when the receding waters had withdrawn even the small chance of landing
a dinner with hook and line. True, it had been done on several
occasions, when Duke had come home to find fricasseed chickens for
dinner; but somehow the neighbors' chickens had grown wary, and refused
to be enticed by the corn that lay under Mose's cabin.
The few occasions when one of their number, swallowing an
innocent-looking grain, had been suddenly lifted up into space,
disappearing through the floor above, seemed to have impressed the
survivors.
Mose was a church-member, and would have scorned to rob a hen-roost, but
he declared "when strange chickens come a-foolin' roun' bitin' on my
fish-lines, I des twisses dey necks ter put 'em out'n dey misery."
It had been a long time since he had met with any success at this
poultry-fishing, and yet he always kept a few lines out.
He _professed_ to be fishing for crawfish--as if crawfish ever bit on a
hook or ate corn! Still, it eased his conscience, for he did try to set
his grandson a Christian example consistent with his precepts.
It was Christmas Eve, and the boy felt a sort of moral responsibility in
the matter of providing a suitable Christmas dinner for the morrow. His
question as to what the old man would like to have had elicited the
enthusiastic bit of reminiscence with which this story opens. Here was a
poser! His grandfather had described just the identical kind of dinner
which he felt powerless to procure. If he had said oysters, or chicken,
or even turkey, Duke thought he could have managed it; but a pan of
rich fragments was simply out of the question.
"Wouldn't you des as lief have a pone o' hot egg-bread, gran'dad,
an'--an'--an' maybe a nice baked chicken--ur--ur a--"
"Ur a nothin', boy! Don't talk to me! I'd a heap'd ruther have a
secon'-han' white Christmas dinner 'n de bes' fus'-han' nigger one you
ever seed, an' I ain't no spring-chicken, nuther. I done had 'spe'unce
o' Christmas dinners. An' what you talkin' 'bout, anyhow? Whar you gwine
git roas' chicken, nigger?"
"I don' know, less'n I'd meck a heap o' money to-day; but I could sho'
git a whole chicken ter roas' easier'n I could git dat pan full o'
goodies _you's_ a-talkin' 'bout.
"Is you gwine crawfishin' to-day, gran'daddy?" he continued, cautiously,
rolling his eyes. "'Caze when I cross de road, terreckly, I gwine shoo
off some o' dem big fat hens dat scratches up so much dus'. Dey des a
puffec' nuisance, scratchin' dus' clean inter my eyes ev'y time I go
down de road."
"Dey is, is dey? De nasty, impident things! You better not shoo none of
'em over heah, less'n you want me ter wring dey necks--which I boun' ter
do ef dey pester my crawfish-lines."
"Well, I'm gwine now, gran'dad. Ev'ything is done did an' set whar you
kin reach--I gwine down de road an' shoo dem sassy chickens away. Dis
here bucket o' brick-dus' sho' is heavy," he added, as he lifted to his
head a huge pail.
Starting out, he gathered up a few grains of corn, dropping them along
in his wake until he reached the open where the chickens were; when,
making a circuit round them, he drove them slowly until he saw them
begin to pick up the corn. Then he turned, whistling as he went, into a
side street, and proceeded on his way.
Old Mose chuckled audibly as Duke passed out, and, baiting his lines
with corn and scraps of meat, he lifted the bit of broken plank from the
floor, and set about his day's sport.
"Now, Mr. Chicken, I'm settin' deze heah lines fur crawfish, an' ef you
smarties come a-foolin' round 'em, I gwine punish you 'cordin' ter de
law. You heah me!" He chuckled as he thus presented his defence anew
before the bar of his own conscience.
But the chickens did not bite to-day--not a mother's son or daughter of
them--though they ventured cautiously to the very edge of the cabin.
It was a discouraging business, and the day seemed very long. It was
nearly nightfall when Mose recognized Duke's familiar whistle from the
levee. And when he heard the little bare feet pattering on the single
plank that led from the brow of the bank to the cabin-door, he coughed
and chuckled as if to disguise a certain eager agitation that always
seized him when the little boy came home at night.
"Here me," Duke called, still outside the door; adding as he entered,
while he set his pail beside the old man, "How you is to-night,
gran'dad?"
"Des po'ly, thank Gord. How you yo'se'f, my man?" There was a note of
affection in the old man's voice as he addressed the little pickaninny,
who seemed in the twilight a mere midget.
"An' what you got dyah?" he continued, turning to the pail, beside which
Duke knelt, lighting a candle.
"_Picayune_ o' light bread an' _lagniappe_[A] o' salt," Duke began,
lifting out the parcels, "an' _picayune_ o' molasses an' _lagniappe_ o'
coal-ile, ter rub yo' leg wid--heah hit in de tin can--an' _picayune_ o'
coffee an' _lagniappe_ o' matches--heah dey is, fo'teen an' a half, but
de half ain't got no fizz on it. An' deze heah in de bottom, dey des
chips I picked up 'long de road."
"An' you ain't axed fur no _lagniappe_ fo' yo'self, Juke. Whyn't you ax
fur des one _lagniappe_ o' sugar-plums, baby, bein's it's Christmas? Yo'
ole gran'dad 'ain't got nothin' fur you, an' you know to-morrer is sho
'nough Christmas, boy. I 'ain't got even ter say a crawfish bite on my
lines to-day, much less'n some'h'n' fittin' fur a Christmas-gif'. I did
set heah an' whittle you a little whistle, but some'h'n' went wrong wid
it. Hit won't blow. But tell me, how's business to-day, boy? I see you
done sol' yo' brick-dus'?"
"Yas, sir, but I toted it purty nigh all day 'fo' I _is_ sold it. De
folks wharever I went dey say nobody don't want to scour on Christmas
Eve. An' one time I set it down an' made three nickels cuttin' grass an'
holdin' a white man's horse, an' dat gimme a res'. An' I started out
ag'in, an' I walked inter a big house an' ax de lady ain't she want ter
buy some pounded brick. An', gran'dad, you know what meck she buy it?
'Caze she say my bucket is mos' as big as I is, an' ef I had de grit ter
tote it clean ter her house on Christmas Eve, she say I sha'n't pack it
back--an' she gimme a dime fur it, too, stid a nickel. An' she gimme
two hole-in-de-middle cakes, wid sugar on 'em. Heah dey is." Duke took
two sorry-lookin' rings from his hat and presented them to the old man.
"I done et de sugar off 'em," he continued. "'Caze I knowed it'd give
you de toofache in yo' gums. An' I tol' 'er what you say, gran'dad!"
Mose turned quickly.
"What you tol' dat white lady I say, nigger?"
"I des tol' 'er what you say 'bout scrapin' de plates into a pan."
Mose grinned broadly. "Is you had de face ter tell dat strange white
'oman sech talk as dat? An' what she say?"
"She des looked at me up an' down fur a minute, an' den she broke out in
a laugh, an' she say: 'You sho' is de littles' coon I ever seen out
foragin'!' An' wid dat she say: 'Ef you'll come roun' to-morrer night,
'bout dark, I'll give you as big a pan o' scraps as you kin tote.'"
There were tears in the old man's eyes, and he actually giggled.
"Is she? Well done! But ain't you 'feerd you'll los' yo'self, gwine 'way
down town at night?"
"Los' who, gran'dad? You can't los' me in dis city, so long as de
red-light Pertania cars is runnin'. I kin ketch on berhine tell dey
fling me off, den teck de nex' one tell dey fling me off ag'in--an' hit
ain't so fur dat-a-way."
"Does dey fling yer off rough, boy? Look out dey don't bre'k yo' bones!"
"Dey ain't gwine crack none o' my bones. Sometimes de drivers kicks me
off, an' sometimes dey cusses me off, tell I lets go des ter save Gord's
name--dat's a fac'."
"Dat's right. Save it when you kin, boy. So she gwine scrape de
Christmas plates fur me, is she? I wonder what sort o' white folks dis
here tar-baby o' mine done strucken in wid, anyhow? You sho' dey reel
quality white folks, is yer, Juke? 'Caze I ain't gwine sile my mouf on
no po' white-trash scraps."
"I ain't no sho'er'n des what I tell yer, gran'dad. Ef dey ain't
quality, I don' know nothin' 't all 'bout it. I tell yer when I walked
roun' dat yard clean ter de kitchen on dem flag-stones wid dat bucket o'
brick on my hade, I had ter stop an' ketch my bref fo' I could talk, an'
de cook, a sassy, fat, black lady, she would o' sont me out, but de
madam, she seed me 'erse'f, an' she tooken took notice ter me, an' tell
me set my bucket down, an' de yo'ng ladies, beatin' eggs in de kitchen,
dey was makin' sport o' me, too--ax' me is I weaned yit, an' one ob 'em
ax me is my nuss los' me! Den dey gimme deze heah hole-in-de-middle
cakes, an' some reesons. I des fotched you a few reesons, but I done et
de mos' ob em--I ain't gwine tell you no lie about it."
"Dat's right, baby. I'm glad you is et 'em--des so dey don't cramp yer
up--an' come 'long now an' eat yo' dinner. I saved you a good pan o'
greens an' meat. What else is you et to-day, boy?"
"De ladies in de kitchen dey gimme two burnt cakes, an' I swapped half
o' my reesons wid a white boy for a biscuit--but I sho is hongry."
"Yas, an' you sleepy, too--I know you is."
"But I gwine git up soon, gran'dad. One market-lady she seh ef I come
early in de mornin' an' tote baskits home, she gwine gimme some'h'n'
good; an' I'm gwine ketch all dem butchers and fish-ladies in dat
Mag'zine Markit 'Christmas-gif'!' An' I bet yer dey'll gimme some'h'n'
ter fetch home. Las' Christmas I got seven nickels an' a whole passel o'
marketin' des a-ketchin' 'em Christmas-gif'. Deze heah black molasses I
brung yer home to-night--how yer like 'em, gran'dad?"
"Fust-rate, boy. Don't yer see me eatin' 'em? Say yo' pra'rs now, Juke,
an' lay down, 'caze I gwine weck you up by sun-up."
It was not long before little Duke was snoring on his pallet, when old
Mose, reaching behind the mantel, produced a finely braided leather
whip, which he laid beside the sleeping boy.
"Wush't I had a apple ur orwange ur stick o' candy ur some'h'n' sweet
ter lay by 'im fur Christmas," he said, fondly, as he looked upon the
little sleeping figure. "Reck'n I mought bile dem molasses down inter a
little candy--seem lak hit's de onlies' chance dey is."
And turning back to the low fire, Mose stirred the coals a little,
poured the remains of Duke's "_picayune_ o' molasses" into a tomato-can,
and began his labor of love.
Like much of such service, it was for a long time simply a question of
waiting; and Mose found it no simple task, even when it had reached the
desired point, to pull the hot candy to a fairness of complexion
approaching whiteness. When, however, he was able at last to lay a
heavy, copper-colored twist with the whip beside the sleeping boy, he
counted the trouble as nothing; and hobbling over to his own cot, he was
soon also sleeping.
* * * * *
The sun was showing in a gleam on the river next morning when Mose
called, lustily, "Weck up, Juke, weck up! Christmas-gif', boy,
Christmas-gif'!"
Duke turned heavily once; then, catching the words, he sprang up with a
bound.
"Christmas-gif', gran'dad!" he returned, rubbing his eyes; then fully
waking, he cried, "Look onder de chips in de bucket, gran'dad."
And the old man choked up again as he produced the bag of tobacco, over
which he had actually cried a little last night when he had found it
hidden beneath the chips with which he had cooked Duke's candy.
"I 'clare, Juke, I 'clare you is a caution," was all he could say.
"An' who gimme all deze?" Duke exclaimed, suddenly seeing his own gifts.
"I don' know nothin' 't all 'bout it, less'n ole Santa Claus mought o'
tooken a rest in our mud chimbley las' night," said the old man, between
laughter and tears.
And Duke, the knowing little scamp, cracking his whip, munching his
candy and grinning, replied:
"I s'pec' he is, gran'dad; an' I s'pec' he come down an' b'iled up yo'
nickel o' molasses, too, ter meck me dis candy. Tell yer, dis whup,
she's got a daisy snapper on 'er, gran'dad! She's wuth a dozen o' deze
heah white-boy _w'ips_, she is!"
The last thing Mose heard as Duke descended the levee that morning was
the crack of the new whip; and he said, as he filled his pipe, "De idee
o' dat little tar-baby o' mine fetchin' me a Christmas-gif'!"
It was past noon when Duke got home again, bearing upon his shoulder,
like a veritable little Santa Claus himself, a half-filled coffee-sack,
the joint results of his service in the market and of the generosity of
its autocrats.
The latter had evidently measured their gratuities by the size of their
beneficiary, as their gifts were very small. Still, as the little fellow
emptied the sack upon the floor, they made quite a tempting display.
There were oranges, apples, bananas, several of each; a bunch of
soup-greens, scraps of fresh meat--evidently butchers' "trimmings"--odds
and ends of vegetables; while in the midst of the melee three live crabs
struck out in as many directions for freedom.
They were soon landed in a pot; while Mose, who was really no mean cook,
was preparing what seemed a sumptuous mid-day meal.
Late in the afternoon, while Mose nodded in his chair, Duke sat in the
open doorway, stuffing the last banana into his little stomach, which
was already as tight as a kettle-drum. He had cracked his whip until he
was tired, but he still kept cracking it. He cracked it at every fly
that lit on the floor, at the motes that floated into the shaft of
sunlight before him, at special knots in the door-sill, or at nothing,
as the spirit moved him. A sort of holiday feeling, such as he felt on
Sundays, had kept him at home this afternoon. If he had known that to be
a little too full of good things and a little tired of cracking whips or
tooting horns or drumming was the happy condition of most of the rich
boys of the land at that identical moment, he could not have been more
content than he was. If his stomach ached just a little, he thought of
all the good things in it, and was rather pleased to have it ache--just
this little. It emphasized his realization of Christmas.
As the evening wore on, and the crabs and bananas and molasses-candy
stopped arguing with one another down in his little stomach, he found
himself thinking, with some pleasure, of the pan of scraps he was to get
for his grandfather, and he wished for the hour when he should go. He
was glad when at last the old man waked with a start and began talking
to him.
"I been wushin' you'd weck up an' talk, gran'dad," he said, "caze I
wants ter ax yer what's all dis here dey say 'bout Christmas? When I was
comin' 'long to-day I stopped in a big chu'ch, an' dey was a
preacher-man standin' up wid a white night-gown on, an' he say dis
here's our Lord's birfday. I heerd 'im say it myse'f. Is dat so?"
"Co'se it is, Juke. Huccome you ax me sech ignunt questioms? Gimme dat
Bible, boy, an' lemme read you some 'ligion."
Mose had been a sort of lay-preacher in his day, and really could read a
little, spelling or stumbling over the long words. Taking the book
reverently, he leaned forward until the shaft of sunlight fell upon the
open page, when with halting speech he read to the little boy, who
listened with open-mouthed attention, the story of the birth at
Bethlehem.
"An' look heah, Juke, my boy," he said, finally, closing the book,
"hit's been on my min' all day ter tell yer I ain't gwine fishin' no mo'
tell de high-water come back--you heah? 'Caze yer know somebody's
chickens _mought_ come an' pick up de bait, an' I'd be bleeged ter kill
'em ter save 'em, an' we ain' gwine do dat no mo', me an' you. You heah,
Juke?"
Duke rolled his eyes around and looked pretty serious. "Yas, sir, I
heah," he said.
"An' me an' you, we done made dis bargain on de Lord's birfday--yer
heah, boy?--wid Gord's sunshine kiverin' us all over, an' my han' layin'
on de page. Heah, lay yo' little han' on top o' mine, Juke, an' promise
me you gwine be a _square man_, so he'p yer. Dat's it. Say it out loud,
an' yo' ole gran'dad he done said it, too. Wrop up dem fishin'-lines
now, an' th'ow 'em up on de rafters. Now come set down heah, an' lemme
tell yer 'bout Christmas on de ole plantation. Look out how you pop dat
whup 'crost my laig! Dat's a reg'lar horse-fly killer, wid a coal of
fire on 'er tip." Duke laughed.
"Now han' me a live coal fur my pipe. Dis here terbacca you brung me,
hit smokes sweet as sugar, boy. Set down, now, close by me--so."
Duke never tired of his grandfather's reminiscences, and he crept up
close to the old man's knee as the story began.
"When de big plantation-bell used ter ring on Christmas mornin', all de
darkies had to march up ter de great house fur dey Christmas-gif's; an'
us what worked _at_ de house, we had ter stan' in front o' de fiel'
han's. An' after ole marster axed a blessin', an' de string-ban' play,
an' we all sing a song--air one we choose--boss, he'd call out de names,
an' we'd step up, one by one, ter git our presents; an' ef we'd walk too
shamefaced ur too 'boveish, he'd pass a joke on us, ter set ev'ybody
laughin'.
"I ricollec' one Christmas-time I was co'tin' yo' gran'ma. I done had
been co'tin' 'er two years, an' she helt 'er head so high I was 'feerd
ter speak. An' when Christmas come, an' I marched up ter git my present,
ole marster gimme my bundle, an' I started back, grinnin' lak a
chessy-cat, an' he calt me back, an' he say: 'Hol' on, Moses,' he say,
'I got 'nother present fur you ter-day. Heah's a finger-ring I got fur
you, an' ef it don't fit you, I reckon hit'll fit Zephyr--you know yo'
gran'ma she was name Zephyr. An' wid dat he ran his thumb in 'is pocket
an' fotch me out a little gal's ring--"
"A gol' ring, gran'dad?"
"No, boy, but a silver ring--ginniwine German silver. Well, I wush't you
could o' heard them darkies holler an' laugh! An' Zephyr, ef she hadn't
o' been so yaller, she'd o' been red as dat sky yonder, de way she did
blush buff."
"An' what did you do, gran'dad?"
"Who, me? Dey warn't but des one thing _fur_ me to do. I des gi'n Zephyr
de ring, an' she ax me is I mean it, an'--an' I ax her is _she_ mean it,
an'--an' we bofe say--none o' yo' business what we say! What you lookin'
at me so quizzical fur, Juke? Ef yer wants ter know, we des had a
weddin' dat Christmas night--dat what we done--an' dat's huccome you got
yo' gran'ma.
"But I'm talkin' 'bout Christmas now. When we'd all go home, we'd open
our bundles, an' of all de purty things, _an'_ funny things, _an'_
jokes you ever heerd of, dey'd be in dem Christmas bundles--some'h'n'
ter suit ev'y one, and hit 'im square on his funny-bone ev'y time. An'
all de little bundles o' buckwheat ur flour 'd have _picayunes_ an'
dimes in 'em! We used ter reg'lar sif' 'em out wid a sifter. Dat was des
_our_ white folks's way. None o' de yether fam'lies 'long de coas' done
it. You see, all de diffe'nt fam'lies had diffe'nt ways. But ole marster
an' ole miss dey'd think up some new foolishness ev'y year. We nuver
knowed what was gwine to be did nex'--on'y one thing. _Dey allus put
money in de buckwheat-bag_--an' you know we nuver tas'e no buckwheat
'cep'n' on'y Christmas. Oh, boy, ef we could des meet wid some o' we's
white folks ag'in!"
"How is we got los' f'om 'em, gran'dad?" So Duke invited a hundredth
repetition of the story he knew so well.
"How did we git los' f'om we's white folks? Dat's a sad story fur
Christmas, Juke, but ef you sesso--
"Hit all happened in one night, time o' de big break in de levee, seven
years gone by. We was lookin' fur de bank ter crack crost de river f'om
us, an' so boss done had tooken all han's over, cep'n us ole folks an'
chillen, ter he'p work an' watch de yether side. 'Bout midnight, whiles
we was all sleepin', come a roa'in' soun', an' fus' thing we knowed, all
in de pitchy darkness, we was floatin' away--nobody cep'n des you an' me
an' yo' mammy in de cabin--floatin' an' bumpin' an' rockin,' _an' all de
time dark as pitch_. So we kep' on--one minute stiddy, nex' minute
_cher-plunk_ gins' a tree ur some'h'n' nother--_all in de dark_--an' one
minute you'd cry--you was des a weanin' baby den--an' nex' minute I'd
heah de bed you an' yo' ma was in bump gins' de wall, an' you'd laugh
out loud, an' yo' mammy she'd holler--_all in de dark_. An' so we
travelled, up an' down, bunkety-bunk, seem lak a honderd hours; tell
treckly a _termenjus_ wave come, an' I had sca'cely felt it boomin'
onder me when I pitched, an' ev'ything went travellin'. An' when I put
out my han', I felt you by me--but yo' mammy, she warn't nowhar.
"Hol' up yo' face an' don't cry, boy. I been a mighty poor mammy ter
yer, but I blesses Gord to-night fur savin' dat little black baby ter
me--_all in de win' an' de storm an' de dark dat night_.
"You see, yo' daddy, he was out wid de gang wuckin' de levee crost de
river--an' dat's huccome yo' ma was 'feerd ter stay by 'erse'f an' sont
fur me.
"Well, baby, when I knowed yo' mammy was gone, I helt you tight an'
prayed. An' after a while--seem lak a million hours--come a pale streak
o' day, an' 'fo' de sun was up, heah come a steamboat puffin' down de
river, an' treckly hit blowed a whistle an' ringed a bell an' stop an'
took us on boa'd, an' brung us on down heah ter de city."
"An' you never seed my mammy no mo', gran'dad?" Little Duke's lips
quivered just a little.
"Yo' mammy was safe at Home in de Golden City, Juke, long 'fore we
teched even de low lan' o' dis yearth.
"An' dat's how we got los' f'om we's white folks.
"An' time we struck de city I was so twis' up wid rheumatiz I lay fur
six munts in de Cha'ity Hospit'l; an' you bein' so puny, cuttin' yo'
toofs, dey kep' you right along in de baby-ward tell I was able to start
out. An' sence I stepped out o' dat hospit'l do' wid yo' little bow-legs
trottin' by me, so I been goin' ever sence. Days I'd go out sawin' wood,
I'd set you on de wood-pile by me; an' when de cook 'd slip me out a
plate o' soup, I'd ax fur two spoons. An' so you an' me, we been
pardners right along, an' _I wouldn't swap pardners wid nobody_--you
heah, Juke? Dis here's Christmas, an' I'm talkin' ter yer."
Duke looked so serious that a feather's weight would have tipped the
balance and made him cry; but he only blinked.
"An' it's gittin' late now, pardner," the old man continued, "an' you
better be gwine--less'n you 'feerd? Ef you is, des sesso now, an' we'll
meck out wid de col' victuals in de press."
"Who's afeerd, gran'dad?" Duke's face had broken into a broad grin now,
and he was cracking his whip again.
"Don't eat no supper tell I come," he added, as he started out into the
night. But as he turned down the street he muttered to himself:
"I wouldn't keer, ef all dem sassy boys didn't pleg me--say I ain't got
no mammy--ur daddy--ur nothin'. But dey won't say it ter me ag'in, not
whiles I got dis whup in my han'! She sting lak a rattlesnake, she do!
She's a daisy an' a half! Cher-whack! You gwine sass me any mo', you
grea' big over-my-size coward, you? Take dat! An' dat! _An' dat!_ Now
run! Whoop! Heah come de red light!"
So, in fancy avenging his little wrongs, Duke recovered his spirits and
proceeded to catch on behind the Prytania car, that was to help him on
his way to get his second-hand Christmas dinner.
His benefactress had not forgotten her promise; and, in addition to a
heavy pan of scraps, Duke took home, almost staggering beneath its
weight, a huge, compact bundle.
Old Mose was snoring vociferously when he reached the cabin. Depositing
his parcel, the little fellow lit a candle, which he placed beside the
sleeper; then uncovering the pan, he laid it gently upon his lap. And
now, seizing a spoon and tin cup, he banged it with all his might.
"Heah de plantation-bell! Come git yo' Christmas-gif's!"
And when his grandfather sprang up, nearly upsetting the pan in his
fright, Duke rolled backward on the floor, screaming with laughter.
"I 'clare, Juke, boy," said Mose, when he found voice, "I wouldn't 'a'
jumped so, but yo' foolishness des fitted inter my dream. I was dreamin'
o' ole times, an' des when I come ter de ringin' o' de plantation-bell,
I heerd _cherplang_! An' it nachelly riz me off'n my foots. What's dis
heah? Did you git de dinner, sho' 'nough?"
The pan of scraps quite equalled that of the old man's memory, every
familiar fragment evoking a reminiscence.
"You is sho' struck quality white folks dis time, Juke," he said,
finally, as he pushed back the pan--Duke had long ago finished--"but
dis here tukkey-stuffin'--I don't say 'tain' good, but _hit don't quite
come up ter de mark o' ole miss's puckon stuffin'_!"