Part 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man turned his head slightly.

“What you call huh?”

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

“Oomph!”

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

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

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

“I know she do. Look at huh yo’se’f.”

“I ain’ gwine look at huh.”

“Yes, you’s ’fraid—dat’s de reason.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MT. PISGAH’S CHRISTMAS ’POSSUM

MT. PISGAH’S CHRISTMAS ’POSSUM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, dat’s all dey is.”

[Illustration: “I SEE ’POSSUM GREASE ON YO’ MOUF.”]

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

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

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

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

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

“Up ag’in de side o’ de house.”

“How’d de dogs git ’em dah?”

“Mebbe it mout ’a’ been cats.”

“Why didn’t dey git dat un?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A FAMILY FEUD

A FAMILY FEUD

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

[Illustration: OLD AUNT DOSHY.]

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

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

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

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

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

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