleep back from me; an’ I ain’ had a single wink o’ sleep de whole night long.

“I tried to pray, but my min’ was upset wid all kind o’ confusion.... I ain’ never notice befo’ how cows an’ creeters an’ things could be such plumb nuisance in de night-time. Look like I could hyeah evvy rooster in evvybody hen-house, crowin’ an’ ’nouncin’ de crackin’ o’ day all over Gritny. An’ w’en de win’ blowed pass de house, I could [102] heayh de a-ko like a mul’tude o’ dogs barkin’ an’ callin’ at one-’nother, miles futher away.... An’ between dat hog Ma Fanny got yonder in de yard, gruntin’ an’ goin’ on; an’ Miss Barb’ra cows nex’-do, keepin’ up such a mooin’ an’ a moanin’; it look like evvything was talkin’ ’bout some kin’ o’ tribulation an’ on-res’ful cundition....

“Even de mawkin-bird singin’ in de umbrella tree ’ginse de fence, ’is voice so loud an’ screechy, it soun’ like he findin’ fault wid de moon for shinin’ so bright. An’ I couldn’ help wishin’ de night air make ’im ketch de so’ th’oat; den I know he had to keep still.

“I say to myself: Dis ain’ doin’ no good; lay’n hyuh frettin’, an’ big day already come.... Lemme git up an’ dress an’ go walk out-do’as in de fresh air.

“So dah whah I put on my clo’se an’ went ’roun to Lethe house to see’f I could patch up de diffunce w’at comed up between us.

“I knocked on de do’ easy, but she ain’ answer. I knocked agin a li’l louder, an’ call to ’uh, an’ she still ain’ answer.... I say: Maybe she gone up de street to de doctor. I say: Lemme walk ’roun a li’l piece, an’ I come back later an’ maybe she be hyuh.

“So dah whah I went up de railroad track fur as de [103] Chinee-men’s garden; an’ I watched ’um hoein’ an’ plantin’ till almos’ a whole hour had pass; den I start back. I walked slow, an’ picked a bunch o’ tetch-me-nots to bring to Lethe; growin’ so plennyful ’long-side de track, wid de night-jew on ’um, an’ lookin’ so pink an’ nice an’ sweet-smellin’.

“I got to de house an’ it was shet tight, but smoke was comin’ out de chimley. I say: Da’s a good sign. She home; an’ she ain’ dead.... I knocked on de do’, but she ain’ made no answer. I listen to see’f I could hyeah walkin’ in de room, but evvything was still. I knocked once mo’ an’ still she ain’ answer. Den I call to ’uh. I say: Lethe, dis Felo.... I’m on my way ’cross de river, an’ I come after my pants.

“Bimeby I could hyeah stirrin’ in de room; an’ nex’ thing I seen,—de window cracked open a li’l piece, an’ my pants fell down on de gal’ry flo’. An’ den de window shet tight, like nobody was in de house.

“I rolled de pants up in some newspaper I got to de Dago stan’; an’ crossed on de ferry-boat, an’ come hyuh to de castle to consult wid you ’bout w’at to do.... An’ now you got de whole story.”

“And the honor of hearing it well-told by the bold hero himself,” Mr. Amos commented, looking at him with an amused smile.

“Man, don’ laugh an’ make game dat way,” returned Felo, with quiet appeal. “Dis thing too much like a tawment to my soul to try an’ joke ’bout it.... How you reckon I’m goin’ feel if Lethe go blab de thing all over Gritny, an’ de members bring me up befo’ de church? ’Tain nothin’ to play wid. Dis subjec’ is seerus .”

“Then you’re not concerned a bit over the loss of Lethe’s teeth, are you?” Mr. Amos asked him.

“Lethe ain’ got to worry ’bout ’uh teeth,” Felo assured him. “She know she gotta look to me to pay de bill for fixin’ ’um. Lethe kin git new teeth; but who you think goin’ puvvide me wid a good reppatashun, after Lethe done spread de news, an’ my name bin walked on by a passul o’ mean-minded Gritny niggers?... W’ich one be de worse off den, me or Lethe?”

“Don’t you suppose Lethe values her good name as much as you do yours?” Mr. Amos argued with him. “If she exposes you, she exposes herself. No woman with pride will do a thing like that. She’ll lie to protect herself. And you’ll see that Lethe is no exception.”

“Now, da’s de way I like to hyeah you talk,” he said. “Straighten de thing out for me. Tell me w’at I mus’ do.”

“Go to see Lethe tomorrow and have an understanding with her,” Mr. Amos suggested. “Tell her you’re sorry, and you want to set things right. Explain your position in the church, and make her see hers as well. And if she cares anything at all for you, she’ll certainly listen to reason.”

“Da’s suffishen,” Felo agreed, in a tone which seemed to tell that he was resolved to fulfill his duty. Then came an after-thought:

“But I sho Gawd hope dem missin’ teeth in de front ’uh mouth goin’ make ’uh feel ’shame’ ’bout ’uh looks, an’ keep ’uh from goin’ in de street till I git to see ’uh.”

“Start early in the morning,” Mr. Amos advised. “Take the day off, and finish up the job before you come back.”

A smile of appreciation lighted his face and his voice resumed its habitual cheerfulness.

“Man, you sho got a good head for somebody bin raised in Gritny. De onles diffunce twix’ you an’ me: you wise-minded from readin’ in books an’ things; an’ po’ me, I ain’ got nothin’ but mother-wit.... But I’m goin’ do jes’ like you say; an’ leave hyuh firs’ thing in de mawnin’, soon as I give you yo’ coffee.”

“And be sure to take the touch-me-nots with you to [106] give to Lethe,” Mr. Amos reminded him, with a playful smile.

Getting up from his chair suddenly, he pretended to be greatly annoyed, and walked over to the bed-side to cover his embarrassment, saying:

“Man, git up from hyuh, wid dat ole cat, an’ lemme fix yo’ bed so you kin lay down an’ sleep an’ stop thinkin’ up a whole lot o’ humbug.... Come on; you done plague me enough for one night.... Lemme turn down de bed for you, so I kin go lay down an’ pray.”

As the ferry pulled in to the Gretna landing, his uneasiness became intense; for he recognized several of his colored friends on their way to the City to dispose of their various wares. The pontoon was crowded with marchande women, with large flat baskets of vegetables balanced on their heads; the careful arrangement of the shining, dew-washed, [107] maroon-colored beets, scarlet peppers, pale green lettuce, and the golden carrots with plume-like foliage, making the baskets from a distance appear like gigantic, colorful hats decked for a rustic festival.

In the crowd he recognized Lizzie and Chester, each with a basket of vegetables. If Lizzie had heard anything from Lethe, she would be sure to mention it. He was relieved when she spoke first.

“Hi! Mr. Felo,” she greeted him, as she came off the boat. “Y’awter staid longer to de wake Sunday night. We sho did give Aun’ Milly a good sen’-over. I staid till close on to fo’ clock in de mawnin’. An’ I wouldn’ a-lef’ den, but de coffee gived out.”

“I ain’ seen Lethe since Sunday night, Mr. Felo. I pass by ’uh house dis mawnin’, but it look like nobody was home.”

This information reassured him. Lizzie knew nothing, therefore Lethe had not told her trouble abroad.

The boat bell rang, and Lizzie and Chester hurried on board, calling to Felo, they hoped to see him next Sunday. He waved good-by to them, passing on with a feeling of gratitude.

As he turned into the street where Lethe lived, he looked toward the house and saw a thin blue reek of smoke curling up from the dilapidated chimney. A mockingbird was sitting on the corner of the roof, singing; telling the heedless world of the prodigal beauty of the sunshine and the fleeting glory of the morning.

“Da’s a good sign,” Felo commented. “Nobody ain’ got no business bein’ down-casted w’en dumb critters kin feel de sperret o’ Gawd wakin’-up inside ’um, like dat bird yonder shoutin’ ’bout it.”

He looked at the old house and thought how different it seemed from the other night when he saw it in the silent moonlight. How inviting it looked, with the sunshine playing over the gallery and its rickety old posts, covered with flowering vines; a veritable basket of rampant wistaria and luxuriant honeysuckle.

He opened the gate and went around the side way, without calling. Lethe was in the back yard, feeding chickens; and she didn’t see him until he came where she was standing. She made no sign of recognition until he spoke.

“Lethe, you don’ wan’ tell me good-mawnin’?” He asked quietly. “If you feel like you don’ wan’ talk, I kin go back whah I come from.”

“I ain’ had to wait for no inv’tation,” he answered curtly. “I come hyuh ’cause my min’ lead me to come hyuh. To see how you gittin’ ’long.... To bring you dis aw’inge-rine purzerve I made for you.” (Offering her a glass of home-made orange marmalade.)

She looked at him unmoved; without a show of surprise, resentment or just indignation; wondering what to say to him. Was he conscious of his meanness, she thought. If so, was she ready to forgive him, having had time to consider her unwarranted jealousy, provoked by Lizzie’s malicious gossip? But why did she doubt Felo when he tried to make her know that Lizzie lied. She knew he never showed any interest in other women as long as she had known him. And if he came specially to see her today, surely he would be ready to stand the expense of a few missing teeth. What was the loss of a few teeth compared with the loss of a friendly company-keeper like Felo?... And any way, wasn’t she the one who struck the first blow?...

Having deliberated with herself to her apparent satisfaction, she told him to put the glass of marmalade [110] in the kitchen, “till I ketch me one dese chickens to make some soup.”

“You goin’ have comp’ny?” Felo asked. The thought of chicken seeming to indicate the approach of some festive occasion.

“W’at I wan’ do havin’ comp’ny, wid all dese teeth missin’ out de front o’ my mouth?” She replied sharply; wondering at his total lack of judgment. “People can’t eat chicken out dey own yard lessen dey gotta have comp’ny to eat wid ’um?”

“I ain’ findin’ fault wid you ’bout yo’ likin’s, Lethe,” he apologized. “I was thinkin’ ’bout you settin’ down by yo’self, eating lonesome; ’dout anybody to talk wid you, da’s all.”

“Wa’t I want wid anybody comin’ hyuh to talk to me, all lavadated like I is; wid all dese teeth missin’ in de front o’ my mouth? You come hyuh to make game an’ crow over me, ’stid o’ beggin’ my pardner for de nasty trick you done played on me?... You ain’ think one li’l ole glass o’ aw’inge-rine purzerve kin make up for de wrong you done commit, is you? You mus’ be a fatal fool, if you do.”

Felo looked at her appealingly. He was ready to make any number of apologies, if she would only [111] listen. As for the teeth, she “oughta know de one w’at broke ’um called on to put new ones in dey place; if ’e any kind o’ man w’at calls ’imself a man.”

“But some people waits a long time aft’ dey bin called on; makin’ up dey min’ ’bout de thing dey gotta do,” she told him. “An’ a toothless ooman ain’ need to have much patience w’en she look in de glass an’ see how ugly she be.”

“Lethe, for Gawd sake don’ talk so fas’,” he pleaded. “Go ketch yo’ chicken, like you say you wan’ do; den leave us set down an’ talk de thing over an’ un’stan’ one-’nother. ’Cause my min’ too upset ’bout de whole business; an’ I wan’ try an’ git straight befo’ I go ’way from hyuh today. Go ketch de chicken. I kin look to de stove an’ fix de pot o’ scaldin’ water an’ things ready for you, yonder in de kitchen.”

As he walked away, Lethe threw a handful of feed from the pan she held, and the chickens gathered about her and began pecking greedily. After looking them over carefully, she selected the one she wanted; stooped slowly and grabbed the unwary chicken by the neck. She took a tight grasp just below its head and began swinging it around vigorously. [112] Two or three times it went around in a circle at arm’s length; when suddenly it was severed, the body of the chicken falling to the ground, the head remaining in her hand. The frightened hens ran off, squawking; and the roosters ran over where the bleeding victim lay kicking, pecking at it and making loud commotion. Lethe stood by and watched it until the last sign of life was gone; then stooped and picked it up and went into the house.

Felo was ready with the pot of scalding water, which he poured over the chicken when Lethe put it in the dishpan. After it cooled a bit, he began picking off the feathers; while Lethe busied herself with other preparations for the little meal for two. The time being propitious, Felo made ready to unburden himself, and began his explanation. His talk was free and persuasive, and Lethe listened, offering little or no dissenting comment. She could appreciate his feeling of pride, and assured him that she would be the “las’ person in dis worl’ to put bad mouth on him an’ roll any stone in his way.”

He told her he was glad that he had not been disappointed in her, and thanked her profusely. She was the right kind of a woman. He “always knowed she was’n no shoo-fly, picayune nigger; an’ knowed still better now, since he done had good chance to tes’ her senserra.” (Sincerity.)

While the chicken boiled they sat talking of Lizzie and Chester; Aunt Milly’s funeral, which was to take place that day; and many other things of mutual importance—Lethe getting up from time to time to add the necessary vegetables and seasoning to the chicken soup to “give it supshun.” She “stirred up a bowl o’ batter for pan-cakes,” which she fried in bacon grease; and as soon as she finished dripping a pot full of strong coffee, they sat down to eat.

It was a veritable feast to Felo, now the old relations were re-established between them; and he hated the thought of leaving. But he was obliged to be on duty when Mr. Amos came home in the evening. He wanted Lethe to go to Aunt Milly’s funeral for a “li’l pleasan’ change o’ mind”; but she said she “felt too ’shame’ to face a big crowd o’ people wid no teeth in her mouth”; that she would stay at home.

He told her good-by at the front gate, and started home feeling like he had a “whole nes’ full o’ butterflies turned loose in his stummick.”

The old shanty sat back in the yard, partly hidden from the road by a high, dilapidated picket fence and a hedge of giant cocklebur bushes; with two scraggy persimmon trees on one side by way of ornament.

If you happened to pass by on wash day, and saw the cocklebur bushes decorated with innumerable articles of clothing of every imaginable color, you soon learned their usefulness and lost sight of the unnecessary expense of a clothes-line. It also gave you a better understanding of Lizzie’s impatience with anyone who stupidly advised cutting the cocklebur bushes down as worthless weeds and dangerous breeding places for snakes and mosquitoes.

From time to time, Chester made “guests visits” to the retired hut; doing the cooking, washing, sewing and other domestic work; while Lizzie walked out selling blackberries and vegetables; or went gallivanting [115] here and there in search of friendly entertainment.

To Lizzie’s cheerful way of thinking, there was no form of pleasure more enjoyable than a “good funeral.” The news of anybody’s dying always wakened up her spirits; and she “never missed goin’ to a wake or burrin’ if Gawd lef’ her strank to git there.”

It was just about sunset when Lizzie came back from Aunt Milly’s funeral. Chester was in the yard, washing, under the persimmon trees; and long before he saw her, he heard her coming across the pasture singing gaily. As she opened the gate and came in, she called to him good-naturedly:

“Leave dem ole tubs alone for tonight, Chester, an’ come-in-doahs; I wan’ tell you ’bout evvything w’at happened.”

The room was dark, and he lit a candle and put it on the mantelpiece. A sickly fire was smoldering on the hearth; and after raking the coals together and starting it to burn well with a few shingles, he threw a large piece of wood across the andirons, and sat down on the floor.

The place was orderly; the floor, spotlessly clean. Near the window was a deal table with a few dishes [116] and pans on it, and a wooden bucket of drinking water and a dipper. Across from the chimney in the “guest corner” of the room, was a low cot covered with a patch-work quilt, a trophy from one of Carmelite’s raffles; a gay masterpiece of bewildering design which she called the “fifty revalashuns of de forty-seven wonders.” The walls were covered with newspapers, ornamented here and there with gay-colored circus posters and magazine covers; and the mantelshelf, decorated with a towering pyramid of empty coffee, tomato and baking-powder cans, bright and shining as “any natchal silver on de w’ite-folks side-boa’d.”

While Chester was fixing the fire, Lizzie had gone into the adjoining room and taken off her shoes and exchanged her “good street clo’se” for a “sloven fit”; so her body, as well as her mind, might enjoy perfect freedom of movement throughout the evening conference.

“Now, I kin talk to my natchal comfut,” she said to Chester, coming into the room and drawing a stool before the fire and sitting down near him.

Chester was all attention, so there was little need for useless preliminaries. Looking at the fire meditatively Lizzie began her interesting soliloquy, her voice low and quiet.

“Nobody can’t say that ole Aunt Milly didn’t have [117] a fine burryin’,” she told him.... “Look like people had come from every direction to sing over Aunt Milly just for ole time sake; and because she come from so far away.... Look like some people shed tears over Aunt Milly because she was gone; and some for the good she did.... And she never knowed one woman her own color, old or young, to have so many fine flowers at one time; flowers so natchal till they looked artificial....

“But de one thing goin’ keep my min’ rollin’ for a long time,” she continued, stressing every word with dramatic fervor, “was de soun’ o’ dat water gluggin’ in de coffin w’en dey let Aun’ Milly down in de grave.... De same way you hyeah it go glug-glug-glug w’en you hol’ a empty bottle und’ de water, an’ de soun’ keep on’ gluggin’ till de bottle be filled up.... Yas, Lawd.

“It sho was a soun’ dat made me cunsider w’at I want y’all do wid me w’en de time come for puttin’ me away.... An’ Chester, I want you look to it; you hyeah me?... You know dis lan’ is a swampy lan’; an’ it hol’s de water a long time; ’specially aft’ a heavy rain bin fall. An’ you kin bail de water out a grave much as you want, but you can’ keep it from seepin’ back in agin.... So you make ’um put me way up on a top shelf in dat big tomb ’long-side de back fence, yonder in de [118] Gates o’ Mary, high an’ dry out de flood. ’Cause I sho don’ wan’ think ’bout bein’ drownded aft’ I done died in my bed natchal.... No Lawd, not me!”

“Who?” Lizzie exclaimed with sudden animation. “Aun’ Amy ain’ knowed a single thing w’at went on w’en dey put Aun’ Milly way.... She fell to sleep in de ca’idge on de way to de graveyard; an’ w’en dey reached de place, an’ wan’ try an’ make Aun’ Amy git out an’ walk to de grave-side, leadin’ de moaners; de po’ ole soul was so helpless drunk, dey had to leave ’uh settin’ up in de ca’idge in de road.... An’ she ain’ took no part in none de excitement.”

Chester laughed heartily. “Lawd! I’m sho sorry I missed goin’ wid you,” he remarked. “But stop talkin’ ’bout dead people, Lizzie; an’ tell who else you seen yonder.”

“Chester, you ain’ expec’ me to tell you ’bout all dat mult’tude o’ niggers dey had to Aun’ Milly funeyun, is you?” Lizzie asked, playfully. “De main thing I got to tell you, is ’bout Sis’ Tempe. Me an’ her walked home together; an’ chile, w’at she had to say, sho got my min’ upset thinkin’ ’bout it.”

“W’at make you wan’ worry ’bout anything Sis’ [119] Tempe tell you? Don’t you know Tempe ain’ bin right ever since Unc’ Peesah died? An’ her min’ comes and goes?” Chester reminded her.

“Da’s de very thing I’m comin’ to,” Lizzie answered. “Tempe simple-minded, I know. But if she keep on goin’ ’roun ’munks people an’ talkin’ like she talk to me today; ’tain goin’ be but one po’ nigger land in jail befo’ de end o’ dis year be over; a’ dat nigger ain’ goin’ be nobody but Chester.”

“W’at thing dis is Tempe done mixed me up in?” Chester asked in dull amazement.

Lizzie told him how Tempe complained to her about everything going to ruin since Peesah died, leaving her with nobody to take care of the place. How the garden needed plowing, and nobody wanted to do it for her. How she thought of selling her mule and dump cart to Nat, because she had no money to keep them; and what money she got by selling them would buy food and clothes and all she needed.... That she knew somebody was burning a candle over her to keep bad luck in her way just for “envy-stripe”.... That she was sure of it; because she found red pepper and buzzard feathers and candle-sperm tracks on her front door steps, three Friday mornings hand-running....

But they couldn’t fool her. She knew who it was; [120] and wasn’t afraid to tell, either.... It wasn’t nobody but the same sly nigger that lived next-door to her the time Peesah died so sudden.... Couldn’t be nobody else.... That’s why he moved away from next door.... To keep people from knowing anything about the needle.... But Gawd don’t sleep. And everything got to come out when God command you to speak your mind....

And Peesah had come to her in her sleep three times already. And she saw the needle in his hand plain as day. And he called out to her so loud, her sleep was broke for the rest of the night....

“An’ dah whah she say she seen de needle in ’uh own han’; but Unc’ Peesah was gone clean out o’ sight.”

Chester looked about the room uneasily; and got up and closed the front door. Lizzie watched him, waiting for him to speak. He went over to the cot and sat down, looking at her questioningly.

“Da’s de very thing I wan’ know myself,” she answered. “But ain’t you say Tempe min’ comes an’ goes?... Maybe ’tain’ nothin’ but Tempe ’maginashun make ’uh think she seen Unc’ Peesah sperret.”

“But ain’ she say she had de needle in ’uh own han’ aft’ he done lef’?” Chester reminded her.

“Da’s w’at she say,” Lizzie answered. “An’ if you wan’ b’lieve ’uh, it sho look like de needle p’intin’ to’ads you bein’ de lawful owner; Tempe nex’-do’ neighbor, de time Unc’ Peesah died. Don’t it?”

He couldn’t deny that Tempe had come to him for the needle and that he had given it to her. Lizzie knew that he had always been an obliging neighbor to Tempe, lending her anything she needed if he happened to have it.

The evening Uncle Peesah “took down wid de colic,” Tempe ran over to Chester to borrow a needle and thread to “sew up a salt-sack full o’ hot bran, to lay on Peesah stummick to ease de mizry.” Chester gave her the needle and thread and she went home with it. Late that night Uncle Peesah died; and Tempe told every one that his death was caused from eating cucumber salad and buttermilk. It was a reasonable excuse, and as nobody bothered about making any sort of examination to ascertain [122] the real cause, Tempe felt perfectly secure. But Chester had his doubts. Tempe had long confided her troubles to him, and he knew how Peesah’s unfaithfulness had aroused her jealousy on numerous occasions; and how she had threatened to wreak vengeance, and “git even wid ’im for runnin’ wid yuther wimmins.” Therefore it was natural for Chester to suspect her of using the borrowed needle for a secret instrument of fatal despatch.

“But who you think goin’ pay any ’tenshun to Tempe ramblin’ talk ’bout who de needle b’lonks to?” Chester asked, after thoughtful consideration. “Nobody ain’ goin’ know w’at she mean.”

“Nobody ain’ goin’ know?” Lizzie demanded. “You better look ove’ yo’ min’, boy; an’ think on Felo an’ Soongy an’ ole treach’ous Gussie, an’ all dem yuther niggers dey had to Susan house Sunday, w’en you was tellin’ ’bout how Unc’ Peesah died.... You ain’ think you safe from suspicion wid all dem tongues waggin’; once dey done learned Tempe puttin’ de blame on you. Is you?”

“How you reckon I’m goin’ keep ’um from talkin’?” He appealed to her. “I ain’ see no way I kin stop ’um, if dey wan’ lissen at w’at a crazy ooman say.”

“Da’s de very thing you gotta consider,” Lizzie advised him. “You gotta go see Tempe, an’ talk to [123] ’uh bol’ an’ brazen; an’ make ’uh un’stan she gotta keep still; lessen you give way de whole truth ’bout de thing; an’ bring ’uh up befo’ de law, an’ make ’um prove who de guilty one. Da’s w’at you gotta do.... An’ you better go dis very night; aft’ you done had a li’l somh’n to eat. So come on; lessus git somh’n ready right now. An’ you go yonder to Tempe house soon’s you git thoo.”

Chester got up, and placed two bricks at the front of the hearth, then raked out a small pile of coals between them. He filled a pot with water from the bucket on the table and put it over the bricks, to boil for coffee: Lizzie cut a few slices of salt pork which she took from a basket hanging from a rafter near the window; laid them in a skillet with some grease and sliced onions, and put it over the fire to fry. She cut some cheese, broke a loaf of twist-bread in several parts, put the bread and cheese on a plate, and placed it by the side of the hearth. When the coffee was made and the meat was fried, she filled a pan for Chester and one for herself, and they sat down before the fire and began eating.

Neither one seemed inclined to talk, feeling that conversation of any kind would cause delay; and Chester’s visit to Tempe had to be accomplished that night.

As soon as he finished drinking his coffee, Lizzie said to him: “Leave evvything be, jes like it is, an’ you go straight off. An’ be sho you make Tempe un’stan good, dat you know w’at you know.... An’ don’ talk too timmasun (timorous) either.”

Chester nodded assent; put on his hat and coat, and started off across the pasture, on his way to Tempe’s.

The floor-like tops of these wells were delightful gathering places for the colored children of the neighborhood on moonlight nights. Here they would congregate for their merry games and romping; the pleasant sound of their happy voices becoming a sort of evening service for the old folks [125] who came out of doors to sit on the gutter-curb and doorsteps, eager to enjoy a bit of friendly gossip after a long day’s toil.

Tempe was sitting in the doorway of her house, in the glowing moonlight, smoking her pipe and listening to the singing children at the corner, when Chester came up to her.

“’Deevnin’, Sis’ Tempe,” he greeted her politely. “I was wond’rin if I was goin’ fin’ you at yo’ house. You know who dis is, don’t you?”

“Dis me, Sis’ Tempe,” he said, taking a seat near her. “Dis Chester. Chester Frackshun, w’at use to live ’longside you, yonder ’cross de green.”

“I ain’ forgot who you is,” she told him, looking at him searchingly. “I ain’ forget nothin’.... An’ you ain’ need to tell me w’at you come after, either. Cause I’m sho goin’ give de thing back to de lawful owner, now you done come hyuh.”

Getting up to go into the house, she said to him: “Set hyuh on de do’-step till I come back.”

“Lemme come inside wid you, Sis’ Tempe,” Chester suggested, getting up to follow her. “I wan’ talk wid you on a li’l business.”

“Stay right whah you is till I come back, I tell [126] you,” she commanded, looking at him fixedly for several seconds before going inside.

After a while she came back with a cup of salt in her hand, and stood mumbling some unintelligible words, as she sprinkled the salt across the threshold, in the form of a cross. Having finished, she said to him:

“De one dey call Chester kin come in, now. But w’at be fol’rin ’im, gotta stay out-do’s.”

The room was in semi-darkness; the only light being the reflected glow of a candle in the back room, and a narrow stream of moonlight coming through the open door at the front, falling across the well-scrubbed floor like a stripe of tarnished silver.

“Set hyuh whah I kin seen you,” Tempe said; placing a chair near the door where the moonlight would fall across him.

Chester took the offered seat, and Tempe sat down opposite, half-hidden in the shadow.

“You mus’ bin know I wan’ see you?” she asked. And without waiting for his reply, she went on speaking in a kind of ecstasy:

“An’ soon or later, ’e sho goin’ track you down, an’ all de wrong-doin’ you done commit in de dark, de sperret o’ Gawd goin’ drag it fo’th an’ shame you in de light o’ day!

“Yas. I hyeah you talkin’,” Chester answered abruptly. “But w’at you talkin’ ’bout, Sis’ Tempe, ain’ nothin’ cuncernin’ me. You better ’zamine yo’ own cawnshunce, an’ see w’at de sperret o’ Gawd goin’ bring to light to ’cuse you wid yo’ own-self.... An’ don’t you try to drag me in de thing either.... ’Cause you know w’at you know. An’ I know a heap mo’ on de subjec’ w’at you ain’ never thought over.... So dey got two’v us to git up an’ talk on de queshtun, w’en de time come for provin’ who got to stan’ de blame.... So you better cunsider long an’ careful, befo’ you go ’roun hyuh talkin’ so broadcas’.... You hyeah w’at I tell you?”

His tone was severe and emphatic; and she sat looking at him in subdued silence. He felt sorry [128] for her, and wanted her to know that he was willing to help her any way he could.

“You ain’ got to be ’fraid o’ me, Sis’ Tempe,” he told her feelingly. “Don’t you know ’tain’ nobody but you an’ me kin tell anything ’bout de needle?... Put de thing out yo’ ’membunce, an’ stop worrin’ ’bout it. Talkin’ too much on de thing only goin’ make people mo’ suspicious; an’ dat ain’ goin’ help you none.”

Tempe contemplated his face in the moonlight for a few seconds before answering.

“But Peesah de one don’ wan’ lemme res’,” she faltered. “Evvy night, w’en I be sleepin’, ’e comes to me des like ’is natchal self, an’ tawments my po’ soul ’bout dat needle so, till I has to git up out de bed an’ walk ’roun’ de room, an’ try’n fin’ somh’n to do to ease my min’.”

Chester told her of several charms he was sure would help her. The old folks said they were the only protection against ghosts and spirits, and they couldn’t fail if you did them the right way.—A pan of water on the door-step in the moonlight: Death won’t cross water while the moon is shining on it.—A mirror placed by the side of the bed: Death don’t want to see himself in a looking-glass.—Leave a dog in the room when you go to bed; dogs can see [129] spirits in the dark, and Death don’t like to hear a dog howl in the night-time.

He told her about putting nettles on the floor; scattered over the threshold and sprinkled around the bed: Death wouldn’t walk on “stingin’-nettles” in the house, because he had to walk on them in the graveyard. But the nettles had to be picked at midnight, when the heavy dew was on them.

Tempe told him she was glad to know the new charm, and would try it that night. She knew where some nettles were growing alongside Miss Collamore’s fence by the corner. Maybe white-folks’ nettles would be better. She would wait until midnight, and go pick them, and sprinkle them on the floor before she went to bed.

Chester assured her that the charm would work; and he felt pleased that he was able to give her something that would divert her attention from the mysterious needle, and the accusing thoughts that disturbed her mind. He wished her good luck, and arose to go; saying that he would pass by in the morning to hear what happened.

Tempe followed him to the door and said good-night. Just as he was leaving, Nat came along; and [130] stopping in front of the door-step, saluted them cheerfully.

“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’, Sis’ Tempe!” He exclaimed. “It done took me so long to walk way down hyuh to see you tonight, I feel like I bin trav’lin de road since day-break.... W’at make you wan’ live so further away like dis, anyhow?... An’ how you do dis evenin’?... An’ boy, I’m sho glad dey got somebody hyuh to help me wid dat mule I come after. Hitchin’-up a strange mule in de moonlight by yo’-self ain’ no fun, lemme tell you. ’Cause I know Sis’ Tempe ain’ none too handy w’en it come to handlin’ harness an’ things, an’ backin’-up a sleepy mule in a dump-cart shaf’, long aft’ hours like dis is.... Ain’ da’s right, Sister?”

“I was lookin’ for you to come hyuh in de day-time,” Tempe told him. “Aft I see de night fell, an’ you ain’ sont no word one way o’ nother; somh’n tol’ me maybe you done change yo’ min’ ’bout buyin’ de mule.”

“But you see me hyuh now, don’t you?” Nat argued. “Anybody ever told you ’bout Nat goin’ back ’is word, aft’ he done promise somebody he goin’ buy somh’n from ’um? An’ de thing be somh’n w’at he need?”

“Unc’ Nat, w’at make you wan’ was’e time dis [131] way, an’ bring up a onnes’sary wrangle?” Chester asked him. “If you wan’ hitch-up de mule to take home wid you tonight, you better come on an’ lemme help you; ’cause I gotta go back ’cross de pastur to Lizzie house befo’ it git too late.”

“Boy, you sho talkin’ gospel,” Nat answered. “Come on, Sis’ Tempe, an’ show me whah de mule at; an’ lemme git thoo an’ go ’way from hyuh.”

“De mule dis way in de yard,” said Tempe, coming out of the house and leading them through the side gate. “But you gotta fetch a bucket o’ water from de well, yonder to de cawnder; ’cause de po’ critter ain’ had no water to drink all day. I ain’ able to tote no water.”

She hunted about the yard until she found a bucket with a rope tied to the handle. She gave it to Chester and he went to fetch the water from the well at the corner. The children had ended their singing and playing for the night and were gone home; and the deserted street seemed to be wondering at the untimely silence coming at an hour of such marvellous moonlight.

Getting down on his knees, Chester tugged with the cover of the well until he lifted it out of its groove. Then he let the bucket down through the narrow opening, dangling and swinging it about until it sank. When it was filled with water he [132] pulled it up; got up on his feet, and made ready to get back to Nat. He deliberated for a second whether or not to close the well.

“Might be I gotta come git a yuther bucket,” he said to himself. “De dev’lish lid so tight to git loose, I’m goin’ leave it stay open till I come back agin.”

Nat had finished hitching the mule and was standing by the dump cart talking to Tempe. Chester put the bucket of water before the mule and he drank it greedily, and seemed eager for more. Chester wanted to go for another bucketful, but Nat was impatient to get away, and told him not to go.

“One bucketful enough to hol’ ’im till we git up yonder on the coas’; den he kin lap de whole ditch dry if he like, w’en I turn ’im loose in de lane.... Come on, lemme go ’way from hyuh,” he said, climbing up on the seat of the cart. “An’ Sis’ Tempe, I’ll see you ’bout de secon’ payment aft’ I done tried de mule out wid de harrow in de fiel’ tomorrow.... An’ boy, lemme thank you for givin’ me a han’ wid de mule nice like you did. An’ I’ll sho think to bring you somh’n from de g’yarden, nex’ time I come down to Gritny.... Peace an’ hap’ness [133] to y’all.... Come on, ole mule. Nat’s gone.”

The cart went bumping up the street, and Tempe closed the gate and walked with Chester towards the front door. As she went into the house, he reminded her to go for the nettles at midnight; and to be sure that nobody saw her when she stooped to pick them. Tempe said she would remember to do all he told her; bade him good-night and closed the door as he walked away.

[134]

Eager to get back and tell Lizzie the outcome of his visit to Tempe, Chester took the short cut across the pasture. The moonlight was so brilliant, he could trace the entire length of the worn pathway through the shining dew-dripping weeds along its edges. A cool breeze was blowing from the woods, and the dampness of the grass causing him to feel chilly, he pulled up his coat. As he walked along, singing, he was conscious of being pleased that he had accomplished something. He had spoken his mind and felt satisfied that Tempe would stop talking, and no blame would be attached to his name. Lizzie would be glad to know how he straightened things out with Tempe, and she would stop worrying about his getting into trouble.

When he reached home, the door was closed and the house was in total darkness. Lizzie had gone to bed; and he knew he would have to go in quietly, because if he wakened her, she would be cross and make a racket.

Disappointed that he would have to wait until morning to tell her about his visit, he undressed quietly and got into bed. The sound of snoring in the next room told him that Lizzie was in her “first sleep”; so he knew that it would be a long time before she would awake. Thinking he might forget his disappointment, he began to pray.

However short and simple of form his sincere appeal may have been, it served him as might any formula of cabalistic worth. Bringing to his childish mind not only quiet forgetfulness; but quick, conquering somnolence, with a myriad train of fantastic visions; tantalizing his superstitious soul, and holding him in helpless captivity until the mystic hour of midnight came to break the spell.

A rooster, high up on a branch of the persimmon tree in the side yard, looking out across the pasture, and seeing the moon slipping down the heavens, flapped his wings lustily and gave a ringing salute that floated off on the wind to tell his fellow-fowls [135] that morning was on the way to greet the sleeping world.

Chester heard the clarion sound in the tangle of his dream, and awaking with a start, he jumped out of bed and ran to Lizzie’s room, calling to her excitedly:

“Lizzie! You ’wake?” He shouted, going to the bed-side, and shaking her roughly. “Wake up, for Gawd sake; an’ lemme talk to you!... Did you hyeah dat noise jes’ now befo’ I come in de room?”

“Boy, you mus’ be losin’ yo’ min’, ain’t you? W’at you mean, comin’ hyuh an’ wakin’ me out my slumbers, axin’ me ’bout any noise, like somebody done gone crazy?... Go back to bed, yonder in yo’ room. An’ damn you an’ dis kind o’ humbug; way in de middle o’ de night like dis!... You ain’ walkin’ in yo’ sleep, is you?”

“Lizzie, for Gawd sake lissen at w’at I’m try’n to tell you,” he pleaded. “Ain’t you hyeah’d de noise,—like somebody callin’ for help?... Callin’ an’ moanin’ so pitiful, it woke me out a heavy sleep.... Gawd knows. I could hyeah it plain as day.... An’ ’long wid de moanin’ I could heayh de soun’ like water splashin’.... Gawd [136] knows, Lizzie.... An’ I dunno w’at make you ain’ bin able to hyeah it, loud an’ natchal as dat thing was soundin’.”

Becoming suddenly aware of the humor of the situation, Lizzie began laughing with keen enjoyment.

“Nigger, you mus’ bin had de night-mare,” she told him. “You better go look an’ see if you ain’ knocked over dat bucket o’ water on de table yonder.... Talkin’ ’bout hyeahin’ water splashin’.... Go back to bed, boy, an’ lay down. An’ quit dis foolishness, an’ lemme git some mo’ sleep.”

Determined to convince her that what he heard was no imaginary sound, he persisted:

“Lizzie, w’at make you think I wan’ joke on somh’n seerus like dis thing is?... I tell you de noise I hyeah’d was a reel, natchal noise. An’ it kep’ up de whole time I was gittin’ out o’ bed till I got hyuh an’ shuck you ’wake. An’ w’en I commence walkin’ ’cross de room, it look like all my laigs was stingin’ me, same as if somebody bin switchin’ ’um wid stingin’-nettles.”

“Chester, git out o’ hyuh, wid yo’ lyin’ self!” Lizzie commanded, with a show of irritation. “Hyuh you done laid up in yo’ bed half de night in a crooked position, till yo’ blood done gone to sleep; an’ come tellin’ me ’bout somebody switchin’ yo’ laigs [137] wid stingin’-nettles!... Git out o’ hyuh.... ’Cause I know if I raise up out dis bed an’ shove you thoo dat do’, you sho Gawd will go lay down, aft’ my han’s done fell on you.... You hyeah w’at I’m say’n?”

“I hyeah you,” he answered forlornly. “But you watch if you don’ hyeah bad news tomorrow mornin’.... A callin’ noise like dat noise I hyeah’d, sho do puhdick somh’n.... An’ Jesus goin’ be my witness I ain’ lissen at nothin’ on-natchal dis night o’ my good Lawd.”

Leaning over the side of the bed, Lizzie trailed her hand along the floor until she found one of her shoes. Suspecting her intention, Chester started to leave the room, when she fired the shoe at him, shouting:

“Git out o’ hyuh, I tell you! An’ don’t you lemme hyeah you say another word tonight.”

Unable to sleep, he lit a candle on the mantelshelf, and sat down on the side of his cot, trying to calm himself. He tried to pray, but he could not concentrate, his mind was so disturbed. The room was cold, and the dim cheerless light of the candle made him uncomfortable. Maybe if he lit a fire and made some coffee he would feel stronger, he thought.

Taking some dried leaves and chips from the box in the corner, he put them on the hearth between [138] the andirons; laid a few branches over them and lighted the fire with the candle. As the bright flame leaped up the chimney, brightening the room with a cheerful glow, and streaking the floor and ceiling with long quivering shadows; he sat down before the hearth and began humming softly.

Seeing the reflection through the open door, and hearing the low rumble of his voice, Lizzie called to him impatiently:

“Chester, if you think you goin’ hol’ a all-night swaree yonder in dat kitchen wid nobody but yo’ fool-self, you better come close dis do’, so dat light won’ keep me from sleepin’.”

He got up and closed the door quietly; went over to his cot and took the quilt; and after wrapping it about him, he drew a chair before the fire and sat down. The genial warmth and the soothing crackling of the burning branches set his mind to thinking of other things; and very soon he found himself tranquilly sinking into utter forgetfulness; snugly enfolded by the “fifty revelashuns of de forty-seven wonders.”

Before seven o’clock in the morning, with a warm sunshine falling over everything, Nat was at work with Tempe’s mule hitched to the harrow; trying to get the ground ready for lettuce planting before the first frost fall.

Up and down the long rows of lumpy ground he followed the harrow, singing pleasantly to amuse himself; apparently satisfied with the mule for the work he had in mind. The sunshine was bright and comforting; and nothing disturbed his meditations except the playful sniffing and barking of his three dogs, Leave-it-lay, Scawl and one-eye Companyun, following at his heels, hunting out toads and ground-puppies under the newly-broken clods.

At length, the click of the iron latch on the front gate attracted Nat’s attention; and looking up, he saw a woman with a marchande basket coming down the grassy path. As she came nearer, Nat recognized Scilla, coming to buy vegetables to take to the City to sell. She was walking hurriedly, and [140] seemed to be excited. Before reaching him, she called out breathlessly:

“Lawd, Unc’ Nat! W’at you reckon done happen?... An’ had to fall on me, to be de firs’ one to see de thing; an’ go spread de news, yonder in Gritny.”

“Ooman, take yo’ time; an’ don’ trip ove’ yo’ words so fas’. W’at excitement dis is, you done brought hyuh so soon in de mawnin’?”

“Unc’ Nat,” Scilla continued with growing animation, “ain’t you hyeah’d ’bout Tempe gittin’ drownded in de street well, yonder by Miss Collamo cawnder?”

“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’! gal,” Nat exclaimed. “Is you come hyuh jokin’? Or is you tellin’ somh’n w’at happen for-true?”

“I ain’ play’n, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla assured him. “Tempe drownded yonder in de well. An’ nobody ain’ know nothin’ ’tall ’bout it, till I comed along soon dis mawnin’; an’ seen Tempe body floatin’ on top de water, hol’in a bunch o’ stingin’-nettles, tight-shet in one ’uh han’s; like she mus’ bin grabbed ’um off de side de well w’en she was fallin’ in.”

Nat contemplated her face for a second, still doubting [141] the information. “Gal, go ’way,” he said to her. “I bet you ain’ seen nothin’ but a bunch o’ weeds, or somh’n-nother floatin’ on top de water, made you think ’twas Tempe body; dark like it mus’ bin w’en you peeped in de well.”

But Scilla was positive about what she had seen, she told him. Saying that she had started away from home very early, on her way to Nat’s garden after vegetables; and seeing the well uncovered when she reached the corner, and fearing that someone would meet with an accident; she stooped to cover it. As she was putting the wooden lid in place, a ray of sunlight, slanting through the opening, attracted her attention to a strange-looking object in the water. Getting down on her knees to look at it more closely, she discovered that it was Tempe’s body; with one arm pointing upward, and the hand clutching a bunch of nettles.

“I was so sk’yeard, Unc’ Nat, I start to run an’ holler for help,” Scilla went on, with dramatic effect. “W’en jus’ ’bout dat time, I seen Mr. Gully baker wagon come ’roun de cawnder, an’ I call him to come see.

“Mr. Gully got down off de wagon, an’ looked in de well. An’ w’en he seen for hisself ’twas Tempe body, he tol’ me go call somebody. So I went got two or three mens; an’ dey all fetched a rope an’ [142] things from Tempe yard; an’ dey commence strug’lin wid de rope, till dey got it hitched roun’ Tempe body. An’ aft’ a li’l w’ile, dey pulled ’uh up.

“Den dey all took Tempe to ’uh house; an’ I went got some wimmins livin’ close-by, to look aft’ ’uh an’ fix ’uh nice for de burryin’.... So aft’ I had did all I could, I lef’ ’um all yonder, an’ come hyuh to git my vegetables to carry over to New Leens to sell.”

“Nobody ain’ said nothin’ ’bout how Tempe come to fall in de well?” He asked her.

“Some de people say ’twas a accident. An’ some say Tempe bin so bad-off for so long, she was jus’ natchally weak-minded, an’ mus’ bin commit,” Scilla advised him.

“I gotta go yonder dis evenin’, an’ see ’bout de funeyun,” Nat murmured softly, as if talking to himself. “Tempe ain’ got nothin’. An’ she bin too good a ooman to leave dem don’-care-fied niggers lay ’uh away, yonder in potter’s fiel’.”

“Tempe got life-in-sho-ince, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla informed him. “One de wimmins foun’ de paper in Tempe berow draw. An’ dey done sont word ’cross de river to de Met-luh-policy man, to come see ’bout it befo’ dey take Tempe to de church.”

“Dat ain’ got nothin to do wid me,” Nat answered [143] abruptly. “Dis Tempe mule you see hitched to dis harrow I’m fol’rin behin’ dis mawnin’. An’ de secon’ payment ain’ made yet; an’ de money still owin’ to ’uh. So Nat gotta go yonder to Gritny an’ do de right thing; an’ see dat Tempe laid away like people. Not dumped in a hole like no-count cattle.”

“Dey say dey lookin’ for de Met-luh-policy man to git dah ’bout twelve o’clock,” Scilla told him. “So Unc’ Nat, if you goin’ take charge de in-sho-ince money, you better go yonder soon’s you kin.”

“Gal, stop tellin’ me ’bout de Met-luh-policy man,” he told her, sharply. “I ain’ got no business wid none o’ Tempe in-sho-ince money. I’m goin’ yonder wid Nat’s money.... Money w’at b’lonks to Tempe, for dis mule you see stannin’ hyuh.... Money w’at goin’ puhvide de carriage for all dem niggers to ride in; an’ give Tempe a good-lookin’ funeyun like people.... Da’s w’at Nat goin’ for.”

“Well, I sho wan’ try be dah w’en you come, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla assured him. “So come on, an’ gimme my vegetables, an’ lemme go yonder an’ sell ’um, an’ git thoo soon’s I kin.”

Scilla selected the vegetables she wanted, arranged them in her basket, gave Nat the money for them, [144] and put the basket on her head and left. As soon as she had gone, Nat went back to his work.

“Come on hyuh, ole mule,” he called, taking up the reins from the harrow and giving the mule a light slap. “You gotta make quick tracks, an’ lemme git thoo dese las’ few rows. ’Cause I wan’ hurry yonder an’ take Tempe out de han’s o’ dem searchin’ niggers, befo’ night come.... Git up hyuh, now. An’ lemme see you move like you un’stan w’at you doin’; an’ got yo’ min’ on w’at Nat talkin’ ’bout.... You hyeah me?”

[145]

Carmelite had finished another patch-work master-piece,—a “Jacob ladder” pattern of many-colored gingham and calico scraps; and being in need of money, she was giving a “raffle meetin’” at her house. She said she was sure to “take up five dollars ’munks all de members w’at say dey was comin’.” Because cold weather was not very far off; and people never could have too many quilts. And ten cents a chance was so little, she knew none of the members would overlook the inducement. Besides, everybody was bound to have a good time at Carmelite’s raffle, “singin’ an’ jokin’ an’ drinkin’ coffee an’ eatin’ cake.” And rich cake, at that. The same kind Carmelite made for the white folks’ table.

Duck eggs always made a cake taste better, she declared with authority. They gave it such a fine yellow color; and kept it from looking like “cheap grocery-sto’ cake.” And Carmelite enjoyed hearing her friends talk about it; and liked to hear them “give ’uh de praise for ’uh cookin’.”

Nobody’s duck eggs were like Aunt Fisky’s. They were always so big and fresh. And Carmelite knew that she could get as many as she needed, in exchange for anything she had to offer. Aunt Fisky was too old to bend over and beat brick to sprinkle on her floor; and Gussie was so busy running around with the women, he never had time to stop and sit down and pound it for her. So a bucket full of brick dust was always a desirable article of barter. A bundle of fat pine splinters for lighting the fire was another thing to be desired; scarce as fat pine was most of the time. And a pan of Carmelite’s hot cornbread, almost as good as the cake she made, was a thing Aunt Fisky would accept gladly, in exchange for a half dozen duck eggs.

Having finished nearly all the preparations for the evening raffle, Carmelite wrapped a newspaper around a pan of hot cornbread just out of the oven, [146] and started away, after the duck eggs for the cake she was going to make for her guests. She would hurry back, she told herself; and the cake would have time to get cool after she finished baking, and it would “cut nice” for the frolic.

Half way across the green she met Aunt Fisky, driving home her ducks from the pool of water near her house. It was a wide stretch of ground in the open green, where the earth had been dug away during high water time, and carried off and banked against a weak spot in the levee. Being near the river, the pool was always filled with water and crawfish; and it became a favorite resort of the ducks, geese and colored children of the neighborhood.

Coming up near the old woman, Carmelite greeted her with a pleasant smile, saying:

“Dey ain’ jew to look no yuther way, daughter,” the old woman answered. “Plut’rin in de water like dey is all day long from soon in de mawnin’.”

“You sho lucky to live so close by de pool out hyuh whah de crawfish an’ bugs so plennyful,” Carmelite went on. “It keep you from buyin’ a whole lot o’ cawn an’ things for yo’ ducks. High as chicken feed is dese days.... Dey sho is a fine [147] flock o’ ducks, for being nothin’ but plain puddle ducks. Ain’ dey?”

“Yas, daughter. Dey is healt’y an’ nice,” Aunt Fisky answered. “But de ole ooman gittin’ too feeble to be worry wid raisin’ ducks much longer. You can’ keep ’um from stray’n off. An’ de crawfish so temptin’ to ’um; dey looks like dey fo’gits to come back home. So I has to go fetch ’um. An’ hyuh lately, I bin feelin’ so po’ly, it mos’ plays me out to walk even fur as dis pool hyuh, ’cross de green.”

“I ain’ sho, daughter,” Aunt Fisky replied, dubiously. “But I bin rubbin’ my back an’ my two knees wid some ni’ntment Unc’ Bendigo gimme; try’n to see if it goin’ ease de miz’ry. But I ain’ notice no change yet, since day-befo’-yistiddy.”

“No. ’Tain’ nothin’ bought,” Aunt Fisky advised her. “Somh’n Unc’ Bendigo bin makin’ to rub wid, way yonder since Reb-time. Somh’n he say ain’ miss cu’in nobody ever bin use it. An’ so simple, too,” she went on to explain. “’Tain nothin’ but plain inch-worms out de groun’, mixed wid chop pa’sley an’ a pinch o’ smokin’ tobacco, fried altogether [148] in hog lard. An’ you gotta rub wid it in a downwuds direction, to’ads de feet; so de miz’ry pass out thoo de toes.”

“Sho soun’ like it mus’ be some kin to hoo-doo,” Carmelite remarked, laughing.

“No it ’tain’,” Aunt Fisky corrected her. “Unc’ Bendigo don’ play wid no hoo-doo. It des a natchal n’intment he say de ole folks learn ’im how to make.”

“But w’at good it ’tis, if you say it ain’ help you none?” Carmelite inquired.

“But how kin I say ’tain no good, if maybe I’m usin’ de thing for somh’n I ain’ got?” the old woman argued. “I ain’ sho dis no-count feelin’ I got come from de rheumatism.”

“Maybe yo’ stummic is tight; an’ you needs purgin’,” Carmelite suggested.

“Might be,” agreed Aunt Fisky; opening the gate, and driving the ducks into the yard.

“Y’oughta eat you a few dese pumma-crissuls you got hyuh in yo’ yard,” said Carmelite, pointing to a castor oil bush in full fruit, growing along-side the fence. “Dey sho physic you nice. An’ dey eats good, too.”

Aunt Fisky stood silent, watching the line of ducks marching on to the back yard. Seeing the newspaper package in Carmelite’s hand, and guessing [149] the object of her visit, the old woman pushed the door open and told her to go in.

Carmelite laid the pan of cornbread on the table and sat down, looking about the room slowly. She was impressed with the clean, orderly poverty of its furnishing. Save for an old table and two chairs, the place was almost bare. Some iron pots on the hearth gave evidence that all the cooking was done in the open fireplace, on the level with the floor, and greatly in need of repairs.

Aunt Fisky drew a chair from the corner by the chimney and sat down. Carmelite looked at her without speaking, thinking of her tired old body and the weary expression on her kindly wrinkled old face. Her guinea-blue dress was patched in many places, but was clean and carefully ironed. Her head-handkerchief, once a bright piece of yellow-and-brown plaid gingham, now old and faded, was tied with care; the two tabs in front drooping over like a tired butterfly resting after a long flight.

“Daughter, I’m sho glad to set down,” Aunt Fisky sighed, after a brief silence. “I’m so played-out till I got de swimmin’ in de head.”

“Aun’ Fisky, yo’ stummic mus’ be ain’ workin’ right,” Carmelite advised her again. “W’at make you don’ take a couple o’ dem pumma-crissul off [150] de bush you got yonder, an’ eat ’um; an’ see if dey don’ help you? Dey sho is good w’en somh’n be wrong wid yo’ intwuds.” (Inwards.)

“Daughter, I know de things is good,” Aunt Fisky answered; fully mindful of Carmelite’s well-meant interest. “But I’m des natchally ’fraid to meddle wid ’um,” she continued. “Ever since ole Unc’ Jo Mingo died from eatin’ pumma-crissul seeds off de bush in ’is yard.... I don’ trus’ ’um. So I don’ wan’ tamper wid ’um.”

“But, Aun’ Fisky, ain’t you b’lieve greed’ness had a whole lot to do wid Unc’ Jo Mingo death?” Carmelite asked her. “It look to me like pumma-crissul kilt ’im ’cause he ain’ use no jedgment ’bout eatin’ ’um,” she went on. “Ain’ sattafy eating two or three seeds, w’en somebody tol’ ’im dey was good for certain sickness; had to keep on eatin’ ’um, aft’ he done found out he like de way dey tas’e; till he done et a whole han’-full .... ’Tain no wonder Unc’ Jo Mingo died. Wid all dat castor oil surgin’ up an’ down ’is body.”

But Aunt Fisky’s judgment was going to be her protection. She knew that palma Christi seeds were good medicine. She had heard the white folks talk about it, she told Carmelite. But she was afraid to meddle with them, and would rather use some remedy she knew better. Okra seed tea was just [151] as good; and she would try a dose of that, if old Uncle Bendigo’s ointment didn’t bring relief after a few days more.

Carmelite advised her to be careful about what she ate; and seized the occasion to call her attention to the pan of corn-bread. Aunt Fisky got up and unwrapped the present; thanked Carmelite for her thoughtfulness, and asked her if she needed any eggs. Carmelite told her about the raffle she was giving; and said she wanted to bake a cake, and would take a half dozen duck eggs, if Aunt Fisky could spare them.

The old woman brought the eggs from the next room; and after turning the cornbread out on the table, she put the eggs in Carmelite’s pan, and sat down again for a chat.

“Do Gussie know anything ’bout de raffle at yo’ house to-night?” Aunt Fisky inquired.

“Gussie ’tenshun don’ run to’ads quilts, Aun’ Fisky. An’ da’s de reason I ain’ say nothin’ to ’im,” she apologized. “An’ innyway, de raffle ain’ goin’ las’ long. ’Cause you know, evvybody goin’ straight from my house, yonder to Tempe wake at de New Hope church.... An’ I ’spec Gussie goin’ too.”

“You done de right thing to leave Gussie out,” Aunt Fisky told her. “Gussie ain’ fit to go no place; all time drunk, like he bin lately. I dunno w’at Gussie comin’ to. Runnin’ wid loose wimmins; an’ squand’in ’is money, gamblin’; an’ goin’ on reckless like he doin’. Much as I bin tried to raise ’im right. An’ done for ’im same’s he was my own chile an’ my own color.”

“Might be Gussie goin’ make up ’is min’ an’ marry Cindy, an’ settle down steady; now she done had a chile by ’im,” Carmelite suggested.

“None de yuther mens bin had chillun by Cindy ain’ thought nothin’ ’bout marryin’ Cindy, is dey?” inquired the old woman, with a knowing smile. “Who wan’ marry Cindy, trashy as she done made ’uhself all over Gritny?... I hyeah dem young boys say: w’en dey see Cindy comin’ long de banquette, dey crosses over to de yuther side de street, to git out ’uh way. ’Cause dey say, all Cindy got to do w’en she git close to you: des look at you hard , an’ she have a chile by you befo’ you know it.”

Carmelite laughed heartily at the comment, saying that people could talk as much as they pleased; but Cindy didn’t pay no mind to what they said about her, “good as she felt wid all dat fam’ly o’ gitlets” (illegitimates) to take care of her when they grew up big enough to work.

But Aunt Fisky said she didn’t agree with Cindy. Cindy was saying the wrong thing. Children changed when they grew up. They forgot all about the old folks. They clean forgot all their parents did for them, when they were crawling around helpless. And when they reached the time of their younger youth, and you had to give them every kind of ’tention. Then, after they all growed big enough to be some benefit, they turned their back on the old folks, and went off and left them sitting high and dry, waiting on the Lawd to provide for them.

Look at Gussie. How much money did he bring in the house to keep things going? The few stingy dimes he put in her hand didn’t even pay for the washing and patching of his clothes.—Let alone all the cooking she had to do for him. But what did he care? Long as he knew she had her ducks to count on; and the few butterbeans and red peppers in the garden, she could always sell to the white folks; he wasn’t going to worry about her comfort.

“Who? Don’ tell me nothin’ ’bout raisin’ chillun to be a sattafaction to you w’en you git ole,” she ended with emphasis; Carmelite nodding her head with perfect understanding.

Maybe Aunt Fisky was too easy-going, Carmelite [154] told her. She ought to shame Gussie. And not let him walk over her, long as he was staying under her roof free. She ought to turn him out-doors, and shame him good, and force him to show her the right respect.

“But daughter, don’t you know Gussie ain’ no nigger , like you an’ me?” Aunt Fisky reminded her. “How you expec’ me to try an’ shame Gussie, an’ make ’im know he ain’ doin’ de right thing?... Gussie ain’ got no nigger feelin’s.... Gussie a w’ite man. An’ he know it, too. So how kin I change Gussie natchal ways?”

Carmelite moved on her chair uneasily, and began to speak with sudden vehemence.

“Gussie ain’ good as a nigger!” she declared, stressing every word as she spoke. “Bin livin’ munks niggers all dese years, an’ now try’n to play proud wid you , an’ ain’ got nothin’ substanshun to back ’im up?... Lookin’ down on you, ole as you is; an’ de onles mother Gussie ever knowed?... Gawd knows, Aun’ Fisky, you too tender-hearted. You ain’ owin’ nothin’ to Gussie no longer; now he done growed up, an’ plenny able to take care ’imself.... You done paid ’im evvything.... Who?... Gussie lucky he ain’ had me to deal wid. ’Cause I sho would-a turned ’im out in de street long time ago; w’ite or no w’ite.”

Aunt Fisky couldn’t do that, she told Carmelite. It wouldn’t be right. It would be breaking the promise she made with dead people; when Gussie’s mother gave her the poor, fatherless child to raise. And besides, Gussie had nobody but her to turn to. No matter how mean he was, she couldn’t go back on him. Carmelite knew good as she did that the white folks wouldn’t recognize him.

“An’ I know good, none us niggers ain’ goin’ cunsider claimin’ ’im,” Carmelite declared with positive conviction.

“An’ da’s de very reason make me stick to Gussie like I do,” Aunt Fisky assured her with simple loyalty.

“Ole folks sho is strange,” Carmelite commented, shaking her head, and wondering at the old woman’s questionable sense of duty.

Yes. Old folks did a heap of things that young folks couldn’t understand; she told Carmelite. But she was going to do the best she could for Gussie, as long as she lived. And if he came to a bad end, she wouldn’t have anything to blame herself for. She was willing to leave it all in the hands of the Lawd. Gussie would wake up some day in his right mind; when Gawd put His finger on him and stopped him in his tracks. Carmelite would see. Just wait.

“Maybe so,” Carmelite faltered, dubiously, getting up from her chair and making ready to leave. “But I sho don’ wan’ see ole no-manners Gussie come lopin’ up in my house tonight,” she went on; taking the pan of eggs from the table and walking towards the door. “If he know w’at good for ’im, he better stay ’way.... So I’m goin’ leave you now; an’ go yonder an’ bake my cake.... An’ I’m goin’ pick you two lucky numbers, Aun’ Fisky; an’ see’f I can’ make you win de quilt. You heah?” she added in a cheerful tone, as she walked away; leaving the old woman standing in the doorway, looking pensively across the green.

[157]

Despite the fact of Nookie’s being a sort of local joke, on account of the peculiar clothes she often wore; there were a few colored sisters of the East Green who showed genuine respect for her ability as a dress-maker. They spoke of her as a “natchal bawn seamster,” when it came to transforming antique gowns and “gabbarellas” donated by the white folks. And she certainly knew how to make clothes “come to fit fat people fine”.... Who? “Nookie sho could play wid a needle an’ thread an’ scissors.” Nobody ever need be afraid of getting a dress from Nookie that would make her look like she had a “low back an’ a high belly.” No indeed. Nookie was a “p’yo fashion-plate” for making over old clothes. And cheap, too; ’long-side the “boughten clo’se from the dry-goods sto’.”

Eager to live up to this hard-earned reputation, and pleased with the thought of being conspicuous at Carmelite’s raffle, among the critical sisters of the East Green, Nookie made herself a new dress for the occasion. She had just finished the clever contrivance; which, being creased and wrinkled from many alterations, had to be pressed before it could be worn.

Finding that she had no charcoal to make a fire in the furnace, she decided to run over to Soongy’s house and press it there. Soongy was going to the raffle; and Nookie was sure that she would be ironing something for herself to wear that night. So putting the dress in a market basket, Nookie started off across the green, humming softly as she hurried along.

When she came to Soongy’s house, the gate was open; and the sound of singing inside told her that someone was at home. There were two voices singing, and the sound was cheerful and pleasant. [158] Nookie recognized the voices of Soongy and Dink. There was no need to call. They wouldn’t hear. She would walk right in.

Going into the kitchen, she found Soongy at work at the ironing-board, pressing a voluminous, well-starched petticoat; an old faded curtain spread on the floor under the board to keep the trailing garment from getting soiled.

Dink was standing at the kitchen table, washing dishes; naked as though he had just emerged from the bath. Both of them were singing in unison, tranquilly happy; and apparently oblivious to each other’s presence.

Nookie stood in speechless amazement for a few seconds, wondering at the unusual spectacle; neither of the singers having noticed her quiet entrance. At length she exclaimed:

“In de name o’ Gawd, Soongy! W’at kind o’ fashion dis is, y’all got hyuh? Stannin’ hyuh oncuncern’ singin’ Gawd praise; an’ Dink purradin’ in front you naked as a black snake. None y’all ain’ feel shame?... Boy, go yonder an’ wrap somh’n ’round yo’ middle, befo’ you come facin’ people so haphazzud,—big as you is!”

Not waiting to hear all of Nookie’s speech, Dink ran into the next room, laughing heartily. Soongy continued to slide her iron back and forth over the [159] petticoat on the board, unperturbed. Looking at Nookie, she said casually:

“Nookie, you sho know how to come up on people easy. W’at make you ain’ call, so somebody kin know you comin’?”

“W’at good callin’ goin’ do?” Nookie asked her. “You an’ Dink up in hyuh together, singin’ so boist’ous? Wid yo’ min’ workin’ so heavy on dat i’nin-boad; I reckon you ain’ took time to notice Dink walkin’ ’roun hyuh in ’is naked skin, till I had to call yo’ ’tenshun to it. Is you?”

“Nookie, you ain’ got to gimme no egvice cuncernin’ Dink. I know de boy was naked. An’ he know he gotta stay naked, too. ’Till I git good an’ ready to give ’im ’is clo’se, from whah I done hid ’um.”

“W’at you mean?” she inquired. “Da’s de way you punishes Dink to make ’im stay in-do’s?”

“Da’s de onles way I know how to keep Dink from goin’ yonder in de swamp, play’n munks dem shoe-pick ditches,” Soongy went on to explain. “Times an’ times, I done tol’ Dink I don’ never eat no nasty shoe-pick. But he so hard-head. He steal off evvy chance he git; an’ go yonder in de swamp, wid Mahaley chillun an’ some dem yuther hongry li’l [160] A-rabs from down de street. Comin’ back hyuh at night, wid a sack full o’ dirty ole shoe-pick feesh; expec’in me to cook ’um.... Like he ain’ never bin use to nothin’ ’tall good to eat.”

Nookie looked at her with a feeling of mingled disappointment and disgust. Was Soongy trying to put on airs with her, and make believe she didn’t eat tchoupique? A fish she was raised on; like all the other poor colored folks living close to the swamp. A fish so fat and greasy, and so plentiful in all the muddy bayous and ditches, that everybody called it “Gawd’s feesh.” Something Gawd provided for His nigger people, to keep them in food when everything else failed. A fish that all the swamp niggers caught in the long summer time, and cut up and salted and dried in the sun; and hung up in their kitchens to last through the winter, when they couldn’t afford to buy fresh meat. And you didn’t have to catch them with a line, like you did other fish, either. All the children had to do when they went to the tchoupique pond: take a flour barrel, and knock out the two heads. Then, just “plump” it down in the water hard. And you never missed having ’most a barrel half-full, ready to scoop up with your hands, and throw out on the bank.

Thinking of the unctuous court-bouillon and [161] tchoupique stew she knew how to make, Nookie asked:

“Who?” answered Soongy, with a superior air. “I jus’ as soon eat lamp-eel, as eat dat nasty slimy mud feesh. No ’ndeed, not me.”

“I eats ’um, Miss Nookie,” sounded Dink’s pleasant announcement, as he came in from the next room; a pillow slip tied around his middle with a string.

He went over to the table quietly and began washing the dishes. Soongy looked at him crossly, and shouted:

“Boy! W’at in de name o’ Gawd you mean? Takin’ my nice clean pilluh slip off de bed, to splash it all up wid greasy dish water?... Go yonder in de room, an’ take dat pilluh slip off yo’ black body, an’ put it back whah it b’lonks; befo’ I stomps bofe yo’ livers down an’ beats you speechless!... You hyeah me?”

“W’at make you don’ leave de boy put on ’is clo’se, Soongy?” Nookie asked, rebukingly. “Ain’ he gotta go yonder to Carmelite house wid you tonight, to play de comb an’ make music for de raffle?”

“You leave Dink be,” Soongy advised her, curtly. [162] “Dink got plenny time to put on ’is clo’se befo’ he go to Carmelite house. Dis now. Tonight ain’ come yet.”

Not being in sympathy with Soongy’s views, Nookie was ready to argue in Dink’s behalf.

“Soongy, w’at make you wan’ be so hard on Dink like you is; w’en all he doin’, is try’n to be decen’?” She asked. “You think mo’ ’bout yo’ pilluh slip gittin’ spoilt, den you does ’bout de boy ketchin’ ’is death o’ col’; runnin’ ’roun hyuh in ’is naked skin, wid all dis draf’ searchin’ over ’is body. You sho oughta be ’shame’.”

“Dink ain’ fraid no draf’ blowin’ ove’ ’im, out yonder in de swamp wid dem chillun; w’en he pull off ’is clo’se an’ jump in de ditch wid a ba’l to ketch shoe-pick, is he?... An’ inny-way, you ain’ need to gimme no egvice ’bout Dink,” she went on, with animation. “If da’s all you come hyuh for,—to raise de subjec’ cuncernin’ w’at I has to do wid Dink; you gotta ’scuze me if I tell you, you welcome to go back home de same way you come hyuh. An’ no hard feelin’s, either.”

“I ain’ come hyuh to meddle you,” Nookie apologized. “I come hyuh to press dis dress I wan’ wear to Carmelite raffle tonight. I ain’ had no charcoal to [163] my house, an’ I say you mus’ bin had fire in de funnish; so I took my dress an’ come hyuh to do my pressin’.... But you ain’ mind, is you?” She asked, falteringly.

“De i’ons an’ de fire an’ de funnish all hyuh. An’ you kin press as much as you please,” Soongy answered; putting her work aside and clearing the board for Nookie. “I ain’ min’ nothin’. ’Cep w’en people try to make me feel cheap befo’ chillun,” she went on. “Wan’ make me think I gotta eat shoe-pick, jus’ ’cause Dink bring ’um hyuh an’ ax me to cook ’um.”

“Soongy, nobody ain’ wan’ fo’ce you to eat shoe-pick if you scawns ’um so critical. Nex’ time Dink bring a mess o’ feesh home, you jes’ sen’ ’um roun’ to my house; an’ I bet I show you how to perish ’um. Who? I’m a plum fool w’en it come to mixin’-up shoe-pick an’ tomattusus an’ seas’nin an’ things.... An’ Dink, you kin fill up yo’ plate many time as you want,” she called to him, in his hiding place. “So bring de things roun’ to me, you hyeah?”

The sound of Dink’s pleased giggle echoed from the next room, and Soongy said to Nookie, loud enough for Dink to hear:

“Come on hyuh, Nookie, an’ git thoo pressin’ yo’ [164] dress, an’ go home an’ lemme straighten up hyuh. An’ stop puttin’ devilment in dat boy head.... Nex’ time Dink go yonder ketchin’ shoe-pick, I lay I’m goin’ fix ’im so, he go naked till de Lawd has to take pity on ’im, an’ give ’im clo’se to put on. I sho Gawd will. If I has to burn evvy scat’rin rag he got to ’is name.”

Nookie walked over to the furnace, and taking one of the irons from the fire, she spat on it to test the heat. As she began pressing her dress, she said:

“Soongy, you ain’ foolish, no. Good as you know how to make b’lieve you is.”

Ignoring the remark, Soongy went to the table and fell to washing the dishes which Dink left in the pan. Very soon, song took the place of conversation; and the two women worked on, singing cheerfully over their tasks. Now and then the wavering sound of Dink’s voice came from the next room, like a broken response.

Nookie finished pressing her dress, folded it carefully, and put it in the basket, making ready to go.

“Now I’m goin’ yonder to my house, an’ lay down till dis evenin’,” she said to Soongy, after thanking her for the use of her charcoal and irons. “An’ watch how you goin’ see me strut in dis new frock tonight, w’en I git to Carmelite house, in front all [165] dem people say dey comin’,” she called back as she walked out. “An’ leave Dink put on ’is clo’se, so he kin come soon an’ play music on de comb, an’ make dem niggers feel good befo’ dey go yonder to Tempe wake.”

The prolonged quiet in the next room seemed to tell Soongy that Dink had fallen asleep. As soon as Nookie had gone, Soongy called to him commandingly:

“Boy! You better come in dis kitchen an’ wipe dese dishes, an’ help me straighten-up dis room, befo’ you commence thinkin’ ’bout puttin’ on inny clo’se to go ’way from hyuh tonight. You hyeah me?”

[166]

All afternoon fast-moving banks of dark threatening clouds were hovering over the East Green, and with the coming of evening the rain began falling in torrents. Gussie had just finished his supper of cornbread and coffee before the open fireplace, and was sitting watching the puffs of smoke the wind blew down the chimney, and listening to the pelting sound of the rain on the old shingle roof. He wondered how he would be able to go out if the rain continued; remembering that it was the night he had to help old man Hooblitz with his sausage-making. Rain or no rain, he had to go. Because his word was his bond; and he knew that the old man would expect him.

Aunt Fisky was sitting by the table, patching one of Gussie’s old cottonade shirts by the dim light of a flickering candle. She saw him get up and go to the door and look out, and knew by his manner that he was impatient to get away. She felt that it would be useless to try and hinder him. It would only make him cross.

Putting on his hat and coat, he told her good night and started off in the rain. He would go to Mr. Cholly Groos’s and get a cup of lemon-gin first, he told himself; then go down to old man Hooblitz’s and hurry and get through; and after that “go by an’ peep in at Carmelite’s raffle for a w’ile.” And after that, go to the church and sing over Tempe till he got tired. Then, after a full night of varied pleasures, he would go home to Aunt Fisky, and “lay down, an’ sleep de sleep o’ de sattafied.”

This singular old German with the effervescent name, was a woodcutter by day; who, requiring extra funds for the desired supply of beer and whiskey for selfish consumption, against swamp-fever, snake-bites and such-like evils, managed to overcome the need by following the craft of [167] sausage-making at night. His retired laboratory was a small shanty on the edge of Ziffle’s Wood, adjoining the cemetery. Hooblitz cut down the trees for Mr. Ziffle, who furnished the villagers with cord wood for their cook stoves and fireplaces.

Owing to a series of harsh disagreements with his married daughter who thought not highly of her father’s spectacular inebriety; old Hooblitz lived alone at his sausage factory on Mr. Ziffle’s property. Occasionally Gussie went to help him with the sausage-making; often spending the night with him, and taking part in his deep potations and raucous revelling; when only the owls in the cypress trees and the bullfrogs in the near-by canal would be annoyed by the seeming rivalry.

Strictly speaking, the place where the sausage was made could not be called a room. It was nothing more than a tin roof supported by four posts, young cypress trees with the bark on. The floor was of mud, baked hard from the fire that burned in the center three nights of each week. Over the fire was a large three-legged cauldron, with a brick under each foot. In it was boiled the mixture he peddled in a basket, going about in the evening from door to door; no distinction being made between his white and colored patrons.

Adjoining the place where he worked,—fastened on like a casual after-thought, was the room in which he slept. Its furnishings consisted of a rude bunk nailed to the wall; a long cypress tool chest resting on a pair of tressels; a soap box and a beer keg, to serve the purpose of chairs for any chance visitors. By way of decoration, the walls were hung with old hats, coats and trousers; here and there, odd pieces of red flannel shirts and underwear adding a redeeming note of cheer to the dull squalor of the place. The most striking thing, however, was an array of empty flasks and bottles (eloquent reminders of the revels of the past) hanging by strings from the rafters overhead.

For a long time Mr. Ziffle had the feeling that his woodpiles were being rifled, gently but systematically. He discussed the fact with old Hooblitz, who, not only gave vent to friendly indignation; but expressed his willingness to act as night-watchman and shoot the unworthy rogue, regardless of caste or color.

But his enthusiasm did not succeed in removing suspicion from Mr. Ziffle’s mind. He was convinced that Hooblitz was the crafty pilferer. So he determined to put the matter to a test. Whereupon he took a dozen or more sticks of wood and bored [169] them full of gimlet holes; into which he poured a small quantity of gunpowder, plugging them up afterward. Then he placed the loaded cord sticks on the tops of the various woodpiles, and sat down patiently to wait results.

The night set in with a driving rain, just as old Hooblitz lighted his fire and filled the big iron pot with the ingredients for the unsanitary brew he would peddle as sausage. Looking at his supply of wood, he saw there was not enough to finish the boiling, and that he would have to pay a secret visit to Mr. Ziffle’s woodpile to get a few sticks to last the night. He was just about to go out, when the door flew open suddenly, and Gussie lunged into the room, dripping wet and blowing like a porpoise.

Displeased with the untimely interruption, and not wanting Gussie to find out the secret of his wood supply, knowing that he would speak of it in the village and Mr. Ziffle would hear it eventually; old Hooblitz stood looking at the unwelcome visitor, leering at his discomfort with a sort of malicious delight. Gussie sat down dejectedly on the beer keg, beating his wet cap against its side. The old man continued to laugh, wondering at the same time how long he would have to wait before going [170] about his work. Getting up slowly, Gussie shook himself several times, like a wet dog trying to dry himself.

“Gawd knows, Mr. Hooblitz,” he began to complain, “I ain’ see w’at you got to laugh at. If I had knowed ’twas goin’ rain like dis, I sho would ’a stayed ’way from hyuh tonight.... You ain’ goin’ make no sausage, bad weather like dis, is you?”

’Twasn’t raining on the inside; the old man told him curtly. He didn’t have to stay, if he wanted to go back home; the old man went on. He got along without help before; he could get along without it again. Little bit of rain didn’t make him afraid to work for an honest living. The house had a roof over it. And there was a good fire, in the bargain.

“Li’l bit o’ rain!” Gussie exclaimed; surprised at his disagreeable manner of talking. “Man, you ain’ seen de water fallin’ out-do’as, if you wan’ call dat a li’l bit o’ rain.... Look how I’m soaked clean thoo to de skin, if you ain’ b’lieve w’at I’m tellin’ you.”

“Well, w’at you want me to do?” The old man asked indifferently, with a flat harsh drawl.

“Gimme li’l somh’n to drink,” Gussie told him frankly. “Li’l somh’n to warm me up befo’ I start ’way from hyuh. ’Cause I ain’ goin’ stay wid you [171] an’ do no work tonight.... I done already seen whah you too cross an’ crabby for me to stay hyuh an’ play ’roun’ dis sausage pot. Wet as I done got comin’ ’way down hyuh in de woods for nothin’.... An’ inny-way, I got to go yonder to Carmelite raffle an’ see’f I can’ win’ one dem quilts for Aun’ Fisky.... An’ got to go yonder to Tempe wake, too.... So gimme a drink o’ somh’n-nother, Mr. Hooblitz, so I kin leave hyuh w’en it slack-up rainin’ a li’l bit out-do’as.”

The old man took a flask from his pocket, and holding it out to Gussie, said roughly:

“Here. Take a drink. An’ I hope it lands you in Hell before morning.... An’ hurry on back to your damn niggers; if that’s what you want to do. I reckon I kin git along good enough by myself.”

Gussie looked at the flask; then contemplated the old man’s face for a second before answering.

“But no, Mr. Hooblitz. You sho is cross tonight.... W’as de matter? You begrudge me a li’l bit o’ licker to keep me from ketchin’ col’, wet as I’m is? An’ come hyuh to help you, too?... Hyuh, take yo’ licker back,” he went on, holding out the flask to the old man. “I ain’ got to drink it, if da’s de way you wan’ talk. Frien’ly as me an’ you bin for so long.”

Old Hooblitz took the flask, and after helping himself [172] to a long swig, he handed it back to Gussie, saying:

“Don’t be so damn touchy about your niggers. Take your drink, an’ go on back to ’um. You might miss the excitement if you stay here too long.”

Gussie put the flask to his mouth and took a long pull. He handed it back and the old man put it in his pocket and sat down sullenly. Gussie shook himself in his wet clothes, put on his cap, buttoned his coat well about his neck, and started for the door. He looked out to see if the rain had abated.

“’Tain drappin’ so hard like it ’twas,” he said, turning to the old man. “But ’tain no use stay’n hyuh no longer. So Mr. Hooblitz, I’m goin’ tell you good-night.”

The old man made an inarticulate grunt as Gussie left, calling to him as the door closed:

“Damn you an’ your good-night! I don’t care if I never see you no more.”

Going over to the bunk, he lifted the straw mattress and brought out a quart bottle of whiskey. He filled the empty flask he had in his pocket, took a generous gulp, put the flask back, and looked out at the weather.

He would have to go out after the wood, as the fire was burning very low. Going over to the array of [173] clothing on the wall, he took an old coat from the peg, threw it over his shoulders and started out in search of the woodpile. After stumbling through the dark, he came back after a while with four sticks of wood, his clothing thoroughly drenched.

“A good dram’ll warm up the inside, an’ I’ll be dry in no time,” he said to reassure himself, lifting his flask and drinking heartily. Then he raked the fire together and put on two sticks of wood, and went into his room to lie down until the cooking required further attention.

The rain pelted on the tin roof of the shed and the ringing sound went echoing through the room like a savage serenade. The malodorous fumes of the boiling pot also went into the room, bringing him visions of profitable sales and more comforting flasks for the lonely nights to follow. The thought made him happy, so he took another long drink of thankfulness; closing his eyes so as not to be shocked by the dismal aspect of an empty bottle.

The rain rattled and the fire cracked, but nothing disturbed the pleasure of his dreaming. The pot gurgled and the fire cracked louder than before, but the rude noise failed to penetrate the chaotic lethargy that wrapped his maudlin mind.

Suddenly the gunpowder exploded, sending the loaded cord sticks flying in every direction; the [174] seething pot soaring into the air against the tin roof, rattling like a charge of light artillery; the heterogeneous contents, scattered to the four winds like the spoils of battle.

But old Hooblitz heard no sound. No hint of the loud catastrophe. He lay unmoved on his dingy bed, wrapped in a fringe of bibulous ecstasy; half-hidden in the reek of steam that filled the room; oblivious to all mundane things; until the coming of morning confronted him with the cruel truth, and the accusing presence of Mr. Ziffle, asking if he was ready to deliver the culprit to justice.

When he reached Mr. Honnus’s shed, he sat down [175] on the door-step, deliberating whether to go in and have a drink to warm him up; or to continue right on to Carmelite’s house and dry his clothes by her kitchen stove before the raffle started.

He came to a decision without long delay. The bar-room door opened, and Chicken-Volsin coming out, Gussie had to get up to let him pass. Seeing Gussie’s wretched condition, Chicken-Volsin exclaimed:

“Great Gawd, man! Whah you come from? You look like somebody bin wollin’ in de ditch.... Come inside wid me an’ git somh’n to drink.”

“Sho Gawd will,” Gussie answered, well-pleased. “’Cause I feel like I’m ’bout to git de chills; wid all dis col’ rain searchin’ ’round my body.”

“Whah in de name o’ Gawd you bin, Gussie?” Volsin asked in amazement; walking over to the bar and calling for whiskey.

Gussie gave him a brief account of his useless journey to old Hooblitz’ place; the unfriendly manner in which he had been treated; and his determination to get to Carmelite’s raffle that night, rain or no rain. Anybody that had a spare dime could go and take a chance. And he had his mind set on winning one of Carmelite’s quilts for Aunt Fisky; so he would go, if he had to swim there.

Chicken-Volsin tried to shame him about his appearance, [176] but Gussie assured him that he could sit by Carmelite’s stove and dry out before he went in the front room “munks de people.”

“’Tain’ de wimmins takin’ me to Carmelite house,” Gussie explained. “It’s dem quilts she rafflin’.... I ain’ give Aun’ Fisky nothin’ for so long, I wan’ bring ’uh home somh’n nice to make up for it.... An’ two or three dimes ain’ goin’ break nobody. So da’s w’at I’m goin’ for.”

Chicken-Volsin accepted the excuse without further comment, and offered him another friendly drink. Gussie swallowed the whiskey with relish, and seeming to have forgotten his discomfort, started to go.

Chicken-Volsin walked to the door with him and saw him go out in the rain. He stood watching him running across the street, and laughed to think what a fool Gussie was, exposing himself to such weather “for nothin’ but one li’l ole raggedy quilt.”

On reaching Carmelite’s house, Gussie pushed the gate open hurriedly, and ran up the steps, stamping his feet loudly on the gallery, trying to dry them. Carmelite was in the kitchen, and hearing the strange noise, she came out to see who had arrived. As she entered the room, the front door flew [177] open unceremoniously, and she saw Gussie lunge into the room; his shoes covered with mud, and rillets of water running from his clothing and dripping from his cap, all over her neat, well-scrubbed floor.

She looked at him, filled with consternation, struggling for appropriate speech.

“Look! ole ugly w’ite nigger.... Is you done los’ yo’ good mind?” She almost shouted. “W’at you mean , comin’ up in my house dis-away?... Wettin’ up all my funnuchuh, an’ trackin’ dirt all ove’ my nice clean flo’ wid yo’ big ole muddy shoes?... Git out o’ hyuh an’ go whah you b’long!... Nobody ain’ ax you to come hyuh, no-how.”

“Carmelite, don’ holluh at me like dat,” Gussie appealed to her quietly. “Lemme git to de kitchen an’ set by de stove, an’ git dry befo’ people start to come an’ ketch me lookin’ like dis.... Mizabul as you see me hyuh, wid all dese wet clo’se on.”

“ Who? ” Carmelite shouted with indignation. “You ain’ think you goin’ stay hyuh tonight an’ go munks people, trampy-lookin’ an’ lavadated as you is?... Who?... Gussie, you mus’ be a fool!... So you better make up yo’ min’ to go ’way from hyuh right now; an’ no mo’ talkin’ ’bout it.... You hyeah w’at I say?”

Gussie looked at her dejectedly, wondering whether [178] to go or stay. He tried to reason with her, telling her that he only wanted to get dry before going out again; that was all. She wouldn’ have the heart to turn him out in the rain, after he came all the way from the woods to take a few chances just to help her out? Nobody would turn a dog out-doors a night like that. He wouldn’ bother anybody out in the kitchen all by himself. Who would care anything about him, as long as they were having a good time in the front of the house?

“Hyuh; take dis fo’-bits, an’ pick some good numbers, an’ see’f you can’ win de quilt for me; so I kin take it yonder to Aun’ Fisky.”

Carmelite took the coin without a demur. It was an unexpected ameliorating charm. A welcome token of truce.

“Come on out hyuh an’ set to de stove; so I kin hurry up an’ wipe dese tracks off dis flo’ befo’ innybody git hyuh,” Carmelite said in a quiet voice, starting for the kitchen with Gussie following her. “An’ ’tain no pity for you make me change my min’; no,” she went on. “If ’twasn’ say I know Aun’ Fisky so long; an’ know w’at she got to put up wid; I sho would make you take de road tonight; brazen as you is, comin’ hyuh like dis.”

Gussie pulled a chair close to the stove and sat down; glad to get where it was warm, and thankful to be under shelter at last. Carmelite took a floor-cloth from behind the door and went to the front room to wipe up the mud tracks from Gussie’s shoes. After a while she came back; and seeing Gussie looking at the coffee pot on the stove, she said:

“I’m goin’ give you a cup o’ coffee; an’ you stay hyuh an’ drink it. An’ don’t you come to de front w’en people git hyuh, an’ de raffle be goin’ on in yonder. You hyeah?”

Gussie told her that he would stay in the kitchen. All he wanted was to get dry. And maybe after he drank his coffee, he would go to sleep for a little while, before he passed by Tempe’s wake, on his way home.

“Well, you stay hyuh in de kitchen,” Carmelite reminded him. “An’ if inny one yo’ numbers draw de quilt, I’ll fetch it out hyuh to you.”

She poured a cup of coffee and placed it on the apron of the stove for him. Hearing voices at the front, she went to look after her guests; leaving Gussie to take his enjoyment as he felt inclined.

When Carmelite came into the room, Scilla was standing in the middle of the floor unpinning herself from the folds of an old gray blanket. Mozella [180] was sitting in the rocking-chair, wiping her bare feet with a towel, and making ready to put on her shoes and stockings, which she had carried in her hand. Pinkey was leaning against the door, hesitating to come in, for fear of leaving mud tracks on the floor.

“Gawd knows, Carmelite,” she remarked half-regretfully, “you sho picked out a nasty night to make people come ’way from home, an’ bring a whole lot o’ mud an’ confusion in yo’ house,—jus’ for one quilt.”

Carmelite gave an unconcerned laugh and told her not to worry about the mud. She had plenty of rags and soap to clean it up tomorrow. She wasn’t too old and feeble to get down on her two knees to scrub. ’Specially after people had come so well-meanin’ to help her make a few dimes, to pay for all the sewin’ she put on that nice Jacob-ladder quilt she was goin’ leave ’um to view later on. No indeed.... A little bit of mud tracks wouldn’t upset her, if the crowd was goin’ to be plennyful.

Keziah came in, followed by Frozine who was carrying a lantern; her skirt tucked up above her knees; her white stockings and battered pair of loose-fitting men’s shoes giving her a most ludicrous appearance.

Soongy and Lethe were sitting in the corner, staring [181] at her in amused silence. Dink was standing across the room, looking at her with his hand over his mouth, struggling to keep back a convulsive outbreak.

“Frozine, you come clean from home all thoo de street like dis? Wid a lantun shinin’ ginse yo’ laigs so brazen? Callin’ people tenshun to you, crittacul-lookin’ as you is?”

Who? Frozine remarked with a fine indifference. She didn’t have people to study about.... She didn’t play with mud in the day-time; so she knew good and well that she wasn’t going to take no chances with any Gritny mud in the night-time.... Fallin’ down in the dark and wreckin’ herself, without a lantern.... No indeed.... People laughin’ didn’t worry her. They could laugh at her legs as much as they pleased. Laughin’ couldn’t hurt her feelings.... But she sure Gawd was going to look to keep her legs from getting hurt.... Yes indeed.... Because she had too many things she had to do, before she “runned up on a accident an’ come to be a cripple befo’ her time.”

“Hyuh Bennee done come, Carmelite. An’ got Duckery wid ’im, too,” Soongy called to her as she went back with Frozine’s lantern.

The two young men came in smiling to everyone present, and the buzz of conversation and merry laughter began to fill the room.

Carmelite came back with the Jacob-ladder quilt and spread it over a chair for examination. The women commented on the bright colors, and admired the beauty of the pattern, and praised Carmelite for the fine work she had done. Carmelite thanked them for coming, and told them she wanted everybody to have a good time.

“How long y’all expec’in to stay hyuh?” Duckery asked with playful impatience. “You goin’ stay hyuh all night an’ cackle like a passul o’ guinea-hens?... Done forgot ’bout Tempe waitin’ for y’all to do some singin’ ove’ ’uh, yonder to de church?... Y’all better git started an’ do w’at you wan’ do; if you wan’ git finish an’ go to inny wake tonight.”

“Das jus’ w’at I say, Duckery. You sho right,” Soongy agreed. “W’at Carmelite waitin’ for, innyway? Maybe de bad weather keepin’ de members from comin’.... Look to me like dey got enough hyuh already to go ’head wid de intuhprize.... Evvybody w’at done took a chance on de quilt ain’ got to be hyuh to see de thing go thoo, is dey?”

No. They didn’t have to wait any longer; Carmelite answered. She would start things going right away. [183] Calling to Dink, she told him to make music on the comb so all would be lively. He began playing a merry time, and the spirit of cheer and good fellowship went floating about the room.

Carmelite took from the table a cardboard shoe box containing the blanks and numbered slips for the raffle, and asked Duckery if he would call out the numbers. He put the numbered slips in his hat and the blanks in Bennee’s hat; and after clapping his hands for attention, he said:

“If dey got innybody hyuh ain’t picked a number for dis raffle, dey better come on now an’ choose; so we kin put ’um all in de hat together, an’ leave Bennee commence shakin’ ’um up. ’Cause you know dis thing gotta go thoo straight like a lotry.... Square deal to evvybody, ’dout inny prefyun.” (Preference.)

Each member present had a number; and Carmelite had the list with their names “marked-up on de paper.” They were all sure that the drawing would be fair and square. Duckery would call the numbers and Bennee would handle the blanks.

Dink’s harmonious comb was playing a pleasant obligato as the drawing began, and all eyes were looking on with eager expectation.

“Number foteen!” Duckery called out, taking the slip from the hat with a flourish.

“Nothin’ ain’ wrote on dis’n,” Bennee informed him, unfolding the blank and examining it on both sides.

“Ole country nigger, ain’t you never took part in a raffle befo’?... Dat ain’ de way you gotta call back to me w’en I calls out de number.... If dey ain’ got nothin’ on de paper, all you gotta say to me is Blank .... ’Till you picks out de paper got Prize marked-up on it.... Now go ’head, an’ do de thing right.... An’ lissen good so you kin un’stan’ de numbers w’en I calls ’um.”

“Da’s right, Duckery,” came Carmelite’s earnest approval. “You make dis thing go thoo straight. ’Cause I don’ wan’ have none y’all niggers say I had dese numbers fixed-up befo’ han’. An’ say I robbed ’um out a dime, ’cause dey ain’ had de luck to win de quilt.”

“I know you ain’ talkin’ to me,” she heard Scilla’s sharp staccato call out. “I know I ain’ goin’ bother my good self ’bout raisin’ no trouble over one li’l ole dry dime I done paid out on any quilt.”

Duckery rolled his eyes and glared at him intently, while everybody laughed at Bennee’s forgetfulness.

“Blank,” Bennee answered with a pleased grin; satisfied that he was learning the intricacies of the game.

“Number nineteen,” Duckery called gaily; seeing Mozella looking at him with keen anticipation.

“Law ...d!” reverberated Mozella’s exclamation of disappointment. “I sho thought my number nineteen was goin’ bring me good luck.... Da’s de number o’ de day my sister baby was bawn.... An’ bawn wid one teeth in de front ’is mouth, too.”

“O g’way from hyuh, gal,” scoffed Keziah, giving Mozella a playful push. “Ugly an’ ill-formed as yo’ sister baby is,—’tain no wonder yo’ li’l dime done went astray.”

Much displeased at being interrupted by the laughter that followed Keziah’s comment, Duckery looked at the women and shouted crossly:

“Quit y’all wranglin’, for Gawd sake! An’ lemme git thoo playin’ wid dis hat-full o’ papers.... You think I wan’ stay hyuh all night?”

The commanding tone of his voice and the spectacular batting of his eyelids brought immediate silence. Whereupon he called out vehemently:

“Twenny-two blank like de yuther one,” Bennee answered with a tone of apparent surprise.

“You already done forgot w’at I tol’ you?” Duckery grumbled, fixing him with a menacing stare, before taking another slip from the hat.

“Dis’n ain’ blank!” Bennee called out joyfully. “Dis’n got somh’n wrote ’cross it, diffunt from all de yuther ones.”

“Number ninety-nine de prize!” Broke forth the excited chorus of soprano voices.... “Who number ninety-nine is, Carmelite?” they questioned. “Ninety-nine done win de quilt.... Innybody hyuh got ninety-nine for dey number?” They babbled. “Who ever ’tis picked ninety-nine for dey number, sho is lucky. Ain’t dey?” The comment went on; until Carmelite brought the list of names and looked to see whose name was written after the winning number.

“Lawd, people!” She exclaimed with delight. “Aun’ Fisky de one done win de quilt.... An’ I ain’ sorry, either. Bad as she needin’ cov’rins w’en de col’ weather come up on ’uh.”

“Not me,” Frozine informed her. “I ain’ never [187] win nothin’ in my whole life.... An’ hyuh I comed thoo all dis mud an’ rain to witness Carmelite fine Jacob-ladder quilt go ’way from hyuh to lay ’cross somebody else bed.... Umph!”

“Who?” commented Pinkey, sympathetically. “You ain’ need to grumble.... De onles’ thing I ever win, was a li’l can o’ cundense milk one time.... Sho’ ’nough. No playin’,” she went on, trying to convince them in spite of their laughter “’Twus to a singin’ cawntes’ at de Red Bean Row, yonder in Freetown.... An’ w’en I got home an’ went to open de cundense milk; de thing had done turn so sour, I was compel to th’ow it away.”

Becoming impatient over the long delay and the amusing gossip of the women, Duckery asked them:

“Y’all goin’ stay hyuh an’ talk all night ’bout bad luck; an’ tell each-another ’bout all de things you done los’?... If evvything done finish, I’m goin’ th’ow dese papers out my hat an’ go ’way from hyuh.”

Carmelite took his hat and told him to wait. She had a little surprise for everybody. She had a nice cake she made for the occasion, and she wanted each one to have a piece of cake and some coffee “to console dey feelin’s for not winnin’ de quilt.” Then afterwards, they could all go to the wake together.

The announcement brought a smile to every face. Dink began playing on the comb with renewed animation; and the room buzzed with merry laughter and friendly chatter as Carmelite went back to get the refreshments.

Going into the kitchen in a happy frame of mind, she called to Gussie cheerfully:

There was no response to her question. Gussie was sound asleep in his chair beside the stove. She decided that it was best not to wake him until after the refreshments were served. Then when everybody was ready to leave, she would call him and give him the quilt to take home to Aunt Fisky.

Carmelite took a knife from the safe drawer and tiptoed over to the table to cut the cake. The plate was empty. Nothing on it but a few scattered crumbs to tell that just a short while before it held a splendid duck-egg cake.

Could she believe her eyes? There was only one person to suspect, she told herself. And that person was Gussie. Nobody else had been in the kitchen since the cake was put on the table to cool.... To think he would do a mean, deceitful trick like that, after she was kind enough to let him come in out of the rain and sit by her stove to get dry.... And [189] not a single piece left to offer her friends, after she just got through telling them about her good, rich duck-egg cake!... What would they think of her?

With a sudden resolve, she hurried over to Gussie and grabbed him by the shoulders with both hands.

“Wake up hyuh! You nasty, low-down rogue.... Befo’ I pound you ’bout de head wid a billet o’ wood!” She muttered with restrained passion, shaking him roughly. “W’at you mean, prowlin’ ’round my kitchen an’ puttin’ yo’ filt’y han’s on things w’at ain’ b’lonks to you?... Wake up an’ git out o’ hyuh, I tell you!”

Gussie opened his eyes and looked at her half dazed; wondering who she was, and what the rough treatment meant. His mind was not clear and he seemed uncertain of his whereabouts.

“Don’t you hyeah w’at I say?” Carmelite shouted, trying to pull him off the chair.

“Don’ play so rough,” Gussie pleaded, struggling to free himself. “I ain’ goin’ bother nobody, settin’ hyuh by de stove till I git dry.”

“You mus’ be a drunken fool!” Carmelite answered hotly. “After you done et up all my good cake,—thinkin’ I’m goin’ leave you stay hyuh comfatubble; an’ I gotta go younder befo’ all dem people in de [190] room, wid a empty plate?... No’n deed, Lawd!” She vociferated, hearing the sound of footsteps approaching. “So you better come on an’ git off dis chair befo’ I make dem mens drag yo’ nasty body thoo dis house an’ th’ow you in de street unmerciful!... You hyeah?”

Soongy and Pinkey stood in the door looking on in blank amazement, wondering what the difficulty was, and asking how Gussie happened to come in without anybody seeing him.

Carmelite gave a dramatic recital of Gussie’s early arrival, his wretched condition, and her willingness to give him shelter on account of her pity for Aunt Fisky. She told how he promised to stay out of the room until after the raffle was over; how she came out to tell him that his number had won the quilt; how she went to cut the cake and made the startling discovery that Gussie had eaten all of it, leaving her nothing to offer her friends except “a pot full o’ black coffee an’ plain cistun water to drink widout nothin’ to eat.”

There was only one thing to do, Soongy declared emphatically. Carmelite was too foolish, wasting time multiplying words over ole no-count Gussie.... Nobody could do her a dirty trick like that and sit to his ease in front of her stove.... Who?... Talkin’ about it wouldn’t do no good.... “ Hands [191] was de inst’uments to start things movin’.” ... If one woman’s pair of hands couldn’t manage ole drunken Gussie, she bet three “wimmin’s six black hands wouldn’ miss takin’ charge of him to land him out-doors in de high road whah he could scuffle wid his cawnshunce aft’ he done come thoo.”

Gussie looked from one to the other, uneasily; as though he were trying to assure himself what the commotion was about.

“Ain’t no need to look so pityful, an’ try an’ say you ain’ did nothin,” Pinkey told him, going over to his chair and seeming to adjust herself for the coming exertion. “Yo’ time done come to vacate dis kitchen,” she went on with assumed authority. “An’ Pinkey Clay right hyuh to tussle wid you.... Come on, Soongy,” she commanded. “You grab hold ’is laigs to keep ’im from kickin’.... An’ you git to de middle, Carm’lite, to keep ’im from bendin’-in.... An’ I know w’en Pinkey Clay two han’s git fasten ’round ’is th’oat, he sho goin’ keep still.... An’ I dare ’im to w’imper!... Come on, ole slow niggers,—git yo position!” She called with impatience, determined to carry out her strategy without further delay.

After a few seconds of strenuous tugging and lifting, the unresisting, half-bewildered Gussie was being hurried towards the front door in haughty [192] triumph. As they passed through the front room, the surprised members, thinking the unique spectacle was a feature of amusement provided for their entertainment, greeted the procession with peals of laughter and great excitement.

Who could it be?... The thing looked too heavy to be a stuffed man, because all the women were bending.... Maybe it was a robber, Carmelite found in her house.... What made them want to carry the man out-doors?... Suppose somebody dropped dead in Carmelite’s kitchen?...

So the riot of question and comment continued until the three women came back, after having abruptly deposited their obnoxious burden on the muddy road, a short distance from the house, “to go hunt sattafaction whah-ever he wan’ look for it.”

“W’at you goin’ do if Gussie come back?” Bennee inquired, when Carmelite had finished giving a graphic account of the mysterious proceeding; every minor detail stressed with elocutionary fervor for their sympathetic understanding.

Gussie knew better than to come back, she informed them. ’Specially after the way all their three pair of hands had worked on him.... Gussie wasn’t goin’ consider comin’ back, now that the rain done stopped, and he was out-doors where he could realize [193] that he wasn’t cripple complete, to hinder him from keepin’ on goin’.

“But leave ole Gussie in Gawd han’s,” Carmelite concluded with willing resignation. “An’ all y’all members come wid me to de kitchen an’ drink some coffee; so we kin hurry ’way from hyuh an’ go yonder to Tempe wake.”

Eager to dispense with any mention of Gussie for the time being, and wanting her friends to enjoy what remained of the hospitality planned for them, Carmelite hurried them to the kitchen and began serving coffee; laughing good-naturedly as she made amusing apologies for the “skimpy li’l refreshnin’ foods;” thanking them for “helpin’ her out so nice”; and drinking with everyone to the “big success” of the raffle.

He also had a faint remembrance of a welcome drink with Chicken-Volsin, somewhere along the road. But it was somewhat hazy. Not near as clear as the recollection of himself hurrying on through the rain to see about winning the quilt at Carmelite’s raffle, so he could take it home to Aunt Fisky and make the old lady feel pleased.

Then he remembered Carmelite’s kitchen, and the nice warm fire in the stove; and how good he felt when his clothes began to get dry; and the good cup of hot coffee Carmelite gave him just before he fell asleep. But after that, he could recall nothing more until the time he woke up and found Carmelite shaking him and calling him names, and talking so loud that Pinkey and Soongy came out and pitched into him, before he could get his right presence of mind and keep them from over-coming him, the same as if he was chillun.

Why they carried him out-doors and dumped him in the street, he couldn’t understand to save his soul. Carmelite must have some grudge against him, and was mad because he came to the raffle. She didn’t [195] want him to win the quilt; and that’s the way she fixed it up to git rid of him. But didn’t he have as much right to be there as anybody else? Wasn’t his dime just as good as anybody else’s money?... But maybe it was a good thing. He had no business going. It served him right,—running with niggers all the time and expecting them to treat him like their own kind.... But old man Hooblitz was white . Look how he treated him?... What difference did it make after all? White or colored,—nobody gave a damn for him. All Gritny knew who Gussie Fisky was; but that didn’t make them act no kinder, and try to show him how to better his poor condition....

Suddenly realizing that his troubled meditation was growing into a feeling of stupid self-pity and morbid resentment, he looked up nervously at the few faint glimmering stars in the murky sky, wondering where he would go to rid himself of his unhappy mood and forget his utter loneliness.

Remembering Tempe’s wake, he started off down the quiet street to the New Hope church. He went stumbling along aimlessly over the muddy street-crossings and puddles of water on the low uneven banquettes, not caring whether the road was wet or dry, or how splashed and bedraggled his clothes became.

When he reached the church corner he was greeted by the blinking lights from the church windows and the wistful singing of the members inside; and the thought of human contact, however casual or momentary it might be, caused him to smile and hurry on; knowing how glad he would be to hear the sound of some friendly voice and feel the warm touch of a sympathetic hand.

As he started up the rickety steps of the church, he stopped half way to listen to the wave of melancholy song that came flowing out into the darkness. It made him shiver with a strange feeling of sadness as he caught a few words of the mournful wail and thought of their portentous meaning....

He heard their full rich voices repeat the somber message over and over. The slow, majestic movement of the chant rising and surging over them like a flood of melody, lifting their emotional souls to heights of poignant ecstasy.

But what made them keep on telling Tempe about what Death was going to do? Gussie asked himself; deliberating whether he would go in or wait until the song was finished.

Tempe didn’t need to know anything more about Death.... Tempe was sitting up in the house of death now. And she could tell a heap more about [197] what was going on yonder than anybody sitting up in the church, singing about it.... But maybe they were trying to tell their own self something about Death.... The way Death was going to come up on them when their time came for crossing over....

“Hell! I don’ feel like goin’ up in yonder an’ lissen at dat kind o’ thing,” he suddenly concluded. “I’m goin’ set hyuh on de step till dey raise some yuther ballet mo’ sattafyin’ to de feelin’s,” he went on, looking about for a dry spot to sit down. “Dey oughta try an’ sing somh’n mo’ pleasin’ over Tempe. ’Stead o’ keep tellin’ ’uh w’at Death goin’ do; after Gawd done seen fit to snatch ’uh away from hyuh so haphazzud.”

After a while the melodious flowing wave began to recede; growing fainter and fainter, until the subdued lament faded away into a low murmuring hum. It was soothing and pleasant, Gussie thought; and he sat listening indolently.

Very soon he heard the velvety sound of a woman’s vibrant contralto voice intone a line of another ballet. One by one the members took up the somber burden, proclaiming the simple words with full-voiced exultation.

The singing irritated him. It made him uncomfortable to think of the unwelcome message. Why did it disturb him, he asked himself. Was it the slow, sad minor tune? Or the cold, direct words of the song?

“Great Gawd A’mighty!” He said to himself, starting to go down the steps. “If da’s de onles’ kind o’ singin’ dey goin’ do hyuh tonight; ’tain no pleasure for me to linger hyuh.... Shucks! I’m goin’ yonder ’cross de Green an’ lay down an’ sleep.”

Trying to forget his disappointment, he began to whistle a cheerful tune and started down the street in the direction of the East Green. The rain was over, but the air was damp and chilly; and long fringes of clouds were passing across the moon in slow-moving rifts. The houses along the road were all closed, and everything was dark and still.

What would he tell Aunt Fisky about the quilt, he asked himself. Poor old soul;—he sho counted on bringing it home to her for a nice surprise.... Look like out of five chances, one number sho oughta made him win the thing.... Maybe Carmelite didn’t pick him five numbers for the four-bits he gave her.... And Aunt Fisky needed a good warm quilt, too.... And needed it more [199] than anybody they had sittin’ up in Carmelite’s house....

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a bell floating across the Green, not very far away. Looking up, he saw the reflection of a head-light on the switch engine coming towards him.

“Mus’ be close on to twelve o’clock,” he remarked casually. “Da’s ’bout de time dat switchin’ engine come up hyuh evvy night to pull freight off Morgan W’arf.... Lemme hurry up; an’ I kin see my way thoo de mud, clean home, w’ile dat light shinin’ ’cross de Green. ’Cause dat ole crawfish pon’ sho is a nasty place for mud an’ slush, aft’ a hard rain like we bin had tonight.... Ole switch engine, you sho struck it right for Gussie dis time....” He went on talking aloud; quickening his pace in order to get over the track before the engine reached him.

Hurrying on, he looked again to see how far away the engine was.... He could make it across the track easy enough.... The engine wasn’t moving very fast.... A few steps more, and he would be over the switch before the engine reached the corner.

The reflection from the head-light showed nearly half-way across the Green. He could see the water from the duck pond all over the road, clean up to [200] the front gate of his house. He recognized the old house by the thin little piece of light he saw blinking through the leaves of the castor oil bushes growing by the window.... Aunt Fisky must be up yet.... She didn’t leave no candle burning when she went to bed.... She couldn’t be sick?... Maybe she was waiting to see if he had the quilt.... Poor ole soul,—she sho would be sorry to know he didn’t win the thing....

Seeing the engine still a few feet away, he started to run; impatient to get over the track before the long line of box cars blocked the way and kept him waiting in the mud and dark. He felt confident that he would be able to clear the track with perfect safety, just as he had done it many a night.

But a sinister, opposing fate decreed that Gussie’s final hour had come. A secret snare lay in his path, half-buried in the hard, unyielding mud.

There it lay hidden in the dark, sticking up like a waiting noose to catch his hurrying foot: a treacherous loop of rusty wire discarded from a bale of hay, dropped on the road by a passing wagon; or thrown there by some careless hand,—how long ago, no one could tell.

A running jump, and he’d clear the track!... But tripping on the wire, he was thrown headlong across the rail; his unloved, unregarded body falling [201] an instant victim to the murderous wheels of the heedless engine.

Nobody appeared to be concerned about work. Women on their way to market stopped at front gates to laugh about the “upsetment” Gussie caused at the raffle. Some stood on street corners rehearsing the account of Tempe’s mysterious drowning in the well, and the new pleasure that awaited them at her approaching funeral. While others spoke in awed tones of the disorderly conduct of Gussie at Carmelite’s house, and the disastrous fate that followed him on his way home.

Where did he go after the women carried him out of Carmelite’s kitchen and left him on the street? They asked one another. Nobody remembered seeing him at Tempe’s wake.... Maybe Gussie was drunk when the engine knocked him down?...

And what made them leave him out there on the track alone? Didn’t nobody on the engine know they had runned over a man?... Who found the body first, and went and carried Aunt Fisky the bad news?

So the comment and questioning continued. But no one seemed to have any definite knowledge of the sad tragedy. All Carmelite knew was what Aunt Fisky had told her when she went to bring her the quilt, early that morning. The old woman said she got up about six o’clock; and when she opened the gate to let the ducks out to the crawfish pond, she saw a crowd of people standing by the switch, across the Green. She went over to see what had happened, and they told her that Gussie had been run over by the switch engine sometime during the night. That just a short while before, the man in charge of the switch lights found the body when he was going his rounds; and they were waiting for the coroner to come before the body could be moved.

Carmelite told how she remained with Aunt Fisky, helping her to get the house in readiness, “makin’ evvything look nice for Gussie w’en dey fetched de body home.”

“Po’ ole soul, she mus’ bin bowed down heavy!” Mozella commented feelingly.

“No she ain’t,” Carmelite answered. “Aun’ Fisky [203] sho is got de right un’stannin’ ’bout de way Gussie runned up on Death, an’ went ’way from hyuh wid nobody ’round ’im.... She say Gawd was jus’ natchally watchin’ ove’ ’im careful. Right hyuh in dis Green.... An’ knowed all ’bout de danger comin’ up on Gussie in de darkness.... Knowed it good.... ’Cause Gawd bin watchin’ Gussie for a long time. An’ tol’ ’uh He was hol’in Gussie right in ’Is han’s.... Waitin’ till de sperret command ’Im to cut Gussie down....”

“Dey ain’ goin’ hol’ de wake in de church, is dey?” one of the women asked, incredulously.

“W’at business dey got bringin’ Gussie up in inny church?” Carmelite asked abruptly; surprised at her friend’s display of ignorance. “Evvybody know old sinful Gussie ain’ never bin no Chrishtun.... Preachin’ ove’ ’im now ain’ goin’ do no good; yonder whah he walkin’ munks all dem heavy swingein’ flames, tawmentin’ his po’ soul an’ body.”

“An’ I bet ole no-count Gussie ain’ left a dry nickel to pay de un’taker for ridin’ ’im down to de graveyard, either,” commented Soongy, shaking her head reflectively.

Yes he did. Carmelite assured her. The secret society was going to take charge of the funeral. Gussie belonged to the “Nights o’ Peefus.” And word had been sent to all the members to come to the [204] wake at Aunt Fisky’s house that night. Gussie would be sure to have a fine funeral; she declared with authority. Because the Peefus Lodge always had a fine band of music. “An’ de secaterry already done give out de news dat Gussie died finanshul.”

Feeling satisfied with having acquainted her friends with all these important details, Carmelite left them; saying that she was going to Lethe’s house to deliver a message from Aunt Fisky.

Eager to bestow upon Gussie any small honor that would lend added dignity to the farewell ceremony, the old woman asked Carmelite to go and see some of the friends who had played with Gussie in early childhood, and ask them to come and serve as pall-bearers at the funeral. Having notified all but one, Carmelite asked Lethe to send word to Felo and get his promise to be present the next day. This duty accomplished, she told Lethe that she was going home “to git down on her knees an’ wipe up all dem mud tracks on her flo’. An’ try an’ chastise her cawnshunce for de mean way she set to po’ Gussie. Not knowin’ de po’ soul was jus’ ’bout ready to stumble into Hell-fire.”

“Ain’ it true?” Lethe corroborated with thorough understanding. “Dis whole life ain’ resemble nothin’ mo’n a fatal mat’en-nee.” (Matinee.)

[205]

Flattered with having the honor of being the first one to acquaint Felo with the startling account of Gussie’s death, Lethe lost no time in hurrying to Miss Barbara’s grocery store to communicate with him by telephone. She knew that Felo would just be giving Mr. Amos his breakfast; that it would be the best time to catch him at home, before he went out to market. She was sure that he had not heard from anyone about Tempe’s drowning; so she would tell him all the particulars, and all about the funeral which was to take place that day; and maybe Felo would come over to Gretna early, and they would have a little visit at her house before they went to the graveyard.

Such astounding news from home so early in the morning, served to arouse Felo’s excitable temperament to unrestrained emotional flights. Mr. Amos sat drinking his coffee, listening to Felo’s exclamations of surprise, waiting patiently for the conversation to end.

When Lethe finished her long harangue, Felo hung up the receiver nervously and came into the dining-room, his eyes staring with a startled expression.

“Dah bless Gawd!” he exclaimed; taking a seat [206] across the room, near the kitchen door. “I ain’ never knowed it to fail; long as I kin remember,” he went on, with a sweeping gesture of the right arm. “Evvy time you see me dream ’bout fresh meat, you sho find out it ain’ goin’ be mo’n a day pass by, befo’ I hyeah tell ’bout somebody done died.... An’ now I bin had a dream ’bout fresh meat, dis make three nights successful, han’-runnin’.... An’ hyuh come de news from Lethe dis mawnin’, ’bout two mo’ people done passed out, yonder in Gritny....”

“Never mind your dreams,” Mr. Amos interrupted with an amused smile. “Tell me who’s dead. And you can think about your fresh meat afterwards.”

“Go ’head, an’ laugh much as you please,” Felo answered, a trifle provoked. “Y’all w’ite folks jus’ alike.... All time ready to laugh at somh’n you don’ un’stan....”

“Well, let us hear what Lethe had to say, and maybe I will be better able to interpret your dream,” Mr. Amos encouraged him.

“Da’s de very thing I wan’t tell you. If you only keep still, an’ stop ty’in’ up my pro-gress wid so many on-nec’sary queshtun,” he remonstrated playfully; eager to recount Lethe’s sensational chronicle of disaster.

Three deaths in less than a week’s time! He began [207] solemnly.... Ole Aunt Milly from down the bayou.... Pulled up in a skiff, all the way from Peach Orchard.... Comin’ all that long distance, rolled up in a blanket.... And buried in a grave half-full of rain water! He went on enumerating the lugubrious incidents; falling into a sort of chant, wavering between two monotonous tones.

Then Tempe, fallin’ in a well and gettin’ drownded so curuss.... And nobody able to get the straight understandin’ about it.... And smack on top of dat: Gussie Fisky, cut down by a switch engine haphazzud.... Right in front of his own house, in the black night.... And nobody close by to carry the news.... Umph-umph! Went the vigorous grunt of contemplation.... What was the world comin’ to?... These Gritny people better make haste and pray. Before Gawd reached down and snatched at ’um; and they come to open their eyes in Tawment.... Beggin’ for mercy when it wasn’t no use.... “Yas Lawd!” he concluded with a deep sigh. “It sho look like sudden deaths is gittin’ pop’lar.”

Knowing Felo’s eager readiness to have a part in every “popular” demonstration of this kind; Mr. Amos asked him how he was going to manage to be present at all the ceremonies.

No. He wasn’t going to take part in Tempe’s burying, [208] Felo explained. They didn’t need him to speed Tempe over.... Tempe was a Chrishtun; and they would have a whole multitude of wimmins there to raise big excitement over her.... He was going to stay home and try to “sun the house,” and wipe up the floors.... Try and see if he couldn’t kill that strong miljew scent Mr. Amos said he found about the house the last couple of days.... Complainin’ and worryin’ about the dinin’room smellin’ mouldy.... And the rain bin fallin’ so steady lately; nobody ain’ goin’ study ’bout openin’ any window to leave in fresh air, damp as ever’thing is out-doors.... Anybody ought to know how that ole grass rug on the floor holds the miljew when the weather be’s rainy.... He was going to stay home and give all his ’tenshun to the house.... If the sun just comed out strong and ’lowed him a chance to work good all day....

But his mind told him that he had to go see Gussie that night.... Gussie was a brother-member of his Lodge. And it was compulsionary for him to be at the wake and go to the funeral.... Aunt Fisky sont him word that she wanted all Gussie’s ole-time playmates to walk ’long-side him for pall-bearers.... So after he got through fixin’ supper, he was goin’ to Gritny, and stay all night; and come back in the evenin’ after the funeral was over.

Fully conscious of the deep importance with which Felo considered his sentimental expedition, and agreeable to leaving him to the enjoyment of his own devices; Mr. Amos told him to take the whole day, and to let the house-cleaning go for another time.

No. He insisted on following his own mind, and getting through with what he had to do, so he would hear no more talk about that play-gone miljew scent in the house; when he got back from Gritny, and wanted to tell about what took place when they put Gussie away.... He couldn’t talk sociable when people kept on makin’ a whole lot of complainin’.... “An’ innyway,—de sun done comed out dis mawnin’, an’ I ain’ goin’ risk puttin’ de thing off no longer.... So gimme some change to go to market an’ buy yo’ li’l foods for dis evenin’.... An’ go ’head to yo’ office, an’ lemme git to my business.”

Mr. Amos gave him the money for the purchases, and was about to leave, when Felo followed him to the door and asked:

“You want some yam sweet potato dis evenin’? Fixed in de oven wid butter an’ milk an’ vunilla essen’, an’ some dem w’ite-o’-aig things you call mush-mallow?”

Mr. Amos gave a smile of assent, remembering this [210] was one of Felo’s boasted specialties, and that it was intended as a delicate compliment.

“An’ you want some smothered poke-chops, an’ stuffed aigplant wid swimps in ’um?” Felo suggested.

“Why do you want to make such a feast?” Mr. Amos asked in surprise. “After you finish all the house-cleaning you say you mean to do, you better rest yourself; if you hope to do any singing at a wake tonight.... Fix the yams, if you care to. But get something else easy to cook.”

“Man, go ’head to yo’ office, for Gawd sake,” Felo told him; provoked at having his show of hospitality received with such marked indifference. “’Tain no use try’n to sattafy some people, w’en dey ain’ never learnt how to ’preshate li’l favors did for ’um wid a free heart.... Go ’head to yo’ office.... An’ you better be glad if you come back hyuh an’ fin’ coffee an’ bread to eat, w’en you git home dis evenin’.”

[211]

Left to himself, after he had done his marketing in the neighborhood, it was not long until Felo’s domestic maneuvering was in full swing. Any casual passer-by would have supposed the house was in process of evacuation. Festoons of bed-clothes and barricades of pillows protruded negligently from upstairs windows; scarves and cushions and draperies of many colors flaunted in reckless abandon from down-stairs windows; rugs hung over the side fence, and blankets flapped on the back-yard clothes-line. Everything was brought out to bask in the welcome sunshine and to gather freshness from the pleasant flowing breeze. Filled with abundant energy and the unflagging desire to please, Felo was determined to overlook no single detail about the house. Work don’t never hurt nobody if they goes at it with the right sperret, he told himself.... He sho was goin’ to try his best to keep people from thinkin’ his boss was runnin’ a li’l ole picayune boa’din’-house.... This house was a rezzident; and he sho was goin’ keep it lookin’ so.... And Mr. Amos never need feel ’shamed to have any comp’ny try to ’zamine his toys and things, and all them “heavy-heavy-hangs-ove’-yo’-head” he had on the wall; after Felo got done playin’ with ’um....

When he came home in the evening, Mr. Amos was struck by the orderly appearance of everything. The rugs were fresh-looking and arranged with care; the floors and the furniture were rubbed and polished; bright flowers were on the piano and [212] tables; and the whole house looked cheerful and inviting.

As he walked back to the diningroom he heard the pleasant sound of Felo’s voice, singing at his work in the kitchen.

The words didn’t carry a very cheerful greeting; but the melody was a lovely one; thought Mr. Amos, as he stood listening, waiting until Felo would finish the verse.

“What a strange allurement death and wakes and funerals seem to hold out to him; when at heart he is really of a happy disposition,” Mr. Amos commented, as Felo ended his song and changed to a soft murmuring hum.

Mr. Amos stood looking about the room, waiting for Felo to sing again. Suddenly he became conscious of the odor of pineapple. Wondering where it came from, he soon discovered a large pineapple [213] towering out of the punch bowl on the corner cupboard, and another one standing on a tray on the side table.

“Well, what do you call this?” He asked Felo, not knowing how to regard the unusual decoration.

Felo came in from the kitchen, smiling, wanting to know if everything wasn’t “sattafactual.”

Everything was fine. He was thoroughly pleased; Mr. Amos told him. “But will you kindly tell me why you bought these pineapples and put them in here after this fashion?”

Felo looked at the pineapples thoughtfully, his face assuming a puzzled expression. What was the matter with them? They were nice and fresh.... He never let nobody sell him no cheap rotten fruits.... These pineapples were fine ripe pineapples.... And nobody couldn’t buy no better pineapples for two-bits a piece....

“Dah bless Gawd!” Felo exclaimed, abashed; rolling his eyes impressively from one pineapple to the other. “You know, I clean forgot you ain’ never eat pineapple,” he tried to explain. “Gawd knows.” He apologized with deep feeling. “De thing sho did slip my membunce, jus’ like I tell you.”

“And that’s the reason why you bought two pineapples [214] instead of one?” Mr. Amos asked, teasingly.

“You ain’ try’n to raise no complaint ’bout fo’-bits, is you?” Felo went on. “But you know, de things look so nice an’ temptin’ w’en I seen ’um on de Dago stan’ dis mawnin’; I thought on w’at I hyeah’d you say,—how dis place smell so mouldy.... So I say: I’m goin’ buy dese pair o’ pineapples an’ put ’um in de room hyuh; an’ I know dey goin’ sho out-stink a billy-goat.... An’ I bet you ain’ smell no miljew scent up in hyuh now. Is you?”

Mr. Amos complimented him on his novel method of disinfecting, but said he preferred to smell the tempting scent that came floating in from the pots.

“Well, hurry up an’ set to de table, an’ lemme bring you yo’ li’l foods befo’ yo’ appatite fo’sake you. Evvything ready. So come on an’ eat. An’ maybe I kin go ’way from hyuh soon, w’en I git thoo waitin’ on you.”

Further urging was unnecessary. Mr. Amos knew by the regaling odors coming from the kitchen, that the evening meal would consist of much more than the meager “coffee and bread” which Felo promised in the morning. Having revoked his [215] threat, in spite of the many duties accomplished that day, Felo had exerted himself in preparing a truly noble dinner.

Not satisfied with the simple luxury of eggplant stuffed with shrimp and tomato, seasoned with onion, thyme, parsley and red pepper, macerated with milk and butter, Felo had added the epicurean garnish of rolled toast and grated sapsago cheese. The yam potatoes, crowned with an aureole of golden-brown marshmallows, looked like an arrangement of autumn leaves mottled with sunshine; and Mr. Amos found himself wondering if it were not a bowl of delectable vegetables masquerading as a delicious dessert. The pork chops were smothered in a rich tomato gravy flavored with cloves and lemon peel; a tempting ragout, which Felo assured Mr. Amos, as he placed before him a plate of hot biscuits just out of the oven, “sho will make you rear back an’ smack yo’ lips manful, after you done sopped some o’ dese light biscuits in dis good ole-time Creyall gravy.”

Knowing that Felo at all times looked for more active proof than simple words of praise in appreciation of his culinary efforts, Mr. Amos endeavored to “perish” and “destroy” as much as was humanly possible. Because Felo was most pleased when he saw people “eat good”; and “et like dey [216] bin use to good eatin’.” Feeling that “a dinner table full o’ empty plates an’ dishes was cert’ny mo’ convincin’ den a whole lot o’ col’ overs settin’ up in de ’frigerator.”

When Mr. Amos finished his coffee, he went upstairs to lie down, leaving Felo to “scuffle wid his pots an’ make quick tracks for Gritny.” It was not long before the kitchen boomed with the happy chorus of “De ole sheep done knowed de road”; every now and then a broken cadence floating off through the house like the sound of jubilation:

It was a pleasant sound, and Mr. Amos delayed reading his book as long as the singing continued. As soon as there was silence in the kitchen, he knew that Felo was dressing, and that it would not be long until he was on his way across the river to Gussie’s wake.

[217]

If there were two particular forms of divertissement equally cherished by every dweller of the East Green and thereabouts, perhaps the one holding second place would be the fine funeral following a nice wake. Granting this, it was easy to understand why Gussie’s obsequies seemed to offer something of more than ordinary importance. Being a white man, and an outcast among his own color; and a man without religion, and therefore counted a lost soul among his church-going colored companions; they were deeply concerned about how he would be “put away with any right kind of form and fashion.” ... Who could they get to preach his funeral if the colored elder didn’t want to come?... Maybe Aunt Fisky would get the white folks to bring the priest to say prayers and swing smoke over Gussie and sprinkle him with holy water?...

Conjectural comment was at its height when Felo arrived. And curious to know the full particulars, like all the other members present, he asked Aunt Fisky if she had done anything regarding the funeral ceremonies. She told him quietly that she didn’t want any priest or revyun of any kind to come up in her house.... She wasn’t no hypocrite.... Everybody in Gritny knew that Gussie never was no church member.... And now that Gussie was ’ceased, there wasn’t no use for any elder to stand up and preach about his sinful ways.... It [218] couldn’t help Gussie none. And what good would it do anybody else?... They ain’t got to tell Gawd about it; ’cause Gawd already knowed what Gussie was. So He didn’t have to listen to a whole lot o’ random.... And besides, she didn’t believe in rakin’-up people’s wrong-doin’ after they gone. The members could sing over Gussie much as they pleased. And the man from the Peefus Lodge could say the Ow Father and read something out his book. And that’s all she cared about.... And she was goin’ to see that they did it, too.... Gussie had dragged on long enough with a whole lot o’ racket and confusion. So she made up her mind that she was goin’ to see him go ’way from this earth quiet and respectable.... She wasn’t goin’ to find no fault ’bout havin’ a brass band; ’cause she knowed Gussie always liked music and was too proud to walk behind a purrade. So, if people cared anything at all about her and Gussie feelin’s, she cert’ny would look to see them respect her wishes in this lonesome interprise....

Felo said he would tell everyone present, and promised to see that her wishes would be obeyed. He went over to talk to Carmelite, where she was sitting in a corner, looking very dejected. She shook hands with him and listened silently as he repeated what Aunt Fisky had told him.

“An’ you sho kin count on me, Mr. Felo, to help you make dese niggers do de right thing,” Carmelite assured him feelingly.

“Sho Gawd is,” she declared with fervor. “Bad as I feel; I’m goin’ stay right hyuh, an’ fix de coffee an’ do all I kin, befo’ I go home to my house.”

“W’a’s de matter?” Felo asked wonderingly. “You ain’ sick, is you?”

No; she wasn’t ’zacly sick; Carmelite told him. She was jus’ feelin’ down-casted.... Sittin’ there an’ lookin’ at Gussie, an’ callin’ back to her mind what took place to her house last night.... Gussie eatin’ up all her duck-egg cake with nobody but himself, yonder in her kitchen.... And hyuh a whole crowd o’ people come to eat crackers and coffee over Gussie; and he layin there on the table and ain’t knowin’ a thing ’bout what was goin’ on....

“An’ lookin’ so natchal, too. Widout any puttin’-on a-tall,” came Frozine’s sympathetic comment.

“Ain’t it true,” agreed Mozella. “For a man bin cut half-in-two like he is, Gussie sho do look natchal.”

“Sho is,” declared Nookie. “I ain’ never took notice till now, how pale Gussie complexion.”

“Look like Death done bleached his skin mo’ lighter,” Carmelite reflected pensively.

“An’ Gussie sho look like somebody diffunt, layin’ up there strouded in dem purrade clo’se he got on,” said Pinkey, taking a seat along-side of Carmelite.

At sight of Aunt Fisky coming in from the back room, all comment ceased for a while. She came over where the women were sitting, and gave Carmelite a pan full of orange leaves, asking her to pin them on the sheet “droped” over the table where Gussie was lying. Carmelite and several of the women got down on their knees and began pinning the orange leaves on the sheet, making a border in the form of a cross all around the bier.

At length, a low mournful humming began to tremble in the room as the women went on with their work in the dim weird light from the flickering candles, standing in bottles on the mantelpiece and on the table at Gussie’s head and feet.

Their voices pulsating with unusual fervor and their minds thrilled with the import of the words:

One by one the neighbors continued to come in, each one bringing along from home a chair to sit on; knowing that Aunt Fisky would not be able to accommodate them, and that the crowd would increase as the night went on.

Felo began looking about eagerly to see if Lethe had come. What kept her so late? He asked himself.... He would run around to her house to see what was the matter.... Now was a good time. The singing was at its height.... Nobody would miss him....

“W’at you doin’, settin’ out hyuh in de jew all alone?” He asked abruptly. “Who you waitin’ for? Settin’ out hyuh in de dark, wid dis chill air blowin’ [222] ’cross yo’ shoulders, an’ nothin’ on to puhteck you from de night dampness?”

“Settin’ out hyuh on-cuncerned, waitin’ for ole loud-mouth Lizzie; an’ Aun’ Fisky an’ evvybody waitin’ yonder for you to come to Gussie wake; an’ had to git me to come see w’at keepin’ you?” He complained. “W’at kind o’ game dis is you play’n, inny-way?” He demanded with mock seriousness. “You ain’ inten’ to go to de wake tonight?”

“I gotta wait hyuh till Lizzie come wid dem chickens, befo’ I kin go,” Lethe answered calmly.

“W’at chickens you talkin’ ’bout?” He asked impatiently. “I don’ know nothin’ ’bout any chickens.... Ole crazy Lizzie ain’ thinkin’ ’bout bringin’ no chickens to Gussie wake, is she?... An’ you ain’ wan’ play fool an’ uphol’ ’uh in ’uh devilment?”

“Felo, for Gawd sake set down, an’ don’ talk so hasty,” Lethe told him with annoyance. “Lizzie comin’ hyuh to bring de chickens she wan’ me keep for ’uh till she come back from sugar-grindin’, yonder whah she goin’ to Lafoosh plantation.”

“Dey got a whole crowd o’ wimmins goin’ in de [223] mawnin’; an’ I spec’ Lizzie goin’ ’long wid’ um’ on de Morgan train.”

“An’ she had to wait till dis late in de night to go ketch chickens an’ fetch ’um hyuh to bother you wid ’um?... W’at make ole lazy Chester couldn’ brought ’um hyuh in de day-time?”

“Who? Chester gone sugar-grindin’!” Felo exclaimed, laughing with great amusement. “Lizzie Cole better hurry an’ go yonder an’ look after Chester, befo’ some dem green country niggers sasharate de po’ boy body an’ soul, w’en he workin’ munks de mens, cuttin’ sugar cane in de big open fiel’.”

“W’at make you all time wan’ be so scoffish?” Lethe asked him. “Chester ain’ big enough to take care himself?... Chester ain’ simple.... An’ you ain’ need to worry ’bout Chester. ’Cause Chester ain’ gone to no country to cut no sugar cane.... Whah Chester gone ain’ nobody business. So try’n keep still, an’ don’ be talkin’ all ove’ yo’ mouth till you know somh’n ’bout people mo’ better’n guessin’ an’ supposin’.”

“But no!” Felo faltered; surprised at her unexpected defensive attitude. “Since w’en you done come to be mixed up in Chester business so, you gotta set to me like dis?”

“Felo, is you a plumb fool all by yo’-self?” Lethe asked him quietly. “W’at I wan’ do, havin’ any traffic wid chillun like Chester?... You ain’ got to come hyuh an’ ’cuse me, suspicious like dat....”

“Chillun, man, or boy; or w’atsome-ever you wan’ call it,” he interrupted sullenly. “But look like y’all two mus’ be got some kind o’ secut un’stannin’ wid each-another; w’en you so quick to take up de queshtun, an’ ack like you know somh’n you don’ wan’ tell ’bout.... But da’s alright,” he went on, with an aggrieved air. “You ain’ compel to lemme know w’at goin’ on.... W’en you got Chester right hyuh so conveenyun all de time; an’ I’m way yonder ’cross de river, countin’ on evvything bein’ straight, an’ trus’in all things is fair an’ square.... You ain’ compel to tell me nothin’, if da’s de way yo’ mind lead you....”

“Felo, for Gawd sake, shet yo’ mouth an’ keep still,” Lethe told him; getting up from the steps and starting to go into the house. “Hyuh come Lizzie, now.... So come in-doors, if you wan’ find out ’bout Chester.... Leave Lizzie tell you ’bout him. She ain’ goin’ hol’ nothin’ back from you.... Hyuh she is, now. Go ’head inside; an’ don’ look so hateful.”

Lizzie arrived with a great bunch of squawking chickens in each hand. Seeing the gate closed, and [225] unable to help herself, she called out boisterously:

“Whah y’all done lef’ yo’ manners, you can’t come hyuh an’ open dis gate an’ lemme in? You wan’ leave me stay out hyuh all night helpless? Wid all dis mighty roocus dese crazy chickens raisin’ right hyuh in front Lethe door?... Come open dis gate, for Gawd sake. Befo’ some dese inquiztun w’ite folks run up hyuh an’ try to ’res’ Lizzie for robbin’ people hen-roos’ after hours like dis is.... Stop yo’ grinnin’, an’ come hyuh an’ gimme a han’,” she commanded.

Felo hurried to open the gate and let her in, and Lethe led the way to the back yard; both of them laughing heartily at Lizzie’s amusing speech and the antics she performed as she deposited the squawking chickens on the ground. Felo helped her untie the strings from their feet, and after they were put away for the night and Lethe saw that the chicken house door was made fast, the party went into the kitchen and sat down to talk.

After scanning the room inquisitively, Lizzie got up and helped herself to a dipper of water from the bucket standing on the table; then kicked off her shoes and made herself ready to enjoy any form of entertainment the night would offer. Seeing that she was in a loquacious humor, Lethe encouraged her to talk of Chester; knowing how curious Felo [226] was to learn something of his whereabouts. At the mention of his name, Felo asked if Chester was going to the wake.

“No,” Lizzie answered quietly; then added with a grandiloquent air, that Mr. Frackshun was trav’lin’.

No. Mr. Frackshun didn’t care nothin’ ’bout playin’ in a cane field; Lizzie informed him facetiously. Mr. Frackshun said he found cuttin’ cane too bitterly against the constitution.... ’Tain’ everybody kin stand it like wimmins bin use to it.... An’ innyway, Mr. Frackshun said he was afraid of his feets gittin’ fros’-bitten, cold mawnin’s like they had in the country.... And a cane-knife was such a dang’us-lookin’ weepon, Mr. Frackshun said he couldn’t see how he was goin’ to git use to totin’ one....

What was Lizzie tryin’ to make out of Chester? Felo asked her reprovingly. Since when did Chester come to be so high-up and particular that he could pick and choose the kind of work he wanted to do, when niggers in Gritny was glad to do any kind of work that come to their hand, tight as money [227] was this time of the year?... Was she satisfied to listen to Chester’s crazy talk, and leave him stay home playin’ weak and timmasun, layin’ up on her all winter long doin’ nothin’? While she was scufflin’ yonder in the frosty cane-field, workin’ her poor fool-self to death till way after Christmas, when the grindin’ was over?... Lizzie must think Chester was some kind of jew’lry had to be locked up in the house to keep people from runnin’ off with....

“But you know de ole house so rickety an’ lavadated, Mr. Felo, da’s de very reason I sont Chester ’way from hyuh,” Lizzie told him with impressive seriousness. “My li’l ole shanty ain’ no safe place to hide nothin’ w’en dese Gritny w’ite folks commences plund’in an’ searchin’.... An’ jus’ like you say,—Chester so simple an’ timmasun,—Lizzie ain’ feel like she wan’ take no chances.... So da’s how come she make de jew’lry take a depahter.” (Departure.)

Felo looked puzzled and annoyed, and scowled at Lethe, wondering at her amusement. What did Lizzie mean? He asked her impatiently. Did she think he came there to waste time and listen to a whole lot of riddles and humbug?... He wasn’t no chillun.... If she wanted to talk, why didn’t she talk plain [228] and natchal; and not try to talk a mouth full of mystery nobody wasn’t able to ’lucidate....

“Dey ain’ got no myst’ry ’bout Chester goin’ ’way from hyuh, Mr. Felo,” Lizzie explained quietly. “I sont de boy ’way from hyuh; an’ I know de place whah he gone to. An’ dey ain’ nobody else but Lizzie Cole to be helt ’sponsible for de boy welfare, w’en de time come for givin’ ’count on Chester Frackshun disa’pyunce out o’ Gritny.... So sen’ ’um to me, w’en dey wan’ ax queshtun an’ find out somh’n.... I ain’t ’fraid to face ’um.”

“All dem parties an’ parties settin’ up in de cou’t-house, try’n to play smart,” Lizzie answered.

“W’at thing dis Chester done commit, you gotta worry ’bout people in de cou’t-house callin’ on you?” Felo asked with eager surprise.

“’Tain’ nothin’ Chester did,—’zac’ly speakin’,” Lizzie went on to explain. It was the things the white folks might come to do if they heard that Chester was under suspicion.... Because he had already runned up on danger two times: with all these niggers blabbin’ about the way ole Unc’ Peesah died. And about the needle Tempe got from Chester the night before the old man passed out. Then come Unc’ Nat, spreadin’ the news that Chester was the [229] one that left the well open at the corner the night Tempe got drownded, makin’ it look like the boy wanted to get her out of the way to stop any more talk about the fatal needle.... Who? No indeed.... She wasn’t goin’ to leave a poor simple motherless boy like Chester stay home alone when she went to the sugar-grindin’, so the white folks could come and land him up in jail; when he was just natchally innocent and helpless.... ’Specially when that man lookin’ after the light on the Morgan road, had come to her the mawnin’ after Gussie was runned over; inquirin’ what time it was when Chester come home the night before; and if he seen the switch light burnin’ when he went ’cross the Green.... Tryin’ to make it look like Chester had somh’n to do with bein’ mixed-up in how Gussie come to be runned over by a switch engine....

“Lawd, Lizzie! Go ’way from hyuh,” Lethe exclaimed aghast. “You ain’ never tol’ me dat befo’.”

“I say: Who you mean, Chester Frackshun?... I say: Dis de place he live; but he ain’ bin home hyuh for over a week.... I say: Chester yonder ’cross de lake, workin’ in a saw mill on Blind River. An’ I know he ain’ seen no kind o’ switch light yonder in dat swampy lonesome country.”

“Who?” Lizzie laughed, pleased with the remembrance of her little stratagem. Chester was right there in the kitchen, down on his knees, she went on to relate; close enough for the man to hear the sound of the scrubbin’-brush swishin’ up an’ down the kitchen flo’, right behind where she was standin’ in the door-way.

“But soon as de man shet de gate an’ went away, I say: Chester, put dat scrubbin’-brush an’ bucket out yo’ han’s, an’ git up from hyuh an’ pack yo’ clo’se quick as you kin git ’um together.... You gotta go ’way from hyuh tonight,—an’ not a word from you.... Hyuh come another death done layed at you do’. So you ain’ got a thing to do, but hurry ’way from dis place, an’ stay ’way from hyuh till all dis commotion pass over an’ times come to be natchal again.... ’Cause you know, I’m goin’ yonder to Lafoosh to de grindin’; an’ you ain’ got strank enough to fight all dese Gritny w’ite folks w’en dey commence pickin’ on you, an’ Lizzie ain’ hyuh to puhteck you.... So git together all yo’ few l’il scat’rin rags; ’cause I wan’ see you leave dis house tonight, soon’s it git dark....”

“Who? Chester ain’ no fool,” she answered. [231] “Chester know too good, how he gotta listen w’en Lizzie lay down de law an’ preach ’im somh’n cuncernin’ of ’is welfare.... Yas indeed, he went away,” she continued. “Went away wid ’is li’l bundle und’ ’is arm, quick as I could git yonder to de boat landin’ on de Basin, an’ make ’rangements wid de man on de charcoal lugger to take Chester ’long wid ’im to do de cookin’ on de trip over.”

“So da’s w’at Chester goin’ do now? Go back to cookin’ on de charcoal luggers for de winter?” Felo inquired.

“I ain’ told you Chester was goin’ stay on no charcoal lugger all winter,” Lizzie informed him sharply.

Felo looked at her with a scowl of displeasure, feeling that she meant to withhold something important from him. What made her act so tight-mouth, and try to keep things so secret? He asked with impatience. Did she have to hide things like that from close friends like him and Lethe?... Didn’t she know that both of them would be ready to stand by Chester if he got into any trouble with the white folks?... What ailed her, anyway?

Mr. Felo had to excuse her, Lizzie informed him [232] politely; but she just natchally couldn’t trust no ’ceitful niggers, any more than she could trust some of the white folks.... ’Specially white folks like some of them shoo-fly offsprings they had sittin’ up in the court house....

“But who is you, in de name o’ Gawd?” Lethe asked in a surprised voice, looking at her quietly and speaking very slowly. “Settin’ hyuh talkin’ ’bout niggers bein’ ’ceitful,—wid all dis mighty ’thawity to criticize yo’ own color?... You ain’ ’ceitful, is you?... Scandalizin’ w’ite folks you done growed up wid; w’en you oughta be proud to give ’um respec’ for all de ’sistance you got from ’um in de needed time.... Gawd knows, Lizzie, you sho oughta be shame to make little o’ yo’ Gritny people like dat.”

“Leave Lizzie ’lone, an’ quit talkin’, Lethe; an’ le’s go yonder to Gussie wake whah things is peaceful,” Felo suggested with sudden abruptness. “Lizzie ain’ bin use to nothin’, no-how; an’ da’s w’at make her so scawnful ’bout de w’ite folks. She jus’ like de res’ o’ dese po’ ignun niggers, ain’ got no inher’tunce.”

What kind of inheritance did some of the white folks sittin’ up in the court house have? Lizzie wanted to know. Did Mr. Felo ever take notice how many of the people holdin’ high office in the court house, ain’t been connected with nothin’ but cows, [233] one generation to another?... Who?... She could look back long as she knowed, and could tell about the time when their gramma and grampa went grassin’ ’long-side the railroad track with a wheel-barrow.... And the many times she seen their parents pushin’ cows to the pasture back and forth.... And right now, she could call the name of plenty of them drawin’ pay from the court house, what was makin’ extra change, sellin’ cream cheese and buttermilk from the cows they had in their yard.... And was that kind o’ practice-habit the thing Mr. Felo wanted to call inheritance?... Who? She asked him, laughing with great amusement.... A grass sickle, cows, and some cream cheese moulds wasn’t nothin’ she could see to make people set up and put on airs like folks what comed from a family of ’ridginy people....

“But w’at all dis hist’ry got to do wid Chester goin’ away from Gritny?” Felo asked with eager curiosity.

It had plenty to do with it; Lizzie assured him. She was sharp enough to know what would happen if people kept on talkin’ about Chester and Tempe and the needle and the fatal switch engine; tryin’ to make him answer for somethin’ when he wasn’t guilty.... No indeed. She wasn’t goin’ to take no fool chances with court-house people she knowed [234] so good.... White folks what always bin used to somh’n, never was hard on niggers; even way back in Reb’-time days. And anybody ever bin had any traffic with them could tell you the same thing.... And Mr. Felo could ask his Ma Fanny, and find out for himself she wasn’t tellin’ no lie. ’Cause all the people along the coast knowed the hist’ry about the Derbignys and the Garderes and the De Gruy family, and some them yuther plantation people what always had somh’n; and how they was good to their cullud folks.... Even today....

“But who wan’ put inny pennunce in shoo-fly people an’ off-springs?” She asked indignantly. “No indeed, Lawd! Not Lizzie Cole.... No matter if her father is a preacher o’ de gospel, an’ tries to make her b’lieve she gotta love her neighbor like she love herself.... Who? Mr. Felo think she goin’ study ’bout givin’ people love an’ trus’, w’en she look back an’ ain’ see nothin’ behin’ ’um but a ginneration o’ cattle an’ cows?” ...

“An’ you ain’ goin’ leave none yo’ own color know whah Chester gone to?” Felo asked.

No. Lizzie answered positively. She had passed her hand ’cross her mouth, and wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’ to nobody till she came back from the grindin’ after Christmas, with a pocket full of money.... Then she would bring Chester back [235] to the castle yonder ’cross the pasture, and spread joy for all the hongry niggers in the East Green.... But now that she had the boy out of danger,
she was goin’ to Lafoosh to have a good time, with Scilla and Nookie and Carmelite and Pinkey, and all the other wimmins that said they were goin’.... Soongy said she was countin’ on goin’, if she could fix it so Dink could stay at Aunt Fisky’s house till she come back.... Now that Gussie was gone, Dink would be a good help to Aunt Fisky; runnin’ to the groc’ry and washin’ dishes and ’tendin’ to her ducks and things. ’Cause Soongy cert’ny had raised Dink handy and nice.

“But none y’all ain’ goin’ to Gussie funeyul tomorrow?” Lethe asked her dubiously.

“Who?” Lizzie exclaimed, greatly surprised at the question. “You ain’ think Lizzie goin’ run to de country careless, an’ leave a fine brass ban’ behind her, like dey say dey goin’ have tootin’ music in front o’ Gussie, is you?... No indeed.... Lizzie too crazy ’bout music to go ’way from hyuh till after dey done put Gussie away an’ all de purrade over. Den she kin git on de train wid happy membunce o’ Gussie, an’ go to de grindin’ well pleased.”

If the band of music was the only thing leadin’ Lizzie to stay over to go to the funeral, she ought to be more decent and not tell it; Felo reprimanded, batting [236] his eyelids crossly. If she didn’t want to give any respect to Gussie, she ought to stay at home, and not play hypocrite so brazen before a whole crowd of people, right in front of Aunt Fisky’s face.

She never did care nothin’ for ole no-nation Gussie; Lizzie told him frankly. And she didn’t have respect to study about. But a brass band was a diffunt queshtun.... Goin’ to the funeral wasn’t the main part she had to consider. It was comin’ back, dancin’ to the music, all the way from the graveyard to the Gritny ferry-boat.... Who?... That was enough to make her don’t care if she missed forty Morgan trains goin’ to the grindin’.... Everybody knowed how all them Gritny niggers would come skippin’ and prancin’ up Main Street, when they heard that brass band commence soundin’ them teasin’ blues.... And if they just started playin’ “O Didn’t He Ramble,”—she cert’ny knowed there wasn’t nothin’ goin’ to keep her from shakin’ her fool-self to a fraz’lin finish....

“Lethe!” Felo exclaimed, exasperated; rolling his eyes ominously. “You sit hyuh quiet, an’ listen at dis Hell-bound ooman talk like dat, an’ ain’ say nothin’ to ’uh?... Git up from hyuh an’ come on, if you goin’ wid me to Gussie wake tonight. An’ leave Lizzie hyuh to do like de devil lead ’uh to do.... [237] ’Cause I done los’ all patience wid ’uh. An’ I know Gawd ain’ goin’ bother wid ’uh.... So come on!”

“You goin’ to de wake?” Lethe asked her, getting up and reaching for her shawl, hanging on a nail behind the door.

“No,” Lizzie answered, smiling placidly. “You go ’head an’ take yo’ pleasure wid Mr. Felo, yonder munks de Chrishtuns. I’m goin’ stay hyuh for a li’l w’ile an’ make me some weak coffee, if you don’ mind.... But I’ll sho meet you tomorrow, dancin’ in de road, comin’ back; befo’ I take de train in de evenin’ for Lafoosh plantation.”

Lethe told her to make herself at home, and started for the front door with Felo following her, his eyes fixed on Lizzie with a glowering look.

“Good night, Mr. Felo,” she called to him in a derisive tone. “An’ I hope Gawd take care o’ yo’ th’oat w’en you singin’ over Gussie so bol’ an’ manful, yonder munks de Chrishtuns.”

[238]

On reaching home in the evening, Mr. Amos was somewhat surprised to find all the windows and doors open and lights burning in all the rooms, seeming to anticipate the arrival of some friendly guest. The table was set for one person, and the pots on the kitchen stove gave evidence that everything was ready for the evening meal; but Felo was not in sight. Going to the kitchen door, Mr. Amos found him in the back yard, quietly hoeing his little hill of snap-beans, growing along the side fence; so intent upon his gardening that he was not aware of being watched until Mr. Amos spoke; inquiring what all the illuminations meant, and if he were expecting anybody.

“Nobody but you,” Felo told him placidly. “Lessen somebody comin’ hyuh unbeknownce.”

“Man, go inside an’ set to de table; an’ don’ be so hard to please,” Felo went on. “W’at dey is wrong, you can’ come home now an’ den, an’ fin’ de house lookin’ like things givin’ you welcome, aft’ a hard day struggle?... If dis yo’ resident, an’ de place whah you look to find yo’ peace an’ comfut; I ain’ see how you gotta think ’bout makin’ a whole lot o’ extra show for out-side people, an’ don’ wan’ make none for yo’-own self.... ’Specially w’en you cunsider you ain’ got so long to enjoy yo’ life; an’ dey ain’ nobody to ’preshate de place no better’n you an’ me.... Go set down, for Gawd sake. An’ don’ try to make me feel any wusser’n I feel already.... [239] Disappointed like I bin today wid people I sho thought I could count on....”

What could have happened to bring on a mood like this? Mr. Amos wondered. Did anything go wrong at the wake or the funeral? “I thought you would come home bubbling over with news, and couldn’t wait to tell what you saw,” he said to Felo, as he came in from the yard and began making ready to serve dinner.

He didn’t feel like talkin’, Felo answered. He had to look after them snap-beans, and twist them around the cane-reed poles he brought from home; before the wind broke all the runners and fixed them so they wouldn’t make no beans; after all the bother he had with them, waterin’ and ’tendin’ them like he did every evenin’....

“So set down an’ eat, an’ don’ plague me,” he said, appealingly. “Evvything hyuh on de table for you. An’ if you want somh’n, I’ll be right hyuh in de yard, an’ you kin call me.... Da’s alright?” He asked hesitatingly.

“Go on,” Mr. Amos told him with an amused smile. “Maybe the fresh air will revive you; and later on you’ll be more sociable.”

He didn’t need no fresh air to revive his feelin’s; Felo argued with himself as he worked with his [240] beans. Wasn’t he out in the fresh air nearly all day? But that didn’t keep him from gittin’ down-casted. Even with music playin’, and the Peefus members marchin’ back and forth around Gussie’s tomb, callin’ out to the devil and beatin’ him off with their battle axes. And with the people singin’ and talkin’ and goin’ on like they did.... Excitement ain’t had nothin’ to do with his feelin’s bein’ upset. It was what people did to him that made him feel troubled in his mind.... Just like Mr. Amos thinkin’ he wasn’t sociable. Somebody onsociable was ’most as bad as somebody what wasn’t no Chrishtun.... He went on ruminating.

What make Mr. Amos think he ain’t sociable, after he done come back from Gritny plumb disgusted with evvything; glad to git home where he could look over his mind peaceful, when he was doin’ his cookin’ and tryin’ to make things look nice and invitin’ to please nobody but him.... That wasn’t no way to talk to an ole-time fellow-servant, just because he ain’t ready to stretch his eyes and grin the minute somebody look at him.... It sho was disencouragin’.... Couldn’t Mr. Amos keep patience, and wait till he got through twistin’ them snap-beans? And finished up evvything in the kitchen, so he could talk to him free and light-minded, after both of them went upstairs?

It sho was strange, for people what was raised together, and played with each-another from the days of their younger youth, not to be able to ’zern anybody condition when they seen them lookin’ like somh’n heavy was layin’ on their mind....

“De man ain’ know me yet; an’ hyuh I bin servin’ ’im thoo evvy kind o’ close quarters all dese many years? Lawd, Lawd! Hyuh somh’n else done comed up povokin’,” he went on cogitating aloud; hurrying through his work to get upstairs, where he knew he would find Mr. Amos in his room, lying down, reading.

Hearing Felo’s habitual goat-like sniff with which he playfully announced his arrival, Mr. Amos turned and saw him leaning against the door frame, waiting to be invited to have a seat. Knowing Felo’s propensity for all kinds of “good stimalashun,” and wanting to see him in a pleasant frame of mind, Mr. Amos gave him the keys of the armoire, and told him to get the bottle of Scotch whiskey he would find on the shelf, and help himself to a comforting drink.

Felo brought the bottle and two glasses and put them on the washstand, and sat down, looking at the bottle without speaking.

“Don’t you want a drink?” Mr. Amos asked in surprise. “Lord knows you look like you need one.”

“How long you bin had dis bottle o’ w’iskey?” Felo asked with quiet artfulness.

... “Is you know de bottle open, an’ some de licker gone from out it?” Felo asked, with a knowing side glance at Mr. Amos.

“So da’s de way you does now,—drinks yo’ licker secut !” Felo accused him playfully. “You sho is a nasty ’ceitful w’ite man,” he went on, resuming something of his natural humor. “Done got you a nice full bottle o’ w’iskey settin’ up in yo’ cubbud, locked up; an’ ain’ say a word to nobody,—an’ me right hyuh in de same house wid you; an’ comes up hyuh to yo’ room on de sly, an’ drinks to yo’ ease; an’ den got de cheek to tell me ’bout bein’ onsociable!... Man, you oughta go ’way from hyuh.”

Mr. Amos put his book aside and laughed with hearty enjoyment at the playful reprimand. He knew by the familiar attitude that Felo was himself again. It was not the familiarity of disrespect or impudence; but a wholesome, child-like familiarity born of simple trust and friendly understanding; a delightful freedom of manner and speech never indulged in before any unsympathetic outsider, but reserved for the exclusive entertainment of his “ole-time [243] buzzum friend,” whom he knew would never misinterpret the intention.

“Then you don’t want a drink, I suppose? Since you feel that you’ve been slighted,” Mr. Amos said to him.

“Who?” Felo answered, reaching for the bottle and taking out the cork with a flourish. “Don’t you know I bin too well-raise to refuse? ’Specially good licker like dis bottle look to be?... An’ I’m goin’ fill up dis glass my own-self, too,” he went on muttering softly. “’Cause you jus’ natchally tetches a bottle too light w’en you eechin’ out licker to people. An’ you know I don’ b’lieve in bein’ skimson ’bout no kind o’ stimalashun.”

Having filled the glasses, he gave one to Mr. Amos, then lifting his own and sniffing with energy, he said:

“Peace an’ happiness to yo’ heart, an’ Gawd keep de castle well-puhvided.”

“That’s a very nice long-sighted wish,” Mr. Amos told him, smiling. “Here’s to your good health, and a whole lot of excitement when you go home Sunday.”

“Look! Leave dat be right whah it is,” Felo answered abruptly. He didn’t want to hear tell nothin’ about any Sunday.... Who wanted to talk about lookin’ for any excitement, when everybody was [244] gone away to the sugar-grindin’, and nobody he cared about was left in Gritny to stir up somh’n anyways interestin’?... He didn’t have nothin’ particular to go home for Sunday. Ma Fanny could get some of Liza’s lazy chillun to worry over totin’ slop for that hog.... And anyway, he was disgusted with totin’ slop like he did every Gawd-blessed Sunday of the world; and ain’t got nothin’ for it except people criticizin’.... They didn’t have nobody he cared to see in Gritny. He was goin’ to stay home and go to church in the evenin’, yonder to Holly Grove, ’cross the New Basin.... Wondering at this sudden disinterest in things at home, Mr. Amos suggested that Lethe might be pleased to see him on Sunday.

Who? Felo answered with a tone of evident disappointment. Lethe wasn’t no diffunt from the rest of them crazy wimmins bin raised on a plantation.... You can take a nigger out the country, but you sho Gawd can’t take the country out a nigger.... He went on with vehemence. Lethe wasn’t satisfied with havin’ a good place to work at Miss Tillie house; comin’ home soon every evenin’, with half a day off on Sunday, when the two of them could be together nice and friendly; there she had to leave ole wild Lizzie Cole put devilment in her head and make her onrestful,—goin’ yonder to the sugar-grindin’ [245] like all them other cheap Gritny niggers what think more about money than they do about manners and behavior....

“An’ ain’ tol’ me a word ’bout w’at she was inten’ to do, till de las’ minute,” he went on.

Now that the cheering drink had loosened his tongue, Mr. Amos knew that he would continue to talk freely, and it was wise to offer no interruption. Of course, goin’ to Gussie’s funeral with Lizzie Cole for her partner couldn’t be helped; Felo went on to relate. Because all the wimmins had to keep separate from the mens and march to they-self; so Lethe was compelled to walk ’long-side of Lizzie, when Lizzie just natchally forced herself on her.... But how Lethe ain’ come to change her mind and break away from Lizzie comin’ back, was somh’n he couldn’t understand, no matter how hard he thought on it.... Stickin’ close to Lizzie like she did, and the two of them comin’ up the big road, dancin’ and shakin’ their reckless bodies to the ratty music the band was playin’; the same as if they were yonder on the flatform to Mr. Snider honky-tonk, back of Gritny.... “And mad like I was, there I couldn’t say a thing to her; ’count o’ bein’ in de purrude wid de Peefus uniform on, an’ all de ’couterments in my hand an’ ’cross my shoulder....”

“And did you get to see her after the funeral was over?” Mr. Amos encouraged him.

“Who?... Maybe you ain’ think I didn’t set to her strong w’en I got back to her house, aft’ I left de crowd at de ferry-landin’,” Felo boasted.

What he said to her sho was goin’ to hold her for a long time; the way he sasharated her feelin’s for leavin’ ole strumpet Lizzie lead her astray, and makin’ her expose herself before all Gritny like she did.... No indeed. He didn’t bit his tongue; when he knowed that the sperret o’ Gawd had called on him to chastise Lethe, and make her re’lize what was her fittin’ tahminashun....

“And did Lethe stand for all your severity and offer no resistance, or try to make an explanation of any kind?” Mr. Amos asked him.

“Da’s de very subjec’ I’m comin’ to now,” Felo continued. “She look like she ain’ care to answer back; jus keepin’ still, an’ goin’ roun’ de room, straight’nin’ up, an’ fixin’ some her clo’se w’at was piled up on de bed.

“I say to myself: Da’s a good sign. She ain’ try’n to start no wrangle, like she always do. She mus’ be thinkin’ ’bout w’at I say to her; an’ she goin’ profit by it.

“So aft’ I had talk all I wan’ talk, an’ tol’ her I was goin’ count on seein’ her nex’ Sunday; she come to [247] de front gate wid me nice an’ frien’ly; an’ I lef’ her lookin’ like she was please’; an’ went roun’ to Ma Fanny house to see how things was gittin’ on, befo’ I start back ’cross de river.

“Evvything had come to look so encouragin’, I never would bin thought ’bout nothin’ diffunt; an’ my ’tenshun was leadin’ me to hurry up an’ git hyuh to fix things for you quick as I could. But it mus’ bin de sperret o’ Gawd met me on de road, an’ tol’ me to go by de Morgan station....

“W’en de nex’ thing I knowed: Hyuh was Lethe, wid a bundle o’ clo’se un’ her arm; stannin’ in line at de railroad station, munks a mul’tude o’ wimmins, waitin’ to git on de train goin’ yonder to Lafoosh sugar-grindin’.... Wid Lizzie Cole right ’longside her, grinnin’ at me like a fatal devil straight out o’ Hell.”

“And what did you do?” asked Mr. Amos, laughing with keen amusement at the awkwardness of the situation and Felo’s naïve revealment of righteous disappointment.

“W’at you expec’ me to do, w’en de train was jus’ ’bout to pull out from de station?” He asked fretfully. “You ain’ think I’m goin’ jump on an’ go ’long wid her, is you?”

“And Lethe never told you anything about wanting to go to the grinding?” Mr. Amos inquired.

“What Lethe wan’ go to any grindin’ for, w’en she makin’ good money at Miss Tillie house? An’ got a nice place to live in, decen’ an’ high-minded? An’ got me to lend her ’sistance inny time she lookin’ for a willin’ han’?” ... Felo argued with growing resentment. “Lethe ain’ never had no grindin’ to study ’bout, till dat wil’ Hellian Lizzie come ’long an’ got her worked up ove’ it.... An’ for nothin’ mo’ den to spite me, an’ git me onsatafied; ’cause she knowed dat nex’ to my church, Lethe was de secon’ big injoyment to make me count on comin’ over to Gritny evvy Sunday.... But w’at I got to count on now? De way things done come to be mixed up, an’ Lethe done gone away?”

There was a note of loneliness in his voice, and his face assumed an expression of utter bereavement. Mr. Amos regarded him in silence, amused by his quaint philosophy, at the same time conscious of a feeling of genuine sympathy.

“To look at you now,” he said to him cheerfully, “anyone would think that Lethe was dead and buried, and you didn’t have a friend left in the world. Aren’t there some other worthwhile people in Gretna you can go to see?... There, take your glass, and have a drink to a new pleasure next Sunday.”

Felo looked at the bottle, trying to smile. He wasn’t worrin’ about seein’ no Gritny people, he answered with polite indifference. Nearly everybody what had any life in them, and counted for somh’n with the colored folks, was gone to the country. And all the other ondecent mixtry they had roamin’ around town, he didn’t care to have no traffic with.... But maybe he would look over his mind, and go to see Aunt Susan and Tom. Because he got word that Susan was goin’ to give a molasses candy pullin’, to raise a little money for ole Unc’ Foteen. So maybe he would consider goin’ up the coast, and help out the best way he could.... Every little nickel did some good in the time of need. And the poor ole man didn’t have so long to live, no-how.... And then he was sure Unc’ Nat would be there to give Susan a hand. You could always look to find Unc’ Nat any place where they was passin’ around the plate, takin’ up collection for somebody in trouble.... And any way, he wouldn’t mind seein’ Unc’ Nat, Sunday. ’Cause Unc’ Nat was one what never fail to make somebody laugh when they be feelin’ down-casted and onsatafied....

“Well then, fill your glass, and let us drink to a big jubilation at Susan’s next Sunday,” Mr. Amos told him. “And then, go to bed and rest yourself, and [250] try to forget your disappointment. You know, we both need plenty of sleep and rest if we expect to keep young and always look beautiful.”

“Man, quit yo’ humbug, for Gawd sake,” Felo answered, with a broad smile, as he filled a glass for Mr. Amos and handed it to him.

Then he poured a glass for himself and drank it down with a sounding gulp, and looked at Mr. Amos, saying:

“Who ever tol’ you, you was beautiful?... You know good as I know, dat Miss Ellen, either Ma Fanny, ain’ never rocked either one us on dey lap no time, an’ say: Go to sleep my pretty baby.”

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AUNT SUSAN SMILEY	1
TOM AND BELL	5
THE INTERPRISE	9
SCILLA	11
FELO AND NOOKIE	16
UNCLE FOTEEN	23
PLUNKUM	28
UNCLE NAT	31
ROVING ROXY	34
CARMELITE, SOONGY AND DINK	38
DINK’S MUSIC	47
GUSSIE FISKY	53
MAGGIE HUTSON	55
LIZZIE AND CHESTER	61
SCANDALIZIN’	76
LETHE AND AUNT AMY	81
FELO’S WHITE FOLKS	88
UPSETMENT	91
FELO AND LETHE	106
’CROSS THE PASTURE	113
TEMPE	124
SPERRET NOISES	133
SCILLA’S DISCOVERY	138
CARMELITE AND AUNT FISKY	144
DINK AT HOME	156
GUSSIE AND MR. HOOBLITZ	165
CARMELITE’S RAFFLE	174
THE SWITCH ENGINE	193
NEWS FROM GRITNY	201
HOUSEKEEPING	205
GUSSIE’S WAKE	216
TO FURREN PARTS	221
BUZZUM FRIENDS	237

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