Chapter II: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My Lawd command me to go in de wilderness.
(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley)
W’at did I see w’en I went in de wilderness?
(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley).”

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

“In de valley, my Lawd,
On my knees;
In de valley, my Lawd,
In de valley.
In de valley, my Lawd,
Down on my knees,
I seen de w’ite horse pawin’ in de valley.”

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

“Who heard my pray’rs w’en I prayed in de wilderness?
(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley)
Who foun’ de road w’en I comed out de wilderness?
(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley).”

Then the chorus again, full, swinging and triumphant:

“In de valley, my Lawd,
On my knees;
In de valley, my Lawd,
In de valley.
In de valley, my Lawd,
Down on my knees,
I seen de w’ite horse pawin’ in de valley.”

The tuneful tumult awakened Uncle Foteen from his peaceful sleep, and he looked around the room bewildered, uncertain of his whereabouts. What did the gathering mean? Why were they sitting around the long white table, singing church songs? Whose wake was it? Who were they waiting for in the dim, lamp-lighted room?

Looking at Susan appealingly, he asked:

“He ain’ come yet?”

She went over to the old man, and said to him quietly:

“Evvything alright, Unc’ Foteen. You bin sleepin’.”

Looking at her thoughtfully, he said with tremulous voice:

“If dat candle burn out befo’ Marse Sylvain git hyuh, we gotta put Ma’am Guillaume away. You know, we ain’ ’lowed to keep her too long.”

“Unc’ Foteen, lemme fix you some coffee an’ milk,” Susan said pleasantly; meaning to divert the old man’s thoughts. “An’ you all members, stop w’at you singin’,” she called to the chorus, “an’ sing somh’n w’at goin’ make Unc’ Foteen feel gay.”

Obeying Susan’s request, Dink began playing a rollicking melody on the comb; patting his foot vehemently on the brick-sprinkled floor, to mark the even time.

“Boy!” Felo called out to him indignantly, causing Dink to immediately stop playing. “Quit yo’ ratty music, an’ play somh’n decen’ w’at goes wid Sunday an’ fittin’ for Chrishtun people to sing.”

“Don’ pay ’im no ’tenshun, li’l boy,” Susan interposed. “Dis house my meetin’-house; an’ if dey got people in de buildin’ displease wid de himes an’ music an’ things, den leave ’um go some yuther place an’ hunt till dey finds de thing w’at suits ’um. So go ’head, li’l boy, an’ play an’ sing jes’ like yo’ min’ tell you.”

Further objection was useless after this declaration. Dink laid his comb on the bench along-side of him, and leaning back against the wall, began singing gaily:

“W’en de moon be riz
An’ come a-peepin’ thoo de branches o’ de ’simmon tree;
Look like I hyeah ’im say:
How come evvy night I see you watchin’ for me?...
He don’ know I got a reason
Brings me out hyuh evvy season,
Lessen it be w’en de clouds is po’in down rain.”

It was a glorious moment. He knew that he was soloist supreme; that the song was his individual possession, and nobody would venture to sing it with him. He had them in his power. He would make Felo listen, whether or no. Almost rapturously he went on:

“Go ’long, moon,
I want you to th’ow yo’ light behin’ de ’simmon tree.
P’int de road
So her w’ats comin’ hyuh to meet me’ll see.
Th’ow yo’ shadders kind o’ fancy,
Des for me an’ my Nancy,
Her w’at you hyeah come singin’ yonder in de lane.”

Having reached the end of the verse, his eyes skimmed the room for looks of approval. Several of the listeners were smiling appreciatively. Drawing a deep breath, he extended his chest imposingly, and went on with the chorus:

“W’en I hyeahs dat black gal sing,
’Tain no use to try an’ do another blessed thing;
Feel like my foots done clean tuck wing,
An’ my buzzum feel so strong.
Umph-umph, people, you kin b’lieve my word,
Her kind o’ singin’ you ain’ never, never, never heard.
She des de same as a natchal wil’ mawkin’-bird,
Bustin’ wid song!”

When Dink finished his happy serenade, Nat called to him:

“Boy, come over hyuh an’ tell me how ole you is.”

Dink looked appealingly at his aunt, and as he crossed over to Nat’s chair, Soongy answered for him:

“He be fifteen years ole nex’ June, Unc’ Nat.”

“Boy, you sho got a gif’ straight from Gawd, quiv’in’ in dat th’oat o’ yone,” Nat said to him, patting him on the head patronizingly.

“A gif’ straight from de devil,” muttered Felo, looking at Nat and batting his eyelids with impatience.

Nat reflected a while on the difference of opinion, then asked drily:

“Since w’en you got to be so frien’ly wid de devil, he done showed you how to make ’videnashun ’twix w’at b’lonks to him an’ w’at b’lonks to Gawd?”

“Is Gawd give people gif’s to th’ow ’way, tellin’ ’bout devilment,—goin’ ’round singin’ all kind o’ sinful random; ’stid o’ raisin’ up dey voice to give praise to de things Gawd done sanctify?”

“W’at things de boy tol’ about in de song you cunsider Gawd ain’ sanctify?” Nat asked solemnly. “Can’t be de man watchin’ for de moon to come up behin’ de ’simmon tree. Dat ain’ natchal? Gawd ain’ sen’ de moon to shine, an’ make de water move, an’ help de plants to grow in de groun’, an’ give light so people kin know de right road from de wrong?—Dat ain’ natchal?... An’ Gawd ain’ make de sap rise in de young ooman an’ de young man, stirrin’ ’um up like de sap stirrin’ in de ’simmon tree, till dey feels somh’n curuss drawin’ ’um to’ads one-’nother?” He went on. “Dat ain’ natchal?

“An’ Gawd ain’ make de mawkin’-bird sing, settin’ in de aw’inge tree in de moonlight whah ’is ole lady kin ketch de a-ko ’is voice, w’en she settin’ lonely on top de aigs in de nes’?—Dat ain’ natchal?...

“Des like Gawd make de young man lif’ up ’is tenshun w’en he hyeah de soun’ o’ de young gal voice, comin’ up de lane, singin’ bol’ so she kin ’tract ’im?—Dat ain’ natchal?... Shucks! Ole crazy nigger. You gotta study yo’ lesson a heap mo’, befo’ you go ’roun’ hyuh preachin’ to people so biggidy.”

Appearing fully satisfied with the delivery of his colorful remonstrance, Nat turned to Dink and said quietly:

“Boy, go yonder an’ play on yo’ comb till you make dese squinched-up niggers ’maginashun change, an’ dey finds out dat de sperret got yuther ways o’ movin’ ’um ’sides preachin’ on Bible texes an’ things.”

“Dah, bless Gawd!” Nookie exclaimed. “Unc’ Nat done win. Done put Mr. Felo out on a home run.”

“Felo ain’ gone, is he?” Tom inquired.

“No. Felo hyuh,” Susan told him.

“Mr. Felo, you ain’ goin’, is you?” Scilla asked solicitously.

“Who?” Felo replied, with calm amazement. “Felo goin’ stay right hyuh wid y’all till de party break up.”

His resolve was greeted with merry laughter and good-natured raillery; during which, Dink went back to his seat and began playing on the comb:

“I’m goin’-a lay down my burden down by de river-side,
Down by de river-side, down by de river-side;
I’m goin’-a lay down my burden down by de river-side,
An’ I ain’ goin’ study war no mo’.”

He came to the refrain, and every voice took up the words, singing with increasing fervor, until the song rolled like a pæan of deliverance:

“Ain’ goin’ study war no mo’
Ain’ goin’ study war no mo’
Ain’ goin’ study ... war ... no ... mo’....”

The stirring refrain was drawing towards the end, when the door opened and another member came in.

The new-comer was a man about thirty years old; known to everybody in the village as Gussie Fisky. He was well-built; with a wealth of unkempt, reddish-blond hair, and a shaggy mustache of the same color. His eyes were large and gray, and stared with a reckless, determined air. His complexion was one of remarkable sallowness; and his features, while plain and commonplace, were free from every negroid characteristic; having certain regularities of cast that declared him indubitably a white man, however ordinary the extraction.

A strange mystery surrounded Gussie’s origin. A mystery known to no one except old Aunt Fisky, the kindly colored woman with whom he lived, the only mother he had ever known.

There were many legends related regarding Gussie’s origin, his birth, and his abandonment by his white family; some ribald, some romantic; any of which Gussie never troubled himself to comment on or disprove. He knew that he was white; that Aunt Fisky had raised him from infancy, and had given him her name; that he had lived his inconsequent years among illiterate Negroes; that it was sheer madness to hope to be received as a fellow-man by white people who despised him; and that life was nothing more than a merry game for anyone who could play it with a reckless spirit.

And so he spent his days among his chosen companions, resigned to his humble fate; satisfied with old Aunt Fisky’s motherly attentions, and the squalid atmosphere of the poor shanty they called home; comfortable with the boisterous young colored women who permitted him to bestow upon them the freedom of his prodigal affection; and companionable with the roustabouts and longshoremen with whom he worked and gambled and caroused; imbibing their thoughts and ideas, adopting their dialect, and imitating their manners and ways.

Gussie came lumbering into the room, scanning the faces of the singers nervously. Finding himself suddenly yielding to the melody’s insistent appeal, he lifted his raucous voice to join the chorus just as the song came to an end.

With a disappointed look, he asked:

“W’at y’all stop for? Go ’head agin, an’ lemme sing wid you.”

“W’at you know ’bout singin’, ole w’ite nigger?” Felo asked, half-jestingly. “Sho time to stop, w’en you come lopin’ up in hyuh an’ wan’ sing.”

It was a thrust that went deeper than Felo intended. Gussie understood that the feeling with which he was accepted by his colored companions was something more like tolerance than a feeling of genuine friendship; and the fact, unpleasant as it was, made him conscious of a natural sense of race pride and prejudice not easily overlooked.

With an indignant glare at Felo, he said:

“I know I’m w’ite, ole ugly nigger. But you ain’ got to tell me ’bout it. I bin knowin’ you ever sence we was chillun playin’ together; but you ain’ need to talk like dat befo’ all dis crowd.”

“Gussie,” Susan called to him quietly, “put yo’ hat yonder, an’ set down, an’ don’ ack so boist’us. You ain’ bin hyuh for over three weeks, an’ now you come an’ wan’ raise a confusion? Go set down an’ ack like people.”

Taking in the awkwardness of the situation with admirable tact, Carmelite asked:

“Gussie, how much Aun’ Fisky chahges for a dozen duck aigs? I got one muskovy duck home yonder I wan’ set befo’ de weather git too col’.”

“She bin gittin’ two-bits a dozen for ’um.” Gussie answered sullenly. “But she ain’ got no mo’, now.”

“You mean she done sol’ all her ducks?” Carmelite persisted.

“No. She done sol’ all de aigs she had to Mr. Gully baker-shop.”

“Go ’way from hyuh, Gussie,” Carmelite answered, laughing. “W’at Mr. Gully wan’ do wid duck aigs in a baker-shop?”

“To put in de cake for de weddin’, las’ night.”

“Who? Dey had a weddin’ yonder in Gritny las’ night?” Inquired Susan, eager to hear further particulars.

“Yas’m.” Gussie replied, becoming more amiable. “Dat w’ite ooman dey call Maggie Hutson. ’Twas her weddin.’”

“Lawd!” exclaimed Nookie in tones of great surprise. “You mean to say ole Maggie Hutson done got her a husban’, aft’ de sinful life she bin carryin’ all dese years up an’ down de road wid so many diffunt mens?... Lawd! Gussie, tell it agin; so I kin lissen if w’at you tellin’ is somh’n true.”

“Sho Gawd is.” Gussie assured her. “Maggie got her one husban’; an’ had her one sho-nuff weddin’, wid all de church bells ringin’; went ridin’ all thoo de town, settin’ back on de ca’idge seat ’long-side her fright’nes’-lookin’ skinny old man; wid a weepin’ veil hangin’ down ove’ her face, an’ a aw’inge flower wreath settin’ ’cross her fawid; jes’ a-bowin’ an’ smilin’ at people, like she wan’ show ’um she kin put on wreath an’ veil even if she is look like somebody come off a bad street.... Sho did. ’Twas like a fatal purrade goin’ roun’ Gritny.”

“Lawd, people! Lissen w’at Gussie sayin’.” Nookie exclaimed, laughing heartily. “Settin’ up in a ca’idge, wid aw’inge flowers on her head, brazen as she is! Lawd, people! Don’t you know da’s comical?”

“W’at make Maggie ain’ got de right to put aw’inge flowers in her head if da’s her pleasure?” Came Nat’s dissenting voice. “Y’all niggers sho like to fin’ somh’n wrong wid yuther people ways. Maggie got a right to put mustud-greens, an’ twis’ cow-pea vines in her head if she fin’ it make her look good; an’ if da’s de way her min’ be workin’.”

“But, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla essayed to explain in behalf of the sisterhood, “de wimmins gotta think a li’l somh’n ’bout form an’ fashion, ain’t dey?... Wearin’ aw’inge flowers public like dat sho is redic’lus; cheap as Maggie bin made herself yonder in Gritny wid de mens.”

Getting up from his chair and gesticulating with both arms, as though addressing a crowd on an open road, Felo called out:

“Stan’ back, members! Stan’ back, an’ make room. ’Cause us sanctified sisters done commence pitchin’ rocks an’ stones.”

“Scilla ain’ spoke nothin’ w’at ain’ true,” Gussie interposed. “Evvybody yonder know Maggie hist’ry.”

At this point Susan’s rumination became audible: “An’ all dem w’at don’t, dey ain’ goin’ be long findin’ out, w’en yo’ mouf start runnin’.”

“Can’t help from knowin’ w’at I know, Aun’ Susan,” Gussie replied hurriedly in self-vindication. “Ain’ I bin worked for Maggie, spadin’ her garden, an’ w’ite-washin’ her kitchen; an’ bin had de freedom o’ de whole house, day-time an’ night-time, too?”

With sharp impatience Nat called to him:

“Stop right whah you is, Gussie; befo’ you try to make we-all b’lieve you had de freedom o’ somh’n else besides.”

Laughing boisterously, Gussie said:

“Money ain’ nothin’ but money w’en somebody got somh’n to sell, ain’t it?... An’ one man ain’ look much diffunt from a yuther man in de dark,—even if he do be w’ite.”

A sudden reprimand from Susan interrupted his laughter.

“Look, Gussie!” He heard her call. “Black or w’ite,—w’ichever color you wan’ call it,—but you ain’ in no bar-room. Either yonder on de levee-front. So you better talk diffunt talk, if you wanna stay hyuh a li’l w’ile soshable dis evenin’.”

“I ain’ try’n to ack ugly, Aun’ Susan.” Gussie insisted. “I jes’ wan’ p’int out how Maggie try’n to make herself look like somh’n she _ain’t_. Da’s all.”

Nat leaned forward in his chair, and clasping his knees with his brawny black hands, braced himself for a philosophic argument.

“Nobody ain’ wan’ dispute Gussie dat he bin seen de aw’inge flowers an’ things Maggie had settin’ on top her head,” he went on. “But w’at we does wan’ know: Is Gussie bin able to see de change w’at moughta took place in Maggie tahminashun; an’ w’at de feelin’ inside de ’ooman was,—direckin’ Maggie to do w’at she was cunsider right?... You know de sperret ways is sho myste’rous. An’ people gotta move accawdin’, w’en it strike you un-beknownce.”

“Yas, Lawd.” Came a fervid antiphon of soprano voices.

“Who?... Yas indeed.” Carmelite agreed. “Sweet man Jesus is a heart-fixer an’ a mind-regalator, too.”

“An’ nobody ain’ need to scawn Maggie aw’inge flowers, either”; Susan added with calm assurance, “’aft de church ain’ found ’um comical, an’ de pries’ done sprinkle ’um wid holy water.”

Felo got up and gave the fire a vigorous poke, and turned to the company, saying:

“Stop y’all preachin’ on Maggie, for Gawd sake; an’ take yo’ tex’ from somh’n cuncernin’ we-all color. Maggie ain’ nothin’ to we-all, no way.”

“You sho right, Felo,” Aunt Susan concurred. “An’ thank you for sayin’ so.... An’ look,” she suggested genially, “some you mens oughta go yonder in de shed an’ fetch me a few sticks o’ wood for dis fire, befo’ it git too low.”

Gussie and Felo left the room to get the wood. Susan began pottering about the hearth. Nat fixed a pipe of tobacco, lighted it, and gave it to Tom; then fixed one for himself and sat down and began smoking. Uncle Foteen was nodding in his chair by the fireside. Dink began playing softly on the comb, the women humming pleasantly with him, the soothing melody of “Po’ Moanuh got a Home at Las’.” Before long, the wave of discord had passed on, and the room became pervaded with a flood of harmony; the potent spell of music lifting their emotional natures to a sense of quiet, singing ecstasy and spiritual introspection. Felo and Gussie came in with several sticks of wood, and before putting them down, stood listening attentively.

“Lay ’um down easy, an’ leave Unc’ Foteen sleep.” Susan told them in a half-whisper.

“Y’all peaceful an’ nice now,” Felo remarked, “but you sho goin’ have noise up in hyuh w’en de circus come. Yonder Lizzie Cole an’ Chester Frackshun comin’ outside. So you better make up yo’ min’ to lissen at a loud racket w’en dey git hyuh.”

They took the announcement indifferently, and continued to sing until the new arrivals appeared in the doorway.

Lizzie Cole was a buxom, merry-faced, happy-go-lucky young colored woman; always eager for some new humorous adventure; and fully enamoured of the thought that “time goes merry when the heart is young.” Likewise, equally determined to keep her thought from anticipating the time when the heart grows old.

Although the daughter of a genteel, respected Baptist minister, Lizzie gave no evidence of possessing a single trait resembling dignity, discretion, docility, or any other element reflecting the reputed influence of the holy church, or the divinity of mortal man.

She earned her livelihood as a maid of any task, wherever chance might lead her. And however onerous the duties imposed upon her, she seldom failed to transliterate into vocal records of lasting mirth the nature of any experience.

Chester Frackshun was a tall, gaunt, pecan-faced young man; with a high-pitched voice and mincing manners. By a strange whim of inconsistent Fate, Lizzie was endowed with every masculine characteristic that Chester lacked; and Chester possessed many of the feminine traits that Lizzie could never hope to assume. These discrepancies, it would seem, welded the unusual bond of friendship existing between them. Chester depended on Lizzie with a feeling of childish trust; knowing that she would champion his weakness and timidity. And Lizzie was devoted to him because he relied on her protection, and because he amused her, and understood her humor as well.

Chester usually worked as cook on the passenger boats running across Lake Pontchartrain, up the Amite river, from New Orleans to the French Settlement. Lizzie had made a number of trips with him, working as chambermaid, getting small pay but having a “good time an’ plenny fun laughin’ at de Cajuns.”

Sometimes Chester would take a position as cook with a large family in the city; and frequently managed to have Lizzie with him, doing odd jobs and making the time pass merrily while it lasted. They shared many humorous experiences, and their retelling of them was always a feature of any gathering where they happened to be present.

Lizzie was dressed in a severely plain gray woolen dress, the tight-fitting basque spanning her uncorseted luxuriance like a huge bandage about to give way under the pressure. Her head was bare, and her hair arranged in innumerable little plaits wound with shoestrings. Chester wore a stiff-bosomed pink shirt, with a celluloid collar; an ill-fitting piqué vest, frayed and yellow with age; and a purple cravat decorated with a splendid blue glass ball, which declared itself a lady’s hatpin rescued to serve a more eccentric purpose. His clothes were of a light blue shade; and his shoes, orange yellow.

As they came into the room, Lizzie began singing lustily:

“Tell your mother to hold her tongue,
She had a feller w’en she was young....”

Stopping abruptly, she called out:

“Hi! good cittazun niggers. W’at y’all doin’ up in hyuh? How you do, Aun’ Susan? Hi! old compair Tom. Good evenin’ evvybody.—An’ you too, ole roustabout Gussie.”

Chester stood silent, grinning and bowing to everybody.

“Gal, stop yo’ racket,” Susan said, going over to her and speaking quietly. “Don’t you see somebody sleepin’? W’at ailin’ you? You bin had somh’n to drink comin’ ’long de road?”

“Who?” Lizzie echoed, unmindful of Susan’s admonition. “Lizzie ain’ seen nothin’ but gutter water ’long de road, Sis’ Susan; an’ you know Lizzie too well-raise’ to tackle dat.”

“Chester, how you do?” Scilla coquetted, trying to embarrass him. “You sho look sweet.”

“Chester do alright w’en he let alone,” Lizzie answered quickly. “But de boy bin complainin’ he delicate an’ healt’y, an’ you know we comed a long way to make visit wid y’all dis evenin’; an’ we kind o’ dry roun’ de th’oat. An’ Sis’ Susan you could’n’ len’ Chester a bucket an’ leave him go yonder to Mr. Camille sto’ an’ git some col’ stimmalashun, so we kin drink to each-another healt’; could you?”

“You ain’ on no steamboat ’munks deck-hans, Lizzie,” Susan replied with sharp sarcasm. “An’ you know good I ain’ ’low no drinkin’ up in my house, either.”

“O ’scuse me, Miss Smiley,” Lizzie apologized, affecting a grandiloquent air. “I sho did forgot you was sanctify.”

Tom moved impatiently in his chair, saying:

“Gal, set down, an’ drink some coffee, an’ stop yo’ dev’lish ramblin’.”

“Coffee ain’ sattafyin’ to de stummic, Mr. Tom”; Chester’s mild falsetto made timely comment, “’specially w’en you bin used to lickers mo’ nur’-shin’.... You goin’ drink coffee, Lizzie?” He asked her wonderingly.

“Boy, set down, an’ don’ show people how ignun you is,” Lizzie answered, scowling playfully and pretending to be greatly annoyed. “Don’t you know ’tain manners an’ behayviah to scawn de of’rins o’ de house?... Bow yo’ head an’ tip yo’ hat to Miss Smiley coffee. An’ w’en we git yonder to Gritny, den you kin say thang Gawd to dat cup o’ limmon gin in Mr. Cholly Groos bar-room.”

Chester sat down obediently, everybody laughing heartily at the amusing by-play.

Going over to the fire, Lizzie sat down on the floor near Tom’s chair; took off her shoes and spread out her feet to warm them before the pleasant blaze. As she settled into a comfortable position, she heard several grunts of surprise from the women. Gazing at the fire, she said with delightful unconcern:

“I know I’m simple; but I sho likes to make myself at home, whah-ever I goes.... An’ dese pair o’ feets Lizzie got, cert’ny is tired; all de walkin’ me an’ Chester bin doin’ yistiddy an’ today.”

“W’at walkin’ you an’ Chester got to do?... You ain’ workin’?” Came the chorus of inquiry.

“Workin’?” Lizzie echoed, looking around from one to the other. “I know I ain’ bin play’n.... An’ dem nasty heroes sho ain’ goin’ think Lizzie play’n, if ever I ketch up wid ’um close enough to lay my han’s on ’um, an’ leave my passion run reckless.... Who?... Dey sho will call it workin’, w’en Lizzie commence workin’ on ’um.”

“Chester, w’at ail Lizzie?” Gussie asked. “She talkin’ out her right min’, ain’t she?”

“Lizzie got her good sense,” Chester answered. “She know w’at she sayin’. An’ she ain’ fraid to tell you, if you wan’ know.”

Acting as spokesman for the assembly, Nat said:

“Be still, evvybody.... Now go ’head, gal, an’ speak yo’ testament.”

Lizzie inquired cautiously:

“But how many settin’ in dis room goin’ be witness Lizzie done right if dey go to put Lizzie in jail?”

“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’!” Nat exclaimed. “You ain’ kilt nobody, is you?”

“I ain’ mean to kill nobody, Unc’ Nat,” she assured him. “All Lizzie wan’ do, is wreck de nasty heroes so dey own fam’ly won’ recanize ’um; da’s all.”

“Gal, stop makin’ riddles, an’ talk plain, for Gawd sake,” Susan said, impatient to learn the scandal. “Who you talkin’ ’bout, any way?”

“Ain’t y’all hyeah’d w’at dey done to Chester las’ Saddy night, w’en he was comin’ home from ole Aun’ Critty Briscoe wake, yonder to my Pa church?”

“Who?... Done w’at?... Tell it.” They prevailed upon her with eager curiosity.

“Ain’ found out yet,” Lizzie informed them, with growing enthusiasm. “But Gawd ain’ goin’ leave me miss ’um. Da’s de main reason I’m goin’ to church wid Chester tonight w’en we leave hyuh.... So I kin follow behin’ an’ lay ’um out, if dey start any humbug like las’ week.”

“But you ain’ tol’ yet anything ’bout w’at dey did,” Gussie said to her casually.

Somewhat indifferently she remarked:

“Some y’all kin laugh, if you like, ’bout w’at dey done to Chester.” Then with a look of suspicion towards Gussie: “An’ some yuther ones better think on w’at dey hyeah me tell I’m goin’ do, if I ketch ’um dead to rights.”

Frowning sullenly, Gussie asked her:

“W’at make you gotta look at me so crittacul? I bin had any traffic wid Chester, you wan’ th’ow suspicion on me ’bout w’at was did to ’im?”

“Chester,” Lizzie called to him peremptorily, “ain’t you said you could see in de moonlight plain, dey was’n all dark-skin mens w’at meddled you an’ pulled off yo’ clo’se, an’ sont you runnin’ thoo de street wid nothin’ on but yo’ undershirt?”

“Sho did,” Chester answered firmly. “Dey had one de mens sho did look bright-skin to me.”

“Whah all dis thing took place?” Felo asked, laughing.

“Right down on de Morgan railroad, jes befo’ you git to de pastur,” Chester answered. “I was goin’ along, singin’ to myself; ain’ stud’in ’bout nobody; w’en all at once, three or fo’ mens spring out de bushes, an’ say to me: ‘Pull off dat lady undershirt you got on, ole Betsy!’ ... An’ befo’ I had time to cunsider w’at was goin’ happen, dey had grab hold o’ me, an’ pulled off my clo’se befo’ I knowed it.

“I commence strug’lin’ wid ’um to git loose; an’ I bit at ’um an’ hollered so loud, till dey had to lemme go. Den I broke out runnin’, an’ ain’ stop till I got home.... An’ ain’ had a Gawd’s blessed piece o’ clo’se on but a thin undershirt.”

“A lady undershirt?” Carmelite asked, hesitatingly.

“W’at business you got to know?” Lizzie demanded, speaking with growing excitement. “It make any diffunce to anybody if Chester feel like he wan’ put on a lady undershirt? Dat ain’ give people no right to meddle Chester on de high road, an’ ’zamine his body to see w’at kind o’ und’-clo’se de boy got on.... But wait till Lizzie ketch up wid ’um! Jes’ wait.... Y’all _sho_ goin’ see how Lizzie goin’ ’zamine de nasty Hellians, once she got her two han’s on ’um! Who?... None y’all ain’ never seen Lizzie Cole w’en her passion done struck her powerful!”

“Cha-cha-cha, Lizzie,” Susan said contemptuously, “stop yo’ tongue from runnin’ so fas’. You know guinea-hens kin make a loud racket w’en dey be in de weeds, off to dey-self.”

“Who? Aun’ Susan,” she answered quickly, “You ain’ think Lizzie talkin’ random to make y’all laugh, is you? You know I ain’ never bin had no chillun, an’ all my strank is my own.... An’ I promise my Gawd to sho do my bes’ an’ a li’l mo’, w’en de time come for me to take my sattafaction.”

Squinting his eyes humorously, Nat asked:

“You mus’ be think’ you Goliah, ain’t you?”

“Strank ain’ de onlies’ thing Lizzie countin’ on, Unc’ Nat,” she assured him. “You know it don’ take no time to stick a needle in somebody nabel w’en you wan’ do ’way wid ’um.”

This statement was greeted with general laughter, during which Lizzie’s expression was one of serious amazement. As soon as their laughter and playful comment subsided, she continued:

“I ain’ makin’ up nothin’ out my ’maginashun. W’at I’m say’n is natchal fac’s. You pass a needle thoo somebody nabel, an’ tain nobody but _Gawd_ kin tell w’at dey died from.”

“An’ you expec’ we-all to b’lieve a tale like dat?” Felo asked with disdain.

“Y’all know how Unc’ Peesah died sudden las’ New Yeahs,” Chester announced solemnly. “But you ain’ never hyeah’d w’at kilt ’im, is you?”

“Colic; so dey tell me”; Soongy answered, “from eatin’ too much buttermilk an’ cucumber sallit befo’ he went to bed.”

“Whah Unc’ Peesah could git cucumbers in Jannawerry?” Nat demanded. “Don’t you re’lize w’at you say’n ain’ sinetiffic?”

“You sho right, Unc’ Nat,” Chester concurred. “Colic ain’ had a thing to do wid it. ’Twas a fatal needle sont Unc’ Peesah ’way from hyuh. An’ nobody don’ know it better’n me.”

“Lawd, Chester!” Nookie exclaimed in surprise. “W’at hidden myst’ry dis is you done got mixed up in? Lemme hyeah you tell ’bout it.”

“Chester,” Lizzie called to him abruptly, “pass yo’ han’ ’cross yo’ mouf an’ wipe it dry.... You know, dey got mo’ ways o’ spreadin’ de news besides puttin’ it in de newspaper.... Wipe yo’ mouf, boy, an’ say no mo’.”

For a few moments there was a general silence, all eyes fixed upon Chester expectantly. Presently Gussie spoke:

“Lizzie, w’at make you wan’ control Chester an’ keep de boy from talkin’?”

“’Cause talkin’ is ketchin’,” Lizzie answered. “An’ some people got a reckless way o’ speakin’ dey words twice an’ makin’ ’um diffunt. So you gotta watch out an’ keep from tellin’ too much. An’ any way, de boy done wiped his lips; an’ me an’ Chester jus’ ’bout ready to fix we-all mouf for some o’ Sis’ Susan gumbo, befo’ we start out for church, yonder to Gritny.”

Getting up from the floor, she shook herself like a hen emerging from a dust bath, kicked her shoes aside, and called out with energy:

“Come on, Sis’ Smiley, lemme help you fix de plates. Dey got two hongry niggers hyuh kin outeat a mul’tude o’ Izzalites.” Then looking at Chester, she said to him boisterously: “Boy, drap yo’ ole long self over to dis side de table an’ try’n’ look like you got a intrus’ in de things goin’ on!... You ain’ never heah’d tell ’bout gumbo befo’?”

Chester simpered good-naturedly and took a seat at the table. When the gumbo was served, Lizzie sat down alongside of him and they began eating. Dink’s whimpering music was heard over in the corner of the room, waking like a timely invitation, and several members began humming softly.

Gussie, eager for conversation, was about to speak; when Nat, preferring to have no irrelevant distraction, held up his hands for silence, rolling his eyes ominously. Gussie obeyed the sign, and the humming flowed on uninterrupted. By degrees it gathered volume, sustained and fervent; every one surrendering unconsciously to the ingratiating lilt of the pulsing melody.

Tom sat humming with his hands to his head, his elbows resting on his knees. Susan was sitting opposite, swaying to and fro in rhythmic contemplation. Nat sat upright with his head resting against the back of his chair, his brawny hands clasping the chair legs. Uncle Foteen sat with his eyes closed, every now and then intoning a low “A-men.” The women accentuated the rhythm as they hummed, with a gentle patting of the feet. And Felo’s spasmodic interpolation of a picturesque word or a fragmentary line from the song proper, added rare charm to the fleeting tuneful moments.

Lizzie and Chester were eating with evident enjoyment, apparently interested in the obligato of voices. Having finished her gumbo, Lizzie leaned back in her chair, and in a spirit of careless mischief began singing lustily the old street song,

“Mama got a baby called “Ti-nah-nah-’nah
’Ti-nah-nah ’nah, ’nah....”

Felo’s loud reprimand brought her song to an abrupt close. Glowering with indignation, he called to her:

“Gal, git out o’ hyuh wid yo’ strumpet ways! W’at you take dis place to be, anyhow? You better go out yonder on de road, an’ play wid yo’ kind, if you can’ ack right w’en you git ’munks people w’at know how to be decen’.”

“But no, Mr. Felo,” Lizzie answered with genuine surprise. “You ain’ mean to call me out my name like dat, is you?”

“W’at you is, if you ain’ a strumpet?” Felo asked with vehemence. “I ain’ hesitate to call you a _double_ strumpet; reckless as you is;—on-cuncernin’ of you bein’ a preacher daughter, an’ plenny ole enough to know better.”

Foreseeing an altercation, Susan interposed.

“Look!” She called to Lizzie. “Ain’t you say you an’ Chester was goin’ to church yonder to Gritny?”

Lizzie looked at Susan without replying. Going over to her, Susan took her by the arm, saying:

“If you _is_ goin’, den y’all two better start befo’ it git too late.” Then turning to Felo, she said: “Felo, go yonder in de side yard an’ fetch me a pitcher o’ cistun water.”

As Felo left the room, Lizzie muttered:

“Good thing I ain’ let my tongue cut loose an’ say evvything my min’ tol’ me to say to dat ole rusty w’ite-folks nigger.... It mus’ bin Gawd tol’ you sen’ him out de room. Sis’ Susan.”

Shaking her head and smiling pleasantly, Susan said:

“An’ Gawd expec’in you to go ’way from hyuh befo’ Felo git back. So don’ was’e time talkin’, but go ’long ... Chester, yonder yo’ hat. Take Lizzie wid you to de New Hope church an’ see ’f you can’ make her pray. Go ’long, now, bofe of you; an’ no hard feelin’s.”

Fully aware of Susan’s positive character, and feeling convinced that further argument was useless, Lizzie made ready to leave with silent magnanimity. She walked over to the fireplace proudly, saying with a haughty air:

“Chester, pay Miss Smiley de change comin’ to her, till I put on my shoes.”

Chester settled the account, and they walked towards the front door.

“Good-night to y’all fellow-Chrishtuns,” Lizzie said with spurious geniality. “An’ much oblige’ for yo’ manners an’ behavior.”

Just as she finished her lofty farewell, Felo came in from the back room.

“Da’s right, Lizzie”; he said to her, “don’ go ’way from hyuh wid yo’ feelin’s upset ’bout somh’n was said to you. Good-night to you; an’ Gawd go wid you.”

“Go to Hell!” She told him; pushing Chester through the open door and slamming it after her.

The road which Lizzie and Chester had to take from Susan’s cook shop down to church in the village, was a lonely, desolate stretch of about two miles. The few homes along the river front were poor, depleted reminders of old plantation days, few and far between, and setting far back from the road. If one took the railroad track running parallel with the high levee, unless the moon was shining, there was no other light to show the way but the clear glimmer of the stars; provided there was no mist in the sky or dripping fog creeping along the land. If one took the path on the top of the levee, the reflection from the electric lights on the New Orleans’ side of the river helped to point out the puddles and uneven places, and the vagrant cows that selected the grassy prominence for their somnolent ruminating.

After a while one came to the cotton seed oil mills with their spreading wharves built over the water, and the numerous electric lights and occasional patrolling nightwatchman offered a certain sense of protection. But it was not until one had passed through the long aisles of cotton seed in sacks, and bales of lint piled to a great height and covered with suspicious-looking tarpaulins, from under which imaginary ruffians might spring unawares, that a wholesome feeling of courage came to one before entering the village. Then, there was Mr. Cholly Groos’s bar-room, just at the edge of the town; and the thought of his inspiriting lemon-gin always made one “step light an’ ready to face the devil.”

Having traipsed the lonely distance with little or no conversation between them, Lizzie at length proposed going to Mr. Cholly’s for a comforting cup before proceeding to her father’s church at the back of the town. Chester was agreeable and they hurried forward, talking pleasantly.

“Chester, you got any money?” She asked him.

“W’at you wan’ know for?”

“Well, I jus’ wan’ know sho if you got money. ’Cause I don’ care if I get good an’ drunk tonight; ole Felo done got me feelin’ so upset,—callin’ me out my name like he did, yonder befo’ all dem people.”

“W’at good gittin’ drunk goin’ do you?” Chester asked reprovingly. “’Tain’ goin’ hurt Felo none, is it?”

“Nasty, scawnful, w’ite-folks nigger,” she muttered with deep contempt. “I ain’ goin’ leave myself res’ till I git even wid ’im.... You watch me.”

“Ain’ Felo a member de New Hope church?” Chester insinuated with artful meaning. “Felo over hyuh evvy Sunday night; an’ dey ain’ got no under-groun’ workers kin tell you somh’n ’bout Felo tracks?”

“Boy, you sho got a good head,” Lizzie answered. “Stay wid me; an’ no matter w’at happen, ’twon’ be nobody but Chester an’ Lizzie.... W’at you say?”

“Gawd grant it,” he answered. And laughing merrily, they walked on towards the glimmering light from the bar-room door, a welcome beacon at the head of the street.

They soon reached the place, and as Lizzie entered, followed by Chester, she called out gaily:

“Two big cups o’ limmon-gin, Mr. Cholly. An’ po’ ’um out heavy; ’cause me an’ Chester feelin’ kind o’ weak an’ puny dis evenin’.”

Across the room several men were playing cards. Recognizing Lizzie, one of them said to her:

“How come you don’ stop play’n wid Chester, an’ git you a sho-nuf man w’at kin give you a good time, an’ show you somh’n natchal befo’ ole age come creepin’ up on you?” Lizzie stopped drinking, and glaring at him angrily, she answered with clinched teeth:

“Good thing Mr. Cholly stannin’ hyuh, ole nigger. ’Cause I sho would tell you somh’n mo’ besides ‘damn yo’ nasty soul an’ go to Hell.’” After which, she gulped the remainder of her lemon-gin and stalked out of the room, leaving Chester to take care of the payment.

She waited for him outside, and when he came to her, they started off together. As they walked along, the awkward silence was broken now and then by Chester’s subdued humming. Lizzie appeared to be occupied with some burdening thought.

At last they reached the church door. The place was quite crowded and the members were singing lustily. Lizzie recognized the funeral hymn, which caused her some surprise. As they entered, a young woman named Lethe greeted them, and Lizzie asked her:

“Who dead, Lethe? I ain’ know dey had any wake to-night.”

“One ole lady dey calls Aun’ Milly,” Lethe informed her. “Sis’ Amy Hollan’ Ma. Come fum Peach Awchud, yonder to Bayou Bah-tah-yuh.”

“W’en de ole lady died?” Lizzie asked.

“Gawd knows, Lizzie,” she went on, “I ain’ never got de straight ’bout de thing. You know, Aun’ Amy bin drunk for mos’ a week, an’ nobody ain’ bin able to git de right news fum ’uh.”

“An’ dey bring de ole lady all de way from Peach Awchud hyuh, to sing ove’ ’uh?” Lizzie asked, half-playfully.

“Lizzie, don’ ply me wid a whole lot o’ queshtun I ain’ able to answer. All I know, I’m goin’ tell you, if you wan’ lissen.”

“Come set hyuh an’ talk ’bout it,” Chester suggested, leading them to a bench in the corner and sitting down. “Now, go ’head.”

“Well, you know,” Lethe began again, “me an’ my brether Booguloo took a skiff soon dis mawnin’, an’ went down Harvey Cunnal to see my cousin Dootsy, cookin’ yonder at de camp for dem mens pickin’ moss to Li’l Coquille bayou.”

“How much a pound dey gits for black moss, Lethe?” inquired Chester, interrupting her story.

“Boy, shet yo’ mouf!” Lizzie commanded sharply. “Lethe ain’ talkin’ ’bout sellin’ no moss. She talkin’ ’bout de ole lady call Aun’ Milly,—layin’ yonder ’ceasded. (Deceased.) Don’t you hyeah ’um singin’ ove’ ’uh? Shet up, an’ lissen.”

Seeing Chester offer no argument to Lizzie’s rebuke, Lethe resumed her story.

“Well, like I was goin’ say: me an’ Booguloo was helpin’ my cousin Dootsy spread de green moss in de sun to dry on de bushes growin’ on de side de cunnal bank; w’en w’at we seen comin’ roun’ de ben’ up de cunnal, but a skiff cov’ud over wid a muskeeter-bar up on cane reed poles, lookin’ like a natchal bed floatin’ on de water; an’ wavin’ up an’ down,—shinin’ in de sun like a cream-color flag.

“Booguloo say: ‘But w’at dis thing is?... Somebody ain’ use’ to muskeeters, an’ gotta ride in big daylight, settin’ up und’ a muskeeter net?... Dis ain’ no cheap people. Dis mus’ be qual’ty folks.’

“I say: Maybe somebody sick, an’ dey bin took ’um to de doctor, yonder to Gritny. You know muskeeter-bite bad for de fever; so maybe da’s w’at make dey put up de muskeeter net.

“Bime-by de skiff come a li’l closer, an’ we seen dey had a ole cullud man pullin’; an’ a big fat dark-skin ooman settin’ on de back seat.

“I say: Booguloo, ain’ da’s Aun’ Amy Hollan settin’ up in de skiff?

“Booguloo give a good look, an’ he say: ‘Sho is, Lethe. Da’s Aun’ Amy own-self. An’ I bet she drunk as a policeman on Mahdi Gras day!’

“An’ Booguloo was right, too. ’Cause w’en de skiff come close enough for us to call to Aun’ Amy, she look like somebody simple; an’ she could hardly talk.

“I say: Aun’ Amy, you mus’ bin heard de muskeeters was bad out hyuh soon in de mawnin’, ain’t you?

“She look at me like somebody jus’ woke up, an’ she say: ‘Da’s w’at de tell me.’ Talkin’ slow, like her tongue mos’ pah’lize.

“Booguloo say. ‘Aun’ Amy, whah you goin’ so soon in de mawnin’?’

“She say: ‘To fetch my Ma; yonder to Peach Awchud.’

“I say: Aun’ Amy, she ain’ sick, is she?

“She say: ‘Da’s w’at dey tell me.’

“Booguloo say: ‘She ain’ dead, is she?’

“Aun’ Amy say: ‘Da’s w’at dey tell me.’

“I say: W’en she died, yistiddy?

“She say: Da’s w’at dey tell me.’

“I say: An’ dey goin’ take ’uh all de way to Gritny to wake ’uh, an’ have de berrin’?

“She say: ‘Da’s w’at dey tell me.’

“Booguloo say: ‘Look Mister; go ’head wid yo’ skiff. Hurry up an’ pull Aun’ Amy yonder to Peach Awchud, an’ leave ’uh learn somh’n mo’ concernin’ w’at dey goin’ do wid ’uh Ma. ’Cause she ain’ look like she know _nothin’_ ’bout de po’ ole soul.’

“So dah whah de skiff went on down de bayou. An’ I ain’ know nothin’ futher, till I got hyuh to de church dis evenin’, an’ foun’ all de members singin’ ove’ Aun’ Milly.”

The amusing recital furnished Lizzie with keen enjoyment and she was laughing heartily. When Lethe had finished, Chester asked her:

“But how dey got de ole lady way from Peach Awchud so quick? Peach Awchud mo’n eighteen miles down the bayou. How dey brought ’uh up?”

“Dey fetched ’uh up in de skiff, rolled up in a blanket; wid Aun’ Amy settin’ on de back seat und’ de muskeeter net, speechless drunk, like she was w’en me an’ Booguloo seen ’uh dis mawnin’. An’ ’uh oldes’ daughter, Frozine, was waitin’ at de head o’ de cunnal wid Mr. Antoine groc’ry wagon; an’ dey brung ’uh straight hyuh to de church ’bout two hours ago.”

“Whah dey lef’ Aim’ Amy?” Lizzie asked.

“She settin’ up yonder on de front row, pah’lize drunk, try’n to sing. An’ nobody can’ get de po’ soul to budge.”

“Aun’ Amy mus’ be got a flas’ hide somewhah in ’uh pocket,” ventured Chester. “She still drunk from soon dis mawnin’ till now.”

“Mus’ be,” agreed Lethe. “Sis’ Fanny an’ Frozine bin try’n to git Aun’ Amy home to ’uh house, to drink some strong coffee, but she keep on say’n, talkin’ like somebody goin’ sing:

“Go ’way, Sis’ Fanny,
An’ lemme be.
I’m de onles daughter my ole Ma had,
An’ I’m jew to stay hyuh wid ’uh an’ sing.”

“Den w’en Frozine try to coax ’uh home, she say, jes’ like she singin’:

“Go ’way, chile, an’ lemme be.
I’m po’ Aun’ Milly onles daughter,
An’ she call me to come,
But I went too late.
She call me to hurry,
But de boat was slow;
An’ w’en I got to de bed-side,
Aun’ Milly was gone.”

“Sis’ Fanny keep on say’n to ’uh: ‘Da’s alright, Sis’ Amy; yo’ Ma ain’ goin’ be lef’ alone. Come go home wid me, an’ drink some strong coffee to bring yo’ strank back, an’ you goin’ feel better.’”

“But Aun’ Amy say:

“Who goin’ sing ove’ po’ Aun’ Milly
W’en Amy gone away?

Lemme be, Sis’ Fanny;
I’m de onles daughter,
An’ I gotta stay hyuh
An’ watch dis evenin’,
An’ sing Aun’ Milly
A long farewell.”

“It soun’ like it oughta be pitiful,” said Lizzie, with a light laugh. “But it sho goin’ start me gig’lin’, if I go in yonder whah Aun’ Amy settin’, an’ lissen at w’at she say’n. So set hyuh wid me, Lethe, an’ leave us talk till we feels like joinin’ wid de singin’.”

Chester got up to go. “Well, y’all kin set hyuh long as you please,” he said, “but I’m goin’ up yonder in front to view Aun’ Amy an’ watch w’at goin’ on. Look for me, Lizzie, w’en you git ready to go.”

Left to themselves, now came the time for comment and confidences. Lethe was a notorious gossip, and Lizzie, being an omnivorous listener, there was little need to fear a moment of monotony during the time they were together. Not a member present escaped criticism or ridicule; Lizzie’s keen enjoyment helping to encourage Lethe’s loquacious humor. And when her knowledge of the doings and sayings of her colored friends was exhausted, she was able to recount any number of ludicrous stories about “de w’ite-folks”; irrespective of their station; whether they were “nothin’ but parties an’ parties wid no fam’ly o’ people,” or “p’yo w’ite-folks wid high-up connection.”

Desiring a share of the honor of entertaining, Lizzie told some of her amusing adventures on the steamboat when along with Chester; of her visit to Susan’s cook shop that evening, and her unpleasant encounter with Felo; which account she embroidered elaborately for the better satisfaction of the amazed Lethe, whom she soon discovered to be Felo’s particular friend.

“An’ you say you lef’ Felo yonder to Susan cook shop?” Lethe asked with curious interest.

“Lef’ him yonder eatin’ an’ drinkin’, wid Scilla an’ Soongy an’ Carm’lite an’ Nookie, an’ Unc’ Nat an’ some yuther mens,” Lizzie informed her. “An’ maybe dey got a heap mo’ wimmins by now, ’cause you know I’m bin gone from yonder a good w’ile.”

This was unwelcome news to Lethe. Her forehead settled into a deep frown, and gazing into space, she thought aloud:

“An’ de ole smooth-tongue hypocrite goin’ come home long aft’ hours tonight, w’en I be in bed, an’ goin’ say he jus’ come from Mr. Amos house, ’cross de river.... But wait;—I’m goin’ fix him dis blessed night o’ my Lawd, sho as I’m bawn.”

Looking at her in wonderment, Lizzie asked:

“W’at you mean, Lethe? You goin’ to Sis’ Fanny house an’ wait till Felo come home?”

“Wa’t you think goin’ take me to Sis’ Fanny house, w’en I got a good house o’ my own?” she returned, with a show of impatience.

“Den how you goin’ see Felo aft’ you done gone to bed?”

“Lizzie, ain’t you know Felo bin stay’n wid me to my house evvy Sunday night for a long time? You ain’ think Felo come all de way clean ’cross de river jes’ to go to de New Hope church, is you?”

“I know he all time braggin’ ’bout bein’ a good Chrishtun,” Lizize said, with cautious innocence. “But I ain’ never heayh’d ’im bring yo’ name in de queshtun no time.”

Lethe’s mind was busy chasing after her wandering thoughts. “So da’s w’at make him come late all de time,” she ruminated. “Goin’ yonder to Susan cook shop. Den comin’ hyuh wid a lie in ’is mouf, ’bout Mr. Amos keepin’ ’im late.”

“Mens is mens, Lethe,” Lizzie consoled her. “An’ you think Felo gotta be diffunt from de res’ dese niggers, jes’ because he bin livin’ to Mr. Amos house so long an’ know somh’n ’bout w’ite-folks ways?.... Who? It sho goin’ take a better man den ole ’ceitful Felo to keep me from havin’ my pleasure, w’en de worl’ so big an’ handy to play ’roun’ in.... Git up from hyuh, Lethe; an’ rub dem wrinkles out yo’ face, an’ leave us go up yonder an’ sing ove’ Aun’ Milly.... Come on. Dey done start “Po’ Li’l Jesus,” an’ ’twon’ be long befo’ de whole buildin’ be rockin’.... Come on, lessus go.”

Lethe looked at her dejectedly. “Go ’head, an’ sing much as you please,” she said, “I’m goin’ home.”

And as Lizzie left her, she walked out.