Chapter III: Part 3

He had been engaged in a secret correspondence, the result of which was seen when, just after the assembling of the guests in the long, low room which was parlour, sitting, and dining room in the Sneedon household, the wily host ushered in and introduced to the astonished people the Reverend Abram Martin. They were not allowed to recover from their surprise before they were seated at the table, grace said by the reverend brother, and the supper commenced. And such a supper as it was,—one that could not but soften the feelings and touch the heart of any Negro. It was a supper that disarmed opposition. Sister Hannah was seated at the left of Reverend Abram Martin, who was a fluent and impressive talker; and what with his affability and the delight of the repast, she grew mollified and found herself laughing and chatting. The other members of her faction looked on, and, seeing her pleased with the minister, grew pleased themselves. The Reverend Abram Martin’s magnetic influence ran round the board like an electric current.

He could tell a story with a dignified humour that was irresistible,—and your real Negro is a lover of stories and a teller of them. Soon, next to the ’possum, he was the centre of attraction around the table, and he held forth while the diners listened respectfully to his profound observations or laughed uproariously at his genial jokes. All the while Brother Sneedon sat delightedly by, watchful, but silent, save for the occasional injunction to his guests to help themselves. And they did so with a gusto that argued well for their enjoyment of the food set before them. As the name by which the supper was designated would imply, ’possum was the principal feature, but, even after including the sweet potatoes and brown gravy, that was not all. There was hog jole and cold cabbage, ham and Kentucky oysters, more widely known as chittlings. What more there was it boots not to tell. Suffice it to say that there was little enough of anything left to do credit to the people’s dual powers of listening and eating, for in all this time the Reverend Abram Martin had not abated his conversational efforts nor they their unflagging attention.

Just before the supper was finished, the preacher was called upon, at the instigation of Hezekiah Sneedon, of course, to make a few remarks, which he proceeded to do in a very happy and taking vein. Then the affair broke up, and the people went home with myriad comments on their tongues. But one idea possessed the minds of all, and that was that the Reverend Abram Martin was a very able man, and charming withal.

It was at this hour, when opportunity for sober reflection returned, that Sister Williams first awakened to the fact that her own conduct had compromised her cause. She did not sleep that night—she lay awake and planned, and the result of her planning was a great fumbling the next morning in the little bag where she kept her earnings, and the despatching of her husband on an early and mysterious errand.

The day of meeting came, and the church presented a scene precisely similar to that of the previous Sunday. If there was any difference, it was only apparent in the entirely alert and cheerful attitude of Brother Sneedon and the reversed expressions of the two factions. But even the latter phase was not so marked, for the shrewd Sister Williams saw with alarm that her forces were demoralised. Some of them were sitting near the pulpit with expressions of pleasant anticipation on their faces, and as she looked at them she groaned in spirit. But her lips were compressed in a way that to a close observer would have seemed ominous, and ever and anon she cast anxious and expectant glances toward the door. Her husband sat upon her left, an abashed, shamefaced expression dominating his features. He continually followed her glances toward the door with a furtive, half-frightened look; and when Sneedon looked his way, he avoided his eye.

That arch schemer was serene and unruffled. He had perpetrated a stroke of excellent policy by denying himself the pleasure of introducing the new minister, and had placed that matter in the hands of Isaac Jordan, a member of the opposing faction and one of Sister Williams’ stanchest supporters. Brother Jordan was pleased and flattered by the distinction, and converted.

The service began. The hymn was sung, the prayer said, and the minister, having been introduced, was already leading out from his text, when, with a rattle and bang that instantly drew every eye rearward, the door opened and a man entered. Apparently oblivious to the fact that he was the centre of universal attention, he came slowly down the aisle and took a seat far to the front of the church. A gleam of satisfaction shot from the eye of Sister Williams, and with a sigh she settled herself in her seat and turned her attention to the sermon. Brother Sneedon glanced at the new-comer and grew visibly disturbed. One sister leaned over and whispered to another,—

“I wunner whut Bud Lewis is a-doin’ hyeah?”

“I do’ know,” answered the other, “but I do hope an’ pray dat he won’t git into none o’ his shoutin’ tantrums to-day.”

“Well, ef he do, I’s a-leavin’ hyeah, you hyeah me,” rejoined the first speaker.

The sermon had progressed about one-third its length, and the congregation had begun to show frequent signs of awakening life, when on an instant, with startling suddenness, Bud Lewis sprang from his seat and started on a promenade down the aisle, swinging his arms in sweeping semi-circles, and uttering a sound like the incipient bellow of a steamboat. “Whough! Whough!” he puffed, swinging from side to side down the narrow passageway.

At the first demonstration from the new-comer, people began falling to right and left out of his way. The fame of Bud Lewis’ “shoutin’ tantrums” was widespread, and they who knew feared them. This unregenerate mulatto was without doubt the fighting man of Bull-Skin.

While, as a general thing, he shunned the church, there were times when a perverse spirit took hold of him, and he would seek the meeting-house, and promptly, noisily, and violently “get religion.” At these times he made it a point to knock people helter-skelter, trample on tender toes, and do other mischief, until in many cases the meeting broke up in confusion. The saying finally grew to be proverbial among the people in the Bull-Skin district that they would rather see a thunderstorm than Bud Lewis get religion.

On this occasion he made straight for the space in front of the pulpit, where his vociferous hallelujahs entirely drowned the minister’s voice; while the thud, thud, thud of his feet upon the floor, as he jumped up and down, effectually filled up any gap of stillness which his hallelujahs might have left.

Hezekiah Sneedon knew that the Reverend Mr. Martin’s sermon would be ruined, and he saw all his cherished hopes destroyed in a moment. He was a man of action, and one glance at Sister Williams’ complacent countenance decided him. He rose, touched Isaac Jordan, and said, “Come on, let’s hold him.” Jordan hesitated a minute; but his leader was going on, and there was nothing to do but to follow him. They approached Lewis, and each seized an arm. The man began to struggle. Several other men joined them and laid hold on him.

“Quiet, brother, quiet,” said Hezekiah Sneedon; “dis is de house o’ de Lawd.”

“You lemme go,” shrieked Bud Lewis. “Lemme go, I say.”

“But you mus’ be quiet, so de res’ o’ de congregation kin hyeah.”

“I don’t keer whethah dey hyeahs er not. I reckon I kin shout ef I want to.” The minister had paused in his sermon, and the congregation was alert.

“Brother, you mus’ not distu’b de meetin’. Praise de Lawd all you want to, but give somebidy else a chance too.”

“I won’t, I won’t; lemme go. I’s paid fu’ shoutin’, an’ I’s gwine to shout.” Hezekiah Sneedon caught the words, and he followed up his advantage.

“You’s paid fu’ shoutin’! Who paid you?”

“Hannah Williams, dat’s who! Now you lemme go; I’s gwine to shout.”

The effect of this declaration was magical. The brothers, by their combined efforts, lifted the struggling mulatto from his feet and carried him out of the chapel, while Sister Williams’ face grew ashen in hue.

The congregation settled down, and the sermon was resumed. Disturbance and opposition only seemed to have heightened the minister’s power, and he preached a sermon that is remembered to this day on Bull-Skin. Before it was over, Bud Lewis’ guards filed back into church and listened with enjoyment to the remainder of the discourse.

The service closed, and under cover of the crowd that thronged about the altar to shake the minister’s hand Hannah Williams escaped.

* * * * *

As the first item of business at the church meeting on the following Wednesday evening, she was formally “churched” and expelled from fellowship with the flock at Bull-Skin for planning to interrupt divine service. The next business was the unanimous choice of Reverend Abram Martin for the pastorate of the church.

JIMSELLA

JIMSELLA

No one could ever have accused Mandy Mason of being thrifty. For the first twenty years of her life conditions had not taught her the necessity for thrift. But that was before she had come North with Jim. Down there at home one either rented or owned a plot of ground with a shanty set in the middle of it, and lived off the products of one’s own garden and coop. But here it was all very different: one room in a crowded tenement house, and the necessity of grinding day after day to keep the wolf—a very terrible and ravenous wolf—from the door. No wonder that Mandy was discouraged and finally gave up to more than her old shiftless ways.

Jim was no less disheartened. He had been so hopeful when he first came, and had really worked hard. But he could not go higher than his one stuffy room, and the food was not so good as it had been at home. In this state of mind, Mandy’s shiftlessness irritated him. He grew to look on her as the source of all his disappointments. Then, as he walked Sixth or Seventh Avenue, he saw other coloured women who dressed gayer than Mandy, looked smarter, and did not wear such great shoes. These he contrasted with his wife, to her great disadvantage.

“Mandy,” he said to her one day, “why don’t you fix yo’se’f up an’ look like people? You go ’roun’ hyeah lookin’ like I dunno what.”

“Whyn’t you git me somep’n’ to fix myse’f up in?” came back the disconcerting answer.

“Ef you had any git up erbout you, you’d git somep’n’ fu’ yo’se’f an’ not wait on me to do evahthing.”

“Well, ef I waits on you, you keeps me waitin’, fu’ I ain’ had nothin’ fit to eat ner waih since I been up hyeah.”

“Nev’ min’! You’s mighty free wid yo’ talk now, but some o’ dese days you won’t be so free. You’s gwine to wake up some mo’nin’ an’ fin’ dat I’s lit out; dat’s what you will.”

“Well, I ’low nobody ain’t got no string to you.”

Mandy took Jim’s threat as an idle one, so she could afford to be independent. But the next day had found him gone. The deserted wife wept for a time, for she had been fond of Jim, and then she set to work to struggle on by herself. It was a dismal effort, and the people about her were not kind to her. She was hardly of their class. She was only a simple, honest countrywoman, who did not go out with them to walk the avenue.

When a month or two afterward the sheepish Jim returned, ragged and dirty, she had forgiven him and taken him back. But immunity from punishment spoiled him, and hence of late his lapses had grown more frequent and of longer duration.

He walked in one morning, after one of his absences, with a more than usually forbidding face, for he had heard the news in the neighbourhood before he got in. During his absence a baby had come to share the poverty of his home. He thought with shame at himself, which turned into anger, that the child must be three months old and he had never seen it.

“Back ag’in, Jim?” was all Mandy said as he entered and seated himself sullenly.

“Yes, I’s back, but I ain’t back fu’ long. I jes’ come to git my clothes. I’s a-gwine away fu’ good.”

“Gwine away ag’in! Why, you been gone fu’ nigh on to fou’ months a’ready. Ain’t you nevah gwine to stay home no mo’?”

“I tol’ you I was gwine away fu’ good, didn’t I? Well, dat’s what I mean.”

“Ef you didn’t want me, Jim, I wish to Gawd dat you’d ’a’ lef’ me back home among my folks, whaih people knowed me an’ would ’a’ give me a helpin’ han’. Dis hyeah No’f ain’t no fittin’ place fu’ a lone colo’ed ooman less’n she got money.”

“It ain’t no place fu’ nobody dat’s jes’ lazy an’ no ’count.”

“I ain’t no ’count. I ain’t wuffless. I does de bes’ I kin. I been wo’kin’ like a dog to try an’ keep up while you trapsein’ ’roun’, de Lawd knows whaih. When I was single I could git out an’ mek my own livin’. I didn’t ax nobody no odds; but you wa’n’t satisfied ontwell I ma’ied you, an’ now, when I’s tied down wid a baby, dat’s de way you treats me.”

The woman sat down and began to cry, and the sight of her tears angered her husband the more.

“Oh, cry!” he exclaimed. “Cry all you want to. I reckon you’ll cry yo’ fill befo’ you gits me back. What do I keer about de baby! Dat’s jes’ de trouble. It wa’n’t enough fu’ me to have to feed an’ clothe you a-layin’ ’roun’ doin’ nothin’, a baby had to go an’ come too.”

“It’s yo’n, an’ you got a right to tek keer of it, dat’s what you have. I ain’t a-gwine to waih my soul-case out a-tryin’ to pinch along an’ sta’ve to def at las’. I’ll kill myse’f an’ de chile, too, fus.”

The man looked up quickly. “Kill yo’se’f,” he said. Then he laughed. “Who evah hyeahed tell of a niggah killin’ hisse’f?”

“Nev’ min’, nev’ min’, you jes’ go on yo’ way rejoicin’. I ’spect you runnin’ ’roun’ aftah somebody else—dat’s de reason you cain’t nevah stay at home no mo’.”

“Who tol’ you dat?” exclaimed the man, fiercely. “I ain’t runnin’ aftah nobody else—’tain’t none o’ yo’ business ef I is.”

The denial and implied confession all came out in one breath.

“Ef hit ain’t my bus’ness, I’d like to know whose it gwine to be. I’s yo’ lawful wife an’ hit’s me dat’s a-sta’vin’ to tek keer of yo’ chile.”

“Doggone de chile; I’s tiahed o’ hyeahin’ ’bout huh.”

“You done got tiahed mighty quick when you ain’t nevah even seed huh yit. You done got tiahed quick, sho.”

“No, an’ I do’ want to see huh, neithah.”

“You do’ know nothin’ ’bout de chile, you do’ know whethah you wants to see huh er not.”

“Look hyeah, ooman, don’t you fool wid me. I ain’t right, nohow!”

Just then, as if conscious of the hubbub she had raised, and anxious to add to it, the baby awoke and began to wail. With quick mother instinct, the black woman went to the shabby bed, and, taking the child in her arms, began to croon softly to it: “Go s’eepy, baby; don’ you be ’f’aid; mammy ain’ gwine let nuffin’ hu’t you, even ef pappy don’ wan’ look at huh li’l face. Bye, bye, go s’eepy, mammy’s li’l gal.” Unconsciously she talked to the baby in a dialect that was even softer than usual. For a moment the child subsided, and the woman turned angrily on her husband: “I don’ keer whethah you evah sees dis chile er not. She’s a blessed li’l angel, dat’s what she is, an’ I’ll wo’k my fingahs off to raise huh, an’ when she grows up, ef any nasty niggah comes erroun’ mekin’ eyes at huh, I’ll tell huh ’bout huh pappy an’ she’ll stay wid me an’ be my comfo’t.”

“Keep yo’ comfo’t. Gawd knows I do’ want huh.”

“De time’ll come, though, an’ I kin wait fu’ it. Hush-a-bye, Jimsella.”

The man turned his head slightly.

“What you call huh?”

“I calls huh Jimsella, dat’s what I calls huh, ’ca’se she de ve’y spittin’ image of you. I gwine to jes’ lun to huh dat she had a pappy, so she know she’s a hones’ chile an’ kin hol’ up huh haid.”

“Oomph!”

They were both silent for a while, and then Jim said, “Huh name ought to be Jamsella—don’t you know Jim’s sho’t fu’ James?”

“I don’t keer what it’s sho’t fu’.” The woman was holding the baby close to her breast and sobbing now. “It wasn’t no James dat come a-cou’tin’ me down home. It was jes’ plain Jim. Dat’s what de mattah, I reckon you done got to be James.” Jim didn’t answer, and there was another space of silence, only interrupted by two or three contented gurgles from the baby.

“I bet two bits she don’t look like me,” he said finally, in a dogged tone that was a little tinged with curiosity.

“I know she do. Look at huh yo’se’f.”

“I ain’ gwine look at huh.”

“Yes, you’s ’fraid—dat’s de reason.”

“I ain’ ’fraid nuttin’ de kin’. What I got to be ’fraid fu’? I reckon a man kin look at his own darter. I will look jes’ to spite you.”

He couldn’t see much but a bundle of rags, from which sparkled a pair of beady black eyes. But he put his finger down among the rags. The baby seized it and gurgled. The sweat broke out on Jim’s brow.

“Cain’t you let me hold de baby a minute?” he said angrily. “You must be ’fraid I’ll run off wid huh.” He took the child awkwardly in his arms.

The boiling over of Mandy’s clothes took her to the other part of the room, where she was busy for a few minutes. When she turned to look for Jim, he had slipped out, and Jimsella was lying on the bed trying to kick free of the coils which swaddled her.

At supper-time that evening Jim came in with a piece of “shoulder-meat” and a head of cabbage.

“You’ll have to git my dinnah ready fu’ me to ca’y to-morrer. I’s wo’kin’ on de street, an’ I cain’t come home twell night.”

“Wha’, what!” exclaimed Mandy, “den you ain’ gwine leave, aftah all.”

“Don’t bothah me, ooman,” said Jim. “Is Jimsella ’sleep?”

MT. PISGAH’S CHRISTMAS ’POSSUM

MT. PISGAH’S CHRISTMAS ’POSSUM

No more happy expedient for raising the revenues of the church could have been found than that which was evolved by the fecund brain of the Reverend Isaiah Johnson. Mr. Johnson was wise in his day and generation. He knew his people, their thoughts and their appetites, their loves and their prejudices. Also he knew the way to their hearts and their pocket-books.

As far ahead as the Sunday two weeks before Christmas, he had made the announcement that had put the congregation of Mt. Pisgah church into a flurry of anticipatory excitement.

“Brothahs an’ sistahs,” he had said, “you all reckernizes, ez well ez I does, dat de revenues of dis hyeah chu’ch ain’t whut dey ought to be. De chu’ch, I is so’y to say, is in debt. We has a mo’gage on ouah buildin’, an’ besides de int’rus’ on dat, we has fuel to buy an’ lightin’ to do. Fu’thahmo’, we ain’t paid de sexton but twenty-five cents on his salary in de las’ six months. In conserquence of de same, de dus’ is so thick on de benches dat ef you’d jes’ lay a clof ovah dem, dey’d be same ez upholstahed fu’niture. Now, in o’dah to mitigate dis condition of affairs, yo’ pastoh has fo’med a plan which he wishes to p’nounce dis mo’nin’ in yo’ hyeahin’ an’ to ax yo’ ’proval. You all knows dat Chris’mus is ’proachin’, an’ I reckon dat you is all plannin’ out yo’ Chris’mus dinnahs. But I been a-plannin’ fu’ you when you was asleep, an’ my idee is dis,—all of you give up yo’ Chris’mus dinnahs, tek fifteen cents er a qua’tah apiece an’ come hyeah to chu’ch an’ have a ’possum dinnah.”

“Amen!” shouted one delighted old man over in the corner, and the whole congregation was all smiles and acquiescent nods.

“I puceive on de pa’t of de cong’egation a disposition to approve of de pastoh’s plan.”

“Yes, yes, indeed,” was echoed on all sides.

“Well, den I will jes’ tek occasion to say fu’thah dat I already has de ’possums, fo’ of de fattes’ animals I reckon you evah seen in all yo’ bo’n days, an’ I’s gwine to tu’n ’em ovah to Brothah Jabez Holly to tek keer of dem an’ fatten ’em wuss ag’in de happy day.”

The eyes of Jabez Holly shone with pride at the importance of the commission assigned to him. He showed his teeth in a broad smile as he whispered to his neighbour, ’Lishy Davis, “I ’low when I gits thoo wif dem ’possums dey won’t be able to waddle;” and ’Lishy slapped his knee and bent double with appreciation. It was a happy and excited congregation that filed out of Mt. Pisgah church that Sunday morning, and how they chattered! Little knots and clusters of them, with their heads together in deep converse, were gathered all about, and all the talk was of the coming dinner. This, as has already been said, was the Sunday two weeks before Christmas. On the Sunday following, the shrewd, not to say wily, Mr. Johnson delivered a stirring sermon from the text, “He prepareth a table before me in the presence of mine enemies,” and not one of his hearers but pictured the Psalmist and his brethren sitting at a ’possum feast with the congregation of a rival church looking enviously on. After the service that day, even the minister sank into insignificance beside his steward, Jabez Holly, the custodian of the ’possums. He was the most sought man on the ground.

“How dem ’possums comin’ on?” asked one.

“Comin’ on!” replied Jabez. “‘Comin’ on’ ain’t no name fu’ it. Why, I tell you, dem animals is jes’ a-waddlin’ a’ready.”

“O-o-mm!” groaned a hearer, “Chris’mus do seem slow a-comin’ dis yeah.”

“Why, man,” Jabez went on, “it ’u’d mek you downright hongry to see one o’ dem critters. Evah time I looks at ’em I kin jes’ see de grease a-drippin’ in de pan, an’ dat skin all brown an’ crispy, an’ de smell a-risin’ up—”

“Heish up, man!” exclaimed the other; “ef you don’t, I’ll drap daid befo’ de time comes.”

“Huh-uh! no, you won’t; you know dat day’s wuf livin’ fu’. Brothah Jackson, how’d yo’ crap o’ sweet pertaters tu’n out dis yeah?”

“Fine, fine! I’s got dem mos’ plenteous in my cellah.”

“Well, don’t eat em too fas’ in de nex’ week, ’ca’se we ’spects to call on you fu’ some o’ yo’ bes’. You know dem big sweet pertaters cut right in two and laid all erroun’ de pan teks up lots of de riches’ grease when ol’ Mistah ’Possum git too wa’m in de oven an’ git to sweatin’ it out.”

“Have mercy!” exclaimed the impressionable one. “I know ef I don’t git erway f’om dis chu’ch do’ right now, I’ll be foun’ hyeah on Chris’mus day wif my mouf wide open.”

But he did not stay there until Christmas morning, though he arrived on that momentous day bright and early like most of the rest. Half the women of the church had volunteered to help cook the feast, and the other half were there to see it done right; so by the time for operations to commence, nearly all of Mt. Pisgah’s congregation was assembled within its chapel walls. And what laughing and joking there was!

“O-omph!” exclaimed Sister Green, “I see Brothah Bill Jones’ mouf is jes’ sot fu’ ’possum now.”

“Yes, indeed, Sis’ Green; hit jes’ de same ’s a trap an’ gwine to spring ez soon ez dey any ’possum in sight.”

“Hyah, hyah, you ain’t de on’iest one in dat fix, Brothah Jones; I see some mo’ people roun’ hyeah lookin’ mighty ’spectious.”

“Yes, an’ I’s one of ’em,” said some one else. “I do wish Jabez Holly ’ud come on, my mouf’s jest p’intly worterin’.”

“Let’s sen’ a c’mittee aftah him, dat’ll be a joke.” This idea was taken up, and with much merriment the committee was despatched to find and bring in the delinquent Jabez.

Every one who has ever cooked a ’possum—and who has not?—knows that the animal must be killed the day before and hung out of doors over night to freeze “de wil’ tas’e outen him.” This duty had been intrusted to Jabez, and shouts of joy went up from the assembled people when he appeared, followed by the committee and bearing a bag on his shoulder. He set the bag on the floor, and as the crowd closed round him, he put his arm far down into it, and drew forth by the tail a beautiful white fat cleaned ’possum.

“O-om, jes’ look at dat! Ain’t dat a possum fu’ you? Go on, Brothah Jabez, let’s see anothah.” Jabez hesitated.

“Dat’s one ’possum dah, ain’t it?” he said.

“Yes, yes, go on, let’s see de res’.” Those on the inside of the circle were looking hard at Jabez.

“Now, dat’s one ’possum,” he repeated.

“Yes, yes, co’se it is.” There was breathless expectancy.

“Well, dat’s all dey is.”

The statement fell like a thunder-clap. No one found voice till the Reverend Isaiah Johnson broke in with, “Wha’, what dat you say, Jabez Holly?”

“I say dat’s all de ’possum dey is, dat’s what I say.”

“Whah’s dem othah ’possums, huh! whah’s de res’?”

“I put ’em out to freeze las’ night, an’ de dogs got ’em.”

A groan went up from the disappointed souls of Mt. Pisgah. But the minister went on: “Whah’d you hang dem?”

“Up ag’in de side o’ de house.”

“How’d de dogs git ’em dah?”

“Mebbe it mout ’a’ been cats.”

“Why didn’t dey git dat un?”

“Why, why—’ca’se—’ca’se—Oh, don’t questun me, man. I want you to know dat I’s a honer’ble man.”

“Jabez Holly,” said the minister, impressively, “don’t lie hyeah in de sanctua’y. I see ’possum grease on yo’ mouf.”

Jabez unconsciously gave his lips a wipe with his sleeve. “On my mouf, on my mouf!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you say you see no ’possum grease on my mouf! I mek you prove it. I’s a honer’ble man, I is. Don’t you ’cuse me of nuffin’!”

Murmurs had begun to arise from the crowd, and they had begun to press in upon the accused.

“Don’t crowd me!” he cried, his eyes bulging, for he saw in the faces about him the energy of attack which should have been directed against the ’possum all turned upon him. “I didn’t eat yo’ ol’ ’possum, I do’ lak ’possum nohow.”

“Hang him,” said some one, and the murmur rose louder as the culprit began to be hustled. But the preacher’s voice rose above the storm.

“Ca’m yo’se’ves, my brethren,” he said; “let us thank de Lawd dat one ’possum remains unto us. Brothah Holly has been put undah a gret temptation, an’ we believe dat he has fell; but it is a jedgment. I ought to knowed bettah dan to ’a’ trusted any colo’ed man wif fo’ ’possums. Let us not be ha’d upon de sinnah. We mus’ not be violent, but I tu’ns dis assembly into a chu’ch meetin’ of de brothahs to set on Brothah Holly’s case. In de mean time de sistahs will prepah de remainin’ ’possum.”

The church-meeting promptly found Brother Holly guilty of having betrayed his trust, and expelled him in disgrace from fellowship with Mt. Pisgah church.

The excellence of the one ’possum which the women prepared only fed their angry feelings, as it suggested what the whole four would have been; but the hungry men, women, and children who had foregone their Christmas dinners at home ate as cheerfully as possible, and when Mt. Pisgah’s congregation went home that day, salt pork was in great demand to fill out the void left by the meagre fare of Christmas ’possum.

A FAMILY FEUD

A FAMILY FEUD

I wish I could tell you the story as I heard it from the lips of the old black woman as she sat bobbing her turbaned head to and fro with the motion of her creaky little rocking-chair, and droning the tale forth in the mellow voice of her race. So much of the charm of the story was in that voice, which even the cares of age had not hardened.

It was a sunny afternoon in late November, one of those days that come like a backward glance from a reluctantly departing summer. I had taken advantage of the warmth and brightness to go up and sit with old Aunt Doshy on the little porch that fronted her cottage. The old woman had been a trusted house-servant in one of the wealthiest of the old Kentucky families, and a visit to her never failed to elicit some reminiscence of the interesting past. Aunt Doshy was inordinately proud of her family, as she designated the Venables, and was never weary of detailing accounts of their grandeur and generosity. What if some of the harshness of reality was softened by the distance through which she looked back upon them; what if the glamour of memory did put a halo round the heads of some people who were never meant to be canonised? It was all plain fact to Aunt Doshy, and it was good to hear her talk. That day she began:—

“I reckon I hain’t never tol’ you ’bout ole Mas’ an’ young Mas’ fallin’ out, has I? Hit’s all over now, an’ things is done change so dat I reckon eben ef ole Mas’ was libin’, he wouldn’t keer ef I tol’, an’ I knows young Mas’ Tho’nton wouldn’t. Dey ain’t nuffin’ to hide ’bout it nohow, ’ca’se all quality families has de same kin’ o’ ’spectable fusses.

“Hit all happened ’long o’ dem Jamiesons whut libed jinin’ places to our people, an’ whut ole Mas’ ain’t spoke to fu’ nigh onto thutty years. Long while ago, when Mas’ Tom Jamieson an’ Mas’ Jack Venable was bofe young mans, dey had a qua’l ’bout de young lady dey bofe was a-cou’tin’, an’ by-an’-by dey had a du’l an’ Mas’ Jamieson shot Mas’ Jack in de shouldah, but Mas’ Jack ma’ied de lady, so dey was eben. Mas’ Jamieson ma’ied too, an’ after so many years dey was bofe wid’ers, but dey ain’t fu’give one another yit. When Mas’ Tho’nton was big enough to run erroun’, ole Mas’ used to try to ’press on him dat a Venable mus’n’ never put his foot on de Jamieson lan’; an’ many a tongue-lashin’ an’ sometimes wuss de han’s on our place got fu’ mixin’ wif de Jamieson servants. But, la! young Mas’ Tho’nton was wuss’n de niggers. Evah time he got a chance he was out an’ gone, over lots an’ fiel’s an’ into de Jamieson ya’d a-playin’ wif little Miss Nellie, whut was Mas’ Tom’s little gal. I never did see two chillun so ’tached to one another. Dey used to wander erroun’, han’ in han’, lak brother an’ sister, an’ dey’d cry lak dey little hea’ts ’u’d brek ef either one of dey pappys seed ’em an’ pa’ted ’em.

“I ’member once when de young Mastah was erbout eight year ole, he was a-settin’ at de table one mo’nin’ eatin’ wif his pappy, when all of er sudden he pause an’ say, jes’ ez solerm-lak, ‘When I gits big, I gwine to ma’y Nellie.’ His pappy jump lak he was shot, an’ tu’n right pale, den he say kin’ o’ slow an’ gaspy-lak, ‘Don’t evah let me hyeah you say sich a thing ergin, Tho’nton Venable. Why, boy, I’d raver let evah drap o’ blood outen you, dan to see a Venable cross his blood wif a Jamieson.’

“I was jes’ a-bringin’ in de cakes whut Mastah was pow’ful fon’ of, an’ I could see bofe dey faces. But, la! honey, dat chile didn’t look a bit skeered. He jes’ sot dah lookin’ in his pappy’s face,—he was de spittin’ image of him, all ’cept his eyes, dey was his mother’s,—den he say, ‘Why, Nellie’s nice,’ an’ went on eatin’ a aig. His pappy laid his napkin down an’ got up an’ went erway f’om de table. Mas’ Tho’nton say, ‘Why, father didn’t eat his cakes.’ ‘I reckon yo’ pa ain’t well,’ says I, fu’ I knowed de chile was innercent.

“Well, after dat day, ole Mas’ tuk extry pains to keep de chillun apa’t—but ’twa’n’t no use. ’Tain’t never no use in a case lak dat. Dey jes’ would be together, an’ ez de boy got older, it seemed to grieve his pappy mighty. I reckon he didn’t lak to jes’ fu’bid him seein’ Miss Nellie, fu’ he know how haidstrong Mas’ Tho’nton was, anyhow. So things kep’ on dis way, an’ de boy got handsomer evah day. My, but his pappy did set a lot o’ sto’ by him. Dey wasn’t nuffin’ dat boy eben wished fu’ dat his pappy didn’t gin him. Seemed lak he fa’ly wusshipped him. He’d jes’ watch him ez he went erroun’ de house lak he was a baby yit. So hit mus’ ’a’ been putty ha’d wif Mas’ Jack when hit come time to sen’ Mas’ Tho’nton off to college. But he never showed it. He seed him off wif a cheerful face, an’ nobidy would ’a’ ever guessed dat it hu’t him; but dat afternoon he shet hisse’f up an’ hit was th’ee days befo’ anybody ’cept me seed him, an’ nobidy ’cept me knowed how his vittels come back not teched. But after de fus’ letter come, he got better. I hyeahd him a-laffin’ to hisse’f ez he read it, an’ dat day he et his dinner.

“Well, honey, dey ain’t no tellin’ whut Mas’ Jack’s plans was, an’ hit ain’t fu’ me to try an’ guess ’em; but ef he had sont Mas’ Tho’nton erway to brek him off f’om Miss Nellie, he mout ez well ’a’ let him stayed at home; fu’ Jamieson’s Sal whut nussed Miss Nellie tol’ me dat huh mistis got a letter f’om Mas’ Tho’nton evah day er so. An’ when he was home fu’ holidays, you never seed nuffin’ lak it. Hit was jes’ walkin’ er ridin’ er dribin’ wif dat young lady evah day of his life. An’ dey did look so sweet together dat it seemed a shame to pa’t ’em—him wif his big brown eyes an’ sof’ curly hair an’ huh all white an’ gentle lak a little dove. But de ole Mas’ couldn’t see hit dat erway, an’ I knowed dat hit was a-troublin’ him mighty bad. Ez well ez he loved his son, hit allus seemed lak he was glad when de holidays was over an’ de boy was back at college.

“Endurin’ de las’ year dat de young Mastah was to be erway, his pappy seemed lak he was jes’ too happy an’ res’less fu’ anything. He was dat proud of his son, he didn’t know whut to do. He was allus tellin’ visitors dat come to de house erbout him, how he was a ’markable boy an’ was a-gwine to be a honour to his name. An’ when ’long to’ds de ve’y end of de term, a letter come sayin’ dat Mas’ Tho’nton had done tuk some big honour at de college, I jes’ thought sho Mas’ Jack ’u’d plum bus’ hisse’f, he was so proud an’ tickled. I hyeahd him talkin’ to his ole frien’ Cunnel Mandrey an’ mekin’ great plans ’bout whut he gwine to do when his son come home. He gwine tek him trav’lin’ fus’ in Eur’p, so’s to ‘finish him lak a Venable ought to be finished by seein’ somep’n’ of de worl’—’ dem’s his ve’y words. Den he was a-gwine to come home an’ ‘model de house an’ fit it up, ’fu’’—I never shell fu’git how he said it,—‘fu’ I ’spec’ my son to tek a high place in de society of ole Kintucky an’ to mo’ dan surstain de reputation of de Venables.’ Den when de las’ day come an’ young Mastah was home fu’ sho, so fine an’ clever lookin’ wif his new mustache—sich times ez dey was erbout dat house nobidy never seed befo’. All de frien’s an’ neighbours, ’scusin’, o’ co’se, de Jamiesons, was invited to a big dinner dat lasted fu’ hours. Dey was speeches by de gent’men, an’ evahbidy drinked de graderate’s health an’ wished him good luck. But all de time I could see dat Mas’ Tho’nton wasn’t happy, dough he was smilin’ an’ mekin’ merry wif evahbidy. It ’pressed me so dat I spoke erbout hit to Aunt Emmerline. Aunt Emmerline was Mas’ Tho’nton’s mammy, an’ sence he’d growed up, she didn’t do much but he’p erroun’ de house a little.

“‘You don’ mean to tell me dat you noticed dat too?’ says she when I tol’ huh erbout it.

“‘Yes, I did,’ says I, ‘an’ I noticed hit strong.’

“‘Dey’s somep’n’ ain’t gwine right wif my po’ chile,’ she say, ‘an’ dey ain’t no tellin’ whut it is.’

“‘Hain’t you got no idee, Aunt Emmerline?’ I say.

“‘La! chile,’ she say in a way dat mek me think she keepin’ somep’n’ back, ‘la! chile, don’ you know young mans don’ come to dey mammys wif dey secuts lak dey do when dey’s babies? How I gwine to know whut’s pesterin’ Mas’ Tho’nton?’

“Den I knowed she was hidin’ somep’n’, an’ jes’ to let huh know dat I’d been had my eyes open too, I say slow an’ ’pressive lak, ‘Aunt Emmerline, don’ you reckon hit Miss Nellie Jamieson?’ She jumped lak she was skeered, an’ looked at me right ha’d; den she say, ‘I ain’ reck’nin’ nuffin’ ’bout de white folks’ bus’ness.’ An’ she pinched huh mouf up right tight, an’ I couldn’t git another word outen huh; but I knowed dat I’d hit huh jes’ erbout right.

“One mo’nin’ erbout a week after de big dinner, jes’ ez dey was eatin’, Mas’ Tho’nton say, ‘Father, I’d lak to see you in de liberry ez soon ez you has de time. I want to speak to you ’bout somep’n’ ve’y impo’tant.’ De ole man look up right quick an’ sha’p, but he say ve’y quiet lak, ‘Ve’y well, my son, ve’y well; I’s at yo’ service at once.’

“Dey went into de liberry, an’ Mas’ Tho’nton shet de do’ behin’ him. I could hyeah dem talkin’ kin’ o’ low while I was cl’arin’ erway de dishes. After while dey ’menced to talk louder. I had to go out an’ dus’ de hall den near de liberry do’, an’ once I hyeahd ole Mas’ say right sho’t an’ sha’p, ‘Never!’ Den young Mas’ he say, ‘But evah man has de right to choose fu’ his own se’f.’

“‘Man, man!’ I hyeahd his pappy say in a way I had never hyeahd him use to his son befo’, ‘evah male bein’ dat wahs men’s clothes an’ has a mustache ain’t a man.’

“‘Man er whut not,’ po’ young Mastah’s voice was a-tremblin’, ‘I am at leas’ my father’s son an’ I deserve better dan dis at his han’s.’ I hyeahd somebody a-walkin’ de flo’, an’ I was feared dey’d come out an’ think dat I was a-listenin’, so I dus’es on furder down de hall, an’ didn’t hyeah no mo’ ontwell Mas’ Tho’nton come hurryin’ out an’ say, ‘Ike, saddle my hoss.’ He was ez pale ez he could be, an’ when he spoke sho’t an’ rough lak dat, he was so much lak his father dat hit skeered me. Ez soon ez his hoss was ready, he jumped into de saddle an’ went flyin’ outen de ya’d lak mad, never eben lookin’ back at de house. I didn’t see Mas’ Jack fu’ de res’ of de day, an’ he didn’t come in to suppah. But I seed Aunt Emmerline an’ I knowed dat she had been somewhah an’ knowed ez much ez I did erbout whut was gwine on, but I never broached a word erbout hit to huh. I seed she was oneasy, but I kep’ still ’twell she say, ‘Whut you reckon keepin’ Mas’ Tho’nton out so late?’ Den I jes’ say, ‘I ain’t reck’nin’ ’bout de white folks’ bus’ness.’ She looked a little bit cut at fus’, den she jes’ go on lak nuffin’ hadn’t happened: ‘I’s mighty ’sturbed ’bout young Mas’; he never stays erway f’om suppah ’dout sayin’ somep’n’.’

“‘Oh, I reckon he kin fin’ suppah somewhah else.’ I says dis don’t keer lak jes’ fu’ to lead huh on.

“‘I ain’t so much pestered ’bout his suppah,’ she say; ‘I’s feared he gwine do somep’n’ he hadn’t ought to do after dat qua’l ’twixt him an’ his pappy.’

“‘Did dey have a qua’l?’ says I.

“‘G’long!’ Aunt Emmerline say, ‘you wasn’t dus’in’ one place in de hall so long fu’ nuffin’. You knows an’ I knows eben ef we don’t talk a heap. I’s troubled myse’f. Hit jes’ in dat Venable blood to go right straight an’ git Miss Nellie an’ ma’y huh right erway, an’ ef he do it, I p’intly know his pa’ll never fu’give him.’ Den Aunt Emmerline ’mence to cry, an’ I feel right sorry fu’ huh, ’ca’se Mas’ Tho’nton huh boy, an’ she think a mighty heap o’ him.

“Well, we hadn’t had time to say much mo’ when we hyeahd a hoss gallopin’ into de ya’d. Aunt Emmerline jes’ say, ‘Dat’s Gineral’s lope!’ an’ she bus’ outen de do’. I waits, ’spectin’ huh to come back an’ say dat Mas’ Tho’nton done come at las’. But after while she come in wif a mighty long face an’ say, ‘Hit’s one o’ Jamieson’s darkies; he brung de hoss back an’ a note Mas’ gin him fu’ his pappy. Mas’ Tho’nton done gone to Lexin’ton wif Miss Nellie an’ got ma’ied.’ Den she jes’ brek down an’ ’mence a-cryin’ ergin an’ a-rockin’ huhse’f back an’ fofe an’ sayin’, ‘Oh, my po’ chile, my po’ boy, whut’s to ’come o’ you!’

“I went upstairs an’ lef’ huh—we bofe stayed at de big house—but I didn’t sleep much, ’ca’se all thoo de night I could hyeah ole Mas’ a-walkin’ back an’ fofe ercross his flo’, an’ when Aunt Emmerline come up to baid, she mou’ned all night, eben in huh sleep. I tell you, honey, dem was mou’nin’ times.

“Nex’ mo’nin’ when ole Mas’ come down to brekfus’, he looked lak he done had a long spell o’ sickness. But he wasn’t no man to ’spose his feelin’s. He never let on, never eben spoke erbout Mas’ Tho’nton bein’ erway f’om de table. He didn’t eat much, an’ fin’ly I see him look right long an’ stiddy at de place whah Mas’ Tho’nton used to set an’ den git up an’ go ’way f’om de table. I knowed dat he was done filled up. I went to de liberry do’ an’ I could hyeah him sobbin’ lak a chile. I tol’ Aunt Emmerline ’bout it, but she jes’ shuck huh haid an’ didn’t say nuffin’ a’-tall.

“Well, hit went dis erway fu’ ’bout a week. Mas’ Jack was gittin’ paler an’ paler evah day, an’ hit jes’ ’menced to come to my min’ how ole he was. One day Aunt Emmerline say she gwine erway, an’ she mek Jim hitch up de spring wagon an’ she dribe on erway by huhse’f. Co’se, now, Aunt Emmerline she do putty much ez she please, so I don’t think nuffin’ ’bout hit. When she come back, ’long to’ds ebenin’, I say, ‘Aunt Emmerline, whah you been all day?’

“‘Nemmine, honey, you see,’ she say, an’ laff. Well, I ain’t seed nobidy laff fu’ so long dat hit jes’ mek me feel right wa’m erroun’ my hea’t, an’ I laff an’ keep on laffin’ jes’ at nuffin’.

“Nex’ mo’nin’ Aunt Emmerline mighty oneasy, an’ I don’ know whut de matter ontwell I hyeah some un say, ‘Tek dat hoss, Ike, an’ feed him, but keep de saddle on.’ Aunt Emmerline jes’ fa’ly fall out de do’ an’ I lak to drap, ’ca’se hit’s Mas’ Tho’nton’s voice. In a minute he come to me an’ say, ‘Doshy, go tell my father I’d lak to speak to him.’

“I don’ skeercely know how I foun’ my way to de liberry, but I did. Ole Mas’ was a-settin’ dah wif a open book in his han’, but his eyes was jes’ a-starin’ at de wall, an’ I knowed he wasn’t a-readin’. I say, ‘Mas’ Jack,’ an’ he sta’t jes’ lak he rousin’ up, ‘Mas’ Jack, Mas’ Tho’nton want to speak to you.’ He jump up quick, an’ de book fall on de flo’, but he grab a cheer an’ stiddy hisse’f. I done tol’ you Mas’ Jack wasn’t no man to ’spose his feelin’s. He jes’ say, slow lak he hol’in’ hisse’f, ‘Sen’ him in hyeah.’ I goes back an’ ’livers de message, den I flies roun’ to de po’ch whah de liberry winder opens out, ’ca’se, I ain’t gwine lie erbout it, I was mighty tuk up wif all dis gwine on an’ I wanted to see an’ hyeah,—an’ who you reckon ’roun’ dah but Aunt Emmerline! She jes’ say, ‘S-sh!’ ez I come ’roun’, an’ clas’ huh han’s. In a minute er so, de liberry do’ open an’ Mas’ Tho’nton come in. He shet hit behin’ him, an’ den stood lookin’ at his pa, dat ain’t never tu’ned erroun’ yit. Den he say sof’, ‘Father.’ Mas’ Jack tu’ned erroun’ raal slow an’ look at his son fu’ a while. Den he say, ‘Do you still honour me wif dat name?’ Mas’ Tho’nton got red in de face, but he answer, ‘I don’ know no other name to call you.’

“‘Will you set down?’ Mas’ speak jes’ lak he was a-talkin’ to a stranger.

“‘Ef you desiah me to.’ I see Mas’ Tho’nton was a-bridlin’ up too. Mas’ jes’ th’owed back his haid an’ say, ‘Fa’ be it f’om any Venable to fu’git cou’tesy to his gues’.’ Young Mas’ moved erway f’om de cheer whah he was a-gwine to set, an’ his haid went up. He spoke up slow an’ delibut, jes’ lak his pa, ‘I do not come, suh, in dat cha’acter, I is hyeah ez yo’ son.’

“Well, ole Mas’ eyes fa’ly snapped fiah. He was white ez a sheet, but he still spoke slow an’ quiet, hit made me creep, ‘You air late in ’memberin’ yo’ relationship, suh.’

“‘I hab never fu’got it.’

“‘Den, suh, you have thought mo’ of yo’ rights dan of yo’ duties.’ Mas’ Jack was mad an’ so was Mas’ Tho’nton; he say, ‘I didn’t come hyeah to ’scuss dat.’ An’ he tu’ned to’ds de do’. I hyeah Aunt Emmerline groan jes’ ez Mas’ say, ‘Well, whut did you come fu’?’

“‘To be insulted in my father’s house by my father, an’ I’s got all dat I come fu’!’ Mas’ Tho’nton was ez white ez his pa now, an’ his han’ was on de do’-knob. Den all of a sudden I hyeah de winder go up, an’ I lak to fall over gittin’ outen de way to keep f’om bein’ seed. Aunt Emmerline done opened de winder an’ gone in. Dey bofe tu’ned an’ looked at huh s’prised lak, an’ Mas’ Jack sta’ted to say somep’n’, but she th’owed up huh han’ an’ say ‘Wait!’ lak she owned de house. ‘Mas’ Jack,’ she say, ‘you an’ Mas’ Tho’nton ain’t gwine pa’t dis way. You mus’n’t. You’s father an’ son. You loves one another. I knows I ain’t got no bus’ness meddlin’ in yo’ ’fairs, but I cain’t see you all qua’l dis way. Mastah, you’s bofe stiffnecked. You’s bofe wrong. I know Mas’ Tho’nton didn’t min’ you, but he didn’t mean no ha’m—he couldn’t he’p it—it was in de Venable blood, an’ you mus’n’t ’spise him fu’ it.’

“‘Emmerline’—ole Mas’ tried to git in a word, but she wouldn’t let him.

“‘Yes, Mastah, yes, but I nussed dat boy an’ tuk keer o’ him when he was a little bit of a he’pless thing; an’ when his po’ mammy went to glory, I ’member how she look up at me wif dem blessed eyes o’ hern an’ lay him in my arms an’ say, “Emmerline, tek keer o’ my baby.” I’s done it, Mastah, I’s done it de bes’ I could. I’s nussed him thoo sickness when hit seemed lak his little soul mus’ foller his mother anyhow, but I’s seen de look in yo’ eyes, an’ prayed to God to gin de chile back to you. He done it, he done it, an’ you sha’n’t th’ow erway de gif’ of God!’ Aunt Emmerline was a-cryin’ an’ so was Mas’ Tho’nton. Ole Mas’ mighty red, but he clared his th’oat an’ said wif his voice tremblin’, ‘Emmerline, leave de room.’ De ole ooman come out a-cryin’ lak huh hea’t ’u’d brek, an’ jes’ ez de do’ shet behin’ huh, ole Mas’ brek down an’ hol’ out his arms, cryin’, ‘My son, my son.’ An’ in a minute he an’ Mas’ Tho’nton was a-hol’in’ one another lak dey’d never let go, an’ his pa was a-pattin’ de boy’s haid lak he was a baby. All of a sudden ole Mas’ hel’ him off an’ looked at him an’ say, ‘Dat ole fool talkin’ to me erbout yo’ mother’s eyes, an’ you stannin’ hyeah a-lookin’ at me wif ’em.’ An’ den he was a-cryin’ ergin, an’ dey was bofe huggin’.

“Well, after while dey got all settled down, an’ Mas’ Tho’nton tol’ his pa how Aunt Emmerline drib to Lexin’ton an’ foun’ him an’ made him come home. ‘I was wrong, father,’ he say, ‘but I reckon ef it hadn’t ’a’ been fu’ Aunt Emmerline, I would ’a’ stuck it out.’

“‘It was in de Venable blood,’ his pa say, an’ dey bofe laff. Den ole Mas’ say, kin’ o’ lak it hu’t him, ‘An’ whah’s yo’ wife?’ Young Mas’ got mighty red ergin ez he answer, ‘She ain’t fu’ erway.’

“‘Go bring huh,’ Mas’ Jack say.

“Well, I reckon Mas’ Tho’nton lak to flew, an’ he had Miss Nellie dah in little er no time. When dey come, Mas’ he say, ‘Come hyeah,’ den he pause awhile—‘my daughter.’ Den Miss Nellie run to him, an’ dey was another cryin’ time, an’ I went on to my work an’ lef’ ’em talkin’ an’ laffin’ an’ cryin’.

“Well, Aunt Emmerline was skeered to def. She jes’ p’intly knowed dat she was gwine to git a tongue-lashin’. I don’ know whether she was mos’ skeered er mos’ happy. Mas’ sont fu’ huh after while, an’ I listened when she went in. He was tryin’ to talk an’ look pow’ful stern, but I seed a twinkle in his eye. He say, ‘I want you to know, Emmerline, dat hit ain’t yo’ place to dictate to yo’ mastah whut he shell do—Shet up, shet up! I don’ want a word outen you. You been on dis place so long, an’ been bossin’ de other darkies an’ yo’ Mas’ Tho’nton erroun’ so long, dat I ’low you think you own de place. Shet up, not a word outen you! Ef you an’ yo’ young Mas’ ’s a-gwine to run dis place, I reckon I’d better step out. Humph! You was so sma’t to go to Lexin’ton de other day, you kin go back dah ergin. You seem to think you’s white, an’ hyeah’s de money to buy a new dress fu’ de ole fool darky dat nussed yo’ son an’ made you fu’give his foo’ishness when you wanted to be a fool yo’se’f.’ His voice was sof’ ergin, an’ he put de money in Aunt Emmerline’s han’ an’ pushed huh out de do’, huh a-cryin’ an’ him put’ nigh it.

“After dis, Mas’ Jack was jes’ bent an’ boun’ dat de young people mus’ go on a weddin’ trip. So dey got ready, an’ Miss Nellie went an’ tol’ huh pa goo’bye. Min’ you, dey hadn’t been nuffin’ said ’bout him an’ Mas’ not bein’ frien’s. He done fu’give Miss Nellie right erway fu’ runnin’ off. But de mo’nin’ dey went erway, we all was out in de ya’d, an’ Aunt Emmerline settin’ on de seat wif Jim, lookin’ ez proud ez you please. Mastah was ez happy ez a boy. ‘Emmerline,’ he hollahs ez dey drib off, ‘tek good keer o’ dat Venable blood.’ De ca’iage stopped ez it went out de gate, an’ Mas’ Tom Jamieson kissed his daughter. He had rid up de road to see de las’ of huh. Mastah seed him, an’ all of a sudden somep’n’ seemed to tek holt o’ him an’ he hollahed, ‘Come in, Tom.’