THE SPRIG’S BALL.
The Sprig’s Ball
William Gibbon.
{Illustrations by C. W. Berry.}
Several years ago, at the junction of two little streams in a fertile section of the cotton district, stood a rickety old blacksmith-shop. The master of its forge, Remington Ingleheart, familiarly known as “Rem,” was a stout, thick-set man, of slave parentage. He was a thrifty young fellow, sure of success at his trade. For some time he had been “goin’ with a gal,” as he said, about half a mile up one of the little streams, but had never come to any definite understanding, because there had been but one room to the shop. By the time of which we write, however, things were different. An extra apartment was practically completed. The neighbors wondered what “Rem” was up to. When asked about it, he simply answered that he was tired “workin’ an’ sleepin’ in de same place.”
Among all the young negroes of the vicinity, “Rem” had but one particular friend. This was Hicks Gale. Hicks was a sort of blacksmith, too. In rushes of work he would come over and help “Rem.” One cold December night, “Rem” had a job on hand that must be finished before he turned in. How he wished for Hicks! As if the wish had anything to do with it, Hicks actually appeared about nine o’clock.
“Hullo, Hicks!” exclaimed “Rem.” “Jus’ de man I wants to see. Take de sledge an’ strack a little fur me.”
“Dat ain’t presactly what I come fur,” said Hicks; “but I kin hit you a few licks, anyhow.”
“What’s on hand?” asked “Rem,” thrusting the iron back for a new heat.
“A ball at St. Michael’s, Christmus eve,” responded Hicks, in much glee. “Sim Sprigs is givin’ it, an’ he tole me fur to tell you to be shore an’ come, an’ fetch Judy. You’ll be dar, won’t you?”
“Coase,” answered “Rem.” “Ever know me to miss a ball?”
St. Michael’s was a church: a shabby looking structure on the east bank of the large stream formed by the two smaller ones. On the night of the ball, it was pompously illuminated by a number of tallow dips that peeped uneasily forth from every nook and corner. The dilapidated wooden shutters had been drawn to and fastened with pieces of heavy twine, to keep out the gusty blasts. In the centre was a small stove, which was filled with pine knots till it gave out the necessary degree of heat. The crude benches, on either side of the common aisle, were gathered into a large heap beside the door, to make room for the pedal antics. The most striking feature was the old pulpit. It consisted of a low platform, shut in across the front and half way back on either side by a rough framework of boards. Each projecting corner looked toward a vendor’s stand, laden with the influences which make “A fool and his money” soon part.
The form of entertainment which the negroes call a ball is rather a comprehensive institution. It may be given on the slightest provocation, and under any auspices whatever, public or private. Ostensibly, the enjoyment consists in dancing to the music of a scratchy fiddle. Really, the interested parties bring together as many of their friends as possible for the purpose of disposing to them of cheap nicknacks and third-class refreshments at a profit of three or four hundred per cent.
By eight o’clock on the Christmas eve in question, St. Michael’s was full to overflowing. The din of loud talking and yelling was deafening. The voice of Sim Sprigs, the manager, could be heard above that of any one else, exhorting the young bloods to “furmember” their sweethearts, and “treat ’um often.” The idea of treating was of primary importance to the success of the entertainment. It meant that the boys were to lavish their last cent on the girls. In fact, the prompting in the dance was equipped with a special figure for such occasions,—“Promenade to de bar.” The cry of “treat me” could everywhere be heard in powerful soprano tones. If a girl met a boy she knew she invariably asked him to treat her. When a boy asked a girl to dance, she usually answered, “Yup, uf you’ll treat me fust,” frequently stipulating the amount of the investment.
“Rem” and Judy arrived a little late. The first dance was already in progress. Every one naturally glanced up to see who had entered. The newcomers shook off their slight embarrassment by at once joining in the waltz. Very soon they were as much a part of the crowd as any other couple in the house.
As soon as the opening set closed, there was a general thronging to “de bar.” “Rem” made his purchases and retired. With a large bag in one hand, and Judy on the other arm, he sought the seclusion of the old pulpit. The inclosure was furnished with only the preacher’s bench, but that had plenty of length for two. “Rem” and Judy sat down, with the bag between them. The former seized a huge piece of cake, and intimated to the latter that she might “dip in.” The second dance was “sot out.” When the third was announced, neither “Rem” nor Judy had engaged a partner. It was natural and pleasant enough for them to dance together again. Further along, they did not hesitate to pass over several sets at a time. All spare moments were spent in the pulpit. “Rem” kept an abundance of nicknacks on hand, so that they might “dip in,” and relieve the embarrassment of occasional silence. Until quite late the conversation was, on the whole, comparatively general. “Rem” now came a little more to the point, by remarking that he had “bin ’templatin’ takin’ a wife.”
“Is you?” said Judy, simply. “Dat’s good.”
“Jobs is bin putty brisk dis fall,” added “Rem,” “an’ I’s got my yother room all fixed.”
“Is you done picked her out?” asked Judy, with apparent unconcern.
“Picked her out!” exclaimed “Rem,” “long’s I bin gwine wid you, Judy Marshall, now you ax me who I wants to marry!”
Rosy dawn dispersed the moneychangers from the temple and shamed the lovers from the pulpit. On the following Sunday, St. Michael’s church was packed with an unusually large audience, and the morning service was concluded with a wedding.
“Judy Marshall,” said the preacher, “does you solemnly promise to live up to dis man, lack you ought ter?”
“I does.”
“Remington Ingleheart, is you gwine to cherry dis ’oman, whether she’s sick or no?”
“Sho’s God, I be!”
