It was from Henry’s throat, deep and tremulous, that the death-song rose, joined in by the treble of the women. The wondering Cindy knelt in the sand and hid her face. Then, as the truth broke in upon her consciousness, Cely snatched a sleeping child from the arms of the kneeling Cindy, and a wild note of joy rose high above the dirge.
STOLEN FIRE
“Dey done got hit all wrong!”
Mammy looked across the room to where the children were quietly playing, then knitted her brows and tenderly caressed the bosom of the Colonel’s shirt with her iron.
“Brer Bailey hain’t got no call ter ’low dat niggers is ’v’luted fum Afiker monkeys, fur dey ’v’lutes back inter monkeys, sho’ mun!”
“What did you say, Mammy?” asked Fred, who had been playing in the fire, holding his stick aloft, and eagerly scanning the shining face for a possible story.
“Tell me and Fred a tale,” lisped Margie, outlining her toe upon the spotless kitchen floor with the end of her charred stick.
“If yo’ chillens don’ quit playin’ in de fire, I lay I gwine mek Miss Margret whup yo’ bofe when she come fum up-town—see if I don’t!” and Mammy rolled her eyes ferociously behind her brass specs, at which the children laughed and teased the more.
“What about monkeys, Mammy? Go on!” said Fred.
“Back into monkeys!” echoed Margie. “Go on!”