Part I

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THE STRENGTH OF GIDEON AND OTHER STORIES

by

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

1900

TO MY GOOD FRIEND AND TEACHER

CAPTAIN CHARLES B. STIVERS

CONTENTS

STRENGTH OF GIDEON

MAMMY PEGGY'S PRIDE

VINEY'S FREE PAPERS

THE FRUITFUL SLEEPING OF THE REV. ELISHA EDWARDS

THE INGRATE

THE CASE OF 'CA'LINE'

THE FINISH OF PATSY BARNES

ONE MAN'S FORTUNES

JIM'S PROBATION

UNCLE SIMON'S SUNDAYS OUT

MR. CORNELIUS JOHNSON, OFFICE-SEEKER

AN OLD-TIME CHRISTMAS

A MESS OF POTTAGE

THE TRUSTFULNESS OF POLLY

THE TRAGEDY AT THREE FORKS

THE FINDING OF ZACH

JOHNSONHAM, JUNIOR

THE FAITH CURE MAN

A COUNCIL OF STATE

SILAS JACKSON

THE STRENGTH OF GIDEON

Old Mam' Henry, and her word may be taken, said that it was "De

powerfulles' sehmont she ever had hyeahd in all huh bo'n days." That

was saying a good deal, for the old woman had lived many years on the

Stone place and had heard many sermons from preachers, white and

black. She was a judge, too.

It really must have been a powerful sermon that Brother Lucius

preached, for Aunt Doshy Scott had fallen in a trance in the middle of

the aisle, while "Merlatter Mag," who was famed all over the place for

having white folk's religion and never "waking up," had broken through

her reserve and shouted all over the camp ground.

Several times Cassie had shown signs of giving way, but because

she was frail some of the solicitous sisters held her with

self-congratulatory care, relieving each other now and then, that each

might have a turn in the rejoicings. But as the preacher waded out

deeper and deeper into the spiritual stream, Cassie's efforts to make

her feelings known became more and more decided. He told them how the

spears of the Midianites had "clashed upon de shiels of de Gideonites,

an' aftah while, wid de powah of de Lawd behin' him, de man Gideon

triumphed mightily," and swaying then and wailing in the dark woods,

with grim branches waving in the breath of their own excitement, they

could hear above the tumult the clamor of the fight, the clashing of

the spears, and the ringing of the shields. They could see the

conqueror coming home in triumph. Then when he cried, "A-who, I say,

a-who is in Gideon's ahmy to-day?" and the wailing chorus took up the

note, "A-who!" it was too much even for frail Cassie, and, deserted by

the solicitous sisters, in the words of Mam' Henry, "she broke

a-loose, and faihly tuk de place."

Gideon had certainly triumphed, and when a little boy baby came to

Cassie two or three days later, she named him Gideon in honor of the

great Hebrew warrior whose story had so wrought upon her. All the

plantation knew the spiritual significance of the name, and from the

day of his birth the child was as one set apart to a holy mission on

earth.

Say what you will of the influences which the circumstances

surrounding birth have upon a child, upon this one at least the effect

was unmistakable. Even as a baby he seemed to realize the weight of

responsibility which had been laid upon his little black shoulders,

and there was a complacent dignity in the very way in which he drew

upon the sweets of his dirty sugar-teat when the maternal breast was

far off bending over the sheaves of the field.

He was a child early destined to sacrifice and self-effacement, and as

he grew older and other youngsters came to fill Cassie's cabin, he

took up his lot with the meekness of an infantile Moses. Like a Moses

he was, too, leading his little flock to the promised land, when he

grew to the age at which, barefooted and one-shifted, he led or

carried his little brothers and sisters about the quarters. But the

"promised land" never took him into the direction of the stables,

where the other pickaninnies worried the horses, or into the region of

the hen-coops, where egg-sucking was a common crime.

No boy ever rolled or tumbled in the dirt with a heartier glee than

did Gideon, but no warrior, not even his illustrious prototype

himself, ever kept sterner discipline in his ranks when his followers

seemed prone to overstep the bounds of right. At a very early age his

shrill voice could be heard calling in admonitory tones, caught from

his mother's very lips, "You 'Nelius, don' you let me ketch you

th'owin' at ol' mis' guinea-hens no mo'; you hyeah me?" or "Hi'am, you

come offen de top er dat shed 'fo' you fall an' brek yo' naik all to

pieces."

It was a common sight in the evening to see him sitting upon the low

rail fence which ran before the quarters, his shift blowing in the

wind, and his black legs lean and bony against the whitewashed rails,

as he swayed to and fro, rocking and singing one of his numerous

brothers to sleep, and always his song was of war and victory, albeit

crooned in a low, soothing voice. Sometimes it was "Turn Back

Pharaoh's Army," at others "Jinin' Gideon's Band." The latter was a

favorite, for he seemed to have a proprietary interest in it,

although, despite the martial inspiration of his name, "Gideon's band"

to him meant an aggregation of people with horns and fiddles.

Steve, who was Cassie's man, declared that he had never seen such a

child, and, being quite as religious as Cassie herself, early began to

talk Scripture and religion to the boy. He was aided in this when his

master, Dudley Stone, a man of the faith, began a little Sunday class

for the religiously inclined of the quarters, where the old familiar

stories were told in simple language to the slaves and explained. At

these meetings Gideon became a shining light. No one listened more

eagerly to the teacher's words, or more readily answered his questions

at review. No one was wider-mouthed or whiter-eyed. His admonitions to

his family now took on a different complexion, and he could be heard

calling across a lot to a mischievous sister, "Bettah tek keer daih,

Lucy Jane, Gawd's a-watchin' you; bettah tek keer."

The appointed man is always marked, and so Gideon was by always

receiving his full name. No one ever shortened his scriptural

appellation into Gid. He was always Gideon from the time he bore the

name out of the heat of camp-meeting fervor until his master

discovered his worthiness and filled Cassie's breast with pride by

taking him into the house to learn "mannahs and 'po'tment."

As a house servant he was beyond reproach, and next to his religion

his Mas' Dudley and Miss Ellen claimed his devotion and fidelity. The

young mistress and young master learned to depend fearlessly upon his

faithfulness.

It was good to hear old Dudley Stone going through the house in a mock

fury, crying, "Well, I never saw such a house; it seems as if there

isn't a soul in it that can do without Gideon. Here I've got him up

here to wait on me, and it's Gideon here and Gideon there, and every

time I turn around some of you have sneaked him off. Gideon, come

here!" And the black boy smiled and came.

But all his days were not days devoted to men's service, for there

came a time when love claimed him for her own, when the clouds took on

a new color, when the sough of the wind was music in his ears, and he

saw heaven in Martha's eyes. It all came about in this way.

Gideon was young when he got religion and joined the church, and he

grew up strong in the faith. Almost by the time he had become a

valuable house servant he had grown to be an invaluable servant of the

Lord. He had a good, clear voice that could lead a hymn out of all the

labyrinthian wanderings of an ignorant congregation, even when he had

to improvise both words and music; and he was a mighty man of prayer.

It was thus he met Martha. Martha was brown and buxom and comely, and

her rich contralto voice was loud and high on the sisters' side in

meeting time. It was the voices that did it at first. There was no

hymn or "spiritual" that Gideon could start to which Martha could not

sing an easy blending second, and never did she open a tune that

Gideon did not swing into it with a wonderfully sweet, flowing,

natural bass. Often he did not know the piece, but that did not

matter, he sang anyway. Perhaps when they were out he would go to her

and ask, "Sis' Martha, what was that hymn you stahrted to-day?" and

she would probably answer, "Oh, dat was jes' one o' my mammy's ol'

songs."

"Well, it sholy was mighty pretty. Indeed it was."

"Oh, thanky, Brothah Gidjon, thanky."

Then a little later they began to walk back to the master's house

together, for Martha, too, was one of the favored ones, and served,

not in the field, but in the big house.

The old women looked on and conversed in whispers about the pair, for

they were wise, and what their old eyes saw, they saw.

"Oomph," said Mam' Henry, for she commented on everything, "dem too is

jes' natchelly singin' demse'ves togeddah."

"Dey's lak de mo'nin' stahs," interjected Aunt Sophy.

"How 'bout dat?" sniffed the older woman, for she objected to any

one's alluding to subjects she did not understand.

"Why, Mam' Henry, ain' you nevah hyeahd tell o' de mo'nin' stahs whut

sung deyse'ves togeddah?"

"No, I ain't, an' I been livin' a mighty sight longah'n you, too. I

knows all 'bout when de stahs fell, but dey ain' nevah done no singin'

dat I knows 'bout."

"Do heish, Mam' Henry, you sho' su'prises me. W'y, dat ain'

happenin's, dat's Scripter."

"Look hyeah, gal, don't you tell me dat's Scripter, an' me been

a-settin' undah de Scripter fu' nigh onto sixty yeah."

"Well, Mam' Henry, I may 'a' been mistook, but sho' I took hit fu'

Scripter. Mebbe de preachah I hyeahd was jes' inlinin'."

"Well, wheddah hit's Scripter er not, dey's one t'ing su'tain, I tell

you,--dem two is singin' deyse'ves togeddah."

"Hit's a fac', an' I believe it."

"An' it's a mighty good thing, too. Brothah Gidjon is de nicest house

dahky dat I ever hyeahd tell on. Dey jes' de same diffunce 'twixt him

an' de othah house-boys as dey is 'tween real quality an'

strainers--he got mannahs, but he ain't got aihs."

"Heish, ain't you right!"

"An' while de res' of dem ain' thinkin' 'bout nothin' but dancin' an'

ca'in' on, he makin' his peace, callin', an' 'lection sho'."

"I tell you, Mam' Henry, dey ain' nothin' like a spichul named chile."

"Humph! g'long, gal; 'tain't in de name; de biggest devil I evah

knowed was named Moses Aaron. 'Tain't in de name, hit's all in de man

hisse'f."

But notwithstanding what the gossips said of him, Gideon went on his

way, and knew not that the one great power of earth had taken hold of

him until they gave the great party down in the quarters, and he saw

Martha in all her glory. Then love spoke to him with no uncertain

sound.

It was a dancing-party, and because neither he nor Martha dared

countenance dancing, they had strolled away together under the pines

that lined the white road, whiter now in the soft moonlight. He had

never known the pine-cones smell so sweet before in all his life. She

had never known just how the moonlight flecked the road before. This

was lovers' lane to them. He didn't understand why his heart kept

throbbing so furiously, for they were walking slowly, and when a

shadow thrown across the road from a by-standing bush frightened her

into pressing close up to him, he could not have told why his arm

stole round her waist and drew her slim form up to him, or why his

lips found hers, as eye looked into eye. For their simple hearts

love's mystery was too deep, as it is for wiser ones.

Some few stammering words came to his lips, and she answered the best

she could. Then why did the moonlight flood them so, and why were the

heavens so full of stars? Out yonder in the black hedge a mocking-bird

was singing, and he was translating--oh, so poorly--the song of their

hearts. They forgot the dance, they forgot all but their love.

"An' you won't ma'y nobody else but me, Martha?"

"You know I won't, Gidjon."

"But I mus' wait de yeah out?"

"Yes, an' den don't you think Mas' Stone'll let us have a little cabin

of ouah own jest outside de quahtahs?"

"Won't it be blessid? Won't it be blessid?" he cried, and then the

kindly moon went under a cloud for a moment and came out smiling, for

he had peeped through and had seen what passed. Then they walked back

hand in hand to the dance along the transfigured road, and they found

that the first part of the festivities were over, and all the people

had sat down to supper. Every one laughed when they went in. Martha

held back and perspired with embarrassment. But even though he saw

some of the older heads whispering in a corner, Gideon was not

ashamed. A new light was in his eyes, and a new boldness had come to

him. He led Martha up to the grinning group, and said in his best

singing voice, "Whut you laughin' at? Yes, I's popped de question, an'

she says 'Yes,' an' long 'bout a yeah f'om now you kin all 'spec' a'

invitation." This was a formal announcement. A shout arose from the

happy-go-lucky people, who sorrowed alike in each other's sorrows, and

joyed in each other's joys. They sat down at a table, and their

health was drunk in cups of cider and persimmon beer.

Over in the corner Mam' Henry mumbled over her pipe, "Wha'd I tell

you? wha'd I tell you?" and Aunt Sophy replied, "Hit's de pa'able of

de mo'nin' stahs."

"Don't talk to me 'bout no mo'nin' stahs," the mammy snorted; "Gawd

jes' fitted dey voices togeddah, an' den j'ined dey hea'ts. De mo'nin'

stahs ain't got nothin' to do wid it."

"Mam' Henry," said Aunt Sophy, impressively, "you's a' oldah ooman den

I is, an' I ain' sputin' hit; but I say dey done 'filled Scripter

'bout de mo'nin' stahs; dey's done sung deyse'ves togeddah."

The old woman sniffed.

The next Sunday at meeting some one got the start of Gideon, and began

a new hymn. It ran:

"At de ma'ige of de Lamb, oh Lawd,

God done gin His 'sent.

Dey dressed de Lamb all up in white,

God done gin His 'sent.

Oh, wasn't dat a happy day,

Oh, wasn't dat a happy day, Good Lawd,

Oh, wasn't dat a happy day,

De ma'ige of de Lamb!"

The wailing minor of the beginning broke into a joyous chorus at the

end, and Gideon wept and laughed in turn, for it was his wedding-song.

The young man had a confidential chat with his master the next

morning, and the happy secret was revealed.

"What, you scamp!" said Dudley Stone. "Why, you've got even more sense

than I gave you credit for; you've picked out the finest girl on the

plantation, and the one best suited to you. You couldn't have done

better if the match had been made for you. I reckon this must be one

of the marriages that are made in heaven. Marry her, yes, and with a

preacher. I don't see why you want to wait a year."

Gideon told him his hopes of a near cabin.

"Better still," his master went on; "with you two joined and up near

the big house, I'll feel as safe for the folks as if an army was

camped around, and, Gideon, my boy,"--he put his arms on the black

man's shoulders,--"if I should slip away some day--"

The slave looked up, startled.

"I mean if I should die--I'm not going to run off, don't be alarmed--I

want you to help your young Mas' Dud look after his mother and Miss

Ellen; you hear? Now that's the one promise I ask of you,--come what

may, look after the women folks." And the man promised and went away

smiling.

His year of engagement, the happiest time of a young man's life, began

on golden wings. There came rumors of war, and the wings of the

glad-hued year drooped sadly. Sadly they drooped, and seemed to fold,

when one day, between the rumors and predictions of strife, Dudley

Stone, the old master, slipped quietly away out into the unknown.

There were wife, daughter, son, and faithful slaves about his bed, and

they wept for him sincere tears, for he had been a good husband and

father and a kind master. But he smiled, and, conscious to the last,

whispered to them a cheery good-bye. Then, turning to Gideon, who

stood there bowed with grief, he raised one weak finger, and his lips

made the word, "Remember!"

They laid him where they had laid one generation after another of the

Stones and it seemed as if a pall of sorrow had fallen upon the whole

place. Then, still grieving, they turned their long-distracted

attention to the things that had been going on around, and lo! the

ominous mutterings were loud, and the cloud of war was black above

them.

It was on an April morning when the storm broke, and the plantation,

master and man, stood dumb with consternation, for they had hoped,

they had believed, it would pass. And now there was the buzz of men

who talked in secret corners. There were hurried saddlings and

feverish rides to town. Somewhere in the quarters was whispered the

forbidden word "freedom," and it was taken up and dropped breathlessly

from the ends of a hundred tongues. Some of the older ones scouted it,

but from some who held young children to their breasts there were

deep-souled prayers in the dead of night. Over the meetings in the

woods or in the log church a strange reserve brooded, and even the

prayers took on a guarded tone. Even from the fulness of their hearts,

which longed for liberty, no open word that could offend the mistress

or the young master went up to the Almighty. He might know their

hearts, but no tongue in meeting gave vent to what was in them, and

even Gideon sang no more of the gospel army. He was sad because of

this new trouble coming hard upon the heels of the old, and Martha

was grieved because he was.

Finally the trips into town budded into something, and on a memorable

evening when the sun looked peacefully through the pines, young Dudley

Stone rode into the yard dressed in a suit of gray, and on his

shoulders were the straps of office. The servants gathered around him

with a sort of awe and followed him until he alighted at the porch.

Only Mam' Henry, who had been nurse to both him and his sister, dared

follow him in. It was a sad scene within, but such a one as any

Southern home where there were sons might have shown that awful year.

The mother tried to be brave, but her old hands shook, and her tears

fell upon her son's brown head, tears of grief at parting, but through

which shone the fire of a noble pride. The young Ellen hung about his

neck with sobs and caresses.

"Would you have me stay?" he asked her.

"No! no! I know where your place is, but oh, my brother!"

"Ellen," said the mother in a trembling voice, "you are the sister of

a soldier now."

The girl dried her tears and drew herself up. "We won't burden your

heart, Dudley, with our tears, but we will weight you down with our

love and prayers."

It was not so easy with Mam' Henry. Without protest, she took him to

her bosom and rocked to and fro, wailing "My baby! my baby!" and the

tears that fell from the young man's eyes upon her grey old head cost

his manhood nothing.

Gideon was behind the door when his master called him. His sleeve was

traveling down from his eyes as he emerged.

"Gideon," said his master, pointing to his uniform, "you know what

this means?"

"Yes, suh."

"I wish I could take you along with me. But--"

"Mas' Dud," Gideon threw out his arms in supplication.

"You remember father's charge to you, take care of the women-folks."

He took the servant's hand, and, black man and white, they looked into

each other's eyes, and the compact was made. Then Gideon gulped and

said "Yes, suh" again.

Another boy held the master's horse and rode away behind him when he

vaulted into the saddle, and the man of battle-song and warrior name

went back to mind the women-folks.

Then began the disintegration of the plantation's population. First

Yellow Bob slipped away, and no one pursued him. A few blamed him, but

they soon followed as the year rolled away. More were missing every

time a Union camp lay near, and great tales were told of the chances

for young negroes who would go as body-servants to the Yankee

officers. Gideon heard all and was silent.

Then as the time of his marriage drew near he felt a greater strength,

for there was one who would be with him to help him keep his promise

and his faith.

The spirit of freedom had grown strong in Martha as the days passed,

and when her lover went to see her she had strange things to say. Was

he going to stay? Was he going to be a slave when freedom and a

livelihood lay right within his grasp? Would he keep her a slave? Yes,

he would do it all--all.

She asked him to wait.

Another year began, and one day they brought Dudley Stone home to lay

beside his father. Then most of the remaining negroes went. There was

no master now. The two bereaved women wept, and Gideon forgot that he

wore the garb of manhood and wept with them.

Martha came to him.

"Gidjon," she said, "I's waited a long while now. Mos' eve'ybody else

is gone. Ain't you goin'?"

"No."

"But, Gidjon, I wants to be free. I know how good dey've been to us;

but, oh, I wants to own myse'f. They're talkin' 'bout settin' us free

every hour."

"I can wait."

"They's a camp right near here."

"I promised."

"The of'cers wants body-servants, Gidjon--"

"Go, Martha, if you want to, but I stay."

She went away from him, but she or some one else got word to young

Captain Jack Griswold of the near camp that there was an excellent

servant on the plantation who only needed a little persuading, and he

came up to see him.

"Look here," he said, "I want a body-servant. I'll give you ten

dollars a month."

"I've got to stay here."

"But, you fool, what have you to gain by staying here?"

"I'm goin' to stay."

"Why, you'll be free in a little while, anyway."

"All right."

"Of all fools," said the Captain. "I'll give you fifteen dollars."

"I do' want it."

"Well, your girl's going, anyway. I don't blame her for leaving such a

fool as you are."

Gideon turned and looked at him.

"The camp is going to be moved up on this plantation, and there will

be a requisition for this house for officers' quarters, so I'll see

you again," and Captain Griswold went his way.

Martha going! Martha going! Gideon could not believe it. He would not.

He saw her, and she confirmed it. She was going as an aid to the

nurses. He gasped, and went back to mind the women-folks.

They did move the camp up nearer, and Captain Griswold came to see

Gideon again, but he could get no word from him, save "I'm goin' to

stay," and he went away in disgust, entirely unable to understand such

obstinacy, as he called it.

[Illustration: "'IT'S FREEDOM, GIDEON.'"]

But the slave had his moments alone, when the agony tore at his breast

and rended him. Should he stay? The others were going. He would soon

be free. Every one had said so, even his mistress one day. Then Martha

was going. "Martha! Martha!" his heart called.

The day came when the soldiers were to leave, and he went out sadly to

watch them go. All the plantation, that had been white with tents, was

dark again, and everywhere were moving, blue-coated figures.

Once more his tempter came to him. "I'll make it twenty dollars," he

said, but Gideon shook his head. Then they started. The drums tapped.

Away they went, the flag kissing the breeze. Martha stole up to say

good-bye to him. Her eyes were overflowing, and she clung to him.

"Come, Gidjon," she plead, "fu' my sake. Oh, my God, won't you come

with us--it's freedom." He kissed her, but shook his head.

"Hunt me up when you do come," she said, crying bitterly, "fu' I do

love you, Gidjon, but I must go. Out yonder is freedom," and she was

gone with them.

He drew out a pace after the troops, and then, turning, looked back

at the house. He went a step farther, and then a woman's gentle voice

called him, "Gideon!" He stopped. He crushed his cap in his hands, and

the tears came into his eyes. Then he answered, "Yes, Mis' Ellen, I's

a-comin'."

He stood and watched the dusty column until the last blue leg swung

out of sight and over the grey hills the last drum-tap died away, and

then turned and retraced his steps toward the house.

Gideon had triumphed mightily.

MAMMY PEGGY'S PRIDE

In the failing light of the midsummer evening, two women sat upon the

broad veranda that ran round three sides of the old Virginia mansion.

One was young and slender with the slightness of delicate girlhood.

The other was old, black and ample,--a typical mammy of the old south.

The girl was talking in low, subdued tones touched with a note of

sadness that was strange in one of her apparent youth, but which

seemed as if somehow in consonance with her sombre garments.

"No, no, Peggy," she was saying, "we have done the best we could, as

well as even papa could have expected of us if he had been here. It

was of no use to keep struggling and straining along, trying to keep

the old place from going, out of a sentiment, which, however honest it

might have been, was neither common sense nor practical. Poor people,

and we are poor, in spite of the little we got for the place, cannot

afford to have feelings. Of course I hate to see strangers take

possession of the homestead, and--and--papa's and mamma's and brother

Phil's graves are out there on the hillside. It is hard,--hard, but

what was I to do? I couldn't plant and hoe and plow, and you couldn't,

so I am beaten, beaten." The girl threw out her hands with a

despairing gesture and burst into tears.

Mammy Peggy took the brown head in her lap and let her big hands

wander softly over the girl's pale face. "Sh,--sh," she said as if she

were soothing a baby, "don't go on lak dat. W'y whut's de mattah wid

you, Miss Mime? 'Pears lak you done los' all yo' spe'it. Whut you

reckon yo' pappy 'u'd t'ink ef he could see you ca'in' on dis away?

Didn' he put his han' on yo' haid an' call you his own brave little

gal, jes' befo', jes' befo'--he went?"

The girl raised her head for a moment and looked at the old woman.

"Oh, mammy, mammy," she cried, "I have tried so hard to be brave--to

be really my father's daughter, but I can't, I can't. Everything I

turn my hand to fails. I've tried sewing, but here every one sews for

herself now. I've even tried writing," and here a crimson glow burned

in her cheeks, "but oh, the awful regularity with which everything

came back to me. Why, I even put you in a story, Mammy Peggy, you

dear old, good, unselfish thing, and the hard-hearted editor had the

temerity to decline you with thanks."

"I wouldn't'a' nevah lef' you nohow, honey."

Mima laughed through her tears. The strength of her first grief had

passed, and she was viewing her situation with a whimsical enjoyment

of its humorous points.

"I don't know," she went on, "it seems to me that it's only in stories

themselves that destitute young Southern girls get on and make fame

and fortune with their pens. I'm sure I couldn't."

"Of course you couldn't. Whut else do you 'spect? Whut you know 'bout

mekin' a fortune? Ain't you a Ha'ison? De Ha'isons nevah was no buyin'

an' sellin', mekin' an' tradin' fambly. Dey was gent'men an' ladies

f'om de ve'y fus' beginnin'."

"Oh what a pity one cannot sell one's quality for daily bread, or

trade off one's blue blood for black coffee."

"Miss Mime, is you out o' yo' haid?" asked Mammy Peggy in disgust and

horror.

"No, I'm not, Mammy Peggy, but I do wish that I could traffic in some

of my too numerous and too genteel ancestors instead of being

compelled to dispose of my ancestral home and be turned out into the

street like a pauper."

"Heish, honey, heish, I can' stan' to hyeah you talk dat-away. I's

so'y to see dee ol' place go, but you got to go out of it wid yo' haid

up, jes' ez ef you was gwine away fo' a visit an' could come back w'en

evah you wanted to."

"I shall slink out of it like a cur. I can't meet the eyes of the new

owner; I shall hate him."

"W'y, Miss Mime, whaih's yo' pride? Whaih's yo' Ha'ison pride?"

"Gone, gone with the deed of this house and its furniture. Gone with

the money I paid for the new cottage and its cheap chairs."

"Gone, hit ain' gone, fu' ef you won't let on to have it, I will. I'll

show dat new man how yo' pa would 'a' did ef he'd 'a' been hyeah."

"What, you, Mammy Peggy?"

"Yes, me, I ain' a-gwine to let him t'ink dat de Ha'isons didn' have

no quality."

"Good, mammy, you make me remember who I am, and what my duty is. I

shall see Mr. Northcope when he comes, and I'll try to make my

Harrison pride sustain me when I give up to him everything I have

held dear. Oh, mammy, mammy!"

"Heish, chile, sh, sh, er go on, dat's right, yo' eyes is open now an'

you kin cry a little weenty bit. It'll do you good. But when dat new

man comes I want mammy's lamb to look at him an' hol' huh haid lak'

huh ma used to hol' hern, an' I reckon Mistah No'thcope gwine to

withah away."

And so it happened that when Bartley Northcope came the next day to

take possession of the old Virginia mansion he was welcomed at the

door, and ushered into the broad parlor by Mammy Peggy, stiff and

unbending in the faded finery of her family's better days.

"Miss Mime'll be down in a minute," she told him, and as he sat in the

great old room, and looked about him at the evidences of ancient

affluence, his spirit was subdued by the silent tragedy which his

possession of it evinced. But he could not but feel a thrill at the

bit of comedy which is on the edge of every tragedy, as he thought of

Mammy Peggy and her formal reception. "She let me into my own house,"

he thought to himself, "with the air of granting me a favor." And then

there was a step on the stair; the door opened, and Miss Mima stood

before him, proud, cold, white, and beautiful.

He found his feet, and went forward to meet her. "Mr. Northcope," she

said, and offered her hand daintily, hesitatingly. He took it, and

thought, even in that flash of a second, what a soft, tiny hand it

was.

"Yes," he said, "and I have been sitting here, overcome by the

vastness of your fine old house."

The "your" was delicate, she thought, but she only said, "Let me help

you to recovery with some tea. Mammy will bring some," and then she

blushed very red. "My old nurse is the only servant I have with me,

and she is always mammy to me." She remembered, and throwing up her

proud little head rang for the old woman.

Directly, Mammy Peggy came marching in like a grenadier. She bore a

tray with the tea things on it, and after she had set it down hovered

in the room as if to chaperon her mistress. Bartley felt decidedly

uncomfortable. Mima's manners were all that politeness could require,

but he felt as if she resented his coming even to his own, and he knew

that mammy looked upon him as an interloper.

[Illustration: "MAMMY PEGGY CAME MARCHING IN LIKE A GRENADIER."]

Mima kept up well, only the paleness of her face showed what she felt

at leaving her home. Her voice was calm and impassive, only once it

trembled, when she wished that he would be as happy in the house as

she had been.

"I feel very much like an interloper," he said, "but I hope you won't

feel yourself entirely shut out from your beautiful home. My father,

who comes on in a few days is an invalid, and gets about very little,

and I am frequently from home, so pray make use of the grounds when

you please, and as much of the house as you find convenient."

A cold "thank you" fell from Mima's lips, but then she went on,

hesitatingly, "I should like to come sometimes to the hill, out there

behind the orchard." Her voice choked, but she went bravely on, "Some

of my dear ones are buried there."

"Go there, and elsewhere, as much as you please. That spot shall be

sacred from invasion."

"You are very kind," she said and rose to go. Mammy carried away the

tea things, and then came and waited silently by the door.

"I hope you will believe me, Miss Harrison," said Bartley, as Mima

was starting, "when I say that I do not come to your home as a vandal

to destroy all that makes its recollection dear to you; for there are

some associations about it that are almost as much to me as to you,

since my eyes have been opened."

"I do not understand you," she replied.

"I can explain. For some years past my father's condition has kept me

very closely bound to him, and both before and after the beginning of

the war, we lived abroad. A few years ago, I came to know and love a

man, who I am convinced now was your brother. Am I mistaken in

thinking that you are a sister of Philip Harrison?"

"No, no, he was my brother, my only brother."

"I met him in Venice just before the war and we came to be dear

friends. But in the events that followed so tumultuously, and from

participation in which, I was cut off by my father's illness, I lost

sight of him."

"But I don't believe I remember hearing my brother speak of you, and

he was not usually reticent."

"You would not remember me as Bartley Northcope, unless you were

familiar with the very undignified sobriquet with which your brother

nicknamed me," said the young man smiling.

"Nickname--what, you are not, you can't be 'Budge'?"

"I am 'Budge' or 'old Budge' as Phil called me."

Mima had her hand on the door-knob, but she turned with an impulsive

motion and went back to him. "I am so glad to see you," she said,

giving him her hand again, and "Mammy," she called, "Mr. Northcope is

an old friend of brother Phil's!"

The effect of this news on mammy was like that of the April sun on an

icicle. She suddenly melted, and came overflowing back into the room,

her smiles and grins and nods trickling everywhere under the genial

warmth of this new friendliness. Before one who had been a friend of

"Mas' Phil's," Mammy Peggy needed no pride.

"La, chile," she exclaimed, settling and patting the cushions of the

chair in which he had been sitting, "w'y didn' you say so befo'?"

"I wasn't sure that I was standing in the house of my old friend. I

only knew that he lived somewhere in Virginia."

"He is among those out on the hill behind the orchard," said Mima,

sadly. Mammy Peggy wiped her eyes, and went about trying to add some

touches of comfort to the already perfect room.

"You have no reason to sorrow, Miss Harrison," said Northcope gently,

"for a brother who died bravely in battle for his principles. Had fate

allowed me to be here I should have been upon the other side, but

believe me, I both understand and appreciate your brother's heroism."

The young girl's eyes glistened with tears, through which glowed her

sisterly pride.

"Won't you come out and look at his grave?"

"It is the desire that was in my mind."

Together they walked out, with mammy following, to the old burying

plot. All her talk was of her brother's virtues, and he proved an

appreciative listener. She pointed out favorite spots of her brother's

childhood as they passed along, and indicated others which his boyish

pranks had made memorable, though the eyes of the man were oftener on

her face than on the landscape. But it was with real sympathy and

reverence that he stood with bared head beside the grave of his

friend, and the tears that she left fall unchecked in his presence

were not all tears of grief.

They did not go away from him that afternoon until Mammy Peggy,

seconded by Mima, had won his consent to let the old servant come over

and "do for him" until he found suitable servants.

"To think of his having known Philip," said Mima with shining eyes as

they entered the new cottage, and somehow it looked pleasanter,

brighter and less mean to her than it had ever before.

"Now s'posin' you'd 'a' run off widout seein' him, whaih would you

been den? You wouldn' nevah knowed whut you knows."

"You're right, Mammy Peggy, and I'm glad I stayed and faced him, for

it doesn't seem now as if a stranger had the house, and it has given

me a great pleasure. It seemed like having Phil back again to have him

talked about so by one who lived so near to him."

"I tell you, chile," mammy supplemented in an oracular tone, "de right

kin' o' pride allus pays." Mima laughed heartily. The old woman

looked at her bright face. Then she put her big hand on the girl's

small one. It was trembling. She shook her head. Mima blushed.

Bartley went out and sat on the veranda a long time after they were

gone. He took in the great expanse of lawn about the house, and the

dark background of the pines in the woods beyond. He thought of the

conditions through which the place had become his, and the thought

saddened him, even in the first glow of the joy of possession. Then

his mind went on to the old friend who was sleeping his last sleep

back there on the sun-bathed hill. His recollection went fondly over

the days of their comradeship in Venice, and colored them anew with

glory.

"These Southerners," he mused aloud, "cannot understand that we

sympathize with their misfortunes. But we do. They forget how our

sympathies have been trained. We were first taught to sympathize with

the slave, and now that he is free, and needs less, perhaps, of our

sympathy, this, by a transition, as easy as it is natural, is

transferred to his master. Poor, poor Phil!"

There was a strange emotion, half-sad, half-pleasant tugging at his

heart. A mist came before his eyes and hid the landscape for a

moment.

And he, he referred it all to the memories of the brother. Yes, he

thought he was thinking of the brother, and he did not notice or did

not pretend to notice that a pair of appealing eyes looking out

beneath waves of brown hair, that a soft, fair hand, pressed in his

own, floated nebulously at the back of his consciousness.

It was not until he had set out to furnish his house with a complement

of servants against the coming of his father that Bartley came to

realize the full worth of Mammy Peggy's offer to "do for him." The old

woman not only got his meals and kept him comfortable, trudging over

and back every day from the little cottage, but she proved invaluable

in the choice of domestic help. She knew her people thereabouts, just

who was spry, and who was trifling, and with the latter she would have

nothing whatever to do. She acted rather as if he were a guest in his

own house, and what was more would take no pay for it. Of course there

had to be some return for so much kindness, and it took the form of

various gifts of flowers and fruit from the old place to the new

cottage. And sometimes when Bartley had forgotten to speak of it

before mammy had left, he would arrange his baskets and carry his

offering over himself. Mima thought it was very thoughtful and kind of

him, and she wondered on these occasions if they ought not to keep Mr.

Northcope to tea, and if mammy would not like to make some of those

nice muffins of hers that he had liked so, and mammy always smiled on

her charge, and said, "Yes, honey, yes, but hit do 'pear lak' dat

Mistah No'thcope do fu'git mo' an' mo' to sen' de t'ings ovah by me

w'en I's daih."

But mammy found her special charge when the elder Northcope came. It

seemed that she could never do enough for the pale, stooped old man,

and he declared that he had never felt better in his life than he grew

to feel under her touch. An injury to his spine had resulted in

partially disabling him, but his mind was a rich store of knowledge,

and his disposition was tender and cheerful. So it pleased his son

sometimes to bring Mima over to see him.

The warm, impulsive heart of the Southern girl went out to him, and

they became friends at once. He found in her that soft, caressing,

humoring quality that even his son's devotion could not supply, and

his superior age, knowledge and wisdom made up to her the lost

father's care for which Peggy's love illy substituted. The tenderness

grew between them. Through the long afternoons she would read to him

from his favorite books, or would listen to him as he talked of the

lands where he had been, and the things he had seen. Sometimes Mammy

Peggy grumbled at the reading, and said it "wuz jes' lak' doin' hiahed

wo'k," but Mima only laughed and went on.

Bartley saw the sympathy between them and did not obtrude his

presence, but often in the twilight when she started away, he would

slip out of some corner and walk home with her.

These little walks together were very pleasant, and on one occasion he

had asked her the question that made her pale and red by turns, and

sent her heart beating with convulsive throbs that made her gasp.

"Maybe I'm over soon in asking you, Mima dear," he faltered,

"but--but, I couldn't wait any longer. You've become a part of my

life. I have no hope, no joy, no thought that you are not of. Won't

you be my wife?"

They were pausing at her gate, and she was trembling from what emotion

he only dared guess. But she did not answer. She only returned the

pressure of his hand, and drawing it away, rushed into the house. She

durst not trust her voice. Bartley went home walking on air.

Mima did not go directly to Mammy Peggy with her news. She must

compose herself first. This was hard to do, so she went to her room

and sat down to think it over.

"He loves me, he loves me," she kept saying to herself and with each

repetition of the words, the red came anew into her cheeks. They were

still a suspicious hue when she went into the kitchen to find mammy

who was slumbering over the waiting dinner. "What meks you so long,

honey," asked the old woman, coming wide awake out of her cat-nap.

"Oh,--I--I--I don't know," answered the young girl, blushing

furiously, "I--I stopped to talk."

"Why dey ain no one in de house to talk to. I hyeahed you w'en you

come home. You have been a powahful time sence you come in. Whut meks

you so red?" Then a look of intelligence came into mammy's fat face,

"Oomph," she said.

"Oh mammy, don't look that way, I couldn't help it. Bartley--Mr.

Northcope has asked me to be his wife."

"Asked you to be his wife! Oomph! Whut did you tell him?"

"I didn't tell him anything. I was so ashamed I couldn't talk. I just

ran away like a silly."

"Oomph," said mammy again, "an' whut you gwine to tell him?"

"Oh, I don't know. Don't you think he's a very nice young man, Mr.

Northcope, mammy? And then his father's so nice."

Mammy's face clouded. "I doan' see whaih yo' Ha'ison pride is," she

said; "co'se, he may be nice enough, but does you want to tell him yes

de fust t'ing, so's he'll t'ink dat you jumped at de chanst to git him

an' git back in de homestid?"

"Oh, mammy," cried Mima; she had gone all white and cold.

"You do' know nothin' 'bout his quality. You a Ha'ison yo'se'f. Who is

he to be jumped at an' tuk at de fust axin'? Ef he wants you ve'y bad

he'll ax mo' dan once."

"You needn't have reminded me, mammy, of who I am," said Mima. "I had

no intention of telling Mr. Northcope yes. You needn't have been

afraid for me." She fibbed a little, it is to be feared.

"Now don't talk dat 'way, chile. I know you laks him, an' I do' want

to stop you f'om tekin' him. Don't you say no, ez ef you wasn' nevah

gwine to say nothin' else. You jes' say a hol'in' off no."

"I like Mr. Northcope as a friend, and my no to him will be final."

The dinner did not go down very well with Mima that evening. It

stopped in her throat, and when she swallowed, it brought the tears to

her eyes. When it was done, she hurried away to her room.

She was so disappointed, but she would not confess it to herself, and

she would not weep. "He proposed to me because he pitied me, oh, the

shame of it! He turned me out of doors, and then thought I would be

glad to come back at any price."

When he read her cold formal note, Bartley knew that he had offended

her, and the thought burned him like fire. He cursed himself for a

blundering fool. "She was only trying to be kind to father and me," he

said, "and I have taken advantage of her goodness." He would never

have confessed to himself before that he was a coward. But that

morning when he got her note, he felt that he could not face her just

yet, and commending his father to the tender mercies of Mammy Peggy

and the servants, he took the first train to the north.

It would be hard to say which of the two was the most disappointed

when the truth was known. It might better be said which of the three,

for Mima went no more to the house, and the elder Northcope fretted

and was restless without her. He availed himself of an invalid's

privilege to be disagreeable, and nothing Mammy Peggy could do now

would satisfy him. Indeed, between the two, the old woman had a hard

time of it, for Mima was tearful and morose, and would not speak to

her except to blame her. As the days went on she wished to all the

powers that she had left the Harrison pride in the keeping of the

direct members of the family. It had proven a dangerous thing in her

hands.

Mammy soliloquized when she was about her work in the kitchen. "Men

ain' whut dey used to be," she said, "who'd 'a' t'ought o' de young

man a runnin' off dat away jes' 'cause a ooman tol' him no. He orter

had sense enough to know dat a ooman has sev'al kin's o' noes. Now ef

dat 'ud 'a' been in my day he'd a jes' stayed away to let huh t'ink

hit ovah an' den come back an' axed huh ag'in. Den she could 'a' said

yes all right an' proper widout a belittlin' huhse'f. But 'stead o'

dat he mus' go a ta'in' off jes' ez soon ez de fus' wo'ds come outen

huh mouf. Put' nigh brekin' huh hea't. I clah to goodness, I nevah did

see sich ca'in's on."

Several weeks passed before Bartley returned to his home. Autumn was

painting the trees about the place before the necessity of being at

his father's side called him from his voluntary exile. And then he did

not go to see Mima. He was still bowed with shame at what he thought

his unmanly presumption, and he did not blame her that she avoided

him.

His attention was arrested one day about a week after his return by

the peculiar actions of Mammy Peggy. She hung around him, and watched

him, following him from place to place like a spaniel.

Finally he broke into a laugh and said, "Why, what's the matter, Aunt

Peggy, are you afraid I'm going to run away?"

"No, I ain' afeared o' dat," said mammy, meekly, "but I been had

somepn' to say to you dis long w'ile."

"Well, go ahead, I'm listening."

Mammy gulped and went on. "Ask huh ag'in," she said, "it were my fault

she tol' you no. I 'minded huh o' huh fambly pride an' tol' huh to

hol' you off less'n you'd t'ink she wan'ed to jump at you."

Bartley was on his feet in a minute.

"What does this mean," he cried. "Is it true, didn't I offend her?"

"No, you didn' 'fend huh. She's been pinin' fu' you, 'twell she's

growed right peekid."

"Sh, auntie, do you mean to tell me that Mim--Miss Harrison cares for

me?"

"You go an' ax huh ag'in."

Bartley needed no second invitation. He flew to the cottage. Mima's

heart gave a great throb when she saw him coming up the walk, and she

tried to harden herself against him. But her lips would twitch, and

her voice would tremble as she said, "How do you do, Mr. Northcope?"

He looked keenly into her eyes.

"Have I been mistaken, Mima," he said, "in believing that I greatly

offended you by asking you to be my wife? Do you--can you care for

me, darling?"

The words stuck in her throat, and he went on, "I thought you were

angry with me because I had taken advantage of your kindness to my

father, or presumed upon any kindness that you may have felt for me

out of respect to your brother's memory. Believe me, I was innocent of

any such intention."

"Oh, it wasn't--it wasn't that!" she gasped.

"Then won't you give me a different answer," he said, taking her hand.

"I can't, I can't," she cried.

"Why, Mima?" he asked.

"Because--"

"Because of the Harrison pride?"

"Bartley!"

"Your Mammy Peggy has confessed all to me."

"Mammy Peggy!"

"Yes."

She tried hard to stiffen herself. "Then it is all out of the

question," she began.

"Don't let any little folly or pride stand between us," he broke in,

drawing her to him.

She gave up the struggle, and her head dropped upon his shoulder for

a moment. Then she lifted her eyes, shining with tears to his face,

and said, "Bartley, it wasn't my pride, it was Mammy Peggy's."

He cut off further remarks.

When he was gone, and mammy came in after a while, Mima ran to her

crying,

"Oh, mammy, mammy, you bad, stupid, dear old goose!" and she buried

her head in the old woman's lap.

"Oomph," grunted mammy, "I said de right kin' o' pride allus pays. But

de wrong kin'--oomph, well, you'd bettah look out!"

VINEY'S FREE PAPERS

Part I

There was joy in the bosom of Ben Raymond. He sang as he hoed in the

field. He cheerfully worked overtime and his labors did not make him

tired. When the quitting horn blew he executed a double shuffle as he

shouldered his hoe and started for his cabin. While the other men

dragged wearily over the ground he sprang along as if all day long he

had not been bending over the hoe in the hot sun, with the sweat

streaming from his face in rivulets.

And this had been going on for two months now--two happy months--ever

since Viney had laid her hand in his, had answered with a coquettish

"Yes," and the master had given his consent, his blessing and a

five-dollar bill.

It had been a long and trying courtship--that is, it had been trying

for Ben, because Viney loved pleasure and hungered for attention and

the field was full of rivals. She was a merry girl and a pretty one.

No one could dance better; no girl on the place was better able to

dress her dark charms to advantage or to show them off more

temptingly. The toss of her head was an invitation and a challenge in

one, and the way she smiled back at them over her shoulder, set the

young men's heads dancing and their hearts throbbing. So her suitors

were many. But through it all Ben was patient, unflinching and

faithful, and finally, after leading him a life full of doubt and

suspense, the coquette surrendered and gave herself into his keeping.

She was maid to her mistress, but she had time, nevertheless, to take

care of the newly whitewashed cabin in the quarters to which Ben took

her. And it was very pleasant to lean over and watch him at work

making things for the little house--a chair from a barrel and a

wonderful box of shelves to stand in the corner. And she knew how to

say merry things, and later outside his door Ben would pick his banjo

and sing low and sweetly in the musical voice of his race. Altogether

such another honeymoon there had never been.

For once the old women hushed up their prophecies of evil, although in

the beginning they had shaken their wise old turbaned heads and

predicted that marriage with such a flighty creature as Viney could

come to no good. They had said among themselves that Ben would better

marry some good, solid-minded, strong-armed girl who would think more

about work than about pleasures and coquetting.

"I 'low, honey," an old woman had said, "she'll mek his heart ache

many a time. She'll comb his haid wid a three-legged stool an' bresh

it wid de broom. Uh, huh--putty, is she? You ma'y huh 'cause she

putty. Ki-yi! She fix you! Putty women fu' putty tricks."

And the old hag smacked her lips over the spice of malevolence in her

words. Some women--and they are not all black and ugly--never forgive

the world for letting them grow old.

But, in spite of all prophecies to the contrary, two months of

unalloyed joy had passed for Ben and Viney, and to-night the climax

seemed to have been reached. Ben hurried along, talking to himself as

his hoe swung over his shoulder.

"Kin I do it?" he was saying. "Kin I do it?" Then he would stop his

walk and his cogitations would bloom into a mirthful chuckle.

Something very pleasant was passing through his mind.

As he approached, Viney was standing in the door of the little cabin,

whose white sides with green Madeira clambering over them made a

pretty frame for the dark girl in her print dress. The husband bent

double at sight of her, stopped, took off his hat, slapped his knee,

and relieved his feelings by a sounding "Who-ee!"

"What's de mattah wid you, Ben? You ac' lak you mighty happy. Bettah

come on in hyeah an' git yo' suppah fo' hit gits col'."

For answer, the big fellow dropped the hoe and, seizing the slight

form in his arms, swung her around until she gasped for breath.

"Oh, Ben," she shrieked, "you done tuk all my win'!"

"Dah, now," he said, letting her down; "dat's what you gits fu'

talkin' sassy to me!"

"Nev' min'; I'm goin' to fix you fu' dat fus' time I gits de

chanst--see ef I don't."

"Whut you gwine do? Gwine to pizen me?"

"Worse'n dat!"

"Wuss'n dat? Whut you gwine fin' any wuss'n pizenin' me, less'n you

conjuh me?"

"Huh uh--still worse'n dat. I'm goin' to leave you."

"Huh uh--no you ain', 'cause any place you'd go you wouldn' no more'n

git dah twell you'd tu'n erroun' all of er sudden an' say, 'Why, dah's

Ben!' an' dah I'd be."

They chattered on like children while she was putting the supper on

the table and he was laving his hot face in the basin beside the door.

"I got great news fu' you," he said, as they sat down.

"I bet you ain' got nothin' of de kin'."

"All right. Den dey ain' no use in me a tryin' to 'vince you. I jes'

be wastin' my bref."

"Go on--tell me, Ben."

"Huh uh--you bet I ain', an' ef I tell you you lose de bet."

"I don' keer. Ef you don' tell me, den I know you ain' got no news

worth tellin'."

"Ain' go no news wuff tellin'! Who-ee!"

He came near choking on a gulp of coffee, and again his knee suffered

from the pounding of his great hands.

"Huccume you so full of laugh to-night?" she asked, laughing with him.

"How you 'spec' I gwine tell you dat less'n I tell you my sec'ut?"

"Well, den, go on--tell me yo' sec'ut."

"Huh uh. You done bet it ain' wuff tellin'."

"I don't keer what I bet. I wan' to hyeah it now. Please, Ben,

please!"

"Listen how she baig! Well, I gwine tell you now. I ain' gwine tease

you no mo'."

She bent her head forward expectantly.

"I had a talk wid Mas' Raymond to-day," resumed Ben.

"Yes?"

"An' he say he pay me all my back money fu' ovahtime."

"Oh!"

"An' all I gits right along he gwine he'p me save, an' when I git fo'

hund'ed dollahs he gwine gin me de free papahs fu' you, my little

gal."

"Oh, Ben, Ben! Hit ain' so, is it?"

"Yes, hit is. Den you'll be you own ooman--leas'ways less'n you wants

to be mine."

She went and put her arms around his neck. Her eyes were sparkling and

her lips quivering.

"You don' mean, Ben, dat I'll be free?"

"Yes, you'll be free, Viney. Den I's gwine to set to wo'k an' buy my

free papahs."

"Oh, kin you do it--kin you do it--kin you do it?"

"Kin I do it?" he repeated. He stretched out his arm, with the sleeve

rolled to the shoulder, and curved it upward till the muscles stood

out like great knots of oak. Then he opened and shut his fingers,

squeezing them together until the joints cracked. "Kin I do it?" He

looked down on her calmly and smiled simply, happily.

She threw her arms around his waist and sank on her knees at his feet

sobbing.

"Ben, Ben! My Ben! I nevah even thought of it. Hit seemed so far away,

but now we're goin' to be free--free, free!"

He lifted her up gently.

"It's gwine to tek a pow'ful long time," he said.

"I don' keer," she cried gaily. "We know it's comin' an' we kin wait."

The woman's serious mood had passed as quickly as it had come, and she

spun around the cabin, executing a series of steps that set her

husband a-grin with admiration and joy.

And so Ben began to work with renewed vigor. He had found a purpose in

life and there was something for him to look for beyond dinner, a

dance and the end of the day. He had always been a good hand, but now

he became a model--no shirking, no shiftlessness--and because he was

so earnest his master did what he could to help him. Numerous little

plans were formulated whereby the slave could make or save a precious

dollar.

Viney, too, seemed inspired by a new hope, and if this little house

had been pleasant to Ben, nothing now was wanting to make it a palace

in his eyes. Only one sorrow he had, and that one wrung hard at his

great heart--no baby came to them--but instead he made a great baby of

his wife, and went on his way hiding his disappointment the best he

could. The banjo was often silent now, for when he came home his

fingers were too stiff to play; but sometimes, when his heart ached

for the laughter of a child, he would take down his old friend and

play low, soothing melodies until he found rest and comfort.

Viney had once tried to console him by saying that had she had a child

it would have taken her away from her work, but he had only answered,

"We could a' stood that."

But Ben's patient work and frugality had their reward, and it was only

a little over three years after he had set out to do it that he put in

his master's hand the price of Viney's freedom, and there was sound of

rejoicing in the land. A fat shoat, honestly come by--for it was the

master's gift--was killed and baked, great jugs of biting persimmon

beer were brought forth, and the quarters held high carnival to

celebrate Viney's new-found liberty.

After the merrymakers had gone, and when the cabin was clear again,

Ben held out the paper that had been on exhibition all evening to

Viney.

"Hyeah, hyeah's de docyment dat meks you yo' own ooman. Tek it."

During all the time that it had been out for show that night the

people had looked upon it with a sort of awe, as if it was possessed

of some sort of miraculous power. Even now Viney did not take hold of

it, but shrunk away with a sort of gasp.

"No, Ben, you keep it. I can't tek keer o' no sich precious thing ez

dat. Put hit in yo' chist."

"Tek hit and feel of hit, anyhow, so's you'll know dat you's free."

She took it gingerly between her thumb and forefinger. Ben suddenly

let go.

"Dah, now," he said; "you keep dat docyment. It's yo's. Keep hit undah

yo' own 'sponsibility."

"No, no, Ben!" she cried. "I jes' can't!"

"You mus'. Dat's de way to git used to bein' free. Whenevah you looks

at yo'se'f an' feels lak you ain' no diff'ent f'om whut you been you

tek dat papah out an' look at hit, an' say to yo'se'f, 'Dat means

freedom.'"

Carefully, reverently, silently Viney put the paper into her bosom.

"Now, de nex' t'ing fu' me to do is to set out to git one dem papahs

fu' myse'f. Hit'll be a long try, 'cause I can't buy mine so cheap as

I got yo's, dough de Lawd knows why a great big ol' hunk lak me should

cos' mo'n a precious mossell lak you."

"Hit's because dey's so much of you, Ben, an' evah bit of you's wo'th

its weight in gol'."

"Heish, chile! Don' put my valy so high, er I'll be twell jedgment day

a-payin' hit off."

PART II

So Ben went forth to battle for his own freedom, undaunted by the task

before him, while Viney took care of the cabin, doing what she could

outside. Armed with her new dignity, she insisted upon her friends'

recognizing the change in her condition.

Thus, when Mandy so far forgot herself as to address her as Viney

Raymond, the new free woman's head went up and she said with withering

emphasis:

"Mis' Viney Allen, if you please!"

"Viney Allen!" exclaimed her visitor. "Huccum you's Viney Allen now?"

"'Cause I don' belong to de Raymonds no mo', an' I kin tek my own name

now."

"Ben 'longs to de Raymonds, an' his name Ben Raymond an' you his wife.

How you git aroun' dat, Mis' Viney Allen?"

"Ben's name goin' to be Mistah Allen soon's he gits his free papahs."

"Oomph! You done gone now! Yo' naik so stiff you can't ha'dly ben' it.

I don' see how dat papah mek sich a change in anybody's actions. Yo'

face ain' got no whitah."

"No, but I's free, an' I kin do as I please."

Mandy went forth and spread the news that Viney had changed her name

from Raymond to Allen. "She's Mis' Viney Allen, if you please!" was

her comment. Great was the indignation among the older heads whose

fathers and mothers and grandfathers before them had been Raymonds.

The younger element was greatly amused and took no end of pleasure in

repeating the new name or addressing each other by fantastic

cognomens. Viney's popularity did not increase.

Some rumors of this state of things drifted to Ben's ears and he

questioned his wife about them. She admitted what she had done.

"But, Viney," said Ben, "Raymond's good enough name fu' me."

"Don' you see, Ben," she answered, "dat I don' belong to de Raymonds

no mo', so I ain' Viney Raymond. Ain' you goin' change w'en you git

free?"

"I don' know. I talk about dat when I's free, and freedom's a mighty

long, weary way off yet."

"Evahbody dat's free has dey own name, an' I ain' nevah goin' feel

free's long ez I's a-totin' aroun' de Raymonds' name."

"Well, change den," said Ben; "but wait ontwell I kin change wid you."

Viney tossed her head, and that night she took out her free papers and

studied them long and carefully.

She was incensed at her friends that they would not pay her the homage

that she felt was due her. She was incensed at Ben because he would

not enter into her feelings about the matter. She brooded upon her

fancied injuries, and when a chance for revenge came she seized upon

it eagerly.

There were two or three free negro families in the vicinity of the

Raymond place, but there had been no intercourse between them and the

neighboring slaves. It was to these people that Viney now turned in

anger against her own friends. It first amounted to a few visits back

and forth, and then, either because the association became more

intimate or because she was instigated to it by her new companions,

she refused to have anything more to do with the Raymond servants.

Boldly and without concealment she shut the door in Mandy's face, and,

hearing this, few of the others gave her a similar chance.

Ben remonstrated with her, and she answered him:

"No, suh! I ain' goin' 'sociate wid slaves! I's free!"

"But you cuttin' out yo' own husban'."

"Dat's diff'ent. I's jined to my husban'." And then petulantly: "I do

wish you'd hu'y up an' git yo' free papahs, Ben."

"Dey'll be a long time a-comin'," he said; "yeahs f'om now. Mebbe I'd

abettah got mine fust."

She looked up at him with a quick, suspicious glance. When she was

alone again she took her papers and carefully hid them.

"I's free," she whispered to herself, "an' I don' expec' to nevah be a

slave no mo'."

She was further excited by the moving North of one of the free

families with which she had been associated. The emigrants had painted

glowing pictures of the Eldorado to which they were going, and now

Viney's only talk in the evening was of the glories of the North. Ben

would listen to her unmoved, until one night she said:

"You ought to go North when you gits yo' papahs."

Then he had answered her, with kindling eyes:

"No, I won't go Nawth! I was bo'n an' raised in de Souf, an' in de

Souf I stay ontwell I die. Ef I have to go Nawth to injoy my freedom I

won't have it. I'll quit wo'kin fu' it."

Ben was positive, but he felt uneasy, and the next day he told his

master of the whole matter, and Mr. Raymond went down to talk to

Viney.

She met him with a determination that surprised and angered him. To

everything he said to her she made but one answer: "I's got my free

papahs an' I's a-goin' Nawth."

Finally her former master left her with the remark:

"Well, I don't care where you go, but I'm sorry for Ben. He was a fool

for working for you. You don't half deserve such a man."

"I won' have him long," she flung after him, with a laugh.

The opposition with which she had met seemed to have made her more

obstinate, and in spite of all Ben could do, she began to make

preparations to leave him. The money for the chickens and eggs had

been growing and was to have gone toward her husband's ransom, but she

finally sold all her laying hens to increase the amount. Then she

calmly announced to her husband:

"I's got money enough an' I's a-goin' Nawth next week. You kin stay

down hyeah an' be a slave ef you want to, but I's a-goin' Nawth."

"Even ef I wanted to go Nawth you know I ain' half paid out yit."

"Well, I can't he'p it. I can't spen' all de bes' pa't o' my life down

hyeah where dey ain' no 'vantages."

"I reckon dey's 'vantages everywhah fu' anybody dat wants to wu'k."

"Yes, but what kin' o' wages does yo' git? Why, de Johnsons say dey

had a lettah f'om Miss Smiff an' dey's gettin' 'long fine in de

Nawth."

"De Johnsons ain' gwine?"

"Si Johnson is--"

Then the woman stopped suddenly.

"Oh, hit's Si Johnson? Huh!"

"He ain' goin' wid me. He's jes' goin' to see dat I git sta'ted right

aftah I git thaih."

"Hit's Si Johnson?" he repeated.

"'Tain't," said the woman. "Hit's freedom."

Ben got up and went out of the cabin.

"Men's so 'spicious," she said. "I ain' goin' Nawth 'cause Si's

a-goin'--I ain't."

When Mr. Raymond found out how matters were really going he went to

Ben where he was at work in the field.

"Now, look here, Ben," he said. "You're one of the best hands on my

place and I'd be sorry to lose you. I never did believe in this buying

business from the first, but you were so bent on it that I gave in.

But before I'll see her cheat you out of your money I'll give you your

free papers now. You can go North with her and you can pay me back

when you find work."

"No," replied Ben doggedly. "Ef she cain't wait fu' me she don' want

me, an' I won't roller her erroun' an' be in de way."

"You're a fool!" said his master.

"I loves huh," said the slave. And so this plan came to naught.

Then came the night on which Viney was getting together her

belongings. Ben sat in a corner of the cabin silent, his head bowed in

his hands. Every once in a while the woman cast a half-frightened

glance at him. He had never once tried to oppose her with force,

though she saw that grief had worn lines into his face.

The door opened and Si Johnson came in. He had just dropped in to see

if everything was all right. He was not to go for a week.

"Let me look at yo' free papahs," he said, for Si could read and liked

to show off his accomplishment at every opportunity. He stumbled

through the formal document to the end, reading at the last: "This is

a present from Ben to his beloved wife, Viney."

She held out her hand for the paper. When Si was gone she sat gazing

at it, trying in her ignorance to pick from the, to her, senseless

scrawl those last words. Ben had not raised his head.

Still she sat there, thinking, and without looking her mind began to

take in the details of the cabin. That box of shelves there in the

corner Ben had made in the first days they were together. Yes, and

this chair on which she was sitting--she remembered how they had

laughed over its funny shape before he had padded it with cotton and

covered it with the piece of linsey "old Mis'" had given him. The very

chest in which her things were packed he had made, and when the last

nail was driven he had called it her trunk, and said she should put

her finery in it when she went traveling like the white folks. She was

going traveling now, and Ben--Ben? There he sat across from her in his

chair, bowed and broken, his great shoulders heaving with suppressed

grief.

Then, before she knew it, Viney was sobbing, and had crept close to

him and put her arms around his neck. He threw out his arms with a

convulsive gesture and gathered her up to his breast, and the tears

gushed from his eyes.

When the first storm of weeping had passed Viney rose and went to the

fireplace. She raked forward the coals.

"Ben," she said, "hit's been dese pleggoned free papahs. I want you to

see em bu'n."

"No, no!" he said. But the papers were already curling, and in a

moment they were in a blaze.

"Thaih," she said, "thaih, now, Viney Raymond!"

Ben gave a great gasp, then sprang forward and took her in his arms

and kicked the packed chest into the corner.

And that night singing was heard from Ben's cabin and the sound of the

banjo.

THE FRUITFUL SLEEPING OF THE REV. ELISHA EDWARDS

There was great commotion in Zion Church, a body of Christian

worshippers, usually noted for their harmony. But for the last six

months, trouble had been brewing between the congregation and the

pastor. The Rev. Elisha Edwards had come to them two years before, and

he had given good satisfaction as to preaching and pastoral work. Only

one thing had displeased his congregation in him, and that was his

tendency to moments of meditative abstraction in the pulpit. However

much fire he might have displayed before a brother minister arose to

speak, and however much he might display in the exhortation after the

brother was done with the labors of hurling phillipics against the

devil, he sat between in the same way, with head bowed and eyes

closed.

There were some who held that it was a sign in him of deep

thoughtfulness, and that he was using these moments for silent prayer

and meditation. But others, less generous, said that he was either

jealous of or indifferent to other speakers. So the discussion rolled

on about the Rev. Elisha, but it did not reach him and he went

on in the same way until one hapless day, one tragic, one

never-to-be-forgotten day. While Uncle Isham Dyer was exhorting the

people to repent of their sins, the disclosure came. The old man had

arisen on the wings of his eloquence and was painting hell for the

sinners in the most terrible colors, when to the utter surprise of the

whole congregation, a loud and penetrating snore broke from the throat

of the pastor of the church. It rumbled down the silence and startled

the congregation into sudden and indignant life like the surprising

cannon of an invading host. Horror-stricken eyes looked into each

other, hands were thrown into the air, and heavy lips made round O's

of surprise and anger. This was his meditation. The Rev. Elisha

Edwards was asleep!

Uncle Isham Dyer turned around and looked down on his pastor in

disgust, and then turned again to his exhortations, but he was

disconcerted, and soon ended lamely.

[Illustration: UNCLE ISHAM DYER EXHORTS.]

As for the Rev. Elisha himself, his snore rumbled on through the

church, his head drooped lower, until with a jerk, he awakened

himself. He sighed religiously, patted his foot upon the floor, rubbed

his hands together, and looked complacently over the aggrieved

congregation. Old ladies moaned and old men shivered, but the pastor

did not know what they had discovered, and shouted Amen, because he

thought something Uncle Isham had said was affecting them. Then, when

he arose to put the cap sheaf on his local brother's exhortations, he

was strong, fiery, eloquent, but it was of no use. Not a cry, not a

moan, not an Amen could he gain from his congregation. Only the local

preacher himself, thinking over the scene which had just been enacted,

raised his voice, placed his hands before his eyes, and murmured,

"Lord he'p we po' sinnahs!"

Brother Edwards could not understand this unresponsiveness on the part

of his people. They had been wont to weave and moan and shout and sigh

when he spoke to them, and when, in the midst of his sermon, he paused

to break into spirited song, they would join with him until the church

rang again. But this day, he sang alone, and ominous glances were

flashed from pew to pew and from aisle to pulpit. The collection that

morning was especially small. No one asked the minister home to

dinner, an unusual thing, and so he went his way, puzzled and

wondering.

Before church that night, the congregation met together for

conference. The exhorter of the morning himself opened proceedings by

saying, "Brothahs an' sistahs, de Lawd has opened ouah eyes to

wickedness in high places."

"Oom--oom--oom, he have opened ouah eyes," moaned an old sister.

"We have been puhmitted to see de man who was intrusted wid de

guidance of dis flock a-sleepin' in de houah of duty, an' we feels

grieved ter-night."

"He sholy were asleep," sister Hannah Johnson broke in, "dey ain't no

way to 'spute dat, dat man sholy were asleep."

"I kin testify to it," said another sister, "I p'intly did hyeah him

sno', an' I hyeahed him sno't w'en he waked up."

"An' we been givin' him praise fu' meditation," pursued Brother Isham

Dyer, who was only a local preacher, in fact, but who had designs on

ordination, and the pastoring of Zion Church himself.

"It ain't de sleepin' itse'f," he went on, "ef you 'member in de

Gyarden of Gethsemane, endurin' de agony of ouah Lawd, dem what he

tuk wid him fu' to watch while he prayed, went to sleep on his han's.

But he fu'give 'em, fu' he said, 'De sperit is willin' but de flesh is

weak.' We know dat dey is times w'en de eyes grow sandy, an' de haid

grow heavy, an' we ain't accusin' ouah brothah, nor a-blamin' him fu'

noddin'. But what we do blame him fu' is fu' 'ceivin' us, an' mekin'

us believe he was prayin' an' meditatin', w'en he wasn' doin' a

blessed thing but snoozin'."

"Dat's it, dat's it," broke in a chorus of voices. "He 'ceived us,

dat's what he did."

The meeting went stormily on, the accusation and the anger of the

people against the minister growing more and more. One or two were for

dismissing him then and there, but calmer counsel prevailed and it was

decided to give him another trial. He was a good preacher they had to

admit. He had visited them when they were sick, and brought sympathy

to their afflictions, and a genial presence when they were well. They

would not throw him over, without one more chance, at least, of

vindicating himself.

This was well for the Rev. Elisha, for with the knowledge that he was

to be given another chance, one trembling little woman, who had

listened in silence and fear to the tirades against him, crept out of

the church, and hastened over in the direction of the parsonage. She

met the preacher coming toward the church, hymn-book in hand, and his

Bible under his arm. With a gasp, she caught him by the arm, and

turned him back.

"Come hyeah," she said, "come hyeah, dey been talkin' 'bout you, an' I

want to tell you."

"Why, Sis' Dicey," said the minister complacently, "what is the

mattah? Is you troubled in sperit?"

"I's troubled in sperit now," she answered, "but you'll be troubled in

a minute. Dey done had a church meetin' befo' services. Dey foun' out

you was sleepin' dis mornin' in de pulpit. You ain't only sno'ed, but

you sno'ted, an' dey 'lowin' to give you one mo' trial, an' ef you

falls f'om grace agin, dey gwine ax you fu' to 'sign f'om de

pastorship."

The minister staggered under the blow, and his brow wrinkled. To leave

Zion Church. It would be very hard. And to leave there in disgrace;

where would he go? His career would be ruined. The story would go to

every church of the connection in the country, and he would be an

outcast from his cloth and his kind. He felt that it was all a mistake

after all. He loved his work, and he loved his people. He wanted to do

the right thing, but oh, sometimes, the chapel was hot and the hours

were long. Then his head would grow heavy, and his eyes would close,

but it had been only for a minute or two. Then, this morning, he

remembered how he had tried to shake himself awake, how gradually, the

feeling had overcome him. Then--then--he had snored. He had not tried

wantonly to deceive them, but the Book said, "Let not thy right hand

know what thy left hand doeth." He did not think it necessary to tell

them that he dropped into an occasional nap in church. Now, however,

they knew all.

He turned and looked down at the little woman, who waited to hear what

he had to say.

"Thankye, ma'am, Sis' Dicey," he said. "Thankye, ma'am. I believe I'll

go back an' pray ovah this subject." And he turned and went back into

the parsonage.

Whether he had prayed over it or whether he had merely thought over

it, and made his plans accordingly, when the Rev. Elisha came into

church that night, he walked with a new spirit. There was a smile on

his lips, and the light of triumph in his eyes. Throughout the

Deacon's long prayer, his loud and insistent Amens precluded the

possibility of any sleep on his part. His sermon was a masterpiece of

fiery eloquence, and as Sister Green stepped out of the church door

that night, she said, "Well, ef Brothah Eddards slep' dis mornin', he

sholy prached a wakenin' up sermon ter-night." The congregation hardly

remembered that their pastor had ever been asleep. But the pastor knew

when the first flush of enthusiasm was over that their minds would

revert to the crime of the morning, and he made plans accordingly for

the next Sunday which should again vindicate him in the eyes of his

congregation.

The Sunday came round, and as he ascended to the pulpit, their eyes

were fastened upon him with suspicious glances. Uncle Isham Dyer had a

smile of triumph on his face, because the day was a particularly hot

and drowsy one. It was on this account, the old man thought, that the

Rev. Elisha asked him to say a few words at the opening of the

meeting. "Shirkin' again," said the old man to himself, "I reckon he

wants to go to sleep again, but ef he don't sleep dis day to his own

confusion, I ain't hyeah." So he arose, and burst into a wonderful

exhortation on the merits of a Christian life.

He had scarcely been talking for five minutes, when the ever watchful

congregation saw the pastor's head droop, and his eyes close. For the

next fifteen minutes, little or no attention was paid to Brother

Dyer's exhortation. The angry people were nudging each other,

whispering, and casting indignant glances at the sleeping pastor. He

awoke and sat up, just as the exhorter was finishing in a fiery

period. If those who watched him, were expecting to see any

embarrassed look on his face, or show of timidity in his eyes, they

were mistaken. Instead, his appearance was one of sudden alertness,

and his gaze that of a man in extreme exaltation. One would have said

that it had been given to him as to the inspired prophets of old to

see and to hear things far and beyond the ken of ordinary mortals. As

Brother Dyer sat down, he arose quickly and went forward to the front

of the pulpit with a firm step. Still, with the look of exaltation on

his face, he announced his text, "Ef he sleep he shell do well."

The congregation, which a moment before had been all indignation,

suddenly sprang into the most alert attention. There was a visible

pricking up of ears as the preacher entered into his subject. He spoke

first of the benefits of sleep, what it did for the worn human body

and the weary human soul, then turning off into a half-humorous,

half-quizzical strain, which was often in his sermons, he spoke of how

many times he had to forgive some of those who sat before him to-day

for nodding in their pews; then raising his voice, like a good

preacher, he came back to his text, exclaiming, "But ef he sleep, he

shell do well."

He went on then, and told of Jacob's sleep, and how at night, in the

midst of his slumbers the visions of angels had come to him, and he

had left a testimony behind him that was still a solace to their

hearts. Then he lowered his voice and said:

"You all condemns a man when you sees him asleep, not knowin' what

visions is a-goin' thoo his mind, nor what feelin's is a-goin thoo his

heart. You ain't conside'in' that mebbe he's a-doin' mo' in the soul

wo'k when he's asleep then when he's awake. Mebbe he sleep, w'en you

think he ought to be up a-wo'kin'. Mebbe he slumber w'en you think he

ought to be up an' erbout. Mebbe he sno' an' mebbe he sno't, but I'm

a-hyeah to tell you, in de wo'ds of the Book, that they ain't no

'sputin' 'Ef he sleep, he shell do well!'"

"Yes, Lawd!" "Amen!" "Sleep on Ed'ards!" some one shouted. The church

was in smiles of joy. They were rocking to and fro with the ecstasy of

the sermon, but the Rev. Elisha had not yet put on the cap sheaf.

"Hol' on," he said, "befo' you shouts er befo' you sanctions. Fu' you

may yet have to tu'n yo' backs erpon me, an' say, 'Lawd he'p the man!'

I's a-hyeah to tell you that many's the time in this very pulpit,

right under yo' very eyes, I has gone f'om meditation into slumber.

But what was the reason? Was I a-shirkin' er was I lazy?"

Shouts of "No! No!" from the congregation.

"No, no," pursued the preacher, "I wasn't a-shirkin' ner I wasn't

a-lazy, but the soul within me was a wo'kin' wid the min', an' as we

all gwine ter do some day befo' long, early in de mornin', I done

fu'git this ol' body. My haid fall on my breas', my eyes close, an' I

see visions of anothah day to come. I see visions of a new Heaven an'

a new earth, when we shell all be clothed in white raimen', an' we

shell play ha'ps of gol', an' walk de golden streets of the New

Jerusalem! That's what been a runnin' thoo my min', w'en I set up in

the pulpit an' sleep under the Wo'd; but I want to ax you, was I

wrong? I want to ax you, was I sinnin'? I want to p'int you right

hyeah to the Wo'd, as it are read out in yo' hyeahin' ter-day, 'Ef he

sleep, he shell do well.'"

The Rev. Elisha ended his sermon amid the smiles and nods and tears of

his congregation. No one had a harsh word for him now, and even

Brother Dyer wiped his eyes and whispered to his next neighbor, "Dat

man sholy did sleep to some pu'pose," although he knew that the dictum

was a deathblow to his own pastoral hopes. The people thronged around

the pastor as he descended from the pulpit, and held his hand as they

had done of yore. One old woman went out, still mumbling under her

breath, "Sleep on, Ed'ards, sleep on."

There were no more church meetings after that, and no tendency to

dismiss the pastor. On the contrary, they gave him a donation party

next week, at which Sister Dicey helped him to receive his guests.

THE INGRATE

I

Mr. Leckler was a man of high principle. Indeed, he himself had

admitted it at times to Mrs. Leckler. She was often called into

counsel with him. He was one of those large souled creatures with a

hunger for unlimited advice, upon which he never acted. Mrs. Leckler

knew this, but like the good, patient little wife that she was, she

went on paying her poor tribute of advice and admiration. To-day her

husband's mind was particularly troubled,--as usual, too, over a

matter of principle. Mrs. Leckler came at his call.

"Mrs. Leckler," he said, "I am troubled in my mind. I--in fact, I am

puzzled over a matter that involves either the maintaining or

relinquishing of a principle."

"Well, Mr. Leckler?" said his wife, interrogatively.

"If I had been a scheming, calculating Yankee, I should have been rich

now; but all my life I have been too generous and confiding. I have

always let principle stand between me and my interests." Mr. Leckler

took himself all too seriously to be conscious of his pun, and went

on: "Now this is a matter in which my duty and my principles seem to

conflict. It stands thus: Josh has been doing a piece of plastering

for Mr. Eckley over in Lexington, and from what he says, I think that

city rascal has misrepresented the amount of work to me and so cut

down the pay for it. Now, of course, I should not care, the matter of

a dollar or two being nothing to me; but it is a very different matter

when we consider poor Josh." There was deep pathos in Mr. Leckler's

tone. "You know Josh is anxious to buy his freedom, and I allow him a

part of whatever he makes; so you see it's he that's affected. Every

dollar that he is cheated out of cuts off just so much from his

earnings, and puts further away his hope of emancipation."

If the thought occurred to Mrs. Leckler that, since Josh received only

about one-tenth of what he earned, the advantage of just wages would

be quite as much her husband's as the slave's, she did not betray it,

but met the naive reasoning with the question, "But where does the

conflict come in, Mr. Leckler?"

"Just here. If Josh knew how to read and write and cipher--"

"Mr. Leckler, are you crazy!"

"Listen to me, my dear, and give me the benefit of your judgment. This

is a very momentous question. As I was about to say, if Josh knew

these things, he could protect himself from cheating when his work is

at too great a distance for me to look after it for him."

"But teaching a slave--"

"Yes, that's just what is against my principles. I know how public

opinion and the law look at it. But my conscience rises up in

rebellion every time I think of that poor black man being cheated out

of his earnings. Really, Mrs. Leckler, I think I may trust to Josh's

discretion, and secretly give him such instructions as will permit him

to protect himself."

"Well, of course, it's just as you think best," said his wife.

"I knew you would agree with me," he returned. "It's such a comfort to

take counsel with you, my dear!" And the generous man walked out on to

the veranda, very well satisfied with himself and his wife, and

prospectively pleased with Josh. Once he murmured to himself, "I'll

lay for Eckley next time."

Josh, the subject of Mr. Leckler's charitable solicitations, was the

plantation plasterer. His master had given him his trade, in order

that he might do whatever such work was needed about the place; but he

became so proficient in his duties, having also no competition among

the poor whites, that he had grown to be in great demand in the

country thereabout. So Mr. Leckler found it profitable, instead of

letting him do chores and field work in his idle time, to hire him out

to neighboring farms and planters. Josh was a man of more than

ordinary intelligence; and when he asked to be allowed to pay for

himself by working overtime, his master readily agreed,--for it

promised more work to be done, for which he could allow the slave just

what he pleased. Of course, he knew now that when the black man began

to cipher this state of affairs would be changed; but it would mean

such an increase of profit from the outside, that he could afford to

give up his own little peculations. Anyway, it would be many years

before the slave could pay the two thousand dollars, which price he

had set upon him. Should he approach that figure, Mr. Leckler felt it

just possible that the market in slaves would take a sudden rise.

When Josh was told of his master's intention, his eyes gleamed with

pleasure, and he went to his work with the zest of long hunger. He

proved a remarkably apt pupil. He was indefatigable in doing the tasks

assigned him. Even Mr. Leckler, who had great faith in his plasterer's

ability, marveled at the speed which he had acquired the three R's. He

did not know that on one of his many trips a free negro had given Josh

the rudimentary tools of learning, and that since the slave had been

adding to his store of learning by poring over signs and every bit of

print that he could spell out. Neither was Josh so indiscreet as to

intimate to his benefactor that he had been anticipated in his good

intentions.

It was in this way, working and learning, that a year passed away, and

Mr. Leckler thought that his object had been accomplished. He could

safely trust Josh to protect his own interests, and so he thought that

it was quite time that his servant's education should cease.

"You know, Josh," he said, "I have already gone against my principles

and against the law for your sake, and of course a man can't stretch

his conscience too far, even to help another who's being cheated; but

I reckon you can take care of yourself now."

"Oh, yes, suh, I reckon I kin," said Josh.

"And it wouldn't do for you to be seen with any books about you now."

"Oh, no, suh, su't'n'y not." He didn't intend to be seen with any

books about him.

It was just now that Mr. Leckler saw the good results of all he had

done, and his heart was full of a great joy, for Eckley had been

building some additions to his house, and sent for Josh to do the

plastering for him. The owner admonished his slave, took him over a

few examples to freshen his memory, and sent him forth with glee. When

the job was done, there was a discrepancy of two dollars in what Mr.

Eckley offered for it and the price which accrued from Josh's

measurements. To the employer's surprise, the black man went over the

figures with him and convinced him of the incorrectness of the

payment,--and the additional two dollars were turned over.

"Some o' Leckler's work," said Eckley, "teaching a nigger to cipher!

Close-fisted old reprobate,--I've a mind to have the law on him." Mr.

Leckler heard the story with great glee. "I laid for him that

time--the old fox." But to Mrs. Leckler he said: "You see, my dear

wife, my rashness in teaching Josh to figure for himself is

vindicated. See what he has saved for himself."

"What did he save?" asked the little woman indiscreetly.

Her husband blushed and stammered for a moment, and then replied,

"Well, of course, it was only twenty cents saved to him, but to a man

buying his freedom every cent counts; and after all, it is not the

amount, Mrs. Leckler, it's the principle of the thing."

"Yes," said the lady meekly.

II

Unto the body it is easy for the master to say, "Thus far shalt thou

go, and no farther." Gyves, chains and fetters will enforce that

command. But what master shall say unto the mind, "Here do I set the

limit of your acquisition. Pass it not"? Who shall put gyves upon the

intellect, or fetter the movement of thought? Joshua Leckler, as

custom denominated him, had tasted of the forbidden fruit, and his

appetite had grown by what it fed on. Night after night he crouched

in his lonely cabin, by the blaze of a fat pine brand, poring over the

few books that he had been able to secure and smuggle in. His

fellow-servants alternately laughed at him and wondered why he did not

take a wife. But Joshua went on his way. He had no time for marrying

or for love; other thoughts had taken possession of him. He was being

swayed by ambitions other than the mere fathering of slaves for his

master. To him his slavery was deep night. What wonder, then, that he

should dream, and that through the ivory gate should come to him the

forbidden vision of freedom? To own himself, to be master of his

hands, feet, of his whole body--something would clutch at his heart as

he thought of it; and the breath would come hard between his lips. But

he met his master with an impassive face, always silent, always

docile; and Mr. Leckler congratulated himself that so valuable and

intelligent a slave should be at the same time so tractable. Usually

intelligence in a slave meant discontent; but not so with Josh. Who

more content than he? He remarked to his wife: "You see, my dear, this

is what comes of treating even a nigger right."

Meanwhile the white hills of the North were beckoning to the chattel,

and the north winds were whispering to him to be a chattel no longer.

Often the eyes that looked away to where freedom lay were filled with

a wistful longing that was tragic in its intensity, for they saw the

hardships and the difficulties between the slave and his goal and,

worst of all, an iniquitous law,--liberty's compromise with bondage,

that rose like a stone wall between him and hope,--a law that degraded

every free-thinking man to the level of a slave-catcher. There it

loomed up before him, formidable, impregnable, insurmountable. He

measured it in all its terribleness, and paused. But on the other side

there was liberty; and one day when he was away at work, a voice came

out of the woods and whispered to him "Courage!"--and on that night

the shadows beckoned him as the white hills had done, and the forest

called to him, "Follow."

"It seems to me that Josh might have been able to get home to-night,"

said Mr. Leckler, walking up and down his veranda; "but I reckon it's

just possible that he got through too late to catch a train." In the

morning he said: "Well, he's not here yet; he must have had to do some

extra work. If he doesn't get here by evening, I'll run up there."

In the evening, he did take the train for Joshua's place of

employment, where he learned that his slave had left the night before.

But where could he have gone? That no one knew, and for the first time

it dawned upon his master that Josh had run away. He raged; he fumed;

but nothing could be done until morning, and all the time Leckler knew

that the most valuable slave on his plantation was working his way

toward the North and freedom. He did not go back home, but paced the

floor all night long. In the early dawn he hurried out, and the hounds

were put on the fugitive's track. After some nosing around they set

off toward a stretch of woods. In a few minutes they came yelping

back, pawing their noses and rubbing their heads against the ground.

They had found the trail, but Josh had played the old slave trick of

filling his tracks with cayenne pepper. The dogs were soothed, and

taken deeper into the wood to find the trail. They soon took it up

again, and dashed away with low bays. The scent led them directly to a

little wayside station about six miles distant. Here it stopped.

Burning with the chase, Mr. Leckler hastened to the station agent.

Had he seen such a negro? Yes, he had taken the northbound train two

nights before.

"But why did you let him go without a pass?" almost screamed the

owner.

"I didn't," replied the agent. "He had a written pass, signed James

Leckler, and I let him go on it."

"Forged, forged!" yelled the master. "He wrote it himself."

"Humph!" said the agent, "how was I to know that? Our niggers round

here don't know how to write."

Mr. Leckler suddenly bethought him to hold his peace. Josh was

probably now in the arms of some northern abolitionist, and there was

nothing to be done now but advertise; and the disgusted master spread

his notices broadcast before starting for home. As soon as he arrived

at his house, he sought his wife and poured out his griefs to her.

"You see, Mrs. Leckler, this is what comes of my goodness of heart. I

taught that nigger to read and write, so that he could protect

himself,--and look how he uses his knowledge. Oh, the ingrate, the

ingrate! The very weapon which I give him to defend himself against

others he turns upon me. Oh, it's awful,--awful! I've always been too

confiding. Here's the most valuable nigger on my plantation

gone,--gone, I tell you,--and through my own kindness. It isn't his

value, though, I'm thinking so much about. I could stand his loss, if

it wasn't for the principle of the thing, the base ingratitude he has

shown me. Oh, if I ever lay hands on him again!" Mr. Leckler closed

his lips and clenched his fist with an eloquence that laughed at

words.

Just at this time, in one of the underground railway stations, six

miles north of the Ohio, an old Quaker was saying to Josh: "Lie

still,--thee'll be perfectly safe there. Here comes John Trader, our

local slave catcher, but I will parley with him and send him away.

Thee need not fear. None of thy brethren who have come to us have ever

been taken back to bondage.--Good-evening, Friend Trader!" and Josh

heard the old Quaker's smooth voice roll on, while he lay back half

smothering in a bag, among other bags of corn and potatoes.

It was after ten o'clock that night when he was thrown carelessly into

a wagon and driven away to the next station, twenty-five miles to the

northward. And by such stages, hiding by day and traveling by night,

helped by a few of his own people who were blessed with freedom, and

always by the good Quakers wherever found, he made his way into

Canada. And on one never-to-be-forgotten morning he stood up,

straightened himself, breathed God's blessed air, and knew himself

free!

III

To Joshua Leckler this life in Canada was all new and strange. It was

a new thing for him to feel himself a man and to have his manhood

recognized by the whites with whom he came into free contact. It was

new, too, this receiving the full measure of his worth in work. He

went to his labor with a zest that he had never known before, and he

took a pleasure in the very weariness it brought him. Ever and anon

there came to his ears the cries of his brethren in the South.

Frequently he met fugitives who, like himself, had escaped from

bondage; and the harrowing tales that they told him made him burn to

do something for those whom he had left behind him. But these

fugitives and the papers he read told him other things. They said

that the spirit of freedom was working in the United States, and

already men were speaking out boldly in behalf of the manumission of

the slaves; already there was a growing army behind that noble

vanguard, Sumner, Phillips, Douglass, Garrison. He heard the names of

Lucretia Mott and Harriet Beecher Stowe, and his heart swelled, for on

the dim horizon he saw the first faint streaks of dawn.

So the years passed. Then from the surcharged clouds a flash of

lightning broke, and there was the thunder of cannon and the rain of

lead over the land. From his home in the North he watched the storm as

it raged and wavered, now threatening the North with its awful power,

now hanging dire and dreadful over the South. Then suddenly from out

the fray came a voice like the trumpet tone of God to him: "Thou and

thy brothers are free!" Free, free, with the freedom not cherished by

the few alone, but for all that had been bound. Free, with the freedom

not torn from the secret night, but open to the light of heaven.

When the first call for colored soldiers came, Joshua Leckler hastened

down to Boston, and enrolled himself among those who were willing to

fight to maintain their freedom. On account of his ability to read

and write and his general intelligence, he was soon made an orderly

sergeant. His regiment had already taken part in an engagement before

the public roster of this band of Uncle Sam's niggers, as they were

called, fell into Mr. Leckler's hands. He ran his eye down the column

of names. It stopped at that of Joshua Leckler, Sergeant, Company F.

He handed the paper to Mrs. Leckler with his finger on the place:

"Mrs. Leckler," he said, "this is nothing less than a judgment on me

for teaching a nigger to read and write. I disobeyed the law of my

state and, as a result, not only lost my nigger, but furnished the

Yankees with a smart officer to help them fight the South. Mrs.

Leckler, I have sinned--and been punished. But I am content, Mrs.

Leckler; it all came through my kindness of heart,--and your mistaken

advice. But, oh, that ingrate, that ingrate!"

THE CASE OF 'CA'LINE'

A KITCHEN MONOLOGUE

The man of the house is about to go into the dining-room when he hears

voices that tell him that his wife has gone down to give the "hired

help" a threatened going over. He quietly withdraws, closes the door

noiselessly behind him and listens from a safe point of vantage.

One voice is timid and hesitating; that is his wife. The other is

fearlessly raised; that is her majesty, the queen who rules the

kitchen, and from it the rest of the house.

This is what he overhears:

"Well, Mis' Ma'tin, hit do seem lak you jes' bent an' boun' to be

a-fin'in' fault wid me w'en de Lawd knows I's doin' de ve'y bes' I

kin. What 'bout de brekfus'? De steak too done an' de 'taters ain't

done enough! Now, Miss Ma'tin, I jes' want to show you I cooked dat

steak an' dem 'taters de same lengt' o' time. Seems to me dey ought to

be done de same. Dat uz a thick steak, an' I jes' got hit browned

thoo nice. What mo'd you want?

"You didn't want it fried at all? Now, Mis' Ma'tin, 'clah to goodness!

Who evah hyeah de beat o' dat? Don't you know dat fried meat is de

bes' kin' in de worl'? W'y, de las' fambly dat I lived wid--dat uz ol'

Jedge Johnson--he said dat I beat anybody fryin' he evah seen; said I

fried evahthing in sight, an' he said my fried food stayed by him

longer than anything he evah e't. Even w'en he paid me off he said it

was 'case he thought somebody else ought to have de benefit of my

wunnerful powahs. Huh, ma'am, I's used to de bes'. De Jedge paid me de

highes' kin' o' comperments. De las' thing he say to me was, 'Ca'line,

Ca'line,' he say, 'yo' cookin' is a pa'dox. It is crim'nal, dey ain't

no 'sputin' dat, but it ain't action'ble.' Co'se, I didn't unnerstan'

his langidge, but I knowed hit was comperments, 'case his wife, Mis'

Jedge Johnson, got right jealous an' told him to shet his mouf.

"Dah you goes. Now, who'd 'a' thought dat a lady of yo' raisin' an

unnerstannin' would 'a' brung dat up. De mo'nin' you come an' ketch me

settin' down an' de brekfus not ready, I was a-steadyin'. I's a mighty

han' to steady, Mis' Ma'tin. 'Deed I steadies mos' all de time. But

dat mo'nin' I got to steadyin' an' aftah while I sot down an' all my

troubles come to my min'. I sho' has a heap o' trouble. I jes' sot

thaih a-steadyin' 'bout 'em an' a-steadyin' tell bime-by, hyeah you

comes.

"No, ma'am, I wasn't 'sleep. I's mighty apt to nod w'en I's

a-thinkin'. It's a kin' o' keepin' time to my idees. But bless yo'

soul I wasn't 'sleep. I shets my eyes so's to see to think bettah. An'

aftah all, Mistah Ma'tin wasn't mo' 'n half an houah late dat mo'nin'

nohow, 'case w'en I did git up I sholy flew. Ef you jes' 'membahs

'bout my steadyin' we ain't nevah gwine have no trouble long's I stays

hyeah.

"You say dat one night I stayed out tell one o'clock. W'y--oh, yes.

Dat uz Thu'sday night. W'y la! Mis' Ma'tin, dat's de night my s'ciety

meets, de Af'Ame'ican Sons an' Daughtahs of Judah. We had to

'nitianate a new can'date dat night, an' la! I wish you'd 'a' been

thaih, you'd 'a' killed yo'self a-laffin'.

"You nevah did see sich ca'in's on in all yo' bo'n days. It was

pow'ful funny. Broth' Eph'am Davis, he's ouah Mos' Wusshipful Rabbi,

he says hit uz de mos' s'cessful 'nitination we evah had. Dat

can'date pawed de groun' lak a hoss an' tried to git outen de winder.

But I got to be mighty keerful how I talk: I do' know whethah you

'long to any secut s'cieties er not. I wouldn't been so late even fu'

dat, but Mistah Hi'am Smif, he gallanted me home an' you know a lady

boun' to stan' at de gate an' talk to huh comp'ny a little while. You

know how it is, Mis' Ma'tin.

"I been en'tainin' my comp'ny in de pa'lor? Co'se I has; you wasn't

usin' it. What you s'pose my frien's 'u'd think ef I'd ax 'em in de

kitchen w'en dey wasn't no one in de front room? Co'se I ax 'em in de

pa'lor. I do' want my frien's to think I's wo'kin' fu' no low-down

people. W'y, Miss 'Liza Harris set down an' played mos' splendid on

yo' pianna, an' she compermented you mos' high. S'pose I'd a tuck huh

in de kitchen, whaih de comperments come in?

"Yass'm, yass'm, I does tek home little things now an' den, dat I

does, an' I ain't gwine to 'ny it. I jes' says to myse'f, I ain't

wo'kin' fu' no strainers lak de people nex' do', what goes into

tantrums ef de lady what cooks fu' 'em teks home a bit o' sugar. I

'lows to myse'f I ain't wo'kin' fu' no sich folks; so sometimes I teks

home jes' a weenchy bit o' somep'n' dat nobody couldn't want nohow,

an' I knows you ain't gwine 'ject to dat. You do 'ject, you do 'ject!

Huh!

"I's got to come an' ax you, has I? Look a-hyeah, Mis' Ma'tin, I know

I has to wo'k in yo' kitchen. I know I has to cook fu' you, but I want

you to know dat even ef I does I's a lady. I's a lady, but I see you

do' know how to 'preciate a lady w'en you meets one. You kin jes'

light in an' git yo' own dinner. I wouldn't wo'k fu' you ef you uz

made o' gol'. I nevah did lak to wo'k fu' strainers, nohow.

"No, ma'am, I cain't even stay an' git de dinner. I know w'en I been

insulted. Seems lak ef I stay in hyeah another minute I'll bile all

over dis kitchen.

"Who excited? Me excited? No, I ain't excited. I's mad. I do' lak

nobody pesterin' 'roun' my kitchen, nohow, huh, uh, honey. Too many

places in dis town waitin' fu' Ca'line Mason.

"No, indeed, you needn't 'pologize to me! needn't 'pologize to me. I

b'lieve in people sayin' jes' what dey mean, I does.

"Would I stay, ef you 'crease my wages? Well--I reckon I could, but

I--but I do' want no foolishness."

(Sola.) "Huh! Did she think she was gwine to come down hyeah an' skeer

me, huh, uh? Whaih's dat fryin' pan?"

The man of the house hears the rustle of his wife's skirts as she

beats a retreat and he goes upstairs and into the library whistling,

"See, the Conquering Hero Comes."

THE FINISH OF PATSY BARNES

His name was Patsy Barnes, and he was a denizen of Little Africa. In

fact, he lived on Douglass Street. By all the laws governing the

relations between people and their names, he should have been

Irish--but he was not. He was colored, and very much so. That was the

reason he lived on Douglass Street. The negro has very strong within

him the instinct of colonization and it was in accordance with this

that Patsy's mother had found her way to Little Africa when she had

come North from Kentucky.

Patsy was incorrigible. Even into the confines of Little Africa had

penetrated the truant officer and the terrible penalty of the

compulsory education law. Time and time again had poor Eliza Barnes

been brought up on account of the shortcomings of that son of hers.

She was a hard-working, honest woman, and day by day bent over her

tub, scrubbing away to keep Patsy in shoes and jackets, that would

wear out so much faster than they could be bought. But she never

murmured, for she loved the boy with a deep affection, though his

misdeeds were a sore thorn in her side.

She wanted him to go to school. She wanted him to learn. She had the

notion that he might become something better, something higher than

she had been. But for him school had no charms; his school was the

cool stalls in the big livery stable near at hand; the arena of his

pursuits its sawdust floor; the height of his ambition, to be a

horseman. Either here or in the racing stables at the Fair-grounds he

spent his truant hours. It was a school that taught much, and Patsy

was as apt a pupil as he was a constant attendant. He learned strange

things about horses, and fine, sonorous oaths that sounded eerie on

his young lips, for he had only turned into his fourteenth year.

A man goes where he is appreciated; then could this slim black boy be

blamed for doing the same thing? He was a great favorite with the

horsemen, and picked up many a dime or nickel for dancing or singing,

or even a quarter for warming up a horse for its owner. He was not to

be blamed for this, for, first of all, he was born in Kentucky, and

had spent the very days of his infancy about the paddocks near

Lexington, where his father had sacrificed his life on account of his

love for horses. The little fellow had shed no tears when he looked at

his father's bleeding body, bruised and broken by the fiery young

two-year-old he was trying to subdue. Patsy did not sob or whimper,

though his heart ached, for over all the feeling of his grief was a

mad, burning desire to ride that horse.

His tears were shed, however, when, actuated by the idea that times

would be easier up North, they moved to Dalesford. Then, when he

learned that he must leave his old friends, the horses and their

masters, whom he had known, he wept. The comparatively meagre

appointments of the Fair-grounds at Dalesford proved a poor

compensation for all these. For the first few weeks Patsy had dreams

of running away--back to Kentucky and the horses and stables. Then

after a while he settled himself with heroic resolution to make the

best of what he had, and with a mighty effort took up the burden of

life away from his beloved home.

Eliza Barnes, older and more experienced though she was, took up her

burden with a less cheerful philosophy than her son. She worked hard,

and made a scanty livelihood, it is true, but she did not make the

best of what she had. Her complainings were loud in the land, and her

wailings for her old home smote the ears of any who would listen to

her.

They had been living in Dalesford for a year nearly, when hard work

and exposure brought the woman down to bed with pneumonia. They were

very poor--too poor even to call in a doctor, so there was nothing to

do but to call in the city physician. Now this medical man had too

frequent calls into Little Africa, and he did not like to go there. So

he was very gruff when any of its denizens called him, and it was even

said that he was careless of his patients.

Patsy's heart bled as he heard the doctor talking to his mother:

"Now, there can't be any foolishness about this," he said. "You've got

to stay in bed and not get yourself damp."

"How long you think I got to lay hyeah, doctah?" she asked.

"I'm a doctor, not a fortune-teller," was the reply. "You'll lie there

as long as the disease holds you."

"But I can't lay hyeah long, doctah, case I ain't got nuffin' to go

on."

"Well, take your choice: the bed or the boneyard."

Eliza began to cry.

"You needn't sniffle," said the doctor; "I don't see what you people

want to come up here for anyhow. Why don't you stay down South where

you belong? You come up here and you're just a burden and a trouble to

the city. The South deals with all of you better, both in poverty and

crime." He knew that these people did not understand him, but he

wanted an outlet for the heat within him.

There was another angry being in the room, and that was Patsy. His

eyes were full of tears that scorched him and would not fall. The

memory of many beautiful and appropriate oaths came to him; but he

dared not let his mother hear him swear. Oh! to have a stone--to be

across the street from that man!

When the physician walked out, Patsy went to the bed, took his

mother's hand, and bent over shamefacedly to kiss her. He did not know

that with that act the Recording Angel blotted out many a curious damn

of his.

The little mark of affection comforted Eliza unspeakably. The

mother-feeling overwhelmed her in one burst of tears. Then she dried

her eyes and smiled at him.

"Honey," she said; "mammy ain' gwine lay hyeah long. She be all right

putty soon."

"Nevah you min'," said Patsy with a choke in his voice. "I can do

somep'n', an' we'll have anothah doctah."

"La, listen at de chile; what kin you do?"

"I'm goin' down to McCarthy's stable and see if I kin git some horses

to exercise."

A sad look came into Eliza's eyes as she said: "You'd bettah not go,

Patsy; dem hosses'll kill you yit, des lak dey did yo' pappy."

But the boy, used to doing pretty much as he pleased, was obdurate,

and even while she was talking, put on his ragged jacket and left the

room.

Patsy was not wise enough to be diplomatic. He went right to the point

with McCarthy, the liveryman.

The big red-faced fellow slapped him until he spun round and round.

Then he said, "Ye little devil, ye, I've a mind to knock the whole

head off o' ye. Ye want harses to exercise, do ye? Well git on that

'un, an' see what ye kin do with him."

The boy's honest desire to be helpful had tickled the big, generous

Irishman's peculiar sense of humor, and from now on, instead of giving

Patsy a horse to ride now and then as he had formerly done, he put

into his charge all the animals that needed exercise.

It was with a king's pride that Patsy marched home with his first

considerable earnings.

They were small yet, and would go for food rather than a doctor, but

Eliza was inordinately proud, and it was this pride that gave her

strength and the desire of life to carry her through the days

approaching the crisis of her disease.

As Patsy saw his mother growing worse, saw her gasping for breath,

heard the rattling as she drew in the little air that kept going her

clogged lungs, felt the heat of her burning hands, and saw the pitiful

appeal in her poor eyes, he became convinced that the city doctor was

not helping her. She must have another. But the money?

That afternoon, after his work with McCarthy, found him at the

Fair-grounds. The spring races were on, and he thought he might get a

job warming up the horse of some independent jockey. He hung around

the stables, listening to the talk of men he knew and some he had

never seen before. Among the latter was a tall, lanky man, holding

forth to a group of men.

"No, suh," he was saying to them generally, "I'm goin' to withdraw my

hoss, because thaih ain't nobody to ride him as he ought to be rode. I

haven't brought a jockey along with me, so I've got to depend on

pick-ups. Now, the talent's set agin my hoss, Black Boy, because he's

been losin' regular, but that hoss has lost for the want of ridin',

that's all."

The crowd looked in at the slim-legged, raw-boned horse, and walked

away laughing.

"The fools!" muttered the stranger. "If I could ride myself I'd show

'em!"

Patsy was gazing into the stall at the horse.

"What are you doing thaih," called the owner to him.

"Look hyeah, mistah," said Patsy, "ain't that a bluegrass hoss?"

"Of co'se it is, an' one o' the fastest that evah grazed."

"I'll ride that hoss, mistah."

"What do you know 'bout ridin'?"

"I used to gin'ally be' roun' Mistah Boone's paddock in Lexington,

an'--"

"Aroun' Boone's paddock--what! Look here, little nigger, if you can

ride that hoss to a winnin' I'll give you more money than you ever

seen before."

"I'll ride him."

Patsy's heart was beating very wildly beneath his jacket. That horse.

He knew that glossy coat. He knew that raw-boned frame and those

flashing nostrils. That black horse there owed something to the orphan

he had made.

The horse was to ride in the race before the last. Somehow out of odds

and ends, his owner scraped together a suit and colors for Patsy. The

colors were maroon and green, a curious combination. But then it was a

curious horse, a curious rider, and a more curious combination that

brought the two together.

Long before the time for the race Patsy went into the stall to become

better acquainted with his horse. The animal turned its wild eyes upon

him and neighed. He patted the long, slender head, and grinned as the

horse stepped aside as gently as a lady.

"He sholy is full o' ginger," he said to the owner, whose name he had

found to be Brackett.

"He'll show 'em a thing or two," laughed Brackett.

"His dam was a fast one," said Patsy, unconsciously.

Brackett whirled on him in a flash. "What do you know about his dam?"

he asked.

The boy would have retracted, but it was too late. Stammeringly he

told the story of his father's death and the horse's connection

therewith.

"Well," said Brackett, "if you don't turn out a hoodoo, you're a

winner, sure. But I'll be blessed if this don't sound like a story!

But I've heard that story before. The man I got Black Boy from, no

matter how I got him, you're too young to understand the ins and outs

of poker, told it to me."

When the bell sounded and Patsy went out to warm up, he felt as if he

were riding on air. Some of the jockeys laughed at his get-up, but

there was something in him--or under him, maybe--that made him scorn

their derision. He saw a sea of faces about him, then saw no more.

Only a shining white track loomed ahead of him, and a restless steed

was cantering with him around the curve. Then the bell called him back

to the stand.

They did not get away at first, and back they trooped. A second trial

was a failure. But at the third they were off in a line as straight

as a chalk-mark. There were Essex and Firefly, Queen Bess and

Mosquito, galloping away side by side, and Black Boy a neck ahead.

Patsy knew the family reputation of his horse for endurance as well as

fire, and began riding the race from the first. Black Boy came of

blood that would not be passed, and to this his rider trusted. At the

eighth the line was hardly broken, but as the quarter was reached

Black Boy had forged a length ahead, and Mosquito was at his flank.

Then, like a flash, Essex shot out ahead under whip and spur, his

jockey standing straight in the stirrups.

The crowd in the stand screamed; but Patsy smiled as he lay low over

his horse's neck. He saw that Essex had made her best spurt. His only

fear was for Mosquito, who hugged and hugged his flank. They were

nearing the three-quarter post, and he was tightening his grip on the

black. Essex fell back; his spurt was over. The whip fell unheeded on

his sides. The spurs dug him in vain.

Black Boy's breath touches the leader's ear. They are neck and

neck--nose to nose. The black stallion passes him.

Another cheer from the stand, and again Patsy smiles as they turn into

the stretch. Mosquito has gained a head. The colored boy flashes one

glance at the horse and rider who are so surely gaining upon him, and

his lips close in a grim line. They are half-way down the stretch, and

Mosquito's head is at the stallion's neck.

For a single moment Patsy thinks of the sick woman at home and what

that race will mean to her, and then his knees close against the

horse's sides with a firmer dig. The spurs shoot deeper into the

steaming flanks. Black Boy shall win; he must win. The horse that has

taken away his father shall give him back his mother. The stallion

leaps away like a flash, and goes under the wire--a length ahead.

Then the band thundered, and Patsy was off his horse, very warm and

very happy, following his mount to the stable. There, a little later,

Brackett found him. He rushed to him, and flung his arms around him.

"You little devil," he cried, "you rode like you were kin to that

hoss! We've won! We've won!" And he began sticking banknotes at the

boy. At first Patsy's eyes bulged, and then he seized the money and

got into his clothes.

"Goin' out to spend it?" asked Brackett.

"I'm goin' for a doctah fu' my mother," said Patsy, "she's sick."

"Don't let me lose sight of you."

"Oh, I'll see you again. So long," said the boy.

An hour later he walked into his mother's room with a very big doctor,

the greatest the druggist could direct him to. The doctor left his

medicines and his orders, but, when Patsy told his story, it was

Eliza's pride that started her on the road to recovery. Patsy did not

tell his horse's name.

ONE MAN'S FORTUNES

Part I

When Bertram Halliday left the institution which, in the particular

part of the middle west where he was born, was called the state

university, he did not believe, as young graduates are reputed to,

that he had conquered the world and had only to come into his kingdom.

He knew that the battle of life was, in reality, just beginning and,

with a common sense unusual to his twenty-three years but born out of

the exigencies of a none-too-easy life, he recognized that for him the

battle would be harder than for his white comrades.

Looking at his own position, he saw himself the member of a race

dragged from complacent savagery into the very heat and turmoil of a

civilization for which it was in nowise prepared; bowed beneath a yoke

to which its shoulders were not fitted, and then, without warning,

thrust forth into a freedom as absurd as it was startling and

overwhelming. And yet, he felt, as most young men must feel, an

individual strength that would exempt him from the workings of the

general law. His outlook on life was calm and unfrightened. Because he

knew the dangers that beset his way, he feared them less. He felt

assured because with so clear an eye he saw the weak places in his

armor which the world he was going to meet would attack, and these he

was prepared to strengthen. Was it not the fault of youth and

self-confessed weakness, he thought, to go into the world always

thinking of it as a foe? Was not this great Cosmopolis, this dragon of

a thousand talons kind as well as cruel? Had it not friends as well as

enemies? Yes. That was it: the outlook of young men, of colored young

men in particular, was all wrong,--they had gone at the world in the

wrong spirit. They had looked upon it as a terrible foeman and forced

it to be one. He would do it, oh, so differently. He would take the

world as a friend. He would even take the old, old world under his

wing.

They sat in the room talking that night, he and Webb Davis and Charlie

McLean. It was the last night they were to be together in so close a

relation. The commencement was over. They had their sheepskins. They

were pitched there on the bed very carelessly to be the important

things they were,--the reward of four years digging in Greek and

Mathematics.

They had stayed after the exercises of the day just where they had

first stopped. This was at McLean's rooms, dismantled and topsy-turvy

with the business of packing. The pipes were going and the talk kept

pace. Old men smoke slowly and in great whiffs with long intervals of

silence between their observations. Young men draw fast and say many

and bright things, for young men are wise,--while they are young.

"Now, it's just like this," Davis was saying to McLean, "Here we are,

all three of us turned out into the world like a lot of little

sparrows pitched out of the nest, and what are we going to do? Of

course it's easy enough for you, McLean, but what are my grave friend

with the nasty black briar, and I, your humble servant, to do? In what

wilderness are we to pitch our tents and where is our manna coming

from?"

"Oh, well, the world owes us all a living," said McLean.

"Hackneyed, but true. Of course it does; but every time a colored man

goes around to collect, the world throws up its hands and yells

'insolvent'--eh, Halliday?"

Halliday took his pipe from his mouth as if he were going to say

something. Then he put it back without speaking and looked

meditatively through the blue smoke.

"I'm right," Davis went on, "to begin with, we colored people haven't

any show here. Now, if we could go to Central or South America, or

some place like that,--but hang it all, who wants to go thousands of

miles away from home to earn a little bread and butter?"

"There's India and the young Englishmen, if I remember rightly," said

McLean.

"Oh, yes, that's all right, with the Cabots and Drake and Sir John

Franklin behind them. Their traditions, their blood, all that they

know makes them willing to go 'where there ain't no ten commandments

and a man can raise a thirst,' but for me, home, if I can call it

home."

"Well, then, stick it out."

"That's easy enough to say, McLean; but ten to one you've got some

snap picked out for you already, now 'fess up, ain't you?"

"Well, of course I'm going in with my father, I can't help that, but

I've got--"

"To be sure," broke in Davis, "you go in with your father. Well, if

all I had to do was to step right out of college into my father's

business with an assured salary, however small, I shouldn't be falling

on my own neck and weeping to-night. But that's just the trouble with

us; we haven't got fathers before us or behind us, if you'd rather."

"More luck to you, you'll be a father before or behind some one else;

you'll be an ancestor."

"It's more profitable being a descendant, I find."

A glow came into McLean's face and his eyes sparkled as he replied:

"Why, man, if I could, I'd change places with you. You don't deserve

your fate. What is before you? Hardships, perhaps, and long waiting.

But then, you have the zest of the fight, the joy of the action and

the chance of conquering. Now what is before me,--me, whom you are

envying? I go out of here into a dull counting-room. The way is

prepared for me. Perhaps I shall have no hardships, but neither have I

the joy that comes from pains endured. Perhaps I shall have no battle,

but even so, I lose the pleasure of the fight and the glory of

winning. Your fate is infinitely to be preferred to mine."

"Ah, now you talk with the voluminous voice of the centuries,"

bantered Davis. "You are but echoing the breath of your Nelsons, your

Cabots, your Drakes and your Franklins. Why, can't you see, you

sentimental idiot, that it's all different and has to be different

with us? The Anglo-Saxon race has been producing that fine frenzy in

you for seven centuries and more. You come, with the blood of

merchants, pioneers and heroes in your veins, to a normal battle. But

for me, my forebears were savages two hundred years ago. My people

learn to know civilization by the lowest and most degrading contact

with it, and thus equipped or unequipped I tempt, an abnormal contest.

Can't you see the disproportion?"

"If I do, I can also see the advantage of it."

"For the sake of common sense, Halliday," said Davis, turning to his

companion, "don't sit there like a clam; open up and say something to

convince this Don Quixote who, because he himself, sees only

windmills, cannot be persuaded that we have real dragons to fight."

"Do you fellows know Henley?" asked Halliday, with apparent

irrelevance.

"I know him as a critic," said McLean.

"I know him as a name," echoed the worldly Davis, "but--"

"I mean his poems," resumed Halliday, "he is the most virile of the

present-day poets. Kipling is virile, but he gives you the man in hot

blood with the brute in him to the fore; but the strong masculinity of

Henley is essentially intellectual. It is the mind that is conquering

always."

"Well, now that you have settled the relative place in English letters

of Kipling and Henley, might I be allowed humbly to ask what in the

name of all that is good has that to do with the question before the

house?"

"I don't know your man's poetry," said McLean, "but I do believe that

I can see what you are driving at."

"Wonderful perspicacity, oh, youth!"

"If Webb will agree not to run, I'll spring on you the poem that seems

to me to strike the keynote of the matter in hand."

"Oh, well, curiosity will keep me. I want to get your position, and I

want to see McLean annihilated."

In a low, even tone, but without attempt at dramatic effect, Halliday

began to recite:

"Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods there be

For my unconquerable soul!

"In the fell clutch of circumstance,

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance,

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

"Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find me unafraid.

"It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul."

"That's it," exclaimed McLean, leaping to his feet, "that's what I

mean. That's the sort of a stand for a man to take."

Davis rose and knocked the ashes from his pipe against the

window-sill. "Well, for two poetry-spouting, poetry-consuming,

sentimental idiots, commend me to you fellows. Master of my fate,

captain of my soul, be dashed! Old Jujube, with his bone-pointed

hunting spear, began determining a couple of hundred years ago what I

should be in this year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and

ninety-four. J. Webb Davis, senior, added another brick to this

structure, when he was picking cotton on his master's plantation forty

years ago."

"And now," said Halliday, also rising, "don't you think it fair that

you should start out with the idea of adding a few bricks of your own,

and all of a better make than those of your remote ancestor, Jujube,

or that nearer one, your father?"

"Spoken like a man," said McLean.

"Oh, you two are so hopelessly young," laughed Davis.