GRITNY PEOPLE

GRITNY
PEOPLE

R. EMMET KENNEDY

Design & Decoration by
Edward Larocque Tinker

DODD MEAD & COMPANY NEW YORK
1927

Copyright, 1927
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

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

“At night was come into that hostelrie

Wel nyne and twenty in a companye,

Of sondry folk, by adventure i-falle

In felawschipe....

Me thinketh it acordant to resoun,

To telle yow alle the condicioun

Of eche of hem, so as it seemed me,

And which they weren, and of what degre.”

—Prologue to Canterbury Tales.

HIST’RIES

To be looked upon as a favored “member” of Aunt Susan Smiley’s cook shop, all the requisites one need have were the ability to appreciate her gumbo and sweet potato pies, coupled with a talent for telling a good story.

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 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 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; 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.

The night of July 4th was to be a “big interprise” at Aunt Susan’s. Three “good altone songsters” were coming to lend added luster to the meeting, and make the “buildin’ rock wid ole-time shoutin’ praise.” Aunt Susan was over the stove the greater part of the day, making pies; and to give the gumbo an extra flavor, Tom had gone crawfishing and brought home a basket full of crawfish, which he would give as his donation. Bell told him she would boil them and pick them, a wifely condescension which pleased Tom as much as it caused him to wonder.

“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, 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.

Tom was asleep. A deep, manly, snoring sleep held him fast.

“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 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.”

And so the comment continued for weeks among Tom’s friends wherever they met.

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:

“Please suh, doctor, don’ joke me in my mis’ry.”

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 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.

The 4th of July meeting having been postponed on account of Tom’s accident, it was scheduled to take place on All Saints’ Day, he being sufficiently recovered to participate in the “interprise.”

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; 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 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.

“Susan,” Tom called to her softly, “befo’ anybody git hyuh, I wan’ ax you somh’n.”

“Yas, Tom, I’m list’nin’,” she answered.

He took a long pull at his pipe, blew the smoke out slowly, then said:

“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.

She came bursting into the room suddenly, calling out in mock-excitement:

“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. “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 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.”

Felo was a short, stoop-shouldered, yellow man of about thirty; his face having a set look which seemed to give the impression that he was constantly anticipating unpleasant news. He was dressed in a neat, heterogeneous fashion, his garments quietly declaring themselves donations from various male members of his “white folks family.”

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 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.”

As she paused for breath, Susan said to her:

“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.”

“An’ runned up in hyuh wid a lie in yo’ mouth,” Felo added quickly.

“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.”

“Ain’t it true,” commented Susan, with a grunt of Christian approval.

“Sho is.” Nookie continued. “I know one cullud 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.”

With a look of playful commiseration, Felo said to her:

“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:

“Gawd knows, Mr. Felo, you sho kin read people mind.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of old Uncle Foteen; a venerable, picturesque relic 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.”

“A-men.” Came the fervent response from Tom.

“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.

Uncle Foteen had become a legend in the village, as simple country people often do. Everybody knew of his connection with the Guillaume family; and his story of loyalty and faithful servitude was told again and again by the new generation of colored people; with admiration by some, with undue censure by others. For many years before the Civil War, Uncle Foteen’s genial usefulness in the Guillaume household resembled that of Coventry Patmore’s “Briggs,” who was

“Factotum, butler, footman, groom,

Who helped the gardener, fed the pigs,

Preserved the game, and drove the brougham”....

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 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 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 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.

Uncle Foteen sat before the pleasant fire enjoying his plate of gumbo with childish satisfaction, apparently oblivious of the rumble of conversation in the room.

“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 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 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.”

Coming into the room, he announced himself:

“Good evenin’ to evvbody; an’ peace to de hyuhafter.”

Pointing to a chair near Tom, Susan said to him:

“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.

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 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 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:

“Hyuh bow-legged Nat,

Early in de mawnin’.

Maybe-so, Nat, an’ bow-legged onions;

Bow-legged cawn, an’ bow-legged punkins;

Leave-it-lay, Scawl, an’ one-eye Companyun.

Come out an’ peep at Nat bow-legged cucumbers;

Bow-legged Maybe-so fresh from de country.

Bow-legged red peppers picked off de pepper bush;

Come buy yo’ vegetables,

Early in de mawnin’.”

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.

Susan crossed the room and picked up the hat from the floor where Nat had thrown it, and as she hung it on the rack, said to him:

“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?”

“Rose too busy, Sis’ Susan.” he answered.

“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.

He deliberated a few seconds, then answered:

“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.”

Apprehensive that an unpleasant dispute was under way, Susan said to them:

“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 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.

The new-comers were Carmelite and Soongy, two pleasant-looking, neatly-dressed young colored women; accompanied by a light brown-skin boy about fourteen years old, known to every one as Dink, the comb-player. He was a merry-faced, accommodating young troubadour, willing to lend his talent on any chance occasion; making his ravishing music on the comb for the sheer love of the thing itself, and the simple reward of a “plate full o’ vittuls an’ a cup o’ somh’n-’nother to drink.”

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’, 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.”

“An’ you ain’ doin’ nothin’?” Susan questioned.

“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’ all kind o’ pretty scraps I gethered up ’munks de w’ite folks; an’ dey ain’ cos’ me a nickel.”

With calm misgiving, Susan asked her:

“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.”

“I thought you was please wid de place,” ventured Scilla.

“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 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 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?”

Looking at her timidly, Dink answered:

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

Susan studied his face for a second, then said reprovingly:

“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 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 lines of the song, the others taking up the burden, and responding with growing fervor after each line:

“My Lawd command me to go in de wilderness.

(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley)

W’at did I see w’en I went in de wilderness?

(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley).”

Then like a majestic wave of sound, rose the noble refrain:

“In de valley, my Lawd,

On my knees;

In de valley, my Lawd,

In de valley.

In de valley, my Lawd,

Down on my knees,

I seen de w’ite horse pawin’ in de valley.”

Then back again to the tuneful story of adventure in the land of the spirit:

“Who heard my pray’rs w’en I prayed in de wilderness?

(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley)

Who foun’ de road w’en I comed out de wilderness?

(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley).”

Then the chorus again, full, swinging and triumphant:

“In de valley, my Lawd,

On my knees;

In de valley, my Lawd,

In de valley.

In de valley, my Lawd,

Down on my knees,

I seen de w’ite horse pawin’ in de valley.”

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?

Looking at Susan appealingly, he asked:

“He ain’ come yet?”

She went over to the old man, and said to him quietly:

“Evvything alright, Unc’ Foteen. You bin sleepin’.”

Looking at her thoughtfully, he said with tremulous voice:

“If dat candle burn out befo’ Marse Sylvain git 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:

“W’en de moon be riz

An’ come a-peepin’ thoo de branches o’ de ’simmon tree;

Look like I hyeah ’im say:

How come evvy night I see you watchin’ for me?...

He don’ know I got a reason

Brings me out hyuh evvy season,

Lessen it be w’en de clouds is po’in down rain.”

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:

“Go ’long, moon,

I want you to th’ow yo’ light behin’ de ’simmon tree.

P’int de road

So her w’ats comin’ hyuh to meet me’ll see.

Th’ow yo’ shadders kind o’ fancy,

Des for me an’ my Nancy,

Her w’at you hyeah come singin’ yonder in de lane.”

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:

“W’en I hyeahs dat black gal sing,

’Tain no use to try an’ do another blessed thing;

Feel like my foots done clean tuck wing,

An’ my buzzum feel so strong.

Umph-umph, people, you kin b’lieve my word,

Her kind o’ singin’ you ain’ never, never, never heard.

She des de same as a natchal wil’ mawkin’-bird,

Bustin’ wid song!”

When Dink finished his happy serenade, Nat called to him:

“Boy, come over hyuh an’ tell me how ole you is.”

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

“He be fifteen years ole nex’ June, Unc’ Nat.”

“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.

Nat reflected a while on the difference of opinion, then asked drily:

“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 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.”

“Felo ain’ gone, is he?” Tom inquired.

“No. Felo hyuh,” Susan told him.

“Mr. Felo, you ain’ goin’, is you?” Scilla asked solicitously.

“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:

“I’m goin’-a lay down my burden down by de river-side,

Down by de river-side, down by de river-side;

I’m goin’-a lay down my burden down by de river-side,

An’ I ain’ goin’ study war no mo’.”

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:

“Ain’ goin’ study war no mo’

Ain’ goin’ study war no mo’

Ain’ goin’ study ... war ... no ... mo’....”

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

The new-comer was a man about thirty years old; known to everybody in the village as Gussie Fisky. He was well-built; with a wealth of unkempt, reddish-blond hair, and a shaggy mustache of the same color. His eyes were large and gray, and stared with a reckless, determined air. His complexion was one of remarkable sallowness; and his features, while plain and commonplace, were free from every negroid characteristic; having certain regularities of cast that declared him indubitably a white man, however ordinary the extraction.

A strange mystery surrounded Gussie’s origin. A mystery known to no one except old Aunt Fisky, 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.

Gussie came lumbering into the room, scanning the faces of the singers nervously. Finding himself suddenly yielding to the melody’s insistent appeal, he lifted his raucous voice to join the chorus just as the song came to an end.

With a disappointed look, he asked:

“W’at y’all stop for? Go ’head agin, an’ lemme sing wid you.”

“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.

With an indignant glare at Felo, he said:

“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.”

“You mean she done sol’ all her ducks?” Carmelite persisted.

“No. She done sol’ all de aigs she had to Mr. Gully baker-shop.”

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

“To put in de cake for de weddin’, las’ night.”

“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’ 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?”

With sharp impatience Nat called to him:

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

Laughing boisterously, Gussie said:

“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.”

A sudden reprimand from Susan interrupted his laughter.

“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’ 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.”

“Yas, Lawd.” Came a fervid antiphon of soprano voices.

“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; 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.

Lizzie Cole was a buxom, merry-faced, happy-go-lucky young colored woman; always eager for some new humorous adventure; and fully enamoured of the thought that “time goes merry when the heart is young.” Likewise, equally determined to keep her thought from anticipating the time when the heart grows old.

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, 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.

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.

As they came into the room, Lizzie began singing lustily:

“Tell your mother to hold her tongue,

She had a feller w’en she was young....”

Stopping abruptly, she called out:

“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.”

Chester stood silent, grinning and bowing to everybody.

“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.”

Tom moved impatiently in his chair, saying:

“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 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.”

Acting as spokesman for the assembly, Nat said:

“Be still, evvybody.... Now go ’head, gal, an’ speak yo’ testament.”

Lizzie inquired cautiously:

“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 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.

Somewhat indifferently she remarked:

“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.”

Frowning sullenly, Gussie asked her:

“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.”

“Whah all dis thing took place?” Felo asked, laughing.

“Right down on de Morgan railroad, jes befo’ 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.”

“A lady undershirt?” Carmelite asked, hesitatingly.

“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.”

Squinting his eyes humorously, Nat asked:

“You mus’ be think’ you Goliah, ain’t you?”

“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’ 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 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 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,

“Mama got a baby called “Ti-nah-nah-’nah

’Ti-nah-nah ’nah, ’nah....”

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.”

Foreseeing an altercation, Susan interposed.

“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.”

As Felo left the room, Lizzie muttered:

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

Shaking her head and smiling pleasantly, Susan said:

“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.”

Chester settled the account, and they walked towards the front door.

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

Just as she finished her lofty farewell, Felo came in from the back room.

“Da’s right, Lizzie”; he said to her, “don’ go ’way from hyuh wid yo’ feelin’s upset ’bout somh’n 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 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.

“Chester, you got any money?” She asked him.

“W’at you wan’ know for?”

“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?” 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:

“Who dead, Lethe? I ain’ know dey had any wake to-night.”

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

“W’en de ole lady died?” Lizzie asked.

“Gawd knows, Lizzie,” she went on, “I ain’ never 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.”

Seeing Chester offer no argument to Lizzie’s rebuke, Lethe resumed her story.

“Well, like I was goin’ say: me an’ Booguloo was 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.

“I say: Booguloo, ain’ da’s Aun’ Amy Hollan settin’ up in de skiff?

“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, 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.

“Booguloo say. ‘Aun’ Amy, whah you goin’ so soon in de mawnin’?’

“She say: ‘To fetch my Ma; yonder to Peach Awchud.’

“I say: Aun’ Amy, she ain’ sick, is she?

“She say: ‘Da’s w’at dey tell me.’

“Booguloo say: ‘She ain’ dead, is she?’

“Aun’ Amy say: ‘Da’s w’at dey tell me.’

“I say: W’en she died, yistiddy?

“She say: Da’s w’at dey tell me.’

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

“She say: ‘Da’s w’at dey tell me.’

“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’ 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.”

“Whah dey lef’ Aim’ Amy?” Lizzie asked.

“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 drink some strong coffee, but she keep on say’n, talkin’ like somebody goin’ sing:

“Go ’way, Sis’ Fanny,

An’ lemme be.

I’m de onles daughter my ole Ma had,

An’ I’m jew to stay hyuh wid ’uh an’ sing.”

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

“Go ’way, chile, an’ lemme be.

I’m po’ Aun’ Milly onles daughter,

An’ she call me to come,

But I went too late.

She call me to hurry,

But de boat was slow;

An’ w’en I got to de bed-side,

Aun’ Milly was gone.”

“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.’”

“But Aun’ Amy say:

“Who goin’ sing ove’ po’ Aun’ Milly

W’en Amy gone away?

Lemme be, Sis’ Fanny;

I’m de onles daughter,

An’ I gotta stay hyuh

An’ watch dis evenin’,

An’ sing Aun’ Milly

A long farewell.”

“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 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.”

Looking at her in wonderment, Lizzie asked:

“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.

“Den how you goin’ see Felo aft’ you done gone to bed?”

“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 ’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.”

And as Lizzie left her, she walked out.

However inconsistent Felo’s ideas of theology might appear, there were three important purposes he endeavored to live up to with a sincerity that became him nobly. Three purposes he took great pleasure in making known at all times: “To hol’ a high head an’ keep a good name ’munks de cullud folks”; “to stick close to Mr. Amos, and look aft’ his welfare long’s he staid single”; and, “to hol’ cov’nan wid Gawd an’ serve Jesus long as I got my good sense.”

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 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 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.

As Mr. Amos sat down to eat, Felo took his accustomed chair on the opposite side of the room near the door leading to the kitchen, where he would be in readiness during the progress of the meal. He sat quietly, his gaze fixed on the floor rug, staring into infinitude; his arms hanging aimlessly by the sides of his chair.

In the center of the table was a shallow dark green 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:

“Were did you get the lovely ‘touch-me-nots,’ so late in the season?”

“Yonder in Gritny,” came the reply; slow and apathetic.

“From your mother’s garden?”

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

“Then I suppose you bought them?” Mr. Amos persisted.

“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.

After a slight hesitation, he answered in a subdued tone:

“Man, eat yo’ li’l foods, an’ don’ worry ’bout me.”

Wondering at the polite indifference, Mr. Amos asked:

“What ails you, Felo, are you ill?”

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?”

Attempting a bravado manner, he said:

“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:

“You ain’ goin’ out tonight, is you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“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 future.... But de main thing I ax you,—befo’ you commence all dis heavy comasation,—is you goin’ out tonight?”

“Why do you want to know?”

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

Mr. Amos laughed good-naturedly, saying to him:

“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.”

With a heroic attempt to smile, he answered, as Mr. Amos walked away:

“Go ’head upstairs, for Gawd sake. You all time ready to play too much.”

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’, 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.”

Mr. Amos put his book aside and laughed heartily.

“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.”

Mr. Amos looked at him and asked quietly:

“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 the rocking chair and began looking about the room, uncertain how to start his communication. After an awkward silence, he asked:

“You goin’ keep on readin’?”

“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 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 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’.”

“Then why don’t you do the decent thing and marry her?”

“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 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 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 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 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.”

Felo seemed greatly relieved, hearing this.

“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 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.”

Next morning Felo was away from the house before eight o’clock, on his way to Gretna to make peace with the belligerent Lethe. His mind was disturbed by many conflicting emotions when he tried to think how she would receive him.

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, 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.”

“You know if Lethe goin’ to de burryin’?” Felo inquired artfully.

“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.”

“Who invite you to come hyuh, any way?” She asked, indifferently.

“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 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.”

Her frown seemed to deepen, and her voice assumed a tone of annoyance.

“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 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.”

Whereupon he went into the house, Lethe’s silence being a sign of approval.

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. 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.”

Lizzie Cole was one of those ignorant, reckless children of Nature, utterly disregardful of the simplest rudiments of anything resembling law or religion; in consequence of which, she was unable to live at home with her God-fearing father and conventional step-mother. For a long time she had lived by herself, in a decrepit-looking two-room hut, far across the pasture in the East Green, away on the other side of the town.

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 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.”

He followed her into the house, eager to hear all she had to tell.

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 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 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 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!”

“Sho mus’ bin made Aun’ Amy felt bad,” Chester commiserated.

“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’ 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; 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....

“She say she hyeah’d Unc’ Peesah call to ’uh:

“Tempe, take dis needle back!

Put it in de place whah de needle b’lonks.

Lissen w’at I tell you, an’ do w’at I say!”

“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.

“You think Tempe seen Peesah sperret sho’ ’nuff?” He asked her.

“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 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 ’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.

At every second street corner of the town, as a protection in time of fire, there were large underground wells, bricked-in and covered over with heavy boards. In time of drouth, when the supply of cistern water had to be economized for drinking purposes, the villagers used the well water for their cattle, truck gardens, and for washing clothes; but owing to the earthy, swampy taste of the water, it was unfit for drinking.

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 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?”

She looked at him quietly, making no sign of recognition.

“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 you,” she commanded, looking at him fixedly for several seconds before going inside.

Chester sat down again and waited on the steps for her to return.

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.”

He made no comment about the strange invitation, but got up and went inside.

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:

“Boy, de sperret o’ Gawd don’ never work in vain.

“An’ don’t you never try to b’lieve de sperret gives up.

“E knows ’is own strank; an’ ’e knows ’is time.

“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, Jesus.... You hyeah me talkin’?”

“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 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 spirits in the dark, and Death don’t like to hear a dog howl in the night-time.

Tempe said she had tried them all, and none of the charms had helped her.

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 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 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 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.”

Whereupon he took up the bucket of water and went back to the yard.

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 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.

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 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?”

Lizzie sat up quickly and answered in an angry tone:

“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 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 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 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.”

The season for growing things being almost over, only a few vegetables were left in Nat’s garden. Several beds of sweet potatoes and pumpkin vines told that a few yams and cashaws remained to be gathered; and there was still a small supply of succulent spinach, bordered with rows of bright green parsley; and plenty of glossy red peppers on the sturdy bushes growing along the side fence.

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 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.”

Unmoved, Nat looked at her, and answered quietly:

“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 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’ 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.”

Nat looked at her in thoughtful contemplation.

“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 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.”

Nat looked at her with a scowl of annoyance.

“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, 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?”

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, 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:

“Aun’ Fisky, yo’ ducks sho look w’ite an’ healt’y today.”

“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 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.”

“You ain’ got de rheumatism, is you?” Carmelite asked, sympathetically.

“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.”

“Some kind o’ drug-sto’ n’intment?” Carmelite inquired.

“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 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 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 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 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.

Carmelite hesitated slightly, uncertain what to answer.

“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 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.

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. 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 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?”

With calm politeness, Soongy said:

“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.”

Nookie looked puzzled.

“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 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 tchoupique stew she knew how to make, Nookie asked: