A LITTLE MERCHANT.
BY MISS E. E. BACKUP.
It could hardly be called a village; there were a few houses, a few stores, and a mammoth hotel. During “the season” all the life of the place seemed to centre about the hotel. The building covered considerable space, and two sides were inclosed with glass, which gave it quite an Oriental air. The hotel was known for miles around, and when the house was full a pleasurable excitement pervaded the little hamlet. It extended to the little pickaninnies who rolled and tumbled in the log cabins which dotted the landscape in every direction as far as the eye could reach. What a scramble there was to see the gentlemen and ladies as they walked or drove by, and a party on horseback was a sight sufficiently imposing to warrant extra efforts.
To these little folks, who never pored dreamily over enchanting fairy tales, Denis Hotel was a veritable fairy palace inhabited by choice fairies from the dim and shadowy Northland, whose pockets contained a never failing supply of gold. This latter was almost an article of faith among the youthful colored population of K., and developed a very large eye for business. The roads swarmed with colored urchins desirous of selling various wares. One class of infants had an inexhaustible supply of gourds which they offered at remarkably low rates to the “Yankee” ladies. Another class of juveniles was of a geological turn, and enough arrow-heads and other Indian “remains” were offered for sale to stock several national museums. Then, when all else failed, there were the sweet wild flowers which seemed softly to plead for the dark little fingers which had lovingly brought them forth into the light.
General Grant was one of the most indefatigable and successful of the little merchants, as was befitting the namesake of a great General. Intelligence beamed from the General’s dark face, and there was no resisting the mute appeal of his large, lustrous eyes.
“What, more flowers!” we exclaimed, one day, “and jessamine, too! five cents? Oh, yes, we’ll take them. Really, General, you must be growing rich.”
“I does right smart, thank you,” with a smile and a bow, the graceful native politeness more than atoning for the defective speech.
“We rejoice in your success, General,” chimed in Mr. Brown. “Two or three little rascals have tried to make us believe that their pennies all went straight into the contribution box. It’s likely we should believe such nonsense! Now we would just like to know what you do with your money. Buy candy, I’ll be bound.”
The large eyes grew a trifle larger as their little owner unflinchingly encountered Mr. Brown’s steadfast gaze. “We chillens are mighty fond of candy,” he said, “and it’s seldom we get a bit. I did buy some candy once for the young uns, but the rest has done gone for homespun.”
“What do you do with homespun?”
“Why, mammy makes dresses for the girls. Sally looked mighty peart last night when she put on her new dress, and didn’t she dance ’round though,” and the kind eyes grew moist at the recollection.
“Then you don’t put money in the contribution box?” Mr. Brown continued.
“We put a cent in ‘most every Sunday. But we get our Sunday-school money ‘knocking up Jerusalem.’”
“The dickens!” exclaimed Mr. Brown, quite forgetting himself, “and how do you ‘knock up Jerusalem’?”
“‘Knocking up Jerusalem’ is a song, sir,” our little hero respectfully replied; “and we shall be right proud to sing it to you sometime if you’ll come to the cabin. And you ain’t to give us anything, neither.”
“We’ll come,” said Mr. Brown. “We want to see Sally’s new gown, and I wouldn’t fail to hear ‘Knocking up Jerusalem.’”
We went, according to promise, and were most hospitably received at the little cabin. We admired Sally’s blue and white homespun, and when that subject was exhausted we listened to “Knocking up Jerusalem.” The five children stood in a row with Gen. Grant at their head, and kept time with their feet as they sang. It was evidently one of the old-time spiritual songs, a queer mixture, and we listened with mingled feelings of interest and regret—interest in the dark, earnest little faces, and the sweet, pathetic strains, regret at the words and gestures, alike meaningless.
The song ended, we talked of Jesus, and these little ones, ignorant and untaught, yet knew of Him as the children’s Friend.
Gen. Grant was actively engaged as long as we remained in K., but it was slow work after all, and we became so interested in his unselfish efforts, that we determined to aid him. Enough homespun for several dresses was privately left at the cabin, together with a few simple papers and books, of which the cabin was utterly destitute. The day we left, Gen. Grant was at the station to present us with a beautiful bouquet, and we almost cried ourselves as he bade us a tearful good-bye.
Our chief regret for K. is that we can do so little to improve the condition of the colored people there. Poor and ignorant, they need what they have never had, an educated teacher. We wish the A. M. A. was rich enough to sustain a school in every Southern village.