Jim sang a bass solo. Gerald also rendered a song, his sweet tenor voice delighting his auditors, after which the old quartette of the mountain camp was formed again and sang familiar pieces in such a manner as to win the heartiest of commendation from all—even that captious critic, Herr Deichenberg.
Aunt Betty was asked to speak one of her girlhood pieces, but begged to be allowed to substitute old Ephraim, who, upon being urged, recited the following verses, remembered since his earliest recollection:
“Sho’ ’nuff, is dat yo’, buddie?
Why, I sca’ce beliebs mah eyes!
Yo’s growed so slendah en so tall,
I like not tuh know yo’ size.
Does yo’ eber hunt de possum—
Climb de ole p’simmon tree?
Like we did in de good ole times
W’en de niggah wasn’t free?
We’d take ole Tige, en den a torch,
Den we’d start out fo’ a spree,
Lots o’ fellers wuz in dat chase,
Erside, mah boy, frum yo’ en me,
After a w’ile ole Tige’d yelp,
Den we’d know dar’s sumpthin’ round,
Er rabbit, coon, er possum, sho’,
Er gittin’ ober de ground.
W’en up de tree de possum run,
Den ole Tige he’d change he tune,
Den wif de torch we’d shine his eyes
Den we’d nab him pretty soon,
We’d break he neck, en build er fire
Den a tater roast, yo’ mind;
Why, bress yo’ heart, dis make me cry,
Nebber mo’ dem times yo’ find.
De Massa’s gone—ole Missus, gone,
En mah ole woman am, too;
I’m laid up now wif rheumatiz,
En mah days am growin’ few.
Ole Tige mos’ blind en crippled up,
So dat he can’t hunt no mo’;
No possums now tuh grease de chops,
Oh, I’s feelin’ mighty po’!”
As Ephraim concluded he made a most elaborate bow, touching his hand to his forelock—or where the forelock should have been.
The old negro’s interested listeners burst into loud applause, and the bow was repeated again and again. The verses had been rendered with considerable feeling and some sense of their poetic value, which, of course, Ephraim had learned from hearing the verses recited by others.
Len Haley, upon being called on for a contribution to the entertainment, spoke the first—and last—piece he had learned during the few short months he had attended school. It was a temperance piece, and if not thoroughly in keeping with the festive occasion, was at least one of the most earnest efforts of the afternoon.
Aurora, who was an elocutionist of no mean merit, rendered Longfellow’s “Hiawatha,” with such realistic touches that Herr Deichenberg sat spellbound through her recital, to spring up and grasp her hand when she had finished.
“My dear girl,” he cried, “dat was excellent—excellent. I am proud, indeed, to know you.”
“I trust you will never have occasion to change your mind,” was the girl’s pleasant response.
The entertainment over, Herr Deichenberg and Judge Breckenridge engaged in a checker contest, which was so closely fought that the others stopped whatever they were doing to look on. The Herr was finally triumphant, taking four games out of seven.