XVII
AN AFTERWORD
Expressions of regret have reached me that “Bypaths in Dixie” does not open with a tribute in verse to old Mammy. Let me confess I share this regret. It, therefore, occurs to me that the sympathetic readers who have missed “Lines to Mammy” from my little book may be interested in the following faithful account of the author’s failure to furnish this tribute to the heroine of these stories. I am, indeed, the more persuaded to offer this personal experience of authorship, because I believe it explains in no mean degree the missing poems from the pages of many women who follow Art for Art’s alluring sake along various pleasant byways, but who journey for the most part on the broad highway of a very practical life. Moreover, those who hold that poets are born, not made, may by the following true story be constrained to add to their creed that born poets may by some circumstances be unmade.
The poem above referred to was thought of but not until the manuscript was on the press, hence when the publisher wired “send at once” the would-be poet succumbed to a nervousness calculated to destroy rather than inspire poetic impulse. A chair from the chimney corner was drawn closer to the fire in hopes that the odor of burning logs might woo association away from radiators back to the old wood-pile, the chip basket, and the lightwood knot. Nor did this simple ruse fail of expectation, for soon the old home took shape in the flames. I could see the heavy green shutters that tempered the summer sun in the nursery, and through these, flung wide, I could look into the high pitched room, big and square, not crowded for all the crib-beds of varying sizes, and Mammy with a child in one arm stumbling over toys to the bedside of a rebellious charge: “Bett’r shet yer eyes ’fo’ ole Mist’r Grab All come an’ git yer.” And so the pencil moved:
In dreams I see thee bending o’er me.
To the old plantation home we rove,
Where—
At this moment Aunt Ellen opened the door and waited. Seeing she was unnoticed, she began:
“You ain’ tole me er Lawd’s thing ’bout dinn’r er bre’kfus, er supp’r.”
“Oh, Aunt Ellen, don’t ask me what to have—fix anything.”
In dreams I see thee bend—