the boy grumbled: "A bridle and saddle don't do a thing but make a 'Sissy'
out of a boy."
The mountain view resigned in favor of the chimney corner, where with
limbs still trembling I sank almost resigned to give up the lines. Prose
was easy enough to write, even with interruptions, but poetry, where one
must dream and drift into the spirit of the thought,--this, alas, was not
the calling of a busy mother of six, at least not of this busy mother.
"Miss Sa'," Tom appeared bearing a cup of hot milk, "An' Ellen say drink
dis an' hit'll set yer up ergin, den whin I gits dis fier ter blazin'" (he
piled the logs higher), "yer'll write dem poetries 'fo' yer knows hit."
Even as he swept the ashes from the hearth, "send at once" spurred my
flagging mood to one more effort. Yes, once more I'll try! Let me see.--I
rubbed my brow and tugged at the hair about my temples--Let's see--
"Miss Sa'," he sheepishly turned, "I aint tole yer, dey telerfome fum de
office comp'ny wus comin' ter supp'r--yas, mam--two gent'muns."
"Tell Aunt Ellen to order some shad to go with whatever else she has, and
please, p-l-e-a-s-e do not let the King of England open that door again."
The flames licked up the chimney, the oak logs popped and crackled, and
insisted they were singing the same tunes they sang in the nursery of old,
when I gazed at them through the tall brass fender and listened to Mist'r
Hickory Log and Mist'r Wise Oak telling Mammy all about their kinsfolk and
friends. And as the wind whistled drearily around the north corners of the
house, I seemed to hear Mist'r Tall Pine's lonely wail echoing the cries
of "hants" and spirits in search of rest from unholy graves.
Instinctively, I cuddled to Mammy, who took me by the hand, and led me
into the summer sunlight, down the narrow honeysuckle lane, where Miss
Queen Bee and Cap'n Hornit and Cap'n Yall'r Jackit droned lazily among the
heavy blossoms, keeping rhythm to the low hum of Mammy's voice. Then,
somehow, the pencil began of its own accord to move across the paper.
_TO MAMMY_
Thy beaming face woos me afresh to-night,
My eyelids droop, for with thy plaintive song
Old times drift back and tender memories throng
With fable-tales. I fondly crave the sight
Of wood and lane and towering mountain height,
With thee as guide. I hear once more among
The distant hills thy thrilling voice prolong
The lore of beasts, of birds, and glowworm's light.
Their secrets now are locked from anxious man,
And none, since mute thy tongue must ever be,
Can link our child-days with their mystery:
For thou hast passed beyond the mountain span
With faith unfaltering in thy Maker's plan,
And left to us thy vibrant memory.
--and Mammy led me past honeysuckle lane, through field and grove to
pastureland, where old Sis Nanny Goat lies in a corner of the fence
moaning and groaning:
Sis Wile Lucy Goose fly down an' ax:
"Whut ail yo' haid, Sis Nanny Goat?"
Sis Nanny Goat 'spon,' she do: "I bin tryin' ter git out'n dis heah ole
pastur', ov'r yond'r in Mist'r Man's ole lady's flower gyard'n," sez she,
"but dat ole wall so hard I done wase m'time, an' I ain' got nuthin' ter
show fur hit but dese heah bumps on m'haid."
Sis Wile Lucy Goose say, sez she: "Law, Sis Nann Goat, ain' you got no mo'
sense dan ter try ter projick wid Mist'r Man's doin's? All yer got ter do
is ter flop yer wings an' give er hop, an' dar yer is, ov'r de fence
mongst de flow'rs."
"But I ain' got no wings ter flop wid," spon Sis Nanny Goat.
"Dar now," sez Sis Wile Lucy Goose, "den you got ter keep on eatin' dis
same ole grass tell you sprouts somethin' nuther ter fly wid."
I reached out for a firmer clasp on Mammy's hand, now slipping from me,
when kindly sleep, with its visions, forsook me and left me only the
picture of the impotent bumps on Sis Nanny Goat's head. But I seemed to
catch the faint echo of Mammy's voice saying: "Hit taint time you orter be
cryin' fer, hit's sense."