As the evening wore on, and the crabs and bananas and molasses-candy stopped arguing with one another down in his little stomach, he found himself thinking, with some pleasure, of the pan of scraps he was to get for his grandfather, and he wished for the hour when he should go. He was glad when at last the old man waked with a start and began talking to him.

"I been wushin' you'd weck up an' talk, gran'dad," he said, "caze I wants ter ax yer what's all dis here dey say 'bout Christmas? When I was comin' 'long to-day I stopped in a big chu'ch, an' dey was a preacher-man standin' up wid a white night-gown on, an' he say dis here's our Lord's birfday. I heerd 'im say it myse'f. Is dat so?"

"Co'se it is, Juke. Huccome you ax me sech ignunt questioms? Gimme dat Bible, boy, an' lemme read you some 'ligion."

Mose had been a sort of lay-preacher in his day, and really could read a little, spelling or stumbling over the long words. Taking the book reverently, he leaned forward until the shaft of sunlight fell upon the open page, when with halting speech he read to the little boy, who listened with open-mouthed attention, the story of the birth at Bethlehem.

"An' look heah, Juke, my boy," he said, finally, closing the book, "hit's been on my min' all day ter tell yer I ain't gwine fishin' no mo' tell de high-water come back—you heah? 'Caze yer know somebody's chickens mought come an' pick up de bait, an' I'd be bleeged ter kill 'em ter save 'em, an' we ain' gwine do dat no mo', me an' you. You heah, Juke?"

Duke rolled his eyes around and looked pretty serious. "Yas, sir, I heah," he said.

"An' me an' you, we done made dis bargain on de Lord's birfday—yer heah, boy?—wid Gord's sunshine kiverin' us all over, an' my han' layin' on de page. Heah, lay yo' little han' on top o' mine, Juke, an' promise me you gwine be a square man, so he'p yer. Dat's it. Say it out loud, an' yo' ole gran'dad he done said it, too. Wrop up dem fishin'-lines now, an' th'ow 'em up on de rafters. Now come set down heah, an' lemme tell yer 'bout Christmas on de ole plantation. Look out how you pop dat whup 'crost my laig! Dat's a reg'lar horse-fly killer, wid a coal of fire on 'er tip." Duke laughed.

"Now han' me a live coal fur my pipe. Dis here terbacca you brung me, hit smokes sweet as sugar, boy. Set down, now, close by me—so."

Duke never tired of his grandfather's reminiscences, and he crept up close to the old man's knee as the story began.

"When de big plantation-bell used ter ring on Christmas mornin', all de darkies had to march up ter de great house fur dey Christmas-gif's; an' us what worked at de house, we had ter stan' in front o' de fiel' han's. An' after ole marster axed a blessin', an' de string-ban' play, an' we all sing a song—air one we choose—boss, he'd call out de names, an' we'd step up, one by one, ter git our presents; an' ef we'd walk too shamefaced ur too 'boveish, he'd pass a joke on us, ter set ev'ybody laughin'.

"I ricollec' one Christmas-time I was co'tin' yo' gran'ma. I done had been co'tin' 'er two years, an' she helt 'er head so high I was 'feerd ter speak. An' when Christmas come, an' I marched up ter git my present, ole marster gimme my bundle, an' I started back, grinnin' lak a chessy-cat, an' he calt me back, an' he say: 'Hol' on, Moses,' he say, 'I got 'nother present fur you ter-day. Heah's a finger-ring I got fur you, an' ef it don't fit you, I reckon hit'll fit Zephyr—you know yo' gran'ma she was name Zephyr. An' wid dat he ran his thumb in 'is pocket an' fotch me out a little gal's ring—"

"A gol' ring, gran'dad?"

"No, boy, but a silver ring—ginniwine German silver. Well, I wush't you could o' heard them darkies holler an' laugh! An' Zephyr, ef she hadn't o' been so yaller, she'd o' been red as dat sky yonder, de way she did blush buff."

"An' what did you do, gran'dad?"

"Who, me? Dey warn't but des one thing fur me to do. I des gi'n Zephyr de ring, an' she ax me is I mean it, an'—an' I ax her is she mean it, an'—an' we bofe say—none o' yo' business what we say! What you lookin' at me so quizzical fur, Juke? Ef yer wants ter know, we des had a weddin' dat Christmas night—dat what we done—an' dat's huccome you got yo' gran'ma.

"But I'm talkin' 'bout Christmas now. When we'd all go home, we'd open our bundles, an' of all de purty things, an' funny things, an' jokes you ever heerd of, dey'd be in dem Christmas bundles—some'h'n' ter suit ev'y one, and hit 'im square on his funny-bone ev'y time. An' all de little bundles o' buckwheat ur flour 'd have picayunes an' dimes in 'em! We used ter reg'lar sif' 'em out wid a sifter. Dat was des our white folks's way. None o' de yether fam'lies 'long de coas' done it. You see, all de diffe'nt fam'lies had diffe'nt ways. But ole marster an' ole miss dey'd think up some new foolishness ev'y year. We nuver knowed what was gwine to be did nex'—on'y one thing. Dey allus put money in de buckwheat-bag—an' you know we nuver tas'e no buckwheat 'cep'n' on'y Christmas. Oh, boy, ef we could des meet wid some o' we's white folks ag'in!"

"How is we got los' f'om 'em, gran'dad?" So Duke invited a hundredth repetition of the story he knew so well.

"How did we git los' f'om we's white folks? Dat's a sad story fur Christmas, Juke, but ef you sesso—

"Hit all happened in one night, time o' de big break in de levee, seven years gone by. We was lookin' fur de bank ter crack crost de river f'om us, an' so boss done had tooken all han's over, cep'n us ole folks an' chillen, ter he'p work an' watch de yether side. 'Bout midnight, whiles we was all sleepin', come a roa'in' soun', an' fus' thing we knowed, all in de pitchy darkness, we was floatin' away—nobody cep'n des you an' me an' yo' mammy in de cabin—floatin' an' bumpin' an' rockin,' an' all de time dark as pitch. So we kep' on—one minute stiddy, nex' minute cher-plunk gins' a tree ur some'h'n' nother—all in de dark—an' one minute you'd cry—you was des a weanin' baby den—an' nex' minute I'd heah de bed you an' yo' ma was in bump gins' de wall, an' you'd laugh out loud, an' yo' mammy she'd holler—all in de dark. An' so we travelled, up an' down, bunkety-bunk, seem lak a honderd hours; tell treckly a termenjus wave come, an' I had sca'cely felt it boomin' onder me when I pitched, an' ev'ything went travellin'. An' when I put out my han', I felt you by me—but yo' mammy, she warn't nowhar.

"Hol' up yo' face an' don't cry, boy. I been a mighty poor mammy ter yer, but I blesses Gord to-night fur savin' dat little black baby ter me—all in de win' an' de storm an' de dark dat night.

"You see, yo' daddy, he was out wid de gang wuckin' de levee crost de river—an' dat's huccome yo' ma was 'feerd ter stay by 'erse'f an' sont fur me.

"Well, baby, when I knowed yo' mammy was gone, I helt you tight an' prayed. An' after a while—seem lak a million hours—come a pale streak o' day, an' 'fo' de sun was up, heah come a steamboat puffin' down de river, an' treckly hit blowed a whistle an' ringed a bell an' stop an' took us on boa'd, an' brung us on down heah ter de city."

"An' you never seed my mammy no mo', gran'dad?" Little Duke's lips quivered just a little.

"Yo' mammy was safe at Home in de Golden City, Juke, long 'fore we teched even de low lan' o' dis yearth.

"An' dat's how we got los' f'om we's white folks.

"An' time we struck de city I was so twis' up wid rheumatiz I lay fur six munts in de Cha'ity Hospit'l; an' you bein' so puny, cuttin' yo' toofs, dey kep' you right along in de baby-ward tell I was able to start out. An' sence I stepped out o' dat hospit'l do' wid yo' little bow-legs trottin' by me, so I been goin' ever sence. Days I'd go out sawin' wood, I'd set you on de wood-pile by me; an' when de cook 'd slip me out a plate o' soup, I'd ax fur two spoons. An' so you an' me, we been pardners right along, an' I wouldn't swap pardners wid nobody—you heah, Juke? Dis here's Christmas, an' I'm talkin' ter yer."

Duke looked so serious that a feather's weight would have tipped the balance and made him cry; but he only blinked.

"An' it's gittin' late now, pardner," the old man continued, "an' you better be gwine—less'n you 'feerd? Ef you is, des sesso now, an' we'll meck out wid de col' victuals in de press."

"Who's afeerd, gran'dad?" Duke's face had broken into a broad grin now, and he was cracking his whip again.

"Don't eat no supper tell I come," he added, as he started out into the night. But as he turned down the street he muttered to himself:

"I wouldn't keer, ef all dem sassy boys didn't pleg me—say I ain't got no mammy—ur daddy—ur nothin'. But dey won't say it ter me ag'in, not whiles I got dis whup in my han'! She sting lak a rattlesnake, she do! She's a daisy an' a half! Cher-whack! You gwine sass me any mo', you grea' big over-my-size coward, you? Take dat! An' dat! An' dat! Now run! Whoop! Heah come de red light!"

So, in fancy avenging his little wrongs, Duke recovered his spirits and proceeded to catch on behind the Prytania car, that was to help him on his way to get his second-hand Christmas dinner.

His benefactress had not forgotten her promise; and, in addition to a heavy pan of scraps, Duke took home, almost staggering beneath its weight, a huge, compact bundle.

Old Mose was snoring vociferously when he reached the cabin. Depositing his parcel, the little fellow lit a candle, which he placed beside the sleeper; then uncovering the pan, he laid it gently upon his lap. And now, seizing a spoon and tin cup, he banged it with all his might.

"Heah de plantation-bell! Come git yo' Christmas-gif's!"

And when his grandfather sprang up, nearly upsetting the pan in his fright, Duke rolled backward on the floor, screaming with laughter.

"I 'clare, Juke, boy," said Mose, when he found voice, "I wouldn't 'a' jumped so, but yo' foolishness des fitted inter my dream. I was dreamin' o' ole times, an' des when I come ter de ringin' o' de plantation-bell, I heerd cherplang! An' it nachelly riz me off'n my foots. What's dis heah? Did you git de dinner, sho' 'nough?"

The pan of scraps quite equalled that of the old man's memory, every familiar fragment evoking a reminiscence.

"You is sho' struck quality white folks dis time, Juke," he said, finally, as he pushed back the pan—Duke had long ago finished—"but dis here tukkey-stuffin'—I don't say 'tain' good, but hit don't quite come up ter de mark o' ole miss's puckon stuffin'!"

Duke was nodding in his chair, when presently the old man, turning to go to bed, spied the unopened parcel, which, in his excitement, Duke had forgotten. Placing it upon the table before him, Mose began to open it. It was a package worth getting—just such a generous Christmas bundle as he had described to Duke this afternoon. Perhaps it was some vague impression of this sort that made his old fingers tremble as he untied the strings, peeping or sniffing into the little parcels of tea and coffee and flour. Suddenly something happened. Out of a little sack of buckwheat, accidentally upset, rolled a ten-cent piece. The old man threw up his arms, fell forward over the table, and in a moment was sobbing aloud.

It was some time before he could make Duke comprehend the situation, but presently, pointing to the coin lying before him, he cried: "Look, boy, look! Wharbouts is you got dat bundle? Open yo' mouf, boy! Look at de money in de buckwheat-bag! Oh, my ole mistuss! Nobody but you is tied up dat bundle! Praise Gord, I say!"

There was no sleep for either Mose or Duke now; and, late as it was, they soon started out, the old man steadying himself on Duke's shoulder, to find their people.

* * * * *

It was hard for the little boy to believe, even after they had hugged all 'round and laughed and cried, that the stylish black gentleman who answered the door-bell, silver tray in hand, was his own father! He had often longed for a regular blue-shirted plantation "daddy," but never, in his most ambitious moments, had he aspired to filial relations with so august a personage as this!

But while Duke was swelling up, rolling his eyes, and wondering, Mose stood in the centre of a crowd of his white people, while a gray-haired old lady, holding his trembling hand in both of hers, was saying, as the tears trickled down her cheeks:

"But why didn't you get some one to write to us for you, Moses?"

Then Mose, sniffling still, told of his long illness in the hospital, and of his having afterwards met a man from the coast who told the story of the sale of the plantation, but did not know where the family had gone.

"When I fixed up that bundle," the old lady resumed, "I was thinking of you, Moses. Every year we have sent out such little packages to any needy colored people of whom we knew, as a sort of memorial to our lost ones, always half-hoping that they might actually reach some of them. And I thought of you specially, Moses," she continued, mischievously, "when I put in all that turkey-stuffing. Do you remember how greedy you always were about pecan-stuffing? It wasn't quite as good as usual this year."

"No'm; dat what I say," said Mose. "I tol' Juke dat stuffin' warn't quite up ter de mark—ain't I, Juke? Fur gracious sake, look at Juke, settin' on his daddy's shoulder, with a face on him ole as a man! Put dat boy down, Pete! Dat's a business-man you foolin' wid!"

Whereupon little Duke—man of affairs, forager, financier—overcome at last with the fulness of the situation, made a really babyish square mouth, and threw himself sobbing upon his father's bosom.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote A: Pronounced lan-yap. Lagniappe is a small gratuity which New Orleans children always expect and usually get with a purchase. Retail druggists keep jars of candy, licorice, or other small confections for that purpose.]



UNCLE EPHE'S ADVICE TO BRER RABBIT



UNCLE EPHE'S ADVICE TO BRER RABBIT

Keep step, Rabbit, man! Hunter comin' quick's he can! H'ist yo'se'f! Don't cross de road, Less 'n he'll hit you fur a toad!

Up an' skip it, 'fo' t's too late! Hoppit—lippit! Bull-frog gait! Hoppit—lippit—lippit—hoppit! Goodness me, why don't you stop it?

Shame on you, Mr. Ge'man Rabbit, Ter limp along wid sech a habit! 'F you'd balumps on yo' hime-legs straight, An' hurry wid a mannish gait,

An' tie yo' ears down onder yo' th'oat, An' kivir yo' tail wid a cut-away coat, Rabbit-hunters by de dozen Would shek yo' han' an' call you cousin,

An' like as not, you onery sinner, Dey'd ax' you home ter eat yo' dinner! But don't you go, 'caze ef you do, Dey'll set you down to rabbit-stew.

An' de shape o' dem bones an' de smell o' dat meal 'Ll meck you wish you was back in de fiel'. An' ef you'd stretch yo' mouf too wide, You know yo' ears mought come ontied;

An' when you'd jump, you couldn't fail To show yo' little cotton tail, An' den, 'fo' you could twis' yo' phiz, Dey'd reconnize you who you is;

An' fo' you'd sca'cely bat yo' eye, Dey'd have you skun an' in a pie, Or maybe roasted on a coal, Widout one thought about yo' soul.

So better teck ole Ephe's advice, Des rig yo'se'f out slick an' nice, An' tie yo' ears down, like I said, An' hide yo' tail an' lif' yo' head.



An' when you balumps on yo' foots, It wouldn't hurt ter put on boots. Den walk straight up, like Mr. Man, An' when he offer you 'is han',

Des smile, an' gi'e yo' hat a tip; But don't you show yo' rabbit lip. An' don't you have a word ter say, No mo'n ter pass de time o' day.

An' ef he ax 'bout yo' affairs, Des 'low you gwine ter hunt some hares, An' ax 'im is he seen a jack— An' dat 'll put 'im off de track.

Now, ef you'll foller dis advice, Instid o' bein' et wid rice, Ur baked in pie, ur stuffed wid sage, You'll live ter die of nachel age.

'Sh! hush! What's dat? Was dat a gun? Don't trimble so. An' don't you run! Come, set heah on de lorg wid me— Hol' down yo' ears an' cross yo' knee.

Don't run, I say. Tut—tut! He's gorn. Right 'cross de road, as sho's you born! Slam bang! I know'd he'd ketch a shot! Well, one mo' rabbit fur de pot!



MAY BE SO



MAY BE SO

September butterflies flew thick O'er flower-bed and clover-rick, When little Miss Penelope, Who watched them from grandfather's knee,

Said, "Grandpa, what's a butterfly?" And, "Where do flowers go to when they die?" For questions hard as hard can be I recommend Penelope.

But grandpa had a playful way Of dodging things too hard to say, By giving fantasies instead Of serious answers, so he said,

"Whenever a tired old flower must die, Its soul mounts in a butterfly; Just now a dozen snow-wings sped From out that white petunia bed;

"And if you'll search, you'll find, I'm sure, A dozen shrivelled cups or more; Each pansy folds her purple cloth, And soars aloft in velvet moth.

"So when tired sunflower doffs her cap Of yellow frills to take a nap, 'Tis but that this surrender brings Her soul's release on golden wings."

"But is this so? It ought to be," Said little Miss Penelope; "Because I'm sure, dear grandpa, you Would only tell the thing that's true.

"Are all the butterflies that fly Real angels of the flowers that die?" Grandfather's eyes looked far away, As if he scarce knew what to say.

"Dear little Blossom," stroking now The golden hair upon her brow, "I can't—exactly—say—I—know—it; I only heard it from a poet.

"And poets' eyes see wondrous things. Great mysteries of flowers and wings, And marvels of the earth and sea And sky, they tell us constantly.

"But we can never prove them right, Because we lack their finer sight; And they, lest we should think them wrong, Weave their strange stories into song

"So beautiful, so seeming-true, So confidently stated too, That we, not knowing yes or no, Can only hope they may be so."

"But, grandpapa, no tale should close With ifs or buts or may-be-sos; So let us play we're poets, too, And then we'll know that this is true."



THE END



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Transcriber's note

The following changes have been made to the text:

Page 25: "whem he was young" changed to "when he was young".

Page 40: "Felice" changed to "Felicie".

THE END