A great diva paused a moment to listen, as she held her hostess’ hand.
“O May, dearest May, you are loblier dan de day,
Your eyes so bright dey shine at night
When de moon am gone away.”
The diva’s eyes filled with tears. “They are the sweetest singers,” she said softly, and went quickly. Miss Julia flushed delicately. She ruled her negroes with no lax hand—but she loved them. She knew their faults, blackberry thick! She knew their virtues, their worth and loyalty. And she never heard their music, the blackbird music that flutes up from their ebon throats, the music that tripped from between their broad finger tips and their banjo-strings, without an affectionate throbbing in her own heart.
“My massa gabe me holiday, I wish he’d gib me mo—”
Miss Julia went a step beyond the gate with Miss Ellen Hunter—for Miss Hunter was older than herself, and very poor.
“I t’anked him berry kindly as I pushed my boat from sho—”
Miss Julia gave a Chicago banker her finger tips; the Jewish financier a fuller clasp.
“And started for my dear one I longed so for to see—”