It was a glorious morning in August, when summer’s wide-set doors let
in a torrent of later bloom.
As early as ten o’clock the Riverside road was thronged with all manner
of conveyances, moving toward the country, bound for an out-of-door
fête of the character known in that region as a “bran-dance and
barbecue.” This country road, prodigally overhung with the foliage of
trees in the very heyday of their southern vigor is bounded on one
side by goodly acres of farmland, and on the other by the Elkhorn, a
historic river.
The neighboring farms were still to-day. The light wind rustling the
silken tassels of the corn was all the sound that would be heard until
the morrow, unless, maybe, the neighing of the young horses left behind.
From the topic of stock and farming, called forth by what they saw
in passing, Elliott Harding and his uncle, as they rode along, fell
to discussing the grim details of a murder and lynching that had but
recently taken place just over the boundary, in Tennessee.
“What a tremendous problem is this lynching evil,” said Elliott,
looking keenly at his uncle, who shook his head seriously as he
answered:
“It is a very grave question that confronts us, and by far the less
easier of settlement because we are placed in the full light of public
observation, all our doings heightened by its glare, and the passion
of the people aroused. It is not that we will, but that we must lynch
in these extreme cases. There seems no other way, and that is a poor
enough one.”
“How many persons do you suppose have lost their lives by lynch law in
the south during the past ten years?” asked Elliott.
“I should say at least a thousand,” replied Mr. Field.
“Heavens! What a record!” exclaimed Elliott, who became silent, a look
of brooding thoughtfulness taking the place of the happy expression
that had lighted up his face. His uncle, noticing his preoccupation,
endeavored to distract his thoughts by calling attention to the
distant sound of a big bass fiddle and a strong negro voice that called
out many times, “balance all, swing yo par-d-ners.”
“I suppose on this festive occasion I shall also hear some political
aspirant promising poor humanity unconditional prosperity and
deliverance from evil?” asked Elliott, by way of inquiry as to what
other diversions might be expected.
“Oh, yes, Holmes and Feland, the candidates for prosecuting attorney,
are sure to be on hand,” replied Mr. Field.
A little further on they came upon the crowd gathered in the woods. On
the bough-roofed dancing ground the youths were tripping with lissome
maids, who, with their filmy skirts a little lifted, showed shapely
ankles at every turn. The lookers-on seemed witched with the rhythmic
motion and the sensuous music. Old and young women, as well as men,
the well-to-do and the poor, were there. Neat, nice-looking young
people, with happy, intelligent faces, kept time to the waltz and the
cotillion, which were the order of the day. As the graceful figures
animated the arbor, far away in the depths of the wood could be heard
echoes of light-hearted talk and happy laughter. The very genius of
frolic seemed to preside over the gathering.
Elliott stood near one end of the arbor and drew a long breath of
pure delight at this, to him, truly strange and delightful pastoral.
The mellow tints of nature’s verdure, the soft languor of the warm
atmosphere, gave a happy turn to his thoughts as he looked upon his
first “bran-dance.”
“Come! finish this with me,” cried a sturdy farmer boy.
“Do, dear mamma!” begged the gasping maiden at her side, “I am so
tired. Do take a round with him.”
Thus appealed to, the stout, handsome matron threw aside her palm-leaf
fan and held out her hands to the boy. Although she had but reached
that age when those of the opposite sex are considered just in their
prime, she, being old enough to be the mother of the twenty-year-old
daughter at her side, was considered too old to be one of the dancers.
But at the hearty invitation she too became one of the tripping throng
and entered into the fun with all the sweetness and spontaneity in
voice and gesture which made herself and others forget how far her
Spring was past. The waltz now became a waltz indeed. The musicians
played faster and faster and the girl clapped her hands as the couple
whirled round and round, as though nothing on earth could stop them.
“Please let’s stop. I beg you to stop, now!” cried the matron, panting
for breath but the enraptured youth paid no heed to her pleadings, but
swifter and swifter grew his pace, wilder and wilder his gyrations,
till, fortunately for her, he encountered an unexpected post and was
brought to a sudden halt. The waltz, too, had come to an end, and the
onlookers clapped their hands in hearty applause. Even the veterans
of the community seemed to enjoy the spirit of the sport. Elliott
particularly noted the rapt enjoyment of a group of old men silver
haired, ruddy skinned, keen eyed, who once seen, remained penciled upon
the gazer’s memory--each head a worthy sketch.
These patriarchs were bent with toil as well as age, their hands were
roughened by labor, the Sunday broadcloth became them less than the
week-day short coat, yet each figure had a dignity of its own. In one
aged man, with snow-white hair, Roman nose and tawny, beardless face,
the staunch Southerner of old lived again. Here was that calm and
resolution betokening the indomitable spirit, the unswerving faith
that led men to brave fire and sword, ruin and desolation, rather than
surrender principle.
In strong relief were these sombre figures of the group set forth by
the light, airy frocks and the young faces and graceful forms of the
pretty girls, with beflowered hats coquettishly perched above their
heads, or swinging from their hands. One could step easily from the
verge of the white holiday keeper to the confines of the pleasure
loving black. But it was a great distance--like the crossing of a vast
continent--between the habitats of alien races.
On the outskirts of the crowd, here and there, under the friendly shade
of some wide spreading tree, could be seen a darkey busily engaged
in vending watermelons and cool drinks. Coatless and hatless, with
shirt wide open at neck and chest, and sleeves rolled elbow high, he
transferred the luscious fruit from his wagon to the eager throng about
him; while he passed compliments without stint upon the unbleached
domestics who came to “trade” with him, not forgetting to occasionally
lift his voice and proclaim the superior quality of his stock,
verifying his assurances by taking capacious mouthfuls from the severed
melon lying on the top of the load.
Without ceremony, the darkeys, male and female, swarmed about the
vender, some seating themselves in picturesque ease upon the ground in
pairs and groups. There were mulattos and octoroons of light and darker
shades, to the type of glossy blackness, discussing last week’s church
“festival,” to-morrow’s funeral, the Methodists’ protracted meeting
which begins one Christmas and lasts till the next.
In astonishing quantities did the “culled folks” stow away “red meat”
and “white meat,” and with juice trickling from the corners of their
mouths down over their best raiment, gave ready ear to the vender’s
broad jokes and joined in his loud laughter, showing, as only negroes
can, their ready appreciation of the feast and holiday. Their hilarity
kept up an undiminished flow until the participants were called to
serve the midday meal for the “white folks.”
Hundreds partook of the delicious pig which had been roasted whole,
that meat of which the poet wrote, “Send me, gods, a whole hog
barbecued.”
Animals spitted on pointed sticks sputtered and fizzled over a hole
in the ground filled with live coals. Mindful attendants shifted the
appetizing viands from side to side, seasoning them with salt, pepper,
vinegar or lemon as the case might require, and when set forth, offered
a feast as close to primitive nature as the trees under which it was
served.