Its outcome was this: Toward the end of the first year of the marriage, upon a bleak, forbidding March day—a day of bitter wind and icy sleet,—there rode one to the Overholt door who called upon Pap and Aunt Cornelia to hitch up and come with all possible haste to old Eph'm Blackshears, Cornelia's father—a man who had lived to fourscore, and who now lay at his last, asking for his daughter, his baby chile, Cornely.

For days Sammy had been in a very ill-promising mood; but he brightened as the foster-parents drove away in the bleak, gray, hostile forenoon, Huldy helping Aunt Cornelia to dress and make ready, tucking her lovingly into the wagon and beneath the thick old quilt.

The elder woman yearned over the girl with a mother's compassionate tenderness. Both Aunt Cornelia and Pap John looked with a passionate, delighted anticipation to when they would have their own child's baby upon their hearth. It was the more notable marks of this tenderness, of this joyous anticipation, which Sammy had begun to resent—the gifts and the labors showered upon the young wife in relation to her coming importance, which he had barely come short of refusing and repelling. "Whose wife is she, I'd like to know? Looks like I cain't do nothin' for my own woman—a-givin' an' a-givin' to Huldy, like she was some po' white trash, some beggar!" But he had only "sulled," as his mother called it, never quite able to reach the point he desired of actually flinging the care, the gifts, and the loving labors back in the foster-parents' faces.

Pappy Blackshears passed away quietly in the evening; and when he had been made ready for his grave by Cornelia's hands, her anxiety for the little daughter at home would not let her remain longer.

"I'm jest 'bleeged to go to Huldy," she explained to the relatives and neighbors gathered at the old Blackshears place. "I p'intedly dassent to leave her over one night—and not a soul with her but Sammy, and he nothin' but a chile—and not a neighbor within a mild of our place—and sech a night! Pap and me we'll hitch up an' mak' 'as'e back to Huldy. We'll be here to the funeral a Sunday—but I dassent to stay away from Huldy nair another hour now." And so, at ten o'clock that bitter night, Pap and Aunt Cornelia came hurrying home.

As the wagon drove up the mountain trail to the house, the hounds came belling joyously to meet them; but no light gleamed cheerfully from the windows; no door was flung gayly open; no little Huldy cried out her glad greeting. Filled with formless apprehensions, Pap climbed over the wheel, lifted Cornelia down, and dreading they knew not what, the two went,—holding by each other's hand,—opened the door, and entered, shrinking and reluctant. They blew the smouldering coals to a little flame, piled on light-wood till the broad blaze rolled up the chimney, then looked about. No living soul was in any room. Finally Cornelia caught sight of a bit of paper stuck upon the high mantel. She tore it down, and the two read slowly and laboriously together the few lines written in Sammy's hand:

"I ain't going to allow my wife to live off any man's charity. I ain't going to be made to look like nothing in the eyes of people any longer. I've taken my wife to my own place, where I can support her myself. I had to borrow your ox-cart and steers to move with, and Huldy made me bring some things she said mother had give her, but I'll pay all this back, and more, for I intend to be independent and not live on any man's bounty.

"Respectfully, your son, "SAMUEL"

The two old faces, pallid and grief-struck, confronted each other in the shaken radiance of the pine fire.

"Oh, my po' chile, my po' little Huldy! Whar? His own place! My law!—whar? Whar has he drug that little soul?"

An intuition flashed into Pap Overholt's mind. He grasped his wife's arm. "W'y, Cornely," he cried, "hit's that cabin on The Bench! Don't ye know, honey? I give him that land when he was sixteen year old,—time he brung the prize home from the school down in the settlemint."

"The Bench! Oh, Lord—The Bench! W'y, hit 'll be the death of her. John, we cain't git to her too quick." And she ran from cupboard to press, from press to chest, from chest to bureau drawer, piling into John's arms the flask of brandy, the homely medicines, the warm garments, such bits of food as she could catch up that were palatable and portable. Pap, with more vulnerable emotions and less resolute nature, was incapable of speech; he could only suffer dumbly.

Arrived at the abandoned cabin on The Bench, the picture that greeted them crushed Pap's soft heart to powder, but roused in Aunt Cornelia a rage that would have resulted in a sharp settlement with Sammy, had it not been that, now as always, to reach the offender a blow must go through that same pitiful heart of John's. The young people had not long been at the cabin when the parents arrived. The little Huldy, moaning piteously, with a stricken, terrified look in her big, childish eyes, was crouched upon the floor beside a rickety chair. Sammy, sullen and defiant, was at the desolate hearth, fumbling with unskilled hands at the sodden chunks of wood he had there gathered.

The situation was past words. Pap, after one look at Huldy, went about the fire-building, the slow tears rolling down his cheeks. While Aunt Cornelia brought the bedding, the warm blankets and wrappings, and made the little suffering creature a comfortable couch, Pap wrought at the forlorn, gaping fireplace like a suffering giant. When the leaping flames danced and shouted up the chimney till the whole cabin was filled with the physical joy of their light and warmth, when steaming coffee and the hastily fetched food had been served to the others, and the little wife lay quietly for the moment, the two elders talked together outside where a corner of the cabin cut off the driving sleet. Then Sammy was included, and another council was held, this time of three.

No. He would not budge. That was his wife. A fellow that was man enough to have a wife ought to be man enough to take keer of her. He wasn't going to have his child born in the house of charity. There was no thoroughfare. Sammy was allowed to withdraw, and the council of two was resumed. As a result of its deliberations, Pap John drove away through the darkness and the sleet. By midnight two trips had been made between the big double log house at the Overholt place and the wretched cabin on The Bench, and all that Sammy would suffer to be brought to them or done for them had been brought and done. The cabin was, in a very humble way, inhabitable. There was food and a small provision for the immediate present. And here, upon that wild March night of screaming wind and sleet, and with only Aunt Cornelia as doctor and nurse, Huldy's child was born.

And now a new order of things began.

Sammy's energies appeared to be devoted to the thwarting of Pap Overholt's care and benefits. There should be no cow brought to the cabin; and so Pap John, who was getting on in years now, and had long since given up hard, active work, hastened from his bed at four o'clock in the morning, milked a cow, and carried the pail of fresh milk to Huldy and the baby, furtively, apologetically. The food, the raiment, everything had to be smuggled into the house little by little, explained, apologized for. The land on The Bench was rich alluvial soil. Sammy, in his first burst of independence, ploughed it (borrowing mule and plough from a neighbor—the one neighbor ever known to be on ill terms with Pap Overholt), and planted it to corn. He put in a little garden, too; while Pap had achieved the establishment of a small colony of hens (every one of whom, it appeared, laid two or three eggs each day—at least that was the way the count came out).

The baby thrived, unconscious of all the grief, the perverse cruelty, the baffled, defeated tenderness about her, and was the light of Pap Overholt's doting eyes, the delight of Aunt Cornelia's heart. When she was eighteen months old, and could toddle about and run to meet them, and chattered that wonderful language which these two hearts of love had all their lives yearned to hear—the dialect of babyhood,—the twin boys came to the cabin on The Bench. And Pap Overholt's lines were harder than ever. Cornelia had sterner stuff in her. She would have called a halt.

"Oh, John!" she expostulated finally, when she saw her husband come home crestfallen one day, with a ham which Sammy had detected him smuggling into the cabin and ordered back,—"John honey, ef you was to stop toting things to the cabin and let it all alone—not pester with it another—"

"Cornely, Cornely!" cried Pap John, "you know Sammy cain't no mo' keep a wife and chillen than a peckerwood kin. W'y, they'd starve! Huldy and the chaps would jest p'intedly starve."

"No, they won't, John. Ef you could master yo' own soft heart—ef you could stay away (like he's tole ye a minny a time to do, knowin' 'at you was safe not to mind him)—Sammy would stop this here foolishness. He'd come to his senses and be thankful for what the Lord sent, like other people. W'y, John—"

"Cornely honey—don't. Don't ye say another word. I tell ye, this last year there's a feelin' in my throat and in my breast—hyer,"—he laid his hand pathetically over his heart,—"a cur'us, gone, flutterin' feelin'. And when Sammy r'ars up and threatens he'll take Huldy and the chaps—you know,"—he finished with a gesture of the hand and a glance of unspeakable pain,—"when he does that 'ar way, or something comes at me sudden like that—that we may lose 'em, hit seems like—right hyer,"—and his hand went again to his heart,—"that I can't bear it—that hit 'll take my life."

This was the last time Cornelia ever remonstrated with Pap John. She had a little talk with the new doctor from Hepzibah who bad succeeded old Dr. Pastergood; and after that John was added to the list of her anxieties. He might carry the milk to the cabin on The Bench; he might slip in, when he deemed Sammy away—or asleep—and plough the corn; she saw the tragic folly of it, but must be silent. And so on that particular June morning, when Pap had put up the mule, clambered down the short-cut footway from The Bench to the old house, stopping several times to shake his head again and murmur to himself—"Whut you gwine do? There's them chaps; there's Huldy. Mustn't plough his co'n; mustn't take over air cow. Whut you gwine do?"—Aunt Cornelia's seeing eye noted his perturbation the moment he came in at the door. With tender guile she built up a considerable argument in the matter of a quarterly meeting which was approaching—the grove quarterly, in which Pap John was unfailingly interested, and during which there were always from two to half a dozen preachers, old and young, staying with them. So she led him away—ever so little away—from his ever-present grief.

It was the next day that he said to her, "Cornely, I p'intedly ain't gwine to suffer this hyer filchin' o' co'n them Fusons is a-keepin' up on me."

"Is the Fusons a-stealin' yo' co'n, John?" she responded, in surprise. "W'y, they got a-plenty, ain't they?"

"Well, no, not adzactly, that is to say, Buck Fuson ain't got a-plenty. He too lazy and shif'less to make co'n of his own; and he like too well to filch co'n from them he puts his spite on. Buck Fuson he tuck a spite at me, last time the raiders was up atter that Fuson hideout; jes set up an' swore 'at I'd gin the word to 'em. You see, honey, he makes him up a spite that-a-way—jes out o' nothin'—'cause hit's sech a handy thing to have around when he comes to want co'n. Thar's some one already purvided to steal from—some one 'at's done him a injury."

"Pappy! W'y, Johnny honey, sakes alive! What air ye ever a-gwine to do 'long o' that there thing?" For the old man had laboriously fetched out a rusty wolf-trap, and was now earnestly inspecting and overhauling it.

"Whut am I a-gwine to do 'long o' this hyer, Cornely? W'y, I am jes p'intedly a-gwine to set it in my grain-room. Buck Fuson air a bad man, honey. There's two men's blood to his count. They cain't nothin' be done to him for nair a one of 'em—you know, same's I do—'ca'se hit cain't be proved in a co't o' law. But I kin ketch him in this meanness with this hyer little jigger, and I'm a-gwine to do hit, jest ez sure ez my name's John Overholt!"

"Oh, Pappy! A leetle bit o' co'n fer a man's chillen—"

"Now, Cornely honey, that's a womern! Buck Fuson is the wrong kind o' man to have round. He's ben a stealin' my co'n now fer two weeks and mo'. Ef I kin ketch him right out, and give him a fa'r shamin', he'll quit the Turkey Tracks fer good. So fer as Elmiry and the chaps is consarned, they'll be better off without Buck 'n what they is with him."

At this moment Aunt Cornelia cried out joyously, "Oh, thar's my chile!" and ran to meet her daughter-in-law. The little girl—Cornelia the second—could navigate bravely by herself now, and Huldy was carrying the lusty twin boys. In the flutter of delight over this stolen visit, the ugly wolf-trap threat was forgotten. It had been a month and more since Sammy had set foot in his parents' house. It had gone all over both Turkey Tracks that Sam Overholt declared he would never darken Pap Overholt's door again—Pap Overholt, who had tried to make a pauper of him, loading him with gifts and benefits, like he was shif'less, no-'count white trash! The little Huldy reported him gone to Far Canaan, over beyond Big Turkey Track, in the matter of some employment, which he had not deigned to make clearer to his wife. He would not be back until the day after to-morrow; and meantime she might stay with the old folks two whole days and nights! In the severe school to which life had put her, the little Huldy had developed an astonishing amount of character, of shrewdness, and perception, and a very fair philosophy of her own. To the elder woman's sad observation that it was mighty strange what made Sammy so "onthankful" and so "ha'sh" to his pappy, who had done so much for him, Huldy responded,

"No, Aunt Cornely, hit ain't strange, not a bit."

"Ain't strange? Huldy child, what do you mean?"

"W'y, don't you know, Aunt Cornely, ef he do Pappy that-a-way, when Pappy do so much fer him, then he don't have to be thankful. When everybody's a-tellin' him, 'Yo' pap's so kind, yo' pap does everything for you; look like you cain't be good enough to him,' he 'bleeged to find some way to shake off all that thankfulness 'at's sech a burden to him. And so when Pappy come a-totin' milk, an' a-totin' pork, an' a-ploughin' his co'n outen the weeds, w'y, Sammy jest draw down his face an' look black at Pappy, and make like he mad at him—like he don't want none o' them things—like Pappy jest pesterin' round him fer nothin'. but meanness. Now mind, Aunt Cornely, I ain't say Sammy knows this his own se'f. But I studied Sammy mighty well, an' I know. Sammy gittin' tell he do me the same way. I wait on him hand and foot; I cook his bacon jest like he tol' me you did it fer him. I fix everything the best I kin (and mebby all three of the chillen a-cryin' after me); and when he come in and see it all ready, and see how hard I got it, and seem like there's a call fer him to be thankful, then Sammy jest turns on hit all. He draw down his face at me and he say, black like: 'I don't want no bacon—what did you fix that shirt for that-a-way? Take away that turnip sallet—I cain't git nothin' like I want it.' Then, you know," with a little smile up into the other's face, half pitiful, half saucy,—"Then you know, Sammy don't have to be thankful. Hit was all done wrong."

It was the next evening—Saturday evening. The entire household (which included Elder Justice and two young preachers from Big Turkey Track, with Brother Tarbush, one of the new exhorters) had returned from the afternoon's meeting in the grove. Supper had been eaten and cleared away. The babies had been put to sleep; the two women and the five men—all strong and striking types of the Southern mountaineer—were gathered for the evening reading and prayer. Elder Justice, now nearly eighty years old, a beautiful and venerable person, had opened the big Bible, and after turning the leaves a moment, raised his grave, rugged face and read: "'Therefore will I divide him a portion with the great, and he shall divide the spoil with the strong; because he hath poured out his soul unto death.'"

He paused, and on the intense stillness which followed the ceasing of his voice—the silence of evening in the deep mountains—there broke a long, shrill, agonized scream.

As every one of the little circle leaped to his feet, Aunt Cornelia's eyes sought her husband's face, and his hers. After that grinding, terrible cry, the stillness of the night was unstirred. Pap Overholt sprang to the hearth—where even in the midsummer months a log smoulders throughout the day, to be brightened into a cheery blaze mornings and evenings,—seized a brand, one or two of the others following his example, and ran through the doorway, across the little chip-yard, making for the low-browed log barn and the grain-room beside it.

None who witnessed that scene ever forgot it. Each one told it afterward in his own way, declaring that not while he lived could the remembrance of it pass from his mind. Pap Overholt's tall figure leaped crouching through the low doorway, and next instant lifted the blazing brand high above his head; the others followed, doing the same. There by the grain-bin, with ashy countenance and shaking limbs, the sweat of anguish upon his forehead, his eyes roving dumbly around the circle of faces revealed by the flickering light of the brands—there with the dreadful wolf-trap (locked by its chain to a stanchion) hanging to his right arm, its fangs bitten through and through the flesh, stood Sammy.

Pap Overholt's mind refused at first to understand. He had known (with that sort of moral assurance which makes a thing as real to us as the evidence of the senses themselves) that it was Buck Fuson who had been stealing his grain. He had set his trap to catch Buck Fuson; not instantly could the mere sight of his eyes convince him that the trapped thief was the petted, adored, perverse son, who had refused his father's bounty when it had seemed the little wife and babies must starve. When he did realize, the cry that burst from his heart brought tears to all the eyes looking upon him. Down went the tall, broad figure, down into the dust of the grain-room floor. And there Pap Overholt grovelled on his knees, his white head almost at the thief's feet, crying, crying that old cry of David's: "Oh, Sammy, my son! My son, Sammy! An' I wouldn't 'a' touched a hair o' his head. My God! have mercy on my soul, that would 'a' fed him my heart's blood—an' he wouldn't take bite nor sup from my hand. Oh, Sammy! what did you want to do this to yo' po' old pappy fer?"

Elder Justice, quick and efficient at eighty years, had sprung to the lad's right arm, two of the younger men close after. Aunt Cornelia held her piece of blazing light-wood for them while they cut away the sleeve and made ready to bear apart the powerful jaws of the trap. The little Huldy had said never a word. Her small, white face was strained; but it did not bear the marks of shock and of horror that were written on every other countenance there. When they had grasped jaws and lever, and Elder Justice's kind voice murmured, "Mind now, Sammy. Hold firm, son; we air a-gwine to pull 'em back. Brace yo'se'f," the boy's haggard eyes sought his mother's face.

"Le' me take it, Aunt Cornely," whispered Huldy, loosing the light-wood from the elder woman's hand and leaving her free. And the next moment Sammy's left hand was clasped tight in his mother's; he turned his face round to her broad breast and hid it there; and there he sobbed and shook as the savage jaws came slowly back.

* * * * *

That strange hour worked a complete revolution in the lives of the little family in the cabin on The Bench and those in the big, hospitable Pap Overholt home. Sammy had "met up with" punishment at last; he had encountered discipline; and the change it wrought upon him was almost beyond belief. The spell which this winning, wayward, perverse creature had laid upon Pap Overholt's too affectionate, too indulgent nature was dissolved in that terrible hour. He was no more to the father now than a troublesome boy who had been most trying and not very satisfactory. The ability to wring the hearts of those who wished to benefit him had passed from Sammy; but it is only fair to say that the wish to do so seemed to be no longer his. While his arm was still in a sling, before he had yet raised his shamed eyes to meet the eyes of those about him, Pap Overholt cheerfully put old Ned and Jerry to the big ox-wagon and bodily removed the little household from The Bench to the home which had been so long yearning for them.

Now, at last, he was Pap Overholt indeed. The little Huldy, whose burden of gratitude for two had seemed to Aunt Cornelia so grievous a one, was a daughter after any man's heart, and her brood of smiling children were a wagon-load which Pap John hauled with joy and pride to and from the settlement, to the circus—ay, every circus that ever showed its head within a day's drive of Little Turkey Track,—to meetin', to grove quarterlies, in response to every call of neighborliness, or of mere amusement.



In the Piny Woods

BY MRS. B. F. MAYHEW

A sparsely settled bit of country in the piny woods of North Carolina. A house rather larger than its neighbors, though only a "story and a jump" of four rooms, two upper and two lower, and quite a commodius shed on the back containing two rooms and a small entry; and when Jeems Henry Tyler increased his rooms as his family grew, his neighbors "allowed" that "arter er while he'd make er hotel out'n it." Several out-houses stood at convenient distances from the house. A rough board paling enclosed the yard. A clearing of twenty-five or more acres lay around three sides of the house, and well-to-do Industry and Thrift plainly went hand in hand about the place.

A Saturday in early autumn was drawing near its close, and the family had finished supper, though it was not yet dark. Like all country folk of their station in life, they ate in the kitchen, a building separate from the house. There were "Grandmother Tyler," a sweet-faced old woman, with silvery hair smoothed away under a red silk kerchief folded cornerwise and tied under her chin; and her son, "Father Tyler," with his fifty-odd years showing themselves in his grizzled hair and beard; and "Mother Tyler," a brisk stout woman, with great strength of character in her strong features, black eyes, and straight black hair. Her neighbors declared that she was the "main stake" in the "Tyler fence."

The children were "Mandy Calline," the eldest, and her mother's special pride, built on the same model with her mother; Joseph Zachariah, a long-legged youth; Ann Elisabeth, a lanky girl; Susan Jane, and Jeems Henry, or "Little Jim," to distinguish him from his father; and last, but by no means least in the household, came the baby. When she was born Mrs. Tyler declared that as all the rest were named for different members of both families, she should give this wee blossom a fancy name, and she had the desire of her heart, and the baby rejoiced in the name of Elthania Mydora, docked off into "Thancy" for short.

They had risen from the table, and Father Tyler had hastened to his mother's side as the old lady moved slowly away, and taking her arm, guided her carefully to the house, for the eyes in the placid old face, looking apparently straight before her, were stone-blind.

"Come, now, gals," said Mother Tyler, briskly, with the baby in her arms, "make er hurry 'n' do up th' dishes. Come, Ann Elisabeth, go ter scrapin' up, 'n', Mandy Calline, pour up th' dish-water."

"Ya'as, yer'd better make er hurry," squeaked "Little Jim," from his perch in the window, "fer Mandy Calline's spectin' her beau ter-night."

"Ye'd best shet up yer clatter, Jim, lest ye know what yer talkin' erbout," retorted Mandy Calline, with a pout, making a dash at him with the dish-cloth.

"Yer right, Jim," drawled Joseph Zachariah, lounging in the doorway. "I heerd Zeke White tell 'er he was er-comin' ter-night."

"Mar—" began Mandy Calline, looking at her mother appealingly.

"Shet up, you boys," came in answer. "Zachariah, ha' ye parted th' cows 'n' calves?"

"No, 'm."

"Then be erbout it straight erway. Jim—you Jeems Henry!"

"Ya'as, 'm," from outside the window.

"Go 'n' shet up the hen-'ouse, 'n' see ef th' black hen 'n' chickens ha' gone ter roost in there. She'll keep stayin' out o' nights till th' fox 'll grab 'er. Now, chillen, make 'er hurry 'n' git thee in here. Come, Thaney gal, we'll go in th' house 'n' find pappy 'n' gra'mammy. Susan Jane, come fetch th' baby's ole quilt 'n' spread it down on th' floor fer 'er"; and Mother Tyler repaired to the house with the baby in her arms.

"Why, mother, ye in here by yerself? I tho't Jeems Henry was with yer."

"Ya'as, Malviny, he was tell er minit ergo, 'n' he stepped out to th' lot," replied the old lady, in tones so like the expression of her face, mildly calm, that it was a pleasure to hear her speak.

"Ha" ye got thet baby wi' ye?"

"Ya'as, 'm."

"I wish ye'd put her on my lap. Gra'mammy 'ain't had 'er none ter-day."

"Ya'as, 'm, in er minit. Run, Susan Jane, 'n' fetch er cloth ter wipe 'er face 'n' han's; they're that stuck up wi' merlasses, ter say nothin' o' dirt. Therey, therey, now! Mammy's gal don't want ter hev 'er face washed? Hu! tu! tu! Thaney mustn't cry so. Where's Jeff? Here, Jeff—here, Jeff! Ole bugger-man, come down the chimbly 'n' ketch this bad gal. You'd better hush. I tell yer he's er-comin'. Here, Susan Jane, take th' cloth. There, gra'mammy; there's jest es sweet er little gal es ye'd find in er dog's age." And the old lady at once cuddled the little one in her arms, swinging back and forth in her home-made rocker, and crooning an old-time baby song.

"Here, Susan Jane, han' me my knittin' from th' table, 'n' go 'n' tell Jim ter pitch in some pine knots 'n' make er light in here, 'n' be quick erbout it"; and Mother Tyler settled herself in another home-made rocker and began to knit rapidly.

This was the night-work of the female portion of the family, and numerous stockings of various colors and in various stages of progress were stuck about the walls of the room, which boasted neither ceiling nor lath and plaster, making convenient receptacles between the posts and weather-boarding for knitting-work, turkey-tail fans, bunches of herbs for drying, etc.

A pine-knot fire was soon kindled on the hearth, and threw its flickering shadows on the room and its occupants as the dusk gathered in.

Mandy Calline and Elisabeth, running a race from the kitchen, burst into the back door, halting in a good-natured tussle in the entry.

"Stop that racket, you gals," called out the mother; and as they came in with suppressed bustle, panting with smothered laughter, she asked, briskly, "Have ye shet up everything 'n' locked th' kitchen door?"

"Ya'as, 'm," replied Mandy Calline; "'n' here's th' key on th' mantel-shelf." She then disappeared up the stairs which came down into the sitting-room behind the back door.

"Come, Ann Elisabeth, git yer knittin'. Git your'n too, Susan Jane."

"Yer'll ha' ter set th' heel fer me, mar," said Susan Jane, hoping privately that she would be too busy to do so.

"Fetch it here," from the mother, dashed the hope incontinently.

"I think we're goin' ter ha' some fallin' weather in er day er two; sky looks ruther hazy, 'n' I heerd er rain-crow ter-day, 'n' ther's er circle roun' th' moon," observed Father Tyler as he entered, and hanging his hat on a convenient nail in a post, seated himself in the corner opposite his mother.

"Ha' ye got th' fodder all in?" queried his wife, with much interest.

"Ya'as; finished ter-day; that's all safe; but er rain 'ould interfere mightily wi' pickin' out cotton up in th' swamp, 'n' it's openin, mighty fast; shouldn't be s'prised ef some er that swamp don't fetch er bale ter th' acre, 'n' we'll have er right purty lot o' cotton, even atter th' rent's paid out"; and Father Tyler, with much complacency, lighted his pipe with a coal from the hearth.

"Th' gals 'll soon ha' this erround th' house all picked out; they got purty nigh over it ter-day, 'n' ther'll likely be one more scatterin' pickin'," said Mother Tyler.

Here a starched rustling on the stairs betokened the descent of Mandy Calline. Pushing back the door, she stepped down with all the dignity which she deemed suitable to don with her present attire.

A new calico dress of a blue ground, with a bright yellow vine rambling up its lengths, adorned her round, plump figure; her glossy black hair was plaited, and surmounted with a huge red bow, the ends of which fluttered out bravely; as she stepped slowly into the room, busying herself pulling a basting out of her sleeve.

"Well, Mandy Calline," began her mother, "ef I do say it myself, yer frock fits jest as nice as can be. Looks like ye had been melted 'n' run into it. Nice langth, too," eying her critically from head to foot.

"Ya'as, 'm; 'n' it's comf'ble, too; ain't too tight ner nothin'," giving her shoulders a little twitch, and moving her arms a bit.

"I guess th' boys 'll ha' ter look sharp ef that gal sets 'er cap at any on 'em," put in Father Tyler, gazing proudly at his first-born, whereupon a toss of her head set the ribbon ends fluttering as she moved with great dignity across the room to the fireplace.

"Come, let me feel, dearie," said the old lady, softly, turning her sightless eyes toward the girl, hearing her movements in her direction.

"Ya'as, gra'mammy," and stepping nearer, she knelt at her grandmother's feet, and leaning forward, rested her hands lightly on her shoulders.

The old wrinkled hands groped their way to the girl's face, thence downward, over her arms, her waist, to the skirt of her dress.

"It feels nice, dearie, 'n' I know it looks nice."

"I'm glad ye like it, gra'mammy," said the girl, gently.

"Air ye spectin' comp'ny, dearie, that ye're all dressed up so nice? 'Pears like ye wouldn't put on yer new frock lest ye wer'."

Noting the girl's hesitation, the old lady said, softly, "Whisper 'n' tell gra'-mammy who's er-comin'"; and Mandy Calline, with an additional shade to the red in her cheeks, leaned forward and shyly whispered a name in her grandmother's ear.

A satisfactory smile broke like sunshine over the kind old face, and she murmured: "He's come o' good fambly, dearie. I knowed 'em all years ago. Smart, stiddy, hard-workin', kind, well-ter-do people. I've been thinkin' he's been er-comin' here purty stiddy, 'n' I knowed in my min' he warn't er-comin' ter see Zachariah."

Bestowing a kiss on one aged cheek and a gentle pat on the other, Mandy Calline arose to her feet, and lighting a splinter at the fire, opened the door in the partition separating the two rooms and entered the "parlor."

This room was the pride of the family, as none of the neighbors could afford one set apart specially for company.

It was the only room in the house lathed and plastered. Mother Tyler, who was truly an ambitious woman, had, however, declared in the pride of her heart that this one at least should be properly finished.

Mandy Calline, with her blazing splinter, lighted the lamp, quite a gay affair, with a gaudily painted shade, and bits of red flannel with scalloped edges floating about in the bowl.

The floor was covered with a neatly woven rag carpet of divers gay colors. Before the hearth, which displayed a coat of red ochre, lay a home-made rug of startling pattern. The fireplace was filled with cedar boughs and sweet-smelling myrtle. Two "boughten" rocking-chairs of painted wood confronted each other primly from opposite ends of the rug. Half a dozen straight-back chairs, also "boughten," were disposed stiffly against the walls. A large folding-leaf dining-table of real mahogany, an heirloom in the family, occupied the space between two windows, and held a few scattered books.

The windows were covered with paper curtains of a pale blue tint. In the centre of each a festive couple, a youth and damsel, of apparently Bohemian type, with clasped hands held high, disported themselves in a frantic dance. These pictures were considered by the entire neighborhood as resting triumphantly on the top round of the ladder of art.

Both parlor and sitting-room opened on a narrow piazza on the front of the house, Father Tyler not caring to waste space in a hall or passage.

Mandy Calline had flicked a bit of imaginary dust from the polished surface of the table, had set a bit straighter, if that were possible, one or two of the chairs, and turned up the lamp a trifle higher, when "Little Jim" opened the door leading out on the piazza, and in tones of suppressed excitement half whispered, "He's er-comin', Mandy Calline; Zeke's er-comin'; he's nigh 'bout ter th' gate."

"Go 'long, Jim, 'n' shet up; ye allers knows more'n the law allows," said his sister; but she glanced quickly and shyly out of the door.

Mr. Ezekiel White was just entering the gate. He was undoubtedly gotten up at vast expense for the occasion. A suit of store clothes of a startling plaid adorned his lanky figure, and a pair of new shoes cramped his feet in the most approved style. A new felt hat rested lightly on his well-oiled hair. But the crowning glory was a flaming red necktie which flowed in blazing magnificence over his shirt front.

Jeff, the yard dog, barked in neighborly fashion, as though yelping a greeting to a frequent visitor whom he recognized as a favored one.

"Susan Jane," said the father, "step ter th' door 'n' see who Jeff's er-barkin' at."

Eagerly the girl dropped her knitting and hastened to reconnoitre, curious herself.

"It's Zeke White," she replied, returning to her work.

"I knowed Mandy Calline was spectin' him," muttered Ann Elisabeth, under her breath.

Father Tyler arose and sauntered to the door, calling out: "You Jeff, ef ye don't stop that barkin'—Come here this minit, sir! Good-evenin', Zekle; come in."

"Good-evenin", Mr. Tyler. Is Zachariah ter home?"

"I dun'no'. Malviny, is Zachariah erroun' anywher's 'at ye know of?"

"I dun'no'; I hain't seed 'im sence supper."

"I know," piped up "Little Jim." "He said es he was er-goin' ter Bill Jackson's. But, Zeke," he added, in a hurried aside, catching hold of the visitor's coat in his eagerness, "Mandy Calline's ter home, 'n' she's fixed up ter kill!"

At this juncture Mandy Calline herself appeared in the doorway, striving to look calmly indifferent at everything in general and nothing in particular; but the expression in her bright black eyes was shifty, and the color in her cheeks vied with that of the bow on her hair; and by this time Zekle's entire anatomy exposed to view shared the tint of his brilliant necktie.

"Good-evenin', Zekle," said the girl, bravely assuming a calm superiority to all embarrassment and confusion. "Will ye come in th' parlor, er had ye ruther set out on th' piazza?"

Zekle was wise; he knew that "Little Jim" dare not intrude on the sacred precincts of the parlor, and he answered, "I'd jest es live set in th' parlor, of it's all th' same ter you."

"Ya'as, I'd jest es live," she replied, and led the way into the room; he followed, and sat down in rather constrained fashion on the chair nearest the door, deposited his hat on the floor beside him, took from his pocket and unfolded with a flirt an immense bandanna handkerchief, highly redolent of cheap cologne, and proceeded to mop his face with it.

"It's ruther warm," he observed.

"Ya'as," she replied, from a rocking-chair in the corner facing him. Here there was a long pause, and presently she added, "Pappy said es how he tho't it mought rain in er day er two."

The family in the sitting-room had settled down, the door being closed between that room and the parlor.

"There, mother, gi' Thaney ter me," said Mother Tyler. "I know ye're tired holdin' of her, fer she ain't no light weight," and she lifted the little one away.

"Heigho, Thaney, air ye erwake yit?" questioned the father.

"Erwake! Ya'as, 'n' likely ter be," said the mother. "Thaney's one o' th' setters-up, she is."

"Give 'er ter me, Malviny. Don't pappy's gal want er ride on pappy's foot? See 'ere, now! Whoopee!" and placing the plump little body astride his foot, the leg of which crossed the other, and clasping the baby hands in his, he tossed her up and down till she crowed and laughed in a perfect abandon of baby glee. A smiling audience looked on in joyous sympathy with the baby's pleasure, the old gra'mammy murmuring softly, "It's like feelin' the sunshine ter hear her laugh!"

"There, pappy," said Mother Tyler, anxiously, "that'll do; ye're goin' ter git 'er so wide-erwake there'll be no doin' er thing with 'er. Come, now, Thaney, let mammy put ye down here on yer quilt. Come, come, I know ye've forgot that ole bugger-man that stays up th' chimbly 'n' ketches bad gals! There, now, that's mammy's nice gal. Git 'er playthings fer 'er, Susan Jane. Jim, don't ye go ter sleep there in that door. Ha' ye washed yer feet?"

"No, 'm," came drowsily from the doorway.

"Why upon th' yeth do ye wait every blessed night ter be told ter wash yer feet? Go straight 'n' wash 'em, 'n' then go ter bed. Come, gals, knit ter th' middle 'n' put up yer knittin'; it's time for all little folks ter go ter sleep 'n' look for ter-morrer. 'Pears like Thaney's goin' ter look fer it with eyes wide open."

"Malviny, ye'll have ter toe up my knittin' fer me, Monday; I've got it down ter th' narrerin', 'n' I can't do no more," came softly from gra'mammy's corner.

"Ya'as, mother, I will; I could ha' toed it up this evenin' es well es not, tho' ef I had, ye'd ha' started ernuther, 'n' ye'd need ter rest; ye're allers knittin'."

"Ya'as, but, darter, it's all I kin do; 'n' I'm so thankful I kin feel ter knit, fer th' hardest work is ter set wi' folded han's doin' nothin'."

"Well, mother, it's but sildom that I ever knowed yer ter set with folded han's," remarked her son, with proud tenderness.

"Maybe, Jeems Henry; but I never tuck no consait ter myself fer workin', because I jest nachally loved it. Yer pappy use ter say I was er born worker, 'n' how he did use ter praise me fer bein' smart! 'n' that was sich er help! Somehow I've minded me of 'im all day ter-day—of th' time when he logged Whitcombe's mill down on Fallin' Crick. 'Twas—lemme see! Jeems Henry, ye're how ole?"

"Fifty-two my las' birthday."

"Well, that was fifty-one year ergo. You was all th' one I had then, 'n' yer pappy was erway from home all th' week, 'cept from Sat'day evenin' tell 'fore day Monday monrin'. Melindy White staid wi' me; she was Zekle's great-aunt, 'n' er ole maid, 'n' people did say she was monst'ous cross 'n' crabbed, but she warn't never cross ter me. I mind me of er Sat'day, 'n' I'd be spectin' of yer pappy home. I'd git up at th' fust cock-crow, 'n' go wake Melindy, 'n' she'd grumble 'n' laff all in er breath, 'n' say: 'Ann Elisabeth Tyler, ye're th' most onreasonablest creeter that I ever seed! What in natur' do ye want ter git up 'fore day fer? Jest ter make th' time that much longer 'fore Jim Tyler comes? I know ef I was married ter th' President I wouldn't be es big er fool es ye air.' But, la! she'd git up jest ter pleasure me, 'n' then sich cleanin' up, 'n' sich cookin' o' pies 'n' cakes 'n' chickens, 'n' gittin' ready fer yer pappy ter come!" And the placid old face fairly glowed with the remembrance. "'N' I mind me," she crooned on, "of th' time when ye fust begun ter talk; I was er whole week er-teachin' yer ter say two words; I didn't do much else. Melindy allowed that I'd gone clean daft; 'n' when Sat'day come, 'long erbout milkin'-time, I put on er pink caliker frock. I 'member it jest es well! it had little white specks on the pink; he bought it at Miggs's Crossroads, 'n' said I allers looked like er rose in it. I tuck ye in my arms 'n' went down ter th' bars, where I allers stood ter watch fer 'im; he come in er boat ter th' little landin' 'n' walked home, erbout er mile; 'n' when I seed 'im comin', 'n' he'd got nigh ernuff, I whispered ter ye, 'n' ye clapped yer little han's, 'n' fairly shouted out, 'Pappy's tumin'! pappy's tumin'!' Dearie me, dearie me; I kin see 'im now so plain! He broke inter er run, 'n' I stepped over th' bars ter meet 'im, 'n' he gethered us both in his arms, like es of he'd never turn loose; then he car'ied ye up to th' house on one arm, the other one roun' my wais', 'n' he made ye say it over 'n' over—'Pappy's tumin', pappy's tumin';' 'n' Melindy 'lowed we wer' 'th' biggest pair o' geese'; but we was mighty happy geese jest th' same."

There was a pause. They were all listening. Then she went on. "Somehow ter-day I felt like I use ter of er Sat'-day then, kinder spectin' 'n' light-hearted. I dun'no' why; I ain't never felt so befo' in all these years sence he died—forty-one on 'em; 'n' fifteen sence th' Lord shet down th' dark over my eyes, day 'n' night erlike. Well, well; I've had er heap ter be thankful fer; th' Lord has been good ter me; fer no mother ever had er better son than ye've allers ben, Jeems Henry; 'n' of Malviny had er ben my own darter, she couldn't er ben more like one; I've alleys ben tuck keer on, 'n' waited on, 'n' 'ain't never ben sat erside fer no one. Ya'as, th' Lord's ben good ter me." She began to fumble for her handkerchief.

"But, mother, ye don't say nothin' o' what er blessin' ye've ben to us," said her son. "Ye've teached us many er lesson by yer patience in yer blindness."

"Ya'as, but, Jeems Henry, I had no call ter be nothin' else but patient; I had no call ter be onreasonable 'n' fret 'n' worry 'n' say that th' Lord had forsakened me when He hadn't. I knowed I'd only ter bide my time, 'n' I'm now near seventy-two year old. Dear, dear, how th' time goes! Seems like only th' other day when I was married! Was that nine the clock struck?"

"Ya'as, 'm."

"Well, I b'lieve I'll git ter bed."

"Wait, mother, let me help yer," said her daughter, hastily throwing aside her knitting.

"We'll both help ye, mother," said her son, putting one arm gently around her as she arose from her chair.

"Well, well," she laughed, with soft content. "I sh'll be well waited on with two children 'stid er one; but none too many—none too many."

Zekle White had made brave progress from the chair by the door to the other rocker, drawn closely beside that of Mandy Calline; and he was saying, in tones that suggested an effort: "I've seed other young ladies which may be better-lookin' in other folkses' eyes, 'n' they may be more suiterbler ter marry, but not fer me. Thar ain't but one gurl in this roun' worl' that I'd ask ter be my wife, 'n', Mandy Calline, I've ben keepin' comp'ny wi' you long ernuff fer ye ter know that ye air th' one." He swallowed, and went on: "I've got my house nigh erbout done. Ter be sho', 'tain't es fine es this un, nor es big; but I kin add ter it, 'n' jest es soon es it is done I want ter put my wife in it. Now, Mandy Calline, what yer say—will yer be my wife?"

Mandy Calline looked shy—much like a young colt when it is going to break out of harness. She rocked back and forth with short spasmodic jerks, and twisted her handkerchief into all conceivable shapes.

"Yer don't know how sot on it I am," he went on; "'n' all day long I'm er-thinkin' how nice it 'll be when I'm er-workin', ploughin' maybe, up one row 'n' down ernuther, 'n' watchin' th' sun go down, 'n' lookin' forerd ter goin' ter th' house 'n' hev er nice little wife ter meet me, wi' everything tidied up 'n' cheerful 'n' comf'ble." Mandy Calline simply drooped her head lower, and twisted her handkerchief tighter. "Mandy Calline, don't yer say 'no,'" he said. "I love yer too well ter give yer up easy; 'n' I swear ef ye don't say 'yes,' I'll set fire 'n' burn up th' new house, fer no other 'oman sha'n't never live there. I'm er-waitin', Mandy Calline, 'n' don't, don't tell me no."

"Well, Zekle," she began, with much hesitation, "bein' es how I don't see no use in burnin' up er right new house, 'n' it not even finished, I guess es how—maybe—in erbout two or three years—"

"Two or three thunderations!" he cried out, ecstatically, seizing both her hands in his. "Yer mean two or three weeks! Mandy Calline, do ye mean ya'as, ye'll marry me? I want ter hear ye say it."

"Ya'as, Zekle," she said, shyly. "Whoopee! I feel like I'd like ter jump up 'n' knock my heels tergether 'n' yell!"

"Yer'd better try it er spell." she said, smiling at him shyly, "'n' jest see how soon ye'd ha' th' hull fambly er-rushin' in ter see what was the matter."

Hereupon came the ominous sound of Father Tyler winding the clock in the sitting-room; Zekle knew 'twas a signal for him to depart.

"Well," slowly rising, "I guess I got ter go, but I do mortally hate ter. Come ter th' door wi' me, Mandy Calline"; and taking her hand, he drew her up beside him, but she stood off a bit skittishly, and he knew that it would be useless to ask the question which was trembling on his lips, so, quick as a flash, he dropped one arm around her waist, tipped up her chin with the other hand, and kissed her square on the mouth before she fairly knew what he was about.

"You Zekle White!" she cried out, snatching herself from his arm and bestowing a rousing slap on his face.

"I knowed ye wouldn't give me one, so I tuck it jest so. Good-night tell ter-morrer, Mandy Calline; I'm goin' home 'n' dream erbout ye."

The next morning dawned bright and soft. A perfect September morning. Father Tyler and the boys were at the lot feeding and milking. Mandy Calline was cleaning up the house, her comely face aglow with her new-found happiness. Susan Jane attended to the baby, while Ann Elisabeth helped her mother "get breakfast."

"Gra'mammy was sleepin' so nice when I got up," said the girl, "that I crep' out 'n' didn't wake 'er. Had I better go see of she's erwake now, mar? Breakfus is nigh erbout done."

"Not yet. Go tell Mandy Calline ter git th' milk-pitcher 'n' go to the cow-pen 'n' fetch some milk fer breakfus. No tellin' when they'll git thoo out there. Then you hurry back 'n' finish fryin' that pan o' pertaters. No need ter 'sturb gra'mammy till breakfus is ready ter put on th' table; 'n' yer pappy 'n' th' boys'll ha' ter wash when they come from th' lot." And Mother Tyler opened the stove door and put in a generous pan of biscuits to bake.

Mandy Calline, with the milk-pitcher in her hand, hurried out to the cow-pen, which adjoined the stable lot. Her father was milking, Jim holding the calves. Zachariah was in the lot feeding the horse and pigs. She had just stepped over the bars into the pen, when who should appear, sauntering up, but Zeke White! He assumed a brave front, and with hands thrust in his pantaloons pockets, came up, whistling softly.

"Good-mornin', Zekle," greeted Father Tyler, rising from his stooping position.

"Good-mornin', Mr. Tyler. Fine mornin'."

"Ya'as; but I'm erfeared we're goin' ter hev rain in er day er two. I feel ruther rheumaticky this mornin', er mighty shore sign that rain ain't fur off. Want milk fer breakfus, Mandy Calline? Well, fetch here yer pitcher."

A shy "good-mornin"' had passed between Mandy Calline and Zekle, and he sauntered up beside her, taking the pitcher, and as they stepped over the bars Father Tyler, hospitably inclined, said: "Take breakfus with us, Zekle? I lay Malviny 'll hev ernuff cooked ter give yer er bite."

With assumed hesitation Zekle accepted the invitation, and he and Mandy Calline passed on to the house, he carefully carrying the pitcher of milk.

He cleared his throat a time or two, and remarked again on the beauty of the morning, to which she rather nervously assented; then suddenly, the words seemingly shot out of him: "Mandy Calline, I'm goin' ter ask th' ole folks ter-day. What yer say?"

Mandy Calline was red as a turkey-cock, to which was now added a nervous confusion which bade fair to overwhelm her.

"It's too soon, Zekle. Whyn't yer wait er while?" she replied, tremblingly.

"No, 'tain't too soon," he answered, promptly. "I want it all done 'n' over with, then I sh'll feel mo' like ye b'long ter me. I'm goin' ter ask 'em ter-day; yer needn't say not. I know you're erfeared o' th' teasin'. But ye needn't min' that; ye won't hev ter put up wi' it long; fer th' way I mean ter work on that house ter git it done—well, 'twon't be long befo' it 'll be ready ter put my wife in it."

"Well, Zekle," said the girl, hesitatingly, "ef ye'd ruther ask 'em ter-day, why—I guess es how—ye mought es well do it. But let's go 'n' tell gra'mammy now; somehow I'd ruther she knowed it fust."

"We will," replied Zekle, promptly.

* * * * *

Mother Tyler was putting breakfast on the table. She suddenly paused and listened. Something was the matter. There were cries that betokened trouble. She hastened to the house, followed her husband and the boys on to gra'mammy's room, and there on the bed, in peaceful contrast to all this wailing and sorrow, lay dear old gra'mammy, dead. The happiest smile glorified the kind old withered face, and the wrinkled hands lay crossed and still on her breast. She had truly met the husband of her youth, and God had opened in death the eyes so darkened in life.



My Fifth in Mammy

By William Ludwell Sheppard

I never knew a time in which I did not know Mammy. She was simply a part of my consciousness; it seems to me now a more vivid one in my earliest years than that of the existence of my parents. We five, though instructed by an elder sister in the rudiments of learning, spent many more of our waking hours with Mammy; and whilst we drew knowledge from one source, we derived the greater part of our pleasure from the other—that is, outside of our playmates.

The moments just preceding bedtime, in which we were undergoing the process of disrobing at the hands of Mammy, were periods of dreadful pleasure to us. As I look back upon them, I wonder that we got any sleep at all after some of her recitals. They were not always sanguinary or ghostly, and of course when I scan them in the light of later years, it is apparent that Mammy, like the majority of people, "without regard to color or previous condition of servitude," suffered her walk and conversation to be influenced by her state of health, mental and bodily. Her walk—I am afraid I must admit, as all biographers seem privileged to deal with the frailties of their victims as freely as with their virtues—her walk, viewed through the medium already alluded to, did not owe its occasional uncertainty to "very coarse veins," though that malady, with a slight phonetic difference, Mammy undoubtedly suffered from, in common with the facts. She was a great believer in "dram" as a remedial agent, and homoeopathic practice was unknown with us at that period.

Mammy's code of laws for our moral government was one of threats of being "repoated to ole mahster," tempered by tea of her own making dulcified by brown sugar of fascinating sweetness, anecdote, and autobiography.

The anecdotal part consisted almost exclusively of the fascinating repertoire of Uncle Remus. Indeed, to know the charm of that chronicle is reserved to the man or woman whose childhood dates from the ante bellum period, and who had a Mammy.

In the autobiographical part Mammy spread us a chilling feast of horrors, varied by the supernatural. Long years after this period I read a protest in some Southern paper against this practice in the nursery, with its manifest consequences on the minds of children. It set me to wondering how it was that the consequences in my day seemed inappreciable. I do not understand it now. Some of Mammy's stories would have been bonanzas to a police reporter of today; others would have bred emulation in Edgar Poe. And yet I do not recall any subsequent terrors.

An account of the execution of some pirates, which she had witnessed when a "gal," was popular. She had a rhyme which condensed the details. The condemned were Spaniards:

Pepe hung, Qulo fell, Felix died and went to ——

Mammy always gave the rhyme with awful emphasis.

She had had an experience before coming into our family, by purchase, which gave her easy precedence over all the mammies of all our friends. To be sure, it was an experience which the other mammies, as "good membahs of de chutch," regarded as unholy; one which they congratulated themselves would never lie on their consciences, and of which poor Mammy was to die unshriven in their minds; for she never became a "sister," so far as I ever learned.

But to us this experience was fruitful of many happy hours. Mammy had been tire-woman to Mrs. Gilfert, the reigning star of that date, at the old Marshall Theatre—the successor to one burnt in 1811.

The habit of the stock companies in those days was to remain the whole season, sometimes two or more, so Mammy had the opportunity to "assist" at the entire repertoire. It is one of the regrets of my life that I am not able to recall verbatim Mammy's arguments of the play, her descriptions of some of the actors, and her comments.

For some reason, when later on I wished to refresh my memory of these, Mammy had either forgotten them or suspected the intention of my asking. She ranked her experiences at the theatre along with her account of the adventures of the immortal "Mollie Cottontail" (for we did not know him as "Brer Rabbit"), and the rest of her lore, I suppose, and so could not realize that my maturer mind would care for any of them.

When I had subsequently made some acquaintance with plays, or read them, I recognized most of those described by Mammy. Some remain unidentified. Hamlet she preserved in name. Whilst she had no quotations of the words, she had a vivid recollection of the ghost scenes, and "pisenin' de king's ear." She also gave us scenes in which "one uv them kings was hollerin' for his horse"—plainly Richard. Julius Caesar she easily kept in mind, as some acquaintance of her color bearing that name was long extant. I can still conjure up her tones and manner when she declaimed "'Dat you, Brutus?' An' he done stick him like de rest uv um; and him raised in de Caesar fam'ly like he wuz a son!"

The ingratitude of the thing struck through our night-gowns even then.

The period when Mammy's sway weakened was indeterminate. We boys after a while swapped places with Mammy, and made her the recipient of our small pedantries. I do not recollect, however, that we were ever cruel enough to throw her ignorance up to her.

At last the grown-up sisters absorbed all of Mammy's spare time. Sympathy was kept up between them after her bond with us was loosened, and they even took hints from her in matters of the toilet that were souvenirs of her stage days.

In the course of time reverses and bereavements came to the family. The girls had grown to womanhood and matrimony, and had begun their new lives in other places. Then came the inevitable to the elders, and it became necessary to convert all property into cash.

We were happy in being able to retain a good many of our household gods, and they are the Lares and Penates of our several homes to this day. We had long since ceased to think of Mammy Becky—she was never Rebecca—as property. In fact, we younger ones never thought of her as such. By law we were each entitled to a fifth in Mammy.

This came upon us in the nature of a shock at a family consultation on ways and means, and there was a disposition on the part of every party to the ownership to shift that responsibility to another.

I must do ourselves the justice to say that such a thing as converting Mammy into cash, and thus making her divisible, never for a moment entered our minds. It seemed, however, that the difficulty had occurred to her.

We all felt so guilty, when Mammy served tea that last evening, that we were sure she read our thoughts in our countenances. It would be nearer the truth to say that it was rather our fears that she should ever come to the knowledge that the word "sale" had been coupled with her name.

The next day we were to scatter, and it was imperative that some disposition should be made of Mammy. The old lady—for old we deemed her, though she could scarcely have been fifty—went calmly about the house looking to the packing of the thousand and one things, and not only looking, but using her tongue in language expressing utter contempt for all "lazy niggers" of these degenerate days—referring to the temporary "help." The eldest sister was deputed to approach and sound Mammy on the momentous question.

The deputy went on her mission in fear and trembling. The interview was easily contrived in the adjoining room.

We were exceedingly embarrassed when we discovered that Mammy's part of the dialogue was perfectly audible. As for the sister's, her voice could be barely heard. So that the effect to the unwilling eavesdropper was that which we are familiar with in these days of hearing a conversation at the telephone.

"Don't you bother yo'self 'bout me, Miss Frances."

Interval.

"No, marm. I'd ruther stay right here in dis town whar ev'body knows me. Doan yawl study 'bout me."

Several bars' rest, apparently.

"Yes'm, I know hit's yo' duty to look after me, an' I belongs to all of you; but Ise concluded to let yawl off. You can't divide me into five parts, an' they ain' nah one uv you 'titled to any partickler part if you could; most uv me ain't much 'count nohow, what with very coarse veins an' so fothe. Oh, yes'm! I done study 'bout it plenty, an' I done concluded that I'll let yawl off an' do fur myself. You know I'm a prime cake-maker, bread-maker, an' kin do a whole pahcel uv other things besides; an' dress young ladies for parties, whar I learnt at the ole the-etter, which they built it after the fust one burnt up and all dem people whar dey got the Monnymental Chutch over um now; an' any kind of hair-dress-in', curlin' wid irons or quince juice, an' so fothe. No, don't you bother 'bout me."

So Mammy was installed in a small house in a portion of the city occupied by a good many free people, and, as we subsequently ascertained, not bearing a very savory reputation.

We had heard it rumored that there were some suitors for Mammy's hand. She had always avowed that she had been a "likely gal," but we had to take her word for this, as she had very slender claims to "likelihood"—if the word suits hers—in our remembrance. She was nearly a mulatto—very "light gingerbread," or "saddle-colored"—and a widow of some years' standing. Still, there was no accounting for tastes amongst the colored folks, any more than there was amongst the whites in this matter. We surmised that some of the aspirants suspected Mammy of having a dot, the accumulation of many perquisites for her assistance on wedding occasions. It may be remarked that she had no legal right to demand anything for such services.

One of the sisters approached Mammy timidly on this subject, and was assured positively by her that "they ain't no nigger in the whole university whar I would marry. No, ma'm. I done got 'nough of um."

We knew that Mammy's married life had been a stormy one. Her husband, Jerry, had been a skilful coach-painter, and got good wages for his master, who was liberal in the 'lowance that was made by all generous owners to slaves of this class. Jerry was a fervent "professor," who came home drunk nearly every night, and never failed to throw up to Mammy her dangerous spiritual condition. Jerry was so vulnerable a subject that Mammy was prepared to score some strong points against him. He invariably met these retorts with roars of laughter and loud assertions of his being "in grace once for all."

* * * * *

Left the sole representative of my family in the city, I had to start a new establishment, just as Mammy did.

I made a visit to hers a few days after our separation, and came away with my heart in my mouth at the sight of some of the familiar objects of Mammy's room, and such of our own as she had fallen heir to, in strange places and appositions. I also felt that Mammy's room had a more homelike aspect than my own.

There was no doubt that Mammy enjoyed her new conditions and surroundings. She had been provided with a paper signed by some of us, stating that it was with our permission that she lived to herself. This secured her free movement at all times—the privilege of very few of her race not legally manumitted.

Her visits to me were quite frequent, and she never failed to find something that needed putting to rights, and putting it so immediately, with fierce comments on the worthlessness of all "high-lands," which was negroce for hirelings—a class held in contempt by the servants owned in families.

I think that Mammy must have discovered the fact that my estate was somewhat deteriorated.

I was painfully conscious of this myself, and saw no prospect of its amelioration. The little cash that had come to me was quite dissipated, and my meagre salary was insufficient to satisfy my artificial wants—the only ones that a young man cannot dispense with and be happy.

In spite of the opinion prevailing in those days, that when a young man embraced the career of an artist it was a farewell to all hope of a sober and prosperous career, my father had been willing for me to follow my manifest bent, and I was to sacrifice a university career as the alternative. But the last enemy stepped between me and my hopes, and there was nothing for it but to go to work.

I had an ardent admirer in Mammy, who, in her innocence of a proper standard, frequently compared my productions to a "music back" or a tobacco label. That was before the days of chromos.

Mammy turned up Sunday mornings to look after my buttons. Those were days of fond reminiscence and poignant regret on my part.

"Seems to me hit's time for you to be getting some new shirts, Mahs William," she said, one Sunday morning. Mammy touched me sorely there. A crisis was certainly impending in my lingerie.

"Oh, I reckon not. You must have got hold of a bad one, Mammy."

"I got hole uv all uv um what is out uv wash; and them gwine. The buttons is shackledy on all uv um, too. I wish I wuz a washer; then you wouldn't have to give yo' clothes out to these triflin' huzzies whar rams a iron over yo' things like they wuz made uv iron too."

"I suppose that you are getting along pretty well, Mammy," I remarked, irrelevantly.

"Oh, I kain' complain. I made two dollars an' five an' threppence out'n the Scott party last week; an' I hear tell uv some new folks on Franklin Street gwine give a big party, an' I'm spectin' somethin' out uv dat. Lawdy, Lawdy, Mahs William," she added, after a pause given to reflection, "hit certainly does 'muse me to see how some 'r dese people done come up. But they kain' fool me. I knows what's quality in town an' what ain't. I can reckermember perfick when some uv these vay folks, when dey come to your pa's front do', never expected to be asked in, but jess wait thar 'bout their business ontwell yo' pa got ready to talk to um at the do'. Yes, sah. I bin see some uv dese vay people's daddies"—Mammy used this word advisedly—"kayin' their vittles in a tin bucket to their work; that what I bin see."

I was shaving during this monologue of Mammy's, with my back to her. A sudden exclamation of the name of the Lord made me start around and endanger my nose. I was not startled at the irreverence of the expression, however, as sacred names were familiar interjections of Mammy's, as of all her race.

"Ev'y button off'n these draw's," Mammy answered to my alarmed question—alarmed because I anticipated some disaster to my wardrobe. "Hit's a mortal shame. I'll take 'em home, an' Monday I'll get some buttons on Broad Street an' sew um on."

This was embarrassing. I had twelve and a half cents in Spanish silver coin which I had reserved for the plate at church that day. I was going under circumstances that rendered a contribution unavoidable. I hated to expose my narrow means to Mammy, and said, carelessly, as I returned to my lather: "Oh, never mind. Another time will do, Mammy."

"Another time! You reckermember my old sayin', don't you, 'a stitch in time saves nine'? An' mo'n dat, bein' as this is the only clean pah you got, you 'bleest to have um next week fer de others to go to wash."

Confession was inevitable. "The fact is, Mammy, I don't happen to have any change to-day that I can hand you for the buttons." I was thankful that my occupation permitted me to keep my face from Mammy.

"Oh, ez fer that, Mahs William, yo' needn't bother. I got 'nough change 'round 'most all de time."

Mammy's tone was patronizing, and brought home to me such a realization of my changed and waning fortunes as no other circumstance could have done. Possibly I may have imagined it in my hypersensitiveness, but Mammy's voice in that sentence seemed transformed, and it was another mammy who spoke.

I apparently reserved my protest until some intricate passage in my shaving was passed. At least I thought that Mammy would think so. I was really trying to put my reply in shape.

I was anticipated.

"You know you is really 'titled to yo' fif's by law, Mahs William," resumed Mammy, in her natural manner, "because still bein' bond, you could call on me, an' I don't begrudge you; in fact, Ise beholden to you."

"Not at all, Mammy. Don't talk any more about my fifth. You are as good as free, you know."

"I knows that, Mahs William; but right is right, and I gwine to pay for them buttons."

"Well, you may do that this time, Mammy, but I shall certainly return you the money."

"Jess as you choose, Mahs William, but you's 'titled to yo' fif' all the same."

I must note here a characteristic of Mammy's which had strengthened as her powers failed, namely, "nearness." The euphemism applied at first, though Mammy yielded to temptations in the way of outfit as long as she deemed herself "likely." After that period a stronger expression was required. She was always in possession of money, and was frequently our banker for a day, when, in emergencies, our parents were not on hand.

Monday I found my garment with its full complement of buttons, but of such diversity of pattern that I planned a protest for Mammy's next visit.

But when she explained that the bill was only fo'pence—six and a quarter cents, Spanish—and that it was the fashion now, so she was told, "to have they buttons diffunt, so they could dentrify they clothes," I settled without remark. Mammy's financial skill and resource in imagination condoned everything.

It is painful to record that Mammy, encouraged by immunity from inquiry and investigation, no doubt, was tempted, as thousands of her betters have been and will be, and yielded under subsequent and similar circumstances.

My affairs took an unexpected turn now, and circumstances which have no place here made it possible for me to go to New York, with the intention of studying for my long-cherished purpose of making art my calling.

I heard from Mammy from time to time—occasionally got a letter dictated by her. They opened with the same formula, beginning with the fiction that she "took her pen in her hand," and continuing, "these few lines leaves me tollerbul, and hoping to find you the same." My friend, the amanuensis, took great pleasure in reporting Mammy verbatim and phonetically. The times were always hard for Mammy in these letters, but she "was scufflin' 'long, thank Gawd, an' ain't don' forgot my duty to the 'state 'bout them fif's."

On my periodical visits home I always called upon her, and had a royal reception. I had casually said in a message to her in one of my letters that I never would forget her black tea and brown sugar. The old dame remembered this, and on my first visit home and to her, and on all succeeding visits, treated me to a brew of my favorite.

"Jess the same, Mahs William. Come from Mr. Blar's jess the same."

But we become sophisticated in time. I found that Mammy's tea lingered in my memory, it is true; and the prospect of a recurrence very nearly operated against future visits. But virtue asserted herself, and I always went.

War now supervened. To it the brushes and the palette yielded. I returned home, and to arms. While all this made a complete revolution in my affairs, those of Mammy seemed to hold the even tenor of their way.

I saw Mammy every time I had a furlough, and she repaired for me damages of long standing. In sentiment she was immovably on my side. She objected decidedly to any more of "them no-'count men bein' sot free," and was very doubtful whether any more of her own sex should be so favored, except "settled women."

I do not know whether Mammy had a lurking suspicion that general manumission meant competition or not. So far as I could make out, she fared as she had long elected to do. Bacon and greens and her perennial tea were good enough for her. And here may be noted the average negro's indifference to cates. In my experience I never knew them to give up "strong food" for delicate fare except on prescription.

The next phase of my intercourse with Mammy was after the evacuation of the city and the event of Appomattox. The first incident was, with the negroes' usual talent that way, so transmogrified in pronunciation that it could mean nothing to them. It stood to them for a tremendous change, one which could not be condensed into a word, even though it exceeded their powers to pronounce it.

I had come back, as had thousands of others, with nothing in my hands, and only a few days' rations accorded by the enemy in my haversack; had come back to a mass of smoking debris and a wide area of ruin which opened unrecognized vistas that puzzled, dazed, and pained the home-seeker.

By instinct, I suppose, I drifted towards my ante bellum quarters. My former landlord gave me a speechless welcome. To my inquiry as to the possibility of my reinhabiting my old quarters, he simply nodded and handed me the key. The tears that I had seen standing on his lids rolled down as he did so.

The room was cumbered with the chattels of the last tenant. There was no bed amongst them, but a roll of tattered carpet served me perfectly. I fell asleep over a slab of hardtack. That evening, on waking, I bethought me of Mammy.

My kind host allowed me to make a toilet in his back room behind the store. It consisted of a superficial ablution and the loan of a handkerchief. Mammy was not in. A neighbor of her sex and color offered me a chair in her house, but I sat in Mammy's tiny porch.

This part of the city was unchanged, but I missed a familiar steeple which had always been visible from Mammy's door.

It was late afternoon when Mammy came. She did not recognize me, but paused at the gate.

"Ef you's a sick soldier you must go to the hospital; you kain' stay here," I heard her say before I roused myself sufficiently to speak.

"Mammy."

An ejaculation of the name of the Lord that brought the neighbor to her door went up, and Mammy caught my hands and wept.

"Come in, my Gawd! Mahs William! you ain' hurted, is you?"

She pushed a chair to me and took one herself. For a few moments she confined herself to ejaculations of "Well! well! well!" and the name of the Deity. Then, "The town is bu'nt up; the army done 'rendered, an' Mahs William come back ragged ez a buzzard!"

I did not interrupt her. I could think of nothing to say, and began to be afraid that something was the matter with my brains. Meanwhile Mammy was bustling about, and before I knew it she had started the little fire into a blaze and the tea was boiling.

The flickering light glinted over the walls. At first I did not heed what it revealed; then I saw it glow and fade over some early efforts of my own, frame-less crudities, to which Mammy had fallen heir. They had become old masters! What centuries ranged themselves between the birth of those pictures and now!

This time tea was nectar, and after I had eaten a little cold middling bacon and hoe-cake, that she had put before me on a fractured member of our old Canton set, I took a more cheerful view of life. I believe that I would have shed tears over these poor relics from happier days, except that I was not quite conscious that anything was real that day. I told Mammy where I was. She seemed to think it perfectly in the nature of things that I should be there. Indeed, she appeared singularly calm in this cataclysm.

I encountered friends on my return to my quarters, and had invitations innumerable to meals and shelter. My costume was no drawback. Nobody knew how anybody was dressed.

The city was in a fever of excitement over the probable fate of those who had not yet returned, and in making provision for the homeless. Mammy turned up next morning with some of my civilian clothes that had been confided to her.

Mammy's simple "What you gwine do now, Mabs William?" thrown in whilst she assisted by her presence at my complete change of toilet—lapse of time was nothing to her—woke me to the momentous problem. There was no commissary sergeant to distribute even the meagre rations that so long left us ravenous after every meal. I could not camp in the Capitol Square, even if I had wished so to do.

Mammy left me with the injunction to call on her "ef I didn't have nowhar else to go."

I went with unbroken fast to see what was left of the city. I met many acquaintances on the same errand. None of us seemed to realize that day what was to be done. For four years our campaigns had been planned for us.

I learned from one acquaintance, however, that I could have rations for the asking, and not long after found myself in line at the United States Commissary Department, along with hundreds of others, and departed thence bearing a goodly portion of hardtack and codfish. These I took to Mammy, who cooked the fish for me under loud protests against the smell.

Not long thereafter a number of us paroled soldiers made a mess, and cooked for ourselves at the room of one of them.

On one of these indeterminate days—dates had become nothing to me—I saw a dapper young man sketching about the ruins. I spoke to him, and mentioned that his had been my profession. This acquaintance was the beginning of hope.

I showed the young man places of interest, gave him points about a good many things, and at last fell to making sketches to help him out. They were perfectly satisfactory and liberally paid for. With this capital I set myself up in another place, which had a north light—by-the-way, I had been dispossessed of the asylum where I first found shelter, as the previous tenant returned. I was able to purchase material and apparel. But what was I to paint, and where to sell the product? My hand was out, I discovered, so I set to studying still life, and painting those of my friends who had the patience to sit.

I would have gone back to my old haunts in New York but for the material reason that my funds were too low, and the sentimental one that I not only was not in the humor for appealing to citizens of that section for patronage, but was not sure that it would not be withheld, from an analogous state of mind towards me.

Summer ran into fall. Mammy's visits increased in frequency, and her conversation drifted towards the difficulties of living.

I had long ago discharged all of her claims for material and repairs, but I noticed a tendency on her part to prepare my mind for a regular subsidy. I ignored these hints because it was impossible for me to carry out Mammy's plan, and painful for me to say so.

She approached the matter in a different way finally, and said, one day:

"Mahs William, you been cayin' on yo' fif' for some time now. Doan you think it's time for some of the yothers to look after them?"

I suggested that the whole family was about on a parity financially; that one brother was drifting in the trans-Mississippi, another living more precariously than I was. Suddenly a thought struck me, and I proposed that Mammy should apply to my married sister in the country, who could at least give her a home.

Mammy was very nearly indignant in her rejection of the proposition.

"Me live in de country! Why, Mahs William, I'm town-bred to de backbone. What I gwine do thar? Whar's anybody whar'll want my sponge-cake, jelly, and blue-monge, whar I can git ez much ez I wants to do in town? Who gwine want my clar-starchin' an' pickle-makin' an' ketchups? Dem tacky people doan want none of my makin's."

I ventured to remind Mammy that all dwellers in the country were not tackies.

"I know dat, sah; but whole parcel of um is. Besides, heap uv de quality folks is poor an' in trouble sence the revackeration. I'd rather give up my other fif's fust."

Of course Mammy's propositions were contradictory, but I had long known that she was not gifted with a logical mind, so I made no attempt to convict her of inconsistency.

From time to time I got small jobs of drawings for architects, as people had begun to bestir themselves and rebuild. I had been assured that I would find no prejudice against me in New York, but would stand on my own merits. I was not profoundly convinced that this was a safe risk for me to take. But living here was becoming impossible. Our own people were out of the question as purchasers of pictures. My still-lifes, from long exposure in the window of a friendly merchant in Broad Street, were becoming the camping-ground of the flies, and deteriorating rapidly. I was not strong in landscape, and the only subjects which suggested themselves were military, taken from my point of view politically, and not likely to be convertible into cash by persons of other convictions.

I was leaning against my ceiling one gray afternoon—at least I suppose it should be called ceiling, for it ran from the highest part of the chamber on an angle to the floor, and was pierced by a dormer—and contemplating a bunch of withered flowers which I had studied almost into dissolution, when Mammy knocked.

I had laid my palette on the floor, and was standing with my hands in my pockets. They fumbled, on one side with my bunch of keys, on the other with a small roll of small bills, the dreadful fractional currency of that era, whilst, in imagination, I projected my motive on the bare canvas, a twenty by twenty-four. I was sorry that Mammy had come, because a subject was beginning to take form in my mind. It was suggested by the withered flowers.

I thought that it would be a good idea to group them with a bundle of letters, some showing age, the top one with a recent postmark, and call the composition "Dead Hopes." My thoughts were divided between the selection of a postmark for the top letter and the possibility of getting a frame, whilst Mammy was going through the process of finding a chair and seating herself. The invitation to come in implied the other courtesies.

The old lady was marvellously attired, and I wondered what could be the occasion of it. She had on a plaid shawl of purple, green, and red checkers, crossed on her bosom. Around her throat there was a lace collar of some common sort, held by a breastpin of enormous value if calculated by the square inch. She wore her usual turban of red and white, but on the top of it to-day was a straw bonnet of about the fashion of 1835, with flowers inside, and from it depended a green veil. Her frock was silk of an indescribable tint, the result of years of fading, and was flounced. The old lady had freed herself of her black cotton gloves, and was rolling them into a ball. I sighed inwardly, for this was the outward sign of undeterminable sitting.

Suddenly the self-arranged color scheme struck me as the cool light fell over Mammy. I seated myself and seized my palette.

"Sit still, Mammy, right where you are. I'm going to paint you."

"Namer Gawd! paint me, Mahs William? After all dem pretty things whar you kin paint, paint yo' old Mammy?" She slapped herself on the knees, called the name of the Lord several times, and burst into the heartiest laugh that I had heard from her for some time.

"Yes, Mammy, just sit right still, and don't talk much, and I won't make you tired."

I worked frantically, getting in the drawing as surely as I could, then attacked the face in color. The result was a success that astonished me. Mammy's evident fatigue stopped me. It was fortunate. I might have painted more and spoiled my study. I thought that she would go now, but her mission was not fulfilled. She had come to consult me on an important matter.

"You know this Freedman's Bureau, Mahs William? Well, they tells me—Lawd knows what they calls it bureau for!—they tells me that of a colored pusson goes down thar and gives in what he wuz worth—women either, mind you—that the guv'mint would pay um."

Mammy paused for corroboration, but I determined to hear what she might add to this remarkable statement. "Well?"

"Well, sah, I didn't want to go down thar without no price, so I called in to arst you what you might consider yo' fif' worth, an' five times ovah."

I did not laugh at Mammy. The emancipated negroes had such utterly wild notions of what was going to be done for them that Mammy's statement did not surprise me very much. I let her go with the assurance that I would inquire into the matter. She left enjoining me not to put that "fif' too cheap," and I insisting that she should not go to the Bureau, in deference to whose officials her astonishing toilet had evidently been made.

I was so much pleased with my own work that it was nearly twilight before the knock of a familiar friend roused me. He was a clever amateur, and took the greatest interest in my work. His enthusiasm over Mammy's effigy made me glow. He agreed to pose for me in Mammy's costume.

Next day I borrowed the outfit without intimating that it was to be worn by anybody. Mammy was over-nervous about its being properly cared for. I think that she still contemplated appearing in it at the Bureau.

In a week the picture was complete. My model and I went out and celebrated appropriately but frugally.

A small label in the corner gave the title to the picture—"My old Mammy."

My friend gave my work a place in his window, and my acquaintances generally accorded unqualified praise. The older ones recognized Mammy at once.

Pending a purchaser for this, I started my deferred subject, and changed it into a figure piece. A lovely friend was my model. She contemplated the flowers and letters. Above the old piece of furniture on which she leaned there hung a photograph, a sword, and a sash—a more striking suggestion of my first title, "Dead Hopes." How little I dreamed, as I worked, that there was such happy irony in the name, and that Mammy could ever, in the remotest way, conduce to such a result!

Nearly every morning I hovered about my friend's establishment at a sufficient distance to elude suspicion of my anxiety, but easily in visual range of my exhibit.

One morning it was not visible. I rushed to the store with a throbbing breast. Alas! the picture had only been shifted to another light. Before the revulsion of feeling had time to overpower me I was seized by my friend the merchant.

"It's a regular play," he exclaimed.

He forced me to a seat on a pile of cheese-boxes, and facing me, began:

"Yesterday, the old lady," pointing to the picture, "came in. She took no notice of her portrait, but said that she had failed to find you; that she was anxious to hear what you had done about the Bureau business." (I had forgotten it utterly.) "Well, I could tell her nothing, and she started to go out just as a group opened the door to come in. Mammy made one of her courtly bows, and gave place. The young lady who was one of the three coming in, the others evidently her parents, said, in a loud whisper, 'Why, it's she!' Mammy, who either did not hear or did not understand, was about to pass out, when the young lady accosted her with, 'I beg your pardon, but isn't that your portrait?'

"'I grant you grace, young mistiss, but sence I looks, hit is. Hit wuz did by my young mahster, which he can do all kinds of pictures lovely.'

"'Your young master?' the young lady said—sweet voice, too; dev'lish handsome girl—'your young master?' Then she said aside to the others, 'Isn't it charmingly interesting?'

"'Yes, 'm, I call him so. But really I'm only his'n a fif'.'

"'His fif?' the young lady said, looking puzzled. I stepped up to them to explain, just for politeness, though I was sure that they weren't customers, 'She means that he owned a fifth interest in her previous to—the recent change in affairs.'

"'That's hit,' said Mammy, nodding to them. 'But I don't expect to hear from the other fif's. It don't make much diffunce, howsomever, bein' ez how the Bureau is gwine settle up.'

"The visitors evidently did not understand this. I explained what Mammy was after—you had told me, you know. They were very much amused, and asked a heap of questions. After a little talk between themselves, in which I could not help seeing that the young lady was very earnest, the gentleman asked:

"'Is the work for sale?' Was it for sale!"

My friend nearly prostrated me with a hearty punch by way of expressing his feelings, whilst I was choking for an answer.

"Well, sir, I gave him the figger. He bought so quick that it made me sick I hadn't asked more. Looker here!"

He displayed two new greenbacks which covered the amount. We embraced.

At last Mammy had become a source of revenue. I must, in justice to myself, record the fact that a resolve immediately took form in my mind that she also should be a beneficiary of my good fortune.

My friend wanted me to take the picture down myself. I told him that it was not ethical to do so. The precious burden was confided to his porter. When we returned to his store we found the gentleman there who had made the purchase. I was duly presented by my friend.

The gentleman said that he had not noticed my name on the picture particularly, nor on the receipt given by the merchant for the money, which gave the title and painter of the work, until he had gotten back to the hotel, when his wife recognized it and remembered having been in my studio—a fine name for a small concern—in New York, and that we had many friends in common there.

The upshot of the matter was that the gentleman gave me an invitation to call at the Spottswood. I went the next day.

They were immensely amused and interested with any particulars about her. The father—the names are immaterial, the young lady's was Elaine—asked me jocularly at what sum I estimated my fifth in Mammy. I had previously convinced him that we never had the remotest idea of parting with the old lady. Consequently we had never estimated her value, but that I thought my fifth at the time of the settling of the estate would have been about one hundred dollars. After I had made several visits, the three came to see my other picture.

The day after their departure Mammy called. She was in fine spirits over a visit that she had made to my new friends, at their earnest request. All the time that she was speaking she was working at a knot in the corner of her handkerchief. I knew that she kept her small valuables there, but was thunderstruck when she extracted two fifty-dollar bills.

"Why, Mammy! Where—"

"Dat's all right, honey. The Bureau gent'man fix it all, jess like I tole you. He said dat he done 'nquired, an' yo' fif' was wuth dat—two fifties, one hundred—an' I let him off de res."

"But what gentleman?"

"Dat gent'man whar was at de Spottswood Hotel. He tole me he wuz agent for de Bureau. An' I tell you, Mahs William, dey's quality, dem folks. You kain' fool Becky."

Of course I did not enlighten Mammy. What would have been the use?

Not many days thereafter I got a request to ship my "Dead Hopes," at my price, to the address of a frame-maker in New York. Elaine's father said that he had a purchaser for it. I discovered later that he was a master of pleasant fiction.

When I wondered, long after, to him that he should have bought a Confederate picture, he convinced me that my picture had nothing confederate in it; that he had inferred that I had painted it in a catholic spirit. The lady was in mourning, the flowers faded, the letters too small for postmark, the picture on the wall a colorless photograph, and the sword a regulation pattern common to both armies. He thought it very skilfully planned, and complimented me on it. I was silent. All the Confederate part and point had been in my mind.

About a year after this—I had been located in New York some months—Elaine and I came on a visit to Richmond. I might just as well say that it was our bridal trip.

We looked up Mammy in her comfortable quarters. She had been well provided for. There was some little confusion in her mind at first as to who Elaine was, but on being made to understand, called down fervent blessings upon her head.

"Now the old lady kin go happy. I always said that I had nussed Mahs William, an' of I jess could live long 'nuff to—"

Elaine cut in rather abruptly, I thought.

"Why, Mammy, what a beautiful vine you have on your stoop!"

"What's stoop, honey? Dat's a poach."

Mammy lived some years longer, aging comfortably, and unvexed by any question of fractions. She died a serene integer, with such comfortable assurance of just valuation as is denied most of us, and contented that it should be expressed in terms that were, to her, the only sure criterion applicable to her race.



An Incident

BY SARAH BARNWELL ELLIOTT

It was an ordinary frame house standing on brick legs, and situated on a barren knoll, which, because of the dead level of marsh and swamp and deserted fields from which it rose, seemed to achieve the loneliness of a real height. The south and west sides of the house looked out on marsh and swamp; the north and east sides on a wide stretch of old fields grown up in broom-grass. Beyond the marsh rolled a river, now quite beyond its banks with a freshet; beyond the swamp, which was a cypress swamp, rose a railway embankment leading to a bridge that crossed the river. On the other two sides the old fields ended in a solid black wall of pine-barren. A roadway led from the house through the broom-grass to the barren, and at the beginning of this road stood an outhouse, also on brick legs, which, save for a small stable, was the sole out-building. One end of this house was a kitchen, the other was divided into two rooms for servants. There were some shattered remnants of oak-trees out in the field, and some chimneys overgrown with vines, showing where in happier times the real homestead had stood.

It was toward the end of February; a clear afternoon drawing toward sunset; and all the flat, sad country was covered with a drifting red glow that turned the field of broom-grass into a sea of gold; that lighted up the black wall of pine-barren, and shot, here and there, long shafts of light into the sombre depths of the cypress swamp. There was no sign of life about the dwelling-house, though the doors and windows stood open; but every now and then a negro woman came out of the kitchen and looked about, while within a dog whined.