Solomon Crow's Christmas Pockets and Other Tales Part 17

"Well, baby, I des put on my fluted ap'on--an' you know it's ironed purty--an' my clair-starched neck-hankcher, an'--an' _my business face_, an' I helt up my head an' walked in, an' axed good prices, an' de ladies, dee des tooken took one good look at me, an' gimme all I'd carry. You know washin' an' ironin' is my pleasure, baby."

It was useless to protest, and so, after a moment, Evelyn began rolling up her sleeves.

"I am going to help you, mammy," she said, quietly but firmly; but before she could protest, mammy had gathered her into her arms, and carried her into her own room. Setting her down at her desk, she exclaimed:

"Now, ef _you_ goes ter de wash-tub, dey ain't nothin' lef fur _me_ ter do but 'cep'n' ter _set down an' write de story_, an' you know I can't do it."

"But, mammy, I _must_ help you."

"Is you gwine _meck_ me whup yer, whe'r ur no, baby? Now I gwine meck a bargain wid yer. _You_ set down an' write, an' _I_ gwine play de pianner on de washboa'd, an' to-night you can read off what yer done put down, an' ef yer done written it purty an' sweet, you can come an' turn de flutin'-machine fur me ter-morrer. Yer gwine meck de bargain wid me, baby?"

Evelyn was so touched that she had not voice to answer. Rising from her seat, she put her arms around mammy's neck and kissed her old face, and as she turned away a tear rolled down her cheek. And so the "bargain"

was sealed.

Before going to her desk Evelyn went to her father, to see that he wanted nothing. He sat, as usual, gazing silently out of the window.

"Daughter," said he, as she entered, "are we in France?"

"No, dear," she answered, startled at the question.

"But the language I hear in the street is French; and see the ship-masts--French flags flying. But there is the German too, and English, and last week there was a Scandinavian. Where are we truly, daughter? My surroundings confuse me."

"We are in New Orleans, father--in the French Quarter. Ships from almost everywhere come to this port, you know. Let us walk out to the levee this morning, and see the men-of-war in the river. The air will revive you."

"Well, if your mother comes. She might come while we were away."

And so it was always. With her heart trembling within her, Evelyn went to her desk. "Surely," she thought, "there is much need that I shall do my best." Almost reverentially she took her pen, as she proceeded with the true story she had begun.

"I done changed my min' 'bout dat ole 'oman wha' stan' fur me, baby,"

said mammy that night. "You leave 'er des like she is. She glorifies de story a heap better'n my nachel self could do it. I been a-thinkin'

'bout it, an' _de finer that ole 'oman ac', an' de mo' granjer yer lay on 'er, de better yer gwine meck de book_, 'caze de ole gemplum wha'

stan' fur ole marster, his times an' seasons is done past, an' he can't do nothin' but set still an' wait, an'--an' de yo'ng missus, she ain't fitten ter wrastle on de outskirts; she ain't nothin' but 'cep' des a lovin' sweet saint, wid 'er face set ter a high, far mark--"

"Hush, mammy!"

"_I'm a-talkin' 'bout de book, baby, an' don't you interrup' me no mo'!_ An' _I say ef dis ole 'oman wha' stan' fur me, ef-ef-ef she got a weak spot in 'er, dey won't be no story to it_. She de one wha' got ter _stan' by de battlemints an' hol' de fort_."

"That's just what you are doing, mammy. There isn't a grain in her that is finer than you."

"'Sh! dis ain't no time fur foolishness, baby. Yer 'ain't said nothin'

'bout yo' ma an' de ole black 'oman's baby bein' borned de same day, is yer? An' how de ole 'oman nussed 'em bofe des like twins? An'--an' how folks 'cused 'er o' starvin' 'er own baby on de 'count o' yo' ma bein'

puny? (_But dat warn't true._) Maybe yer better leave all dat out, 'caze hit mought spile de story."

"How could it spoil it, mammy?"

"Don't yer see, ef folks knowed dat dem white folks an' dat ole black 'oman was _dat close-t_, dey wouldn't be no principle in it. Dey ain't nothin' but _love_ in _dat_, an' de ole 'oman _couldn't he'p 'erse'f, no mo'n I could he'p it_! No right-minded pusson is gwine ter deny dey own heart. Yer better leave all dat out, honey. B-b-but deys some'h'n' else wha' been lef out, wha' b'long in de book. Yer 'ain't named de way de little mistus sot up all nights an' nussed de ole 'oman time she was sick, an'--an'--an' de way she sew all de ole 'oman's cloze; an'--an'--an' yer done lef' out a heap o' de purtiness an' de sweetness o' de yo'ng mistus! Dis is a book, baby, an'--an'--yer boun' ter do jestice!"

In this fashion the story was written.

"And what do you think I am going to do with it, mammy?" said Evelyn, when finally, having done her very best, she was willing to call it finished.

"Yer know some'h'n' baby? Ef-ef-ef I had de money, look like I'd buy that story myse'f. Seem some way like I loves it. Co'se I couldn't read it; but my min' been on it so long, seem like, ef I'd study de pages good dee'd open up ter me. What yer gwine do wid it, baby?"

"Oh, mammy, I can hardly tell you! My heart seems in my throat when I dare to think of it; but _I'm going to try it_. A New York magazine has offered five hundred dollars for a best story--_five hundred dollars_!

Think, mammy, what it would do for us!"

"Dat wouldn't buy de plantatiom back, would it, baby?" Mammy had no conception of large sums.

"We don't want it back, mammy. It would pay for moving our dear ones to graves of their own; we should put a nice sum in bank; you shouldn't do any more washing; and if we can write one good story, you know we can write more. It will be only a beginning."

"An' I tell yer what I gwine do. I gwine pray over it good, des like I been doin' f'om de start, an' ef hit's Gord's will, dem folks 'll be moved in de sperit ter sen' 'long de money."

And so the story was sent.

After it was gone the atmosphere seemed brighter. The pending decision was now a fixed point to which all their hopes were directed.

The very audacity of the effort seemed inspiration to more ambitious work; and during the long summer, while in her busy hands the fluting-machine went round and round, Evelyn's mind was full of plans for the future.

Finally, December, with its promise of the momentous decision, was come, and Evelyn found herself full of anxious misgivings.

What merit ent.i.tling it to special consideration had the little story?

Did it bear the impress of self-forgetful, conscientious purpose, or was this a thing only feebly struggling into life within herself--not yet the compelling force that indelibly stamps itself upon the earnest labor of consecrated hands? How often in the silent hours of night did she ask herself questions like these!

At last it was Christmas Eve again, and Sat.u.r.day night. When the days are dark, what is so depressing as an anniversary--an anniversary joyous in its very essence? How one Christmas brings in its train memory-pictures of those gone before!

This had been a hard day for Evelyn. Her heart felt weak within her, and yet, realizing that she alone represented youth and hope in the little household, and feeling need that her own courage should be sustained, she had been more than usually merry all day. She had clandestinely prepared little surprises for her father and mammy, and was both amused and touched to discover the old woman secreting mysterious little parcels which she knew were to come to her in the morning.

"Wouldn't it be funny if, after all, I should turn out to be only a good washerwoman, mammy?" she said, laughing, as she a.s.sisted the old woman in pinning up a basket of laundered clothing.

"Hit'd be funnier yit ef _I'd_ turn out inter one o' deze heah book-writers, wouldn't it?" And mammy laughed heartily at her own joke.

"Look like I better study my a-b abs fus', let 'lone puttin' 'em back on paper wid a pen. I tell you educatiom's a-spreadin' in dis fam'ly, sho.

Time Blink run over de sheet out a-bleachin' 'is_tid_dy, he written a Chinese letter all over it. Didn't you, Blink? What de matter wid Blink anyhow, to-day?" she added, taking the last pin from her head-kerchief.

"Blink look like he nervous some way dis evenin'. He keep a-walkin'

roun', an' winkin' so slow, an' retchin' his neck out de back-do' so cuyus. Stop a-battin' yo' eyes at me, Blink! Ef yo' got some'h'n' ter say, _say it_!"

A sudden noisy rattle of the iron door-knocker--mammy trotting to the door--the postman--a letter! It all happened in a minute.

How Evelyn's heart throbbed and her hand trembled as she opened the envelope! "Oh, mammy!" she cried, trembling now like an aspen leaf.

"_Thank G.o.d!_"

"Is dee d-d-d-done sont de money, baby?" Her old face was twitching too.

But Evelyn could not answer. Nodding her head, she fell sobbing on mammy's shoulder.