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[Illustration: SOLOMON CROW'S CHRISTMAS POCKETS
RUTH McENERY STUART]
[Illustration: [_See page 34_
"'DIS HEAH'S A FUS-CLASS THING TER WORK OFF BAD TEMPERS WID'"]
SOLOMON CROW'S
CHRISTMAS POCKETS
AND OTHER TALES
BY
RUTH McENERY STUART
AUTHOR OF
"A GOLDEN WEDDING" "THE STORY OF BABETTE"
"CARLOTTA'S INTENDED" ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1897
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
CARLOTTA'S INTENDED, and Other Tales. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth,
$1 50.
THE GOLDEN WEDDING, and Other Tales. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth,
$1 50.
THE STORY OF BABETTE. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 50.
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
TO
MY DEAR NIECE
LITTLE MISS LEA CALLAWAY
CONTENTS
PAGE
SOLOMON CROW'S CHRISTMAS POCKETS 3
THE TWO TIMS 23
THE FREYS' CHRISTMAS PARTY 39
LITTLE MOTHER QUACKALINA 67
OLD EASTER 91
SAINT IDYL'S LIGHT 111
"BLINK" 131
DUKE'S CHRISTMAS 165
UNCLE EPHE'S ADVICE TO BRER RABBIT 193
MAY BE SO 199
ILLUSTRATIONS
"'DIS HEAH'S A FUS-CLASS THING TER WORK OFF BAD
TEMPERS WID'" _Frontispiece_
"'SHE OUGHT TO EAT CANARY-SEED AND FISH-BONE'" _Facing p._ 46
THE ITALIAN ORGAN-GRINDER " 62
"THE PROFESSOR NOT ONLY SANG, BUT DANCED" " 64
"THE FARMER'S BOY WAS A HUNTER" " 68
"SIR SOOTY HIMSELF ACTUALLY WADDLED INTO THE FARM-YARD" " 74
"'I'M GOIN' TO SWAP 'EM'" " 76
"MADE HER PUT OUT HER TONGUE" " 78
"HER OWN TEN BEAUTIFUL DUCKS WERE CLOSE ABOUT HER" " 86
OLD EASTER " 92
"'YAS, MISSY, I WAS TWENTY-FO' HOND'ED YEARS OLE,
LAS' EASTER SUNDAY'" " 94
"'DE CATS? WHY, HONEY, DEY WELCOME TO COME AN' GO'" " 106
"'KEEP STEP, RABBIT, MAN!'" " 192
"'WELL, ONE MO' RABBIT FUR DE POT'" " 194
SOLOMON CROW'S CHRISTMAS POCKETS
SOLOMON CROW'S CHRISTMAS POCKETS
His mother named him Solomon because, when he was a baby, he looked so
wise; and then she called him Crow because he was so black. True, she
got angry when the boys caught it up, but then it was too late. They
knew more about crows than they did about Solomon, and the name suited.
His twin-brother, who died when he was a day old, his mother had called
Grundy--just because, as she said, "Solomon an' Grundy b'longs together
in de books."
When the wee black boy began to talk, he knew himself equally as Solomon
or Crow, and so, when asked his name, he would answer: "Sol'mon Crow,"
and Solomon Crow he thenceforth became.
Crow was ten years old now, and he was so very black and polished and
thin, and had so peaked and bright a face, that no one who had any
sense of humor could hear him called Crow without smiling.
Crow's mother, Tempest, had been a worker in her better days, but she
had grown fatter and fatter until now she was so lazy and broad that her
chief pleasure seemed to be sitting in her front door and gossiping with
her neighbors over the fence, or in abusing or praising little Solomon,
according to her mood.
Tempest had never been very honest. When, in the old days, she had hired
out as cook and carried "her dinner" home at night, the basket on her
arm had usually held enough for herself and Crow and a pig and the
chickens--with some to give away. She had not meant Crow to understand,
but the little fellow was wide awake, and his mother was his pattern.
But this is the boy's story. It seemed best to tell a little about his
mother, so that, if he should some time do wrong things, we might all,
writer and readers, be patient with him. He had been poorly taught. If
we could not trace our honesty back to our mothers, how many of us would
love the truth?
Crow's mother loved him very much--she thought. She would knock down any
one who even blamed him for anything. Indeed, when things went well, she
would sometimes go sound asleep in the door with her fat arm around
him--very much as the mother-cat beside her lay half dozing while she
licked her baby kitten.
But if Crow was awkward or forgot anything--or didn't bring home money
enough--her abuse was worse than any mother-cat's claws.
One of her worst taunts on such occasions was about like this: "Well,
you is a low-down nigger, I must say. Nobody, to look at you, would
b'lieve you was twin to a angel!"
Or, "How you reckon yo' angel-twin feels ef he's a-lookin' at you now?"
Crow had great reverence for his little lost mate. Indeed, he feared the
displeasure of this other self, who, he believed, watched him from the
skies, quite as much as the anger of God. Sad to say, the good Lord,
whom most children love as a kind, heavenly Father, was to poor little
Solomon Crow only a terrible, terrible punisher of wrong, and the little
boy trembled at His very name. He seemed to hear God's anger in the
thunder or the wind; but in the blue sky, the faithful stars, the
opening flowers and singing birds--in all loving-kindness and
friendship--he never saw a heavenly Father's love.
He knew that some things were right and others wrong. He knew that it
was right to go out and earn dimes to buy the things needed in the
cabin, but he equally knew it was wrong to get this money dishonestly.
Crow was a very shrewd little boy, and he made money honestly in a
number of ways that only a wide-awake boy would think about.
When fig season came, in hot summer-time, he happened to notice that
beautiful ripe figs were drying up on the tip-tops of some great trees
in a neighboring yard, where a stout old gentleman and his old wife
lived alone, and he began to reflect.
"If I could des git a-holt o' some o' dem fine sugar figs dat's
a-swivelin' up every day on top o' dem trees, I'd meck a heap o' money
peddlin' 'em on de street." And even while he thought this thought he
licked his lips. There were, no doubt, other attractions about the figs
for a very small boy with a very sweet tooth.
On the next morning after this, Crow rang the front gate-bell of the
yard where the figs were growing.
"Want a boy to pick figs on sheers?" That was all he said to the fat old
gentleman who had stepped around the house in answer to his ring.
Crow's offer was timely.
Old Mr. Cary was red in the face and panting even yet from reaching up
into the mouldy, damp lower limbs of his fig-trees, trying to gather a
dishful for breakfast.
"Come in," he said, mopping his forehead as he spoke.
"Pick on shares, will you?"
"Yassir."
"Even?"
"Yassir."
"Promise never to pick any but the very ripe figs?"
"Yassir."
"Honest boy?"
"Yassir."
"Turn in, then; but wait a minute."
He stepped aside into the house, returning presently with two baskets.
"Here," he said, presenting them both. "These are pretty nearly of a
size. Go ahead, now, and let's see what you can do."
Needless to say, Crow proved a great success as fig-picker. The very
sugary figs that old Mr. Cary had panted for and reached for in vain lay
bursting with sweetness on top of both baskets.
The old gentleman and his wife were delighted, and the boy was quickly
engaged to come every morning.
And this was how Crow went into the fig business.
Crow was a likable boy--"so bright and handy and nimble"--and the old
people soon became fond of him.
They noticed that he always handed in the larger of the two baskets,
keeping the smaller for himself. This seemed not only honest, but
generous.
And generosity is a winning virtue in the very needy--as winning as it
is common. The very poor are often great of heart.
But this is not a safe fact upon which to found axioms.
All God's poor are not educated up to the point of even small, fine
honesties, and the so-called "generous" are not always "just" or honest.
And--
Poor little Solomon Crow! It is a pity to have to write it, but his weak
point was exactly that he was not quite honest. He wanted to be, just
because his angel-twin might be watching him, and he was afraid of
thunder. But Crow was so anxious to be "smart" that he had long ago
begun doing "tricky" things. Even the men working the roads had
discovered this. In eating Crow's "fresh-boiled crawfish" or "shrimps,"
they would often come across one of the left-overs of yesterday's
supply, mixed in with the others; and a yesterday's shrimp is full of
stomach-ache and indigestion. So that business suffered.
In the fig business the ripe ones sold well; but when one of Crow's
customers offered to buy all he would bring of green ones for
preserving, Crow began filling his basket with them and distributing a
top layer of ripe ones carefully over them. His lawful share of the very
ripe he also carried away--in his little bread-basket.
This was all very dishonest, and Crow knew it. Still he did it many
times.
And then--and this shows how one sin leads to another--and then, one
day--oh, Solomon Crow, I'm ashamed to tell it on you!--one day he
noticed that there were fresh eggs in the hen-house nests, quite near
the fig-trees. Now, if there was anything Crow liked, it was a fried
egg--two fried eggs. He always said he wanted two on his plate at once,
looking at him like a pair of round eyes, "an' when dey reco'nizes me,"
he would say, "den I eats 'em up."
Why not slip a few of these tempting eggs into the bottom of the basket
and cover them up with ripe figs?
And so--,
One day, he did it.
He had stopped at the dining-room door that day and was handing in the
larger basket, as usual, when old Mr. Cary, who stood there, said,
smiling:
"No, give us the smaller basket to-day, my boy. It's our turn to be
generous."
He extended his hand as he spoke.
Crow tried to answer, but he could not. His mouth felt as dry and stiff
and hard as a chip, and he suddenly began to open it wide and shut it
slowly, like a chicken with the gapes.
Mr. Cary kept his hand out waiting, but still Crow stood as if
paralyzed, gaping and swallowing.
Finally, he began to blink. And then he stammered:
"I ain't p-p-p-ertic'lar b-b-bout de big basket. D-d-d-de best figs is
in y'all's pickin'--in dis, de big basket."
Crow's appearance was conviction itself. Without more ado, Mr. Cary
grasped his arm firmly and fairly lifted him into the room.
"Now, set those baskets down." He spoke sharply.
The boy obeyed.
"Here! empty the larger one on this tray. That's it. All fine, ripe
figs. You've picked well for us. Now turn the other one out."
At this poor Crow had a sudden relapse of the dry gapes. His arm fell
limp and he looked as if he might tumble over.
"Turn 'em out!" The old gentleman shrieked in so thunderous a tone that
Crow jumped off his feet, and, seizing the other basket with his little
shaking paws, he emptied it upon the heap of figs.
Old Mrs. Cary had come in just in time to see the eggs roll out of the
basket, and for a moment she and her husband looked at each other. And
then they turned to the boy.
When she spoke her voice was so gentle that Crow, not understanding,
looked quickly into her face:
"Let me take him into the library, William. Come, my boy."
Her tone was so soft, so sorrowful and sympathetic, that Crow felt as he
followed her as if, in the hour of his deepest disgrace, he had found a
friend; and when presently he stood in a great square room before a high
arm-chair, in which a white-haired old lady sat looking at him over her
gold-rimmed spectacles and talking to him as he had never been spoken to
in all his life before, he felt as if he were in a great court before a
judge who didn't understand half how very bad little boys were.
She asked him a good many questions--some very searching ones, too--all
of which Crow answered as best he could, with his very short breath.
His first feeling had been of pure fright. But when he found he was not
to be abused, not beaten or sent to jail, he began to wonder.
Little Solomon Crow, ten years old, in a Christian land, was hearing for
the first time in his life that God loved him--loved him even now in his
sin and disgrace, and wanted him to be good.
He listened with wandering eyes at first, half expecting the old
gentleman, Mr. Cary, to appear suddenly at the door with a whip or a
policeman with a club. But after a while he kept his eyes steadily upon
the lady's face.
"Has no one ever told you, Solomon"--she had always called him Solomon,
declaring that Crow was not a fit name for a boy who looked as he
did--it was altogether "too personal"--"has no one ever told you,
Solomon," she said, "that God loves all His little children, and that
you are one of these children?"
"No, ma'am," he answered, with difficulty. And then, as if catching at
something that might give him a little standing, he added, quickly--so
quickly that he stammered again:
"B-b-b-but I knowed I was twin to a angel. I know dat. An' I knows ef my
angel twin seen me steal dem aigs he'll be mightly ap' to tell Gord to
strike me down daid."
Of course he had to explain then about the "angel twin," and the old
lady talked to him for a long time. And then together they knelt down.
When at last they came out of the library she held the boy's hand and
led him to her husband.
"Are you willing to try him again, William?" she asked. "He has promised
to do better."
Old Mr. Cary cleared his throat and laid down his paper.
"Don't deserve it," he began; "dirty little thief." And then he turned
to the boy: "What have you got on, sir?"
His voice was really quite terrible.
"N-n-n-nothin'; only but des my b-b-b-briches an' jacket, an'--an'--an'
skin," Crow replied, between gasps.
"How many pockets?"
"Two," said Crow.
"Turn 'em out!"
Crow drew out his little rust-stained pockets, dropping a few old nails
and bits of twine upon the floor as he did so.
"Um--h'm! Well, now, I'll tell you. _You're a dirty little thief_, as I
said before. And I'm going to treat you as one. If you wear those
pockets hanging out, or rip 'em out, and come in here before you leave
every day dressed just as you are--pants and jacket and skin--and empty
out your basket for us before you go, until I'm satisfied you'll do
better, you can come."
The old lady looked at her husband as if she thought him pretty hard on
a very small boy. But she said nothing.
Crow glanced appealingly at her before answering. And then he said,
seizing his pocket:
"Is you got air pair o' scissors, lady?"
Mrs. Cary wished her husband would relent even while she brought the
scissors, but he only cried:
"Out with 'em!"
"Suppose you cut them out yourself, Solomon," she interposed, kindly,
handing him the scissors. "You'll have all this work to do yourself. We
can't make you good."
When, after several awkward efforts, Crow finally put the coarse little
pockets in her hands, there were tears in her eyes, and she tried to
hide them as she leaned over and gathered up his treasures--three nails,
a string, a broken top, and a half-eaten chunk of cold corn-bread. As
she handed them to him she said: "And I'll lay the pockets away for you,
Solomon, and when we see that you are an honest boy I'll sew them back
for you myself."
As she spoke she rose, divided the figs evenly between the two baskets,
and handed one to Crow.
If there ever was a serious little black boy on God's beautiful earth it
was little Solomon Crow as he balanced his basket of figs on his head
that day and went slowly down the garden walk and out the great front
gate.
The next few weeks were not without trial to the boy. Old Mr. Cary
continued very stern, even following him daily to the _banquette_, as if
he dare not trust him to go out alone. And when he closed the iron gate
after him he would say in a tone that was awfully solemn:
"Good-mornin', sir!"
That was all.
Little Crow dreaded that walk to the gate more than all the rest of the
ordeal. And yet, in a way, it gave him courage. He was at least worth
while, and with time and patience he would win back the lost faith of
the friends who were kind to him even while they could not trust him.
They were, indeed, kind and generous in many ways, both to him and his
unworthy mother.
Fig-time was soon nearly over, and, of course, Crow expected a
dismissal; but it was Mr. Cary himself who set these fears at rest by
proposing to him to come daily to blacken his boots and to keep the
garden-walk in order for regular wages.
"But," he warned him, in closing, "don't you show your face here with a
pocket on you. If your heavy pants have any in 'em, rip 'em out." And
then he added, severely: "You've been a very bad boy."
"Yassir," answered Crow, "I know I is. I been a heap wusser boy'n you
knowed I was, too."
"What's that you say, sir?"
Crow repeated it. And then he added, for full confession:
"I picked green figs heap o' days, and kivered 'em up wid ripe ones, an'
sol' 'em to a white 'oman fur perserves." There was something desperate
in the way he blurted it all out.
"The dickens you did! And what are you telling me for?"
He eyed the boy keenly as he put the question.
At this Crow fairly wailed aloud: "'Caze I ain't gwine do it no mo'."
And throwing his arms against the door-frame he buried his face in them,
and he sobbed as if his little heart would break.
For a moment old Mr. Cary seemed to have lost his voice, and then he
said, in a voice quite new to Crow:
"I don't believe you will, sir--I don't believe you will." And in a
minute he said, still speaking gently: "Come here, boy."
Still weeping aloud, Crow obeyed.
"Tut, tut! No crying!" he began. "Be a man--be a man. And if you stick
to it, before Christmas comes, we'll see about those pockets, and you
can walk into the new year with your head up. But look sharp! Good-bye,
now!"
For the first time since the boy's fall Mr. Cary did not follow him to
the gate. Maybe this was the beginning of trust. Slight a thing as it
was, the boy took comfort in it.
At last it was Christmas eve. Crow was on the back "gallery" putting a
final polish on a pair of boots. He was nearly done, and his heart was
beginning to sink, when the old lady came and stood near him. There was
a very hopeful twinkle in her eye as she said, presently: "I wonder what
our little shoeblack, who has been trying so hard to be good, would like
to have for his Christmas gift?"
But Crow only blinked while he polished the faster.
"Tell me, Solomon," she insisted. "If you had one wish to-day, what
would it be?"
The boy wriggled nervously. And then he said:
"You knows, lady. Needle--an' thrade--an'--an'--you knows, lady.
Pockets."
"Well, pockets it shall be. Come into my room when you get through."
Old Mrs. Cary sat beside the fire reading as he went in. Seeing him, she
nodded, smiling, towards the bed, upon which Crow saw a brand-new suit
of clothes--coat, vest, and breeches--all spread out in a row.
"There, my boy," she said; "there are your pockets."
Crow had never in all his life owned a full new suit of clothes. All his
"new" things had been second-hand, and for a moment he could not quite
believe his eyes; but he went quickly to the bed and began passing his
hands over the clothes. Then he ventured to take up the vest--and to
turn it over. And now he began to find pockets.
"Three pockets in de ves'--two in de pants--an'--an' fo', no five, no
six--six pockets in de coat!"
He giggled nervously as he thrust his little black fingers into one and
then another. And then, suddenly overcome with a sense of the situation,
he turned to Mrs. Cary, and, in a voice that trembled a little, said:
"Is you sho' you ain't 'feerd to trus' me wid all deze pockets, lady?"
It doesn't take a small boy long to slip into a new suit of clothes. And
when a ragged urchin disappeared behind the head of the great old
"four-poster" to-day, it seemed scarcely a minute before a trig,
"tailor-made boy" strutted out from the opposite side, hands deep in
pockets--breathing hard.
As Solomon Crow strode up and down the room, radiant with joy, he seemed
for the moment quite unconscious of any one's presence. But presently he
stopped, looked involuntarily upward a minute, as if he felt himself
observed from above. Then, turning to the old people, who stood together
before the mantel, delightedly watching him, he said:
"Bet you my angel twin ain't ashamed, ef he's a-lookin' down on me
to-day."
THE TWO TIMS
THE TWO TIMS
As the moon sent a white beam through the little square window of old
Uncle Tim's cabin, it formed a long panel of light upon its
smoke-stained wall, bringing into clear view an old banjo hanging upon a
rusty nail. Nothing else in the small room was clearly visible. Although
it was Christmas eve, there was no fire upon the broad hearth, and from
the open door came the odor of honeysuckles and of violets. Winter is
often in Louisiana only a name given by courtesy to the months coming
between autumn and spring, out of respect to the calendar; and so it was
this year.
Sitting in the open doorway, his outline lost in the deep shadows of the
vine, was old Uncle Tim, while, upon the floor at his side lay little
Tim, his grandson. The boy lay so still that in the dim half-light he
seemed a part of the floor furnishings, which were, in fact, an old cot,
two crippled stools, a saddle, and odds and ends of broken harness, and
bits of rope.
Neither the old man nor the boy had spoken for a long time, and while
they gazed intently at the old banjo hanging in the panel of light, the
thoughts of both were tinged with sadness. The grandfather was nearly
seventy years old, and little Tim was but ten; but they were great
chums. The little boy's father had died while he was too young to
remember, leaving little Tim to a step-mother, who brought him to his
grandfather's home, where he had been ever since, and the attachment
quickly formed between the two had grown and strengthened with the
years.
Old Uncle Tim was very poor, and his little cabin was small and shabby;
and yet neither hunger nor cold had ever come in an unfriendly way to
visit it. The tall plantation smoke-house threw a friendly shadow over
the tiny hut every evening just before the sun went down--a shadow that
seemed a promise at close of each day that the poor home should not be
forgotten. Nor was it. Some days the old man was able to limp into the
field and cut a load of cabbages for the hands, or to prepare seed
potatoes for planting, so that, as he expressed it, "each piece 'll have
one eye ter grow wid an' another ter look on an' see dat everything goes
right."
And then Uncle Tim was brimful of a good many valuable things with which
he was very generous--_advice_, for instance.
He could advise with wisdom upon any number of subjects, such as just at
what time of the moon to make soap so that it would "set" well, how to
find a missing shoat, or the right spot to dig for water.
These were all valuable services; yet cabbages were not always ready to
be cut, potato-planting was not always in season. Often for weeks not a
hog would stray off. Only once in a decade a new well was wanted; and as
to soap-making, it could occur only once during each moon at most.
It is true that between times Uncle Tim gave copious warnings _not_ to
make soap, which was quite a saving of effort and good material.
But whether he was cutting seed potatoes, or advising, or only playing
on his banjo, as he did incessantly between times, his rations came to
the little cabin with clock-like regularity. They came just as regularly
as old Tim _had worked_ when he was young, as regularly as little Tim
_would_ when he should grow up, as it is a pity daily rations cannot
always come to such feeble ones as, whether in their first or second
childhood, are able to render only the service of willingness.
And so we see that the two Tims, as they were often called, had no great
anxieties as to their living, although they were very poor.
The only thing in the world that the old man held as a personal
possession was his old banjo. It was the one thing the little boy
counted on as a precious future property. Often, at all hours of the day
or evening, old Tim could be seen sitting before the cabin, his arms
around the boy, who stood between his knees, while, with eyes closed, he
ran his withered fingers over the strings, picking out the tunes that
best recalled the stories of olden days that he loved to tell into the
little fellow's ear. And sometimes, holding the banjo steady, he would
invite little Tim to try his tiny hands at picking the strings.
"Look out how you snap 'er too sudden!" he would exclaim if the little
fingers moved too freely. "Look out, I say! Dis ain't none o' yo'
pick-me-up-hit-an'-miss banjos, she ain't! An' you mus' learn ter treat
'er wid rispec', caze, when yo' ole gran'dad dies, she gwine be yo'
banjo, an' stan' in his place ter yer!"
And then little Tim, confronted with the awful prospect of death and
inheritance, would take a long breath, and, blinking his eyes, drop his
hands at his side, saying, "You play 'er gran'dad."
But having once started to speak, the old man was seldom brief, and so
he would continue: "It's true dis ole banjo she's livin' in a po' nigger
cabin wid a ole black marster an' a new one comin' on blacker yit. (You
taken dat arter yo' gran'mammy, honey. She warn't dis heah muddy-brown
color like I is. She was a heap purtier and clairer black.) Well, I say,
if dis ole banjo _is_ livin' wid po' ignunt black folks, I wants you ter
know she was _born white_.
"Don't look at me so cuyus, honey. I know what I say. I say she was
_born white._ Dat is, she _de_scended ter me _f'om_ white folks. My
marster bought 'er ter learn on when we was boys together. An' he took
_book lessons_ on 'er too, an' dat's how come I say she ain't none o'
yo' common pick-up-my-strings-any-which-er-way banjos. She's been played
by note music in her day, she is, an' she can answer a book note des as
true as any _pi_anner a pusson ever listened at--ef anybody know how ter
tackle 'er. Of co'se, ef you des tackle 'er p'omiskyus she ain't gwine
bother 'erse'f ter play 'cordin' ter rule; but--
"Why, boy, dis heah banjo she's done serenaded all de a'stocercy on dis
river 'twix' here an' de English Turn in her day. Yas, she is. An' all
dat expeunce is in 'er breast now; she 'ain't forgot it, an' ef air
pusson dat know all dem ole book chunes was ter take 'er up an' call fur
'em, she'd give 'em eve'y one des as true as ever yit.
"An' yer know, baby, I'm a-tellin' you all dis," he would say, in
closing--"I'm a-tellin' you all dis caze arter while, when I die, she
gwine be _yo'_ banjo, 'n' I wants you ter know all 'er ins an' outs."
And as he stopped, the little boy would ask, timidly, "Please, sir,
gran'dad, lemme tote 'er an' hang 'er up. I'll step keerful." And taking
each step with the utmost precision, and holding the long banjo aloft in
his arms as if it were made of egg-shells, little Tim would climb the
stool and hang the precious thing in its place against the cabin wall.
Such a conversation had occurred to-day, and as the lad had taken the
banjo from him the old man had added:
"I wouldn't be s'prised, baby, ef 'fo' another year passes dat'll be
_yo' banjo_, caze I feels mighty weak an' painful some days."
This was in the early evening, several hours before the scene with which
this little story opens. As night came on and the old man sat in the
doorway, he did not notice that little Tim, in stretching himself upon
the floor, as was his habit, came nearer than usual--so near, indeed,
that, extending his little foot, he rested it against his grandfather's
body, too lightly to be felt, and yet sensibly enough to satisfy his own
affectionate impulse. And so he was lying when the moon rose and covered
the old banjo with its light. He felt very serious as he gazed upon it,
standing out so distinctly in the dark room. Some day it would be his;
but the dear old grandfather would not be there, his chair would be
always empty. There would be nobody in the little cabin but just little
Tim and the banjo. He was too young to think of other changes. The
ownership of the coveted treasure promised only death and utter
loneliness. But presently the light passed off the wall on to the floor.
It was creeping over to where little Tim lay, but he did not know it,
and after blinking awhile at long intervals, and moving his foot
occasionally to reassure himself of his grandfather's presence, he fell
suddenly sound asleep.
While these painful thoughts were filling little Tim's mind the old man
had studied the bright panel on the wall with equal interest--and pain.
By the very nature of things he could not leave the banjo to the boy and
witness his pleasure in the possession.
"She's de onlies' thing I got ter leave 'im, but I does wush't I could
see him git 'er an' be at his little elbow ter show 'im all 'er ways,"
he said, half audibly. "Dis heah way o' leavin' things ter folks when
you die, it sounds awful high an' mighty, but look ter me like hit's po'
satisfaction some ways. Po' little Tim! Now what he gwine do anyhow when
I draps off?--nothin' but step-folks ter take keer of 'im--step-mammy
an' step-daddy an' 'bout a dozen step brothers an' sisters, an' not even
me heah ter show 'im how ter conduc' 'is banjo. De ve'y time he need me
de mos' ter show 'im her ins an' outs I won't be nowhars about, an'
yit--"
As the old man's thoughts reached this point a sudden flare of light
across the campus showed that the first bonfire was lighted.
There was to be a big dance to-night in the open space in front of the
sugar-house, and the lighting of the bonfires surrounding the spot was
the announcement that it was time for everybody to come. It was Uncle
Tim's signal to take down the banjo and tune up, for there was no more
important instrument in the plantation string-band than this same old
banjo.
As he turned backward to wake little Tim he hesitated a moment, looking
lovingly upon the little sleeping figure, which the moon now covered
with a white rectangle of light. As his eyes rested upon the boy's face
something, a confused memory of his last waking anxiety perhaps,
brought a slight quiver to his lips, as if he might cry in his sleep,
while he muttered the word "gran'dad."
Old Uncle Tim had been trying to get himself to the point of doing
something which it was somehow hard to do, but this tremulous lisping of
his own name settled the question.
Hobbling to his feet, he wended his way as noiselessly as possible to
where the banjo hung, and, carrying it to the sleeping boy, laid it
gently, with trembling fingers, upon his arm.
Then, first silently regarding him a moment, he called out, "Weck up,
Tim, my man! Weck up!"
As he spoke, a loud and continuous explosion of fire-crackers--the
opening of active festivities in the campus--startled the boy quite out
of his nap.
He was frightened and dazed for a minute, and then, seeing the banjo
beside him and his grandfather's face so near, he exclaimed: "What's all
dis, gran'dad? Whar me?"
The old man's voice was pretty husky as he answered: "You right heah wid
me, boy, an' dat banjo, hit's yo' Christmas gif', honey."
Little Tim cast an agonized look upon the old man's face, and threw
himself into his arms. "Is you gwine die now, gran'dad?" he sobbed,
burying his face upon his bosom.
Old Tim could not find voice at once, but presently he chuckled,
nervously: "Humh! humh! No, boy, I ain't gwine die yit--not till my time
comes, please Gord. But dis heah's Christmas, honey, an' I thought I'd
gi'e you de ole banjo whiles I was living so's I could--so's you
could--so's we could have pleasure out'n 'er bofe together, yer know,
honey. Dat is, f'om dis time on she's _yo' banjo_, an' when I wants ter
play on 'er, you _can loan 'er ter me_."
"An'--an' you--you _sho'_ you ain't gwine die, gran'dad?"
"I ain't sho' o' nothin', honey, but I 'ain't got no _notion_ o'
dyin'--not to-night. We gwine ter de dance now, you an' me, an' I gwine
play de banjo--_dat is ef you'll loan 'er ter me, baby_."
Tim wanted to laugh, and it seemed sheer contrariness for him to cry,
but somehow the tears would come, and the lump in his throat, and try
hard as he might, he couldn't get his head higher than his grandfather's
coat-sleeve or his arms from around his waist. He hardly knew why he
still wept, and yet when presently he sobbed, "But, gran'dad, I'm
'feered you _mought_ die," the old man understood.
Certainly, even if he were not going to die now, giving away the old
banjo seemed like a preparation for death. Was it not, in fact, a formal
confession that he was nearing the end of his days? Had not this very
feeling made it hard for him to part with it? The boy's grief at the
thought touched him deeply, and lifting the little fellow upon his knee,
he said, fondly:
"_Don't_ fret, honey. _Don't_ let Christmas find yon cryin'. I tell you
what I say let's do. I ain't gwine gi'e you de banjo, not yit, caze, des
as you say, I _mought_ die; but I tell you what I gwine do. I gwine take
you in pardners in it wid me. She ain't _mine_ an' she ain't _yoze_, and
yit she's _bofe of us's_. You see, boy? _She's ourn!_ An' when I wants
ter play on 'er _I'll play_, an' when you wants 'er, why, you teck
'er--on'y be a _leetle_ bit keerful at fust, honey."
"An' kin I ca'y 'er behine de cabin, whar you can't see how I'm
a-holdin' 'er, an' play anyway I choose?"
Old Tim winced a little at this, but he had not given grudgingly.
"Cert'n'y," he answered. "Why not? Git up an' play 'er in de middle o'
de night ef you want ter, on'y, of co'se, be keerful how you reach 'er
down, so's you won't jolt 'er too sudden. An' now, boy, hand 'er heah
an' lemme talk to yer a little bit."
When little Tim lifted the banjo from the floor his face fairly beamed
with joy, although in the darkness no one saw it, for the shaft of light
had passed beyond him now. Handing the banjo to his grandfather, he
slipped naturally back of it into his accustomed place in his arms.
"Dis heah's a fus'-class thing ter work off bad tempers wid," the old
man began, tightening the strings as he spoke. "Now ef one o' deze mule
tempers ever take a-holt of yer in de foot, dat foot 'll be mighty ap'
ter do some kickin'; an' ef it seizes a-holt o' yo' han', dat little
fis' 'll be purty sho ter strike out an' do some damage; an' ef it jump
onter yo' tongue, hit 'll mighty soon twis' it into sayin' bad language.
But ef you'll teck hol' o' dis ole banjo des as quick as you feel de
badness rise up in you, _an' play_, you'll scare de evil temper away so
bad it _daresn't come back_. Ef it done settled _too strong_ in yo'
tongue, run it off wid a song; an' ef yo' feet's git a kickin' spell on
'em, _dance it off_; an' ef you feel it in yo' han', des run fur de
banjo an' play de sweetes' chune you know, an' fus' thing you know all
yo' madness 'll be gone.
"She 'ain't got no mouf, but she can talk ter you, all de same; an' she
'ain't got no head, but she can reason wid you. An' while ter look at
'er she's purty nigh all belly, she don't eat a crumb. Dey ain't a
greedy bone in 'er.
"An' I wants you ter ricollec' dat I done guv 'er to you--dat is, _yo'
sheer_ [share] _in 'er_, caze she's _mine_ too, you know. I done guv you
a even sheer in 'er, des _caze you an' me is gran'daddy an' gran'son_.
"Dis heah way o' dyin' an' _leavin'_ prop'ty, hit mought suit white
folks, but it don't become our complexioms, some way; an' de mo' I
thought about havin' to die ter give de onlies' gran'son I got de
onlies' _prop'ty_ I got, de _miser'bler I got_, tell I couldn't stan' it
no mo'."
Little Tim's throat choked up again, and he rolled his eyes around and
swallowed twice before he answered: "An' I--I was miser'ble too,
gran'dad. I used ter des look at 'er hangin' 'g'inst de wall, an' think
about me maybe playin' 'er, an' you--you not--not nowhar in
sight--an'--an' some days seem like _I--I des hated 'er_."
"Yas, baby, I know. But now you won't hate 'er no mo', boy; an' ef you
die fus'--some time, you know, baby, little boys _does die_--an' ef you
go fus', I'll teck good keer o' yo' sheer in 'er; an' ef I go, you mus'
look out fur my sheer. An' long as we bofe live--well, I'll look out fur
'er voice--keep 'er th'oat strings in order; an' you see dat she don't
git ketched out in bad comp'ny, or in de rain, an' take cold.
"Come on now. Wash yo' little face, and let's go ter de dance. Gee-man!
Lis'n at de fire-crackers callin' us. Come on. Dat's right. Pack 'er on
yo' shoulder like a man."
And so the two Tims start off to the Christmas festival, young Tim
bearing his precious burden proudly ahead, while the old man follows
slowly behind, chuckling softly.
"Des think how much time I done los', not takin' 'im in pardners befo',
an' he de onlies' gran'son I got!"
While little Tim, walking cautiously so as not to trip in the uneven
path, turns presently and calls back:
"Gran'dad, I reckon we done walked half de way, now. I done toted 'er
_my_ sheer. Don't you want me ter tote 'er _yo' sheer_?"
And the old man answers, with another chuckle, "Go on, honey."
THE FREYS' CHRISTMAS PARTY
THE FREYS' CHRISTMAS PARTY
There was a great sensation in the old Coppenole house three days before
Christmas. The Freys, who lived on the third floor, were going to give a
Christmas dinner party, and all the other tenants were invited.
Such a thing had never happened before, and, as Miss Penny told her
canary-birds while she filled their seed-cups, it was "like a clap of
thunder out of a clear sky."
The Frey family, consisting of a widow and her brood of half a dozen
children, were as poor as any of the tenants in the old building, for
wasn't the mother earning a scant living as a beginner in newspaper
work? Didn't the Frey children do every bit of the house-work, not to
mention little outside industries by which the older ones earned small
incomes? Didn't Meg send soft gingerbread to the Christian Woman's
Exchange for sale twice a week, and Ethel find time, with all her
studies, to paint butterflies on Swiss aprons for fairs or fetes?
Didn't everybody know that Conrad, now but thirteen, was a regular
solicitor for orders for Christmas-trees, palmetto palms, and gray moss
from the woods for decorative uses on holiday occasions?
The idea of people in such circumstances as these giving dinner parties!
It was almost incredible; but it was true, for tiny notes of invitation
tied with rose-colored ribbons had been flying over the building all the
afternoon. The Frey twins, Felix and Felicie, both barefoot, had carried
one to each door.
They were written with gold ink on pink paper. A water-colored butterfly
was poised in midair somewhere on each one, and at the left lower end
were the mysterious letters "R.S.V.P."
The old Professor who lived in the room next the Frey kitchen got one,
and Miss Penny, who occupied the room beyond. So did Mademoiselle
Guyosa, who made paper flowers, and the mysterious little woman of the
last, worst room in the house--a tiny figure whose face none of her
neighbors had ever seen, but who had given her name to the baker and
milkman as "Mamzelle St. John."
And there were others. Madame Coraline, the fortune-teller, who rented
the hall room on the second floor, was perhaps more surprised at her
invitation than any of the rest. No one ever asked her anywhere. Even
the veiled ladies who sometimes visited her darkened chamber always
tiptoed up the steps as if they were half ashamed of going there.
The twins had a time getting her to come to the door to receive the
invitation, and after vainly rapping several times, they had finally
brought a parasol and hammered upon the horseshoe tacked upon the door,
until at last it opened just about an inch. And then she was invited.
But, indeed, it is time to be telling how the party originated.
It had been the habit of the Frey children, since they could remember,
to save up spare coins all the year for a special fund which they called
"Christmas money."
The old fashion of spending these small amounts in presents for one
another had long ago given place to the better one--more in the
Christmas spirit--of using it to brighten the day for some one less
blessed than themselves.
It is true that on the Christmas before the one of this story they had
broken the rule, or only strained it, perhaps, to buy a little stove for
their mother's room.
But a rule that would not stretch enough to take in such a home need
would be a poor one indeed.
This year they had had numerous schemes, but somehow none had seemed to
appeal to the stockholders in the Christmas firm, and so they had
finally called a meeting on the subject.
It was at this meeting that Meg, fourteen years old, having taken the
floor, said: "Well, it seems to _me_ that the _worst_ kind of a
Christmas must be a lonely one. Just think how nearly all the roomers in
this house spent last Christmas--most of 'em sittin' by their lone
selves in their rooms, and some of 'em just eatin' every-day things! The
Professor hadn't a thing but Bologna-sausage and crackers. _I
know--'cause I peeped._ An' now, whatever you all are goin' to do with
_your_ money, _mine's_ goin' right into this house, to the
roomers--_some way_."
"If we knew what we could do, Meg?" said Ethel.
"If we knew what we could do or _how we could do it_," interrupted
Conrad, "why, I'd give my eighty-five cents in a minute. I'd give it to
the old Professor to have his curls cut."
Conrad was a true-hearted fellow, but he was full of mischief.
"Shame on you, Buddy!" said Meg, who was thoroughly serious. "Can't you
be in earnest for just a minute?"
"I am in earnest, Meg. I think your scheme is bully--if it could be
worked; but the Professor wouldn't take our money any more'n we'd take
his."
"Neither would any of them." This was Ethel's first real objection.
"Who's goin' to offer 'em money?" rejoined Meg.
"I tell you what we _might_ do, maybe," Conrad suggested, dubiously. "We
_might_ buy a lot of fine grub, an' send it in to 'em sort o'
mysteriously. How'd that do?"
"'Twouldn't do at all," Meg replied. "The idea! Who'd enjoy the finest
Christmas dinner in the world by his lone self, with nothin' but a
lookin'-glass to look into and holler 'Merry Christmas' to?"
Conrad laughed. "Well, the Professor's little cracked glass wouldn't be
much of a comfort to a hungry fellow. It gives you two mouths."
Conrad was nothing if not facetious.
"There you are again, Buddy! _Do_ be serious for once." And then she
added, desperately, "The thing _I_ want to do is to _invite_ 'em."
"Invite!"
"Who?"
"What?"
"When?"
"How?"
"Where?"
Such was the chorus that greeted Meg's astounding proposition.
"Why, I say," she explained, nothing daunted, "let's put all our
Christmas money together and get the very best dinner we can, and invite
all the roomers to come and eat it with us. _Now I've said it!_ And I
ain't foolin', either."
"And we haven't a whole table-cloth to our names, Meg Frey, and you know
it!" It was Ethel who spoke again.
"And what's that got to do with it, Sisty? We ain't goin' to eat the
cloth. Besides, can't we set the dish-mats over the holes? 'Twouldn't be
the first time."
"But, Meg, dearie, you surely are not proposing to invite company to
dine in the kitchen, are you? And who'd cook the dinner, not to mention
buying it?"
"Well, now, listen, Sisty, dear. The dinner that's in my mind isn't a
society-column dinner like those Momsy writes about, and those we are
going to invite don't wear out much table-linen at home. And they cook
their own dinners, too, most of 'em--exceptin' when they eat 'em in the
French Market, with a Chinaman on one side of 'em and an Indian on the
other.
"_I'm_ goin' to cook _ours_, and as for eatin' in the kitchen, why, we
don't need to. Just see how warm it is! The frost hasn't even nipped the
banana leaves over there in the square. And Buddy can pull the table out
on the big back gallery, an' we'll hang papa's old gray soldier blanket
for a portiere to keep the Quinettes from lookin' in; and, Sisty, you
can write the invitations an' paint butterflies on 'em."
Ethel's eyes for the first time sparkled with interest, but she kept
silent, and Meg continued:
"An' Buddy'll bring in a lot of gray moss and _latanier_ to dec'rate
with, an'--"
"An' us'll wait on the table!"
"Yes, us'll wait on the table!" cried the twins.
"But," added Felix in a moment, "you mus'n't invite Miss Penny, Meg,
'cause if you do F'lissy an' me 'll be thest shore to disgrace the party
a-laughin'. She looks thest ezzac'ly like a canary-bird, an' Buddy has
tooken her off till we thest die a-laughin' every time we see her. I
think she's raised canaries till she's a sort o' half-canary herself.
Don't let's invite her, Sisty."
"And don't you think Miss Penny would enjoy a slice of Christmas turkey
as well as the rest of us, Felix?"
"No; I fink she ought to eat canary-seed and fish-bone," chirped in
Dorothea.
Dorothea was only five, and this from her was so funny that even Meg
laughed.
"An' Buddy says he knows she sleeps perched on the towel-rack, 'cause
they ain't a sign of a bed in her room."
The three youngest were fairly choking with laughter now. But the older
ones had soon grown quite serious in consulting about all the details of
the matter, and even making out a conditional list of guests.
When they came to the fortune-teller, both Ethel and Conrad hesitated,
but Meg, true to her first impulse, had soon put down opposition by a
single argument.
"It seems to me she's the special one _to_ invite to a Christmas party
like ours," she pleaded. "The lonesomer an' horrider they are, the more
they belong, an' the more they'll enjoy it, too."
"Accordin' to that," said Conrad, "the whole crowd ought to have a dizzy
good time, for they're about as fine a job lot of lonesomes as I ever
struck. And as for beauty! 'Vell, my y'ung vriends, how you was
to-morrow?'" he continued, thrusting his thumbs into his armholes and
strutting in imitation of the old Professor.
[Illustration: "'SHE OUGHT TO EAT CANARY-SEED AND FISH-BONE'"]
Meg was almost out of patience. "Do hush, Buddy, an' let's talk
business. First of all, we have to put it to vote to see whether we
_want_ to have the party or not."
"I ain't a-goin' to give my money to no such a ugly ol' party," cried
Felix. "I want pretty little girls with curls an' wreafs on to my
party."
"An' me, too. I want a heap o' pretty little girls with curls an' wreafs
on--_to my party_," echoed Felicie.
"An' I want a organ-grinder to the party that gets my half o' our
picayunes," insisted Felix.
"Yas, us wants a organ-grinder--an' a monkey, too--hey, F'lix?"
"Yes, an' a monkey, too. Heap o' monkeys!"
Meg was indeed having a hard time of it.
"You see, Conrad"--the use of that name meant reproof from Meg--"you
see, Conrad, this all comes from your makin' fun of everybody. But of
course we can get an organ-grinder if the little ones want him."
Ethel still seemed somewhat doubtful about the whole affair. Ethel was
in the high-school. She had a lofty bridge to her nose. She was fifteen,
and she never left off her final g's as the others did. These are, no
doubt, some of the reasons why she was regarded as a sort of superior
person in the family. If it had not been for the prospect of painting
the cards, and a certain feeling of benevolence in the matter, it would
have been hard for her to agree to the party at all. As it was, her
voice had a note of mild protest as she said:
"It's going to cost a good deal, Meg. How much money have we? Let's
count up. I have a dollar and eighty-five cents."
"And I've got two dollars," said Meg.
"How is it you always save the most? I haven't saved but ninety cents."
Conrad spoke with a little real embarrassment as he laid his little pile
of coins upon the table.
"I reckon it's 'cause I've got a regular plan, Buddy. I save a dime out
of every dollar I get all through the year. It's the best way. And how
much have you ponies got?"
"We've got seventy cents together, an' we've been a-whiskerin' in our
ears about it, too. We don't want our money put-ed in the dinner with
the rest. We want to see what we are givin'."
"Well, suppose you buy the fruit. Seventy cents 'll get bananas and
oranges enough for the whole party."
"An' us wants to buy 'em ourselfs, too--hey, F'lix?"
"Yes, us wants to buy 'm ourselfs, too."
"And so you shall. And now all in favor of the party hold up their right
hands."
All hands went up.
"Contr'ry, no!" Meg continued.
"Contr'ry, no!" echoed the twins.
"Hush! You mus'n't say that. That's just what they say at votin's."
"Gee-man-tally! But you girls 're awfully mixed," Conrad howled, with
laughter. "They don't have any 'contr'ry no's' when they vote by holdin'
up right hands. Besides, Dorothea held up her left hand, for I saw her."
"Which is quite correct, Mr. Smartie, since we all know that Dolly is
left-handed. You meant to vote for the party, didn't you, dearie?" Meg
added, turning to Dorothea.
For answer the little maid only bobbed her head, thrusting both hands
behind her, as if afraid to trust them again.