" ' dis ueau's a fcs-class tiiixc. teu wokk off bad 
 tp;mpers wid ' " 
 
SOLOMON CROW'S 
 
 CHRISTMAS POCKETS 
 
 AND OTHER TALES 
 
 BY 
 RUTH McENERY STUART 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 ' a golden wedding " " the story of babette " 
 "carlotta's intended" etc. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NKW YORK AND LONDON 
 HARPER & BROTHERS rUBLISHBKS 
 
Copyright, 1896, by Harpkr & Brothers. 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 B-S 
 
TO 
 
 MY DEAR NIECE 
 
 LITTLE MISS LEA CALLAWAY 
 
 4 f «^y» . ^-i 
 
 4 : •'?»'3: ^ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 FAOS 
 
 Solomon Crow's Christmas Pockets ... 3 
 
 The Two Tims 23 
 
 The Freys' Christmas Party 39 
 
 Little Mother Qdackalina 67 
 
 Old Easter 91 
 
 Saint Idyl's Light Ill 
 
 "Blink" 131 
 
 Duke's Christmas 165 
 
 Uncle Ephe's Advice to Brer Rabbit . . 193 
 
 May Be So 199 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 '"dis heah's a fus-class thing ter work 
 
 OFF BAD TEMPERS WID'" Frontispiece 
 
 "'she ought to eat CANARY-SEED AND 
 
 fish-bone'" Facingp. 46 
 
 THE ITALIAN ORGAN-GRINDER 
 
 "the PROFESSOR NOT ONLY SANG, BUT 
 
 danced" 
 
 "made her PUT OUT HER TONGUE" . . . 
 
 OLD EASTER 
 
 "'keep STEP, RABBIT, MAN!'" 
 
 "'well, one mo' rabbit fur de pot'" . 
 
 62 
 
 64 
 
 78 
 
 92 
 
 192 
 
 194 
 
SOLOMON CROW'S CHRISTMAS POCKETS 
 
 HIS mother named him Solomon because, 
 when he was a baby, he looked so wise ; 
 and then she called him Crow because 
 he was so black. True, she got angry when 
 the boys caught it up, but then it was too late. 
 They knew more about crows than they did 
 about Solomon, and the name suited. 
 
 His twin-brother, who died when he was a 
 day old, his mother had called Grundy — just be- 
 cause, as she said, " Solomon an' Grundy b'longs 
 together in de books." 
 
 When the wee black boy began to talk, he 
 knew himself equally as Solomon or Crow, and 
 so, when asked his name, he would answer : 
 ^'Sol'mon Crow," and Solomon Crow he thence- 
 forth became. 
 
 Crow was ten years old now, and he was so 
 very black and polished and thin, and had so 
 peaked and bright a face, that no one who had 
 
any sense of humor could hear him called Crow 
 without smiling. 
 
 ^ Crow's mother, Tempest, had been a worker 
 in her better days, but she had grown fatter and 
 fatter until now she was so lazy and broad that 
 her chief pleasure seemed to be sitting in her 
 front door and gossiping with her neighbors 
 over the fence, or in abusing or praising little 
 Solomon, according to her mood. 
 
 Tempest had never been very honest. When, 
 in the old days, she had hired out as cook and 
 carried "her dinner" home at night, the basket 
 on her arm had usually held enough for her- 
 self and Crow and a pig and the chickens — with 
 some to give away. She had not meant Crow to 
 understand, but the little fellow was wide awake, 
 and his mother was his pattern. 
 
 But this is the boj's story. It seemed best to 
 tell a little about his mother, so that, if he should 
 some time do wrong things, we might all, writer 
 and readers, be patient with him. He had been 
 poorly taught. If we could not trace our hon- 
 esty back to our mothers, how many of us would 
 love the truth ? 
 
 Crow's mother loved him very much — she 
 thought. She would knock down any one who 
 even blamed him for anything. Indeed, when 
 things went well, she would sometimes go sound 
 
asleep in the door with her fat arm around him 
 — very much as the mother-cat beside her lay 
 half dozing while she licked her baby kitten. 
 
 But if Crow was awkward or forgot any- 
 thing — or didn't bring home money enough 
 — her abuse was worse than any mother -cat's 
 claws. 
 
 One of her worst taunts on such occasions was 
 about like this : " Well, you is a low-down nig- 
 ger, I must sa3^ Nobody, to look at you, would 
 b'lieve you was twin to a angel I" 
 
 Or, "How you reckon yo' angel-twin feels ef 
 he's a-lookin' at you now ?" 
 
 Crow had great reverence for his little lost 
 mate. Indeed, he feared the displeasure of this 
 other self, who, he believed, watched him from 
 the skies, quite as much as the anger of God. 
 Sad to say, the good Lord, whom most children 
 love as a kind, heavenly Father, was to poor little 
 Solomon Crow only a terrible, terrible punisher 
 of wrong, and the little boy trembled at His very 
 name. He seemed to hear God's anger in the 
 thunder or the wind; but in the blue sky, the 
 faithful stars, the opening flowers and singing 
 birds — in all loving-kindness and friendship — he 
 never saw a heavenly Father's love. 
 
 He knew that some things Avere right and 
 others wrong. He knew that it was right to go out 
 
and earn dimes to buy the things needed in the 
 cabin, but he equally knew it was wrong to get 
 this money dishonestly. Crow was a very shrewd 
 little boy, and he made money honestly in a num- 
 ber of ways that only a wide-awake boy would 
 think about. 
 
 When fig season came, in hot summer-time, he 
 happened to notice that beautiful ripe figs were 
 drying up on the tip-tops of some great trees in 
 a neighboring yard, where a stout old gentleman 
 and his old wife lived alone, and he began to re- 
 flect. 
 
 ^'If I could des git a-holt o' some o' dcm fine 
 sugar figs dat's a-swivelin' up every day on top 
 o' dem trees, I'd meek a heap o' money peddlin' 
 'em on de street." And even while he thought 
 this thought he licked his lips. There were, 
 no doubt, other attractions about the figs for a 
 very small boy with a very sweet tooth. 
 
 On the next morning after this. Crow rang 
 the front gate -bell of the yard where the figs 
 were growing. 
 
 ''Want a boy to pick figs on sheers?" That 
 was all he said to the fat old gentleman who had 
 stepped around the house in answer to his ring. 
 
 Crow's offer was timely. 
 
 Old ;Mr. Cary was red in tlie face and pant- 
 ing even yet from reaching up into the mouldy, 
 
damp lower limbs of his fig-trees, trying to 
 gather a dishfnl for breakfast. 
 
 " Come in/' he said, mopping his forehead as 
 he spoke. 
 
 " Pick on shares, will yon ?" 
 
 " Yassir." 
 
 " Even ?" 
 
 "Yassir." 
 
 " Promise never to pick any but the very rij)e 
 figs?" 
 
 "Yassir." 
 
 '' Honest boy ?" 
 
 "Yassir." 
 
 "Turn in, then ; but wait a minnte." 
 
 He stepped aside into the house, returning 
 presently with two baskets. 
 
 '' Here," he said, presenting them both. 
 " These are pretty nearly of a size. Go ahead, 
 now, and let's see what you can do." 
 
 Needless to say. Crow proved a great success 
 as fig-picker. The very sugary figs that old Mr. 
 Gary had panted for and reached for in vain lay 
 bursting with sweetness on top of both baskets. 
 
 The old gentleman and his wife were delighted, 
 and the boy was quickly engaged to come every 
 morning. 
 
 And this was how Crow went into the fig 
 business. 
 
Crow was a likable boy — " so bright and handy 
 and nimble •' — and the old people soon became 
 fond of him. 
 
 They noticed tliat he always handed in the 
 larger of the two baskets, keeping the smaller 
 for himself. This seemed not only honest, but 
 generous. 
 
 And generosity is a winning virtue in the very 
 needy — as winning as it is common. The very 
 poor are often great of heart. 
 
 But this is not a safe fact upon which to 
 found axioms. 
 
 All God's poor are not educated uji to the 
 point of even small, fine honesties, and the so- 
 called "generous" are not always "just" or 
 honest. 
 
 And— 
 
 Poor little Solomon Crow ! It is a pity to have 
 to write it, but his weak point was exactly that 
 he was not quite honest. He wanted to be, just 
 because his angel-twin might be watching him, 
 and he was afraid of thunder. But Crow was so 
 anxious to be "smart" that he had long ago 
 begun doing "tricky" things. Even the men 
 working the roads had discovered this. In eating 
 Crow's "fresh-boiled crawfish" or "shrimps," 
 they would often come across one of the left-overs 
 of yesterday's supply, mixed in with the others; 
 
9 
 
 and a yesterday's shrimp is full of stomach-ache 
 and indigestion. So that business suffered. 
 
 In the fig business the ripe ones sold well ; 
 but when one of Crow's customers offered to buy 
 all he would bring of green ones for preserving. 
 Crow began filling his basket with them and dis- 
 tributing a top layer of ripe ones carefully over 
 them. His lawful share of the very ripe he also 
 carried away — in his little bread-basket. 
 
 This was all very dishonest, and Crow knew it. 
 Still he did it many times. 
 
 And then — and this shows how one sin leads 
 to another — and then, one day — oh, Solomon 
 Crow, Fm ashamed to tell it on you !-^one day 
 he noticed that there were fresh eggs in the 
 hen-house nests, quite near the fig-trees. Now, 
 if there was anything Crow liked, it was a fried 
 egg — two fried eggs. He always said he wanted 
 two on his plate at once, looking at him like a 
 pair of round eyes, *'an' when dey reco'nizes me," 
 he would say, ''den I eats 'em up." 
 
 Why not slip a few of these tempting eggs into 
 the bottom of the basket and cover them up with 
 ripe figs ? 
 
 And so — , 
 
 One day, he did it. 
 
 He had stopped at the dining-room door that 
 day and was handing in the larger basket, as 
 
10 
 
 usual, wlicn old Mr. Ciiry, who stood there, said, 
 smiling : 
 
 " No, give us the smaller basket to-day, my 
 boy. It's our turn to be generous." 
 
 lie extended his hand as he spoke. 
 
 Crow tried to answer, but he could not. His 
 mouth felt as dry and stiff and hard a^ a 
 chiji, and he suddenly began to open it wide 
 and shut it slowly, like a chicken with the 
 gapes. 
 
 Mr. Gary kept his hand out waiting, but still 
 Crow stood as if paralyzed, gaping and swallow- 
 ing. 
 
 Finally, he began to blink. And then he stam- 
 mered : 
 
 ** I ain't p-p-p-ertic'lar b-b-bout de big basket. 
 D-d-d-de best figs is in y'all's pickin' — in dis, de 
 big basket." 
 
 Crow's appearance was conviction itself. With- 
 out more ado, Mr. Cary grasped his arm firmly 
 and fairly lifted him into the room. 
 
 **Now, set those baskets down." He spoke 
 sharply. 
 
 The boy obeyed. 
 
 "Here ! empty the larger one on this tray. 
 That's it. All fine, ripe figs. You've picked 
 well for us. Now turn the other one out." 
 
 At this poor Crow had a sudden relapse of the 
 
11 
 
 dry gapes. His arm fell limp and he looked as 
 if he might tumble over. 
 
 " Turn ^em out \" The old gentleman shrieked 
 in so thunderous a tone that Crow jumped off 
 his feet, and, seizing the other basket with his 
 little shaking paws, he emptied it upon the heap 
 of figs. 
 
 Old Mrs. Gary had come in just in time to see 
 the eggs roll out of the basket, and for a moment 
 she\nd her husband looked at each other. And 
 then they turned to the boy. 
 
 When she spoke her voice was so gentle that 
 Crow, not understanding, looked quickly into her 
 face : 
 
 " Let me take him into the library, William. 
 Come, my boy." 
 
 ller tone was so soft, so sorrowful and sympa- 
 thetic, that Crow felt as he followed her as if, 
 in the hour of his deepest disgrace, he had found 
 a friend ; and when presently he stood in a great 
 square room before a high arm-chair, in which a 
 white-haired old lady sat looking at him over her 
 gold-rimmed spectacles and talking to him as he 
 had never been spoken to in all his life before, he 
 felt as if he were in a great court before a judge 
 who didn't understand half how very bad little 
 boys were. 
 
 She asked him a good many questions — some 
 
12 
 
 very searching ones, too — all of which Crow an- 
 swered as best he could, with his very short 
 breath. 
 
 His first feeling had been of pure fright. But 
 when he found he was not to be abused, not 
 beaten or sent to jail, he began to wonder. 
 
 Little Solomon Crow, ten years old, in a Chris- 
 tian land, was hearing for the first time in his 
 life that God loved him — loved him even now in 
 his sin and disgrace, and wanted him to be good. 
 
 He listened Avith wandering eyes at first, half 
 expecting the old gentleman, Mr. Cary, to appear 
 suddenly at the door with a whip or a policeman 
 with a club. But after a while he kept his eyes 
 steadily upon the lady's face. 
 
 "Has no one ever told you, Solomon" — she 
 had always called him Solomon, declaring that 
 Crow was not a fit name for a boy who looked as 
 he did — it was altogether " too personal " — "has 
 no one ever told you, Solomon," she said, "that 
 God loves all His little children, and that you are 
 one of these children ?" 
 
 "No, ma'am," he answered, with difficulty. 
 And then, as if catching at something that might 
 give him a little standing, he added, quickly — so 
 quickly that he stammered again : 
 
 " B-b-b-but I knowed I was twin to a angel. 
 I know dat. An' I knows ef my angel twin seen 
 
13 
 
 me steal dem aigs he'll be miglitly ap' to tell 
 Gord to strike me down daid/' 
 
 Of course he had to explain then about the 
 ^' angel twin," and the old lady talked to him 
 for a long time. And then together they knelt 
 down. When at last they came out of the li- 
 brary she held the boy's hand and led him to 
 her husband. 
 
 "Are you willing to try him again, William ?" 
 she asked. " He has promised to do better." 
 
 Old Mr. Gary cleared his throat and laid down 
 his paper. 
 
 "Don't deserve it," he began; "dirty little 
 thief." And then he turned to the boy : "What 
 have you got on, sir ?" 
 
 His voice was really quite terrible. 
 
 *'E"-n-n-nothin'; only but des my b-b-b-briches 
 an' jacket, an' — an' — an' skin," Grow replied, be- 
 tween gasps. 
 
 " How many pockets ?" 
 
 " Two," said Crow. 
 
 " Turn 'em out !" 
 
 Grow drew out his little rust-stained pockets, 
 dropping a few old nails and bits of twine upon 
 the floor as he did so. 
 
 " Um—h'm ! Well, now, I'll tell you. You're 
 a dirty little tliief, as I said before. And I'm go- 
 ing to treat you as one. If you wear those pockets 
 
14 
 
 hanging out, or rip 'cm out, and come in here 
 before you leave every day dressed just as you 
 are — pants and jacket and skin — and empty out 
 your basket for us before you go, until I'm satis- 
 fied you'll do better, you can come." 
 
 The old lady looked at her husband as if she 
 thought him 2)rctty hard on a very small boy. 
 But she said nothing. 
 
 Crow glanced appcalingly at her before an- 
 swering. And then he said, seizing his pocket : 
 
 " Is you got air pair o' scissors, lady ?" 
 
 Mrs. Gary wished her husband would relent even 
 while she brought the scissors, but he only cried: 
 
 " Out with 'em !" 
 
 '* Suppose you cut them out yourself, Sol- 
 omon," she interposed, kindly, handing him the 
 scissors. " You'll have all this work to do your- 
 self. We can't make you good." 
 
 When, after several awkward efforts. Crow 
 finally put the coarse little pockets in her hands, 
 there were tears in her eyes, and she tried to hide 
 them as she leaned over and gathered up his 
 treasures — three nails, a string, a broken top, and 
 a half -eaten chunk of cold corn -bread. As 
 she handed them to him she said: ''And I'll 
 lay the pockets away for you, Solomon, and 
 when we see that you are an honest boy I'll sew 
 them back for you myself. " 
 
15 
 
 As she spoke she rose, divided the figs evenly 
 between the two baskets, and handed one to 
 Crow. 
 
 If there ever was a serious little black boy on 
 God's beautiful earth it was little Solomon Crow 
 as he balanced his basket of figs on his head 
 that day and went slowly down the garden walk 
 and out the great front gate. 
 
 The next few weeks were not without trial to 
 the boy. Old Mr. Gary continued very stern, 
 even following him daily to the hanquette, as if 
 he dare not trust him to go out alone. And 
 when he closed the iron gate after him he would 
 say in a tone that was awfully solemn : 
 
 " Good-mornin', sir !" 
 
 That was all. 
 
 Little Crow dreaded that walk to the gate 
 more than all the rest of the ordeal. And yet, 
 in a way, it gave him courage. He was at least 
 worth while, and with time and patience he 
 would win back the lost faith of the friends who 
 were kind to him even while they could not trust 
 him. They were, indeed, kind and generous 
 in many ways, both to him and his unworthy 
 mother. 
 
 Fig-time was soon nearly over, and, of course. 
 Crow erpected a dismissal ; but it was Mr. Cary 
 himself who set these fears at rest by propos- 
 
16 
 
 ing to him to come daily to blacken his boots 
 and to keep the garden-walk in order for regular 
 wages. 
 
 ''But," he warned him, in closing, ''don't 
 you show your face here with a pocket on you. 
 If your heavy pants have any in 'em, rip 'em out." 
 And then he added, severely : " You've been a 
 very bad boy." 
 
 "Yassir," answered Crow, "I know I is. I 
 been a heap wusser boy'n you knowed I was, 
 too." 
 
 " What's that you say, sir ?" 
 
 Crow repeated it. And then he added, for 
 full confession : 
 
 " I picked green figs heap o' days, and kivcred 
 'em up wid ripe ones, an' sol' 'em to a white 
 'oman fur perserves." There Avas something 
 desperate in the way he blurted it all out. 
 
 " The dickens you did ! And what are you 
 telling me for ?" 
 
 He eyed the boy keenly as he put the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 At this Crow fairly wailed aloud: '"Caze I 
 ain't gwine do it no mo'." And throwing his 
 arms against the door-frame he buried his face 
 in them, and he sobbed as if his little heart would 
 break. 
 
 For a moment old Mr. Cary seemed to have 
 
17 
 
 lost his voice, and then he said, in a voice quite 
 new to Crow : 
 
 " I don't believe you will, sir — I don't believe 
 you will." And in a minute he said, still speak- 
 ing gently: "Come here, boy." 
 
 Still weeping aloud. Crow obeyed. 
 
 " Tut, tut ! No crying \" he began. " Be a 
 man — be a man. And if you stick to it, before 
 Christmas comes, we'll see about those pockets, 
 and you can walk into the new year with your 
 head up. But look sharp ! Good-bye, now !" 
 
 For the first time since the boy's fall Mr. 
 Cary did not follow him to the gate. Maybe 
 this was the beginning of trust. Slight a thing 
 as it was, the boy took comfort in it. 
 
 At last it was Christmas eve. Crow was on 
 the back '' gallery " putting a final polish on a 
 pair of boots. He was nearly done, and his 
 heai't was beginning to sink, when the old lady 
 came and stood near him. There was a very 
 hopeful twinkle in her eye as she said, presently: 
 "I wonder what our little shoeblack, who has 
 been trying so hard to be good, would like to 
 have for his Christmas gift ?" 
 
 But Crow only blinked while he polished the 
 faster. 
 
 *'Tell me, Solomon," she insisted. "If you 
 had one wish to-day, what would it be ?" 
 
18 
 
 The boy wriggled nervously. And then he said : 
 
 " You knows, lady. Needle — an' thrade — an' 
 — an' — you knows, lady. Pockets." 
 
 "Well, pockets it shall be. Come into my 
 room when you get through." 
 
 Old Mrs. Gary sat beside the fire reading as he 
 went in. Seeing him, she nodded, smiling, tow- 
 ards the bed, npon which Crow saw a brand-new 
 suit of clothes — coat, vest, and breeches — all 
 spread out in a row. 
 
 " There, my boy," she said ; " there are your 
 pockets." 
 
 Crow had never in all his life owned a full new 
 snit of clothes. Ail his '' new ' things had been 
 second-hand, and for a moment he could not 
 qnite believe his eyes ; but lie went quickly to 
 the bed and began passing his hands over the 
 clothes. Then he ventured to take up the vest — 
 and to turn it over. And now he began to find 
 pockets. 
 
 "Three pockets in de ves' — two in de pants 
 — an' — an' fo', no five, no six — six pockets in de 
 coat r 
 
 He giggled nervously as he thrust his little 
 black fingers into one and then another. And 
 then, suddenly overcome with a sense of the 
 situation, he turned to Mrs. Cary, and, in a voice 
 that trembled a little, said : 
 
19 
 
 " Is yon sho' you ain't 'f eerd to trns' me wid 
 all deze pockets, lady ?" 
 
 It doesn't take a small boy long to slip into a 
 new suit of clothes. And when a ragged urchin 
 disappeared behind the head of the great old 
 " four-poster " to-day, it seemed scarcely a min- 
 ute before a trig, " tailor-made boy " strutted out 
 from the opposite side, hands deep in pockets — 
 breathing hard. 
 
 As Solomon Crow strode up and down the 
 room, radiant with joy, he seemed for the mo- 
 ment quite unconscious of any one's presence. 
 But presently he stopped, looked involuntarily 
 upward a minute, as if he felt himself observed 
 from above. Then, turning to the old people, 
 who stood together before the mantel, delight- 
 edly watching him, he said : 
 
 ''Bet you my angel twin ain't ashamed, ef 
 he's a-lookin' down on me to-day." 
 
THE TWO TIMS 
 
THE TWO TIMS 
 
 A S the moon sent a white beam through the 
 /-\ little square window of old Uncle Tim's 
 cabin, it formed a long panel of light 
 upon its smoke-stained wall, bringing into clear 
 view an old banjo hanging upon a rusty nail. 
 Nothing else in the small room was clearly 
 visible. Although it was Christmas eve, there 
 was no fire upon the broad hearth, and from the 
 open door came the odor of honeysuckles and 
 of violets. Winter is often in Louisiana only a 
 name given by courtesy to the mouths coming 
 between autumn and spring, out of respect to the 
 calendar ; and so it was this year. 
 
 Sitting in the open doorway, his outline lost 
 in the deep shadows of the vine, was old Uncle 
 Tim, while upon the floor at his side lay little 
 Tim, his grandson. The boy lay so still that in 
 the dim half-light he seemed a part of the floor 
 furnishings, which were, in fact, an old cot, two 
 
24 
 
 crippled stools, a saddle, and odds and ends of 
 broken harness, and bits of rope. 
 
 Neither the old man nor the boy had spoken 
 for a long time, and while they gazed intently at 
 the old banjo hanging in the panel of light, the 
 thoughts of both were tinged with sadness. The 
 grandfather was nearly seventy years old, and 
 Little Tim was but ten ; but they were great 
 chums. The little boy's father had died while 
 he was too young to remember, leaving little 
 Tim to a step-mother, who brought him to his 
 grandfather's home, where he had been ever since, 
 and the attachment quickly formed between the 
 two had grown and strengthened with the years. 
 
 Old Uncle Tim was very poor, and his little 
 cabin was small and shabby ; and yet neither 
 hunger nor cold had ever come in an unfriendly 
 way to visit it. The tall plantation smoke-house 
 threw a friendly shadow over the tiny hut every 
 evening Just before the sun went down — a shad- 
 ow that seemed a promise at close of each day 
 that the poor home should not be forgotten. 
 Nor was it. Some days the old man was able to 
 limp into the field and cut a load of cabbages for 
 the hands, or to prepare seed potatoes for plant- 
 ing, so that, as he expressed it, ' ' each piece '11 
 have one eye ter grow wid an' another ter look 
 on an' see dat everything goes right." 
 
25 
 
 And then Uncle Tim was brimful of a good 
 many valuable things with which he was very 
 generous — advice, for instance. 
 
 He could advise with wisdom upon any num- 
 ber of subjects, such as just at what time of the 
 moon to make soap so that it would "set" well, 
 how to find a missing shoat, or the right spot to 
 dig for water. 
 
 These were all valuable services; yet cabbages 
 were not always ready to be cut, potato-planting 
 was not always in season. Often for weeks not a 
 hog would stray off. Only once in a decade a 
 new well was wanted ; and as to soap-making, it 
 could occur only once during each moon at most. 
 
 It is true that between times Uncle Tim gave 
 copious warnings not to make soap, which was 
 quite a saving of effort and good material. 
 
 But whether he was cutting seed potatoes, or 
 advising, or only playing on his banjo, as he did 
 incessantly between times, his rations came to 
 the little cabin with clock-like regularity. They 
 came just as regularly as old Tim had luorhed 
 whem he was young, as regularly as little Tim 
 would when he should grow up, as it is a pity 
 daily rations cannot always come to such feeble 
 ones as, whether in their first or second child- 
 hood, are able to render only the service of will- 
 ingness. 
 
20 
 
 And so we see that the two Tims, as they were 
 ofteu called, had no great anxieties as to their 
 living, although they were very poor. 
 
 The only thing in the world that the old man 
 held as a personal possession was his old banjo. 
 It was the one thing the little boy counted on as 
 a precious future property. Often, at all hours 
 of the day or evening, old Tim could be seen sit- 
 ting before the cabin, his arms around the boy, 
 who stood between his knees, while, with eyes 
 closed, he ran his withered fingers over the 
 strings, picking out the tunes that best recalled 
 the stories of olden days that he loved to tell 
 into the little fellow's ear. And sometimes, 
 holding the banjo steady, he would invite little 
 Tim to try his tiny hands at picking the strings. 
 
 '' Look out how you snap 'er too sudden I" he 
 would exclaim if the little fingers moved too 
 freely. ''Look out, I say I Dis ain't none o' 
 yo' pick -me -up -hit -an' -miss banjos, she ain'tl 
 An' you mus' learn ter treat 'er wid rispec', caze, 
 when yo' ole gran'dad dies, she gwine be yo' 
 banjo, an' stan' in his place ter yer !" 
 
 And then little Tim, confronted with the aw- 
 ful prospect of death and inheritance, would take 
 a long breath, and, blinking his eyes, drop his 
 hands at his side, saying, *'You play 'er gran'- 
 dad." 
 
27 
 
 But having once started to speak, the old man 
 was seldom brief^ and so he would continue : 
 "It's true dis ole banjo she's livin' in a po' nig- 
 ger cabin wid a ole black marster an' a new one 
 comin' on blacker yit. (You taken dat arter 
 yo' gran'mammy, honey. She warn't dis heali 
 muddy-brown color like I is. She was a heap 
 purtier and clairer black.) Well, I say, if dis ole 
 banjo is livin' wid po' ignunt black folks, I wants 
 you ter know she was born white. 
 
 " Don't look at me so cuyus, honey. I know 
 what I say. I say she was borii white. Dat is, 
 she f?escended ter me f'om white folks. My 
 marster bought 'er ter learn on when we was 
 boys together. An' he took booh lessons on 'er 
 too, an' dat's how come I say she ain't none o' 
 yo' common pick-up-my-strings-any-which-er- 
 way banjos. She's been played by note music in 
 her day, she is, an' she can answer a book note 
 des as true as any pianner a pusson ever listened 
 at — ef anybody know how ter tackle 'er. Of 
 co'se, ef you des tackle 'er p'omiskyus she ain't 
 gwine bother 'erse'f ter play 'cordin' ter rule ; 
 but— 
 
 "Why, boy, dis lieah banjo she's done sere- 
 naded all de a'stocercy on dis river 'twix' here an' 
 de English Turn in her day. Yas, she is. An' 
 all dat expeunce is in 'er breast now ; she 'ain't 
 
28 
 
 forgot it, an' ef air pusson dat know all dem olo 
 book chnnes was ter take 'er up an' call far 'era, 
 she'd give 'em eve'y one des as true as ever yit. 
 
 *' An' yer know, baby, I'm a-tellin' you all dis," 
 he would say, in closing — "I'm a-tellin' you all 
 dis caze arter while, when I die, she gwine be yo^ 
 banjo, 'n' I wants you ter know all 'er ins an' 
 outs." 
 
 And as he stopped, the little boy would ask, 
 timidly, "Please, sir, gran'dad, lemme tote 'er 
 an' hang 'er up. I'll step keerful." And tak- 
 ing each step with the utmost precision, and 
 holding the long banjo aloft in his arms as if it 
 were made of egg-shells, little Tim would climb 
 the stool and hang the precious thing in its 
 place against the cabin wall. 
 
 Such a conversation had occurred to-day, and 
 as the lad had taken the banjo from him the old 
 man had added : 
 
 "I wouldn't be s'prised, baby, ef 'fo' another 
 year passes dat '11 be t/o' hanjo, caze I feels mighty 
 weak an' painful some days." 
 
 This was in the early evening, several hours 
 before the scene with which this little story 
 opens. As night came on and the old man sat 
 in the doorway, he did not notice that little Tim, 
 in stretching himself upon the floor, as was hia 
 habit, came nearer than usual — so near, indeed, 
 
29 
 
 that, extending his little foot, he rested it against 
 his grandfather's body, too lightly to be felt, and 
 yet sensibly enough to satisfy his own affection- 
 ate impulse. And so he was lying when the 
 moon rose and covered the old banjo with its 
 light. He felt very serious as he gazed upon it, 
 standing out so distinctly in the dark room. 
 Some day it would be his ; but the dear old 
 grandfather would not be there, his chair would 
 be always empty. There would be nobody in 
 the little cabin but just little Tim and the banjo. 
 He was too young to think of other changes. 
 The ownership of the coveted treasure promised 
 only death and utter loneliness. But presently 
 the light passed ofE the wall on to the floor. It 
 was creeping over to where little Tim lay, but 
 he did not know it, and after blinking awhile at 
 long intervals, and moving his foot occasionally 
 to reassure himself of his grandfather's presence, 
 he fell suddenly sound asleep. 
 
 While these painful thoughts were filling little 
 Tim's mind the old man had studied the bright 
 panel on the wall with equal interest — and pain. 
 By the very nature of things he could not leave 
 the banjo to the boy and witness his pleasure in 
 the possession. 
 
 'SShe's de onlies' thing I got ter leave 'im, 
 but I does wush 't I could see him git 'er an' be 
 
80 
 
 at his little elbow ter show 'im all 'or ways/* he 
 said, half audibly. ''Dis heah way o' leavin' 
 thiugs ter folks when you die, it soun's awful 
 high an' mighty, but look tor me like hit's po' 
 satisfaction some ways. Po' little Tim ! Now 
 what he gwiuc do anyhow when I draps off ? — 
 notliin' but step-folks ter take keer of 'im — stej)- 
 mammy an' step-daddy an' 'bout a dozen step 
 brothers an' sisters, an' not even me heah ter 
 show 'im how ter conduc' 'is banjo. De ve'y 
 time he need ine de mos' ter show 'im her ins 
 an' outs I won't be nowhars about, an' yit — " 
 
 As the old man's thoughts reached this point 
 a sudden flare of light across the campus showed 
 that the first bonfire was lighted. 
 
 There was to be a big dance to-night in the 
 open space in front of the sugar-house, and the 
 lighting of the bonfires surrounding the spot 
 was the announcement that it was time for every- 
 body to come. It was Uncle Tim's signal to 
 take down the banjo and tune up, for there was 
 no more important instrument in the plantation 
 string-band than this same old banjo. 
 
 As he turned backward to wake little Tim he 
 hesitated a moment, looking lovingly upon the 
 little sleeping figure, which the moon now cov- 
 ered with a white rectangle of light. As his 
 eyes rested upon the boy's face something, a con- 
 
31 
 
 fused memory of his last waking anxiety per- 
 hapSj bronglit a slight qniTer to his lips, as if he 
 might cry in his sleep, while he muttered the 
 word '^gran'dad." 
 
 Old Uncle Tim had been trying to get himself 
 to the point of doing sometliing which it was 
 somehow hard to do, but this tremulous lisping 
 of his own name settled the question. 
 
 Hobbling to his feet, he wended his way as 
 noiselessly as possible to where the banjo hung, 
 and, carrying it to the sleeping boy, laid it gen- 
 tly, with trembling fingers, upon his arm. 
 
 Then, first silently regarding him a moment, 
 he called out, ''Week up, Tim, my man ! AVeck 
 up !" 
 
 As he spoke, a loud and continuous explosion 
 of fire-crackers — the opening of active festivities 
 in the campus — startled the boy quite out of his 
 nap. 
 
 He was frightened and dazed for a minute, 
 and then, seeing the banjo beside him and 
 his grandfather's face so near, he exclaimed : 
 '' What's all dis, gran'dad ? Whar me ?" 
 
 The old man's voice was pretty husky as he 
 answered : " You right heah wid me, boy, an* 
 dat banjo, hit's yo' Christmas gif, honey," 
 
 Little Tim cast an agonized look upon the old 
 man's face, and threw himself into his arms. 
 
82 
 
 " Is you gwiue die )io\v, gran'dad ?" he sobbed, 
 burying hie face upon his bosom. 
 
 Old Tim could not find voice at once, but 
 presently he chuckled, nervously : " Humli ! 
 humh ! No, boy, I ain't gwine die yit — not till 
 my time comes, please Gord. But dis heah's 
 Christmas, honey, an' I thought I'd gi'e you de 
 ole banjo whiles I was livin', so's I could — so's 
 you could — so's we could have pleasure out'n 'er 
 bofe together, yer know, honey. Dat is, f'om 
 dis time on she's yo' banjo, an' when I wants ter 
 play on 'er, you can Joan 'er ter me." 
 
 "An' — an' you — you sho' you ain't gwine die, 
 gran'dad ?" 
 
 ''I ain't sho' o' nothin', honey, but I 'ain't got 
 no notion o' dyin' — not to-night. We gwine ter 
 de dance now, you an' me, an' I gwine play de 
 banjo — dat is ef you'll loan 'er ter me, hahy." 
 
 Tim wanted to laugh, and it seemed sheer con- 
 trariness for him to cry, but somehow the tears 
 would come, and the lump in his throat, and try 
 hard as he might, he couldn't get his head high- 
 er than his grandfather's coat-sleeve or his arms 
 from around his waist. lie hardly knew why 
 he still wept, and yet when presently he sobbed, 
 **But, gran'dad, I'm 'feered you mouyht die," 
 the old man understood. 
 
 Certainly, even if he were not going to die 
 
88 
 
 now, giving away the old banjo seemed like a 
 preparation for death. Was it not, in fact, a 
 formal confession that he was nearing the end of 
 his days ? Had not this very feeling made it 
 hard for him to part with it ? The boy's grief 
 at the thought touched him deeply, and lifting 
 the little fellow upon his knee, he said, fondly : 
 
 "Don't fret, honey. Don't let Christmas find 
 you cryin'. I tell you what I say let's do. I 
 ain't gwine gi'e you de banjo, not yit, caze, des 
 as you say, 1 7nougM die ; but I tell you what I 
 gwine do. I gwine take you in pardners in it 
 wid me. She ain't mine an' she ain't yoze, and 
 yit she's lofe of us's. You see, boy ? iShe's ourn ! 
 An' when I wants ter play on 'er I'll play, an' 
 when you wants 'er, why, you teck 'er — on'y be 
 a leetle bit keerful at fust, honey." 
 
 " An' kin I ca'y 'er behine de cabin, whar you 
 can't see how I'm a-holdin' 'er, an' play anyway 
 I choose ?" 
 
 Old Tim winced a little at this, but he had 
 not given grudgingly. 
 
 '' Oert'n'y," he answered. " Why not ? Git 
 up an' play 'er in de middle o' de night ef you 
 want ter, on'y, of co'se, be keerful how you 
 reach 'er down, so's you won't jolt 'er too sudden. 
 An* now, boy, hand 'er heah an' lemme talk to 
 yer a little bit." 
 
84 
 
 When little Tim lifted the banjo from tlie 
 floor his face fairly beamed with joy, although 
 in the darkness no ouo saw it, for the shaft of 
 light had passed beyond him now. Handing the 
 banjo to his grandfather, he slipped naturally 
 back of it into his accustomed place in his 
 arms. 
 
 ''Dis hcah's a fus'-class thing ter work off bad 
 tempers wid," the old man began, tightening the 
 strings as he spoke. " Now ef one o' deze mule 
 tempers ever take a-holt of yer in de foot, dat 
 foot '11 be mighty ap' ter do some kickin' ; an' 
 ef it seizes a-holt o' yo' han', dat little fis' '11 bo 
 purty sho ter strike out an' do some damage ; 
 an' ef it jump onter yo' tongue, hit '11 mighty 
 soon twis' it into sayin' bad language. But ef 
 you'll teck hoi' o' dis ole banjo des as quick as 
 you feel de badness rise up in you, an' play, 
 you'll scare de evil temper away so bad it daresn't 
 come hack. Ef it done settled too strong in yo' 
 tongue, run it off wid a song ; an' ef yo' feet's 
 git a kickin' spell on 'em, dance it off ; an' ef 
 you feel it in yo' han', des run fur de banjo an' 
 play de sweetes' chuue you know, an' fus' thing 
 you know all yo' madness '11 be gone. 
 
 " She 'ain't got no mouf, but she can talk ter 
 you, all de same ; an' she 'ain't got no head, but 
 she can reason wid you. An' while ter look at 
 
35 
 
 'er she's pnrty nigh all belly, she don't eat a 
 crnmb. Dey ain't a greedy bone in 'er. 
 
 " An' I wants you ter ricollec' dat I done guv 
 'er to you — dat is, yo' sheer [share] m 'er, caze 
 she's mine too, you know. I done guv you a 
 even sheer in 'er, des caze you an' me is gran'- 
 daddy an' gran' son, 
 
 '' Dis heah way o' dyin' an' leavin' prop'ty, hit 
 mought suit white folks, but it don't become 
 our complexioms, some way ; an' de mo' I thought 
 about havin' to die ter give de onlies' gran'son I 
 got de onlies,' jirojj'ty I got, de miser'Uer I got, 
 tell I couldn't stan' it no mo'." 
 
 Little Tim's throat choked up again, and he 
 rolled his eyes around and swallowed twice be- 
 fore he answered : " An' I — I was miser'ble too, 
 gran'dad. I used ter des look at 'er hangin' 
 'g'inst de wall, an' think about me maybe 
 playin' 'er, an' you — you not — not nowhar in 
 sight — an' — an' some days seem like / — / des 
 hated 'er." 
 
 *^Yas, baby, I know. But now you won't 
 hate 'er no mo', boy ; an' ef you die f us' — some 
 time, you know, baby, little boys does die — an' 
 ef you go fus', I'll teck good keer o' yo' sheer in 
 'er ; an' ef I go, you mus' look out fur my sheer. 
 An' long as we bofe live — well, I'll look out fur 
 'er voice — keep 'er th'oat strings in order ; an' 
 
36 
 
 you see dat she don't git ketched out in bad 
 comp'ny, or in de rain, an' take cold. 
 
 '' Come on now. Wash yo' little face, and 
 let's go ter de dance. Gee-man ! Lis'n at de 
 fire-crackers callin' us. Come on. Dat's right. 
 Pack 'er on yo' shoulder like a man." 
 
 And so the two Tims start off to the Christ- 
 mas festival, young Tim bearing his precious 
 burden proudly ahead, while the old man follows 
 slowly behind, chuckling softly. 
 
 *'Des think how much time I done los', not 
 takin' 'im in pardners befo', an' he de onlies' 
 gran'son I got !" 
 
 While little Tim, walking cautiously so as not 
 to trip in the uneven path, turns presently and 
 calls back : 
 
 " Gran'dad, I reckon we done walked half de 
 way, now. I done toted 'er my sheer. Don't 
 you want me ter tote 'er yo' sheer 9" 
 
 And the old man answers,with another chuckle, 
 **Go on, honey." 
 
THE FREYS' CHRISTMAS PARTY 
 
\ 
 
 THE FREYS' CHRISTMAS PARTY 
 
 THERE was a great sensation in the old Cop- 
 penole house three days before Christmas. 
 The Freys, who lived on the third floor, 
 were going to give a Christmas dinner party, and 
 all the other tenants were invited. 
 
 Such a thing had never happened before, and, 
 as Miss Penny told her canary-birds while she 
 filled their seed-cups, it was "like a clap of thun- 
 der out of a clear sky." 
 
 The Frey family, consisting of a widow and her 
 brood of half a dozen children, were as poor as 
 any of the tenants in the old building, for wasn't 
 the mother earning a scant living as a beginner 
 in newspaper work ? Didn't the Frey children 
 do every bit of the house-work, not to mention 
 little outside industries by which the older ones 
 earned small incomes ? Didn't Meg send soft 
 gingerbread to the Christian Woman's Exchange 
 for sale twice a week, and Ethel find time, with 
 
40 
 
 all her studies, to paint butterflies on Swiss aprons 
 for fairs or fetes ? 
 
 Didn't everybody know tliat Conrad, now but 
 thirteen, was a regular solicitor for orders for 
 Christmas-trees, palmetto palms, and gray moss 
 from the woods for decarativc uses on holiday 
 occasions ? 
 
 The idea of people in such circumstances as 
 these giving dinner parties ! It was almost in- 
 credible ; but it was true, for tiny notes of invita- 
 tion tied with rose-colored ribbons had been fly- 
 ing over the building all the afternoon. The 
 Frey twins, Felix and Felice, both barefoot, had 
 carried one to each door. 
 
 They were written Avith gold ink on pink pa- 
 per. A water-colored butterfly was poised in mid- 
 air somewhere on each one, and at the left lower 
 end were the mysterious letters "E.S.V.P." 
 
 Tlie old Professor who lived in the room next 
 the Frey kitchen got one, and Miss Penny, who 
 occuj)ied the room beyond. So did Mademoiselle 
 Guyosa, who made paper flowers, and the mys- 
 terious little woman of the last, worst room in 
 the house — a tiny figure whose face none of her 
 neighbors had ever seen, but who had given her 
 name to the baker and milkman as '' Mamzelle 
 St. John." 
 
 And there were others. Madame Coraline, 
 
41 
 
 the fortnne-teller, who rented the hall room on 
 the second floor, was perhaps more surprised at 
 her invitation than any of the rest. No one ever 
 asked her anywhere. Even the veiled ladies who 
 sometimes visited her darkened chamber always 
 tiptoed up the steps as if they were half ashamed 
 of going there. 
 
 The twins had a time getting her to come to 
 the door to receive the invitation, and after vain- 
 ly rapping several times, they had finally brought a 
 parasol and hammered upon the horseshoe tacked 
 upon the door, until at last it opened Just about 
 an inch. And then she was invited. 
 
 But, indeed, it is time to be telling how the 
 party originated. 
 
 It had been the habit of the Frey children, 
 since they could remember, to save up spare coins 
 all the year for a special fund which they called 
 " Christmas money." 
 
 The old fashion of spending these small 
 amounts in presents for one another had long 
 ago given place to the better one — more in the 
 Christmas spirit — of using it to brighten the day 
 for some one less blessed than themselves. 
 
 It is true that on the Christmas before the one 
 of this story they had broken the rule^ or only 
 strained it, perhaps, to buy a little stove for their 
 mother's room. 
 
42 
 
 But a rnlc that would not stretch onongh to 
 take in such a homo need would be a poor on© 
 indeed. 
 
 Tliis year tlicy had had numerous schemes, but 
 somehow none had seemed to appeal to the 
 stockholders in tlie Christmas firm, and so they 
 had finally called a meeting on the subject. 
 
 It was at this meeting that Meg, fourteen 
 years old, having taken the floor, said : " Well, 
 it seems to mc that the worst kind of a Christ- 
 mas must be a lonely one. Just think how 
 nearly all the roomers in this house spent last 
 Christmas — most of 'em sittin' by their lone 
 selves in their rooms, and some of 'em just eatin' 
 every-day things ! The Professor hadn't a thing 
 but Bologna-sausage and crackers. I hnoio — 
 'ca7ise I peeped. An' now, whatever you all are 
 goin' to do with poicr money, mine's goin' right 
 into this house, to the roomers — some way." 
 
 " If we knew what we could do, Meg ?" said 
 Ethel. 
 
 " If we knew what we could do or ho2u we 
 could do it," interrupted Conrad, " why, I'd give 
 my eighty-five cents in a minute. I'd give it to 
 the old Professor to have his curls cut." 
 
 Conrad was a true-hearted fellow, but he was 
 full of mischief. 
 
 " Shame on you, Buddy !" said Meg, who was 
 
43 
 
 thoronghly serious. " Can't you be in earnest 
 for just a minute ?" 
 
 " I am in earnest, Meg. I think your scheme 
 is bully — if it could be worked ; but the Profess- 
 or wouldn't take our money any more'n we'd 
 take his." 
 
 *' Neither would any of them.'^ This was 
 Ethel's first real objection. 
 
 *' Who's goin' to offer 'em money ?" rejoined 
 Meg. 
 
 *' I tell you what we might do, maybe/' Con- 
 rad suggested, dubiously. " We might buy a lot 
 of fine grub, an' send it in to 'em sort o' mysteri- 
 ously. How'd that do ?" 
 
 "'Twouldn't do at all," Meg replied. ''The 
 idea ! Who'd enjoy the finest Christmas dinner 
 in the world by his lone self, with nothin' but a 
 lookin'-glass to look into and holler 'Merry 
 Christmas' to?" 
 
 Conrad laughed. "Well, the Professor's little 
 cracked glass wouldn't be much of a comfort to 
 a hungry fellow. It gives you two mouths." 
 
 Conrad was nothing if not facetious. 
 
 "There you are again. Buddy! Do be seri- 
 ous for once." And then she added, desper- 
 ately, "The thing /want to do is to invite 'em." 
 
 " Invite !" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
44 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 "When?" 
 
 ** How ?" 
 
 ''Where?" 
 
 Such was the chorus that greeted Meg's as- 
 tounding proposition. 
 
 " Why, I say," she explained, nothing daunted, 
 ''let's put all our Christmas money together and 
 get the very best dinner we can, and invite all the 
 roomers to come and eat it with us. Koio I've 
 said it! And I ain't foolin', either." 
 
 "And we haven't a whole table-cloth to our 
 names, Meg Frey, and you know it !" It was 
 Ethel who spoke again. 
 
 "And what's that got to do with it, Sisty ? 
 We ain't goin' to eat the cloth. Besides, can't we 
 set the dish-mats over the holes? 'Twouldn't be 
 the first time." 
 
 " But, Meg, dearie, you surely arc not propos- 
 ing to invite company to dine in the kitchen, 
 are you ? And who'd cook the dinner, not to 
 mention buying it ?" 
 
 " Well, now, listen, Sisty, dear. The dinner 
 that's in my mind isn't a society-column dinner 
 like those Momsy writes about, and those we are 
 going to invite don't wear out much table-linen 
 at home. And they cook their own dinners, 
 too, most of 'em — exceptin' when they eat 'em 
 
45 
 
 in the French Market, with a Chinaman on one 
 
 side of 'em and an Indian on the other. 
 
 *'i'wi goin' to cook ours, and as for eatin' in the 
 kitchen, why, we don't need to. Jnst see how 
 warm it is ! The frost hasn't even nipped the 
 banana leaves over there in the square. And 
 Buddy can pull the table out on the big back 
 gallery, an' we'll hang papa's old gray soldier 
 blanket for a portiere to keep the Quinettes 
 from lookin' in ; and, Sisty, you can write the 
 invitations an' paint butterflies on 'em." 
 
 Ethel's eyes for the first time sparkled with in- 
 terest, but she kept silent, and Meg continued : 
 
 " An' Buddy '11 bring in a lot of gray moss and 
 latmiier to dec'rate with, an' — " 
 
 " An' us '11 wait on the table !" 
 
 '^ Yes, us '11 wait on the table !" cried the twins. 
 
 " But," added Felix in a moment, " you 
 mus'n't invite Miss Penny, Meg, 'cause if you do 
 F'lissy an' me '11 be thest shore to disgrace the 
 party a-laughin'. She looks thest ezzac'ly like 
 a canary-bird, an' Buddy has tooken her off till 
 we thest die a-laughin' every time we see her. I 
 think she's raised canaries till she's a sort o' half- 
 canary herself. Don't let's invite her, Sisty." 
 
 ** And don't you think Miss Penny would en- 
 joy a slice of Christmas turkey as well as the rest 
 of us, Felix?" 
 
46 
 
 "No; I fink she ought to cat canary-seed and 
 fish-bone," chirped in Dorotlica. 
 
 Dorothea was only five, and this from her was 
 so funny that even Meg laughed. 
 
 *' An' Buddy says he knows she sleeps perched 
 on the towel-rack, 'cause they ain't a sign of a 
 bed in her room." 
 
 The three youngest were fairly choking with 
 laughter now. But the older ones had soon 
 grown quite serious in consulting about all the 
 details of the matter, and even making out a con- 
 ditional list of guests. 
 
 When they came to the fortune-teller, both 
 Ethel and Conrad hesitated, but Meg, true to her 
 first impulse, had soon put down opposition by a 
 single argument. 
 
 " It seems to me she's the special one to invite 
 to a Christmas party like ours," she pleaded. 
 " The lonesomer an' horrider they are, the more 
 they belong, an' the more they'll enjoy it, too." 
 
 " Accordin' to that," said Conrad, " the whole 
 crowd ought to have a dizzy good time, for the/re 
 about as fine a job lot of lonesomes as I ever 
 struck. And as for beauty ! ' Veil, my y'ung 
 vriends, how you was to-morrow ?' " he contin- 
 ued, thrusting his thumbs into his armholes and 
 strutting in imitation of the old Professor. 
 
 Meg was almost out of patience. " Do hush. 
 
'SHE OUGHT TO EAT CANARY-SEED AND FISH-BONE 
 
r 
 
47 
 
 Buddy^ an' let's talk business. First of all, we 
 have to put it to vote to see whether we luant 
 to have the party or not." 
 
 *' I ain't a-goin' to give my money to no such 
 a ugly ol' party/' cried Felix. "I want pretty 
 little girls with curls an' wreafs on to my party." 
 
 '' An' me, too. I want a heap o' pretty little 
 girls with curls an' wreafs on — to my party," 
 echoed Felicie. 
 
 " An' I want a organ-grinder to the party that 
 gets my half o' our picayunes," insisted Felix. 
 
 *' Yas, us wants a organ-grinder — an' a mon- 
 key, too— hey, F'lix ?" 
 
 " Yes, an' a monkey, too. Heap o' monkeys !" 
 
 Meg was indeed having a hard time of it. 
 
 **You see, Conrad" — the use of that name 
 meant reproof from Meg — "you see, Conrad, 
 this all comes from your makin' fun of every- 
 body. But of course we can get an organ-grind- 
 er if the little ones want him." 
 
 Ethel still seemed somewhat doubtful about 
 the whole affair. Ethel was in the high-school. 
 She had a lofty bridge to her nose. She was 
 fifteen, and she never left off her final g's as the 
 others did. These are, no doubt, some of the 
 reasons why she was regarded as a sort of superior 
 person in the family. If it had not been for the 
 prospect of painting the cards, and a certain feel- 
 
48 
 
 ing of benevolence in the matter, it would have 
 been hard for her to agree to the party at all. 
 As it was, her voice had a note of mild protest 
 as she said : 
 
 " It's going to cost a good deal, Meg. How 
 much money have we ? Let's count up. I have 
 a dollar and eighty-five cents." 
 
 " And I've got two dollars," said Meg. 
 
 *'How is it you always save the most ? I haven't 
 saved but ninety cents." Conrad spoke with a 
 little real embarrassment as he laid his little pile 
 of coins upon the table. 
 
 " I reckon it's 'cause I've got a regular plan, 
 Buddy. I save a dime out of every dollar I get 
 all through the year. It's the best way. And 
 how much have you ponies got ?" 
 
 " AVe've got seventy cents together, an' we've 
 been a-whiskerin' in our ears about it, too. We 
 don't want our money put-ed in the dinner with 
 the rest. We want to see what we are givin'." 
 
 "Well, suppose you buy the fruit. Seventy 
 cents '11 get bananas and oranges enough for the 
 whole party." 
 
 " An' us wants to buy 'em ourselfs, too — hey, 
 F'lix?" 
 
 *' Yes, us wants to buy 'm ourselfs, too." 
 
 " And so you shall. And now all in favor of 
 the party hold up their right hands." 
 
49 
 
 All hands went up. 
 
 " Contr'ry, no !" Meg continned. 
 
 " Contr'ry, no !" echoed the twins. 
 
 "Hush ! You mus'n't say that. That's just 
 what they say at votin's." 
 
 " Gee-man-tally ! But you girls 're awfully 
 mixed," Conrad howled, with laughter. *^They 
 don't have any 'contr'ry no's' when they vote by 
 holdin' up right hands. Besides, Dorothea held 
 up her left hand, for I saw her." 
 
 "Which is quite correct, Mr. Smartie, since 
 we all know that Dolly is left-handed. You 
 meant to vote for the party, didn't you, dearie ?" 
 Meg added, turning to Dorothea. 
 
 For answer the little maid only bobbed her 
 head, thrusting both hands behind her, as if 
 afraid to trust them again. 
 
 "But I haven't got but thest a nickel," she 
 ventured, presently. " F'lix says it '11 buy salt." 
 
 " Salt !" said Conrad. " Well, I should smile ! 
 It would buy salt enough to pickle the whole 
 party. Why, that little St. Johns woman goes 
 out with a nickel an' lays in provisions. I've 
 seen her do it." 
 
 " Shame on you. Buddy !" 
 
 " I'm not jokin', Meg. At least, I saw her buy 
 a quartie's worth o' coffee and a quartie's worth o' 
 sugar, an' then ask for lagniapjje o' salt. Ain't 
 
50 
 
 that layin' in provisions ? She uses a cigar-box 
 for her pantry, too." 
 
 " Well," she protested, seriously, " what of it, 
 Conrad ? It doesn't take much for one very 
 little person. Now, then, the party is voted for ; 
 but there's one more thing to be done before it 
 can be really decided. We must ask Momsy's 
 permission, of course. And that is goin' to be 
 hard, because I don't want her to know about it. 
 She has to be out reportin' festivals for the paper 
 clear up to Christmas mornin', and if she knows 
 about it, she'll worry over it. So I propose to 
 ask her to let us give her a Christmas surprise, 
 and not tell her what it is." 
 
 ** And we know just what she'll say," Conrad 
 interrupted; " she'll say, ' If you older children 
 all agree upon anything, I'm sure it can't be very 
 far wrong or foolish ' — just as she did time we put 
 up the stove in her room." 
 
 " Yes, I can hear her now," said Ethel. " Bat 
 still we must let her say it before we do a single 
 thing, because, you know, she mightn't. An' 
 then where'd the party be ?" 
 
 "It would be scattered around where it was 
 last Christmas — where all the parties are that 
 don't be," said Conrad. " They must be the 
 ones we are always put down for, an' that's how 
 we get left ; eh, Sisty ?" 
 
51 
 
 " Never mind. Baddy ; we won't get left, as 
 yon call it, this time, anyway — nnless, of course, 
 Momsy vetoes it." 
 
 "Vetoes what, children ?" 
 
 They had been so noisy that they had not 
 heard their mother's step on the creaking 
 stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Frey carried her pencil and notes, and 
 she looked tired, but she smiled indulgently as 
 she repeated, "What am I to veto, dearies — or 
 to approve ?" 
 
 " It's a sequet ! A Trismas seqnet !" 
 
 ** Yes, an' it's got owanges in it — " 
 
 " — An' bananas !" 
 
 " Hush, you ponies ! And, Dolly, not another 
 word !" Meg had resolutely taken the floor 
 again. 
 
 "Momsy, we've been consulting about our 
 Christmas money, and we've voted to ask you to 
 let us do something with it, and not to tell you 
 a thing about it, only " — and here she glanced 
 for approval at Ethel and Conrad — "only we 
 ought to tell you, Momsy, dear, that the surprise 
 isn't for you this time." 
 
 And then Mrs. Frey, sweet mother that she 
 was, made just the little speech they thought 
 she would make, and when they had kissed her, 
 and all, even to Ethel, who seemed now as en- 
 
thnsiiistic as the others, canght hands antl danced 
 around the dinner table, she was glad she had 
 consented. 
 
 It was such a delight to be able to supplement 
 their scant Christmas prospects with an indul- 
 gence giving such pleasure. 
 
 " And I'm glad it isn't for me, children," she 
 added, as soon as the hubbub gave her a hearing. 
 "I'm very glad. You know you strained a point 
 last year, and I'm sure you did right. My little 
 stove has been a great comfort. But I am always 
 certain of just as many home-made presents as I 
 have children, and they are the ones I value. 
 Dolly's lamp-lighters are not all used up yet, and 
 if she were to give me another bundle this Christ- 
 mas I shouldn't feel sorry. But our little Christ- 
 mas money we want to send out on some loving 
 mission. And, by-the-way, I have two dollars 
 which may go with yours if you need it — if it 
 will make some poor body's bed softer or his din- 
 ner better." 
 
 " Morasy's guessed !" Felix clapped his hands 
 with delight. 
 
 "'Sh ! Hush, Felix ! Yes, Momsy, it '11 do 
 one of those things exactly," said Meg. " And 
 now / say we'd better break up this meeting be- 
 fore the ponies tell the whole business." 
 
 " F'lix never telled a thing," chirped Felicie, 
 
53 
 
 always ready to defend her mate. ^'Did yon, 
 F'lixy ? Momsy said ' dinner ' herself." 
 
 " So I did, dear ; bnt who is to get the dinner 
 and why yon are going to send it are things 
 mother doesn't wish to know. And here are my 
 two dollars. Now off to bed, the whole trundle- 
 bed crowd, for I have a lot of copy to write to- 
 night. Ethel may bring me a bite, and then sit 
 beside me and write while I sip my tea and dic- 
 tate and Meg pnts the chickens to roost. And 
 Conrad will keep quiet over his books. Just one 
 kiss apiece and a hug for Dolly. Shoo now !" 
 
 So the party was decided. 
 
 The Frey home, although one of the poorest, 
 was one of the happiest in New Orleans, for it 
 was made up of cheery workers, even little Doro- 
 thea having her daily self -assumed tasks. Miss 
 Dorothea, if you please, dusted the banisters 
 round the porch every day, straightened the rows 
 of shoes in mother's closet, folded the daily papers 
 in the rack, and kept the one rug quite even with 
 the front of the hearth. And this young lady 
 had, furthermore, her regular income of five 
 cents a week. 
 
 Of course her one nickel contributed to the 
 party had been saved only a few hours, but 
 Dorothea was only five, and the old yellow 
 
54 
 
 praline woman knew about her income, and came 
 trudging all the way up the stairs each week on 
 ** pay-day." 
 
 Even after the invitations were sent it seemed 
 to Dolly that the '' jmrty-day " would never come, 
 for tliere were to be 'Hhree sleeps" before it 
 should arrive. 
 
 It was Ethel's idea to send the cards early, so 
 as to forestall any home preparation among the 
 guests. 
 
 But all things come to him who waits — even 
 Christmas. And so at last the great day ar- 
 rived. 
 
 Nearly all the invited had accepted, and every- 
 thing was very exciting ; but the situation was 
 not without its difficulties. 
 
 Even though she Avas out every day, it had 
 been so hard to keep every tell-tale preparation 
 out of Mrs. Frey's sight. But when she had 
 found a pan of crullers on the top pantry shelf, 
 or heard the muffled *' gobble-gobble " of the 
 turkey shut up in the old flour-barrel, or smelt 
 invisible bananas and apples, she had been truly 
 none the wiser, but had only said, "Bless their 
 generous hearts ! They are getting up a fine 
 dinner to send to somebody." 
 
 Indeed, Mrs. Frey never got an inkling of the 
 whole truth until she tripped up the stairs a 
 
55 
 
 half -hour before dinner on Christmas day to 
 find the feast all spread. 
 
 The old mahogany table, extended to its 
 full length, stood gorgeous in decorations of 
 palmetto, moss, and flowers out upon the deep 
 back porch, which was converted into a very 
 pretty chamber by the hanging curtain of gray. 
 
 If she had any misgivings about it, she be- 
 trayed them by no single word or look, but there 
 were bright red spots upon her usually pale 
 cheeks as she passed, smiling, into her room to 
 dash into the dinner dress Ethel had laid out 
 for her. 
 
 To have her poverty-stricken home invaded 
 by a host of strangers was striking a blow at the 
 most sensitive weakness of this proud woman. 
 And yet the loving motive which was so plain 
 through it all, showing the very spirit in her 
 dear children for which she had prayed, was too 
 sacred a thing to be chilled by even a half-shade 
 of disapproval. 
 
 " And who are coming, dear ?" she asked of 
 Meg, as soon as she could trust her voice. 
 
 "All the roomers, Momsy, excepting the little 
 hunchback lady and Madame Coraline." 
 
 " Madame Coraline !" Mrs. Frey could not 
 help exclaiming. 
 
 "Yes, Momsy. She accepted, and she even 
 
cmnc, but she went back jnst now. She was 
 dressed terribly fine — gold lace and green silk, 
 bnt it was old and dowdy ; and, Momsy, her 
 cheeks were just as red ! I was on the step- 
 ladder tackin' up the Bethlehem picture, Sisty 
 was standin' on the high-chair hanging up the 
 star, and Budd3''s arms were full of gray moss 
 that he was wrappin' round your chair. But we 
 were just as polite to her as we could be, and 
 asked her to take a seat. And we all thought 
 she sat down ; but she went, Momsy, and no one 
 saw her go. Buddy says she's a witch. She left 
 that flower-pot of sweet-basil on the table. I 
 s'pose she brought it for a present. Do you 
 think that we'd better send for her to come 
 back, Momsy ?" 
 
 ''No, daughter, I think not. No doubt she 
 had her own reasons for going, and she may 
 come back. And are the rest all coming ?" 
 
 " Yes'm ; but we had a time gettin' Miss 
 Guyosa to come. She says she's a First Family, 
 an' she never mixes. But I told her so were 
 we, and avc mixed. And then I said that if she'd 
 come she could sit at one end o' the table and 
 carve the ham, while you'd do the turkey. But she 
 says Buddy ought to do the turkey. But she's 
 comin'. And, Momsy, the turkey is a perfect 
 beauty. We put pecans in him. Miss Guyosa 
 
57 
 
 gave ns the receipt and the nuts, too. Her 
 cousin sent 'em to her from his plantation. And 
 did you notice the paper roses in the moss fes- 
 toons, Momsy ? She made those. She has helped 
 us fix up a lot. She made all the Easter flowers on 
 St. Joseph's altar at the Cathedral, too, and — " 
 
 A rap at the door announcing a first guest sent 
 the little cook bounding to the kitchen, while 
 Ethel rushed into her mother's room, her mouth 
 full of pins and her sash on her arm. 
 
 She had dressed the three little ones a half- 
 hour ago ; and Conrad, who had also made an 
 early toilet, declared that they had all three 
 walked round the dinner table thirty-nine times 
 since their appearance in the "dining-room." 
 When he advanced to do the honors, the small 
 procession toddling single file behind him, some- 
 how it had not occurred to him that he might 
 encounter Miss Penny, the canary lady, standing 
 in a dainty old dress of yellow silk just outside 
 the door, nor, worse still, that she should bear 
 in her hands a tiny cage containing a pair of 
 young canaries. 
 
 He said afterwards that "everything would 
 have passed off all right if it hadn't been for the 
 twins." Of course he had forgotten that he had 
 himself been the first one to compare Miss Penny 
 to a canary. 
 
58 
 
 By the time the little black-eyed woman had 
 flitted into the door, and in a chirpy, bird-like 
 voice wished them a merry Christmas, Felix had 
 stnffed his entire handkerchief into his mouth. 
 Was it any wonder that Felicie and Dorothea, 
 seeing this, did actually disgrace the whole party 
 by convulsions of laughter ? 
 
 They were soon restored to order, though, by 
 the little yellow-gowned lady herself, for it took 
 but half a minute to say that the birds were a 
 present for the twins — " the two little ones who 
 brought me the invitation." 
 
 Such a present as this is no laughing matter, 
 and, besides, the little Frey children were at 
 heart polite. And so they had soon forgotten 
 their mirth in their new joy. 
 
 And then other guests were presently coming 
 in, and Mrs. Frey, looking startlingly fine and 
 pretty in her fresh ruches and new tie, was say- 
 ing pleasant things to everybody, while Ethel 
 and Meg, tripping lightly in and out, brought 
 in the dishes. 
 
 As there was no parlor, guests were received 
 in the curtained end of the gallery. No one was 
 disposed to be formal, and when the old Pro- 
 fessor entered with a little brown-paper parcel, 
 which he declared, after his greetings, to contain 
 his dinner, everybody felt that the etiquette of 
 
59 
 
 the occasion was not to be very strict or in the 
 least embarrassing. 
 
 Of course Mrs. Frey, as hostess, " hoped the 
 Professor would reconsider, and have a slice of 
 the Christmas turkey"; but when they had 
 presently all taken their seats at the table, and 
 the eccentric guest had actually opened his roll 
 of bread and cheese upon his empty plate, over 
 which he began to pass savory dishes to his 
 neighbors, she politely let him have his way. 
 Indeed, there was nothing else to do, as he de- 
 clared — declining the first course with a wave of 
 his hand — that he had come "^yust for de sake 
 of sociapility." 
 
 "I haf seen efery day doze children work und 
 sing so nize togedder yust like leetle mans und 
 ladies, so I come yust to eggsbress my t'anks for 
 de compliment, und to make de acquaintance 
 ofE doze nize y'ung neighbors." This with a 
 courtly bow to each one of the children separate- 
 ly. And he added in a moment : " De dinner 
 iss very fine, but for me one dinner iss yust like 
 anudder. Doze are all externals." 
 
 To which measured and kindly speech Conrad 
 could not help replying, '' It won't be an ex- 
 ternal to us. Professor, by the time we get 
 through." 
 
 " Oho !" exclaimed the old man, delighted 
 
60 
 
 with the boy's ready wit. " Dot's a wery 
 schmart boy you got dhere, Mrs. Vrey." 
 
 At this exhibition of broken English the 
 twins, who were waiting on the table, thought 
 it safe to rush to the kitchen on pretence of 
 changing plates, while Dorothea, seated at the 
 Professor's left, found it necessary to bite both 
 lips and to stare hard at the vinegar-cruet for 
 fully a second to keep from laughing. Then, 
 to make sure of her self-possession, she artfully 
 changed the subject, remarking, dryly, 
 
 "My nickel buyed the ice." 
 
 This was much funnier than the Professor's 
 speech, judging from the laughter that followed 
 it. And Miss Dorothea Frey's manners were 
 saved, which was the important thing. 
 
 It would be impossible in this short space to 
 give a full account of this novel and interesting 
 dinner party, but if any one supposes that there 
 was a dull moment in it, he is altogether mis- 
 taken. 
 
 Mrs. Frey and Ethel saw to it that no one was 
 neglected in conversation ; Meg and Conrad 
 looked after the prompt replenishing of plates, 
 though the alert little waiters, Felix and Felicie, 
 anticipated every want, and were as sprightly as 
 two crickets, while Dorothea provoked frequent 
 laughter by a random fire of unexpected remarks. 
 
61 
 
 never failing, for instance, to offer ice - water 
 during every ''still minute"; and, indeed, once 
 that young lady did a thing that might have 
 proved quite terrible had the old lady Saxony, 
 who sat opposite, been disagreeable or sensi- 
 tive. 
 
 What Dorothea said was innocent enough — 
 only a single word of two letters, to begin with. 
 
 She had been looking blankly at her opposite 
 neighbor for a full minute, when she suddenly 
 exclaimed, 
 
 ''Oh!" 
 
 That was all, but it made everybody look, first 
 at Dolly and then across the table. Whereupon 
 the little maid, seeing her blunder, hastened to 
 add : 
 
 "That's nothin'. My grandma's come out 
 too." 
 
 And then, of course, every one noticed that 
 old lady Saxony held her dainty hemstitched 
 handkerchief quite over her mouth. Fortunate- 
 ly Mrs. Saxony's good sense was as great as her 
 appreciation of humor, and, as she shook her 
 finger threateningly at Dorothea, her twinkling 
 eyes gave everybody leave to laugh. So " Dolly's 
 terrible break," as Conrad called it, really went 
 far to making the dinner a success — that is, if 
 story-telling and laughter and the merry clamor 
 
62 
 
 such as distinguish the gayest of dinner parties 
 the world over count as success. 
 
 It was wliile the Professor was telling a fnnny 
 story of his boy life in Germany that there came 
 a rap at tlie door, and the children, thinking 
 only of Madame Coraline, turned their eyes tow- 
 ards the door, only to see the Italian organ- 
 grinder, whom, in the excitement of the dinner 
 party, they had forgotten to expect. He was to 
 play for the children to dance after dinner, and 
 had come a little early — or perhaps dinner was 
 late. 
 
 Seeing the situation, the old man began bow- 
 ing himself out, when the Professor, winking 
 mysteriously at Mrs. Frcy and gesticulating ani- 
 matedly, pointed first to the old Italian and then 
 to Madame Coraline's vacant chair. Everybody 
 understood, and smiling faces had already shown 
 approval when Mrs. Frey said, quietly, "Let's 
 put it to vote. All in favor raise glasses." 
 
 Every glass went up. The old Italian under- 
 stood little English, but the offer of a seat is a 
 simple pantomime, and he was presently declin- 
 ing again and again, bowing lower each time, 
 until before he knew it — all the time refusing — 
 he was in the chair, his plate was filled, and 
 Dolly was asking him to have ice-water. No 
 guest of the day Avas more welcome. None en- 
 
THE ITALIAN ORGAN-GRrNDER 
 
63 
 
 joyed his dinner more, judging from the indica- 
 tions. And as to Meg, the moving spirit in the 
 whole party, she was beside herself with delight 
 over the unexpected guest. 
 
 The dinner all through was what Conrad 
 called a " rattlin' success," and the evening after- 
 wards, during which nearly every guest con- 
 tributed some entertainment, was one long to be 
 remembered. The Professor not only sang, but 
 danced. Miss Penny whistled so like a canary 
 that one could really believe her when she said 
 she always trained her young birds' voices. 
 Miss Guyosa told charming folk-lore anecdotes, 
 handed down in her family since the old Spanish 
 days in Louisiana. 
 
 The smiling organ-grinder played his engaged 
 twenty-five cents' worth of tunes over and over 
 again, and when the evening was done, persist- 
 ently refused to take the money until Felix 
 slipped it into his pocket. 
 
 - The Frey party will long be remembered in 
 the Coppenole house, and beyond it, too, for 
 some very pleasant friendships date from this 
 Christmas dinner. The old Professor was just 
 the man to help Conrad with hiL German lessons. 
 It was so easy for Meg to send hini a cup of hot 
 coffee on cold mornings. Mrs. Frey and Miss 
 Guyosa soon found many ties in common friends 
 
64 
 
 of their youth. Indeed, the twins had gotten 
 their French names from a remote Creole cousin, 
 who proved to be also a kinswoman to Miss 
 Guyosa. It was such a comfort, Avhen Mrs. 
 Frey was kept out late at the office, for the 
 children to have Miss Guyosa come and sit with 
 them, telling stories or reading aloud ; and they 
 brought much brightness into her life too. 
 
 Madame Coraline soon moved away, and, in- 
 deed, before another Christmas the Freys had 
 moved too — to a small cottage all their own, sit- 
 ting in the midst of a pretty rose-garden. Here 
 often come Miss Guyosa and the Professor, both 
 welcome guests, and Conrad says the Professor 
 makes love to Miss Guyosa, but it is hard to tell. 
 
 One cannot keep up with two people who can 
 tell jokes in four languages, but the Professor 
 has a way of dropping in as if by accident on the 
 evenings Miss Guyosa is visiting the Freys, and 
 they do read the same books — in four languages. 
 There's really no telling. 
 
 When the Frey children are playing on the 
 banquette at their front gate on sunny afternoons, 
 the old organ-grinder often stops, plays a free 
 tune or two for them to dance by, smilingly 
 doffs his hat to the open window above, and 
 passes on. 
 
LITTLE MOTHER QUACKALINA 
 
LITTLE MOTHER QUACKALINA 
 
 STORY OF A DUCK FARM 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE black dnck had a hard time of it from 
 the beginning — that is, from the begin- 
 ning of her life on the farm. She had 
 been a free wild bird np to that time, swimming 
 in the bay, playing hide-and-seek with her 
 brothers and sisters and cousins among the marsh 
 reeds along the bank, and coqnettishly diving for 
 *'mnmmies" and catching them "on the swim" 
 whenever she craved a fishy morsel. This put 
 a fresh perfume on her breath, and made her 
 utterly charming to her seventh cousin. Sir Sooty 
 Drake, who always kept himself actually fra- 
 grant with the aroma of raw fish, and was in all 
 respects a dashing bean. Indeed, she was be- 
 having most coyly, daintily swimming in grace- 
 ful curves around Sir Sooty among the marsh- 
 
68 
 
 mallow clumps at the mouth of " Tarrup Crik," 
 when the shot was fired that changed all her 
 prospects in life. 
 
 The farmer's boy was a hunter, and so had been 
 his grandfather, and his grandfather's gun did 
 its work with a terrific old-fashioned explosion. 
 
 When it shot into the great clump of pink 
 mallows everything trembled. The air was full 
 of smoke, and for a distance of a quarter of a 
 mile away the toads crept out of their hiding 
 and looked up and down the road. The chickens 
 picking at the late raspberry bushes in the farmer's 
 yard craned their necks, blinked, and didn't swal- 
 low another berry for fully ten seconds. And a 
 beautiful green caterpillar, that had seen the 
 great red rooster mark him with his evil eye, and 
 expected to be gobbled up in a twinkling, had 
 time to *'hump himself "and crawl under a leaf 
 before the astonished rooster recovered from the 
 noise. This is a case where the firing of a gun 
 saved at least one life. I wonder how many 
 butterflies owe their lives to that gun ? 
 
 As to the ducks in the clump of mallows that 
 caught the volley, they simply tumbled over and 
 gave themselves up for dead. 
 
 The heroine of our little story. Lady Quacka- 
 lina Blackwing, stayed in a dead faint for fully 
 seventeen seconds, and the first thing she knew 
 
69 
 
 when she " came to " was that she was lying 
 under the farmer boy's coat in an old basket, and 
 that there was a terrific rumbling in her ears and 
 a sharp pain in one wing, that something was 
 sticking her, that Sir Sooty Avas nowhere in 
 sight, and that she wanted her mother and all 
 her relations. 
 
 Indeed, as she began to collect her senses, while 
 she lay on top of the live crab that pinched her 
 chest with his claw, she realized that there was 
 not a cousin in the world, even to some she had 
 rather disliked, that she would not have been 
 most happy to greet at this trying moment. 
 
 The crab probably had no unfriendly inten- 
 tion. He was only putting up the best hand he 
 had, trying to find some of his own kindred. He 
 had himself been lying in a hole in shallow water 
 when the farmer's boy raked him in and changed 
 the whole course of his existence. 
 
 He and the duck knew each other by sight, 
 but though they were both ''in the swim," they 
 belonged to different sets, and so were small com- 
 fort to one another on this journey to the 
 farm. 
 
 They both knew some English, and as the farm- 
 er's boy spoke part English and part "farm," they 
 understood him fairly well when he was telling 
 the man digging potatoes in the field that he 
 
70 
 
 was going to " bile " tho crab in a tomato caa 
 and to make a " decoy " out of the duck. 
 
 " Bile " and " decoy " were new words to the 
 listeners in the basket, but they both knew about 
 tomato cans. The bay and " Tarrup Crik " were 
 strewn with them, and the crab had once hidden 
 in one, half imbedded in the sand, when he was a 
 ^'soft-shell." He knew their names, because he 
 had studied them before their labels soaked off, 
 and he knew there was no malice in them for 
 him, though the young fishes who have soft out- 
 sides dreaded their sharp edges very much. 
 There is sometimes some advantage in having 
 one's skeleton on the surface, like a coat of mail. 
 
 And so the crab was rather pleased at the 
 prospect of the tomato can. He thought the cans 
 grew in the bay, and so he expected presently to 
 be " biled " in his own home waters. The word 
 " biled " probably meant dropped in. Ignorance 
 is sometimes bliss, indeed. 
 
 Poor little Quackalina, however, was getting 
 less comfort out of her ignorance. She thought 
 " decoy " had a foreign sound, as if it might mean 
 a French stew. She had had relations who had 
 departed life by way of a puree, while others 
 had gone into a saute or pdte. Perhaps a "de- 
 coy " was a pdte with gravy or a puree with a 
 crust on it. If worse came to the worst, she 
 
71 
 
 would prefer the puree with a crnst. It would 
 be more like decent burial. 
 
 Of course she thought these things in duck 
 language, which is not put in here, because it is 
 not generally understood. It is quite a different 
 thing from Pidgin - English, and it isn't all 
 "quack" any more than French is all *'au 
 revoir," or Turkey all ''gobble, gobble," or 
 goose only a string of " S's," or darkey all 
 "howdy." 
 
 The crab's thoughts were expressed in his eyes, 
 that began coming out like little telescopes un- 
 til they stood quite over his cheeks. Maybe 
 some people think crabs have no cheeks, but that 
 isn't so. They have them, but they keep them 
 inside, where they blush unseen, if they blush 
 at all. 
 
 But this is the story of the black duck. How- 
 ever, perhaps some one who reads it will be 
 pleased to know that the crab got away. He 
 sidled up — sidled is a regular word in crab lan- 
 guage — until his left eye could see straight into 
 the boy's face, and then he waited. He had long 
 ago found that there was nothing to be gained 
 by pinching the duck. It only made a row in 
 the basket and got him upset. But, by keeping 
 very still and watching his chance, he managed 
 to climb so near the top that when the basket 
 
72 
 
 gave a lurch he simply vaulted overboard and 
 dropped in the field. Then he hid between three 
 mushrooms and a stick until the boy's footsteps 
 were out of hearing and he had time to draw in 
 his eyes and start for the bay. He had lost his 
 left claw some time before, and the new one he 
 was growing was not yet very strong. Still, let 
 us hope that he reached there in safety. 
 
 The duck knew Avhen he had been trying to 
 get out, but she didn't tell. She wanted him to 
 go, for she didn't like his ways. Still, when he 
 had gone, she felt lonely. Misery loves company 
 — even though it be very poor company. 
 
 But Quackalina had not long to feel lonely. 
 Almost any boy who has shot a duck walks home 
 with it pretty fast, and this boy nearly ran. He 
 would have run if his legs hadn't been so fat. 
 
 The first sound that Quackalina heard when 
 they reached the gate was the quacking of a 
 thousand ducks, and it frightened her so that 
 she forgot all about the crab and her aching 
 wing and even the decoy. The boy lived on a 
 duck farm, and it was here that he had brought 
 her. This would seem to be a most happy thing 
 — but there are ducks and ducks. Poor little 
 Quackalina knew the haughty quawk of the 
 proud white ducks of Pekin. She knew that 
 she would be only a poor colored person among 
 
73 
 
 them, and that she, whose mother and grand- 
 mother had lived in the swim of best beach 
 circles and had looked down upon these incu- 
 bator whitings, who were grown by the pound 
 and had no relations whatever, would now have 
 to suffer their scorn. 
 
 Even their distant quawk made her quake, 
 though she feared her end was near. There are 
 some trivial things that are irritating even in 
 the presence of death. 
 
 But Quackalina was not soon to die. She did 
 suffer some humiliations, and her wing was very 
 painful, but a great discovery soon filled her 
 with such joy that nothing else seemed worth 
 thinking about. 
 
 There were three other black ducks on the 
 farm, and they hastened to tell her that they 
 vrere already decoys, and that the one pleas- 
 ant thing in being a decoy was that it was not to 
 be killed or cooked or eaten. 
 
 This was good news. The life of a decoy- 
 duck was hard enough ; but when one got ac- 
 customed to have its foot tied to the shore, and 
 shots fired all around it, one grew almost to en- 
 joy it. It was so exciting. But to the timid 
 young duck who had never been through it it 
 was a terrible prospect. 
 
 And so, for a long time, little Quackalina was 
 
74 
 
 a very sad duck. She loved her cousin. Sir 
 Sooty, aud she loved piuk mallow blossoms. She 
 liked to eat the "mummy" fish alive, and not 
 cooked with sea-weed, as the farmer fed them to 
 her. 
 
 But most of all she missed Sir Sooty. And 
 so, two weeks later, when her wing was nearly 
 well, in its new, drooping shape, what was her 
 Joy when he himself actually waddled into the 
 farm-yard — into her very presence — without a 
 single quack of warning. 
 
 The feathers of one of his beautiful wings 
 were clipped, but he was otherwise looking quite 
 well, and he hastened to tell her that he was 
 happy, even in exile, to be with her again. And 
 she believed him. 
 
 He had been caj)tured in a very humiliating 
 way, and this he made her promise never to tell. 
 He had swum so near the decoy-duck that his 
 foot had caught in its string, and before he 
 could get away the farmer had him fast. "And 
 now," he quacked, "I'm glad I did it," and 
 Quackalina quacked, "So am I." And they 
 were very happy. 
 
 Indeed, they grew so blissful after a while that 
 they decided to try to make the best of farm 
 life and to settle down. So they began meander- 
 ing about on long waddles — or waddling about 
 
75 
 
 on long meanders — all over the place^ hunting 
 for a cozy hiding-place for a nest. For five whole 
 days they hunted before Quackalina finally set- 
 tled down into the hollow that she declared 
 was *'just a fit" for her, under the edge of 
 the old shanty where the Pekin feathers were 
 stored. 
 
 White, fluffy feathers are very beautiful things, 
 and they are soft and pleasant to our touch, 
 but they are sad sights to ducks and geese, and 
 Quackalina selected a place for her nest where 
 she could never see the door open into this dread 
 storehouse. 
 
 It was, indeed, very well hidden, and, as if to 
 make it still more secure, a friendly golden-rod 
 sprang up quite in front of it, and a growth of 
 pepper-grass kindly closed in one side. 
 
 Quackalina had never been sent out on decoy 
 duty, and after a time she ceased to fear it, but 
 sometimes Sir Sooty had to go, and his little 
 wife would feel very anxious until he came back. 
 
 There are some very sad parts in this little 
 story, and we are coming to one of them now. 
 
 The home-nest had been made. There were 
 ten beautiful eggs in it — all polished and shining 
 like opals. And the early golden-rod that stood 
 on guard before it was sending out a first yellow 
 spray when troubles began to come. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 QuACKALiifA tliought she had laid twice as 
 many as ten eggs in the nest, but she could not 
 be quite sure, and neither could Sir Sooty, 
 though he thought so, too. 
 
 Very few poetic people are good at arithmetic, 
 and even fine mathematicians are said to forget 
 how to count when they are in love. 
 
 Certain it is, however, that when Quackalina 
 finally decided to be satisfied to begin sitting, 
 there were exactly ten eggs in the nest — just 
 enough for her to cover well with her warm 
 down and feathers. 
 
 '^ Sitting-time" may seem stupid to those who 
 are not sitting ; but Quackalina's breast was filled 
 with a gentle content as she sat, day by day, be- 
 hind the golden-rod, and blinked and reflected 
 and listened for the dear "paddle, paddle" of 
 Sir Sooty's feet, and his loving " qua', qua' " — 
 a sort of caressing baby-talk that he had adopted 
 in speaking to her ever since she had begun her 
 long sitting. 
 
 Quackalina was a patient little creature, and 
 
77 
 
 seldom left her nest, so that when she did so for 
 a short walk in the glaring snn, she was apt to 
 be dizzy and to see strange spots before her eyes. 
 But this would all pass away when she got back 
 to her cozy nest in the cool shade. 
 
 But one day it did not pass away — it got worse, 
 or, at least, she thonglit it did. Instead of ten 
 eggs in the nest she seemed to see twenty, and they 
 were of a strange, dull color, and their shape 
 seemed all wrong. She blinked her eyes nineteen 
 times, and even rubbed them with her web-feet, 
 so that she might not see double, but it was all 
 in vain. Before her dazzled eyes twenty little 
 pointed eggs lay, and when she sat upon them 
 they felt strange to her breast. And then she 
 grew faint and was too weak even to call Sir 
 Sooty, but when he came waddling along present- 
 ly, he found her so pale around the bill that he 
 made her put out her tongue, and examined her 
 symptoms generally. 
 
 Sir Sooty was not a regular doctor, but he was 
 a very good quack, and she believed in him, 
 which, in many cases, is the main thing. 
 
 So when he grew so tender that his words 
 were almost like " qu, qu,'^ and told her that 
 she had been confined too closely and was threat- 
 ened with foie gras, she only sighed and closed 
 her eyes, and, keeping her fears to herself, hoped 
 
78 
 
 tliat the trouble was all in her eyes indeed — or 
 her liver. 
 
 Now the sad part of this talc is that the trouble 
 was not with poor little Quackalina's eyes at all. 
 It was in the nest. The same farmer's boy who 
 had kept her sitting of eggs down to ten by tak- 
 ing out one every day until poor Quackalina's 
 patience was worn out — the same boy who had 
 not used her as a decoy only because he wanted 
 her to stay at home and raise little decoy-ducks — 
 this boy it was who had now chosen to take her 
 ten beautiful eggs and put them under a guinea- 
 hen, and to fetch the setting of twenty guinea 
 eggs for Quackalina to hatch out. 
 
 He did this just because, as he said, "That old 
 black duck '11 hatch out as many eggs again as a 
 guinea-hen will, an' the guinea '11 cover her ten 
 eggs easy. I'm goin' to swap 'em." And "swap 
 'em " he did. 
 
 Nobody knows how the guinea-hen liked her 
 sitting, for none but herself and the boy knew 
 where her nest was hidden in a pile of old rub- 
 bish down by the cow-pond. 
 
 When a night had passed, and a new day 
 showed poor Quackalina the twenty little eggs 
 actually under her breast — eggs so little that she 
 could roll two at once under her foot — she did 
 not know what to think. But like many patient 
 
79 
 
 people when great sorrows come, she kept very 
 still and never told her fears. 
 
 She had never seen a guinea egg before in all 
 her life. There were birds' nests in some of the 
 reeds along shore, and she knew their little toy 
 eggs. She knew the eggs of snakes, too, and of 
 terrapins, or 'Harrups," as they are called by the 
 farmer folk along the bay. 
 
 When first she discovered the trouble in the 
 nest she thought of these, and the very idea of 
 a great procession of little turtles starting out 
 from under her some fine morning startled her 
 so that her head lay limp against the golden-rod 
 for fully thirteen seconds. Then she got better, 
 but it was not until she had taken a nip at the 
 pepper-grass that she was sufficiently warmed up 
 to hold up her head and think. And when she 
 thought, she was comforted. These dainty pointed 
 eggs were not in the least like the soft clumsy 
 " double -enders" that the turtles lay in the 
 sand. Besides, how could turtle-eggs have got- 
 ten there anyway ? How much easier for one 
 head to go wrong than twenty eggs. 
 
 She chuckled at the very folly of her fears, 
 and nestling down into the place, she soon be- 
 gan to nod. And presently she had a funny, 
 funny dream, which is much too long to go into 
 this story, which is a great pity, for her dream is 
 
80 
 
 quite as interesting as the real story, although it 
 is not half so true. 
 
 Sitting-time, after this, seemed very long to 
 Quackalina, but after a wliile she began to know 
 by various little stirrings under lier downy breast 
 that it was almost over. At the first real move- 
 ment against her wing she felt as if everything 
 about her was singing and saying, " mother ! 
 mother !" and bowing to her. 
 
 Even the pepper-grass nodded and the golden- 
 rod, and careless roosters as they passed seemed 
 to lower their combs to her and to forget them- 
 selves, just for a minute. And a great song was 
 in her own bosom — a great song of joy — and al- 
 though the sound that came from her beautiful 
 coral bill was only a soft '' qua', qua'," to common 
 ears, to those who have the finest liearing it was 
 full of a heavenly tenderness. But tliere was a 
 tremor in it, too — a tremor of fear ; and the fear 
 was so terrible that it kept her from looking 
 down even when she knew a little head was 
 thrusting itself up through her great warm wing. 
 She drew the wing as a caressing arm lovingly 
 about it though, and saying to herself, "I must 
 wait till they are all come ; then I'll look," she 
 gazed upward at the moon that was just show- 
 ing a rim of gold over the hay-stack — and closed 
 her eyes. 
 
81 
 
 There was no sleep that long night for little 
 mother Quackalina. 
 
 It was a great, great night. Under her breast, 
 wonderful happenings every minute ; outside, 
 the white moonlight ; and always in sight across 
 the yard, just a dark object against the ground — 
 Sir Sooty, sound asleep, like a philosopher ! 
 
 Oh yes, it was a great, great night. Its last 
 hours before day were very dark and sorrowful, 
 and by the time a golden gleam shot out of the 
 east Quackalina knew that her first glance into 
 the nest must bring her grief. The tiny restless 
 things beneath her brooding wings were chirping 
 in an unknown tongue. But their wiry Japan- 
 esy voices, that clinked together like little cop- 
 per kettles, were very young and helpless, and 
 Quackalina was a true mother -duck, and her 
 heart went out to them. 
 
 When the fatal moment came and she really 
 looked down into the nest, her relief in seeing 
 beautiful feathered things, at least, was greater 
 than any other feeling. It was something not to 
 have to mother a lot of -^tarrups," certainly. 
 
 Little guineas are very beautiful, and when 
 presently Quackalina found herself crossing the 
 yard with her twenty dainty red-booted hatch- 
 lings, although she longed for her own dear, ugly, 
 smoky," beautiful " ducklings, she could not help 
 
82 
 
 feeling pleasure and pride in the exquisite little 
 creatures tliat had stepped so briskl}' into life 
 from beneath her own breast. 
 
 It was natural that she should have hurried 
 to the pond with her brood. "Wouldn't she have 
 taken her own ducklings there ? If these were 
 only little "step-ducks," she was resolved that, 
 in the language of step-mothers, "they should 
 never know the difference." She would begin 
 by taking them in swimming. 
 
 Besides, she longed for the pond herself. It 
 was the place where she could best think quietly 
 and get tilings straightened in her mind. 
 
 Sir Sooty had not seen her start off with her 
 new family. He had said to himself that he 
 had lost so much rest all night that he must 
 have a good breakfast, and so, at the moment 
 when Quackalina and the guineas slipped around 
 the stable to the cow -pond, he was actually 
 floundering in the very centre of one of the feed- 
 troughs in the yard, and letting the farmer turn 
 the great mass of cooked " feed " all over him. 
 Greedy ducks often act that way. Even the 
 snow-white Pekins do it. It is bad enough any 
 time, but on the great morning when one be- 
 comes a papa-duck he ought to try to be digni- 
 fied, and Sir Sooty knew it. And he knew full 
 well that events had been happening all night in 
 
83 
 
 the nest, and that was why he said he had lost 
 rest. But he hadn't. A great many people are 
 like Sir Sooty. They say they lose sleep when 
 they don't. 
 
 But listen to what was taking place at the cow- 
 pond, for it is this that made this story seem 
 worth the telling. 
 
 "When Quackalina reached the pond, she flap- 
 ped her tired wings three times from pure glad- 
 ness at the sight of the beautiful water. And 
 then, plunging in, she took one delightful dive 
 before she turned to the shore, and in the sweet- 
 est tones invited the little ones to follow her. 
 
 But they — 
 
 Well, they just looked down at their red satin 
 boots and shook their heads. And then it was 
 that Quackalina noticed their feet, and saw that 
 they would never swim. 
 
 It was a great shock to her. She paddled 
 along shore quite near them for a while, trying 
 to be resigned to it. And then she waddled out 
 on the grassy bank, and fed them with some newts, 
 and a tadpole, and a few blue-bottle flies, and a 
 snail, and several other delicacies, which they 
 seemed to enjoy quite as much as if they had been 
 young ducks. And then Quackalina, seeing them 
 quite happy, struck out for the very middle of 
 the pond. She would have one glorious outing, 
 
84 
 
 at least. Oh, how sweet the water was ! How it 
 soothed the tender spots under her weary wings ! 
 How it cooled her ears and her tired eyelids ! 
 And now — and now — and now — as she dived and 
 dipped and plunged — how it cheered and com- 
 forted her heart ! How faithfully it bore her 
 on its cool bosom ! For a few minutes, in the 
 simple joy of her bath, she even forgot to be sor- 
 rowful. 
 
 And now comes the dear part of the troublous 
 tale of this little black mother-duck — the part 
 that is so pleasant to write — the part that it will 
 be good to read. 
 
 When at last Quackalina, turning, said to her- 
 self, '^I must go ashore now and look after my 
 little steppies," she raised her eyes and looked 
 before her to see just where she was. And then 
 the vision she seemed to see was so strange and 
 so beautiful that — well, she said afterwards that 
 she never knew just how she bore it. 
 
 Just before her, on the water, swimming easily 
 on its trusty surface, were ten little ugly, smoky, 
 " beautiful" ducks ! Ten little ducks that looked 
 precisely like every one of Qnackalina's rela- 
 tions ! And now they saw her and began swim- 
 ming towards her. 
 
 Before she knew it, Quackalina had flapped 
 her great wings and quacked aloud three times. 
 
85 
 
 and three times again ! And she didn't know 
 she was doing it^ either. 
 
 She did know, though, that in less time than 
 it has taken to tell it, her own ten beautiful 
 ducks were close about her, and that she was 
 kissing each one somewhere with her great 
 red bill. And then she saw that upon the bank a 
 nervous, hysterical guinea-hen was tearing along, 
 and in a voice like a carving-knife screeching 
 aloud with terror. It went through Quackalina's 
 bosom like a neuralgia, but she didn't mind 
 it very much. Indeed, she forgot it instantly 
 when she looked down upon her ducklings 
 again, and she even forgot to think about it 
 any more. And so it was that the beautiful 
 thing that was happening on the bank, under 
 her very eyes almost, never came to Quackalina's 
 knowledge at all. 
 
 When her own bosom was as full of joy as it 
 could be, why should she have turned at the 
 sound of the carving-knife voice to look ashore, 
 and to notice that at its first note there were 
 twenty little pocket-knife answers from over the 
 pond, and that in a twinkling twenty pairs of red 
 satin boots were running as fast as they could go 
 to meet the great speckled mother-hen, whose 
 blady voice was the sweetest music in all the 
 world to them ? 
 
86 
 
 When, after qnito a long time, Qnackalina 
 began to realize things, and thonght of the little 
 guineas, and said to herself, " Goodness gracious 
 me !" she looked anxiously ashore for them, 
 but not a red boot could she see. The whole 
 delighted guinea family were at that moment hav- 
 ing a happy time away off in the cornfield out of 
 sight and hearing. 
 
 This was very startling, and Quackalina grieved 
 a little because she couldn't grieve more. She 
 didn't understand it at all, and it made her al- 
 most afraid to go ashore, so she kept her ten lit- 
 tle ducklings out upon the water nearly all day. 
 
 And now comes a very amusing thing in this 
 story. 
 
 When this great, eventful day was passed, 
 and Quackalina was sitting happily among the 
 reeds with her dear ones under her wings, while 
 Sir Sooty waddled proudly around her with the 
 waddle that Quackalina thought the most grace- 
 ful walk in the world, she began to tell him 
 what had happened, beginning at the time when 
 she noticed that the eggs were wrong. 
 
 Sir Sooty listened very indulgently for a while, 
 and then — it is a pity to tell it on him, but he 
 actually burst out laughing, and told her, with 
 the most patronizing quack in the world, that it 
 was "all imagination." 
 
87 
 
 And when Quackalina insisted with tears and 
 even a sob or two that it was every word true, 
 he quietly looked at her tongue again, and then 
 he said a very long word for a quack doctor. It 
 sounded like ^lucination. And he told Quack- 
 alina never, on any account, to tell any one else 
 so absurd a tale, and that it was only a canard — 
 which was very flippant and unkind, in several 
 ways. There are times when even good Jokes 
 are out of place. 
 
 At this, Quackalina said that she would take 
 him to the nest and show him the little pointed 
 egg-shells. And she did take him there, too. 
 Late at night, when all honest ducks, except- 
 ing somnambulists and such as have vindica- 
 tions on hand, are asleep, Quackalina led the way 
 back to the old nest. But when she got there, 
 although the clear, white moonlight lay upon 
 everything and revealed every blade of grass, not 
 a vestige of nest or straw or shell remained in 
 sight. 
 
 The farmer's boy had cleared them all away. 
 
 By this time Quackalina began to be mystified 
 herself, and after a while, seeing only her own 
 ten ducks always near, and never sighting such a 
 thing as little, flecked, red-booted guineas, she 
 really came to doubt whether it had all happened 
 or not. 
 
88 
 
 And even to this day she is not qnitc sure. 
 How slie and all her family finally got away and 
 became happy wild birds again is another story. 
 But while Quackalina sits and blinks npon the 
 bank among the mallows, with all her ngly 
 *'beautifnl" children around her, she sometimes 
 even yet wonders if the whole thing could have 
 been a nightmare, after all. 
 
 But it was no nightmare. It was every word 
 true. If anybody doesn't believe it, let him ask 
 the guineas. 
 
OLD EASTER 
 
OLD EASTER 
 
 NEARLY everybody in New Orleans knew 
 Old Easter, the candy-woman. She was 
 very black, very wrinkled, and very thin, 
 and she spoke with a wiry, cracked voice that 
 would have been Ditiful to hear had it not been 
 so merry and so constantly Jieard in the fnnny 
 high laughter that often announced her before 
 she turned a street corner, as she hobbled along 
 by herself with her old candy-basket balanced on 
 her head. 
 
 People who had known her for years said that 
 she had carried her basket in this way for so 
 long that she could walk more comfortably with 
 it than without it. Certainly her head and its 
 burden seemed to give her less trouble than her 
 feet, as she picked her way along the uneven han- 
 quettes with her stick. _ But then her feet were 
 tied up in so many rags that even if they had been 
 young and strong it would have been hard for her 
 
92 
 
 to walk well witli them. Sometimes the nags were 
 worn inside her shoes and sometimes outside, 
 according to the shoes she wore. All of these 
 were begged or picked out of trash heaps, and 
 she was not at all particular about them, just so 
 they were big enough to hold her old rheumatic 
 feet — though she showed a special liking for 
 men's boots. 
 
 AVhen asked why she preferred to wear boots 
 she would always answer, promptly, ''Ter keep 
 off snake bites"; and then she would almost cer- 
 tainly, if there were listeners enough, continue 
 in this fashion : " You all young trash f orgits 
 dat I dates back ter de snake days in dis town. 
 Why, when I was a li'l' gal, about so high, I was 
 walkin' along Canal Street one day, barefeeted, 
 an' not lookin' down, an' terrectly I feel some'h'n' 
 nip me ' snip !' in de big toe, an' lookin' quick I 
 see a grea' big rattlesnake — " 
 
 As she said '^snip," the street children who 
 were gathered around her would start and Ibok 
 about them, half expecting to see a great snake 
 suddenly appear upon the flag-stones of the pave- 
 ment. 
 
 At this the old woman would scream with 
 laughter as she assured them that there were 
 thousands of serpents there now that they 
 couldn't see, because they had only '* single 
 
OLD EASTER 
 
93 
 
 sight/' and that many times when they thought 
 mosquitoes were biting them they were being 
 ^^'tackted. by cleze heah onvisible snakes." 
 
 It is easy to see why the children would gath- 
 er about her to listen to her talk. 
 
 Nobody knew how old Easter was. Indeed, 
 she did not know herself, and when any one 
 asked her, she would say, "I 'spec' I mus' be 
 'long about twenty-fo'," or, '^ Don't you reckon 
 I mus' be purty nigh on to nineteen ?" And 
 then, when she saw from her questioner's face 
 that she had made a mistake, she would add, 
 quickly: "I means twenty-fo' 7i^^«fre^, honey," 
 or, "^I means a hund'ed an' nineteen," which 
 latter amendment no doubt came nearer the 
 truth. 
 
 Having arrived at a figure that seemed to be 
 acceptable, she would generally repeat it, in this 
 way : 
 
 " Yas, missy ; I was twenty-fo' hund'ed years 
 ole las' Easter Sunday." 
 
 The old woman had never forgotten that she 
 had been named Easter because she was born on 
 that day, and so she always claimed Easter Sun. 
 day as her birthday, and no amount of explana- 
 tion would convince her that this was not always 
 true. 
 
 "What diS'ence do it make ter me ef it comes 
 
04 
 
 soon or late, I like ter know ?" she would argue. 
 *' Ef it comes soon, I gits my birfday presents 
 dat much quicker ; an' cf it comes late, yon all 
 got dat much mo' time ter buy me some mo'. 
 Tain't fur me ter deny my birfday caze it moves 
 round." 
 
 And then she would add, with a peal of her 
 high, cracked laughter : "Seem ter me, de way 
 I keeps a-livin' on — an' a-livin' on — an' a-livin' 
 on — maybe deze heah slip-aroun' birfdays don't 
 pin a pusson down ter ole age so close't as de 
 clock-work reg'lars does." 
 
 And then, if she Avere in the mood for it, she 
 would set her basket down, and, without lifting 
 her feet from the ground, go through a number 
 of quick and comical movements, posing with 
 her arms and body in a way that was absurdly 
 like dancing. 
 
 Old Easter had been a very clever woman in 
 her day, and many an extra j)icayune had been 
 dropped into her wrinkled palm — nobody remem- 
 bered the time when it wasn't wrinkled — in the 
 old days, Just because of some witty answer she 
 had given while she untied the corner of her 
 handkerchief for the coins to make change in 
 selling her candy. 
 
 One of the very interesting things about the 
 old woman was her memory. It was really very 
 
95 
 
 pleasant to talk with a person who could dis- 
 tinctly recall General Jackson and Governor 
 Claiborne, who would tell blood-curdling tales 
 of Lafitte the pirate and of her own wonderful ex- 
 periences when as a young girl she had served 
 his table at Barataria. 
 
 If, as her memory failed her, the old creature 
 was tempted into making up stories to supply 
 the growing demand, it would not be fair to 
 blame her too severely. Indeed, it is not at 
 all certain that, as the years passed, she herself 
 knew which of the marvellous tales she related 
 were true and which made to order. 
 
 ^*Yas, sir," she would say, "I ricollec' when 
 all dis heah town wasn't nothin' but a alligator 
 swamp — no houses — no fences — no streets — no 
 gas-postes — no 'lection lights — no — no river — no 
 nothin' /" 
 
 If she had only stopped before she got to the 
 river, she would have kept the faith of her hear- 
 ers better, but it wouldn't have been half so 
 funny. 
 
 " There wasn't anything here then but you and 
 the snakes, I suppose ?" So a boy answered her 
 one day, thinking to tease her a little. 
 
 "Yas, me an' de snakes an' alligators an' Gin- 
 eral Jackson an' my ole marster's gran'daddy 
 an'—" 
 
96 
 
 " And Adam ?" added the mischievous fellow, 
 still determined to worry her if possible. 
 
 ** Yas, Marse Adam an' ole Mistus, Mis' Eve, 
 an' de great big p'isonous fork-tailed snake wha' 
 snatch de apple dat Marse Adam an' Mis' Eve 
 was squabblin' over — an' et it up !" 
 
 When she had gotten this far, while the chil- 
 dren chuckled, she began reaching for her bas- 
 ket, that she had set down upon the banquette. 
 Lifting it to her head, now, she walled her eyes 
 around mysteriously as she added : 
 
 " Yas, an' you better look out fur dat p'ison- 
 ous fork-tailed snake, caze he's agoin' roun' hear 
 right now ; an' de favoristest dinner dat he craves 
 ter eat is des sech no-'count, sassy, questionin' 
 street-boys like you is." 
 
 And with a toss of her head that set her candy- 
 basket swaying and a peal of saw-teeth laughter, 
 she started off, while her would-be teaser found 
 that the laugh was turned on himself. 
 
 It was sometimes hard to know when Easter 
 was serious or when she was amusing herself — 
 when she was sensible or when she wandered in 
 her mind. ^Vnd to the thoughtless it was always 
 hard to take her seriously. 
 
 Only those who, through all her miserable 
 rags and absurdities, saw the very poor and piti- 
 ful old, old woman, who seemed always to be 
 
97 
 
 companionless and alone, would sometimes won- 
 der about her, and, saying a kind and encour- 
 aging word, drop a few coins in her slim, black 
 hand without making her lower her basket. Or 
 they would invite her to " call at the house " for 
 some old worn flannels or odds and ends of cold 
 victuals. 
 
 And there were a few who never forgot her in 
 their Easter offerings, for which, as for all other 
 gifts, she was requested to "call at the back 
 gate." This seemed, indeed, the only way of 
 reaching the weird old creature, who had for so 
 many years appeared daily upon the streets, no- 
 body seemed to know from where, disappearing 
 with the going down of the sun as mysteriously 
 as the golden disk itself. Of course, if any one 
 had cared to insist upon knowing how she lived or 
 where she stayed at nights, he might have fol- 
 lowed her at a distance. But it is sometimes 
 very easy for a very insignificant and needy per- 
 son to rebuff those who honestly believe them- 
 selves eager to help. And so, when Old Easter, 
 the candy-woman, would say, in answer to in- 
 quiries about her life, '' I sleeps at night 'way 
 out by de Metarie Ridge Cemetery, an' gets up 
 in de mornin' up at de Red Church. I combs my 
 ha'r wid de latanier, an' washes my face in de Ole 
 Basin," it was so easy for those who wanted to 
 
 7 
 
help her to say to their consciences, " She doesn't 
 want us to know where she lives," and, after a 
 few simple kindnesses, to let the matter drop. 
 
 The above ready reply to what she would have 
 called their "searchin' question" proved her a 
 woman of quick wit and fine imagination. Any- 
 body who knows Xew Orleans at all well knows 
 that Metarie Ridge Cemetery, situated out of 
 town in the direction of the lake shore, and the 
 old Red Church, by the riverside above Carroll- 
 ton, are several miles apart. People know this 
 as well as they know that the latanier is the pal- 
 metto palm of the Southern wood, with its comb- 
 like, many-toothed leaves, and that the Old Basin 
 is a great pool of scum-covered, murky water, 
 lying in a thickly -settled part of the French 
 town, where numbers of small sailboats, coming 
 in through the bayou with their cargoes of lum- 
 ber from the coast of the Sound, lie against 
 one another as they discharge and receive their 
 freight. 
 
 If all the good people who knew her in her 
 grotesque and pitiful street character had been 
 asked suddenly to name the very poorest and 
 most miserable person in New Orleans, they 
 would almost Avithout doubt have immediately 
 replied, "Why, old Aunt Easter, the candy- 
 woman. Who could be poorer than she ?" 
 
To be old and black and withered and a beg- 
 gar, with nothing to recommend her but herself — 
 her poor, insiguificant, ragged self — who knew 
 nobody and whom nobody knew — that was to be 
 poor, indeed. 
 
 Of course. Old Easter was not a professional 
 beggar, but it was well known that before she 
 disappeared from the streets every evening one 
 end of her long candy-basket was generally pretty 
 well filled with loose paper parcels of cold vic- 
 tuals, which she was always sure to get at cer- 
 tain kitchen doors from kindly people who 
 didn't care for her poor brown twists. There 
 had been days in the past when Easter peddled 
 light, porous sticks of snow-white taffy, cakes of 
 toothsome sugar-candy filled with fresh orange- 
 blossoms, and pralines of pecans or cocoa-nut. 
 But one cannot do everything. 
 
 One cannot be expected to remember General 
 Jackson, spin long, imaginative yarns of forgot- 
 ten days, and make up-to-date pralines at the 
 same time. If the people who had ears to listen 
 had known the thing to value, this old, old 
 woman could have sold her memories, her wit, 
 and even her imagination better than she had 
 ever sold her old-fashioned sweets. 
 
 But the world likes molasses candy. And so 
 Old Easter, whose meagre confections grew poor- 
 
100 
 
 er as her stories waxed in richness, walked the 
 streets in rags and dirt and absolute obscurity. 
 
 An old lame dog, seeming instinctively to 
 know her as his companion in misery, one day 
 was observed to crouch beside her, and, seeing 
 him, she took down her basket and entertained 
 him from her loose paper parcels. 
 
 And once — but this was many years ago, and 
 the incident was quite forgotten now — when a 
 crowd of street fellows began pelting Crazy Jake, 
 a foolish, half-paralyzed black boy, who begged 
 along the streets, Easter had stepped before him, 
 and, after receiving a few of their clods in her 
 face, had struck out into the gang of his tor- 
 menters, grabbed two of its principal leaders by 
 the seats of their trousers, spanked them until 
 they begged for mercy, and let them go. 
 
 Nobody knew what had become of Crazy Jake 
 after that. Nobody cared. The poor human 
 creature who is not due at any particular place 
 at any particular time can hardly be missed, 
 even when the time comes when he himself 
 misses the here and the there where he has been 
 wont to spend his miserable days, even when he, 
 perhaps having no one else, it is possible that he 
 misses his tormenters. 
 
 It was a little school-girl who saw the old 
 woman lower her basket to share her scraps with 
 
101 
 
 the street dog. It seemed to her a pretty act, 
 and so she told it when she wenb home. And 
 she told it again at the next meeting of the par- 
 ticular 'Hen "of the King's Daughters of which 
 she was a member. 
 
 And this was how the name of Easter, the old 
 black candy-woman, came to be written upon 
 their little book as their chosen object of charity 
 for the coming year. 
 
 The name was not written, however, without 
 some opposition, some discussion, and consider- 
 able argument. There were several of the ten who 
 could not easily consent to give up the idea of 
 sending their little moneys to an Indian or a 
 Chinaman — or to a naked black fellow in his 
 native Africa. 
 
 There is something attractive in the savage 
 who sticks bright feathers in his hair, carries a 
 tomahawk, and wears moccasins upon his nimble 
 feet. Most young people take readily to the 
 idea of educating a picturesque savage and teach- 
 ing him that the cast-off clothes they send him 
 are better than his beads and feathers. The 
 picturesque quality is very winning, find it where 
 we may. 
 
 People at a distance may see how very much 
 more interesting and picturesque the old black 
 woman, Easter, was than any of these, but she 
 
102 
 
 did not seem so to the ten good little maidens 
 who finally agreed to adopt her for their own — 
 to find her out in her homo life, and to help her. 
 
 With them it was an act of simple pity — an 
 act so pure in its motive that it became in itself 
 beautiful. 
 
 Perhaps the idea gained a little following from 
 the fact that Easter Sunday was approaching, 
 and there was a pleasing fitness in the old wom- 
 an's name when it was proposed as an object for 
 their Easter offerings. But this is a slight con- 
 sideration. 
 
 Certainly when three certain very pious little 
 maidens started out on the following Saturday 
 morning to find the old woman, Easter, they 
 were full of interest in their new object, and 
 chattered like magpies, all three together, about 
 the beautiful things they were going to do for 
 her. 
 
 Somehow, it never occurred to them that they 
 might not find her either at the Jackson Street 
 and St. Charles Avenue corner, or down near 
 Lee Circle, or at the door of the Southern 
 Athletic Club, at the corner of Washington and 
 Prytania streets. 
 
 But they found her at none of the familiar 
 haunts ; they did not discover any trace of her 
 all that day, or for quite a week afterward. 
 
103 
 
 They had inqnired of the grocery-man at the 
 comer where she often rested — of the portresses 
 of several schools where she sometimes peddled 
 her candy at recess-time, and at the bakery where 
 she occasionally bought a loaf of yesterday's 
 bread. But nobody remembered having seen 
 her recently. 
 
 Several people knew and were pleased to tell 
 how she always started out in the direction of 
 the swamp every evening when the gas was lit 
 in the city, and that she turned out over the 
 bridge along Melpomene Street, stopping to col- 
 lect stray bits of cabbage leaves and refuse vegeta- 
 bles where the bridgeway leads through Dryades 
 Market. Some said that she had a friend there, 
 who hid such things for her to find, under one 
 of the stalls, but this may not have been true. 
 
 It was on the Saturday morning after their 
 first search that three little *' Daughters of the 
 King " started out a second time, determined if 
 possible to trace Old Easter to her hiding-place. 
 
 It was a shabby, ugly, and crowded part of town 
 in which, following the bridged road, and inquir- 
 ing as they went, they soon found themselves. 
 
 For a long time it seemed a fruitless search, 
 and they were almost discouraged when across a 
 field, limping along before a half-shabby, fallen 
 gate, they saw an old, lame, yellow dog. 
 
104 
 
 It was the story of her sharing her dinner 
 with tlie dog on the street that had won these 
 eager friends for the old woman, and so, per- 
 haps, from an association of ideas, they crossed 
 the field, timidly, half afraid of the poor misera- 
 ble beast that at once attracted and repelled 
 them. 
 
 But they need not have feared. As soon as 
 he knew they were visitors, the social fellow be- 
 gan wagging his little stump of a tail, and with 
 a sort of coaxing half-bark asked them to come 
 in and make themselves at home. 
 
 Not so cordial, however, was the shy and re- 
 luctant greeting of the old woman, Easter, who, 
 after trying in vain to rise from her chair as they 
 entered her little room, motioned to them to be 
 seated' on her bed. There was no other seat 
 vacant, the second chair of the house being in 
 use by a crippled black man, who sat out upon 
 the back porch, nodding. 
 
 As they took their seats, the yellow dog, who 
 had acted as usher, squatted serenely in their 
 midst, with what seemed a broad grin upon his 
 face, and then it was that the little maid who 
 had seen the incident recognized him as the 
 poor old street dog who had shared old Easter's 
 dinner. 
 
 Two other dogs, poor, ugly, common fellows, 
 
105 
 
 had strolled out as they came in, and there were 
 several cats lying huddled together in the sun 
 beside the chair of the sleeping figure on the 
 back porch. 
 
 It was a poor little home — as poor as any im- 
 agination could picture it. There were holes in 
 the floor — holes in the roof — cracks everywhere. 
 It was, indeed, not considered, to use a technical 
 word, "tenable," and there was no rent to pay 
 for living in it. 
 
 But, considering things, it was pretty clean. 
 And when its mistress presently recovered from 
 her surprise at her unexpected visitors, she began 
 to explain that "ef she'd V knowed dey was 
 comin' to call, she would V scoured up a little." 
 
 Her chief apologies, however, were for the 
 house itself and its location, "away outside o' 
 quality neighborhoods in de swampy fields." 
 
 "I des camps out here, missy," she finally ex- 
 plained, "bec'ase dey's mo' room an' space fur 
 my family." And here she laughed — a high, 
 cracked peal of laughter — as she waved her hand 
 in the direction of the back porch. 
 
 " Dey ain't nobody ter pleg Crazy Jake out here, 
 an' him an' me, wid deze here lame an' crippled 
 cats an' dogs — why, we sets out yonder an' talks 
 together in de evenin's after de 'lection lights is 
 lit in de tower market and de moon is lit in de 
 
1(16 
 
 sky. An' Crazy Jake — why, when de moon's on 
 de fall. Crazy Jake he can talk knowledge good 
 ez yon kin. I fetched him ont here about a mill- 
 ion years ago, time dey was puttin' him in de 
 streets, caze dey was gwine hurt him. An' he 
 knows mighty smart, git him ter talkin' right 
 time o' de moon ! But mos' gin'ally he forgits. 
 
 " Ef I hadn't 'a' fell an' sprained my leg las' 
 week, de bread it wouldn't 'a' 'mos' give out, like 
 it is, but I done melt doAvn de insides o' some ole 
 condense'-milk cans, an' soak de dry bread in it for 
 him, an' to-morrer Fm gwine out ag'in. Yas, to- 
 morrer I'm bleeged to go, caze you know to-mor- 
 rer dats my birfday, an' all my family dey looks 
 for a party on my birfday — don't you, you yaller, 
 stub-tail feller you ! Ef he warn't sort o' hongry, 
 I'd make him talk fur yer ; but I 'ain't learnt him 
 mnch yit. He's my new-comer !" 
 
 This last was addressed to the yellow dog. 
 
 " I had blin' Pete out here till 'istiddy. I done 
 'd opted him las' year, but he struck out ag'in 
 beggin', 'caze he say he can't stand dis heah soaked 
 victuals. But Pete, he ain't rale blin', nohow. 
 He's des got a siukin' sperit, an' he can't work, an' I 
 keeps him caze a sinkin' sperit what ain't got no 
 git-up to it hit's a heap wuss 'n blin'ness. He's 
 got deze heah yaller-whited eyes, an' when he 
 draps his leds over 'em an* trimbles 'em, you'd 
 
107 
 
 swear he was stonc-bliu', an' dat stuff wlia' he 
 rubs on 'em it's injn'ious to de sight, so I keeps 
 him and takes keer of him now so I won't have 
 a blin' man on my hands — an' to save him f om 
 sin, too. 
 
 " Ma'am ? What you say, missy ? De cats ? 
 Why, honey, dey welcome to come an' go. I des 
 picked 'em up here an' dar 'caze dey was whinin'. 
 Any breathin' thing dat I sees dat's poorer 'u 
 what I is, why, I fetches 'em out once-t, an' dey 
 mos' gin'ally stays. 
 
 "But if you yo'ng ladies '11 come out d'reckly 
 after Easter Sunday, when I got my pervisions 
 in, why I'll show you how de ladies intertain dey 
 company in de old days when Gin'ral Jackson 
 used ter po' de wine." 
 
 Needless to say, there was such a birthday 
 party as had never before been known in the lit- 
 tle shanty on the Easter following the visit of 
 the three little maids of the King's Daughters. 
 
 When Old Easter had finished her duties as 
 hostess, sharing her good things equally with 
 those Avho sat at her little table and those who 
 squatted in an outer circle on the floor, she re- 
 marked that it carried her away back to old times 
 when she stood behind the governor's chair 
 " while he h'isted his wineglass an' drink ter de 
 ladies' side curls." And Crazy Jake said yes, 
 
108 
 
 he remembered, too. And thcu ho began to nod, 
 while blind Pete remarked, "To my eyes de 
 purtiest thing about de whole birfday party is de 
 bo'quet o' Easter lilies in de middle o' de table." 
 
SAINT IDYL'S LIGHT 
 
SAINT IDYL'S LIGHT 
 
 YOU would never have guessed that her 
 uame was Idyl — the slender, angular 
 little girl of thirteen years who stood in 
 her faded gown of checkered homespun on the 
 brow of the Mississippi River. And fancy a saint 
 balancing a bucket of water on top of her head ! 
 
 Yet, as she puts the pail down beside her, 
 the evening sun gleaming through her fair hair 
 seems to transform it into a halo, as some one 
 speaks her name, "Saint Idyl." 
 
 Her thin, little ears, sun-filled as she stands, 
 are crimson disks ; and the outlines of her upper 
 arms, dimly seen through the flimsy sleeves, are 
 as meagre as are the ankles above her bare, slim 
 feet. 
 
 The appellation "Saint Idyl," given first in 
 playful derision, might have been long ago for- 
 gotten but for the incident which this story 
 records. 
 
112 
 
 It was three years before, when the plantation 
 children, colored and white together, had been 
 saying, as is a fashion with them, what they 
 would like to be. 
 
 One had chosen a ''blue-eyed lady wid flounces 
 and a pink fan," another a "fine white 'oman wid 
 long black curls an' ear-rings," and a third would 
 have been "a hoop-skirted lady wid a tall hat." 
 
 It was then that Idyl, the only white child of 
 the group — the adopted orphan of the overseer's 
 family — had said : 
 
 " I'd choose to be a saint, like the one in the 
 glass winder in the church, with light shinin' 
 from my head. I'd walk all night up and down 
 the ' road bend,' so travellers could see the way 
 and wagons wouldn't get stallded." 
 
 The children had shuddered and felt half 
 afraid at this. 
 
 "But you'd git stallded yo'se'f in dat black 
 mud—" 
 
 "An' de runaways in de canebrake 'd ketch 
 yer-" 
 
 "An' de paterole 'd shoot yer — " 
 
 "An' eve'body 'd think you was a walkin' 
 sperit, an' run away f'om yer." 
 
 So the protests had come in, though the 
 gleaming eyes of the little negroes had shown 
 their delight in the fantastic idea. 
 
113 
 
 "But I'd walk on a clond, like the saint in 
 the picture/' Idyl had insisted. '*■ And my feet 
 wouldn't touch the mud^ and when the runa- 
 ways looked into my face, they 'd try to be 
 good and go back to their masters. Nobody 
 would hurt me. Tired horses would be glad 
 to see my light, and everybody would love 
 me." 
 
 So, first laughingly, and then as a matter of 
 habit, she had come to be known as "Saint 
 Idyl." 
 
 As she stands quite still, with face uplifted, 
 out on the levee this evening, one is reminded 
 in looking at her of the "Maid of Domremi" 
 listening to the voices. 
 
 Idyl was in truth listening to voices — voices 
 new, strange, and solemn — voices of heavy, dis- 
 tant cannon. 
 
 It was the 23d of April, 1862. A few miles 
 below Bijou Plantation Farragut's fleet was 
 storming the blockade at Fort Jackson. All 
 along the lower Mississippi it was a time of 
 dread and terror. 
 
 The negroes, for the most part awed and 
 terror-stricken, muttered prayers as they went 
 about, and all night long sang mournfully and 
 shouted and prayed in the churches or in groujas 
 in their cabins, or even in the road. 
 
 8 
 
114 
 
 The war had come at last. Its glare was upon 
 the sky at night, and all day long reiterated its 
 persistent staccato menace : 
 
 "Boom-m-m! Gloom -ni-m! Tomb-b-b! 
 Doom-m-m !" 
 
 The air had never seemed to lose the vibratory 
 tremor, " M-m-m !" since the first gun, nearly 
 six days ago. 
 
 It was as if the lips of the land were trem- 
 bling. And the trembling lips of the black 
 mothers, as they pressed their babes to their 
 bosoms, echoed the wordless terror. 
 
 Death Avas in the air. Had they doubted it ? 
 In a field near by a shell had fallen, burying itself 
 in the earth, and, exploding, had sent two men 
 into the air, killing one and returning the other 
 unhurt. 
 
 Now the survivor, saved as by a miracle, was 
 preaching "The Wrath to Come." 
 
 To quote from himself, he had "been up to 
 heaven long enough to get 'ligion." He had 
 '' gone up a lost sinner and come down a saved 
 soul. Bless Gord !" 
 
 Regarding his life as charmed, the blacks fol- 
 lowed him in crowds, while he descanted upon 
 the text : " Then two shall be in the field. One 
 shall be taken and the other left." 
 
 A great revival was in progress. 
 
115 
 
 But this afternoon the levee at Bijon had been 
 the scene of a new panic. 
 
 Eumor said that the blockade chain had been 
 cut. Farragnt's war monsters might any mo- 
 ment come snorting up the river. Nor was this 
 all. The only local defence here was a volun- 
 teer artillery company of ''^Exempts.^' Old " Cap- 
 tain Doc," their leader, also local druggist and 
 postmaster (doctor and minister only in emer- 
 gency), was a unique and picturesque figure. 
 Full of bombast as of ultimate kindness of feel- 
 ing, he was equally happy in all of his four 
 offices. 
 
 The "Rev. Capt. Doc, M.D.,'' as he was 
 wont, on occasion, to call himself — why drag in 
 a personal name among titles in themselves suf- 
 ficiently distinguishing ? — was by common con- 
 sent the leading man with a certain under-popu- 
 lation along the coast. And when, three months 
 before, he had harangued them as to the patriot's 
 duty of home defence, there was not a worthy 
 incapable present but enthusiastically enlisted. 
 
 The tension of the times forbade perception 
 of the ludicrous. For three months the "Eiff- 
 rafis " — so they proudly called themselves — rheu- 
 matic, deaf, palsied, halt, lame, and one or two 
 nearly blind, had represented "the cause," "the 
 standing army," "le grand militaire," to the in- 
 
116 
 
 flammable imaginations of this handful of simple 
 rural people of the lower coast. 
 
 Of tlie nine ''odds and ends of old cannon" 
 which Captain Doc had been able to collect, it 
 was said that but one would carry a ball. Cer- 
 tainly, of the remaining seven, one was of wood, 
 an ancient gunsmith's sign, and another a gilded 
 papier-nniche affair of a former Mystick Krewe. 
 
 Still, these answered for drill purposes, and 
 would be replaced by genuine guns when possi- 
 ble. They were quite as good for everything 
 excepting a battle, and in that case, of course, 
 it would be a simple thing ''to seize the enemy's 
 guns " and use them. 
 
 When the Riffraffs had paraded up and down 
 the river road no one had smiled, and if any- 
 body realized that their captain wore the gorgeous 
 pompon of a drum -major, its fitness was not 
 questioned. 
 
 It was becoming to him. It corresponded 
 to his lordly strut, and was in keeping with 
 the stentorian tones that shouted "Halt I" or 
 " Avance !" 
 
 Cai)tain Doc appealed to Americans and Cre- 
 oles alike, and the Eiffraffs marched quite as 
 often to the stirring measures of "La Marseil- 
 laise" as to "The Bonny Blue Flag." 
 
 Ever since the first guns at the forts, the good 
 
117 
 
 captain had been disporting himself in full 
 feather. He was '^ ready for the enemy." 
 
 His was a pleasing figure, and even inspiring as 
 a picturesque embodiment of patriotic zeal ; but 
 when this afternoon the Eiffraffs had planted 
 their artillery along the levee front, while the 
 little captain rallied them to '^ prepare to die by 
 their guns/' it was a different matter. 
 
 The company, loyal to a man, had responded 
 with a shout, the blacksmith, to whose deaf ears 
 his anvil had been silent for twenty years, throw- 
 ing up his hat with the rest, while the epileptic 
 who manned the papier-mache gun was observed 
 to scream the loudest. 
 
 Suddenly a woman, catching the peril of the 
 situation, shrieked : 
 
 " They're going to fire on the gunboats ! We'll 
 all be killed." 
 
 Another caught the cry, and another. A mad 
 panic ensued ; women with babies in their arms 
 gathered about Captain Doc, entreating him, 
 with tears and cries, to desist. 
 
 But for once the tender old man, whose old 
 boast had been that one tear from a woman's 
 eyes "tore his heart open," was deaf to all en- 
 treaty. 
 
 The EifEraffs represented an injured faction. 
 They had not been asked to enlist with the " Coast 
 
118 
 
 Defenders" — since gone into active service — 
 and they seemed intoxicated by the present op- 
 portunity to ''show the stuff they were made 
 of." 
 
 At nearly nightfall the women, despairing and 
 wailing, had gone home. Amid all the excite- 
 ment the little girl Idyl had stood apart, silent. 
 No one had noticed her, nor that, when all the 
 others had gone, she still lingered. 
 
 Even Mrs, Magwire, the overseer's wife, with 
 whom she lived, had forgotten to hurry or to 
 scold her. AVhat emotions were surging in her 
 young bosom no one could know. 
 
 There was something in the cannon's roar 
 that charmed her ear — something suggestive of 
 strength and courage. Within her memory she 
 had known only weakness and fear. 
 
 After the yellow scourge of '53, when she was 
 but four years old, she had realized vaguely that 
 strange people with loud voices and red faces had 
 come to be to her in the place of father and 
 mothei', that the Magwire babies were heavy to 
 carry, and that their mother had but a poor opin- 
 ion of a "lazy hulk av a girrl that could not 
 heft a washtub without panting." 
 
 Idyl had tried hard to be strong and to please 
 her foster-mother, but there was, somehow, in her 
 life at the Magwires' something that made her 
 
119 
 
 great far-away eyes grow larger and her poor lit- 
 tle wrists more weak and slender. 
 
 She envied the Magwire twins — with all their 
 prickly heat and their calico-blue eyes — when 
 their mother pressed them lovingly to her bosom. 
 She even envied the black babies when their great 
 black mammies crooned them to sleep. 
 
 What does it matter, black or white or red, if 
 one is loved ? 
 
 An embroidered "Darling" upon an old crib- 
 blanket, and a daguerreotype — a slender youth 
 beside a pale, girlish woman, who clasped a big- 
 eyed babe — these were her only tokens of past af- 
 fection. 
 
 There was something within her that respond- 
 ed to the daintiness of the loving stitches in the 
 old blanket — and to a something in the refined 
 faces in the picture. And they had called their 
 wee daughter "Idyl" — a little poem. 
 
 Yet she, not understanding, hated this name 
 because of Mrs. Magwire, whose most merci- 
 less taunt was, " Sure ye're well named, ye 
 idle dthreamer." 
 
 Mrs. Magwire, a well-meaning woman withal, 
 measured her maternal kindnesses to the hungry- 
 hearted orphan beneath her roof in generous 
 bowls of milk and hunks of corn-bread. 
 
 Idyl's dreams of propitiating her were all 
 
120 
 
 of abstractions — self-sacrifice, patience, grati- 
 tude. 
 
 And she was as nnconscions as was her ma- 
 terial benefactress that she was an idealist, and 
 why the combination resulted in inharmony. 
 
 This evening, as she stood alone upon the 
 levee, listening to the cannon, a sudden sense of 
 utter desolation and loneliness came to her. She 
 only of all the plantation was unloved — forgotten 
 — in this hour of danger. 
 
 A desperate longing seized her as she turned 
 and looked back upon the nest of cabins. If she 
 could only save the plantation ! For love, no 
 sacrifice could be too great. 
 
 With the thought came an inspiration. There 
 was reason in the women's fears. Should the 
 KifEraffs fire upon the fleet, surely guns would 
 answer, else what was war ? 
 
 She glanced at her full pail, and then at the 
 row of cannon beside her. 
 
 If she could pour water into them ! It was too 
 light yet, but to-night — 
 
 How great and daring a deed to come to tempt 
 the mind of a timid, delicate child who had 
 never dared anything — even Mrs. Magwire's dis- 
 pleasure ! 
 
 All during the evening, while Mother Magwire 
 rocked the babies, moaning and weeping. Idyl, 
 
131 
 
 wiping her dishes in the little kitchen, would step 
 to the door and peer out at the levee where the 
 guns were. Every distant cannon's roar seemed 
 to challenge her to the deed. 
 
 When finally her work was done, she slipped 
 noiselessly out and started towards the levee, pail 
 in hand ; but as she approached it she saw mov- 
 ing shadows. 
 
 The Riffraffs were working at the guns. See- 
 ing her project impossible, she sat down in a 
 dark shadow by the roadside — studied the mov- 
 ing figures — listened to the guns which came 
 nearer as the hours passed. 
 
 It was long after midnight ; accelerated firing 
 was proclaiming a crisis in the battle, when, 
 suddenly, there came the rattle of approaching 
 wheels accompanied by a noisy rabble. Then a 
 woman screamed. 
 
 Captain Doc was coming with a wagon-load of 
 ammunition. The guns were to be loaded. 
 
 The moon, a faint waning crescent, faded to a 
 filmy line as a pillar of fire, rising against the 
 sky northward towards the city, exceeded the 
 glare of the battle below. 
 
 The darkness was quite lifted now, up and 
 down the levee, and Idyl, standing in the shad- 
 ow, could see groups of people weeping, wring- 
 ing their hands, as Captain Doc, pompon tri- 
 
123 
 
 iimphaiit, came in bight galloping down the 
 road. 
 
 In a second more he would pass the spot where 
 she stood — stood unseen, seeing the sorrow of 
 the people, heeding the challenge of the guns. 
 The wagon was at hand. 
 
 With a faint, childish scream, raising her thin 
 arms heavenward, she plunged forward and fell 
 headlong in its path. 
 
 The victory was hers. 
 
 The tinselled captain was now tender surgeon, 
 doctor, friend. 
 
 In his own arms he raised the limp little form 
 from beneath the wheel, while the shabby gray 
 coats of a dozen "^Riffraffs," laid over the can- 
 non-balls in the wagon, made her a hero's bed ; 
 and Captain Doc, seizing the reins, turned the 
 horses cautiously, and drove in haste back to his 
 drug-store. 
 
 Farragut's fleet and "the honor of the Riff- 
 raffs" were forgotten in the presence of this 
 frail embodiment of death. 
 
 Upon his own bed beside an open window he 
 laid her, and while his eager company became 
 surgeon's assistants, he tenderly bound her 
 wounds. 
 
 For several hours she lay in a stupor, and 
 when she opened her eyes the captain knelt be- 
 
123 
 
 side her. Mrs. Magwire stood near, noisily weep- 
 ing. 
 
 " Is it saved ?" she asked, when at length she 
 opened her eyes. 
 
 Captain Doc, thinking her mind was wander- 
 ing, raised her head, and pointed to the river, 
 now ablaze with light. 
 
 " See," said he. " See the steamboats loaded 
 with burning cotton, and the great ship meet- 
 ing them ; that is a Yankee gunboat ! See, it is 
 passing." 
 
 " And you didn't shoot ? And are the people 
 glad ?" 
 
 "No, we didn't shoot. You fell and got 
 hurt at the dark turn by the acacia bushes, 
 where you hang your little lantern on dark 
 nights. Some one ought to have hung one for 
 you to-night. How did it happen, child ?" 
 
 '' It didn't happen. I did it on purpose. I 
 knew if I got hurt you would stop and cure me, 
 and not fire at the boats. I wanted to save — to 
 save the plan — " 
 
 While the little old man raised a glass to the 
 child's lips his hand shook, and something like a 
 sob escaped him. 
 
 " Listen, little one," he whispered, while his 
 lips quivered. *'I am an old fool, but not a 
 fiend — not a devil. Not a gun would have fired. 
 
124 
 
 I wet all the powder. I didn't want anybody 
 to say the Riffraffs flinched at the last minute. 
 But you — oh, my God \" His voice sank even 
 lower. "You have given your young life for 
 my folly." 
 
 She understood. 
 
 "1 haven't got any pain — only — I can't move. 
 I thought I'd get hurt worse than I am — and not 
 so much. I feel as if I were going up — and up — 
 through the red — into the blue. And the moon 
 is coming sideways to me. And her face — it is 
 in it — just like the picture." She cast her eyes 
 about the room as if half conscious of her sur- 
 roundings " Will they — will they love me now ?" 
 
 Mrs. Magwire, sobbing aloud, fell upon her 
 knees beside the bed. 
 
 " God love her, the heavenly child I" she 
 wailed. " She was niver intinded for this 
 worrld. Sure, an' I love ye, darlint, jist the 
 same as Mary Ann an' Kitty — an' betther, too, 
 to make up the loss of yer oAvn mother, God rest 
 her." 
 
 Great tears rolled down the cheeks of the dy- 
 ing child, and that heavenly light which seems a 
 forecast of things unseen shone from her brilliant 
 eyes. 
 
 She laid her thin hand upon Mrs. Magwirc's 
 head, buried now upon the bed beside her. 
 
135 
 
 *' Lay the little blanket on me^ please — when I 
 go-" 
 
 She turned her eyes upon the sky. 
 
 *' She worked it for me — the ' Darling ' on it. 
 The moon is coming again — sideways. It is her 
 face." 
 
 So, through the red of the fiery sky, np into 
 the bine, passed the pure spirit of little Saint 
 Idyl. 
 
 The river seemed afire now with floating 
 chariots of flame. 
 
 Slowly, majestically, upward into this fiery sea 
 rode the fleet. 
 
 Although many of the negroes had run fright- 
 ened into the woods, the conflagration revealed 
 an almost unbroken line on either side of the 
 river, watching the spectacular pageant with 
 awe-stricken, ashy faces. 
 
 At Bijou a line of men — not the Eiff raffs — 
 sat astride the cannon, over the mouths of which 
 they hung their hats or coats. 
 
 "1 tell yer deze heah Yankees nius' be mon- 
 st'ous-sized men. Look at de big eye-holes 
 'longside o' de ship," said one — a young black 
 fellow. 
 
 "Eye -holes!" retorted an old man sitting 
 apart ; " dem ain't no eye-holes, chillen. Dey 
 
136 
 
 gun-holes ! T)<it what dey is ! An' ef yon don't 
 keep yo' faces straight dcy'll 'splode out on you 
 'fo' you know it." 
 
 The first speaker rolled backward down the 
 levee, half a dozen following. The old man sat 
 unmoved. Presently a little woolly head peered 
 over the bank. 
 
 " What de name o' dat fust man-o'-war, gran'- 
 dad ?" 
 
 " Name Freedom. The old man answered with- 
 out moving. *' Freedom comin' wid guns in 'er 
 mouf, ready to spit fire, I tell yer !" 
 
 " Jeems, heah, say all de no-'count niggers is 
 gwine be sol' over ag'in — is dat so, gran'dad ?" 
 
 " Yas ; every feller gwine be soF ter 'isself . 
 An' a mighty onery, low-down marster heap ob 
 'em '11 git, too." 
 
 It was nearly day when Captain Doc, pale and 
 haggard, joined the crowd upon the levee. 
 
 As he stepped upon its brow, a woman, fearing 
 the provocation of his military hat, begged him 
 to remove it. 
 
 It might provoke a volley. 
 
 Raising the hat, the captain turned and solemn- 
 ly addressed the crowd : 
 
 '' My countrymen," he began, and his voice 
 trembled, " the Eiff raffs are disbanded. See !" 
 
127 
 
 He threw the red-plnmed thing far out npou 
 the water. And then he turned to them. 
 
 " I have just seen an angel pass — to enter — 
 yonder." A sob closed his throat as he pointed 
 to the sky. 
 
 "Her pure blood is on my hands — and, by the 
 help of God, they will shed no more. 
 
 "These old guns are playthings — we are 
 broken old men. 
 
 " Let us pray." 
 
 And there, out in the glare of the awful fiery 
 spectacle, grown weird in the faint white light 
 of a rising sun, arose the voice of prayer — prayer 
 first for forgiveness of false pride and folly — for 
 the women and children — for the end of the war 
 — for lasting peace. 
 
 It was a scene to be remembered. Had any- 
 thing been lacking in its awful solemnity, it 
 was supplied with a tender potency reaching all 
 hearts, in the knowledge of the dead child, who 
 lay in the little cottage near. 
 
 From up and down the levee, as far as the 
 voice had reached, came fervent responses, 
 " Amen !" and " Amen !" 
 
 Late in the morning the Kiffraffs' artillery, all 
 but their largest gun, was, by the captain's com- 
 mand, dumped into the river. 
 
 This reserved cannon they planted, mouth up- 
 
128 
 
 wards, by the roadside on the site of the trag- 
 edy — a fitting memorial of the child-martyr. 
 
 It was Mrs. ]\Iagwiro, who, remembering how 
 Idyl had often stolen oiit and hung a lantern at 
 this dark turn of the " road bend," began thrust- 
 ing a pine torch into the cannon's mouth on 
 dark nights as a slight memorial of her. And 
 those who noticed said she took her rosary there 
 and said her beads. 
 
 But Captain Doc had soon made the light his 
 own special care, and until his death, ten years 
 later, the old man never failed to supply this 
 beacon to belated travellers on moonless nights. 
 
 After a time a large square lantern took the 
 place of the torch of pine, and grateful wayfar- 
 ers alongshore, by rein or oar, guided or steered 
 by the glimmer of Saint Idyl's Light. 
 
 Last year the caving bank carried the rusty 
 gun into the water. It is well that time and its 
 sweet symbol, the peace - loving river, should 
 bury forever from sight all record of a family 
 feud half forgotten. 
 
 And yet, is it not meet that when the glorious 
 tale of Farragut's victory is told, the simple story 
 of little Saint Idyl should sometimes follow, as 
 the tender benediction follows the triumphant 
 chant ? 
 
"BLINK" 
 
"BLINK" 
 
 IT was nearly midnight of Christmas Eve on 
 Oakland Plantation. In the library of the 
 great house a dim lamp burned^ and here, 
 in a big arm-chair before a waning fire, Evelyn 
 Bruce, a fair young girl, sat earnestly talking to 
 a withered old black woman, who sat on the rug 
 at her feet. 
 
 ''An' yer say de plantatiom done sol', baby, 
 an' we boun' ter move ?" 
 
 " Yes, mammy, the old place must go." 
 
 ''An' is de 'Onerble Mr. Citified buyed it, 
 baby ? I know he an' ole marster sot up all en- 
 durin' las' night a-talkin' and a-figgurin'." 
 
 "Yes. Mr. Jacobs has closed the mortgage, 
 and owns the place now." 
 
 " An' when is we gwine, baby ?" 
 
 "The sooner the better. I wish the going 
 were over." 
 
132 
 
 " An' whar'botits is we gwine, honey ?" 
 
 ''We will go to the city, mammy — to New 
 Orleans. Something tells me that father will 
 never be able to attend to business again, and I 
 am going to work — to make money." 
 
 Mammy fell backward. " W-w-w-work I Y- 
 y-you w-w-work ! Wh-wh-why, baby, what sort 
 o' funny, cuyus way is you a-talkin', anyhow ?" 
 
 ''Many refined women are earning their liv- 
 ing in the city, mammy." 
 
 "Is you a-talkin' sense, baby, ur is yer des a- 
 bluffin' ? Is yer axed yo' pa yit ?" 
 
 " I don't think father is well, mammy. He 
 says that whatever I suggest we will do, and I 
 am snre it is best. We will take a cheap little 
 house, father and I — " 
 
 " Y-y-you an' yo' pa ! An' wh-wh-what 'bout 
 me, baby ?" Mammy would stammer when she 
 was excited. 
 
 "And you, mammy, of course." 
 
 "Umli ! umh I umh ! An' so we gwine ter 
 trabble ! An' de' Onerble Mr. Citified done closed 
 de morgans on us ! Ef-ef I'd 'a' knowed it dis 
 momin' when he was a-quizzifyin' me so serga- 
 cious, I b'lieve I'd o' upped an' sassed 'im, I des 
 couldn't 'a' belt in. I 'lowed he was teckin' a 
 mighty frien'ly intruss, axin' me do we -all's 
 puckon-trees bear big jjuckons, au' — an' ef de 
 
133 
 
 well keep cool all snmmer, an' — an' he ax me — 
 he ax me — " 
 
 ^' What else did he ask yon, mammy ?" 
 
 " Scnze me namin' it ter yer, baby, bnt he ax 
 me who was buried in we's graves — he did fur a 
 fac'. Yer reck'n dee gwine claim de graves in 
 de morgans, baby ?'' 
 
 Mammy had crouched again at Evelyn's feet, 
 and her eager brown face was now almost against 
 her knee. 
 
 '^All the land is mortgaged, mammy.'* 
 
 ''Don't yer reck'n he mought des nachelly 
 scuze de graves out'n de morgans, baby, ef yer 
 ax 'im mannerly ?" 
 
 "Fm afraid not, mammy, but after a while 
 we may have them moved." 
 
 The old bronze clock on the mantel struck 
 twelve. 
 
 "Des listen. De ole clock a-strikin* Chris'- 
 mas-gif now. Come 'long, go ter bed, honey. 
 You needs a res', but I ain' gwine sleep none, 
 'caze all dis heah news what you been a-tellin' 
 me, hit's gwine ter run roun' in my head all night, 
 same as a buzz-saw." 
 
 And so they passed out, mammy to her pallet 
 in Evelyn's room, while the sleepless girl stepped 
 to her father's chamber. 
 
 Entering on tiptoe, she stood and looked upon 
 
134 
 
 his face. He slept as peacef ally as a babe. The 
 anxious look of care which he had worn for 
 years had passed away, and the flickering fire 
 revealed the ghost of a smile upon his placid 
 face. In this it was that Evelyn read the truth. 
 The crisis of effort for him was past. He might 
 follow, but he would lead no more. 
 
 Since the beginning of the war Colonel Bruce's 
 history had been the oft-told tale of loss and 
 disaster, and at the opening of each year since 
 there had been a flaring up of hope and expen- 
 diture, then a long summer of wavering promise, 
 followed by an inevitable winter of disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 The old colonel was, both by inheritance and 
 the habit of many successful years, a man of 
 great affairs, and when the crash came he was 
 too old to change. When he bought, he bought 
 heavily. He planted for large results. There 
 was nothing petty about him, not even his debts. 
 And now the end had come. 
 
 As Evelyn stood gazing upon his handsome, 
 placid face her eyes were blinded with tears. 
 Falling upon her knees at his side, she engaged 
 for a moment in silent prayer, consecrating her- 
 self in love to the life which lay before her, and 
 as she rose she kissed his forehead gently, and 
 passed to her own room. 
 
135 
 
 On the table at her bedside lay several piles 
 of manuscript, and as these attracted her, 
 she turned her chair, and fell to work sorting 
 them into packages, which she laid carefully 
 away. 
 
 Evelyn had always loved to scribble, but only 
 within the last few years had she thought of 
 writing for money that she should need. She 
 had already sent several manuscripts to editors 
 of magazines ; but somehow, like birds too young 
 to leave the nest, they all found their way back 
 to her. With each failure, however, she had 
 become more determined to succeed, but in the 
 meantime — noiu — she must earn a living. This 
 was not practicable here. In the city all things 
 were possible, and to the city she would go. She 
 would at first .accept one of the tempting situa- 
 tions offered in the daily papers, improving her 
 leisure by attending lectures, studying, observ- 
 ing, cultivating herself in every possible way, 
 and after a time she would try her hand again 
 at writing. 
 
 It was nearly day when she finally went to 
 bed, but she was up early next morning. There 
 was much to be considered. Many things were 
 to be done. 
 
 At first she consulted her father about every- 
 thing, but his invariable answer, *' Just as you 
 
136 
 
 say, daughter," transferred all responsibility to 
 her. 
 
 A letter to her motlier's old New Orleans 
 friend, Madame Le Due, briefly set forth the 
 circnmstances, and asked Madame's aid in se- 
 curing a small house. Other letters sent in 
 other directions arranged various matters, and 
 Evelyn soon found herself in the vortex of a 
 move. She had a wise, clear head and a steady, 
 resolute hand, and in old mammy a most capable 
 servant. The old woman seemed, indeed, to for- 
 get nothing, as she bustled about, packing, sug- 
 gesting, and, spite of herself, frequently pro- 
 testing ; for, if the truth must be spoken, this 
 move to the city was violating all the traditions 
 of mammy's life. 
 
 " Wh-wh-wh-why, baby ! Not teck de grime- 
 stone !" she exclaimed one day, in reply to Eve- 
 lyn's protest against her packing that ponderous 
 article. "How is we gwine sharpen de spade 
 an' de grubbin'-hoe ter work in the gyard'n ?" 
 
 "We sha'n't have a garden, mammy." 
 
 " No gyard'n !" Mammy sat down upon the 
 grindstone in disgust. " Wh-wh-wh-what sort 
 o' a fureign no-groun' place is we gwine ter, 
 anyhow, baby ? Honey," she continued, in a 
 troubled voice, "co'se you know I ain't got edu- 
 catiom, an' I ain't claim knowledge ; b-b-b-but 
 
137 
 
 ain't yon better study on it good 'fo' we goes ter 
 dis heali new country ? Dee tells me de cidy's a 
 owdacious place. I been heern a heap o' tales, 
 but I 'ain't say notliin'. Is yer done prayed over 
 it good, baby ?" 
 
 "'Yes, dear. I have prayed that we should 
 do only right. What have you heard, mammy ?" 
 
 " D-d-d-de way folks talks, look like death an' 
 terror is des a-layin' roun' loose in de cidy. Dee 
 tell me dat ef yer des nachelly blows out yer 
 light ter go ter bed, dat dis heah some'h'n' what 
 stan' fur wick, hit '11 des keep a-sizzin' an' a-siz- 
 zin' out, des like sperityal steam ; an' Mfs clair 
 pizen !" 
 
 " That is true, mammy. But, you see, we 
 won't blow it out. We'll know better." 
 
 "Does yer snuff it out wid snuffers, baby, ur 
 des fling it on de flo' an' tromp yer foots on it ?" 
 
 " Neither, mammy. The gas comes in through 
 pipes built into the houses, and is turned on and 
 off with a valve, somewhat as we let water out of 
 the refrigerator." 
 
 " Um-hm ! Well done ! Of co'se ! On'y, in 
 place o' water what put out de light, hit's in'ardly 
 filled wid some'h'n' what /«yor a blaze." 
 
 '^ Exactly." 
 
 Mammy reflected a moment. " But de grime- 
 stone gotter stay berhime, is she ? An' is we 
 
138 
 
 gwine leave all do gyard'n tools an' implcmers 
 tor de 'Oiicrble Mr. Citified ?" 
 
 " No, mammy ; none of the appurtenances of 
 the homestead arc mortgaged. We must sell 
 them. We need money, you know." 
 
 'MVhat is de impertinences o' de homestid, 
 baby ? You forgits I ain't on'erstan' book 
 Avords." 
 
 " Those things intended for family use, mam- 
 my. There are the carriage-horses, the cows, 
 the chickens — " 
 
 "Bless goodness fur dat ! An' who gwine 
 drive 'em inter de cidy fur us, honey ?" 
 
 *' Oh, mammy, we must sell them all." 
 
 Mammy was almost crying. "An' what sort 
 o' entry is we gwine meek inter de cidy, honey 
 — empty - handed, same as po' white trash ? 
 D-d-d-don't yer reck'n we b-b-better teck de 
 chickens, baby ? Yo' ma thunk a heap o' dem 
 Brahma hens an' dem Clymoth Eockers — dee 
 looks so courageous." 
 
 It was hard for Evelyn to refuse. Mammy 
 loved everything on the old place. 
 
 " Let us give up all these things now, mam- 
 my ; and after a while, when I grow rich and 
 famous, I'll buy you all the chickens you 
 want." 
 
 At last preparations were over. They were to 
 
139 
 
 start on the morrow. Mammy had just returned 
 from a last tour through out-buildmgs and gar- 
 dens, and was evidently disturbed. 
 
 " Honey," she began, throwing herself on the 
 step at Evelyn's feet, "^what yer reck'n ? Ole 
 Muffly is a-settV on fo'teeu eggs, down in de 
 cotton-seed. W-w-we can't g'way f'm heah an' 
 leave MufQy a-sett'n', hit des nachelly can't be 
 did. D-d-don't yer reck'n dee'd hoi' back de 
 morgans a little, till Muffly git done sctt'n' ?" 
 
 It was the same old story. Mammy would 
 never be ready to go. 
 
 "But our tickets are bought, mammy." 
 
 *'An' like as not de 'Onerble Mr. Citified '11 
 shoo ole Muffly orf de nes' an' spile de whole 
 sett'n'. Tut ! tut ! tut !" And, groaning in 
 spirit, mammy walked off. 
 
 Evelyn had feared, for her father, the actual 
 moment of leaving, and was much relieved when, 
 with his now habitual tranquillity, he smilingly 
 assisted both her and mammy into the sleeper. 
 Instead of entering himself, however, he hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 " Isn't your mother coming, daughter ?" he 
 asked, looking backward. " Or — oh, I forgot," 
 he added, quickly. ** She has gone on before, 
 hasn't she ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, she has gone before," Evelyn an- 
 
140 
 
 swered, hardly knowing what she said, the chill 
 of a new terror npon her. 
 
 What did this mean ? Was it possible that 
 she had read but half the truth ? Was her fa- 
 ther's mind not only enfeebled, but going ? 
 
 Mammy had not heard the question, and so 
 Evelyn bore her anxiety alone, and during the 
 day her anxious eyes were often upon her father's 
 face, but he only smiled and kept silent. 
 
 They had been travelling all day, when sud- 
 denly, above the rumbling of the train, a weak, 
 bird -like chirp was heard, faint but distinct; 
 and presently it came again, a prolonged 
 *'p-e-e-p!" 
 
 Heads went up, inquiring faces peered up and 
 down the coach, and fell again to paper or book, 
 when the cry came a third time, and again. 
 
 Mammy's face was a study. " 'Sh — 'sh — 'sh ! 
 don' say nothin', baby," she whispered, in Eve- 
 lyn's ear ; " but dis heah chicken in my bosom 
 is a-ticklin' me so I can't hardly set still." 
 
 Evelyn was absolutely speechless with surprise, 
 as mammy continued by snatches her whispered 
 explanation : 
 
 " Des 'fo' we lef I went 'n' lif up ole Muffly 
 ter see how de eggs was comin' orn, an' dis heah 
 egg was pipped out, an' de little risindenter look 
 like he eyed me so berseechin' I des nachelly 
 
141 
 
 couldn't leave 'im. Look like he knowed he 
 warn't righteously in de morgans, an' 'e crave ter 
 clair out an' trabble. I did hope speech wouldn't 
 come ter 'im tell we got off'n deze heah train 
 kyars." 
 
 A halt at a station brought a momentary silence, 
 and right here arose again, clear and shrill, the 
 chicken's cry. 
 
 Mammy was equal to the emergency. After 
 glancing inquiringly up and down the coach, she 
 exclaimed, aloud, " Some'h'n' in dis heah kyar 
 soun' des like a vintrilloquer." 
 
 " That's Just what it is," said an old gentleman 
 opposite, peering around over his spectacles. 
 ''And whoever you are, sir, you've been amus- 
 ing yourself for an hour." 
 
 Mammy's ruse had succeeded, and during the 
 rest of the journey, although the chicken devel- 
 oped duly as to vocal powers, the only question 
 asked by the curious was, "Who can the ventril- 
 oquist be ?" 
 
 Evelyn could hardly maintain her self-control, 
 the situation was so utterly absurd. 
 
 "1 does hope it's a pullet," mammy confided 
 later; ''but I doubts it. Hit done struck out 
 wid a mannish movemint a'ready. Muffly's eggs 
 alius hatches out sech invig'rous chickens. I 
 gwine in the dressin'-room, baby, an' wrop 'im 
 
142 
 
 up ag'in. Feel like he done kicked 'isse'f 
 loose." 
 
 Though she made several trips to the dressing- 
 room in the interest of her hatchling, mammy's 
 serene face held no betrayal of the disturbing 
 secret of her bosom. 
 
 At last the journey was over. The train crept 
 with a tired motion into the noisy depot. Then 
 came a rattling ride over cobble-stones, granite, 
 and unpaved streets ; a sudden halt before a low- 
 browed cottage ; a smiling old lady stepping out 
 to meet them ; a slam of the front door — they 
 were at home in New Orleans. 
 
 Madame Le Due seemed to have forgotten 
 nothing that their comfort required, and in many 
 ways that the Creole gentlewoman understands 
 so well she was affectionately and unobtrusively 
 kind. And yet, in the life Evelyn was seeking to 
 enter, Madame could give her no aid. About all 
 these new ideas of women — ladies — going out 
 as bread-winners, Madame knew nothing. For 
 twenty years she had gone only to the cathedral, 
 the French Market, the cemetery, and the Chapel 
 of St. Roche. As to all this unconventional 
 American city above Canal Street, it was there 
 and sjireading (like the measles and other evils); 
 everybody said so ; even her paper, L'Abeille, re- 
 ferred to it in French — resentfully. She be- 
 
143 
 
 lieved in it historically; but for herself, she 
 ^'^ never travelled," excepting, as she quaintly put 
 it, in her "acquaintances" — the French streets 
 with which she was familiar. 
 
 The house she had selected was a typical old- 
 fashioned French cottage, venerable in scaling 
 plaster and fern -tufted tile roof, but cool and 
 roomy within as uninviting without. A small in- 
 land garden surprised the eye as one entered the 
 battened gate at its side, and a dormer-window 
 in the roof looked out upon the rigging of ships 
 at anchor but a stone's-throw away. 
 
 Here, to the chamber above, Evelyn led her 
 father. Furnishing this large upper room with 
 familiar objects, and pointing out the novelties 
 of the view from its window, she tried to inter- 
 pret his new life happily for him, and he smiled, 
 and seemed content. 
 
 It was surprising to see how soon mammy fell 
 into line with the changed order of things. The 
 French Market, with its ^'cuyus fureign folks 
 an' mixed talk," was a panorama of daily unfold- 
 ing wonders to her. " But huccome dee calls it 
 French ?" she exclaimed, one day. " I been lis- 
 tenin' good, an' I hear 'em Jabber, jabber, jabber 
 all dey fanciful lingoes, but I 'ain't heern nair one 
 say j'J0% fronsay, an' yit I know dats de riverend 
 book French." The Indian squaws in the market. 
 
144 
 
 sitting flat on the ground, surrounded by their 
 wares, she held in special contempt. " I holds 
 myse'f clair 'hove a Injun," she boasted. ''Dee 
 ain't look jinnywine ter me. Dee ain't nuther 
 white folks nur niggers, nair one. Sett'n' dee- 
 selves up fur go-betweens, an' sellin' sech grass- 
 greens as we lef berhiudt us growin' in de wil- 
 derness !" 
 
 But one unfailing source of pleasure to mammy 
 was the little chicken, "Blink," who, she de- 
 clared, " named 'isse'f Blink de day he blinked 
 at me so cunnin' out'n de shell. Blink 'ain't 
 said nothin' wid 'is mouf," she continued, eying 
 him proudly, "'caze he know eye-speech set on 
 a chicken a heap better'n human words, mo' in- 
 special on a yo'ng half-hatched chicken like 
 Blink was dat day, cramped wid de egg-shell be- 
 hime an' de morgans starin' 'im in de face befo', 
 an' not knowin' how he gwine come out'n his 
 trouble. He des kep' silence, an' wink all 'is 
 argimints, an' 'e wink to the p'int, too !" 
 
 In spite of his unique entrance into the world 
 and his precarious Journey, Blink was a vigorous 
 young chicken, with what mammy was pleased to 
 call "o. good proud step an' knowin' eyes." 
 
 Three months passed. The long, dull summer 
 was approaching, and yet Evelyn had found no 
 regular employment. She had not been idle. 
 
145 
 
 Sewing for the market folk, decorating palmetto 
 fans and Easter eggs, which mammy peddled in 
 the big houses, she had earned small sums of 
 money from time to time. In her enforced lei- 
 sure she found opportunity for study, and her 
 picturesque surroundings were as an open book. 
 
 Impressions of the quaint old French and 
 Spanish city, with its motley population, were 
 carefully Jotted down in her note-book. These 
 first descriptions she afterwards rewrote, dis- 
 carding weakening detail, elaborating the oc- 
 casional triviality which seemed to reflect the 
 true local tint — a nice distinction, involving 
 conscientious hard work. How she longed for 
 criticism and advice ! 
 
 A year ago her father, now usually dozing in 
 his chair while she worked, would have been a 
 most able and affectionate critic ; but now — 
 She rejoiced when a day passed without his ask- 
 ing for her mother, and wondering why she did 
 not come. 
 
 And so it was that in her need of sympathy 
 Evelyn began to read her writings, some of which 
 had grown into stories, to mammy. The very 
 exercise of reading aloud — the sound of it — was 
 helpful. That mammy's criticisms should have 
 proven valuable in themselves was a surprise, 
 but it was even so. 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 II 
 
 ^'A pusson would know dat was fanciful de 
 way hit reads orf, dos like a pusson 'magine 
 some'h'n' what ain't so." 
 
 Such was mammy's first criticism of a story 
 which had just come back, returned from an ed- 
 itor. Evelyn had been trying to discover where- 
 in its weakness lay. 
 
 Mammy had caught the truth. The stoiy was 
 unreal. The English seemed good, the con- 
 struction fair, but — it was " fancifid." 
 
 The criticism set Evelyn to thinking. She 
 laid aside this, and read another manuscript 
 aloud. 
 
 " I tell yer, honey, a-a-a pusson 'd know you 
 had educatiom, de way you c'n fetch in de 
 dictionary words." 
 
 '' Don't you understand them, mammy ?" she 
 asked, quickly, catching another idea. 
 
 " Who, me ? Law, baby, I don't crave ter 
 on'erstan' all dat granjer. I des ketches de 
 chune, an' hit sho is got a glorified ring." 
 
 Here was a valuable hint. She must simplify 
 her style. The tide of popular writing was, she 
 knew, in the other direction, but the hest writ- 
 ing was sim;ple. 
 
147 
 
 The suggestion sent her back to study. 
 
 And now for her own improvement she re- 
 wrote the " story of big words " in the simplest 
 English she could command, bidding mammy 
 tell her if there was one word she could not un- 
 derstand. 
 
 In the transition the spirit of the story was 
 necessarily changed, but the exercise was good. 
 Mammy understood every word. 
 
 " But, baby," she protested, with a troubled 
 face, "look like hit don't sian' no mo'; all its 
 granjer done gone. You better fix it up des 
 like it was befo', honey. Hit 'minds me o' some 
 o' deze heali fine folks what walks de streets. 
 You know folks what 'ain't got nothin' else, dee 
 des nachelly 'Meege ter put on finery." 
 
 How clever mammy was ! How wholesome 
 the unconscious satire of her criticism ! This 
 story, shorn of its grandeur, could not stand in- 
 deed. It was weak and affected. 
 
 "You dear old mammy," exclaimed Evelyn, 
 "you don't know how you are helping me." 
 
 "Gord knows I wushes I could holp you, 
 honey. I 'ain't nuver is craved education! befo', 
 but now, look like I'd like ter be king of all de 
 smartness, an' know all dey is in de books. I 
 wouldn't hoi' back noth'n f'om yer, baby." 
 
 And Evelyn knew it was true. 
 
148 
 
 " Look ter me, baby," mammy suggested, an- 
 other night, after listening to a highly imagina- 
 tive story — 'Mook ter me like ef — ef — ef you'd 
 des write down some truly truth what is ac-chilly 
 happened, an' glorify it wid educatiom, hit 'd 
 des nachelly stan' in a book." 
 
 "I've been thinking of that," said Evelyn, re- 
 jflectively, laying aside her manuscript. 
 
 " How does this sound, mammy ?" she asked, 
 a week later, when, taking up an unfinished 
 tale, she began to read. 
 
 It was the story of their own lives, dating from 
 the sale of the plantation. The names, of course, 
 were changed, excepting Blink's, and, indeed, 
 until he appeared upon the scene, although 
 mammy listened breathless, she did not recog- 
 nize the characters. Blink, however, was un- 
 mistakable, and when he announced himself 
 from the old woman's bosom his identity flashed 
 upon mammy, and she tumbled over on the floor, 
 laughing and crying alternately. Evelyn had 
 written from her heart, and the story, simply 
 told, held all the wrench of parting with old as- 
 sociations, while the spirit of courage and hope, 
 which animated her, breathed in every line as 
 she described their entrance upon their new life. 
 
 " My heart was teched f'om de fus't, baby," 
 
149 
 
 said mammy, presently, wiping lier eyes ; " b-b- 
 b-bnt look heah, honey, I'd — I'd be wuss'n a 
 hycoprite ef I let dat noble ole black 'oman, de 
 way you done specified 'er, stan' fnr me. Y-y- 
 yer got ter change all dat, honey. Dey warn't 
 nothin' on top o' dis ronn' worl' what fetched 
 me 'long wid y' all but 'cep' 'caze I des nacJielly 
 love yer, an' all dat book granjer what you done 
 laid on me I don' know nothin' 't all about it, an' 
 yer got ter tech it orf, an' write me down like I 
 is, des a po' ole nigger wha' done fell in wid de 
 Gord-blessedes' white folks wha' ever lived on 
 dis earth, an' — an' wha' gwine f oiler 'em an' 
 stay ly 'em, don' keer which-a-way dee go, so 
 long as 'er ole ban's is able ter holp 'em. Yer 
 got ter change all dat, honey. 
 
 "But Blink! De laws - o' - mussy ! Maybe 
 hit's 'caze I been hatched 'im an' raised 'im, but 
 look ter me like he ain't no disgYSiCQ ter de story, 
 no way. Seem like he sets orf de book. Yer 
 ain't gwine say nothin' 'bout Blink bein' a friz- 
 zly, is yer ? 'Twouldn't do no good ter tell it on 
 'im." 
 
 "I didn't know it, mammy." 
 
 "Yas, indeedy. Po' Blink's feathers done 
 taken on a secon' twis'." She spoke, with ma- 
 ternal solicitude. " I d' know huccome he come 
 dat-a-way, 'caze we 'ain't nuver is had no frizzly 
 
150 
 
 stock 'mongs' our chickens. Sometimes I b'lieve 
 Blink tumbled 'isse'f up dat-a-way tryin' ter 
 wriggle 'isse'f outn de morgans. I hates it 
 mightily. Look like a frizzly can't put on gran- 
 deur no way, don' keer how mannerly 'e hoi' 
 'isse'f." 
 
 The progress of the new story, which mammy 
 considered under her especial supervision, was 
 now her engrossing thought. 
 
 "Yer better walk straight, Blink," she would 
 exclaim — ''yer better walk straight an' step 
 higli, 'caze yer gwine in a book, honey, 'long 
 wid de aristokercy !" 
 
 One day Blink walked leisurely in from the 
 street, returning, happily for mammy's peace of 
 mind, before he had been missed. He raised his 
 wings a moment as he entered, as if pleased to 
 get home, and mammy exclaimed, as she burst 
 out laughing : 
 
 *' Don't you come in heah shruggin' yo' shoul- 
 ders at me. Blink, an' puttin' on no French airs. 
 I believe Blink been out teckin' French lessons." 
 She took her pet into her arms. " Is you crave 
 ter learn fureign speech, Blinky, like de res' o' 
 dis mixed-talkin' settleminf? Is you 'shamed 
 o' yo' country voice, honey, an' tryin' ter ketch 
 a French crow ? No, he ain't," she added, put- 
 ting him down at last, but watching him fond- 
 
151 
 
 ly. " Blink know he's a Bruce. An' he know 
 he's folks is in tribnlatiom, an' hilarity ain't be- 
 come 'im — dat's hnccome Blink 'ain't crowed 
 none — ain't it, Blink?" 
 
 And Blink wisely winked his knowing eyes. 
 That he had, indeed, never proclaimed his roost- 
 erhood by crowing was a source of some anxiety 
 to mammy. 
 
 ''Maybe Blink don't know he's a rooster," 
 she confided to Evelyn one day. " Sho 'nough, 
 honey, he nuver is seen none ! De neares' ter 
 Msse'f what he knows is dat ole green polly what 
 set in de fig-tree nex' do', an' talk Gascon. I 
 seed Blink 'istiddsij stan' an' look at' im, an' den 
 look down at 'isse'f, same as ter say, *Is I a 
 polly, or what ?' An' den 'e open an' shet 'is 
 mouf, like 'e tryin' ter twis' it, polly fashion, an' 
 hit won't twis', an' den 'e des shaken 'is head, an' 
 walk orf, like 'e heavy-hearted an' mixed in 'is 
 mind. Blink don't know what 'spornsibility lay 
 on 'im ter keep our courage up. You heah me. 
 Blink ! Open yo' mouf, an' crow out, like a 
 man !" 
 
 But Blink was biding his time. 
 
 During this time, in spite of strictest econo- 
 my, money was going out faster than it came in. 
 
 "I tell yer what I been thinkin', baby," said 
 mammy, as she and Evelyn discussed the situa- 
 
152 
 
 tioii. *• I tliiuk dc bcs' thing you can do is tor 
 hire mo out. I can cook you alls brcckfus' soon, 
 an' go out an' make day's work, an' come home 
 plenty o' time ter cook de little speck o' dinner 
 you an' ole boss needs." 
 
 " Oh no, no ! You mustn't think of it, mam- 
 my." 
 
 " But what we gwiue do, baby ? We des can't 
 get out'n money. Hit ^vonH do!" 
 
 "Maybe I should have taken that position as 
 lady's companion, mammy." 
 
 "An' stay 'way all nights f'om yo' pa, when 
 you de onlies' light ter 'is eyes? No, no, 
 honey !" 
 
 "But it has been my only offer, and some- 
 times I think — " 
 
 "Hush talkin' dat-a-way, baby. Don't yer 
 pray ? An' don't yer trus' Gord ? An' ain't yer 
 done walked de streets tell you mos' drapped 
 down, lookin' fur work ? An' can't yer teck de 
 hint dat de Lord done laid off yo' work right 
 lieali in the honse f You go 'long now, an' cheer 
 up yo' pa, des like you been doin', an' study yo' 
 books, an' write down true joy an' true sorrer in 
 yo' stories, an' glorify Gord wid yo' sense, an' 
 don't pester yo'se'f 'bout to-day an' to-morrer, 
 an' — an' — an' ef de gorspil is de trufe, an' — an' 
 ef a po' ole nigger's prayers mounts ter heaven 
 
153 
 
 on de wings o' faith, Gord ain't gwine let a hair 
 o' yo' head perish." 
 
 Bnt mammy pondered in her heart much con- 
 cerning the financial outlook, and it was on the 
 day after this conversation that she dressed her- 
 self with unusual care, and, without announcing 
 her errand, started out. 
 
 Her return soon brought its own explanation, 
 however, for upon her old head she bore a huge 
 bundle of unlaundered clothing. 
 
 '^ What in the world \" exclaimed Evelyn ; but 
 before she could voice a protest, mammy inter- 
 rupted her. 
 
 ''Nuver you mind, baby ! I des waked up," 
 she exclaimed, throwing her bundle at the kitchen 
 door. "I been preachin' ter you 'bout teckin' 
 hints, an' 'ain't been readin' my own lesson. 
 Huccome we got dis heah nice sunny back yard, 
 an' dis bustin' cisternful o' rain-water ? Huc- 
 come de boa'din'-house folks at de corner keeps 
 a-passin' an' a-passin' by dis gate wid all dey 
 fluted finery on, ef 'twarn't ter gimme a hint 
 dat dey's wealth a-layin' at de do', an' me, bline 
 as a bat, 'ain't seen it ?" 
 
 " Oh, but, mammy, you can't take in washing. 
 You are too old ; it is too hard. You mustn't — " 
 
 *'Ef-ef-ef-ef you gits obstropulous, I-I-I gwine 
 whup yer, sho. Y-y-yer know how much money's 
 
154 
 
 a-comin' oiit'u dat bundle, baby ? Five dollars !" 
 This in a stage-whisper. **Au' not a speck o* 
 dirt on no thin' ; des baby caps an' lace doin's 
 rumpled up." 
 
 " How did yon manage it, mammy ?" 
 
 "Well, baby, I des put on my fluted ap'on — 
 an' you know it's ironed purty — an' my clair- 
 starehed ncck-hankcher, an' — an' my bu.siness 
 face, an' I belt up my head an' walked in, an' 
 axed good prices, an' de ladies, dee des tooken 
 took one good look at me, an' gimme all I'd 
 carry. You know washin' an' ironin' is my 
 pleasure, baby." 
 
 It was useless to protest, and so, after a 
 moment, Evelyn began rolling up her sleeves. 
 
 " I am going to help you, mammy," she said, 
 quietly but firmly ; but before she could protest, 
 mammy had gathered her into her arms, and 
 carried her into her own room. Setting her 
 down at her desk, she exclaimed : 
 
 " Now, ef you goes tef de wash-tub, dey ain't 
 nothin' lef fur me ter do but 'cep'n' ter set down 
 ail' write de story, an' you know I can't do it." 
 
 "But, mammy, I must helj) you." 
 
 ** Is you gwine meek me whup yer, whe'r ur no, 
 baby ? Now I gwine meek a bargain wid yer. 
 You set down an' write, an' / gwine play de plan- 
 ner on de washboa'd, an' to-night you can read 
 
155 
 
 off what yer done put down, an' ef yer done 
 written it purty an' sweet, you can come an' 
 turn de flutin'-machine fur me ter-morrer. Yer 
 gwine meek de bargain wid me, baby ?" 
 
 Evelyn was so touched that she had not voice 
 to answer. Kising from her seat, she put her 
 arms around mammy's neck and kissed her old 
 face, and as she turned away a tear rolled 
 down her cheek. And so the "bargain" was 
 sealed. 
 
 Before going to her desk Evelyn went to her 
 father, to see that he wanted nothing. He sat, 
 as usual, gazing silently out of the window. 
 
 "Daughter," said he, as she entered, "are we 
 in France ?" 
 
 "No, dear," she answered, startled at the 
 question. 
 
 "But the language I hear in the street is 
 French; and see the ship-masts — French flags 
 flying. But there is the German too, and Eng- 
 lish, and last week there was a Scandinavian. 
 Where are we truly, daughter ? My surround- 
 ings confuse me." 
 
 "We are in New Orleans, father — in the 
 French Quarter. Ships from almost everywhere 
 come to this port, you know. Let us walk out 
 to the levee this morning, and see the men-of- 
 war in the river. The air will revive you." 
 
156 
 
 *' Well, If your mother comes. She might come 
 while we were away." 
 
 And so it was always. With her heart trem- 
 bling within her, Evelyn went to her desk. 
 ** Surely," she thought, ''there is much need 
 that I shall do my best." Almost reverentially 
 she took her pen, as she proceeded with the true 
 story she had begun. 
 
 " I done changed my min' 'bout dat ole 
 'oman Avha' stan' fur me, baby," said mammy 
 that night. " You leave 'er des like she is. She 
 glorifies de story a heap better'n my nachel self 
 could do it. I been a-thinkin' 'bout it, an' de 
 finer that ole 'oman ac\ an' de mo' granjer yer lay 
 on 'er, de better yer gwine meek de book, 'caze de 
 ole gemplum wha' stan' fur ole marster, his times 
 an' seasons is done past, an' he can't do nothin' 
 but set still an' wait, an' — an' de yo'ng missus, 
 she ain't fitten ter wrastle on de outskirts ; she 
 ain't nothin' but 'cep' des a lovin' sweet saint, 
 Avid 'er face set ter a high, far mark — " 
 
 " Hush, mammy I" 
 
 "I'm a-talkin' 'bout de book, baby, an' don't you 
 interrup' me no mo' ! An' I say ef dis ole 'omati 
 wha' stan' fur me, ef-ef-ef she got a iveak spot in 
 'er, dey won't be no story to it. She de one wha' 
 got ter stan' by de battlemints an' hoV de fort." 
 
157 
 
 "That's just what you are doing, mammy. 
 There isn't a grain in her that is finer than you." 
 
 " 'Sh ! dis ain't no time fur foolishness, baby. 
 Yer 'ain't said nothin' 'bout yo' ma an' de ole 
 black 'oman's baby bein' horned de same day, is 
 yer ? An' how de ole 'oman nussed 'em bofe des 
 like twins ? An' — an' how folks 'cused 'er o' 
 starvin' 'er own baby on de 'count o' yo' ma bein' 
 puny ? {Butdat warn't true.) Maybe yer better 
 leave all dat out, 'caze hit mought spile de story.'* 
 
 " How could it spoil it, mammy ?" 
 
 " Don't yer see, ef folks knowed dat dem white 
 folks an' dat ole black 'oman was dat close-t, dey 
 wouldn't be no principle in it. Dey ain't nothin' 
 but love in dat, an' de ole 'oman couldn't he'p 
 'erse'f, no mo'ii I could he'p it ! No right-minded 
 pusson is gwine ter deny dey own heart. Yer 
 better leave all dat out, honey. B-b-but deys 
 some'h'n' else wha' been lef out, wha' b'long 
 in de book. Yer 'ain't named de way de little 
 mistus sot up all nights an' nussed de ole 'oman 
 time she was sick, an' — an' — an' de way she sew 
 all de ole 'oman's cloze ; an' — an' — an' yer done 
 lef out a heap o' de purtiness an' de sweetness o' 
 de yo'ng mistus ! Dis is a book, baby, an' — an' — 
 yer boun' ter do jestice !" 
 
 In this fashion the story was written. 
 
 "And what do you think I am going to do 
 
158 
 
 with it, mammy ?" said Evelyn, when finally, hav- 
 ing done her very best, she was willing to call it 
 finished. 
 
 " Yer know some'h'n' baby ? Ef-ef-ef I had de 
 money, look like I'd buy that story myse'f. Seem 
 some way like I loves it. Co'se I couldn't read 
 it; but my min' been on it so long, seem like, ef 
 I'd study de pages good dee'd open up ter me. 
 What yer gwine do wid it, baby ?" 
 
 " Oh, mammy, I can hardly tell you ! My heart 
 seems in my throat when I dare to think of it ; 
 but I'm going to try it. A New York magazine 
 has offered five hundred dollars for a best story 
 — five Imndrcd dollars! Think, mammy, what 
 it would do for us !" 
 
 " Dat wouldn't buy de plantatiom back, would 
 it, baby ?" Mammy had no conception of large 
 sums. 
 
 "We don't want it back, mammy. It would 
 pay for moving our dear ones to graves of their 
 own ; we should put a nice sum in bank ; you 
 shouldn't do any more washing ; and if we can 
 write one good story, you know we can write 
 more. It will be only a beginning." 
 
 "An' I tell yer what I gwine do. I gwine pray 
 over it good, des like I been doin' f'om de start, 
 an' ef hit's Gord's will, dem folks '11 be moved in 
 de sperit ter sen' 'long de money." 
 
159 
 
 And so the story was sent. 
 
 After it was gone the atmosphere seemed 
 brighter. The pending decision was now a fixed 
 point to which all their hopes were directed. 
 
 The very audacity of the effort seemed inspi- 
 ration to more ambitions work; and during the 
 long summer, while in her busy hands the flut- 
 ing -machine went round and round, Evelyn's 
 mind was full of plans for the future. 
 
 Finally, December, with its promise of the 
 momentous decision, was come, and Evelyn 
 found herself full of anxious misgivings. 
 
 What merit entitling it to special considera- 
 tion had the little story ? Did it bear the im- 
 press of self-forgetful, conscientious purpose, or 
 was this a thing only feebly struggling into life 
 within herself — not yet the compelling force 
 that indelibly stamps itself upon the earnest 
 labor of consecrated hands ? How often in the 
 silent hours of night did she ask herself ques- 
 tions like these ! 
 
 At last it was Christmas Eve again, and Satur- 
 day night. When the days are dark, what is so 
 depressing as an anniversary— an anniversary 
 joyous in its very essence ? How one Christmas 
 brings in its train memory - pictures of those 
 gone before ! 
 
 This had been a hard day for Evelyn. Her 
 
160 
 
 heart felt weak within her, and yet, realizing 
 that she alone represented youth and hope in 
 the little household, and feeling need that her 
 own courage should be sustained, she had been 
 more than usually merry all day. She had clan- 
 destinely prepared little surprises for her father 
 and mammy, and was both amused and touched 
 to discover the old woman secreting mysterious 
 little parcels which she knew were to come to 
 her in the morning. 
 
 "Wouldn't it be funny if, after all, I should 
 turn out to be only a good washerwoman, mam- 
 my ?" she said, laughing, as she assisted the old 
 woman in pinning up a basket of laundered 
 clothing. 
 
 " Hit 'd be funnier yit ef I\l turn out inter 
 one o' deze heah book -writers, wouldn't it?" 
 And mammy laughed heartily at her own joke. 
 '^Look like I better study my a-b abs fus', let 
 'lone puttin' 'em back on paper wid a pen. I tell 
 you educatiom's a-spreadin' in dis fam'ly, sho. 
 Time Blink run over de sheet out a-bleachin' 
 'istiddij, he written a Chinese letter all over it. 
 Didn't you. Blink ? What de matter wid Blink 
 anyhow, to-day ?" she added, taking the last pin 
 from her head-kerchief. ''Blink look like he 
 nervous some way dis evenin'. He keep a-walkin' 
 roun', an' winkin' so slow, an' retchin' his neck 
 
161 
 
 out de back-do' so cnyns. Stop a-battin' yor 
 eyes at me, Blink ! Ef yo* got some'hV tor say, 
 say it ! " 
 
 A sudden noisy rattle of the iron door-knocker 
 — mammy trotting to the door — the postman — a 
 letter ! It all happened in a minute. 
 
 How Evelyn's heart throbbed and her hand 
 trembled as she opened the envelope ! ^^ Oh, 
 mammy !" she cried, trembling now like an aspen 
 leaf. "Thanh God!" 
 
 " Is dee d-d-d-done sont de money, baby ?" 
 Her old face was twitching too. 
 
 But Evelyn could not answer. Nodding her 
 head, she fell sobbing on mammy's shoulder. 
 
 Mammy raised her apron to her eyes, and 
 there's no telling what "foolishness" she might 
 have committed had it not been that suddenly, 
 right at her side, arose a most jubilant screech. 
 
 Blink, perched on the handle of the clothes- 
 basket, was crowing with all his might. 
 
 Evelyn, startled, raised her head, and laughed 
 through her tears, while mammy threw herself 
 at full length upon the floor, shouting aloud. 
 
 *'Tell me chickens 'ain't got secon'-sight ! 
 
 Blink see'd — he see'd — Laws-o'-mussy, baby, 
 
 look yonder at dat little yaller rooster stan'in' 
 
 on de fence. Dat what Blink see. Co'se it Isl" 
 u 
 
DUKE'S CHRISTMAS 
 
DUKE'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 *'~^7'0U des gimme de -white folks's Christ- 
 J mas-dinner plates, time they git thoo 
 eatin', an' lemme scrape 'em in a pan, 
 an' set dat pan in my lap, an' blow out de light, 
 an' go it Nine ! Hnsh, honey, hush, while I shet 
 my eyes now an' tas'e all de samples what 'd come 
 ont'n dat pan — cramberries, an' tnkkey-stnffin' 
 wid p^tckons, in it, an' ham an' fried oyscher an' 
 — an' minch-meat, an' chow-chow pickle an' — an' 
 jelly ! Umh ! Don' keer which-a-one I strack 
 fust — dey all got de Christmas seasonin' !" 
 
 Old Uncle Mose closed his eyes and smiled, 
 even smacked his lips in contemplation of the 
 imaginary feast which he summoned at will from 
 his early memories. Little Duke, liis grand- 
 child, sitting beside him on the floor, rolled his 
 big eyes and looked troubled. Black as a raven, 
 nine years old and small of his age, but agile and 
 shrewd as a little fox, he was at present the prac- 
 tical head of this family of two. 
 
166 
 
 This state of affairs had existed for more than 
 two months, ever since a hist attack of rheuma- 
 tism had lifted his grandfather's leg upon the 
 chair before him and held it there. 
 
 Duke's success as a provider was somewhat 
 remarkable, considering his size, color, and lim- 
 ited education. 
 
 True, he had no rent to pay, for their one- 
 roomed cabin, standing on uncertain stilts out- 
 side the old levee, had been deserted during the 
 last high-water, when Uncle Mose had "tooken 
 de chances " and moved in. But then Mose had 
 been able to earn his seventy-five cents a day at 
 wood-sawing ; and besides, by keeping his fish- 
 insr-lines baited and set out the back and front 
 doors — there were no windows — he had often 
 drawn in a catfish, or his shrimp-bag had yielded 
 breakfast for two. 
 
 Duke's responsibilities had come with the 
 winter and its greater needs, when the reced- 
 ing waters had withdrawn even the small 
 chance of landing a dinner with hook and line. 
 True, it had been done on several occasions, 
 when Duke had come home to find fricasseed 
 chickens for dinner ; but somehow the neigh- 
 bors' chickens had grown wary, and refused to 
 be enticed by the corn that lay under Mose's 
 cabin. 
 
167 
 
 The few occasions when one of their num- 
 ber, swallowing an innocent-looking grain, had 
 been suddenly lifted up into space, disappear- 
 ing through the floor above, seemed to have im- 
 pressed the survivors. 
 
 Mose was a church-member, and would have 
 scorned to rob a hen-roost, but he declared 
 ''when strange chickens come a-foolin' roun' 
 bitin' on my fish-lines, I des twisses dey necks 
 ter put 'em out'n dey misery." 
 
 It had been a long time since he had met with 
 any success at this poultry-fishing, and yet he 
 always kept a few lines out. 
 
 He professed to be fishing for crawfish — as if 
 crawfish ever bit on a hook or ate corn ! Still, it 
 eased his conscience, for he did try to set his 
 grandson a Christian example consistent with 
 his precepts. 
 
 It was Christmas Eve, and the boy felt a sort of 
 moral responsibility in the matter of providing a 
 suitable Christmas dinner for the morrow. His 
 question as to what the old man would like to 
 have had elicited the enthusiastic bit of reminis- 
 cence with which this story opens. Here was a 
 poser ! His grandfather had described just the 
 identical kind of dinner which he felt powerless 
 to procure. If he had said oysters, or chicken, 
 or even turkey, Duke thought he could have 
 
168 
 
 managed it ; but a pau of rich fragments was 
 simply out of tlie question. 
 
 *' Wouldn't you des as lief have a pone o' hot 
 egg-bread, gran'dad, an' — an' — an' maybe a nice 
 baked chicken — ur — ur a — " 
 
 " Ur a notliin', boy ! Don't talk to me ! I'd 
 a lieap'd rutlier have a secon'-han' white Christ- 
 mas dinner 'n de bes' fus'-han' nigger one you 
 ever seed, an' I ain't no spring-chicken, nuther. 
 I done had 'spe'unce o' Christmas dinners. An' 
 what you talkin' 'bout, anyhow ? Whar you 
 gwine git roas' chicken, nigger ?" 
 
 "1 don' know, less'n I'd meek a heap o' money 
 to-day ; but I could sho' git a whole chicken ter 
 roas' easier'n I could git dat pan full o' goodies 
 you's a-talkin' 'bout. 
 
 " Is you gwine crawfishiu' to-day, gran'dad- 
 dy?' he continued, cautiously, rolling his eyes. 
 ** 'Caze when I cross de road, terreckly, I gwine 
 shoo off some o' dem big fat hens dat scratches 
 up so much dus'. Dey des a puffec' nuisance, 
 scratchin' dus' clean inter my eyes ev'y time I go 
 down de road." 
 
 "Dey is, is dey ? De nasty, impident things ! 
 You better not shoo none of 'em over heah, 
 less'n you want me ter wring dey necks — which 
 I bouu' ter do ef dey pester my crawfish-lines." 
 
 "Well, I'm gwine now, gran'dad. Ev'y thing 
 
169 
 
 is done did an' set whar you kiu reach — I gwine 
 down de road an' shoo dem sassy chickens away. 
 Dis here bucket o' brick-dus' sho' is heavy/' he 
 added, as he lifted to his head a huge pail. 
 
 Starting out, he gathered up a few grains of 
 corn, dropping them along in his wake until 
 he reached the open where the chickens were ; 
 when, making a circuit round them, he drove 
 them slowly until he saw them begin to pick 
 np the corn. Then he turned, whistling as he 
 went, into a side street, and proceeded on his 
 way. 
 
 Old Mose chuckled audibly as Duke passed 
 out, and, baiting his lines with corn and scraps 
 of meat, he lifted the bit of broken plank from 
 the floor, and set about his day's sport. 
 
 '' Now, Mr. Chicken, I'm settin' deze heah 
 lines fur crawfish, an' ef you smarties come 
 a-foolin' round 'em, I gwine punish you 'cordin' 
 ter de law. You heah me !" He chuckled as 
 he thus presented his defence anew before the 
 bar of his own conscience. 
 
 But the chickens did not bite to-day — not a 
 mother's son or daughter of them — though they 
 ventured cautiously to the very edge of the 
 cabin. 
 
 It was a discouraging business, and the day 
 seemed very long. It was nearly nightfall when 
 
ITO 
 
 Mose recognized Duke's familiar whistle from 
 the levee. And when he heard the little bare 
 feet pattering on the single plank that led from 
 the brow of the bank to the cabin -door, he 
 conghed and chuckled as if to disguise a certain 
 eager agitation that always seized him when the 
 little boy came home at night. 
 
 ** Here me," Duke called, still outside the 
 door ; adding as he entered, while he set his pail 
 beside the old man, "How you is to-night, gran'- 
 dad ?" 
 
 "Des po'ly, thank Gord, How yon yo'se'f, 
 my man ?" There was a note of affection in the 
 old man's voice as he addressed the little pick- 
 aninny, who seemed in the twilight a mere 
 midget. 
 
 *'An' what you got dyah ?" he continued, 
 turning to the pail, beside which Duke knelt, 
 lighting a candle. 
 
 ^'Picayune o' light bread an' lagniappe* o' 
 salt," Duke began, lifting out the parcels, " an' 
 picayune o' molasses an' lagniappe o' coal-ile, 
 ter rub yo' leg wid — heah hit in de tin can — an' 
 picayune o' coffee an' lagniappe o' matches — heah 
 
 * Pronounced Ian-yap. Lagniappe is a small gratuity 
 which New Orleans children always expect and usually 
 get with a purchase. Retail druggists keep jars of candy, 
 licorice, or other small confections for that purpose. 
 
171 
 
 dey is, fo'teen an' a half, but de half ain't got no 
 fizz on it. An' deze heah in de bottom, dey des 
 chips I picked up 'long de road." 
 
 " An' you ain't axed fur no lagniappe fo' yo'- 
 self. Juke. Whyn't you ax fur des one lagniappe 
 o' sugar-plums, baby, bein's it's Christmas ? Yo' 
 ole gran'dad 'ain't got nothin' fur you, an' you 
 know to-morrer is sho 'nough Christmas, boy. 
 I 'ain't got even ter say a crawfish bite on my 
 lines to-day, much less'n some'h'n' fittin' fur a 
 Christmas-gif. I did set heah an' whittle you a 
 little whistle, but some'h'n' went wrong wid it. 
 Hit won't blov/. But tell me, how's business 
 to -day, boy ? I see you done sol' yo' brick- 
 dus' ?" 
 
 " Yas, sir, but I toted it purty nigh all day 'f o' 
 I is sold it. De folks wharcver I went dey say 
 nobody don't want to scour on Christmas Eve. 
 An' one time I set it down an' made three 
 nickels cuttin' grass an' holdin' a white man's 
 horse, an' dat gimme a res'. An' I started out 
 ag'in, an' I walked inter a big house an' ax de 
 lady ain't she want ter buy some pounded brick. 
 An', gran'dad, you know what meek she buy it ? 
 'Caze she say my bucket is mos' as big as I is, an' 
 ef I had de grit ter tote it clean ter her house on 
 Christmas Eve, she say I sha'n't pack it back — 
 an' she gimme a dime fur it, too, stid a nickel. 
 
172 
 
 An' she gimme two holu-iu-de-middle cakes, wid 
 sugar on 'em. Ileah dey is." Duke took two 
 sorry-lookin' rings from his hat and presented 
 them to the old man. "I done et de sugar off 
 'em," he continued. '"Caze I knowed it 'd give 
 you de toofache in yo' gums. An' I tol' 'er what 
 you say, gran'dad !" 
 
 Mose turned quickly. 
 
 " What you tol' dat white lady I say, nigger ?" 
 
 " I des tol' 'er what you say 'bout scrapin' de 
 plates into a pan." 
 
 Mose grinned broadly. **Is you had de face 
 ter tell dat strange white 'oman sech talk as dat ? 
 An' what she say ?" 
 
 *'She des looked at me up an' down fur a min- 
 ute, an' den she broke out in a laugh, an' she 
 say : ' You sho' is de littles' coon I ever seen 
 out foragin' !' An' wid dat she say : ' Ef you'll 
 come roun' to-morrer night, 'bout dark, I'll give 
 you as big a pan o' scraps as you kin tote.' " 
 
 There were tears in the old man's eyes, and he 
 actually giggled. 
 
 '' Is she ? Well done ! But ain't you 'feerd 
 you'll los' yo'self, gwine 'way down town at 
 night ?" 
 
 " Los' who, gran'dad ? You can't los' me in 
 dis city, so long as de red-light Pertania cars is 
 runnin'. I kin ketch on berhine tell dey fling 
 
173 
 
 me off, den teck de nex' one tell dey fling me off 
 ag'in — an' hit ain't so fnr dat-a-way." 
 
 '' Does dey fling yer off rough, boy ? Look 
 ont dey don't bre'k yo' bones !" 
 
 "Dey ain't gwine crack none o' my bones. 
 Sometimes de drivers kicks me off, an' some- 
 times dey cusses me off, tell I lets go des ter 
 save Gord's name — dat's a fac'." 
 
 " Dat's right. Save it when you kin, boy. So 
 she gwine scrape de Christmas plates fur me, is 
 she ? I wonder what sort o' white folks dis here 
 tar-baby o' mine done strucken in wid, anyhow ? 
 You sho' dey reel quality white folks, is yer. 
 Juke ? 'Caze I ain't gwine sile my mouf on no 
 po' white-trash scraps." 
 
 " I ain't no sho'er 'n des what I tell yer, gran'- 
 dad. Ef dey ain't quality, I don' know nothin' 
 't all 'bout it. I tell yer when I walked roun' 
 dat yard clean ter de kitchen on dem flag-stones 
 wid dat bucket o' brick on my hade, I had ter 
 stop an' ketch my bref fo' I could talk, an' de 
 cook, a sassy, fat, black lady, she would o' sont 
 me out, but de madam, she seed me 'erse'f, an' 
 she tooken took notice ter me, an' tell me set my 
 bucket down, an' de yo'ng ladies, beatin' eggs in 
 de kitchen, dey was makin' sport o' me, too — ax' 
 me is I weaned yit, an' one ob 'em ax me is my 
 nuss los' me ! Den dey gimme deze heah hole- 
 
174 
 
 in - de - middle cakes, an' some reesons. I dcs 
 fetched you a few reesons, but I done et de mos' 
 ob em — I ain't gwine tell yon no lie about it." 
 
 " Dat's right, baby. I'm glad yon is et 'em — 
 dcs so dey don't cramp yer up — an' come 'long 
 now an' eat yo' dinner. I saved you a good pan 
 o' greens an' meat. What else is you et to-day, 
 boy ?" 
 
 '' De ladies in de kitchen dey gimme two 
 burnt cakes, an' I swapped half o' my reesons 
 Avid a white boy for a biscuit — but I sho is 
 hongry." 
 
 " Yas, an' you sleepy, too — I know you is." 
 
 " But I gwine git up soon, gran'dad. One 
 market-lady she seh ef I come early in de morn- 
 in' an' tote baskits home, she gwine gimme 
 Bome'h'n' good ; an' I'm gwine ketch all dem 
 butchers and fish-ladies in dat Mag'zine Mark it 
 *Cliristmas-gif' !' An' I bet yer dey'll gimme 
 some'h'n' ter fetch home. Las' Christmas I got 
 seven nickels an' a whole passel o' marketin' des 
 a-ketchin' 'em Christmas-gif. Deze heah black 
 molasses I brung yer homo to-night — how yer 
 like 'em, gran'dad ?" 
 
 " Fust-rate, boy. Don't yer see me eatin' 'em ? 
 Say yo' pra'rs now, Juke, an' lay down, 'caze I 
 gwine week you up by sun-up." 
 
 It was not long before little Duke was snoring 
 
175 
 
 on his pallet, when old Mose, reaching behind 
 the mantel, produced a finely braided leather 
 whip, which he laid beside the sleeping boy. 
 
 "Wnsh't I had a apple ur orwange nr stick 
 o' candy nr some'h'n' sweet ter lay by 'im fur 
 Christmas," he said, fondly, as he looked upon 
 the little sleeping figure. "Reckon I mought 
 bile dem molasses down inter a little candy — 
 seem lak hit's de onlies' chance dey is." 
 
 And turning back to the low fire, Mose stirred 
 the coals a little, poured the remains of Duke's 
 "picaytuie o' molasses" into a tomato-can, and 
 began his labor of love. 
 
 Like much of such service, it was for a long 
 time simply a question of waiting ; and Mose 
 found it no simple task, even when it had 
 reached the desired point, to pull the hot candy 
 to a fairness of complexion approaching white- 
 ness. When, however, he was able at last to lay 
 a heavy, copper-colored twist with the whip be- 
 side the sleeping boy, he counted the trouble as 
 nothing ; and hobbling over to his own cot, he 
 was soon also sleeping. 
 
 The sun was showing in a gleam on the river 
 next morning when Mose called, lustily, " Week 
 up. Juke, week up ! Christmas-gif, boy, Christ- 
 mas-ffif !" 
 
176 
 
 Dnkc tnrned heavily once ; thon, catching the 
 words, he sprang up with a bound. 
 
 " Christmas-gif , gran'dad I" he returned, rub- 
 bing his eyes ; then fully waking, he cried, 
 "Look onder de chips in de bucket, gran'dad." 
 
 And the old man choked up again as he pro- 
 duced the bag of tobacco, over which he had ac- 
 tually cried a little last night when he had found 
 it hidden beneath the chips with which he had 
 cooked Duke's candy. 
 
 " I 'clare, Jnke, I 'clare you is a caution," was 
 all he could say. 
 
 " An' who gimme all deze ?" Duke exclaimed, 
 suddenly seeing his own gifts. 
 
 *' I don' know nothin' 't all 'bout it, less'n ole 
 Santa Claus mought o' tooken a rest in our mud 
 chimbley las' night," said the old man, between 
 laughter and tears. 
 
 And Duke, the knowing little scamp, cracking 
 his whip, munching his candy and grinning, re- 
 plied : 
 
 " I s'pec' he is, gran'dad ; an' I s'pec' he come 
 down an' b'iled up yo' nickel o' molasses, too, ter 
 meek me dis candy. Tell yer, dis whup, she's 
 got a daisy snapper on 'er, gran'dad ! She's wuth 
 a dozen o' deze heah white-boy w'ips, she is !" 
 
 The last thing Mose heard as Duke descended 
 the levee that morning was the crack of the new 
 
177 
 
 whip; and he said, as he filled his pipe, "De 
 idee o' dat little tar-baby o' mine fetchin' me a 
 Christmas-gif I" 
 
 It was past noon when Dnke got home again, 
 bearing upon his shoulder, like a veritable little 
 Santa Clans himself, a half-filled coffee-sack, the 
 joint results of his service in the market and of 
 the generosity of its autocrats. 
 
 The latter had evidently measured their gra- 
 tuities by the size of their beneficiary, as their 
 gifts were very small. Still, as the little fellow 
 emptied the sack upon the floor, they made quite 
 a tempting display. There were oranges, apples, 
 bananas, several of each ; a bunch of soup-greens, 
 scraps of fresh meat — evidently butchers' "'trim- 
 mings " — odds and ends of vegetables ; while in 
 the midst of the melee three live crabs struck 
 out in as many directions for freedom. 
 
 They were soon landed in a pot ; while Mose, 
 who was really no mean cook, was preparing 
 what seemed a sumptuous mid-day meal. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, while Mose nodded in 
 his chair, Duke sat in the open doorway, stuffing 
 the last banana into his little stomach, which 
 was already as tight as a kettle-drum. He had 
 cracked his whip until he was tired, but he still 
 kept cracking it. He cracked it at every fly that 
 lit on the floor, at the motes that floated into the 
 
178 
 
 shaft of sunlight before hiin, at siiecial knots in 
 the door-sill, or at nothing, as the spirit moved 
 him. A sort of holiday feeling, such as he felt 
 on Sundays, had kept him at home this after- 
 noon. If he had known that to be a little too 
 full of good things and a little tired of cracking 
 whips or tooting horns or drumming was the 
 happy condition of most of the rich boys of the 
 land at that identical moment, he could not have 
 been more content than he was. If his stomach 
 ached just a little, he thought of all the good 
 things in it, and was rather pleased to have it 
 ache — just this little. It emphasized his real- 
 ization of Christmas. 
 
 As the evening wore on, and the crabs and ba- 
 nanas and molasses-candy stopped arguing with 
 one another down in his little stomach, he found 
 himself thinking, with some jileasure, of the pan 
 of scraps he was to get for his grandfather, and 
 he wished for the hour when he should go. lie 
 was glad when at last the old man waked with a 
 start and began talking to him. 
 
 '' I been wushin' you'd week up an' talk, gran'- 
 dad," he said, " caze I wants ter ax yer what's 
 all dis here dey say 'bout Christmas ? When I 
 was comin' 'long to-day I stopped in a big 
 chu'ch, an' dey was a preacher-man standin' up 
 wid a white night-gown on, an' he say dis here's 
 
179 
 
 onr Lord's birfday. I lieerd 'iiu say it myse'f. 
 Is dat so ?" 
 
 " Co'se it is. Juke. Hnccome yon ax me sech 
 ignunt questioms ? Gimme dat Bible, boy, an' 
 lemme read you some 'ligion." 
 
 Mose had been a sort of lay-preacher in his 
 day, and really conld read a little, spelling or 
 stumbling over the long words. Taking the 
 book reverently, he leaned forward until the 
 shaft of sunlight fell upon the open page, when 
 with halting speech he read to the little boy, 
 who listened with open-mouthed attention, the 
 story of the birth at Bethlehem. 
 
 "An' look heah. Juke, my boy," he said, final- 
 ly, closing the book, "hit's been on my min' all 
 day ter tell yer I ain't gwine fishin' no mo' tell 
 de high-water come back — you heah ? 'Caze yer 
 know somebody's chickens mouglit come an' pick 
 up de bait, an' I'd be bleeged ter kill 'em ter 
 save 'em, an' we ain' gwine do dat no mo', me 
 an' you. You heah. Juke ?" 
 
 Duke rolled his eyes around and looked pretty 
 serious. "Yas, sir, I heah," he said. 
 
 "An' me an' you, we done made dis bargain 
 on de Lord's birfday — yer heah, boy ? — wid 
 Gord's sunshine kiverin' us all over, an' my ban' 
 layin' on de page. Heah, lay yo' little ban' on 
 top o' mine. Juke, an' promise me you gwine be 
 
180 
 
 a square man, so he'p yer. Dat's it. Say it out 
 loud, an' yo' ole gran'dad he done said it, too. 
 "Wrop up dem fisliin'-liues now, an' th'ow 'em up 
 on de rafters. Now come set down heah, an' 
 lemrae tell yer 'bout Christmas on de ole planta- 
 tion. Look out how you pop dat whup 'crost 
 my laig ! Dat's a reg'lar horse-fly killer, wid a 
 coal of fire on 'er tip." Duke laughed. 
 
 ''Now han' me a live coal fur my pipe. Dis 
 here terbacca you brung me, hit smokes sweet as 
 sugar, boy. Set down, now, close by me — so." 
 
 Duke never tired of his grandfather's reminis- 
 cences, and he crept up close to the old man's 
 knee as the story began. 
 
 " When de big plantation-bell used ter ring on 
 Christmas mornin', all de darkies had to march 
 up ter de great house fur dey Christmas-gif's ; 
 an' us what worked at de house, we had ter stan' 
 in front o' de fiel' ban's. An' after ole marster 
 axed a blessin', an' de string-ban' play, an' we 
 all sing a song — air one we choose — boss, he'd 
 call out de names, an' we'd step up, one by one, 
 ter git our presents ; an' ef we'd walk too shame- 
 faced ur too 'boveish, he'd pass a joke on us, ter 
 set ev'ybody laughin'. 
 
 ''I ricollec' one Christmas-time I was co'tin' 
 yo' gran'ma. I done had been co'tin' 'er two 
 years, an' she helt 'er head so high I was 'feerd 
 
181 
 
 ter speak. An' when Christmas come, an' I 
 marched np ter git my present, ole marster gim- 
 me my bundle, an' I started back, grinniu' lak a 
 chessy - cat, an' he calt me back, an' he say : 
 * HoF on, Moses,' he say, ' I got 'nother present 
 fur you ter-day. Heah's a finger-ring I got fur 
 you, an' ef it don't fit you, I reckon hit'll fit 
 Zephyr — you know yo' gran'ma she was name 
 Zephyr. An' wid dat he ran his thumb in 'is 
 pocket an' fotch me out a little gal's ring — " 
 
 " A gol' ring, gran'dad ?" 
 
 "No, boy, but a silver ring — ginniwine Ger- 
 man silver. Well, I wush't you could o' heard 
 them darkies holler an' laugh ! An' Zephyr, ef 
 she hadn't o' been so yaller, she'd o' been red as 
 dat sky yonder, de way she did blush buff." 
 
 ** An' what did you do, gran'dad ?" 
 
 "Who, me? Dey warn't but des one thing 
 fur me to do. I des gi'n Zephyr de ring, an' 
 she ax me is I mean it, an' — an' I ax her is she 
 mean it, an' — an' we bofe say — none o' yo' busi- 
 ness what we say ! What you lookin' at me so 
 quizzical fur, Juke ? Ef yer wants ter know, 
 we des had a weddin' dat Christmas night — dat 
 what we done — an' dat's huccome you got yo' 
 gran'ma. 
 
 " But I'm talkin' 'bout Christmas now. When 
 we'd all go home, we'd open our bundles, an' of 
 
182 
 
 all de pnrty things, aii" funny things, an' jokes 
 yon ever heerd of, dey'd be in deni Christmas 
 bundled — some'h'n' ter suit ev'y one, and hit 'ini 
 square on his funny-bone ev'y time. An' all de 
 little bundles o' buckwheat ur flour 'd have^^tm- 
 yuncs an' dimes in 'em ! We used ter reg'lar sif 
 'em out wid a sifter. Dat was des our white 
 folks's way. None o' de yetlicr fam'lies 'long de 
 coas' done it. You see, all de dilfe'nt fam'lies 
 had diffe'nt ways. But ole marster an' ole miss 
 dey'd think up some new foolishness ev'y year. 
 We nuver knowed what was gwine to be did 
 nex' — on'y one thing. Dey alius jmt money in 
 de buchvJieat-bag — an' you know we nuver tas'e 
 no buckwheat 'cep'n' on'y Christmas. Oh, boy, 
 cf we could des meet wid some o' we's white folks 
 ag'in !" 
 
 " IIow is we got los' f'oni 'em, gran'dad ?"' So 
 Duke invited a hundredth repetition of the 
 story he knew so well. 
 
 *'How did we git los' f'om we's white folks? 
 Dat's a sad story fur Christmas, Juke, but ef 
 you sesso — 
 
 " Hit all happened in one night, time o' de big 
 break in de levee, seven years gone by. We was 
 lookiu' fur do bank ter crack crost de river f'om 
 us, an' so boss done had tooken all ban's over, 
 cep'n us ole folks an' chillen, ter he'p work an' 
 
las 
 
 watch de yether side. 'Bout midnight, whiles we 
 was all sleepin', come a roa'in' soun', an' f ns' thing 
 we knowed, all in de pitchy darkness, we was 
 floatin' away — nobody cep'n des yon an' me an' 
 yo' mammy in de cabin — floatin' an' bnmpin' an' 
 rockin,' an' all de time darh as pitch. So we kep' 
 on — one minute stiddy, nex' minute cJier-plunh 
 gins' a tree ur some'h'n' nother — all i?i de dark — 
 an' one minute you'd cry — you was des a weanin' 
 baby den — an' nex' minute I'd heah de bed you 
 an' yo' ma was in bump gins' de wall, an' you'd 
 laugh out loud, an' yo' mammy she'd holler — all 
 in de dark. An' so we travelled, up an' down, 
 bunkety-bunk, seem lak a honderd hours ; tell 
 treckly a termenjus wave come, an' I had sca'cely 
 felt it boomin' onder me when I pitched, an' ev'y- 
 thing went travellin'. An' when I put out my 
 han', I felt you by me — but yo' mammy, she 
 waru't nowhar. 
 
 " Hoi' up yo' face an' don't cry, boy. I been 
 a mighty poor mammy ter yer, but I blesses 
 Gord to-night fur savin' dat little black baby ter 
 me — all in de 'win' an' de storm an' de dark dat 
 niglit. 
 
 " You see, yo' daddy, he was out wid de gang 
 wuckin' de levee crost de river — an' dat's hue- 
 come yo' ma was 'feerd ter stay by 'erse'f an' sent 
 fur me. 
 
184 
 
 *' Well, baby, when 1 knowed yo' mammy was 
 gone, I belt you tiglit an' prayed. An' after a 
 while — seem lak a million hours — come a pale 
 streak o' day, an' 'fo' de sun was up, heah come a 
 steamboat puffin' down de river, an' treckly hit 
 blowed a whistle an' ringed a bell an' stop an' 
 took us on boa'd, an' brung us on down heah ter 
 de city." 
 
 "An' you never seed my mammy no mo', 
 gran'dad ?" Little Duke's lips quivered just a 
 little. 
 
 " Yo' mammy was safe at Home in de Golden 
 City, Juke, long 'fore we teched even de low Ian' 
 o' dis yearth. 
 
 "An' dat's how we got los'f'om we's white folks. 
 
 " An' time wc struck de city I was so twis' up 
 wid rheumatiz I lay fur six muuts in de Cha'ity 
 Ilospit'l; an' you bein' so puny, cuttin' yo' toofs, 
 dey kep' you right along in de baby-ward tell I 
 was able to start out. An' sence I stepped out 
 o' dat hospit'l do' wid yo' little bow-legs trottin' 
 by me, so I been goin' ever sence. Days I'd go 
 out sawin' wood, I'd set you on de wood-pile by 
 me ; an' when de cook 'd slip me out a plate o' 
 soup, I'd ax fur two spoons. An' so you an' me, 
 we been pardners right along, an' / loouldnH swap 
 pardiiers wid nobody — you heah. Juke? Dis 
 here's Christmas, an' I'm talkin' ter ycr." 
 
185 
 
 Duke looked so serious that a fe^^ther's weight 
 would have tipped the balance and made him 
 cry ; but he only blinked. 
 
 "An' it's gittin' late now, pardner," the old 
 man continued, " an' you better be gwine — less'n 
 you 'feerd ? Ef you is, des sesso now, an' we'll 
 meek out wid de col' victuals in de press." 
 
 '^ "Who's afeerd, gran'dad ?" Duke's face had 
 broken into a broad grin now, and he was crack- 
 ing his whip again. 
 
 " Don't eat no supper tell I come," he added, 
 as he started out into the night. But as he 
 turned down the street he muttered to himself : 
 
 "I wouldn't keer, ef all dem sassy boys didn't 
 pleg me — say I ain't got no mammy — ur daddy 
 — ur nothin'. But dey won't say it ter me ag'in, 
 not whiles I got dis whup in my han' I She 
 sting lak a rattlesnake, she do ! She's a daisy 
 an' a half ! Cher-whack ! You gwine sass me 
 any mo', you grea' big over-my-size coward, you ? 
 Take dat ! An' dat ! An' dat ! Now run ! 
 Whoop ! Heah come de red light !" 
 
 So, in fancy avenging his little wrongs, Duke 
 recovered his spirits and proceeded to catch on 
 behind the Prytania car, that was to help him 
 on his way to get his second-hand Christmas 
 dinner. 
 
 His benefactress had not forgotten her prom- 
 
186 
 
 ise; and, in addition to a licavy pan of scraps, 
 Duke took home, almost staggering beneath its 
 weight, a huge, compact bundle. 
 
 Old Mose was snoring vociferously when he 
 reached the cabin. Depositing his parcel, the 
 little fellow lit a candle, which he placed beside 
 the sleeper ; then uncovering the pan, he laid it 
 gently upon his lap. And now, seizing a spoon 
 and tin cup, he banged it with all his might. 
 
 *' Heah de plantation - bell ! Come git yo' 
 Christmas-gif s !" 
 
 And when his grandfather sprang up, nearly 
 upsetting the pan in his fright, Duke rolled 
 backward on the floor, screaming with laughter." 
 
 " I 'clare. Juke, boy," said Mose, when he 
 found voice, " I wouldn't V jumped so, but yo' 
 foolishness des fitted inter my dream. I was 
 dreamin' o' ole times, an' des when I come ter 
 de ringin' o' de plantation -bell, I lieerd cher- 
 plang ! An' it nachelly riz me ofE'n my foots. 
 What's dis hcah ? Did you git de dinner, sho' 
 'no ugh ?" 
 
 The pan of scraps quite equalled that of the 
 old man's memory, every familiar fragment evok- 
 ing a reminiscence. 
 
 "You is sho' struck quality Avhite folks dis 
 time, Juke," he said, finally, as he pushed back 
 the pan — Duke had long ago finished — '' but dis 
 
187 
 
 here tukkey-stnffin' — I don't say 'tain' good, but 
 liit don't quite come up ter de mark o' ole miss's 
 2)ucJcon stuffin' ! " 
 
 Duke was nodding in his chair, when presently 
 the old man, turning to go to bed, spied the un- 
 opened parcel, which, in his excitement, Duke 
 had forgotten. Placing it upon the table before 
 him, Mose began to open it. Tt was a package 
 worth getting — just such a generous Christmas 
 bundle as he had described to Duke this after- 
 noon. Perhaps it was some vague impression of 
 this sort that made his old fingers tremble as he 
 untied the strings, peeping or sniffing into the 
 little parcels of tea and coffee and flour. .Sud- 
 denly something happened. Out of a little sack 
 of buckwheat, accidentally upset, rolled a ten- 
 cent piece. The old man threw up his arms, fell 
 forward over the table, and in a moment was sob- 
 bing aloud. 
 
 It was some time before he could make Duke 
 comprehend the situation, but presently, pointing 
 to the coin lying before him, he cried : " Look, 
 boy, look ! Wharbouts is you got dat bundle ? 
 Open yo' mouf, boy ! Look at de money in de 
 buckwheat-bag ! Oh, my ole mistuss ! Nobody 
 but you is tied up dat bundle ! Praise Gord, I 
 say !" 
 
 There was no sleep for either Mose or Duke 
 
188 
 
 now ; and, late as it was, they soon started out, 
 the old man steadying himself on Duke's shoul- 
 der, to find their people. 
 
 It was hard for the little boy to believe, even 
 after they had hugged all 'round and laughed 
 and cried, that the stylish black gentleman who 
 answered the door-bell, silver tray in hand, was 
 his own father ! lie had often longed for a reg- 
 ular blue-shirted plantation "daddy," but never, 
 in his most ambitions moments, had he aspired 
 to filial relations with so august a personage as 
 this! 
 
 But while Duke was swelling up, rolling his 
 eyes, and wondering, Mose stood in the centre of 
 a croAvd of his Avhite people, while a gray-haired 
 old lady, holding his trembling hand in both of 
 hers, was saying, as the tears trickled down her 
 cheeks : 
 
 *' But why didn't you get some one to write to 
 us for you, Moses ?" 
 
 Then Mose, sniffling still, told of his long ill- 
 ness in the hospital, and of his having afterwards 
 met a man from the coast who told the story of 
 the sale of the plantation, but did not know 
 where the family had gone. 
 
 "When I fixed up that bundle," the old lady 
 resumed, *'I was thinking of you, Moses. Every 
 
189 
 
 year we have sent out such little packages to any 
 needy colored people of whom we knew, as a sort 
 of memorial to our lost ones, always half-hoping 
 that they might actually reach some of them. 
 And I thought of you specially, Moses/' she 
 continued, mischievously, *^when I put in all 
 that turkey - stuffing. Do you remember how 
 greedy you always were about pecan - stuffing ? 
 It wasn't quite as good as usual this year." 
 
 "No'm; dat what I say," said Mose. ''I tol' 
 Juke dat stuffin' warn't quite up ter de mark — 
 ain't I, Juke ? Fur gracious sake, look at Juke, 
 settin' on his daddy's shoulder, with a face on 
 him oie as a man ! Put dat boy down, Pete ! 
 Dat's a business-man you foolin' wid !" 
 
 Whereupon little Duke — man of affairs, for- 
 ager, financier — overcome at last with the fulness 
 of the situation, made a really babyish square 
 mouth, and threw himself sobbing upon his fa- 
 ther's bosom. 
 
UNCLE EPHE'S ADVICE TO BRER RABBIT 
 

 "WW'-"' 
 
 
 " 'keep step, rabbit, man!'" 
 
UNCLE EPHE'S ADVICE TO BRER RABBIT 
 
 KEEP step, Rabbit, man ! 
 Hunter comin' qnick's he can ! 
 H'ist yo'se'f ! Don't cross de road. 
 Less 'n he'll hit yon fur a toad ! 
 
 Up an* skip it, 'fo' t's too late ! 
 Hoppit — lippit ! Bnll-frog gait ! 
 Hoppit — lippit — lippit — hoppit ! 
 Goodness me, why don't you stop it ? 
 
 Shame on you, Mr. Ge'man Rabbit, 
 
 Ter limp along wid sech a habit ! 
 
 *F yon'd balumps on yo' hime-legs straight. 
 
 An' hurry wid a mannish gait. 
 
 An' tie yo' ears down onder yo' th'oat. 
 An' kivir yo' tail wid a cut-away coat. 
 Rabbit-hunters by de dozen 
 Would shek yo' han' an' call you cousin, 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 An' like as not, yon onery sinner, 
 Dey'd ax' you home ter eat yo' dinner ! 
 ]iut don't yojt go, 'caze ef yon do, 
 Dey'll set you down to rabbit-stew. 
 
 An' de shape o' dem bones an' de smell o' dat 
 
 meal 
 'LI meek you wish you was back in de fiel'. 
 An' ef you'd stretch yo' mouf too Avide, 
 You know yo' ears mought come ontied ; 
 
 An' when you'd jumji, you couldn't fail 
 To show yo' little cotton tail. 
 An' den, 'fo' you could twis' yo' phiz, 
 Dey'd recomiize you who you is; 
 
 An' fo' you'd sca'cely bat yo' eye, 
 Dey'd have you skun an' in a pie. 
 Or maybe roasted on a coal, 
 Widout one thought about yo' soul. 
 
 So better teck ole Ephe's advice, 
 Des rig yo'se'f out slick an' nice. 
 An' tie yo' ears down, like I said. 
 An' hide yo' tail an' lif yo' head. 
 
 An' when you balumps on yo' foots. 
 It wouldn't hurt ter put on boots. 
 

 A i 
 
195 
 
 Den -walk straigM up, like Mr. Man, 
 An' when he offer yon 'is han', 
 
 Des smile, an' gi'e yo' hat a tip ; 
 But don't you show yo' rabbit Up. 
 An' don't yon have a word ter say. 
 No mo'n ter pass de time o' day. 
 
 An' ef he ax 'bont yo' affairs, 
 
 Des 'low yon gwine ter hunt some hares, 
 
 An' ax 'im is he seen a jack — 
 
 An' dat 11 put 'im off de track. 
 
 Now, ef you'll foller dis advice, 
 Instid o' bein' et wid rice, 
 Ur baked in pie, nr stuffed wid sage. 
 You'll live ter die of nachel age. 
 
 'Sh ! hush ! What's dat ? Was dat a gun ? 
 Doi't trimble so. An' do)i't you run! 
 Come, set heah on de lorg wid me — 
 Hoi' down yo' ears an' cross yo' knee. 
 
 Do7i't run, I say. Tut — tut ! He's gorn. 
 RigJit 'cross de road, as sho's you born ! 
 Slam bang ! I know'd he'd ketch a shot ! 
 Well, one mo' rabbit fur de pot ! 
 
MAY BE SO 
 
MAY BE SO 
 
 SEPTEMBER butterflies flew thick 
 O'er flower-bed and clover-rick, 
 When little Miss Penelope, 
 Who watched them from grandfather's knee. 
 
 Said, " Grandpa, what's a butterfly ?" 
 
 And, " Where do flowers go to when they die ?'* 
 
 For questions hard as hard can be 
 
 I recommend Penelope. 
 
 But grandpa had a playful way 
 Of dodging things too hard to say. 
 By giving fantasies instead 
 Of serious answers, so he said, 
 
 *' Whenever a tired old flower must die. 
 Its soul mounts in a butterfly ; 
 Just now a dozen snow-wings sped 
 From out that white petunia bed ; 
 
200 
 
 "And if you'll search, you'll find, I'm sure, 
 A dozen shrivelled cnps or more ; 
 Each pansy folds her purple cloth. 
 And soars aloft in velvet moth. 
 
 *' So when tired sunflower doffs her cap 
 Of yellow frills to take a nap, 
 'Tis but that this surrender brings 
 Her soul's release on golden wings." 
 
 ''But is this so? It ought to be," 
 Said little Miss Penelope ; 
 "Because I'm sure, dear grandpa, you 
 Would only tell the thing that's true. 
 
 "Are all the butterflies that fly 
 Keal angels of the flowers that die ?" 
 Grandfather's eyes looked far away. 
 As if he scarce knew what to say. 
 
 "Dear little Blossom," stroking now 
 The golden hair upon her brow, 
 " I can't — exactly — say — I — know — it ; 
 I only heard it from a poet. 
 
 "And poets' eyes see wondrous things. 
 Great mysteries of flowers and wings. 
 And marvels of the earth and sea 
 And sky, they tell us constantly. 
 
201 
 
 ''But we can never prove them right. 
 Because we lack their finer sight; 
 And they, lest we should think them wrong. 
 Weave their strange stories into song 
 
 ''So beautiful, so seeming' true. 
 So confidently stated too, 
 That we, not knowing yes or no, 
 Can only hope they may he so." 
 
 "But, grandpapa, no tale should close 
 
 With ifs or bids or tnay-be-sos ; 
 
 So let us play we're poets, too. 
 
 And then we'll know that this is true." 
 
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