THE STRANGERS FROM THE SOUTH.
BY ELLA FARMAN.
UNLESS I take a long half mile circle, my daily walk to the post-office leads me down through an unsavory, wooden-built portion of town. I am obliged to pass several cheap groceries, which smell horribly of sauer-kraut and Limburg cheese, a restaurant steamy with Frenchy soups, a livery stable, besides two or three barns, and some gloomy, windowless, shut-up buildings, of whose use I haven’t the slightest idea.
Of course, when I go out in grand toilet, I take the half mile circle. But, being a business woman, and generally in a hurry, I usually go this short way in my short walking-dress and big parasol; and, probably, there is an indescribable expression to my nose, just as Mrs. Jack Graham says.
Well, one morning I was going down town in the greatest hurry. I was trying to walk so fast that I needn’t breathe once going by the Dutch groceries; and I was almost to the open space which looks away off to the sparkling river, and the distant park, and the forenoon sun,—I always take a good, long, sweet breath there, coming and going,—when my eye was caught by a remarkable group across the street.
Yes, during the night, evidently, while the town was asleep, there had been an arrival—strangers direct from the Sunny South.
And there the remarkable-looking strangers sat, in a row, along the narrow step of one of the mysterious buildings I have alluded to. They were sunning themselves with all the delightful carelessness of the experienced traveler. Though, evidently, they had been presented with the liberty of the city, it was just as evident that they didn’t care a fig for sightseeing—not a fig, either, for the inhabitants. All they asked of our town was its sunshine. They had selected the spot where they could get the most of it. Through the open space opposite the sun streamed broadly; and the side of a weather-colored building is so warm!
What a picture of dolce far niente, of “sweet-do-nothing,” it was! I stopped, hung my parasol over my shoulder,—there was a little too much sunshine for me,—and gazed at it.
“O, how you do love it! You bask like animals! That fullness of enjoyment is denied to us white-skins. What a visible absorption of luster and heat! You are the true lotus-eaters!”
The umber-colored creatures—I suppose they are as much warmer for being brown, as any brown surface is warmer than a white one. I never did see sunshine drank, and absorbed, and enjoyed as that was. It was a bit of Egypt and the Nile life. I could not bear to go on.
Finally, I crossed the street to them. Not one of them stirred. The eldest brother was standing, leaning against the building. He turned one eye on me, and kept it there. At his feet lay a bulging, ragged satchel. Evidently he was the protector.
The elder sister, with hands tucked snugly under her folded arms, winked and blinked at me dozily. The little boy with the Nubian lips was sound asleep,—a baby Osiris,—his chubby hands hiding together between his knees for greater warmth. The youngest sister, wrapped in an old woolen shawl, was the only uncomfortable one of the lot. There was no doze nor dream in her eyes yet—poor thing, she was cold!
I didn’t believe they had had anywhere to lay their heads during the night. Liberty of a city, to one kind of new arrivals, means just that, you know. Sundry crumbs indicated an absence of the conventional breakfast table. Poor little darkies!
“Children,” I said, like a benevolently-disposed city marshal, “you mustn’t sit here in the street.”
“We’s gwine on soon, mistis,” said the protector, meekly.
“I ’low we ain’t, Jim!” The big sister said this without any diminution of the utter happiness of her look.
“It’s powerful cold comin’ up fru the norf, mistis. I mus’ let ’em warm up once a day,” said Jim.
“Up through the north! Pray, where are you going?”
Jim twisted about. He looked down at the toe of his boot, reflectively.
“I ex-pect, I ex-pect—”
“You spec, Jim! You allers spectin’! Mistis, we’s free—we kin go anywhars!”
I suspect there had been a great deal of long-suffering on the part of Jim. He burst out like flame from a smoldering fire,—
“Anywhars! That’s what ails niggas! Freedom means anywhars to ’em, and so they’re nuffin’ nor nobody. You vagabon’, Rose Moncton, you kin’t go anywhars much longer—not ’long o’ me!”
“O, you white folksy Jim! I ’low this trompin’ was yer own plan. When you finds a town whar it’s any show of warm, I’ll hang up my things and stay, and not afore—ye hyar that! I ’low I won’t see Peyty and Kit a-freezin’!”
She scowled at me, she actually did, as if I froze her with my pale face and cool leaf-green dress, and kept the sun off her, talking with that “white folksy Jim.”
I fancied Jim was hoping I would say something more to them. I fancied he, at least, was in great need of a friend’s advice.
“Where did you come from?” I asked him. But the other head of the family answered,—
“Come from nuff sight warmer place than we’s goin’ anywhars.”
“Rose is allers techy when she’s cold, mistis,” Jim apologized. “Ole Maum Phillis used fer to say as Rose’s temper goose-pimpled when the cold air struck it. We kim from Charleston, mistis. We’s speckin’ to work out some land for ourselves, and hev a home. We kim up norf to git wages, so as we kin all help at it. I’d like to stop hyar, mistis.”
“Hyar! I ’low we’s goin’ soufard when we gits from dis yer, you Jim,” sniffed “Rose Moncton,” her face up to the sunshine.
Poor Jim looked care-worn. I dare say my face was tolerably sympathetic. It felt so, at least.
“Mistis,” the fellow said, “she’s kep us tackin’ souf an’ norf, souf an’ norf, all dis yer week, or we’d been somewhars. She don’t like de looks of no town yet. We’s slep’ roun’ in sheds six weeks now. I gits sawin’ an’ choppin’, an’ sich, to do once a day, while dey warms up in de sun, an’ eats a bite. Den up we gits, an’ tromps on. We’s got on so fur, but Rose ain’t clar at all yit whar we’ll stop. Mistis, whar is de warmest place you knows on?”
I thought better and better of myself as the heavy-faced fellow thus appealed to me. I felt flattered by his confidence in me. I always feel flattered when a strange kitty follows me, or the birdies hop near for my crumbs. But I will confess that no human vagabond had ever before so skillfully touched the soft place in my heart. Poor, dusky wanderer! he looked so hungry, he looked so worn-out, too, as a head of a family will when the other head pulls the other way.
“Well, Jim, the warmest place I know of is in my kitchen. I left a rousing fire there ten minutes ago. You all stay here until I come back, which will be in about seven minutes; then you shall go home with me, and I will give you a good hot dinner. You may stay all night, if you like, and perhaps I can advise you. You will be rested, at the least, for a fresh start.”
Rose Moncton lifted her listless head, and looked in my face. “Laws!” said she. “Laws!” said she again.
Jim pulled his forelock to me, vailed the flash in his warm umbery eyes with a timely wink of the heavy lids. He composed himself at once into a waiting attitude.
I heard another “Laws!” as I hastened away. “That young mistis is done crazy. She’ll nebber kim back hyar, ’pend on dat!” Such was Rose’s opinion of me.
I opened my ears for Jim’s. But Jim made no reply.
Father and mother had gone out of town for two days. Our hired girl had left. I really was “mistis” of the premises. If I chose to gather in a circle of shivering little “niggas” around my kitchen stove, and heat that stove red-hot, there was nobody to say I better not.
I was back in five minutes, instead of seven. Jim stood straight up on his feet the moment he discovered me coming. Rose showed some faint signs of life and interest. “’Clar, now, mistis! Kim along, den, Jim, and see ye look to that there verlise. Hyar, you Kit!” She managed to rouse her sister with her foot, still keeping her hands warmly hidden, and her face to the sun.
But the other head took the little ones actively in charge. “Come, Peyty, boy! come, Kit! we’s gwine now!”
Peyty opened his eyes—how starry they were! “O, we goin’, mo’? Jim, I don’t want to go no mo’!”
“Ain’t gwine clar thar no, Peyty, boy; come, Kit—only to a house to warm the Peyty boy—come Kit!”
Kit was coming fast enough. But Peyty had to be taken by the arm and pulled up. Then he stepped slowly, the tears coming. The movement revealed great swollen welts, where his stiff, tattered, leathern shoes had chafed and worn into the fat, black little legs. “Is dat ar Mistis Nelly?” he asked, opening his eyes, wonderingly, at the white lady.
Rose had got up now. A sudden quiver ran over her face. “No, Peyty. Mist’ Nelly’s dead, you know. Wish we’s back to Mas’r Moncton’s, and Mist’ Nelly libbin’, an’ Linkum sojers dead afore dey cum!”
There was a long sigh from everybody, even from Jim. But he drew in his lips tightly the next moment. “Some niggas nebber was worf freein’. Come along, Peyty, boy—ready, mistis.”
I walked slowly along at the head of the strangers from the south. Little feet were so sore, Peyty couldn’t walk fast. Kit’s big woman’s size shoes were so stiff she could only shuffle along. Jim’s toes were protruding, and I fancied he and Rose were as foot-sore as the little ones. I dare say people looked and wondered; but I am not ashamed to be seen with any kind of children.
I took them around to the back door, into the kitchen, which I had found unendurable while baking my bread and pies. The heated air rushed out against my face as I opened the door. It was a delicious May-day; but the procession behind me, entering, proceeded direct to the stove, and surrounded it in winter fashion, holding their hands out to the heat. Even from Jim I heard a soft sigh of satisfaction.
Poor, shivering children of the tropics! I drew up the shades. There were no outer blinds, and the sun streamed in freely.
“There, now. Warm yourselves, and take your own time for it. Put in wood, Jim, and keep as much fire as you like. I am going to my room to rest for an hour. Be sure that you don’t go off, for I wish you to stay here until you are thoroughly rested. I have plenty of wood for you to saw, Jim.”
I brought out a pan of cookies. I set them on the table. “Here, Rose, see that Peyty and Kit have all they want. When I come down, I’ll get you some dinner.”
The poor children in stories, and in real life, too, for that matter, always get only bread and butter—dear me, poor dears! When I undertake a romance for these waifs in real life, or story, I always give them cookies—cookies, sweet, golden, and crusty, with sifted sugar.
I left them all, even to Jim, looking over into the pan. My! rich, sugary jumbles, and plummy queen’s cakes? When I saw their eyes dance—no sleep in those eyes now—I was glad it wasn’t simply wholesome sandwiches and plain fried cakes, as somebody at my elbow says now it ought to have been. I would have set out a picnic table, with ice-cream and candies, for those wretched little “niggas,” if I could! I nodded to them, and went away. It is so nice, after you have made a child happy, to add some unmistakable sign that it is quite welcome to the happiness!
I knew there was nothing which they could steal. I expected they would explore the pantry. I judged them by some of my little white friends. But the silver was locked up. China and glass would hardly be available. If, after they had stuffed themselves with those cookies, they could want cold meat, and bread and butter, I surely shouldn’t begrudge it. Then I thought of my own especial lemon tart, which stood cooling on the shelf before the window; but I was not going back to insult that manly Jim Moncton by removing it.
Just as I was slipping on my dressing-gown up in my own cool, quiet chamber, I caught a faint sound of the outside door of the kitchen. Something like a shriek, or a scream, followed. Then there was an unmistakable and mighty overturning of chairs. I rushed down. At the very least I expected to see my romantic “Rose Moncton” with her hands clenched in brother Jim’s kinky hair. With loosened tresses, without belt or collar, I appeared on the scene.
What did I see? Why, I saw Phillis, Mrs. Jack Graham’s black cook, with every one of my little “niggas” in her arms—heads of the family and all! There they were, sobbing and laughing together, the portly Phillis the loudest of the whole. One of Mrs. Jack’s favorite china bowls lay in fragments on the floor.
Phillis called out hysterically as she saw me. Jim discovered me the same moment. He detached himself, went up to the window, and bowed his head down upon the sash. I saw the tears roll down his cheek and drop.
“Laws, Miss Carry! dese my ole mas’r’s niggers! dey’s Mas’r Moncton’s little nigs, ebery one! dey’s runned roun’ under my feet in Mas’r Moncton’s kitchen many a day down in ole Carline—bress em souls!” She hugged them again, and sobbed afresh, The children clung to the old cook’s neck, and waist, and arms like so many helpless, frightened black kittens.
Phillis at last recovered her dignity. She pointed them to their chairs. She picked up the pieces of china in her apron. “Done gone, anyhow—dese pickaninnies gib ole Phillis sich a turn! It mose like seein’ Mas’r Moncton an’ Miss Nelly demselves. Whar you git ’em, Miss Carry?”
I told her.
“Bress your heart, Miss Carry! Len’ me a cup, and git me some yeast, and I’ll bring Mistis Graham ober, an’ I’ll be boun’, when she sees dat ar lubly little Peyty, she’ll hire him to—to—to—lor! she’ll hire him to look into his diamint eyes.”
I know she herself kissed tears out of more than one pair of “diamint eyes” while I was getting the yeast. I heard her.
“O, Maum Phillis!” I heard Jim say. “You think we’ll hire out roun’ hyar?”
“Could we, Maum Phillis?” pleaded Rose, her voice soft and warm now. “We’s done tired out. I’m clean ready to drop down in my tracks long this yer blessed stove, and nebber stir anywhars!”
“Bress you, chilluns! You hev tromped like sojers, clar from ole Carline! Spec it seems like home, findin’ one of de old place hands—Phillis knows. Dar, dar! don’t take on so. Miss Carry, she’ll bunk you down somewhar it’s warm, and thar you stay an’ rest dem feet. I’ll send my mistis ober, and dey two’ll pervide fer ye on dis yer street; dis yer one ob de Lord’s own streets.”
Well, do you think Mistis Graham and Mistis Carry dishonored Maum Phillis’s faith in them?
No, indeed! The family found homes on “de Lord’s own street.” Jam is coachman at Squire Lee’s. Peyty is at the same place, taken in at first for his sweet disposition, and “diamint eyes,” I suspect. He is now a favorite table-waiter.
Kit is Maum Phillis’s right-hand woman. Rose is our own hired girl. She is somewhat given to sleepiness, and to idling in sunny windows, and to scorching her shoes and aprons against the stove of a winter’s evening. But, on the whole, she is a good servant; and we have built her a bedroom out of the kitchen.
I have never regretted crossing the street to speak to the strangers from the south.