“You sho right, Felo,” Aunt Susan concurred. “An’ thank you for sayin’ so.... An’ look,” she suggested genially, “some you mens oughta go yonder in de shed an’ fetch me a few sticks o’ wood for dis fire, befo’ it git too low.”
Gussie and Felo left the room to get the wood. Susan began pottering about the hearth. Nat fixed a pipe of tobacco, lighted it, and gave it to Tom; then fixed one for himself and sat down and began smoking. Uncle Foteen was nodding in his chair by the fireside. Dink began playing softly on the comb, the women humming pleasantly with him, the soothing melody of “Po’ Moanuh got a Home at Las’.” Before long, the wave of discord had passed on, and the room became pervaded with a flood of harmony; the potent spell of music lifting their emotional natures to a sense of quiet, singing ecstasy and spiritual introspection. Felo and Gussie came in with several sticks of wood, and before putting them down, stood listening attentively.
“Lay ’um down easy, an’ leave Unc’ Foteen sleep.” Susan told them in a half-whisper.
“Y’all peaceful an’ nice now,” Felo remarked, “but you sho goin’ have noise up in hyuh w’en de circus come. Yonder Lizzie Cole an’ Chester Frackshun comin’ outside. So you better make up yo’ min’ to lissen at a loud racket w’en dey git hyuh.”
They took the announcement indifferently, and continued to sing until the new arrivals appeared in the doorway.
Lizzie Cole was a buxom, merry-faced, happy-go-lucky young colored woman; always eager for some new humorous adventure; and fully enamoured of the thought that “time goes merry when the heart is young.” Likewise, equally determined to keep her thought from anticipating the time when the heart grows old.
Although the daughter of a genteel, respected Baptist minister, Lizzie gave no evidence of possessing a single trait resembling dignity, discretion, docility, or any other element reflecting the reputed influence of the holy church, or the divinity of mortal man.
She earned her livelihood as a maid of any task, wherever chance might lead her. And however onerous the duties imposed upon her, she seldom failed to transliterate into vocal records of lasting mirth the nature of any experience.