required, and in many ways that the creole gentlewoman understands so
well she was affectionately and unobtrusively kind. And yet, in the life
Evelyn was seeking to enter, Madame could give her no aid. About all
these new ideas of women--ladies--going out as bread-winners, Madame
knew nothing. For twenty years she had gone only to the cathedral, the
French Market, the cemetery, and the Chapel of St. Roche. As to all this
unconventional American city above Canal Street, it was there and
spreading (like the measles and other evils); everybody said so; even
her paper, _L'Abeille_, referred to it in French--resentfully. She
believed in it historically; but for herself, she "_never travelled_,"
_excepting_, as she quaintly put it, in her "_acquaintances_"--the
French streets with which she was familiar.
The house she had selected was a typical old-fashioned French cottage,
venerable in scaling plaster and fern-tufted tile roof, but cool and
roomy within as uninviting without. A small inland garden surprised the
eye as one entered the battened gate at its side, and a dormer-window in
the roof looked out upon the rigging of ships at anchor but a
stone's-throw away.
Here, to the chamber above, Evelyn led her father. Furnishing this large
upper room with familiar objects, and pointing out the novelties of the
view from its window, she tried to interpret his new life happily for
him, and he smiled, and seemed content.
It was surprising to see how soon mammy fell into line with the changed
order of things. The French Market, with its "cuyus fureign folks an'
mixed talk," was a panorama of daily unfolding wonders to her. "But
huccome dee calls it French?" she exclaimed, one day. "I been listenin'
good, an' I hear 'em jabber, jabber, jabber all dey fanciful lingoes,
but I 'ain't heern nair one say _polly fronsay_, an' yit I know dats de
riverend book French." The Indian squaws in the market, sitting flat on
the ground, surrounded by their wares, she held in special contempt. "I
holds myse'f _clair_ 'bove a Injun," she boasted. "Dee ain't look
jinnywine ter me. Dee ain't nuther white folks nur niggers, nair one.
Sett'n' deeselves up fur go-betweens, an' sellin' sech grass-greens as
we lef' berhindt us growin' in de wilderness!"
But one unfailing source of pleasure to mammy was the little chicken,
"Blink," who, she declared, "named 'isse'f Blink de day he blinked at me
so cunnin' out'n de shell. Blink 'ain't said nothin' wid 'is mouf," she
continued, eying him proudly, "'caze he know eye-speech set on a chicken
a heap better'n human words, mo' inspecial on a yo'ng half-hatched
chicken like Blink was dat day, cramped wid de egg-shell behime an' de
morgans starin' 'im in de face befo', an' not knowin' how he gwine come
out'n his trouble. He des kep' silence, an' wink all 'is argimints, an'
'e wink to the p'int, too!"
In spite of his unique entrance into the world and his precarious
journey, Blink was a vigorous young chicken, with what mammy was pleased
to call "a good proud step an' knowin' eyes."
Three months passed. The long, dull summer was approaching, and yet
Evelyn had found no regular employment. She had not been idle. Sewing
for the market folk, decorating palmetto fans and Easter eggs, which
mammy peddled in the big houses, she had earned small sums of money from
time to time. In her enforced leisure she found opportunity for study,
and her picturesque surroundings were as an open book.
Impressions of the quaint old French and Spanish city, with its motley
population, were carefully jotted down in her note-book. These first
descriptions she afterwards rewrote, discarding weakening detail,
elaborating the occasional triviality which seemed to reflect the true
local tint--a nice distinction, involving conscientious hard work. How
she longed for criticism and advice!
A year ago her father, now usually dozing in his chair while she worked,
would have been a most able and affectionate critic; but now--She
rejoiced when a day passed without his asking for her mother, and
wondering why she did not come.
And so it was that in her need of sympathy Evelyn began to read her
writings, some of which had grown into stories, to mammy. The very
exercise of reading aloud--the sound of it--was helpful. That mammy's
criticisms should have proven valuable in themselves was a surprise, but
it was even so.
II
"A pusson would know dat was fanciful de way hit reads orf, des like a
pusson 'magine some'h'n' what ain't so."
Such was mammy's first criticism of a story which had just come back,
returned from an editor. Evelyn had been trying to discover wherein its
weakness lay.
Mammy had caught the truth. The story was unreal. The English seemed
good, the construction fair, but--it was "_fanciful_."
The criticism set Evelyn to thinking. She laid aside this, and read
another manuscript aloud.
"I tell yer, honey, a-a-a pusson 'd know you had educatiom, de way you
c'n fetch in de dictionary words."
"Don't you understand them, mammy?" she asked, quickly, catching another
idea.
"Who, me? Law, baby, I don't crave ter on'erstan' all dat granjer. I des
ketches de chune, an' hit sho is got a glorified ring."
Here was a valuable hint. She must simplify her style. The tide of
popular writing was, she knew, in the other direction, but the _best_
writing was _simple_.
The suggestion sent her back to study.
And now for her own improvement she rewrote the "story of big words" in
the simplest English she could command, bidding mammy tell her if there
was one word she could not understand.
In the transition the spirit of the story was necessarily changed, but
the exercise was good. Mammy understood every word.
"But, baby," she protested, with a troubled face, "look like _hit don't
stan' no mo'_; all its granjer done gone. You better fix it up des like
it was befo', honey. Hit 'minds me o' some o' deze heah fine folks what
walks de streets. You know _folks what 'ain't got nothin' else_, dee des
nachelly _'bleege_ ter put on finery."
How clever mammy was! How wholesome the unconscious satire of her
criticism! This story, shorn of its grandeur, could not stand indeed. It
was weak and affected.
"You dear old mammy," exclaimed Evelyn, "you don't know how you are
helping me."
"Gord knows I wushes I could holp you, honey. I 'ain't nuver is craved
educatiom befo', but now, look like I'd like ter be king of all de
smartness, an' know all dey is in de books. I wouldn't hol' back
_noth'n_ f'om yer, baby."
And Evelyn knew it was true.
"Look ter me, baby," mammy suggested, another night, after listening to
a highly imaginative story--"look ter me like ef--ef--ef you'd des write
down some _truly truth_ what is _ac-chilly happened_, an' glorify it wid
educatiom, hit 'd des nachelly stan' in a book."
"I've been thinking of that," said Evelyn, reflectively, laying aside
her manuscript.
* * * * *
"How does this sound, mammy?" she asked, a week later, when, taking up
an unfinished tale, she began to read.
It was the story of their own lives, dating from the sale of the
plantation. The names, of course, were changed, excepting Blink's, and,
indeed, until he appeared upon the scene, although mammy listened
breathless, she did not recognize the characters. Blink, however, was
unmistakable, and when he announced himself from the old woman's bosom
his identity flashed upon mammy, and she tumbled over on the floor,
laughing and crying alternately. Evelyn had written from her heart, and
the story, simply told, held all the wrench of parting with old
associations, while the spirit of courage and hope, which animated her,
breathed in every line as she described their entrance upon their new
life.
"My heart was teched f'om de fus't, baby," said mammy, presently,
wiping her eyes; "b-b-b-but look heah, honey, I'd--I'd be wuss'n a
hycoprite ef I let dat noble ole black 'oman, de way you done specified
'er, stan' fur me. Y-y-yer got ter change all dat, honey. Dey warn't
nothin' on top o' dis roun' worl' what fetched me 'long wid y' all but
'cep' 'caze I des _nachelly love yer_, an' all dat book granjer what you
done laid on me I _don' know nothin' 't all about it_, an' yer got ter
_teck it orf_, an' write me down like I is, des a po' ole nigger wha'
done fell in wid de Gord-blessedes' white folks wha' ever lived on dis
earth, an'--an' wha' gwine _foller_ 'em an' _stay by 'em_, don' keer
which-a-way dee go, so long as 'er ole han's is able ter holp 'em. Yer
got ter change all dat, honey.
"But Blink! De laws-o'-mussy! Maybe hit's 'caze I been hatched 'im an'
raised 'im, but look ter me like he ain't no _dis_grace ter de story, no
way. Seem like he sets orf de book. Yer ain't gwine say nothin' 'bout
Blink bein' a frizzly, is yer? 'Twouldn't do no good ter tell it on
'im."
"I didn't know it, mammy."
"Yas, indeedy. Po' Blink's feathers done taken on a secon' twis'." She
spoke, with maternal solicitude. "I d'know huccome he come dat-a-way,
'caze we 'ain't nuver is had no frizzly stock 'mongs' our chickens.
Sometimes I b'lieve Blink tumbled 'isse'f up dat-a-way tryin' ter
wriggle 'isse'f outn de morgans. I hates it mightily. Look like a
frizzly can't put on grandeur no way, don' keer how mannerly 'e hol'
'isse'f."
The progress of the new story, which mammy considered under her especial
supervision, was now her engrossing thought.
"Yer better walk straight, Blink," she would exclaim--"yer better walk
straight an' step high, 'caze yer gwine in a book, honey, 'long wid de
aristokercy!"
One day Blink walked leisurely in from the street, returning, happily
for mammy's peace of mind, before he had been missed. He raised his
wings a moment as he entered, as if pleased to get home, and mammy
exclaimed, as she burst out laughing:
"Don't you come in heah shruggin' yo' shoulders at me, Blink, an'
puttin' on no French airs. I believe Blink been out teckin' French
lessons." She took her pet into her arms. "Is you crave ter learn
fureign speech, Blinky, like de res' o' dis mixed-talkin' settle_mint_?
Is you 'shamed o' yo' country voice, honey, an' tryin' ter ketch a
French crow? No, he ain't," she added, putting him down at last, but
watching him fondly. "Blink know he's a Bruce. An' he know he's folks
is in tribulatiom, an' hilarity ain't become 'im--dat's huccome Blink
'ain't crowed none--_ain't it, Blink_?"
And Blink wisely winked his knowing eyes. That he had, indeed, never
proclaimed his roosterhood by crowing was a source of some anxiety to
mammy.
"Maybe Blink don't know he's a rooster," she confided to Evelyn one day.
"Sho 'nough, honey, he nuver is seen none! De neares' ter 'isse'f what
he knows is dat ole green polly what set in de fig-tree nex' do', an'
talk Gascon. I seed Blink 'is_tid_day stan' an' look at' im, an' den
look down at 'isse'f, same as ter say, 'Is I a polly, or what?' An' den
'e open an' shet 'is mouf, like 'e tryin' ter twis' it, polly fashion,
an' hit won't twis', an' den 'e des shaken 'is head, an' walk orf, like
'e heavy-hearted an' mixed in 'is mind. Blink don't know what
'spornsibility lay on 'im ter keep our courage up. You heah me, Blink!
Open yo' mouf, an' crow out, like a man!"
But Blink was biding his time.
During this time, in spite of strictest economy, money was going out
faster than it came in.
"I tell yer what I been thinkin', baby," said mammy, as she and Evelyn
discussed the situation. "I think de bes' thing you can do is ter hire
me out. I can cook you alls breckfus' soon, an' go out an' make day's
work, an' come home plenty o' time ter cook de little speck o' dinner
you an' ole boss needs."
"Oh no, no! You mustn't think of it, mammy."
"But what we gwine do, baby? We des _can't_ get out'n _money_. Hit
_won't do_!"
"Maybe I should have taken that position as lady's companion, mammy."
"An' stay 'way all nights f'om yo' pa, when you de onlies' light ter 'is
eyes? No, no, honey!"
"But it has been my only offer, and sometimes I think--"
"Hush talkin' dat-a-way, baby. Don't yer pray? An' don't yer trus' Gord?
An' ain't yer done walked de streets tell you mos' drapped down, lookin'
fur work? An' can't yer teck de hint dat de Lord done laid off yo' work
_right heah in the house_? You go 'long now, an' cheer up yo' pa, des
like you been doin', an' study yo' books, an' write down true joy an'
true sorrer in yo' stories, an' glorify Gord wid yo' sense, an' don't
pester yo'se'f 'bout to-day an' to-morrer, an'--an'--an' ef de gorspil
is de trufe, an'--an' ef a po' ole nigger's prayers mounts ter heaven
on de wings o' faith, Gord ain't gwine let a hair o' yo' head perish."
But mammy pondered in her heart much concerning the financial outlook,
and it was on the day after this conversation that she dressed herself
with unusual care, and, without announcing her errand, started out.
Her return soon brought its own explanation, however, for upon her old
head she bore a huge bundle of unlaundered clothing.
"What in the world!" exclaimed Evelyn; but before she could voice a
protest, mammy interrupted her.
"Nuver you mind, baby! I des waked up," she exclaimed, throwing her
bundle at the kitchen door. "I been preachin' ter you 'bout teckin'
hints, an' 'ain't been readin' my own lesson. Huccome we got dis heah
nice sunny back yard, an' dis bustin' cisternful o' rain-water? Huccome
de boa'din'-house folks at de corner keeps a-passin' an' a-passin' by
dis gate wid all dey fluted finery on, ef 'twarn't ter gimme a hint dat
dey's wealth a-layin' at de do', an' me, bline as a bat, 'ain't seen
it?"
"Oh, but, mammy, you can't take in washing. You are too old; it is too
hard. You _mustn't_--"
"Ef-ef-ef-ef you gits obstropulous, I-I-I gwine whup yer, sho. Y-y-yer
know how much money's a-comin' out'n dat bundle, baby? _Five dollars!_"
This in a stage-whisper. "An' not a speck o' dirt on nothin'; des baby
caps an' lace doin's rumpled up."
"How did you manage it, mammy?"
"Well, baby, I des put on my fluted ap'on--an' you know it's ironed
purty--an' my clair-starched neck-hankcher, an'--an' _my business face_,
an' I helt up my head an' walked in, an' axed good prices, an' de
ladies, dee des tooken took one good look at me, an' gimme all I'd
carry. You know washin' an' ironin' is my pleasure, baby."
It was useless to protest, and so, after a moment, Evelyn began rolling
up her sleeves.
"I am going to help you, mammy," she said, quietly but firmly; but
before she could protest, mammy had gathered her into her arms, and
carried her into her own room. Setting her down at her desk, she
exclaimed:
"Now, ef _you_ goes ter de wash-tub, dey ain't nothin' lef fur _me_ ter
do but 'cep'n' ter _set down an' write de story_, an' you know I can't
do it."
"But, mammy, I _must_ help you."
"Is you gwine _meck_ me whup yer, whe'r ur no, baby? Now I gwine meck a
bargain wid yer. _You_ set down an' write, an' _I_ gwine play de pianner
on de washboa'd, an' to-night you can read off what yer done put down,
an' ef yer done written it purty an' sweet, you can come an' turn de
flutin'-machine fur me ter-morrer. Yer gwine meck de bargain wid me,
baby?"
Evelyn was so touched that she had not voice to answer. Rising from her
seat, she put her arms around mammy's neck and kissed her old face, and
as she turned away a tear rolled down her cheek. And so the "bargain"
was sealed.
Before going to her desk Evelyn went to her father, to see that he
wanted nothing. He sat, as usual, gazing silently out of the window.
"Daughter," said he, as she entered, "are we in France?"
"No, dear," she answered, startled at the question.
"But the language I hear in the street is French; and see the
ship-masts--French flags flying. But there is the German too, and
English, and last week there was a Scandinavian. Where are we truly,
daughter? My surroundings confuse me."
"We are in New Orleans, father--in the French Quarter. Ships from almost
everywhere come to this port, you know. Let us walk out to the levee
this morning, and see the men-of-war in the river. The air will revive
you."
"Well, if your mother comes. She might come while we were away."
And so it was always. With her heart trembling within her, Evelyn went
to her desk. "Surely," she thought, "there is much need that I shall do
my best." Almost reverentially she took her pen, as she proceeded with
the true story she had begun.
* * * * *
"I done changed my min' 'bout dat ole 'oman wha' stan' fur me, baby,"
said mammy that night. "You leave 'er des like she is. She glorifies de
story a heap better'n my nachel self could do it. I been a-thinkin'
'bout it, an' _de finer that ole 'oman ac', an' de mo' granjer yer lay
on 'er, de better yer gwine meck de book_, 'caze de ole gemplum wha'
stan' fur ole marster, his times an' seasons is done past, an' he can't
do nothin' but set still an' wait, an'--an' de yo'ng missus, she ain't
fitten ter wrastle on de outskirts; she ain't nothin' but 'cep' des a
lovin' sweet saint, wid 'er face set ter a high, far mark--"
"Hush, mammy!"
"_I'm a-talkin' 'bout de book, baby, an' don't you interrup' me no mo'!_
An' _I say ef dis ole 'oman wha' stan' fur me, ef-ef-ef she got a weak
spot in 'er, dey won't be no story to it_. She de one wha' got ter
_stan' by de battlemints an' hol' de fort_."
"That's just what you are doing, mammy. There isn't a grain in her that
is finer than you."
"'Sh! dis ain't no time fur foolishness, baby. Yer 'ain't said nothin'
'bout yo' ma an' de ole black 'oman's baby bein' borned de same day, is
yer? An' how de ole 'oman nussed 'em bofe des like twins? An'--an' how
folks 'cused 'er o' starvin' 'er own baby on de 'count o' yo' ma bein'
puny? (_But dat warn't true._) Maybe yer better leave all dat out, 'caze
hit mought spile de story."
"How could it spoil it, mammy?"
"Don't yer see, ef folks knowed dat dem white folks an' dat ole black
'oman was _dat close-t_, dey wouldn't be no principle in it. Dey ain't
nothin' but _love_ in _dat_, an' de ole 'oman _couldn't he'p 'erse'f, no
mo'n I could he'p it_! No right-minded pusson is gwine ter deny dey own
heart. Yer better leave all dat out, honey. B-b-but deys some'h'n' else
wha' been lef out, wha' b'long in de book. Yer 'ain't named de way de
little mistus sot up all nights an' nussed de ole 'oman time she was
sick, an'--an'--an' de way she sew all de ole 'oman's cloze;
an'--an'--an' yer done lef' out a heap o' de purtiness an' de sweetness
o' de yo'ng mistus! Dis is a book, baby, an'--an'--yer boun' ter do
jestice!"
In this fashion the story was written.
"And what do you think I am going to do with it, mammy?" said Evelyn,
when finally, having done her very best, she was willing to call it
finished.
"Yer know some'h'n' baby? Ef-ef-ef I had de money, look like I'd buy
that story myse'f. Seem some way like I loves it. Co'se I couldn't read
it; but my min' been on it so long, seem like, ef I'd study de pages
good dee'd open up ter me. What yer gwine do wid it, baby?"
"Oh, mammy, I can hardly tell you! My heart seems in my throat when I
dare to think of it; but _I'm going to try it_. A New York magazine has
offered five hundred dollars for a best story--_five hundred dollars_!
Think, mammy, what it would do for us!"
"Dat wouldn't buy de plantatiom back, would it, baby?" Mammy had no
conception of large sums.
"We don't want it back, mammy. It would pay for moving our dear ones to
graves of their own; we should put a nice sum in bank; you shouldn't do
any more washing; and if we can write one good story, you know we can
write more. It will be only a beginning."
"An' I tell yer what I gwine do. I gwine pray over it good, des like I
been doin' f'om de start, an' ef hit's Gord's will, dem folks 'll be
moved in de sperit ter sen' 'long de money."
And so the story was sent.
After it was gone the atmosphere seemed brighter. The pending decision
was now a fixed point to which all their hopes were directed.
The very audacity of the effort seemed inspiration to more ambitious
work; and during the long summer, while in her busy hands the
fluting-machine went round and round, Evelyn's mind was full of plans
for the future.
Finally, December, with its promise of the momentous decision, was come,
and Evelyn found herself full of anxious misgivings.
What merit entitling it to special consideration had the little story?
Did it bear the impress of self-forgetful, conscientious purpose, or was
this a thing only feebly struggling into life within herself--not yet
the compelling force that indelibly stamps itself upon the earnest labor
of consecrated hands? How often in the silent hours of night did she ask
herself questions like these!
At last it was Christmas Eve again, and Saturday night. When the days
are dark, what is so depressing as an anniversary--an anniversary joyous
in its very essence? How one Christmas brings in its train
memory-pictures of those gone before!
This had been a hard day for Evelyn. Her heart felt weak within her,
and yet, realizing that she alone represented youth and hope in the
little household, and feeling need that her own courage should be
sustained, she had been more than usually merry all day. She had
clandestinely prepared little surprises for her father and mammy, and
was both amused and touched to discover the old woman secreting
mysterious little parcels which she knew were to come to her in the
morning.
"Wouldn't it be funny if, after all, I should turn out to be only a good
washerwoman, mammy?" she said, laughing, as she assisted the old woman
in pinning up a basket of laundered clothing.
"Hit'd be funnier yit ef _I'd_ turn out inter one o' deze heah
book-writers, wouldn't it?" And mammy laughed heartily at her own joke.
"Look like I better study my a-b abs fus', let 'lone puttin' 'em back on
paper wid a pen. I tell you educatiom's a-spreadin' in dis fam'ly, sho.
Time Blink run over de sheet out a-bleachin' 'is_tid_dy, he written a
Chinese letter all over it. Didn't you, Blink? What de matter wid Blink
anyhow, to-day?" she added, taking the last pin from her head-kerchief.
"Blink look like he nervous some way dis evenin'. He keep a-walkin'
roun', an' winkin' so slow, an' retchin' his neck out de back-do' so
cuyus. Stop a-battin' yo' eyes at me, Blink! Ef yo' got some'h'n' ter
say, _say it_!"
* * * * *
A sudden noisy rattle of the iron door-knocker--mammy trotting to the
door--the postman--a letter! It all happened in a minute.
How Evelyn's heart throbbed and her hand trembled as she opened the
envelope! "Oh, mammy!" she cried, trembling now like an aspen leaf.
"_Thank God!_"
"Is dee d-d-d-done sont de money, baby?" Her old face was twitching too.
But Evelyn could not answer. Nodding her head, she fell sobbing on
mammy's shoulder.
Mammy raised her apron to her eyes, and there's no telling what
"foolishness" she might have committed had it not been that suddenly,
right at her side, arose a most jubilant screech.
Blink, perched on the handle of the clothes-basket, was crowing with all
his might.
Evelyn, startled, raised her head, and laughed through her tears, while
mammy threw herself at full length upon the floor, shouting aloud.
"Tell me chickens 'ain't got secon'-sight! Blink see'd--he
see'd--Laws-o'-mussy, baby, look yonder at dat little yaller rooster
stan'in' on de fence. _Dat_ what Blink see. Co'se it is!"
DUKE'S CHRISTMAS
DUKE'S CHRISTMAS
"You des gimme de white folks's Christmas-dinner plates, time they git
thoo eatin', an' lemme scrape 'em in a pan, an' set dat pan in my lap,
an' blow out de light, an' _go it bline_! Hush, honey, hush, while I
shet my eyes now an' tas'e all de samples what'd come out'n dat
pan--cramberries, an' tukkey-stuffin' wid _puck_ons in it, an' ham an'
fried oyscher an'--an' minch-meat, an' chow-chow pickle an'--an' jelly!
Umh! Don' keer which-a-one I strack fust--dey all got de Christmas
seasonin'!"
Old Uncle Mose closed his eyes and smiled, even smacked his lips in
contemplation of the imaginary feast which he summoned at will from his
early memories. Little Duke, his grandchild, sitting beside him on the
floor, rolled his big eyes and looked troubled. Black as a raven, nine
years old and small of his age, but agile and shrewd as a little fox, he
was at present the practical head of this family of two.
This state of affairs had existed for more than two months, ever since a
last attack of rheumatism had lifted his grandfather's leg upon the
chair before him and held it there.
Duke's success as a provider was somewhat remarkable, considering his
size, color, and limited education.
True, he had no rent to pay, for their one-roomed cabin, standing on
uncertain stilts outside the old levee, had been deserted during the
last high-water, when Uncle Mose had "tooken de chances" and moved in.
But then Mose had been able to earn his seventy-five cents a day at
wood-sawing; and besides, by keeping his fishing-lines baited and set
out the back and front doors--there were no windows--he had often drawn
in a catfish, or his shrimp-bag had yielded breakfast for two.