Chapter IV: Part 4

Tempe followed him to the door and said good-night. Just as he was leaving, Nat came along; and stopping in front of the door-step, saluted them cheerfully.

“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’, Sis’ Tempe!” He exclaimed. “It done took me so long to walk way down hyuh to see you tonight, I feel like I bin trav’lin de road since day-break.... W’at make you wan’ live so further away like dis, anyhow?... An’ how you do dis evenin’?... An’ boy, I’m sho glad dey got somebody hyuh to help me wid dat mule I come after. Hitchin’-up a strange mule in de moonlight by yo’-self ain’ no fun, lemme tell you. ’Cause I know Sis’ Tempe ain’ none too handy w’en it come to handlin’ harness an’ things, an’ backin’-up a sleepy mule in a dump-cart shaf’, long aft’ hours like dis is.... Ain’ da’s right, Sister?”

“I was lookin’ for you to come hyuh in de day-time,” Tempe told him. “Aft I see de night fell, an’ you ain’ sont no word one way o’ nother; somh’n tol’ me maybe you done change yo’ min’ ’bout buyin’ de mule.”

“But you see me hyuh now, don’t you?” Nat argued. “Anybody ever told you ’bout Nat goin’ back ’is word, aft’ he done promise somebody he goin’ buy somh’n from ’um? An’ de thing be somh’n w’at he need?”

“Unc’ Nat, w’at make you wan’ was’e time dis way, an’ bring up a onnes’sary wrangle?” Chester asked him. “If you wan’ hitch-up de mule to take home wid you tonight, you better come on an’ lemme help you; ’cause I gotta go back ’cross de pastur to Lizzie house befo’ it git too late.”

“Boy, you sho talkin’ gospel,” Nat answered. “Come on, Sis’ Tempe, an’ show me whah de mule at; an’ lemme git thoo an’ go ’way from hyuh.”

“De mule dis way in de yard,” said Tempe, coming out of the house and leading them through the side gate. “But you gotta fetch a bucket o’ water from de well, yonder to de cawnder; ’cause de po’ critter ain’ had no water to drink all day. I ain’ able to tote no water.”

She hunted about the yard until she found a bucket with a rope tied to the handle. She gave it to Chester and he went to fetch the water from the well at the corner. The children had ended their singing and playing for the night and were gone home; and the deserted street seemed to be wondering at the untimely silence coming at an hour of such marvellous moonlight.

Getting down on his knees, Chester tugged with the cover of the well until he lifted it out of its groove. Then he let the bucket down through the narrow opening, dangling and swinging it about until it sank. When it was filled with water he pulled it up; got up on his feet, and made ready to get back to Nat. He deliberated for a second whether or not to close the well.

“Might be I gotta come git a yuther bucket,” he said to himself. “De dev’lish lid so tight to git loose, I’m goin’ leave it stay open till I come back agin.”

Whereupon he took up the bucket of water and went back to the yard.

Nat had finished hitching the mule and was standing by the dump cart talking to Tempe. Chester put the bucket of water before the mule and he drank it greedily, and seemed eager for more. Chester wanted to go for another bucketful, but Nat was impatient to get away, and told him not to go.

“One bucketful enough to hol’ ’im till we git up yonder on the coas’; den he kin lap de whole ditch dry if he like, w’en I turn ’im loose in de lane.... Come on, lemme go ’way from hyuh,” he said, climbing up on the seat of the cart. “An’ Sis’ Tempe, I’ll see you ’bout de secon’ payment aft’ I done tried de mule out wid de harrow in de fiel’ tomorrow.... An’ boy, lemme thank you for givin’ me a han’ wid de mule nice like you did. An’ I’ll sho think to bring you somh’n from de g’yarden, nex’ time I come down to Gritny.... Peace an’ hap’ness to y’all.... Come on, ole mule. Nat’s gone.”

The cart went bumping up the street, and Tempe closed the gate and walked with Chester towards the front door. As she went into the house, he reminded her to go for the nettles at midnight; and to be sure that nobody saw her when she stooped to pick them. Tempe said she would remember to do all he told her; bade him good-night and closed the door as he walked away.

Eager to get back and tell Lizzie the outcome of his visit to Tempe, Chester took the short cut across the pasture. The moonlight was so brilliant, he could trace the entire length of the worn pathway through the shining dew-dripping weeds along its edges. A cool breeze was blowing from the woods, and the dampness of the grass causing him to feel chilly, he pulled up his coat. As he walked along, singing, he was conscious of being pleased that he had accomplished something. He had spoken his mind and felt satisfied that Tempe would stop talking, and no blame would be attached to his name. Lizzie would be glad to know how he straightened things out with Tempe, and she would stop worrying about his getting into trouble.

When he reached home, the door was closed and the house was in total darkness. Lizzie had gone to bed; and he knew he would have to go in quietly, because if he wakened her, she would be cross and make a racket.

Disappointed that he would have to wait until morning to tell her about his visit, he undressed quietly and got into bed. The sound of snoring in the next room told him that Lizzie was in her “first sleep”; so he knew that it would be a long time before she would awake. Thinking he might forget his disappointment, he began to pray.

However short and simple of form his sincere appeal may have been, it served him as might any formula of cabalistic worth. Bringing to his childish mind not only quiet forgetfulness; but quick, conquering somnolence, with a myriad train of fantastic visions; tantalizing his superstitious soul, and holding him in helpless captivity until the mystic hour of midnight came to break the spell.

A rooster, high up on a branch of the persimmon tree in the side yard, looking out across the pasture, and seeing the moon slipping down the heavens, flapped his wings lustily and gave a ringing salute that floated off on the wind to tell his fellow-fowls that morning was on the way to greet the sleeping world.

Chester heard the clarion sound in the tangle of his dream, and awaking with a start, he jumped out of bed and ran to Lizzie’s room, calling to her excitedly:

“Lizzie! You ’wake?” He shouted, going to the bed-side, and shaking her roughly. “Wake up, for Gawd sake; an’ lemme talk to you!... Did you hyeah dat noise jes’ now befo’ I come in de room?”

Lizzie sat up quickly and answered in an angry tone:

“Boy, you mus’ be losin’ yo’ min’, ain’t you? W’at you mean, comin’ hyuh an’ wakin’ me out my slumbers, axin’ me ’bout any noise, like somebody done gone crazy?... Go back to bed, yonder in yo’ room. An’ damn you an’ dis kind o’ humbug; way in de middle o’ de night like dis!... You ain’ walkin’ in yo’ sleep, is you?”

“Lizzie, for Gawd sake lissen at w’at I’m try’n to tell you,” he pleaded. “Ain’t you hyeah’d de noise,—like somebody callin’ for help?... Callin’ an’ moanin’ so pitiful, it woke me out a heavy sleep.... Gawd knows. I could hyeah it plain as day.... An’ ’long wid de moanin’ I could heayh de soun’ like water splashin’.... Gawd knows, Lizzie.... An’ I dunno w’at make you ain’ bin able to hyeah it, loud an’ natchal as dat thing was soundin’.”

Becoming suddenly aware of the humor of the situation, Lizzie began laughing with keen enjoyment.

“Nigger, you mus’ bin had de night-mare,” she told him. “You better go look an’ see if you ain’ knocked over dat bucket o’ water on de table yonder.... Talkin’ ’bout hyeahin’ water splashin’.... Go back to bed, boy, an’ lay down. An’ quit dis foolishness, an’ lemme git some mo’ sleep.”

Determined to convince her that what he heard was no imaginary sound, he persisted:

“Lizzie, w’at make you think I wan’ joke on somh’n seerus like dis thing is?... I tell you de noise I hyeah’d was a reel, _natchal_ noise. An’ it kep’ up de whole time I was gittin’ out o’ bed till I got hyuh an’ shuck you ’wake. An’ w’en I commence walkin’ ’cross de room, it look like all my laigs was stingin’ me, same as if somebody bin switchin’ ’um wid stingin’-nettles.”

“Chester, git out o’ hyuh, wid yo’ lyin’ self!” Lizzie commanded, with a show of irritation. “Hyuh you done laid up in yo’ bed half de night in a crooked position, till yo’ blood done gone to sleep; an’ come tellin’ me ’bout somebody switchin’ yo’ laigs wid stingin’-nettles!... Git out o’ hyuh.... ’Cause I know if I raise up out dis bed an’ shove you thoo dat do’, you sho Gawd will go lay down, aft’ my han’s done fell on you.... You hyeah w’at I’m say’n?”

“I hyeah you,” he answered forlornly. “But you watch if you don’ hyeah bad news tomorrow mornin’.... A callin’ noise like dat noise I hyeah’d, sho do puhdick somh’n.... An’ Jesus goin’ be my witness I ain’ lissen at nothin’ on-natchal dis night o’ my good Lawd.”

Leaning over the side of the bed, Lizzie trailed her hand along the floor until she found one of her shoes. Suspecting her intention, Chester started to leave the room, when she fired the shoe at him, shouting:

“Git out o’ hyuh, I tell you! An’ don’t you lemme hyeah you say another word tonight.”

Unable to sleep, he lit a candle on the mantelshelf, and sat down on the side of his cot, trying to calm himself. He tried to pray, but he could not concentrate, his mind was so disturbed. The room was cold, and the dim cheerless light of the candle made him uncomfortable. Maybe if he lit a fire and made some coffee he would feel stronger, he thought.

Taking some dried leaves and chips from the box in the corner, he put them on the hearth between the andirons; laid a few branches over them and lighted the fire with the candle. As the bright flame leaped up the chimney, brightening the room with a cheerful glow, and streaking the floor and ceiling with long quivering shadows; he sat down before the hearth and began humming softly.

Seeing the reflection through the open door, and hearing the low rumble of his voice, Lizzie called to him impatiently:

“Chester, if you think you goin’ hol’ a all-night swaree yonder in dat kitchen wid nobody but yo’ fool-self, you better come close dis do’, so dat light won’ keep me from sleepin’.”

He got up and closed the door quietly; went over to his cot and took the quilt; and after wrapping it about him, he drew a chair before the fire and sat down. The genial warmth and the soothing crackling of the burning branches set his mind to thinking of other things; and very soon he found himself tranquilly sinking into utter forgetfulness; snugly enfolded by the “fifty revelashuns of de forty-seven wonders.”

The season for growing things being almost over, only a few vegetables were left in Nat’s garden. Several beds of sweet potatoes and pumpkin vines told that a few yams and cashaws remained to be gathered; and there was still a small supply of succulent spinach, bordered with rows of bright green parsley; and plenty of glossy red peppers on the sturdy bushes growing along the side fence.

Before seven o’clock in the morning, with a warm sunshine falling over everything, Nat was at work with Tempe’s mule hitched to the harrow; trying to get the ground ready for lettuce planting before the first frost fall.

Up and down the long rows of lumpy ground he followed the harrow, singing pleasantly to amuse himself; apparently satisfied with the mule for the work he had in mind. The sunshine was bright and comforting; and nothing disturbed his meditations except the playful sniffing and barking of his three dogs, Leave-it-lay, Scawl and one-eye Companyun, following at his heels, hunting out toads and ground-puppies under the newly-broken clods.

At length, the click of the iron latch on the front gate attracted Nat’s attention; and looking up, he saw a woman with a _marchande_ basket coming down the grassy path. As she came nearer, Nat recognized Scilla, coming to buy vegetables to take to the City to sell. She was walking hurriedly, and seemed to be excited. Before reaching him, she called out breathlessly:

“Lawd, Unc’ Nat! W’at you reckon done happen?... An’ had to fall on me, to be de firs’ one to see de thing; an’ go spread de news, yonder in Gritny.”

Unmoved, Nat looked at her, and answered quietly:

“Ooman, take yo’ time; an’ don’ trip ove’ yo’ words so fas’. W’at excitement dis is, you done brought hyuh so soon in de mawnin’?”

“Unc’ Nat,” Scilla continued with growing animation, “ain’t you hyeah’d ’bout Tempe gittin’ drownded in de street well, yonder by Miss Collamo cawnder?”

“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’! gal,” Nat exclaimed. “Is you come hyuh jokin’? Or is you tellin’ somh’n w’at happen for-true?”

“I ain’ play’n, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla assured him. “Tempe drownded yonder in de well. An’ nobody ain’ know nothin’ ’tall ’bout it, till I comed along soon dis mawnin’; an’ seen Tempe body floatin’ on top de water, hol’in a bunch o’ stingin’-nettles, tight-shet in one ’uh han’s; like she mus’ bin grabbed ’um off de side de well w’en she was fallin’ in.”

Nat contemplated her face for a second, still doubting the information. “Gal, go ’way,” he said to her. “I bet you ain’ seen nothin’ but a bunch o’ weeds, or somh’n-nother floatin’ on top de water, made you think ’twas Tempe body; dark like it mus’ bin w’en you peeped in de well.”

But Scilla was positive about what she had seen, she told him. Saying that she had started away from home very early, on her way to Nat’s garden after vegetables; and seeing the well uncovered when she reached the corner, and fearing that someone would meet with an accident; she stooped to cover it. As she was putting the wooden lid in place, a ray of sunlight, slanting through the opening, attracted her attention to a strange-looking object in the water. Getting down on her knees to look at it more closely, she discovered that it was Tempe’s body; with one arm pointing upward, and the hand clutching a bunch of nettles.

“I was so sk’yeard, Unc’ Nat, I start to run an’ holler for help,” Scilla went on, with dramatic effect. “W’en jus’ ’bout dat time, I seen Mr. Gully baker wagon come ’roun de cawnder, an’ I call him to come see.

“Mr. Gully got down off de wagon, an’ looked in de well. An’ w’en he seen for hisself ’twas Tempe body, he tol’ me go call somebody. So I went got two or three mens; an’ dey all fetched a rope an’ things from Tempe yard; an’ dey commence strug’lin wid de rope, till dey got it hitched roun’ Tempe body. An’ aft’ a li’l w’ile, dey pulled ’uh up.

“Den dey all took Tempe to ’uh house; an’ I went got some wimmins livin’ close-by, to look aft’ ’uh an’ fix ’uh nice for de burryin’.... So aft’ I had did all I could, I lef’ ’um all yonder, an’ come hyuh to git my vegetables to carry over to New Leens to sell.”

Nat looked at her in thoughtful contemplation.

“Nobody ain’ said nothin’ ’bout how Tempe come to fall in de well?” He asked her.

“Some de people say ’twas a accident. An’ some say Tempe bin so bad-off for so long, she was jus’ natchally weak-minded, an’ mus’ bin commit,” Scilla advised him.

“I gotta go yonder dis evenin’, an’ see ’bout de funeyun,” Nat murmured softly, as if talking to himself. “Tempe ain’ got nothin’. An’ she bin too good a ooman to leave dem don’-care-fied niggers lay ’uh away, yonder in potter’s fiel’.”

“Tempe got life-in-sho-ince, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla informed him. “One de wimmins foun’ de paper in Tempe berow draw. An’ dey done sont word ’cross de river to de Met-luh-policy man, to come see ’bout it befo’ dey take Tempe to de church.”

“Dat ain’ got nothin to do wid me,” Nat answered abruptly. “Dis Tempe mule you see hitched to dis harrow I’m fol’rin behin’ dis mawnin’. An’ de secon’ payment ain’ made yet; an’ de money still owin’ to ’uh. So Nat gotta go yonder to Gritny an’ do de right thing; an’ see dat Tempe laid away like people. Not dumped in a hole like no-count cattle.”

“Dey say dey lookin’ for de Met-luh-policy man to git dah ’bout twelve o’clock,” Scilla told him. “So Unc’ Nat, if you goin’ take charge de in-sho-ince money, you better go yonder soon’s you kin.”

Nat looked at her with a scowl of annoyance.

“Gal, stop tellin’ me ’bout de Met-luh-policy man,” he told her, sharply. “I ain’ got no business wid none o’ Tempe in-sho-ince money. I’m goin’ yonder wid Nat’s money.... Money w’at b’lonks to Tempe, for dis mule you see stannin’ hyuh.... Money w’at goin’ puhvide de carriage for all dem niggers to ride in; an’ give Tempe a good-lookin’ funeyun like people.... Da’s w’at Nat goin’ for.”

“Well, I sho wan’ try be dah w’en you come, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla assured him. “So come on, an’ gimme my vegetables, an’ lemme go yonder an’ sell ’um, an’ git thoo soon’s I kin.”

Scilla selected the vegetables she wanted, arranged them in her basket, gave Nat the money for them, and put the basket on her head and left. As soon as she had gone, Nat went back to his work.

“Come on hyuh, ole mule,” he called, taking up the reins from the harrow and giving the mule a light slap. “You gotta make quick tracks, an’ lemme git thoo dese las’ few rows. ’Cause I wan’ hurry yonder an’ take Tempe out de han’s o’ dem searchin’ niggers, befo’ night come.... Git up hyuh, now. An’ lemme see you move like you un’stan w’at you doin’; an’ got yo’ min’ on w’at Nat talkin’ ’bout.... You hyeah me?”

Carmelite had finished another patch-work master-piece,—a “Jacob ladder” pattern of many-colored gingham and calico scraps; and being in need of money, she was giving a “raffle meetin’” at her house. She said she was sure to “take up five dollars ’munks all de members w’at say dey was comin’.” Because cold weather was not very far off; and people never could have too many quilts. And ten cents a chance was so little, she knew none of the members would overlook the inducement. Besides, everybody was bound to have a good time at Carmelite’s raffle, “singin’ an’ jokin’ an’ drinkin’ coffee an’ eatin’ cake.” And rich cake, at that. The same kind Carmelite made for the white folks’ table.

Duck eggs always made a cake taste better, she declared with authority. They gave it such a fine yellow color; and kept it from looking like “cheap grocery-sto’ cake.” And Carmelite enjoyed hearing her friends talk about it; and liked to hear them “give ’uh de praise for ’uh cookin’.”

Nobody’s duck eggs were like Aunt Fisky’s. They were always so big and fresh. And Carmelite knew that she could get as many as she needed, in exchange for anything she had to offer. Aunt Fisky was too old to bend over and beat brick to sprinkle on her floor; and Gussie was so busy running around with the women, he never had time to stop and sit down and pound it for her. So a bucket full of brick dust was always a desirable article of barter. A bundle of fat pine splinters for lighting the fire was another thing to be desired; scarce as fat pine was most of the time. And a pan of Carmelite’s hot cornbread, almost as good as the cake she made, was a thing Aunt Fisky would accept gladly, in exchange for a half dozen duck eggs.

Having finished nearly all the preparations for the evening raffle, Carmelite wrapped a newspaper around a pan of hot cornbread just out of the oven, and started away, after the duck eggs for the cake she was going to make for her guests. She would hurry back, she told herself; and the cake would have time to get cool after she finished baking, and it would “cut nice” for the frolic.

Half way across the green she met Aunt Fisky, driving home her ducks from the pool of water near her house. It was a wide stretch of ground in the open green, where the earth had been dug away during high water time, and carried off and banked against a weak spot in the levee. Being near the river, the pool was always filled with water and crawfish; and it became a favorite resort of the ducks, geese and colored children of the neighborhood.

Coming up near the old woman, Carmelite greeted her with a pleasant smile, saying:

“Aun’ Fisky, yo’ ducks sho look w’ite an’ healt’y today.”

“Dey ain’ jew to look no yuther way, daughter,” the old woman answered. “Plut’rin in de water like dey is all day long from soon in de mawnin’.”

“You sho lucky to live so close by de pool out hyuh whah de crawfish an’ bugs so plennyful,” Carmelite went on. “It keep you from buyin’ a whole lot o’ cawn an’ things for yo’ ducks. High as chicken feed is dese days.... Dey sho is a fine flock o’ ducks, for being nothin’ but plain puddle ducks. Ain’ dey?”

“Yas, daughter. Dey is healt’y an’ nice,” Aunt Fisky answered. “But de ole ooman gittin’ too feeble to be worry wid raisin’ ducks much longer. You can’ keep ’um from stray’n off. An’ de crawfish so temptin’ to ’um; dey looks like dey fo’gits to come back home. So I has to go fetch ’um. An’ hyuh lately, I bin feelin’ so po’ly, it mos’ plays me out to walk even fur as dis pool hyuh, ’cross de green.”

“You ain’ got de rheumatism, is you?” Carmelite asked, sympathetically.

“I ain’ sho, daughter,” Aunt Fisky replied, dubiously. “But I bin rubbin’ my back an’ my two knees wid some ni’ntment Unc’ Bendigo gimme; try’n to see if it goin’ ease de miz’ry. But I ain’ notice no change yet, since day-befo’-yistiddy.”

“Some kind o’ drug-sto’ n’intment?” Carmelite inquired.

“No. ’Tain’ nothin’ bought,” Aunt Fisky advised her. “Somh’n Unc’ Bendigo bin makin’ to rub wid, way yonder since Reb-time. Somh’n he say ain’ miss cu’in nobody ever bin use it. An’ so simple, too,” she went on to explain. “’Tain nothin’ but plain inch-worms out de groun’, mixed wid chop pa’sley an’ a pinch o’ smokin’ tobacco, fried altogether in hog lard. An’ you gotta rub wid it in a downwuds direction, to’ads de feet; so de miz’ry pass out thoo de toes.”

“Sho soun’ like it mus’ be some kin to hoo-doo,” Carmelite remarked, laughing.

“No it ’tain’,” Aunt Fisky corrected her. “Unc’ Bendigo don’ play wid no hoo-doo. It des a natchal n’intment he say de ole folks learn ’im how to make.”

“But w’at good it ’tis, if you say it ain’ help you none?” Carmelite inquired.

“But how kin I say ’tain no good, if maybe I’m usin’ de thing for somh’n I ain’ got?” the old woman argued. “I ain’ sho dis no-count feelin’ I got come from de rheumatism.”

“Maybe yo’ stummic is tight; an’ you needs purgin’,” Carmelite suggested.

“Might be,” agreed Aunt Fisky; opening the gate, and driving the ducks into the yard.

“Y’oughta eat you a few dese pumma-crissuls you got hyuh in yo’ yard,” said Carmelite, pointing to a castor oil bush in full fruit, growing along-side the fence. “Dey sho physic you nice. An’ dey eats good, too.”

Aunt Fisky stood silent, watching the line of ducks marching on to the back yard. Seeing the newspaper package in Carmelite’s hand, and guessing the object of her visit, the old woman pushed the door open and told her to go in.

Carmelite laid the pan of cornbread on the table and sat down, looking about the room slowly. She was impressed with the clean, orderly poverty of its furnishing. Save for an old table and two chairs, the place was almost bare. Some iron pots on the hearth gave evidence that all the cooking was done in the open fireplace, on the level with the floor, and greatly in need of repairs.

Aunt Fisky drew a chair from the corner by the chimney and sat down. Carmelite looked at her without speaking, thinking of her tired old body and the weary expression on her kindly wrinkled old face. Her guinea-blue dress was patched in many places, but was clean and carefully ironed. Her head-handkerchief, once a bright piece of yellow-and-brown plaid gingham, now old and faded, was tied with care; the two tabs in front drooping over like a tired butterfly resting after a long flight.

“Daughter, I’m sho glad to set down,” Aunt Fisky sighed, after a brief silence. “I’m so played-out till I got de swimmin’ in de head.”

“Aun’ Fisky, yo’ stummic mus’ be ain’ workin’ right,” Carmelite advised her again. “W’at make you don’ take a couple o’ dem pumma-crissul off de bush you got yonder, an’ eat ’um; an’ see if dey don’ help you? Dey sho is good w’en somh’n be wrong wid yo’ intwuds.” (Inwards.)

“Daughter, I know de things is good,” Aunt Fisky answered; fully mindful of Carmelite’s well-meant interest. “But I’m des natchally ’fraid to meddle wid ’um,” she continued. “Ever since ole Unc’ Jo Mingo died from eatin’ pumma-crissul seeds off de bush in ’is yard.... I don’ trus’ ’um. So I don’ wan’ tamper wid ’um.”

“But, Aun’ Fisky, ain’t you b’lieve greed’ness had a whole lot to do wid Unc’ Jo Mingo death?” Carmelite asked her. “It look to me like pumma-crissul kilt ’im ’cause he ain’ use no jedgment ’bout eatin’ ’um,” she went on. “Ain’ sattafy eating two or three seeds, w’en somebody tol’ ’im dey was good for certain sickness; had to keep on eatin’ ’um, aft’ he done found out he like de way dey tas’e; till he done et a _whole han’-full_.... ’Tain no wonder Unc’ Jo Mingo died. Wid all dat castor oil surgin’ up an’ down ’is body.”

But Aunt Fisky’s judgment was going to be her protection. She knew that palma Christi seeds were good medicine. She had heard the white folks talk about it, she told Carmelite. But she was afraid to meddle with them, and would rather use some remedy she knew better. Okra seed tea was just as good; and she would try a dose of that, if old Uncle Bendigo’s ointment didn’t bring relief after a few days more.

Carmelite advised her to be careful about what she ate; and seized the occasion to call her attention to the pan of corn-bread. Aunt Fisky got up and unwrapped the present; thanked Carmelite for her thoughtfulness, and asked her if she needed any eggs. Carmelite told her about the raffle she was giving; and said she wanted to bake a cake, and would take a half dozen duck eggs, if Aunt Fisky could spare them.

The old woman brought the eggs from the next room; and after turning the cornbread out on the table, she put the eggs in Carmelite’s pan, and sat down again for a chat.

“Do Gussie know anything ’bout de raffle at yo’ house to-night?” Aunt Fisky inquired.

Carmelite hesitated slightly, uncertain what to answer.

“Gussie ’tenshun don’ run to’ads quilts, Aun’ Fisky. An’ da’s de reason I ain’ say nothin’ to ’im,” she apologized. “An’ innyway, de raffle ain’ goin’ las’ long. ’Cause you know, evvybody goin’ straight from my house, yonder to Tempe wake at de New Hope church.... An’ I ’spec Gussie goin’ too.”

“You done de right thing to leave Gussie out,” Aunt Fisky told her. “Gussie ain’ fit to go no place; all time drunk, like he bin lately. I dunno w’at Gussie comin’ to. Runnin’ wid loose wimmins; an’ squand’in ’is money, gamblin’; an’ goin’ on reckless like he doin’. Much as I bin tried to raise ’im right. An’ done for ’im same’s he was my own chile an’ my own color.”

“Might be Gussie goin’ make up ’is min’ an’ marry Cindy, an’ settle down steady; now she done had a chile by ’im,” Carmelite suggested.

“None de yuther mens bin had chillun by Cindy ain’ thought nothin’ ’bout marryin’ Cindy, is dey?” inquired the old woman, with a knowing smile. “Who wan’ marry Cindy, trashy as she done made ’uhself all over Gritny?... I hyeah dem young boys say: w’en dey see Cindy comin’ long de banquette, dey crosses over to de yuther side de street, to git out ’uh way. ’Cause dey say, all Cindy got to do w’en she git close to you: des look at you _hard_, an’ she have a chile by you befo’ you know it.”

Carmelite laughed heartily at the comment, saying that people could talk as much as they pleased; but Cindy didn’t pay no mind to what they said about her, “good as she felt wid all dat fam’ly o’ gitlets” (illegitimates) to take care of her when they grew up big enough to work.

But Aunt Fisky said she didn’t agree with Cindy. Cindy was saying the wrong thing. Children changed when they grew up. They forgot all about the old folks. They clean forgot all their parents did for them, when they were crawling around helpless. And when they reached the time of their younger youth, and you had to give them every kind of ’tention. Then, after they all growed big enough to be some benefit, they turned their back on the old folks, and went off and left them sitting high and dry, waiting on the Lawd to provide for them.

Look at Gussie. How much money did he bring in the house to keep things going? The few stingy dimes he put in her hand didn’t even pay for the washing and patching of his clothes.—Let alone all the cooking she had to do for him. But what did he care? Long as he knew she had her ducks to count on; and the few butterbeans and red peppers in the garden, she could always sell to the white folks; he wasn’t going to worry about her comfort.

“Who? Don’ tell me nothin’ ’bout raisin’ chillun to be a sattafaction to you w’en you git ole,” she ended with emphasis; Carmelite nodding her head with perfect understanding.

Maybe Aunt Fisky was too easy-going, Carmelite told her. She ought to shame Gussie. And not let him walk over her, long as he was staying under her roof free. She ought to turn him out-doors, and shame him good, and force him to show her the right respect.

“But daughter, don’t you know Gussie ain’ no _nigger_, like you an’ me?” Aunt Fisky reminded her. “How you expec’ me to try an’ shame Gussie, an’ make ’im know he ain’ doin’ de right thing?... Gussie ain’ got no nigger feelin’s.... Gussie a _w’ite_ man. An’ he know it, too. So how kin I change Gussie natchal ways?”

Carmelite moved on her chair uneasily, and began to speak with sudden vehemence.

“Gussie ain’ _good_ as a nigger!” she declared, stressing every word as she spoke. “Bin livin’ munks niggers all dese years, an’ now try’n to play proud wid _you_, an’ ain’ got nothin’ substanshun to back ’im up?... Lookin’ down on you, ole as you is; an’ de onles mother Gussie ever knowed?... Gawd knows, Aun’ Fisky, you too tender-hearted. You ain’ owin’ nothin’ to Gussie no longer; now he done growed up, an’ plenny able to take care ’imself.... You done paid ’im evvything.... Who?... Gussie lucky he ain’ had me to deal wid. ’Cause I sho would-a turned ’im out in de street long time ago; w’ite or no w’ite.”

Aunt Fisky couldn’t do that, she told Carmelite. It wouldn’t be right. It would be breaking the promise she made with dead people; when Gussie’s mother gave her the poor, fatherless child to raise. And besides, Gussie had nobody but her to turn to. No matter how mean he was, she couldn’t go back on him. Carmelite knew good as she did that the white folks wouldn’t recognize him.

“An’ I know good, none us niggers ain’ goin’ cunsider claimin’ ’im,” Carmelite declared with positive conviction.

“An’ da’s de very reason make me stick to Gussie like I do,” Aunt Fisky assured her with simple loyalty.

“Ole folks sho is strange,” Carmelite commented, shaking her head, and wondering at the old woman’s questionable sense of duty.

Yes. Old folks did a heap of things that young folks couldn’t understand; she told Carmelite. But she was going to do the best she could for Gussie, as long as she lived. And if he came to a bad end, she wouldn’t have anything to blame herself for. She was willing to leave it all in the hands of the Lawd. Gussie would wake up some day in his right mind; when Gawd put His finger on him and stopped him in his tracks. Carmelite would see. Just wait.

“Maybe so,” Carmelite faltered, dubiously, getting up from her chair and making ready to leave. “But I sho don’ wan’ see ole no-manners Gussie come lopin’ up in my house tonight,” she went on; taking the pan of eggs from the table and walking towards the door. “If he know w’at good for ’im, he better stay ’way.... So I’m goin’ leave you now; an’ go yonder an’ bake my cake.... An’ I’m goin’ pick you two lucky numbers, Aun’ Fisky; an’ see’f I can’ make you win de quilt. You heah?” she added in a cheerful tone, as she walked away; leaving the old woman standing in the doorway, looking pensively across the green.

Despite the fact of Nookie’s being a sort of local joke, on account of the peculiar clothes she often wore; there were a few colored sisters of the East Green who showed genuine respect for her ability as a dress-maker. They spoke of her as a “natchal bawn seamster,” when it came to transforming antique gowns and “gabbarellas” donated by the white folks. And she certainly knew how to make clothes “come to fit fat people fine”.... Who? “Nookie sho could play wid a needle an’ thread an’ scissors.” Nobody ever need be afraid of getting a dress from Nookie that would make her look like she had a “low back an’ a high belly.” No indeed. Nookie was a “p’yo fashion-plate” for making over old clothes. And cheap, too; ’long-side the “boughten clo’se from the dry-goods sto’.”

Eager to live up to this hard-earned reputation, and pleased with the thought of being conspicuous at Carmelite’s raffle, among the critical sisters of the East Green, Nookie made herself a new dress for the occasion. She had just finished the clever contrivance; which, being creased and wrinkled from many alterations, had to be pressed before it could be worn.

Finding that she had no charcoal to make a fire in the furnace, she decided to run over to Soongy’s house and press it there. Soongy was going to the raffle; and Nookie was sure that she would be ironing something for herself to wear that night. So putting the dress in a market basket, Nookie started off across the green, humming softly as she hurried along.

When she came to Soongy’s house, the gate was open; and the sound of singing inside told her that someone was at home. There were two voices singing, and the sound was cheerful and pleasant. Nookie recognized the voices of Soongy and Dink. There was no need to call. They wouldn’t hear. She would walk right in.

Going into the kitchen, she found Soongy at work at the ironing-board, pressing a voluminous, well-starched petticoat; an old faded curtain spread on the floor under the board to keep the trailing garment from getting soiled.

Dink was standing at the kitchen table, washing dishes; naked as though he had just emerged from the bath. Both of them were singing in unison, tranquilly happy; and apparently oblivious to each other’s presence.

Nookie stood in speechless amazement for a few seconds, wondering at the unusual spectacle; neither of the singers having noticed her quiet entrance. At length she exclaimed:

“In de name o’ Gawd, Soongy! W’at kind o’ fashion dis is, y’all got hyuh? Stannin’ hyuh oncuncern’ singin’ Gawd praise; an’ Dink purradin’ in front you naked as a black snake. None y’all ain’ feel shame?... Boy, go yonder an’ wrap somh’n ’round yo’ middle, befo’ you come facin’ people so haphazzud,—big as you is!”

Not waiting to hear all of Nookie’s speech, Dink ran into the next room, laughing heartily. Soongy continued to slide her iron back and forth over the petticoat on the board, unperturbed. Looking at Nookie, she said casually:

“Nookie, you sho know how to come up on people easy. W’at make you ain’ call, so somebody kin know you comin’?”

“W’at good callin’ goin’ do?” Nookie asked her. “You an’ Dink up in hyuh together, singin’ so boist’ous? Wid yo’ min’ workin’ so heavy on dat i’nin-boad; I reckon you ain’ took time to notice Dink walkin’ ’roun hyuh in ’is naked skin, till I had to call yo’ ’tenshun to it. Is you?”

With calm politeness, Soongy said:

“Nookie, you ain’ got to gimme no egvice cuncernin’ Dink. I know de boy was naked. An’ he know he gotta stay naked, too. ’Till I git good an’ ready to give ’im ’is clo’se, from whah I done hid ’um.”

Nookie looked puzzled.

“W’at you mean?” she inquired. “Da’s de way you punishes Dink to make ’im stay in-do’s?”

“Da’s de onles way I know how to keep Dink from goin’ yonder in de swamp, play’n munks dem shoe-pick ditches,” Soongy went on to explain. “Times an’ times, I done tol’ Dink I don’ never eat no nasty shoe-pick. But he so hard-head. He steal off evvy chance he git; an’ go yonder in de swamp, wid Mahaley chillun an’ some dem yuther hongry li’l A-rabs from down de street. Comin’ back hyuh at night, wid a sack full o’ dirty ole shoe-pick feesh; expec’in me to cook ’um.... Like he ain’ never bin use to nothin’ ’tall good to eat.”

Nookie looked at her with a feeling of mingled disappointment and disgust. Was Soongy trying to put on airs with her, and make believe she didn’t eat tchoupique? A fish she was raised on; like all the other poor colored folks living close to the swamp. A fish so fat and greasy, and so plentiful in all the muddy bayous and ditches, that everybody called it “Gawd’s feesh.” Something Gawd provided for His nigger people, to keep them in food when everything else failed. A fish that all the swamp niggers caught in the long summer time, and cut up and salted and dried in the sun; and hung up in their kitchens to last through the winter, when they couldn’t afford to buy fresh meat. And you didn’t have to catch them with a line, like you did other fish, either. All the children had to do when they went to the tchoupique pond: take a flour barrel, and knock out the two heads. Then, just “plump” it down in the water hard. And you never missed having ’most a barrel half-full, ready to scoop up with your hands, and throw out on the bank.

Thinking of the unctuous court-bouillon and tchoupique stew she knew how to make, Nookie asked:

“Soongy, you say you don’ eat shoe-pick?”

“Who?” answered Soongy, with a superior air. “I jus’ as soon eat lamp-eel, as eat dat nasty slimy mud feesh. No ’ndeed, not me.”

“I eats ’um, Miss Nookie,” sounded Dink’s pleasant announcement, as he came in from the next room; a pillow slip tied around his middle with a string.

He went over to the table quietly and began washing the dishes. Soongy looked at him crossly, and shouted:

“Boy! W’at in de name o’ Gawd you mean? Takin’ my nice clean pilluh slip off de bed, to splash it all up wid greasy dish water?... Go yonder in de room, an’ take dat pilluh slip off yo’ black body, an’ put it back whah it b’lonks; befo’ I stomps bofe yo’ livers down an’ beats you speechless!... You hyeah me?”

Dink looked at her appealingly and left the room.

“W’at make you don’ leave de boy put on ’is clo’se, Soongy?” Nookie asked, rebukingly. “Ain’ he gotta go yonder to Carmelite house wid you tonight, to play de comb an’ make music for de raffle?”

“You leave Dink be,” Soongy advised her, curtly. “Dink got plenny time to put on ’is clo’se befo’ he go to Carmelite house. Dis now. Tonight ain’ come yet.”

Not being in sympathy with Soongy’s views, Nookie was ready to argue in Dink’s behalf.

“Soongy, w’at make you wan’ be so hard on Dink like you is; w’en all he doin’, is try’n to be decen’?” She asked. “You think mo’ ’bout yo’ pilluh slip gittin’ spoilt, den you does ’bout de boy ketchin’ ’is death o’ col’; runnin’ ’roun hyuh in ’is naked skin, wid all dis draf’ searchin’ over ’is body. You sho oughta be ’shame’.”

Soongy looked up from her ironing, and answered impatiently:

“Dink ain’ fraid no draf’ blowin’ ove’ ’im, out yonder in de swamp wid dem chillun; w’en he pull off ’is clo’se an’ jump in de ditch wid a ba’l to ketch shoe-pick, is he?... An’ inny-way, you ain’ need to gimme no egvice ’bout Dink,” she went on, with animation. “If da’s all you come hyuh for,—to raise de subjec’ cuncernin’ w’at I has to do wid Dink; you gotta ’scuze me if I tell you, you welcome to go back home de same way you come hyuh. An’ no hard feelin’s, either.”

“I ain’ come hyuh to meddle you,” Nookie apologized. “I come hyuh to press dis dress I wan’ wear to Carmelite raffle tonight. I ain’ had no charcoal to my house, an’ I say you mus’ bin had fire in de funnish; so I took my dress an’ come hyuh to do my pressin’.... But you ain’ mind, is you?” She asked, falteringly.

“De i’ons an’ de fire an’ de funnish all hyuh. An’ you kin press as much as you please,” Soongy answered; putting her work aside and clearing the board for Nookie. “I ain’ min’ nothin’. ’Cep w’en people try to make me feel cheap befo’ chillun,” she went on. “Wan’ make me think I gotta eat shoe-pick, jus’ ’cause Dink bring ’um hyuh an’ ax me to cook ’um.”

Nookie laughed pleasantly, and said:

“Soongy, nobody ain’ wan’ fo’ce you to eat shoe-pick if you scawns ’um so critical. Nex’ time Dink bring a mess o’ feesh home, you jes’ sen’ ’um roun’ to my house; an’ I bet I show you how to perish ’um. Who? I’m a plum fool w’en it come to mixin’-up shoe-pick an’ tomattusus an’ seas’nin an’ things.... An’ Dink, you kin fill up yo’ plate many time as you want,” she called to him, in his hiding place. “So bring de things roun’ to me, you hyeah?”

The sound of Dink’s pleased giggle echoed from the next room, and Soongy said to Nookie, loud enough for Dink to hear:

“Come on hyuh, Nookie, an’ git thoo pressin’ yo’ dress, an’ go home an’ lemme straighten up hyuh. An’ stop puttin’ devilment in dat boy head.... Nex’ time Dink go yonder ketchin’ shoe-pick, I lay I’m goin’ fix ’im so, he go naked till de Lawd has to take pity on ’im, an’ give ’im clo’se to put on. I sho Gawd will. If I has to burn evvy scat’rin rag he got to ’is name.”

Nookie walked over to the furnace, and taking one of the irons from the fire, she spat on it to test the heat. As she began pressing her dress, she said:

“Soongy, you ain’ foolish, no. Good as you know how to make b’lieve you is.”

Ignoring the remark, Soongy went to the table and fell to washing the dishes which Dink left in the pan. Very soon, song took the place of conversation; and the two women worked on, singing cheerfully over their tasks. Now and then the wavering sound of Dink’s voice came from the next room, like a broken response.

Nookie finished pressing her dress, folded it carefully, and put it in the basket, making ready to go.

“Now I’m goin’ yonder to my house, an’ lay down till dis evenin’,” she said to Soongy, after thanking her for the use of her charcoal and irons. “An’ watch how you goin’ see me strut in dis new frock tonight, w’en I git to Carmelite house, in front all dem people say dey comin’,” she called back as she walked out. “An’ leave Dink put on ’is clo’se, so he kin come soon an’ play music on de comb, an’ make dem niggers feel good befo’ dey go yonder to Tempe wake.”

The prolonged quiet in the next room seemed to tell Soongy that Dink had fallen asleep. As soon as Nookie had gone, Soongy called to him commandingly:

“Boy! You better come in dis kitchen an’ wipe dese dishes, an’ help me straighten-up dis room, befo’ you commence thinkin’ ’bout puttin’ on inny clo’se to go ’way from hyuh tonight. You hyeah me?”

All afternoon fast-moving banks of dark threatening clouds were hovering over the East Green, and with the coming of evening the rain began falling in torrents. Gussie had just finished his supper of cornbread and coffee before the open fireplace, and was sitting watching the puffs of smoke the wind blew down the chimney, and listening to the pelting sound of the rain on the old shingle roof. He wondered how he would be able to go out if the rain continued; remembering that it was the night he had to help old man Hooblitz with his sausage-making. Rain or no rain, he had to go. Because his word was his bond; and he knew that the old man would expect him.

Aunt Fisky was sitting by the table, patching one of Gussie’s old cottonade shirts by the dim light of a flickering candle. She saw him get up and go to the door and look out, and knew by his manner that he was impatient to get away. She felt that it would be useless to try and hinder him. It would only make him cross.

Putting on his hat and coat, he told her good night and started off in the rain. He would go to Mr. Cholly Groos’s and get a cup of lemon-gin first, he told himself; then go down to old man Hooblitz’s and hurry and get through; and after that “go by an’ peep in at Carmelite’s raffle for a w’ile.” And after that, go to the church and sing over Tempe till he got tired. Then, after a full night of varied pleasures, he would go home to Aunt Fisky, and “lay down, an’ sleep de sleep o’ de sattafied.”

This singular old German with the effervescent name, was a woodcutter by day; who, requiring extra funds for the desired supply of beer and whiskey for selfish consumption, against swamp-fever, snake-bites and such-like evils, managed to overcome the need by following the craft of sausage-making at night. His retired laboratory was a small shanty on the edge of Ziffle’s Wood, adjoining the cemetery. Hooblitz cut down the trees for Mr. Ziffle, who furnished the villagers with cord wood for their cook stoves and fireplaces.

Owing to a series of harsh disagreements with his married daughter who thought not highly of her father’s spectacular inebriety; old Hooblitz lived alone at his sausage factory on Mr. Ziffle’s property. Occasionally Gussie went to help him with the sausage-making; often spending the night with him, and taking part in his deep potations and raucous revelling; when only the owls in the cypress trees and the bullfrogs in the near-by canal would be annoyed by the seeming rivalry.

Strictly speaking, the place where the sausage was made could not be called a room. It was nothing more than a tin roof supported by four posts, young cypress trees with the bark on. The floor was of mud, baked hard from the fire that burned in the center three nights of each week. Over the fire was a large three-legged cauldron, with a brick under each foot. In it was boiled the mixture he peddled in a basket, going about in the evening from door to door; no distinction being made between his white and colored patrons.

Adjoining the place where he worked,—fastened on like a casual after-thought, was the room in which he slept. Its furnishings consisted of a rude bunk nailed to the wall; a long cypress tool chest resting on a pair of tressels; a soap box and a beer keg, to serve the purpose of chairs for any chance visitors. By way of decoration, the walls were hung with old hats, coats and trousers; here and there, odd pieces of red flannel shirts and underwear adding a redeeming note of cheer to the dull squalor of the place. The most striking thing, however, was an array of empty flasks and bottles (eloquent reminders of the revels of the past) hanging by strings from the rafters overhead.

For a long time Mr. Ziffle had the feeling that his woodpiles were being rifled, gently but systematically. He discussed the fact with old Hooblitz, who, not only gave vent to friendly indignation; but expressed his willingness to act as night-watchman and shoot the unworthy rogue, regardless of caste or color.

But his enthusiasm did not succeed in removing suspicion from Mr. Ziffle’s mind. He was convinced that Hooblitz was the crafty pilferer. So he determined to put the matter to a test. Whereupon he took a dozen or more sticks of wood and bored them full of gimlet holes; into which he poured a small quantity of gunpowder, plugging them up afterward. Then he placed the loaded cord sticks on the tops of the various woodpiles, and sat down patiently to wait results.

The night set in with a driving rain, just as old Hooblitz lighted his fire and filled the big iron pot with the ingredients for the unsanitary brew he would peddle as sausage. Looking at his supply of wood, he saw there was not enough to finish the boiling, and that he would have to pay a secret visit to Mr. Ziffle’s woodpile to get a few sticks to last the night. He was just about to go out, when the door flew open suddenly, and Gussie lunged into the room, dripping wet and blowing like a porpoise.

Displeased with the untimely interruption, and not wanting Gussie to find out the secret of his wood supply, knowing that he would speak of it in the village and Mr. Ziffle would hear it eventually; old Hooblitz stood looking at the unwelcome visitor, leering at his discomfort with a sort of malicious delight. Gussie sat down dejectedly on the beer keg, beating his wet cap against its side. The old man continued to laugh, wondering at the same time how long he would have to wait before going about his work. Getting up slowly, Gussie shook himself several times, like a wet dog trying to dry himself.

“Gawd knows, Mr. Hooblitz,” he began to complain, “I ain’ see w’at you got to laugh at. If I had knowed ’twas goin’ rain like dis, I sho would ’a stayed ’way from hyuh tonight.... You ain’ goin’ make no sausage, bad weather like dis, is you?”

’Twasn’t raining on the inside; the old man told him curtly. He didn’t have to stay, if he wanted to go back home; the old man went on. He got along without help before; he could get along without it again. Little bit of rain didn’t make him afraid to work for an honest living. The house had a roof over it. And there was a good fire, in the bargain.

“Li’l bit o’ rain!” Gussie exclaimed; surprised at his disagreeable manner of talking. “Man, you ain’ seen de water fallin’ out-do’as, if you wan’ call dat a li’l bit o’ rain.... Look how I’m soaked clean thoo to de skin, if you ain’ b’lieve w’at I’m tellin’ you.”