to bed, spied the unopened parcel, which, in his excitement, Duke had
forgotten. Placing it upon the table before him, Mose began to open it.
It was a package worth getting--just such a generous Christmas bundle as
he had described to Duke this afternoon. Perhaps it was some vague
impression of this sort that made his old fingers tremble as he untied
the strings, peeping or sniffing into the little parcels of tea and
coffee and flour. Suddenly something happened. Out of a little sack of
buckwheat, accidentally upset, rolled a ten-cent piece. The old man
threw up his arms, fell forward over the table, and in a moment was
sobbing aloud.
It was some time before he could make Duke comprehend the situation, but
presently, pointing to the coin lying before him, he cried: "Look, boy,
look! Wharbouts is you got dat bundle? Open yo' mouf, boy! Look at de
money in de buckwheat-bag! Oh, my ole mistuss! Nobody but you is tied up
dat bundle! Praise Gord, I say!"
There was no sleep for either Mose or Duke now; and, late as it was,
they soon started out, the old man steadying himself on Duke's shoulder,
to find their people.
* * * * *
It was hard for the little boy to believe, even after they had hugged
all 'round and laughed and cried, that the stylish black gentleman who
answered the door-bell, silver tray in hand, was his own father! He had
often longed for a regular blue-shirted plantation "daddy," but never,
in his most ambitious moments, had he aspired to filial relations with
so august a personage as this!
But while Duke was swelling up, rolling his eyes, and wondering, Mose
stood in the centre of a crowd of his white people, while a gray-haired
old lady, holding his trembling hand in both of hers, was saying, as the
tears trickled down her cheeks:
"But why didn't you get some one to write to us for you, Moses?"
Then Mose, sniffling still, told of his long illness in the hospital,
and of his having afterwards met a man from the coast who told the story
of the sale of the plantation, but did not know where the family had
gone.
"When I fixed up that bundle," the old lady resumed, "I was thinking of
you, Moses. Every year we have sent out such little packages to any
needy colored people of whom we knew, as a sort of memorial to our lost
ones, always half-hoping that they might actually reach some of them.
And I thought of you specially, Moses," she continued, mischievously,
"when I put in all that turkey-stuffing. Do you remember how greedy you
always were about pecan-stuffing? It wasn't quite as good as usual this
year."
"No'm; dat what I say," said Mose. "I tol' Juke dat stuffin' warn't
quite up ter de mark--ain't I, Juke? Fur gracious sake, look at Juke,
settin' on his daddy's shoulder, with a face on him ole as a man! Put
dat boy down, Pete! Dat's a business-man you foolin' wid!"
Whereupon little Duke--man of affairs, forager, financier--overcome at
last with the fulness of the situation, made a really babyish square
mouth, and threw himself sobbing upon his father's bosom.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote A: Pronounced lan-yap. _Lagniappe_ is a small gratuity which
New Orleans children always expect and usually get with a purchase.
Retail druggists keep jars of candy, licorice, or other small
confections for that purpose.]
UNCLE EPHE'S ADVICE TO BRER RABBIT
[Illustration: "'KEEP STEP, RABBIT, MAN!'"]
UNCLE EPHE'S ADVICE TO BRER RABBIT
Keep step, Rabbit, man!
Hunter comin' quick's he can!
H'ist yo'se'f! _Don't_ cross de road,
Less 'n he'll hit you fur a toad!
Up an' skip it, 'fo' t's too late!
Hoppit--lippit! Bull-frog gait!
Hoppit--lippit--lippit--hoppit!
Goodness me, why don't you stop it?
Shame on you, Mr. Ge'man Rabbit,
Ter limp along wid sech a habit!
'F you'd balumps on yo' hime-legs straight,
An' hurry wid a mannish gait,
An' tie yo' ears down onder yo' th'oat,
An' kivir yo' tail wid a cut-away coat,
Rabbit-hunters by de dozen
Would shek yo' han' an' call you cousin,
An' like as not, you onery sinner,
Dey'd ax' you home ter eat yo' dinner!
But _don't you go_, 'caze ef you do,
Dey'll set you down to rabbit-stew.
An' de shape o' dem bones an' de smell o' dat meal
'Ll meck you wish you was back in de fiel'.
An' ef you'd stretch yo' mouf too wide,
You know yo' ears mought come ontied;
An' when you'd jump, you couldn't fail
To show yo' little cotton tail,
An' den, 'fo' you could twis' yo' phiz,
Dey'd _reconnize_ you _who you is_;
An' fo' you'd sca'cely bat yo' eye,
Dey'd have you skun an' in a pie,
Or maybe roasted on a coal,
Widout one thought about yo' soul.
So better teck ole Ephe's advice,
Des rig yo'se'f out slick an' nice,
An' tie yo' ears down, like I said,
An' hide yo' tail an' lif' yo' head.
[Illustration: "'WELL, ONE MO' RABBIT FUR DE POT'"]
An' when you balumps on yo' foots,
It wouldn't hurt ter put on boots.
Den walk _straight up_, like Mr. Man,
An' when he offer you 'is han',
Des smile, an' gi'e yo' hat a tip;
But _don't you show yo' rabbit lip_.
An' don't you have a word ter say,
No mo'n ter pass de time o' day.
An' ef he ax 'bout yo' affairs,
Des 'low you gwine ter hunt some hares,
An' ax 'im is he seen a jack--
An' dat 'll put 'im off de track.
Now, ef you'll foller dis advice,
Instid o' bein' et wid rice,
Ur baked in pie, ur stuffed wid sage,
You'll live ter die of nachel age.
'Sh! hush! What's dat? Was dat a gun?
_Don't_ trimble so. An' _don't you run_!
Come, set heah on de lorg wid me--
Hol' down yo' ears an' cross yo' knee.
_Don't_ run, _I say_. Tut--tut! He's gorn.
_Right 'cross de road_, as sho's you born!
Slam bang! I know'd he'd ketch a shot!
Well, one mo' rabbit fur de pot!
MAY BE SO
MAY BE SO
September butterflies flew thick
O'er flower-bed and clover-rick,
When little Miss Penelope,
Who watched them from grandfather's knee,
Said, "Grandpa, what's a butterfly?"
And, "Where do flowers go to when they die?"
For questions hard as hard can be
I recommend Penelope.
But grandpa had a playful way
Of dodging things too hard to say,
By giving fantasies instead
Of serious answers, so he said,
"Whenever a tired old flower must die,
Its soul mounts in a butterfly;
Just now a dozen snow-wings sped
From out that white petunia bed;
"And if you'll search, you'll find, I'm sure,
A dozen shrivelled cups or more;
Each pansy folds her purple cloth,
And soars aloft in velvet moth.
"So when tired sunflower doffs her cap
Of yellow frills to take a nap,
'Tis but that this surrender brings
Her soul's release on golden wings."
"But _is this so_? It ought to be,"
Said little Miss Penelope;
"Because I'm _sure_, dear grandpa, _you_
Would only tell the thing that's _true_.
"Are all the butterflies that fly
Real angels of the flowers that die?"
Grandfather's eyes looked far away,
As if he scarce knew what to say.
"Dear little Blossom," stroking now
The golden hair upon her brow,
"I can't--exactly--say--I--know--it;
I only heard it from a poet.
"And poets' eyes see wondrous things.
Great mysteries of flowers and wings,
And marvels of the earth and sea
And sky, they tell us constantly.
"But we can never prove them right,
Because we lack their finer sight;
And they, lest we should think them wrong,
Weave their strange stories into song
"_So beautiful_, so _seeming-true_,
So confidently stated too,
That we, not knowing yes or no,
Can only _hope they may be so_."
"But, grandpapa, no tale should close
With _ifs_ or _buts_ or _may-be-sos_;
So let us play we're poets, too,
And then we'll _know_ that this is true."
THE END
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Transcriber's note
The following changes have been made to the text:
Page 25: "whem he was young" changed to "when he was young".
Page 40: "Felice" changed to "Felicie".