down so she could see inside better.
“’E so little, ’e can’ stan’ strong treatment. I dunno wha’ fo’ say. Ef
we had somebody heah--somebody wha’ ain’ nebber look on dey daddy
face--da’ somebody could cure dis t’rash good----”
Rose beamed. “Looka Missie, Auntie. I doubt ef Missie eber see ’e daddy
face een ’e life. We could try Missie--enty?”
Maum Hannah turned her bright, old eyes to meet Missie’s puzzled ones.
“Mebbe ’e ain’ nebber see ’e daddy, fo-true. Who you daddy, honey? Is
you know?”
But Missie had no daddy. She never had had one. And she shook her head.
“Le’ Missie try, Rose. Mek em tek ’e finger an’ run em roun’ all een de
baby mout’ eby mawnin’. Ef Missie ain’ nebber look on ’e daddy face,
dat’ll do de baby all de good. You try dat, Missie. ’E ain’ gwine hu’t
nuttin’ fo’ try.”
Rose repeated, “You heah, Missie, enty? Eby mawnin’ you do like Auntie
say. Don’ fo-git. Sis mout’ is so so’ ’e can’ eat, eder sleep. You wan’
em fo’ git well, enty?”
Missie promised not to forget and she ran to the spring to get a fresh
bucket of water while Rose fed the baby and Maum Hannah helped Killdee
take the dinner from the pots on the hearth.
As Missie ran lightly down the hill, she was very happy. She had seen so
much to-day. She had worn her new dress and red ribbon. She had heard
how to be saved from hell. How to pray. She must seek forgiveness until
Jesus gave her a sign.
As the water filled the bucket, she thought some day she’d be a member,
too. And now if she could cure “t’rash” in babies’ mouths, Rose would be
glad to have her here all the time. Sometimes Rose seemed cross with her
and beat her for almost nothing. After this, Rose would like her better.
When she became a member, maybe Rose would never beat her again.
With the bucket on her head, she climbed the hill thoughtfully. Reverend
Felder was fine-looking. He wore fine clothes and he could read, but
nobody was fine like Killdee. Nobody in the world. Killdee was so good.
So easy. He never got vexed like Rose and said hard-sounding things.
She’d rather have Killdee for her daddy and look on his face than be
able to cure all the sickness in the world. But he wasn’t, so there
wasn’t any use to think about it.
Yet Killdee was a sinner. When he died he would go to hell. Rose said
so. He would burn and burn always. Forever. He would never stop burning.
Daddy Cato said that the fire in hell is seven times hotter than the
fire people have here. God swam it through seven rivers to cool it
before He brought it into the world.
What a strange man God must be!
When Missie thought about Him, she hurried and stumped her toe on a root
in the path and the water spilled, and she had to pick up the bucket and
hurry back to the spring for more. How cross Rose would be because she
was taking so long! But Maum Hannah was there. Maybe Rose wouldn’t scold
her much.
_Finding Peace_
The big farm bell rang loud. Clear. The noon hour was over. A little
figure lying prone on the ditch bank in the warm spring sunshine rose
slowly and looked around. It was a little black girl. Missie.
Her big, soft eyes had a rapt expression as they wandered over the wide
cotton fields stretched far out in front of her. Heat waves shimmered
over them, making the dark earth bright and blue as the sky, the blue
sky that held heaven and God and the angels.
The child’s faded, checked homespun dress was stained purple with
blackberries. So were her fingers and lips.
As if still in a dream, she took up the tin pail that was near her on
the ground. It was filled to the brim with ripe, black fruit. With
careful-stepping, slim, bare feet, she picked her way through the
thorny, briery vines to the path that led to the cabin barely in sight
yonder at the far edge of the woods. Maum Hannah’s house. She’d go by
there and talk to her a little while before she took the berries to the
store to sell.
She walked slowly until she could plainly see an old woman sitting
there in the doorway bent over her sewing. Then she hurried forward and,
when she got near, called out eagerly:
“Auntie! Auntie! I b’lieb I _done fine peace_! Kin you heah me? I b’lieb
I is! I seen a house all wash-white. Yes’m.”
The words came distinct to the old woman’s ears. She looked up from the
clean, ragged garment she was patching. Tenderness shone in her bright
old eyes as she watched Missie coming toward her. They were keen old
eyes, although their black lids were withered and hung in tiny, wrinkled
folds about them.
“Auntie! Auntie!” the little girl called again, but the old woman
answered with a caution:
“Mine, gal, mine! You gwine spill dem blackbe’y fus’ t’ing you know.
Walk slow, an’ wait tell you git nigher to me fo’ talk!”
Missie came carefully up the path and up the steps and put the pail on
the floor by the pile of clothes to be mended. She came close and leaned
on Maum Hannah’s shoulder affectionately.
Maum Hannah searched her face curiously and sympathy showed in her warm,
gentle voice as she said:
“Tell Auntie now, Honey. Whe’ you been? Wha’ all you been see? Tell me
’bout em. Whe’ you been when you fine peace?”
The little girl felt Maum Hannah’s arm around her. It gave her a feeling
of security, of safety, of courage. Maum Hannah’s voice was saying
again:
“Tell Auntie, gal.” Her tone was full of kindliness.
“Auntie----” Missie began, then hesitated. How could she tell it in
words?”
From the cabin’s narrow doorway the blue hills far over the river yonder
showed plain. They had never seemed so bright to her before. They were
almost the color of the shiny clouds that they touched in the sky
to-day. Something about them held her eyes until Auntie’s arm pressed
her closer and Auntie’s patient voice roused her.
“Wha’ you duh dream ’bout, chile? Wha’ you duh see?”
Missie took a deep breath and the little berry-stained dress tightened
across her chest. Maum Hannah’s wise old eyes noticed that coming
maturity had already begun to develop slight, curving breasts there.
Yes, they showed plain with each quick breath that Missie took. Missie’s
little heart seemed very full of something.
Tears came into the wise old eyes, for it came to Maum Hannah for the
first time that Missie was becoming a woman. A woman. Maum Hannah’s mind
could hardly accept it, yet it was so. Little Missie would soon be a
woman, with all the troubles, the sorrows, of womanhood.
Lately, Missie had been seeking peace. Peace. And Maum Hannah knew that
womanhood would bring her no peace. None. Missie was already turning to
religion. To God. Asking for peace. Tears wet the old eyes, but she
could tell Missie nothing. Missie couldn’t understand. Nobody could tell
her. Nobody.
Old age might bring her peace. It might. But that was far off for
Missie. And old age---- But Missie had started talking. She must listen.
“Auntie,” the low voice was husky, “dis mawnin’ at I git my bucket full
up wid blackbe’y, I leddown fo’ rest’--I sta’t den fo’ pray.”
“How much day dis is you been prayin’ and seekin’?” Maum Hannah
interrupted.
Missie reflected and answered thoughtfully:
“Dis mus’ be de gwine on een de two week, Auntie.”
“I reckon e is,” Maum Hannah agreed.
Missie went on:
“I leddown right on de ditch bank een de blackbe’y patch. Dut been pile
up high underneat’ my haid same lake pillow. I shet my eye--I pray--an’
Auntie--it seem like I was gwine todes sunrise-side--’cross de fiel’. It
seem like I was walkin’ deep down een de furrow. Den de furrow, e gone
tu’n to hill! De hill been steep. It labor me fo’ climb up em----”
The round, black eyes took on a dreamy look, and the little body leaned
heavier on Maum Hannah’s shoulder. But the old woman sat silent.
Serious.
“It seem lak a house, same like we-own, been by de side o’ de pat’. A
black ’oman come out an’ stan’ een de do’. ’E call me. ’E say: ’Stop
heah an’ res’ awhile,’ but I tell em: ’No.’ It seem like I gone on
a-climbin’ up de hill. I gone an’ gone----”
The low voice faltered. The soft eyelids drooped drowsily.
“Den I see--a white house--an’ a man. ’E was a-stanin’ een de do’. ’E
hab face lak--I dunno who ’e hab face lak----”
Maum Hannah stirred a little. Her shoulder was tired. But she said
nothing, and Missie went on, each word dropping slowly:
“De man, ’e say: ’Stop an’ res’.’ I stop. I res’. De noon bell--it wake
me.”
That was all. A silence. Maum Hannah stirred again. She must ask Missie
some questions. But first--she must think. A man?
“Honey,” she began, “Honey, de man been ol’, enty? Wid long whisker an’
t’ing? ’E hab somep’n nudder lak sheet wrop roun’ em too, enty?”
That was the vision that many claimed to see. Had Missie seen it too?
Missie’s lips curved in a smile and she shook her head:
“No, Auntie. No. De man I talk wid, ’e ain’ been stan’ so--no.”
Maum Hannah’s eyes narrowed. She turned and scanned the child’s face.
Missie met the look and decided she couldn’t tell more. No, Maum Hannah
would think strange if she knew the man was Killdee himself. Killdee!
“Wha’ de man been say, den, Gal? Who ’e been look lak?”
“I fo-git wha’ ’e say, Auntie----”
Missie drew away from Maum Hannah’s shoulder. After all, she must have
been mistaken. The house was white, but that may not have been a sign
after all. Not a sign her sins were forgiven.
“Mine, gal, mine,” Maum Hannah warned threateningly, “don’ you tell me
no lie. You ain’ fo’git a’ready wha’ da man say. No!”
Missie looked straight at her. The spell of the vision she had seen
seemed broken. Maum Hannah thought she had not seen the right vision.
She had not found peace. Maum Hannah’s face showed it. They had all told
her to pray until she saw something white. That would be a sign. She had
seen something white--and now Maum Hannah seemed cross about it.
Missie sighed and turned to the pail of berries, saying:
“See how I got de bucket full-up wid blackbe’y, Auntie? Ain’ dese nice
one?”
She was sorry she had spoken at all about her dream. The house was white
and yet the man looked a lot like Killdee. That was wrong. Killdee was a
sinner. Killdee was no sign of peace. No.
“Mebbe you is fine peace, Missie. Mebbe you is. I dunno,” was Maum
Hannah’s answer. “You go talk wid Brer Cato. Tell em all you see. Ef de
man had-a been ol’, an’ kinder strange fo’ look at, it would ’a’ been
mo’ better. But den--maybe Gawd is gi’ you a diff’unt sign. Anyway, de
house was white.”
Other words that were in her mind would not come to her lips. She could
not say them. Instead she said brightly:
“Take you’ blackbe’y on to de sto’, chile. Hurry. Dey is makin’ wine
to-day. Dey needs all de blackbe’y dey kin git. Eby lil bit he’ps em
out.
“Tell Killdee you find peace to-day. You ought to be baptize nex’ fo’th
Sunday. Tell em des so. ’E might gi’ you a new dress. ’E might. ’E hab a
good heart. Killdee’s a mighty good man, eben ef ’e is a sinner. Sho.”
Missie’s eyes were shining happily again. Killdee was good indeed.
Better than anybody in the world. She took up her hat from the floor
where she had dropped it. It was an old, worn, dusty man’s felt hat.
Regular slits had been cut in the brim and through these a strip of
turkey-red calico was run with the ends tied in a bow at one side.
Maum Hannah smiled when Missie put the hat on.
“How-come you trim up you’ hat so fine fo’ seek een? You put red on you’
hat when you go fo’ pray! Do, Jedus! A gal is somet’ing else een dis
worl’. When de spring o’ de yeah come, dey sho is gwine dress deyse’f
up. None o dat ain’ b’longst to seekin’, dough, Missie, or needer to
findin’ peace. No. Red bow don’ bring no peace. No, gal. Red bow bring
somet’ing else!”
The child’s face was still bright with happiness as she stepped lightly
down the steps. She ran down the path that led to the Big House, but
Maum Hannah suddenly called her back.
“Come heah des a minute, Missie. I got somet’ing fo’ tell you befo’ you
go. Auntie’s a ol’ ’oman fo’ true. But you know ol’ people is wiser’n
chillen, enty? Ef you see Brer Cato, you talk wid em. But dey ain’ no
need fo’ tell em de man ain’ been a ol’ man. No. Dey ain’ no need fo’
say ef de man been ol’ or ’nyoung. Go long, now. Sell de be’y. Killdee
might gi’ you a dress fo’ wear to de baptizin!”
Missie listened and then walked slowly, thoughtfully, down the path.
After all, what difference did it make if she found peace or not?
Killdee was a sinner. She’d just stay a sinner with him. Sinners seemed
better than Christians, anyway, all except Maum Hannah. And Maum Hannah
wasn’t a very strict Christian. Maybe she was too old to be one.
Missie took the berries to the cross-roads store and got money for them
and took it home to Rose.
“Dis all you git to-day? How come? Seekin’ mus’ be mek you pick be’y
mighty slow.”
“I reckon ’e is,” Missie agreed. “I ain’ gwine seek no mo’. I tired
prayin’, Aun’ Rose. You better lemme wait. I ain’ gwine dead any time
soon. Please lemme wait ’bout prayin’.”
“It ain’ me. It you. Ef you kin stan’ fo be lost, den stop seekin’. You
de one gwine bu’n een hell. Not me,” Rose said indifferently.
Killdee had come in and he heard this last.
“Don’ mek de gal seek. Not now, Rose. I miss ’e laughin’ an’ playin’ too
much. It don’ seem natchel fo’ Missie to be gwine roun’ wid ’e face so
long. A-prayin’. Le’ em res’ off from prayin’ an’ seekin’.”
“’E kin do like ’e wan’ do,” Rose said curtly. Missie grinned gayly and
cut a little dance step to show how relieved she was not to have to seek
peace any more, but a sharp stinging in the bottom of her foot made her
stop with a wry face.
“A splinter,” she said, sitting down on the floor and looking in the
sole of her foot to see.
“You see, enty?” Rose exulted. “Gawd mek you stop you’ dancin’ quick. ’E
mek splinter stick you.”
But Killdee took out his pocket knife and with its big, sharp blade cut
the splinter out as gently as he could.
_The Red Rooster_
The night was hot. The heavy fragrance of the blossoms in the
china-berry tree near Killdee’s cabin door thickened the air and made it
more difficult to breathe.
The red rooster sleeping high up on one of its limbs stirred uneasily
and crowed in a dull hoarse voice.
Killdee lying beside Rose inside moved restlessly. He tried to keep
still. He didn’t want to wake Rose. She went hard as she could at her
work all day long. When night came, she was tired. Worn out. Glad to go
to bed and rest. He must keep still and let her sleep.
She had not mended just right after Sis was born. Maum Hannah said it
was the warm weather. Maybe so. But Rose stayed downhearted somehow.
Dissatisfied. He felt she had lost faith in him.
To-night he went to meeting because Rose wanted him to go. She wanted
him to get religion and join the Church. Rose thought if he’d be a
member they might have better luck. Killdee pondered over it.
Being a member could not make old Mike, the mule, younger; or Mike’s
teeth sound, so he could chew corn and get fat. Mike was too old and
slow to keep up with the grass, especially when dog days came and it
rained every day God sent. Being a member could not stop that.
The air in the cabin was close. Killdee got up softly and took the bar
down and opened the door wide. Baby Sis moved. Her ears were keen. She
had never been as sound a sleeper as Jim.
Killdee stood perfectly still until she seemed quiet, then he stepped
out and stood on the doorstep. He breathed deep and looked up at the
stars. How thick and bright they were! A sign of rain to-morrow. More
rain. Always rain. And the grass had already wound its strong roots
around the tender cotton. He would ruin the stand trying to kill the
grass out. Why couldn’t the sun shine awhile?
A glittering sliver of light shining through the china-berry tree caught
his eyes. He instinctively turned them away from it--then with a wry
smile he turned them back again.
No use to look away now. He had seen it. He couldn’t fool himself. No.
He knew well enough what it was. The new moon. He had seen it _through
trees_. More bad luck for a month. More bad luck. Of course. He had
nothing else. Never. He’d cut that tree down and be rid of it. It was
always screening the moon.
He moved to the side of the door where he could see the moon clear.
There it was. Thin and white.
Something in his heart felt sick. Why did he always see the new moon
through trees? To-night he had been out in the open field. Why didn’t he
see it then?
He didn’t mind work. Nor doing without things for Missie and Rose and
Jim and Sis. The question was, why couldn’t he have a chance to work and
make something? That was all he wanted.
Bad luck. Shucks! Everything bad that could happen had already happened.
He turned inside and closed the door and put the bar in its place. He
felt in the darkness for the foot of the bed, then laid himself down
again beside Rose. He listened for her breathing. She was very still.
Then a sudden jerk of her body made him know she was awake. Awake and
sobbing.
“Rose,” he said softly, “why you duh cry, Honey? Don’ do dat. Wha’s de
matter? I tryin’ fo’ do de bes’ I kin. I know you ain’ de one fo’
complain. I know dat. Not my Rose. Ain’ we got de putties’ lil boy an’
lil gal een de worl’? Tell me dat. How-come you cryin’, Honey? Please
don’ do em. Jim’s a-growin’ so fas’, an’ Sis, too. An’ Missie--Missie
kin hoe same ez a grown ’oman. We haffer be t’anksful. T’anksful. Da’s
de way. You t’ink I can’ mek a good crop o’ cotton? Shucks!”
Rose did not answer and Killdee put his hand on her arm and patted it
gently, then let it rest there. Soon it became heavier and heavier, then
it slipped down limp on the straw mattress beside her.
Killdee had seemed so downhearted that Rose made him take Missie and go
to the quarter to meeting. She thought if he’d listen to the people sing
and pray and see his friends and hear a sermon he’d feel better.
She had stayed at home with the children.
When Jim was asleep she put the creaky little rocking-chair close to the
door where she could see out across the field while she rocked baby Sis
to sleep.
How bright the stars seemed in the sky! There right up over the
china-tree was a new moon. She saw it clear. Good luck! Thank God for
that! Killdee was at meeting. Maybe he’d decide to pray and seek.
But Killdee came home from meeting as low-spirited as he had gone.
Nothing seemed to cheer him up. He did work hard. But things kept going
wrong all the time. If Killdee would do like other men----
If Killdee would seek and get religion--that might help. But he
wouldn’t. Rain came and made the grass eat up his cotton, and no telling
what else would happen unless he changed.
The red rooster out in the china-berry tree crowed huskily. It was hot.
The blossoms thick on the tree out there were too heavy sweet. Their
fragrance filled the cabin. They made breathing an effort. Rose
couldn’t sleep. Killdee lay so quiet, he must be asleep.
Rose sent out a prayer in the darkness; a prayer for her baby, that God,
wherever He was, would take care of her little girl. Then she prayed for
Jim. She prayed again for herself, that she’d get well--well as she was
before Sis was born---- Then she prayed for Killdee, that he would have
longer patience--and be happier--and get saved from sin.
But her thoughts wandered. She was praying here in the darkness. Where
was God that He could hear her?
A fear of things crept into her heart--a fear of the dark, of what she
didn’t know. Her fear made her get closer to Killdee and, gently lifting
his heavy arm, she put it over her. She somehow felt protected by it,
and soon fell into a heavy sleep.
* * * * *
When breakfast was ready the next morning, Killdee got up and ate
hurriedly and went to the field with his mule and plow. Missie followed
with a hoe. Rose stood in the door and watched them going to the field.
Killdee looked tired, though the day’s work had not begun. His lean
shoulders were stooped, and he was only a young man.
The plow was rickety. Missie did the best she could, but she was little
and the grass was tough and wiry.
But this was Monday morning. Rose didn’t have time to be standing there
thinking foolish, useless thoughts. No! She had work to do.
First, she sat down by the hearth and ate a bite of breakfast; then
covered up what was left in the pot and put it closer to the coals to
keep warm until Jim woke.
She hadn’t slept well last night. The china-berry blossoms were too
sweet, and the red rooster kept crowing all through the night. She had
never heard him crow so loud before. He woke up baby Sis two or three
times. Jim never waked for anything. No. He was a good sleeper. That was
why he grew so fast.
She went to the bed where he lay asleep. In the early morning light her
two chubby, little black children looked almost exactly alike. One was a
very little larger than the other. Rose looked with pride at Jim’s soft,
round chin; his curved cheek. The full lips, slightly parted, showed
teeth white as new milk. A sturdy little boy, but Rose shook her head as
she looked, and her eyes filled with tears. Jim’s little clothes were
all ragged.
The red rooster gave a shrill crow right at the doorway. Baby Sis,
asleep in the cradle beside Rose’s own bed, woke and cried out sharply.
Rose went quickly to her and took her up and held her close and
murmured:
“Did de bad ol’ rooster wake up my baby? E did! E skeery ’em. Go to
sleep----”
She sat in the creaky rocking-chair and crooned to the child she fed at
her breast.
The sun had risen bright and hot. A light breeze fluttered through the
leaves of the china-berry tree outside and came in through the door,
cooler than the fire-warmed air inside the cabin.
Rose rocked back and forth till Sis’s little eyelids fell, then she
kissed the fuzzy little head gently and, rising carefully, tipped over
to the cradle and laid the baby down.
The red rooster crowed. Baby Sis’s bright eyes opened wide. Rose leaned
over and patted the soft little body and rocked the cradle till the
heavy eyelids closed tight again. Then she went to the door and waved
her apron fiercely at the red rooster.
“Git on off!” she whispered angrily at him. “Git on off! Sometime I wish
you was dead! You won’ let nobody sleep een de night wid you crowin’!
Now you keep wakin’ my baby up! Quit you doin’s! I got work fo’ do! I
ain’ got time fo’ be runnin’ you ’way f’om de do’! Shoo!”
He ran away cackling with terror. Rose began getting up the clothes to
wash. This was Monday morning. She piled them all together in the middle
of the floor. Then she took up each garment, piece by piece. She must
find where there were missing buttons or torn, worn places.
A small paper box sat on the mantelshelf, a box that had once held
shells for Killdee’s gun. Now it held her one needle and a ball of
coarse thread. She drew the rocking-chair to the door where there was
light, and with her big-eyed needle and coarse thread, she repaired the
clothing carefully.
The big, black, iron wash-pot sat out in the yard not far from the
woodpile. Killdee and Missie had filled it on Saturday. Rose built up a
hot fire under it. She took the two wooden washtubs out from under the
house and put them up on a bench by the cabin, in the shade of the
china-berry tree. Then she brought out the clothes and separated the
white ones from the colored ones. With a tin bucket she dipped hot water
from the big, iron pot and poured it into the tubs. Soon she was bending
her body up and down, up and down, over the wash-board, and white
soap-suds foamed through her fingers.
She sang as she worked, a low, spiritual melody. She felt happier,
somehow. Work was good, after all. It helps people to shed their
troubles. As she washed each garment in one tub, she dropped it into the
other tub to be washed again. They’d all be clean when she finished with
them.
The red rooster hopped up in the doorway. Rose did not see him. He
peeped around carefully to see if she heard him, but she was thinking
just then she would have to be careful or the soap would not last
through this washing. Jim and Killdee used so many clothes this rainy
weather. So many more than she did, or Missie. They got them so dirty
too. She didn’t mind that, bless their hearts, if the soap would hold
out. Rubbing clothes without soap made sorry washing.
The red rooster stepped cautiously inside the cabin. He was hungry and
curious, and with Rose out of sight he was bold.
He looked at the pot on the hearth. The fire coals near it blinked red
and hot. He was afraid to go closer to them.
He looked all around the room. A few white threads were scattered on the
floor. He pecked at one. It hung on his beak, a tasteless, annoying
thing. He shook it off with a croak of disgust.