GRITNY PEOPLE

GRITNY
PEOPLE

R. EMMET KENNEDY

Design & Decoration by
Edward Larocque Tinker

DODD MEAD & COMPANY NEW YORK
1927

Copyright, 1927
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y.

“At night was come into that hostelrie

Wel nyne and twenty in a companye,

Of sondry folk, by adventure i-falle

In felawschipe....

Me thinketh it acordant to resoun,

To telle yow alle the condicioun

Of eche of hem, so as it seemed me,

And which they weren, and of what degre.”

—Prologue to Canterbury Tales.

HIST’RIES

To be looked upon as a favored “member” of Aunt Susan Smiley’s cook shop, all the requisites one need have were the ability to appreciate her gumbo and sweet potato pies, coupled with a talent for telling a good story.

The gumbo and pies were not only a pride to Aunt Susan, but were things of great marvel to the whole colored population the full length of the river “coast.” Of course the pies were best when yams were in season. But with a little “sweet milk” and a dash of vanilla extract, she was able to work wonders with the commoner variety of sweet potato, and few of her patrons knew the difference; unless they had some knowledge of truck gardening and were “well-posted ’bout potato-time.”

Like all good cooks, Aunt Susan was careful not to reveal to her dusky sisters the secret of her original recipes. And if any white person asked her to tell how she prepared some of her dainty concoctions, she never went beyond saying: “Honey, de firs’ thing you gotta have is a black han’.”

The telling of stories was a thing Aunt Susan looked to with the discrimination of a true judge of oral literature. Her patrons were free to pass the whole night in her shop, sitting before the cheerful fire on the hearth, provided they had a good story to tell or a good song to sing, whatever the model might be; it being understood that pies and gumbo were available for the growing appetite, and drip coffee could be furnished when needed to soothe the husky throats of the indefatigable singers. If the season happened to be summer, bountiful pitchers of lemonade with raspberry syrup took the place of black coffee; and every one could “lap up limonade an’ spread joy to a comfut.”

Alcoholic drinks were taboo. Not because Aunt Susan had any religious scruples; for she frankly admitted she was “no licentage Chrishtun;” but because she felt that “a nigger in licker ain’ no fittin’ comp’ny for nobody decen’, Chrishtun or w’atsomeever.”

It mattered little if a “member” hadn’t any money. If he could tell an interesting story, his credit was good until the end of the week, at which time he was expected to pay. Failing in this, he was declared “on-finanshul,” and was denied the privilege of the house until he reinstated himself.

A black space on the side wall carried the various accounts marked up in chalk; a stroke for each pie or plate of gumbo, in one column; and a like marking for the drinks in another column. As each mark stood for a nickel, it was an easy matter to reckon when the time came for settling up.

Although unable to read, Aunt Susan’s manner of counting and making change had the accuracy of a primitive Chinese abacus-Pythagoricus. On the mantelshelf she kept a blue bowl half-filled with grains of corn. If a dollar bill were given in settlement of an account, grains of corn equalling the amount of the bill were counted out on the table. Then the strokes on the wall were counted, and as many grains of corn were taken from the whole; the remaining grains representing the change to be returned. Fortunately, the patrons seldom presented her with anything higher than a two dollar bill. However slow the process, the method was sure; and even though she had to change a five dollar note now and then, no one ever complained of wrong count.

Aunt Susan was a kindly, soft-voiced, full-bosomed woman, about sixty years old. She had no family of her own; but living with her, as a sort of charge, was a blind man named Tom Lakes, some twenty years her junior. She had known Tom from his early childhood, and had always taken a motherly interest in him; mending his clothes, cooking his meals, and taking care of his money for him, long before he married and met with the horrible accident which caused his blindness.

Tom married a young woman who came to the village a stranger,—“some wile Georgia nigger out de wilderness,” as she was called by Tom’s friends, few of whom had any regard for her because of her arrogance and “scawnful ways.”

After his marriage, Tom continued to pay his daily visits to Aunt Susan; helping her peel potatoes, clean crabs for the gumbo, chop wood, and redden the floor with brick-dust; just as he had always done. These little attentions awakened a feeling of resentment in the suspicious mind of the scornful Georgia lady. Tom was kind to her and provided for every humble need; but why must he go and do work for another woman?... And his visits at night; going to take part in the singing and story-telling with other people before Susan’s fireplace;—another thorn in her jealous soul. Every invitation from Tom to go along with him, she refused; preferring to remain at home, brooding and wondering. She was sure something more than “ole lady” interest held Tom to Aunt Susan. No woman kept a man’s money unless there was something secret between them,—and the man with a “natchal wife of his own”.... “Who? Do I look like I got any green in my eye, keep me from seein’ w’at direction de win’ blowin’ in?—Tom mus’ be take me for a fool!”

So she mused to herself when he was away by day; brooding deeper on the seeming deception when he was away at night revelling in the pleasant flow of song and story and the wholesome regalement of crab gumbo and sweet potato pie.

The night of July 4th was to be a “big interprise” at Aunt Susan’s. Three “good altone songsters” were coming to lend added luster to the meeting, and make the “buildin’ rock wid ole-time shoutin’ praise.” Aunt Susan was over the stove the greater part of the day, making pies; and to give the gumbo an extra flavor, Tom had gone crawfishing and brought home a basket full of crawfish, which he would give as his donation. Bell told him she would boil them and pick them, a wifely condescension which pleased Tom as much as it caused him to wonder.

“Maybe her min’ done change at las’. An’ maybe she’ll go ’long wid me tonight to Sis’ Susan house,” thought Tom, as he dragged a chair out on the front gallery and sat down in the shade of the honeysuckle vines.

“Bell alright; ’cep’ for her nasty, jealous-hearted ways,” he argued to himself.

The afternoon was hot and still. A quivering, dancing heat was visible in the brilliant sunlight. Not a leaf stirred on the chinaberry trees by the front fence. A few dejected chickens hid under the castor oil bush by the step, their wings drooping, their mouths open, panting like jaded runners after a weary race.

Bell was inside, looking after the pot of crawfish boiling on the charcoal furnace. The swampy smell of the crawfish mingled with the odor of red pepper, floated through the house and over the gallery, where Tom was already in a deep slumber.

Bell came out to the front door and looked at him, then went back to the kitchen. She sat down, gazing at the pot on the furnace, a strange expression creeping over her face. For a long time she sat like one in a profound study. Her eyes contracted, and she began to gnaw her thumb nail abstractedly, a mask-like vacancy covering her face with dark inscrutability. Passing her hand across her face slowly, she got up and looked at the boiling crawfish. They were bright scarlet; they were done. Taking a colander from the wall, she put it in the dishpan on the table; then, lifting the pot from the fire, she emptied the seething mass into the colander, shaking it well until all the water was out, then put it on the window-sill to cool. Passing her hand across her mouth in a cryptic manner, she went again to the front door and looked at Tom furtively. He was sleeping soundly. She went back to the kitchen, and taking the dishpan of hot water from the table, walked out to the front gallery.

Tom was asleep. A deep, manly, snoring sleep held him fast.

“He wouldn’ know.... It’s so easy to trip,—to stumble. For de handle to slip out my han’”.... The thoughts went chasing through her mind, as she stood over him with the steam rising from the crawfish water like an ominous mist.

“Dey say linseed oil good for scaldin’.... Tom got some in a bottle yonder in de woodshed.... I know how to look aft’ him. Den he gotta stay ’way from Susan”....

An unearthly yell started the quivering air.... The dishpan fell to the floor with a jangling crash. “Have mercy! Lawd, have mercy!” Tom’s reiterated cry sounded across the yard with pathetic appeal, the scalding water tinctured with red pepper torturing him viciously.

No one saw the savage deed but the frightened chickens hiding under the castor oil bush, and Bell swore that it was an accident. She was arrested and sent to jail, but Tom maintained that she was innocent; believing Bell’s flimsy story that she had stumbled against his foot.

“Who? Tom ain’ nothin’ but a plumb fool,” commented Seelan, as she left the house after her visit of sympathy.

“Ain’ Tom know it never was Bell practice habit to th’ow trash water in de front yard?... Comin’ clean th’oo de house to de front do’ to empty a dishpan o’ scaldin’ water? Shucks! Tom des natchally childish.”

“You sho is right,” agreed Felo. “I ain’ never like Bell from de firs’ beginnin’. I ain’ trus’ no ooman w’at got side-b’yeards growin’ ’long-side her jaws like Bell got. Da’s a bad sign.”

And so the comment continued for weeks among Tom’s friends wherever they met.

After the bandage was removed from Tom’s eyes, the doctor told him that he was hopelessly blind. His face took on a look of sudden despair, and in a pleading tone, he said:

“Please suh, doctor, don’ joke me in my mis’ry.”

No one spoke. After a few seconds, Susan took hold of his hand, her affectionate grasp, more eloquent than any spoken word, revealing to him the awful truth of the doctor’s statement.

“Sweet man, Jesus,” he exclaimed, raising his head imploringly; “please tell me w’at po’ Tom goin’ do!”

“You goin’ go home wid Susan, an’ set in yo’ chair yonder ’fo de fire,” came the soft-toned, comforting reply. “An’ Susan goin’ look aft’ you des like she did befo’.”

Then leading him by the hand, they left the doctor’s office and started up the coast towards home.

Bell was tried before a jury, but as there was no available witness to give testimony in the case, she was acquitted as innocent and ordered by the court to go back to Georgia. “Back to de wilderness, whah she b’lonks.” As Tom’s friends declared, with picturesque indignation.

The 4th of July meeting having been postponed on account of Tom’s accident, it was scheduled to take place on All Saints’ Day, he being sufficiently recovered to participate in the “interprise.”

In honor of his coming to live with Susan, the old house was “treated to a fine fixin’-up.” The clapboard front was given a coat of pink-wash, and the horseshoe over the door painted a vivid green. New turkey red curtains were hung on all the windows; a new white marbled oilcloth was bought for the long guest table in the middle of the room; fresh shelf coverings of newspaper cut in fantastic scallops were put in the safe and on the pot shelf against the wall; and the hearth bricks and chimney-piece were treated to a new coat of red ochre. The floor was scrubbed and sprinkled with brick dust; the cypress benches, scrubbed and rubbed until the water-waves of the grain took on the appearance of old satin. And Tom’s chair beside the hearth was given a comfortable cushion covered with a piece of old plaid shawl. The mantelshelf was hung with garlands of garlic and bay leaf, long strings of red pepper pods, and bunches of onions. Two brightly-polished tomato cans, supporting cocoanuts, filled the place of ornaments at each end of the mantelpiece; and in the center stood a venerable steeple-top clock, telling that it was near the time for the “members” to arrive. A glowing fire of magnolia burrs and driftwood burned on the hearth; and the place had an impressive air of humble, medieval cheer.

Aunt Susan came in from the next room, followed by Tom carrying an armful of driftwood. She helped him put it on the pile in the chimney-corner, then led him to his chair, handing him a corncob pipe, which she lighted with an ember from the ashes. He began smoking, and Susan busied herself fixing the pies in the safe, and raking the coals of fire about the large iron pot of gumbo on the hearth. She had the air of the true mistress of the inn. The careful precision with which her green-and-yellow head-handkerchief was tied, and the dignity with which she wore her stiff-starched gingham apron, might be looked upon as badges of innate cleanliness and gentility.

Another entertaining detail was her cascade of bosoms in their snug-fitting sacque of gray woolen, making one think of those large, healthy, double-breasted Dutch women Rembrandt loved to paint with such startling fidelity.

“Susan,” Tom called to her softly, “befo’ anybody git hyuh, I wan’ ax you somh’n.”

“Yas, Tom, I’m list’nin’,” she answered.

He took a long pull at his pipe, blew the smoke out slowly, then said:

“If any de members hyuh tonight raise de queshton concernin’ Bell, you ain’ goin’ leave ’um specify, is you?”

Walking over to his chair, Susan put her hand on his shoulder, and said quietly:

“Is you ever known me to tamper wid de devil aft’ I done beat ’im out my track?”

“You right, Susan. Da’s sufficien’,” he answered, and went on with his peaceful smoking.

The first member to arrive was Scilla, a tall, buxom, good-natured young woman with a snub nose and surprised-looking eyes. Her dress was a guinea blue, of plain make, the “josey” very close-fitting. Her head was bare; and her only ornamentation, a pair of large, flat, pearl earrings, which seemed to heighten the bizarre expression of her humorous face and the velvety sheen of her ebon complexion.

She came bursting into the room suddenly, calling out in mock-excitement:

“But no, Sis’ Susan! W’at you an’ Mr. Tom doin’, settin’ hyuh in de dark together like ole folks? Nobody ain’ come yet? Dis de right night, ain’ it?”

“For Gawd sake, Scilla, don’ be so boist’us,” Susan replied, getting up to light the lamps on the table, and quietly putting them in their places.

“O ’scuse me, Sis’ Susan; I didn’ know y’all was holin’ a wake,” returned Scilla playfully.

“Gal, set down an’ be still like people,” said Tom. “You ain’ bin hyuh for a week, an’ you mus’ be got some news to tell, ’side yo’ random talk. Susan, bring de gal a cup o’ coffee an’ leave her git to business.”

“Da’s right, Mr. Tom. I wan’ make you laugh ’bout my w’ite folks,” Scilla answered.

Susan brought her a cup of coffee, and took a seat on the opposite side of the table. Scilla helped herself generously to sugar, and as she stirred her coffee, began her gossip.

“You ain’ goin’ b’lieve me w’en I tell you I ain’ workin’ for Miss Mimi no longer.” (Looks of astonishment from Tom and Susan.) “I des had to leave. You know, dey say niggers ain’ got no principle. But dey got a whole lot o’ w’ite folks w’at ain’ a bit better.”

“Scilla, ain’ you shame to scandalize de people you gits yo’ livin’ from?” Susan asked in honest surprise.

“Who? Sis’ Susan, I ain’ say’n nothin’ w’at ain’ true. Is Miss Mimi ever paid you anything for de many times I comed hyuh an’ borried yo’ gahlic an’ peppers an’ seas’nin’ an’ things to put in her vittuls w’en she had big comp’ny to her house? Try’n to make a show, an’ lookin’ to de niggers to help her out?... Who? Dat ain’ w’at I calls principle.”

“Gal, don’ talk so fas’,” Susan told her. “I’m knowin’ Miss Mimi ever since she was a baby-chile.”

“But she done los’ her baby-ways now; an’ you ain’ know her since she growed up an’ got ways like dey say us niggers got.”

“Scilla, you sho is crittacul,” said Tom. “Go ’head an’ talk w’at you start to talk.”

Scilla looked towards Susan for permission to go on. Finding no objection, she continued:

“’Tain much to tell. I des wan’ let you know I lef’ Miss Mimi ’cause I des natchally got tired seein’ her losin’ her self-respec’, an’ hyeahin’ w’ite folks talkin’ ’bout her behin’ her back evvy time dey seen me. Bein’ a nigger, how could I make ’um shut dey mouth? So de bes’ thing for me to do was to quit.”

“You didn’t go ’way hap-hazzud, widout givin’ notice, did you?” Susan inquired, with a note of severity in her voice.

“No,” Scilla answered. “We come to a understannin’ a whole day befo’ I lef’.... ’Twas on a Sad’dy mawnin’; an’ she was goin’ have comp’ny for dinner de nex’ day; an’ she say she want me to try and git her some vi’lets for de table, same as I always bin doin’.

“You see, evvy time she gived a big dinner, she had to have flowers for de front room an’ de dinner table; an’ nothin’ but vi’lets would please her. She ain’ had but a few scat’rin’ vi’lets in her own yard; so w’at she mus’ do but sen’ me all over Gritny to git vi’lets from anybody w’at had ’um in dey gahden.—An’ she ain’ offer to pay for ’um, no.

“So you kin un’stan how shame’ I felt;—callin’ at people gate an’ axin’ for vi’lets for Miss Mimi, an’ ain’ had a dry nickel to pay for ’um.

“One nice w’ite lady dey calls Miss Tillie, always gimme w’at she had in her gahden. But some dem stingy Dutch people w’at had plenny vi’lets, wouldn’ gimme nothin’.

“One day, one ole red-head lady tol’ me I was lyin’. Dat Miss Mimi ain’ sont me for no vi’lets; dat I was beggin’ ’um for my own self.... Den I got mad.—People takin’ me for a fatal rogue; an’ I ain’ had no way to convince ’um I was jes’ try’n to do de w’ite folks wishes. So I went straight back an’ give Miss Mimi de complete un’stannin’, an’ let her know ’bout her position wid de vi’lets de same as mine. Den I tol’ her I’d come cook de dinner dat Sunday, an’ help her out wid de comp’ny; but she cert’ny had to git somebody else to hunt flowers for her; ’cause it sho made me feel strange to have all Gritny suspicion me on a cheap li’l thing like a few scat’ring vi’lets.”

As she paused for breath, Tom gave an emphatic grunt by way of surprise, and asked rather dubiously:

“So da’s how come you quit? I thought w’en you commence to talk you was goin’ tell somh’n; but you done talked all ove’ yo’ mouth an’ ain’ tol’ nothin’ yet.”

“Who, Mr. Tom?” Scilla returned, having recovered sufficiently to being another pasquinade. “You ain’ think I’m play’n’, is you? Jes’ lemme git started talkin’ ’bout w’ite folks funny ways, an’ you sho will lissen w’at I’m tellin’ you.... But lemme shet up,” she added hurriedly; seeing the form of another visitor entering the front door. “’Cause hyuh come Mr. Felo; an’ too many witness ain’ good w’en it come to havin’ a coat-scrape.”

Felo was a short, stoop-shouldered, yellow man of about thirty; his face having a set look which seemed to give the impression that he was constantly anticipating unpleasant news. He was dressed in a neat, heterogeneous fashion, his garments quietly declaring themselves donations from various male members of his “white folks family.”

As he came into the room, he saluted the house with an eloquent gesture, then exclaimed, raising his right hand high above his head:

“Peace an’ happiness to de castle; an’ glad titus (tidings) to who-some-ever gathered hyuh tonight in Gawd’s name!”

Going over to the fire, he shook hands with Tom; then turning to the women, said:

“Sis’ Susan, how you do? An’ ole loud-mouth Scilla, w’at you got to say?”

Scilla laughed good-naturedly at the sally, and before she could reply, Tom said:

“Leave Scilla stay quiet, Felo, for Gawd sake. She done talk so till my head feel feev’ish lis’nin’ at her.” Then addressing Scilla, he said: “Gal, shet yo’ mouth, an’ leave Felo tell us how him an’ Sis’ Fanny gittin’ ’long yonder.”

Sis’ Fanny was Felo’s mother. She was a small, gentle-mannered, energetic old woman, whose sole interest in life was the comfort and welfare of her numerous grandchildren. She sold cakes and vegetables about the village for a livelihood; accepting from Felo whatever assistance he felt inclined to give her from his limited income as butler “to Mr. Amos house, ’cross de river.”

“Ma Fanny home, yonder”; Felo answered, “runnin’ roun’ worrin’ ’bout dem no-count chillun. She well; but she cert’ny a p’ovokin’ ole soul ’bout dat hog she got yonder. She ain’ sattafy havin’ seven head o’ chillun to wait on her, but gotta wait for me to come home from ’way ’cross de river on Sunday, for me to run all over Gritny to hunt slop. Da’s w’at make me so late gittin’ hyuh tonight; had to tote slop from fo’ diffunt places.”

“Who, Mr. Felo?” Scilla exclaimed in astonishment. “Had to tote slop on Sunday, an’ big All Saints Day, too?”

“Hog got to eat on Sunday same as people, ain’t it?” Felo asked, rebukingly.

“You gotta watch out whah you take slop from dese days, Mr. Felo,” she advised warningly. “Some people got nice slop, an’ some people slop is sho treach’ous. My cousin, down de coas’, had a hog w’at got his th’oat cut clean thoo, from eatin’ slop w’at had razor blades in it. Sho did. An’ ever since dat time, my cousin make her chillun sif’ evvy bit o’ slop dey brings home.”

“How come Sis’ Fanny don’ sell de hog?” asked Susan. “Hog meat bringin’ good price at the butcher shop dis time o’ year.”

“Da’s w’at I bin tellin’ her”; said Felo, “but she so cawntrary she won’ lissen. She say she keepin’ it to be a mother hog.”

The sudden arrival of Nookie put an end to any further intimate details which might have embroidered Felo’s domestic plaint. Her fantastic attire, as well as her dramatic entrance, made her the immediate object of attention.

She was a fat, glossy-black young woman, with shining eyes and teeth, fully conscious of the charms of both. Her dress was an antiquated blue silk creation of long-past glory; the skirt much-beruffled; the basque-front prodigal with “coffee-dipped” oriental lace, cascading from her neck far below the waist line. Her hat was a piece of home-evolved millinery, large and laborious; made of plaited pink crepe paper, a home-cured sea gull encompassing its luxuriant dimensions, with outspread, tethered wings. She carried a long handled parasol of blue silk, rich in rents and uncovered ribs; and over her arm was a faded, black cashmere cape, with remnants of fringe and ravished beads.

“But no, Nookie!” Susan exclaimed, after she had recovered from her surprise. “Whah you bin paradin’ today, droped-up in all yo’ curuss clo’se an’ gommux (garments)? Dis ain’ no Mardi Gras day.”

“Maybe Nookie bin yonder to de simmetery to put flow’hs on somebody grave. You know dis All Saints day,” volunteered Felo, with a playful smile. “No I ain’t,” replied Nookie, arranging her lips with studied care so as to display the whiteness of her fine teeth. “I des come from up de road; from seein’ dat ooman w’at give birth to a baby half-chile an’ half-turtle.”

“Nookie, set down an’ stop yo’ humbug, for Gawd sake,” said Tom, reprovingly. “You ain’ talkin’ to no chillun.”

“Gawd knows, Mr. Tom”; she assured him, “I ain’ tellin’ no false. Ain’t you bin read de newspaper day-befo’ yistiddy? Evvybody was talkin’ ’bout it. An’ I say: I’m goin’ see for myself. De paper say dey was goin’ sell it to de Chaddy Hospitle for $8,000 to put in a’kahol. An’ dey had flocks o’ people goin’ up yonder in misheens to see it. Dey say de ’ooman husban’ ain’ had nothin’ to do but stan’ at de front do’ an’ c’leck all dem fifty-censes in a hat. Dey was chargin’ only a dime; but de crowd got so plennyful, dey had to raise de price to fo’-bits. So I thought I better go see befo’ dey raise it higher.”

As she paused for breath, Susan said to her:

“Nookie, stop yo’ random, an’ talk somh’n people kin b’lieve w’en dey lissen at you.”

“Gawd knows, Sis’ Susan,” declared Nookie with emotion, “w’at I’m say’n is de dyin’ truth from hyuh to heav’n. I bin yonder an’ seen de chile, sho’ nuff. An’ I bet if you seen all dem people droppin’ money in de hat, it goin’ make you feel like wishin’ you had bawned de chile yo’ own self. Yas Ma’am, I bin went to look at it.”

“An’ ain’ seen nothin’ but a ill-form chile,” scoffed Felo. “Somh’n kin happen to any fam’ly.”

“Who, Mr. Felo?” she retorted. “I know w’at I seen. I went ’long-side de bed, an’ w’en I look at him, de chile commence wavin’ his li’l turtle han’ at me, an’ I say: ‘Feet help body!’—An’ I ain’ wait to see no mo’. ’Cause I know if dat thing start to talk, da’s goin’ be de end o’ de worl’. So I broke out de house an’ made for de road.”

“An’ runned up in hyuh wid a lie in yo’ mouth,” Felo added quickly.

“Mr. Felo, g’way from hyuh!” Nookie replied, with apparent irritation. “You might know a heap o’ things ’bout keepin’ house for w’ite folks an’ lookin’ after Sis’ Fanny hog yonder, but Gawd got a whole lot o’ seecut ways you sho don’ know nothin’ ’bout.”

“Ain’t it true,” commented Susan, with a grunt of Christian approval.

“Sho is.” Nookie continued. “I know one cullud lady back o’ Gritny, was comme ça one time; an’ she went to go take her daughter place an’ wash for a strange w’ite ooman. An’ w’en she went in de shed to fix de tubs an’ things, w’en she raise up de tub, she seen it full o’ duck feathers. Den a li’l w’ile aft’wuds, w’en her chile was bawn, ’stid it havin’ natchal furze und’ de arms an’ on de ches’, like people got; de thing had duck feathers growin’ on him. An’ evvy time it rained w’en he growed up, he had to go swimmin’ in de cunnal. Sho did. An’ he live’ to be thirty-some-odd years old; w’en he got drownded try’n to harpoon a buf’lo feesh.”

With a look of playful commiseration, Felo said to her:

“Gal, come set down to de table an’ take a li’l nur’shment.” Then addressing Susan: “Give de gal a plate o’ gumbo, Sis’ Susan. She talkin’ out her head bein’ hongry an’ patigue aft’ dat long walk she had up de road.”

Susan got up and filled a plate with gumbo and put it on the table. Nookie went over to Felo and gave him a gentle slap of appreciation on the back of his head, saying to him, as she sat down to eat:

“Gawd knows, Mr. Felo, you sho kin read people mind.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of old Uncle Foteen; a venerable, picturesque relic of antebellum days, leaning heavily on a broom handle walking stick.

Felo placed a chair for him near the fire; and after taking his tattered hat and walking stick and putting them on the bench across the room, Susan handed him a cup of coffee, giving him kindly greeting:

“Unc’ Foteen, we sho please’ to see you. You ain’ bin hyuh for a long time. But look like evvything alright wid you; an’ you got yo’ good strank yet.”

“Yas, Sis’ Susan,” he replied thoughtfully, nodding his impressive white head. “Ole Foteen still hyuh ’munks de livin’ to wait on de fam’ly an’ give thanks in de kingdom. W’en I puts my right foot down, I say: Thank Gawd. An’ w’en I takes my lef’ foot up, I say: Praise de Lawd.”

“A-men.” Came the fervent response from Tom.

“Drink yo’ coffee, Unc’ Foteen; an’ lemme fix you a plate o’ gumbo, an’ you kin eat ’fo de fire to yo’ sattafaction,” said Susan, uncovering the fragrant pot.

Uncle Foteen had become a legend in the village, as simple country people often do. Everybody knew of his connection with the Guillaume family; and his story of loyalty and faithful servitude was told again and again by the new generation of colored people; with admiration by some, with undue censure by others. For many years before the Civil War, Uncle Foteen’s genial usefulness in the Guillaume household resembled that of Coventry Patmore’s “Briggs,” who was

“Factotum, butler, footman, groom,

Who helped the gardener, fed the pigs,

Preserved the game, and drove the brougham”....

Being sometime valet to “ole Marse Sylvain,” coachman to Mamzelle Olympe, and impressive major domo of the dining-room on every festive occasion.

After emancipation was declared, and old Foteen was given his freedom, he asked to remain with the family in the old capacity; and he was given a home in the quarters, rent free as long as he lived; wages for his services; and was taken care of with every attention due so worthy a retainer.

One by one, the members of the family passed on to the Great Beyond, none remaining to enjoy the luxury of the fine old house and carry on the splendid family tradition except Madame Guillaume and young Sylvain, her son; who was away availing himself of the benefits of one of the “big Yankee colleges”;—a fact both abhorrent and inexplicable to many of Madame’s unreconstructed Creole friends.

Picturesque and solitary, she lived on through the changing years, dreaming of the fateful past and looking forward with childish expectation to the home-coming of her accomplished son.

Her daily life was ordered with little change from the old-time dignity and convention: Aunt Choote and her numerous children looking after the household and kitchen; Uncle Foteen driving her to church on Sunday in the old creaking barouche, taking part in her sentimental reminiscences, and sharing the fitful dreams and wandering fancies of forgetfulness that became actualities to both their weary minds.

One morning old Choote announced to the astonished members of her family that Madame Guillaume was “ceasded.”

Going to the bedroom door with the customary cup of early morning black coffee, there was no response to her gentle knock. She approached the bed-side fearfully, and lifting the mosquito net, found her old Madame “stone-col’, her body hyuh an’ her soul yonder.”

Young Sylvain being abroad with a party of tourists, the funeral was held without his being present. Several weeks later, he was expected home, and the lonely old house was undergoing elaborate preparations befitting his return. Uncle Foteen was going about, a pathetic figure, re-living the seeming reality of his past importance; mistaking young Sylvain for his old master, and telling everyone he met, that “ole Marse Sylvain done come home, an’ de fam’ly goin’ have big jubilation.”

When Sylvain arrived, Uncle Foteen embraced him with unrestrained emotion; calling him master; giving him lively accounts of the imaginary doings of the departed family; and rejoicing in the prospect of driving him to church on Sunday, “to show him off to all Gritny, settin’ up proud in de barouche, ’long wid Ma’am Guillaume, Mamzelle Olympe, an’ all dem chillun.”

Sylvain soon discovered that the old man’s memory was uncertain, and he humored his infirmity. “He bin childish for a good w’ile,” Choote told him. “An’ he mistake evvbody for somebody else bin dead a long time.”

Knowing her husband’s vagaries would be overlooked with understanding sympathy, Choote permitted Uncle Foteen to take his old post in the diningroom and preside in the usual, formal way. When evening came and Sylvain was called to dinner, he arose to go, a reluctant, solitary guest. On entering the diningroom, he was amazed to find the table arranged for six persons. No detail was overlooked. The guest linen and fine china had been brought out; cape jasmines, his mother’s favorite flowers, were in the old rock crystal bowl as a center piece; and the quaint old silver candlesticks, lugubrious with towering white candles, lighted the silent room with an eerie glow he remembered as a little child. Uncle Foteen, in his faded uniform, was standing behind his chair, ready to see him comfortably seated in the master’s place at the head of the table.

Leaving Sylvain’s chair, he visited the vacant chairs each in turn, sliding them in place gently, until each imaginary member of his respected family was seated in the accustomed manner. Each in turn, throughout the various courses of the meal, he visited the spectral guests, watching attentively as he saw them in fancy helping themselves to the tempting food; and smiling with grateful pleasure on beholding his honored family gathered once more in convivial assembly.

It was a well-known tale in the village; a tale Uncle Foteen loved to repeat. The facts were real to him; the occasion, a memorable one; and the actors, living personalities. No one thought of arguing with him the verity of his story, or regarding his vision as a worthless, fleeting dream. It was a fancy that brought him comfort and solace to brighten the hours of his waning years. He knew that his beloved white folks lived again, and he walked and talked with their gentle spirits wherever he happened to be.

Uncle Foteen sat before the pleasant fire enjoying his plate of gumbo with childish satisfaction, apparently oblivious of the rumble of conversation in the room.

“Po’ ole soul sho havin’ a party by his own self wid dat plate o’ gumbo.” Scilla remarked softly.

“An’ he ain’ to be blame for it, either.” replied Nookie. “’Cause Sis’ Susan gumbo des natchally make you leche li doigts,—like my ole man use to say, ’fo he went away.”

“Whah old ugly Plunkum gone, Nookie?” asked Felo. “Nobody ain’ seen him for Gawd knows how long.”

“An’ nobody ain’ carin’ to see him, either; if dey feels like I feel ’bout ole Plunkum,” she answered disdainfully.

“Go ’long, gal, wid yo’ reckless talk,” said Susan. “Leave Plunkum come back home tomorrow, an’ nobody but you goin’ turn out full fo’ce to give him welcome; an’ you know it good.”

“Who, me, Sis’ Susan? It be only one way you see me turn out to give Plunkum welcome. An’ dat’ll be to cut his head in fo’ diffunt ways,—shawt an’ long, an’ wide an’ deep. An’ cut de palms his feets in de bargain, so he can’t run no mo’. Yas Ma’am.”

“Gawd knows, Nookie,” said Tom, speaking slowly, “for a young ooman w’at bin well-raise’, you sho kin make a whole lot o’ nigger noise.”

“Anybody come to be a nigger, Mr. Tom, w’en dey git mixed up wid a nasty Pharisee like ole Plunkum ... layin’ up in my house for seven long mont’s aft’ he done marry me lawful; livin’ on my good bounty, an’ ain’ done a lick o’ work, an’ ain’ thinkin’ ’bout doin’ none; lookin’ for me to feed an’ suppoat him; an’ raisin’ a roocus w’en I refuse to leave him put on de w’ite folks clo’se I was washin’, so’s he could go ’long wid de Odd Fellows purrade an’ strut like Pompey!... Who?... You know yo’self, Mr. Tom, Gawd ain’ goin’ be patient wid a rogue like dat.”

“An’ it tuck you seven long mont’s to make up yo’ min’ ’bout Plunkum ways?” Scilla asked, quizzically.

“I was lookin’ ove’ my min’ for a long time ’bout w’at I was goin’ do,” she answered. “But my passion struck me all at once. So one evenin’, w’en Plunkum had plague’ me so till I des couldn’ stan’ it no longer; I up wid my potato-stomper was stannin’ on de pot shelf, an’ I played de thing all up an’ down de back his head, till he vomit.... Den w’en I seen him look so mizzabul an’ downcas’; I went an’ fix him some sedlitz powders to quiet him.

“I fix de blue paper one in a cup o’ water firs’, an’ made him drink it; den I fix de w’ite paper one in de cup, an’ made him drink dat.... An’ people, you ain’ goin’ b’lieve me w’en I tell you; ’twasn’ no time befo’ dey had to ride him to de hospital in de groc’ry wagon, de tawment inside him was carryin’ him such a road! Yas Lawd.... Dat nigger was fit to explode any minute. An’ he sho did holler an’ cry.

“W’at dey did to him yonder, I ain’ never hyeah’d tell. But he mus’ bin make up his min’ to go some yuther direction; ’cause Plunkum ain’ never come back to my house.”

“An’ you call yo’self a Chrishtun, an’ practice devilment like dat?” Felo asked, reprovingly. “Is Plunkum any child o’ Gawd?” she asked, indignantly. “De Bible say: overcome yo’ enemy; don’t it?... Plunkum ain’ nothin’ but gutter water!”

The running laughter of the women at this juncture broke into a merry peal. Uncle Foteen awakened from a pleasant doze and looked around bewildered, just as the stentorian sound of a man’s voice was heard outside, exclaiming:

“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’! Who is you? Makin’ all dis racket up in hyuh so soon, an’ night ain’ begin to fall good yet.”

Coming into the room, he announced himself:

“Good evenin’ to evvbody; an’ peace to de hyuhafter.”

Pointing to a chair near Tom, Susan said to him:

“Take a chair, an’ set down, Nat; an’ take dat hat off yo’ head w’en you come befo’ comp’ny.”

Nat rolled his large, shining eyes at her in playful annoyance, and walked over to the chair and sat down; throwing his hat across the floor with a sweeping gesture.

Nat was a notable personality in the village, and was the exclusive pride and perennial delight of every one along the coast. He was a composite of farmer, philosopher and clown; with the face of a contemplative monk and the manner of a harmless mountebank. He was very black and very bow-legged; the latter being accepted by him as a fortunate asset rather than a calamity. It served him as an individual trade mark in his calling, which was that of truck gardening. His vegetables, he declared, were unlike the product of any other planters of seeds; they were distinctive, facsimiles of himself, and he took great pleasure in making it known. Everybody knew his “bow-legged punkins an’ bow-legged egg-plants”; and no other vendor could boast of the “bow-legged butterbeans and fat bow-legged squash” like Nat’s.

He peddled his seasonable wares through the village in a large, flat basket made of willow slats, placed on top of a clumsy sled built of rough-hewn cypress fence pickets, dragged by an unshorn, meditative old mule he called Maybe-so. Walking bare-footed Nat followed behind; his loose-fitting blue cottonade trousers flapping about his dusty ankles; a broad-brimmed Chinese-looking hat made of palmetto, tilted humorously on his round woolly head.

As he went along, he kept up a confidential conversation with the mule, about the weather; the condition of the road; the pest of bugs on the young potato plants; or any subject that occupied his mind when he was not vociferating the virtues of his bow-legged merchandise to attract the attention of chance customers.

He also had a company of two or three nondescript dogs following in his wake. They seemed to understand all his moods and movements; looking at him with rapt interest when he talked to them; and watching with appealing glances when he shouted some vehement command. They knew they were not to move another step when they heard him call to Maybe-so, and saw the old mule stop before the gate of one of his regular customers. They would sit down in the road precipitously and wait patiently while an argument ensued; and as soon as orders were given to march, they rose up with renewed anticipation; and with tails erect, they started off as soon as Maybe-so made the first step.

If at any time they disregarded the rule, Nat would call to the mule to halt; the dogs would be reprimanded for being “too much in a hurry,” and would be told to “wait till Nat’s ready to go. Nat ain’ fol’rin’ you; you fol’rin’ Nat.”

Whether they wanted to buy or not, the people came out to greet him as soon as they heard the sound of his superb voice. He would stand in the road and call out his rhythmic chant, announcing himself, his wares, his companionable mule and family of dogs:

“Hyuh bow-legged Nat,

Early in de mawnin’.

Maybe-so, Nat, an’ bow-legged onions;

Bow-legged cawn, an’ bow-legged punkins;

Leave-it-lay, Scawl, an’ one-eye Companyun.

Come out an’ peep at Nat bow-legged cucumbers;

Bow-legged Maybe-so fresh from de country.

Bow-legged red peppers picked off de pepper bush;

Come buy yo’ vegetables,

Early in de mawnin’.”

After the bartering was finished, Nat would take up the reins again; and as soon as the mule heard him say, “Nat’s gone,” off he would start; the dogs following with wagging tails, apparently pleased with the thought of another pilgrimage.

Susan crossed the room and picked up the hat from the floor where Nat had thrown it, and as she hung it on the rack, said to him:

“You mus’ bin strollin’ out today. I see you got on yo’ shoes an’ a clean shirt, an’ done took off yo’ cottonade breeches; but you ain’ laid aside dis ole palmeeter hat. W’at Rose doin’, she can’t look after you no better, an’ make you dress yo’self ’cawdin’ to de season?”

“Rose too busy, Sis’ Susan.” he answered.

“W’at Rose got to do make her so busy?” she asked in surprise. “Nobody but Roxy an’ you in de house to bother ’bout, ain’t it?”

“Rose ’tenshun so taken up wid dat sweet Lucy wine she git yonder to Mr. Camille sto’, Sis’ Susan, she don’ know de diffunce twix’ July an’ Janawerry.”

“Ain’t Roxy ole enough to take charge an’ look aft’ yo’ clo’se an’ things for you?” asked Felo.

“Roxy ole enough,” Nat answered assuringly, “but she too occapied lookin’ aft’ dem boys, an’ makin’ matrimony wid evvy one comin’ ’long de road.”

“Unc’ Nat, ain’t you shame?” Scilla exclaimed. “Settin’ hyuh befo’ all dese people, scand’lizin’ yo’ own chile name like dat?”

“Roxy ain’ shame, is she?” he replied bluntly. “She ain’ talkin’ ’bout it, but dat ain’ keepin’ people from knowin’ she totin’ somh’n under her a-pun right now, is it?”

“Y’oughta chastise her if you feel sho you ain’ makin’ no mistake,” said Tom.

“Mistake or no mistake,” commented Nookie, “y’oughta quit yo’ blabbin’ ’bout it.”

“W’at y’all mean?” Nat asked with impatience. “Roxy ain’ commit no terr’ble crime, is she? She ain’t hurt nobody fatal. Roxy ain’ did nothin’ but follow de feelin’s of a natchal ooman, curuss to know somh’n convincin’ concernin’ de seecut workin’ of a ’ooman life. An’ all she done was de li’l thing some foolish ole misun’stannin’ people done classify in de bad lis’ und’ de headin’ o’ sinful ways.”

“Den you means to uphol’ Roxy ’long de brazen road she takin’?” asked Scilla, staring at him in amazement.

He deliberated a few seconds, then answered:

“I means to keep my min’ from gittin’ upset ’bout somh’n I ain’ got no cuntrol over. Roxy jus’ like she come hyuh to dis life; wid evvything jus’ like ’twus inten’ to be. An’ Roxy ain’ no diffunt from you an’ no yuther wimmins. An’ nature ways is Gawd ways; an’ I ain’ got no right to meddle. An’ you can’t say I ain’ correck, if you wan’ leave yo’self tell de true.”

“Dah, bless Gawd!” Felo exclaimed with enthusiasm. “Unc’ Nat, you sho spoke somh’n dat time.”

“W’at you know ’bout wimmin ways, ole ugly Felo?” Nookie inquired indignantly. “Is you done come to be a big jedge, like all de yuther hypocrite niggers w’at spen’ all dey time livin’ ’munks de w’ite folks?... Lookin’ down scawnful on yo’ own color ways; tryin’ to make us nigger people pattun aft’ de w’ite folks?”

“Anybody heard me say a word ’bout w’ite folks bein’ diffunt?” Felo demanded, looking about from one to the other. “Far as I bin able to ’zern, dey ways resemble each-another. Only de w’ite folks ways mo’ seecut.... Dey thinks a heap ’bout w’at dey doin’. Dey does it on de sly. ’Tain’ nobody business.... But you never see ’um lose dey self-respec’. Dey puts on a front, an’ dey all gits by. Dey hides dey looseness, an’ you gotta give ’um praise. But look at de cullud folks. How dey do?... Dey ain’ stop to bother ’bout self-respec’; w’at people goin’ think. Dey jus’ cuts loose.... Dey natchal as de cattle an’ fowls’ an’ things. An’ Gawd de only man to tell if dey doin’ somh’n wrong.”

Apprehensive that an unpleasant dispute was under way, Susan said to them:

“Y’all better stop talkin’ to one-’nother so plain. Firs’ thing you know, you goin’ be sorry.”

Almost immediately she became aware that her fears were needless; for she heard outside the sound of voices mingled with the drone of weird music played on a comb covered with tissue paper; and she knew that other members had arrived.

The new-comers were Carmelite and Soongy, two pleasant-looking, neatly-dressed young colored women; accompanied by a light brown-skin boy about fourteen years old, known to every one as Dink, the comb-player. He was a merry-faced, accommodating young troubadour, willing to lend his talent on any chance occasion; making his ravishing music on the comb for the sheer love of the thing itself, and the simple reward of a “plate full o’ vittuls an’ a cup o’ somh’n-’nother to drink.”

Soongy was his aunt, and was extravagantly proud of his musical ability. “Dink ain’ no master min’ by no means”; she would say, when speaking of his attainments, “but he sho got it all in his head. An’ nobody ain’ learned him, either.”

Dink’s repertoire was a remarkable one. It included all the “himes” and mellows and “Dr. Watts” sung by the Baptist and Methodist congregations, reaching from “Wes’wego ferry landin’, clean down de coas’ to Gritny in de Eas’ Green”; all the “ballets” and “sinful songs” disseminated by “backsliders” and “evil-workers”; and many haunting fragments of “make-up songs,” the invention of Dick’s harmonious mind.

His voice, whether used for singing, or for making music through the comb, was true and melodious; having the clear, sensuous timbre of adolescence that won the admiration of his most orthodox listeners. “De Sperret goin’ stop his shoo-fly ways one dese days; an’ den dey ain’ goin’ be nobody kin tetch him raisin’ his voice to give Gawd de praise he done helt back for so long;” the old church members would comment, after having listened to some of the “shoo-fly ballets.”

After friendly greetings were exchanged all around, and the new arrivals were seated comfortably, Susan asked Carmelite:

“W’at you doin’ on dis side de river tonight? You ain’ give up yo’ place to Miss Newgeem house, is you?”

“Yas ma’am,” Carmelite answered languidly. “I bin lef’ her a long time.”

“An’ you ain’ doin’ nothin’?” Susan questioned.

“Yas ma’am; I ain’ idle,” she answered reassuringly. “I’m sewin’ on quilts, yonder to my house. An’ I sho got some nice ones to sell. Made out o’ all kind o’ pretty scraps I gethered up ’munks de w’ite folks; an’ dey ain’ cos’ me a nickel.”

With calm misgiving, Susan asked her:

“An’ quilts goin’ suppoat you an’ put clo’se on yo’ back, an’ puvvide you wid shoes an’ vittuls an’ things?”

“If I can’t sell ’um, I sho kin raffle ’um.” Carmelite answered with conviction. “An’ make much as I made workin’ up in Miss Newgeem scrooched-up kitchen; onsatafied an’ fretful as I was all de time.”

“I thought you was please wid de place,” ventured Scilla.

“Who? Miss Newgeem de wrong one to make people feel please. She got such fussy ways, she ain’ to be please her own self. So da’s w’at make me quit an’ go yonder to my quilts; whah I ain’ had to worry ’bout bein’ plagued all day long.”

“But Carm’lite,” began Soongy, by way of pleasant argument, “don’t you fin’ sewin’ on quilts is mo’ taxin’ work den cookin’ for a small fam’ly like Miss Newgeem got? I fin’ it mo’ combinin’, me.”

“’Tain de cookin’, Soongy,” Carmelite explained. “It’s all de hum-bug you gotta do: passin’ de dishes thoo hot water befo’ you brings ’um to de table. An’ a fresh plate for evvy diffunt dish dey has to eat. An’ you know yo’self, how long it take for dishes to dreen aft’ you done pass ’um thoo hot water, an’ dey gotta be wipe besides.

“An’ Miss Newgeem got a whole lot o’ Japanee china dishes so thin you kin see thoo ’um, an’ you gotta be careful how you tetch ’um. So one day, I say to myself: I’m goin’ put de things in de oven an’ heat ’um all at once an’ be done. So I put de plates an’ de cups in de oven, an’ push de stove-do’ half-to, an’ set down to wait on ’um. An’ chile! Aft’ a w’ile, I could hyeah dem things crackin’ up in de oven,—an’ I ain’ never had tetch ’um.

“An’ w’en I open de stove-do’ an’ looked at ’um,—chile, de dishes was so wreckded, it took me three dish towels to pull out one plate.”

“You had good sense to go yonder to yo’ quilts,” Felo murmured in a humorous undertone.

“I was goin’ leave her any way, so dat ain’ bin de thing made me quit,” Carmelite answered, artlessly. “Miss Newgeem des natchally had too much shiftin’ o’ de dishes for de fewness o’ de vittuls; an’ I ain’ never bin used to eatin’ light.” At this reference to food, Susan became conscious of a sense of lax hospitality, whereupon she said: “Dey got plenny gumbo in dat pot you see stannin’ on de h’af; an’ plenny sweet potato pies yonder in de safe; so you ain’ need to feel strange ’bout breakin’ yo’ fas’—lessen you bin et heavy befo’ you come hyuh dis evenin’.”

The suggestion was opportune. Smiles of appreciation from one to the other showed that the invitation was agreeable to all.

Susan went to the safe and distributed plates to the women, and Nat and Felo began placing chairs around the table. She filled the plates with a generous portion of snowy rice and fragrant gumbo, and the women arranged them on the shining new oil cloth.

“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’!” Nat exclaimed. “Sis’ Susan, you sho spoons out dat gumbo wid a tantalizin’ scent! Set down, members, an’ smack yo’ lips; an’ Gawd bless de cook for de feas’ dis evenin’.”

They gathered about the table with lively interest and sat down and began eating. Uncle Foteen was sleeping quietly before the fire. Dink was sitting across the room, looking on with wistful glances, and making querulous music on the comb. On discovering his aloofness, Susan called to him: “Boy, put dat comb out yo’ han’, an’ come set to de table an’ eat yo’ vittuls. You ain’ hongry?”

Looking at her timidly, Dink answered:

“Yassam. But I come ’way from home in a hurry, an’ my haid ain’ comb’.”

Susan studied his face for a second, then said reprovingly:

“Boy, take dat comb you got in yo’ han’ an’ pass it thoo’ yo’ head, den come set to de table.”

Having a better knowledge of the nature of Dink’s hirsute endowment than Susan had, Soongy came to the rescue.

“Leave ’im be, Sis’ Susan,” she told her. “Leave ’im eat whah he settin’. Wid dem grape-twisses Dink got on ’is head, it’ll take ’im all night to git thoo bat’lin wid ’um.”

Accepting the plausibility of Soongy’s statement, Susan took Dink a plate of gumbo and left him to enjoy it in his quiet corner alone. She went back to the table to see that Tom was made thoroughly comfortable, and to ply her guests with coffee and pies, and refill their plates with rice and gumbo if they wanted more. Their enjoyment was keen and genuine; enlivened with much playful banter and merry laughter, and amusing gossip about the doings and sayings of the “w’ite folks;” which, after a while, developed into a sort of philosophic commentary.

Nat’s oratory was in full flower, and Felo applauded him, an encouraging ally. Always unorthodox in his views, his over-enthusiasm now became offensive to the women, and their dissenting voices began to fill the room with shrill echoes. Susan realized that a harsh dispute was imminent and something had to be done to prevent it. The fortuitous whimpering of Dink’s comb arrested her attention, and she welcomed the plaintive sound as a divine interruption. Fixing her eyes on the front door, she arose from her chair with unusual energy, and tapping her spoon on her plate with a ringing sound, she called out:

“Stop dis racket up in hyuh! Y’all take my house for a honky-tonk? Quit yo’ racket an’ try an’ talk like people.”

Her positive tone brought immediate silence. Everyone looked uneasily towards the door, anticipating the entrance of some accusing moderator of the peace. Seeing no one appear, Nat said:

“Gawd knows, Sis’ Susan, you oughta stop play’n chillun tricks, ole as you is. W’at sattafaction you fin’ try’n to frighten people like dat?”

“You ain’ too ole to make racket, is you?” Susan asked quietly. “An’ w’at sattafaction you fin’, mult’plyin’ words an’ ’sputin’ wid wimmins till you stirs ’um up to hot blood an’ spiteful wranglin’,—an’ und’ my roof, too? W’at you gotta say ’bout it?”

“For Gawd sake, stop y’all quoilin’ an’ set down,” interposed Tom. “Y’all had to wait till big Sunday to gether hyuh an’ make a ruckus?... Susan, whah dat boy gone wid de comb? Tell him to blow music on de thing an’ change dese niggers ’maginashun.”

A second request was unnecessary. Dink’s appetite being gratefully appeased, his mental attitude was one of harmonious sociability. Adjusting the tissue paper on his comb, he put the outlandish instrument to his lips and began playing with spirit the old shout called “De W’ite Horse Pawin’ in de Valley.” The merry melody floated through the room, the infectious lilt taking possession of the listeners’ thoughts and holding them captives to its insistent appeal. They began to sway gently to-and-fro, their bodies, like their minds, intoxicated by the captivating rhythm. The women began to hum; a low, melodious hum, like the far-away sound of a colony of wood birds awakening at day-break. Then the men joined the humming, and the sound recalled the droning of distant village church bells, floating over quiet fields at sunset. And the mingling of the voices made one think of the rumbling of November winds chasing among the telegraph wires.

After a while, Felo began to sing the narrative lines of the song, the others taking up the burden, and responding with growing fervor after each line:

“My Lawd command me to go in de wilderness.

(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley)

W’at did I see w’en I went in de wilderness?

(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley).”

Then like a majestic wave of sound, rose the noble refrain:

“In de valley, my Lawd,

On my knees;

In de valley, my Lawd,

In de valley.

In de valley, my Lawd,

Down on my knees,

I seen de w’ite horse pawin’ in de valley.”

Then back again to the tuneful story of adventure in the land of the spirit:

“Who heard my pray’rs w’en I prayed in de wilderness?

(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley)

Who foun’ de road w’en I comed out de wilderness?

(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley).”

Then the chorus again, full, swinging and triumphant:

“In de valley, my Lawd,

On my knees;

In de valley, my Lawd,

In de valley.

In de valley, my Lawd,

Down on my knees,

I seen de w’ite horse pawin’ in de valley.”