HIST’RIES

AUNT SUSAN SMILEY 1

TOM AND BELL 5

THE INTERPRISE 9

SCILLA 11

FELO AND NOOKIE 16

UNCLE FOTEEN 23

PLUNKUM 28

UNCLE NAT 31

ROVING ROXY 34

CARMELITE, SOONGY AND DINK 38

DINK’S MUSIC 47

GUSSIE FISKY 53

MAGGIE HUTSON 55

LIZZIE AND CHESTER 61

SCANDALIZIN’ 76

LETHE AND AUNT AMY 81

FELO’S WHITE FOLKS 88

UPSETMENT 91

FELO AND LETHE 106

’CROSS THE PASTURE 113

TEMPE 124

SPERRET NOISES 133

SCILLA’S DISCOVERY 138

CARMELITE AND AUNT FISKY 144

DINK AT HOME 156

GUSSIE AND MR. HOOBLITZ 165

CARMELITE’S RAFFLE 174

THE SWITCH ENGINE 193

NEWS FROM GRITNY 201

HOUSEKEEPING 205

GUSSIE’S WAKE 216

TO FURREN PARTS 221

BUZZUM FRIENDS 237

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

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:

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:

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

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

Then the chorus again, full, swinging and triumphant:

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:

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

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

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:

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

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

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:

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,

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.