Part 5

“Look out, brothah, you gwine erlong thoo dis worl’ sailin’ on flowery beds of ease. Look out, my sistah, you’s a-walkin’ in de sof’ pafs an’ a-dressin’ fine. Ain’t nobidy a-troublin’ you, nobidy ain’t a-backbitin’ you, nobidy ain’t a-castin’ yo’ name out as evil. You all right an’ movin’ smoov. But I want you to stop an’ ’zamine yo’se’ves. I want you to settle whut kin’ o’ fruit you ba’in’, whut kin’ o’ light you showin’ fo’f to de worl’. An’ I want you to stop an’ tu’n erroun’ when you fin’ out dat you ba’in’ bad fruit, an’ de debbil ain’t bothahed erbout you ’ca’se he knows you his’n anyhow. ‘By deir fruits shell you know dem.’”

The minister ended his sermon, and the spell broke. Collection was called for and taken, and the meeting dismissed.

“Wha’ ’d you think o’ dat sermon?” asked Sister Williams of one of her good friends; and the good friend answered,—

“Tsch, pshaw! dat man jes’ tuk his tex’ at de fust an’ nevah lef’ it.”

Brother Sneedon remarked to a friend: “Well, he did try to use a good deal o’ high langgidge, but whut we want is grace an’ speritual feelin’.”

The Williams faction went home with colours flying. They took the preacher to dinner. They were exultant. The friends of Brother Sneedon were silent but thoughtful.

It was true, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the Reverend Elias Smith had made a wonderful impression upon his hearers,—an impression that might not entirely fade away before the night on which the new pastor was to be voted for. Comments on the sermon did not end with the closing of that Sabbath day. The discussion of its excellences was prolonged into the next week, and continued with a persistency dangerous to the aspirations of any rival candidate. No one was more fully conscious of this menacing condition of affairs than Hezekiah Sneedon himself. He knew that for the minds of the people to rest long upon the exploits of Elder Smith would be fatal to the chances of his own candidate; so he set about inventing some way to turn the current of public thought into another channel. And nothing but a powerful agency could turn it. But in fertility of resources Hezekiah Sneedon was Napoleonic. Though his diplomacy was greatly taxed in this case, he came out victorious and with colours flying when he hit upon the happy idea of a “’possum supper.” That would give the people something else to talk about beside the Reverend Elias Smith and his wonderful sermon. But think not, O reader, that the intellect that conceived this new idea was so lacking in the essential qualities of diplomacy as to rush in his substitute, have done with it, and leave the public’s attention to revert to its former object. Brother Sneedon was too wary for this. Indeed, he did send his invitations out early to the congregation; but this only aroused discussion and created anticipation which was allowed to grow and gather strength until the very Saturday evening on which the event occurred.

Sister Hannah Williams saw through the plot immediately, but she could not play counter, so she contented herself with saying: “Dat Hezekiah Sneedon is sholy de bigges’ scamp dat evah trod shoe-leathah.” But nevertheless, she did not refuse an invitation to be present at the supper. She would go, she said, for the purpose of seeing “how things went on.” But she added, as a sort of implied apology to her conscience, “and den I’s powahful fond o’ ’possum, anyhow.”

In inviting Sister Williams, Brother Sneedon had taken advantage of the excellent example which that good woman had set him, and was carrying the war right into the enemy’s country; but he had gone farther in one direction, and by the time the eventful evening arrived had prepared for his guests a _coup d’état_ which was unanticipated even by his own wife.

He had been engaged in a secret correspondence, the result of which was seen when, just after the assembling of the guests in the long, low room which was parlour, sitting, and dining room in the Sneedon household, the wily host ushered in and introduced to the astonished people the Reverend Abram Martin. They were not allowed to recover from their surprise before they were seated at the table, grace said by the reverend brother, and the supper commenced. And such a supper as it was,—one that could not but soften the feelings and touch the heart of any Negro. It was a supper that disarmed opposition. Sister Hannah was seated at the left of Reverend Abram Martin, who was a fluent and impressive talker; and what with his affability and the delight of the repast, she grew mollified and found herself laughing and chatting. The other members of her faction looked on, and, seeing her pleased with the minister, grew pleased themselves. The Reverend Abram Martin’s magnetic influence ran round the board like an electric current.

He could tell a story with a dignified humour that was irresistible,—and your real Negro is a lover of stories and a teller of them. Soon, next to the ’possum, he was the centre of attraction around the table, and he held forth while the diners listened respectfully to his profound observations or laughed uproariously at his genial jokes. All the while Brother Sneedon sat delightedly by, watchful, but silent, save for the occasional injunction to his guests to help themselves. And they did so with a gusto that argued well for their enjoyment of the food set before them. As the name by which the supper was designated would imply, ’possum was the principal feature, but, even after including the sweet potatoes and brown gravy, that was not all. There was hog jole and cold cabbage, ham and Kentucky oysters, more widely known as chittlings. What more there was it boots not to tell. Suffice it to say that there was little enough of anything left to do credit to the people’s dual powers of listening and eating, for in all this time the Reverend Abram Martin had not abated his conversational efforts nor they their unflagging attention.

Just before the supper was finished, the preacher was called upon, at the instigation of Hezekiah Sneedon, of course, to make a few remarks, which he proceeded to do in a very happy and taking vein. Then the affair broke up, and the people went home with myriad comments on their tongues. But one idea possessed the minds of all, and that was that the Reverend Abram Martin was a very able man, and charming withal.

It was at this hour, when opportunity for sober reflection returned, that Sister Williams first awakened to the fact that her own conduct had compromised her cause. She did not sleep that night—she lay awake and planned, and the result of her planning was a great fumbling the next morning in the little bag where she kept her earnings, and the despatching of her husband on an early and mysterious errand.

The day of meeting came, and the church presented a scene precisely similar to that of the previous Sunday. If there was any difference, it was only apparent in the entirely alert and cheerful attitude of Brother Sneedon and the reversed expressions of the two factions. But even the latter phase was not so marked, for the shrewd Sister Williams saw with alarm that her forces were demoralised. Some of them were sitting near the pulpit with expressions of pleasant anticipation on their faces, and as she looked at them she groaned in spirit. But her lips were compressed in a way that to a close observer would have seemed ominous, and ever and anon she cast anxious and expectant glances toward the door. Her husband sat upon her left, an abashed, shamefaced expression dominating his features. He continually followed her glances toward the door with a furtive, half-frightened look; and when Sneedon looked his way, he avoided his eye.

That arch schemer was serene and unruffled. He had perpetrated a stroke of excellent policy by denying himself the pleasure of introducing the new minister, and had placed that matter in the hands of Isaac Jordan, a member of the opposing faction and one of Sister Williams’ stanchest supporters. Brother Jordan was pleased and flattered by the distinction, and converted.

The service began. The hymn was sung, the prayer said, and the minister, having been introduced, was already leading out from his text, when, with a rattle and bang that instantly drew every eye rearward, the door opened and a man entered. Apparently oblivious to the fact that he was the centre of universal attention, he came slowly down the aisle and took a seat far to the front of the church. A gleam of satisfaction shot from the eye of Sister Williams, and with a sigh she settled herself in her seat and turned her attention to the sermon. Brother Sneedon glanced at the new-comer and grew visibly disturbed. One sister leaned over and whispered to another,—

“I wunner whut Bud Lewis is a-doin’ hyeah?”

“I do’ know,” answered the other, “but I do hope an’ pray dat he won’t git into none o’ his shoutin’ tantrums to-day.”

“Well, ef he do, I’s a-leavin’ hyeah, you hyeah me,” rejoined the first speaker.

The sermon had progressed about one-third its length, and the congregation had begun to show frequent signs of awakening life, when on an instant, with startling suddenness, Bud Lewis sprang from his seat and started on a promenade down the aisle, swinging his arms in sweeping semi-circles, and uttering a sound like the incipient bellow of a steamboat. “Whough! Whough!” he puffed, swinging from side to side down the narrow passageway.

At the first demonstration from the new-comer, people began falling to right and left out of his way. The fame of Bud Lewis’ “shoutin’ tantrums” was widespread, and they who knew feared them. This unregenerate mulatto was without doubt the fighting man of Bull-Skin.

While, as a general thing, he shunned the church, there were times when a perverse spirit took hold of him, and he would seek the meeting-house, and promptly, noisily, and violently “get religion.” At these times he made it a point to knock people helter-skelter, trample on tender toes, and do other mischief, until in many cases the meeting broke up in confusion. The saying finally grew to be proverbial among the people in the Bull-Skin district that they would rather see a thunderstorm than Bud Lewis get religion.

On this occasion he made straight for the space in front of the pulpit, where his vociferous hallelujahs entirely drowned the minister’s voice; while the thud, thud, thud of his feet upon the floor, as he jumped up and down, effectually filled up any gap of stillness which his hallelujahs might have left.

Hezekiah Sneedon knew that the Reverend Mr. Martin’s sermon would be ruined, and he saw all his cherished hopes destroyed in a moment. He was a man of action, and one glance at Sister Williams’ complacent countenance decided him. He rose, touched Isaac Jordan, and said, “Come on, let’s hold him.” Jordan hesitated a minute; but his leader was going on, and there was nothing to do but to follow him. They approached Lewis, and each seized an arm. The man began to struggle. Several other men joined them and laid hold on him.

“Quiet, brother, quiet,” said Hezekiah Sneedon; “dis is de house o’ de Lawd.”

“You lemme go,” shrieked Bud Lewis. “Lemme go, I say.”

“But you mus’ be quiet, so de res’ o’ de congregation kin hyeah.”

“I don’t keer whethah dey hyeahs er not. I reckon I kin shout ef I want to.” The minister had paused in his sermon, and the congregation was alert.

“Brother, you mus’ not distu’b de meetin’. Praise de Lawd all you want to, but give somebidy else a chance too.”

“I won’t, I won’t; lemme go. I’s paid fu’ shoutin’, an’ I’s gwine to shout.” Hezekiah Sneedon caught the words, and he followed up his advantage.

“You’s paid fu’ shoutin’! Who paid you?”

“Hannah Williams, dat’s who! Now you lemme go; I’s gwine to shout.”

The effect of this declaration was magical. The brothers, by their combined efforts, lifted the struggling mulatto from his feet and carried him out of the chapel, while Sister Williams’ face grew ashen in hue.

The congregation settled down, and the sermon was resumed. Disturbance and opposition only seemed to have heightened the minister’s power, and he preached a sermon that is remembered to this day on Bull-Skin. Before it was over, Bud Lewis’ guards filed back into church and listened with enjoyment to the remainder of the discourse.

The service closed, and under cover of the crowd that thronged about the altar to shake the minister’s hand Hannah Williams escaped.

* * * * *

As the first item of business at the church meeting on the following Wednesday evening, she was formally “churched” and expelled from fellowship with the flock at Bull-Skin for planning to interrupt divine service. The next business was the unanimous choice of Reverend Abram Martin for the pastorate of the church.

JIMSELLA

JIMSELLA

No one could ever have accused Mandy Mason of being thrifty. For the first twenty years of her life conditions had not taught her the necessity for thrift. But that was before she had come North with Jim. Down there at home one either rented or owned a plot of ground with a shanty set in the middle of it, and lived off the products of one’s own garden and coop. But here it was all very different: one room in a crowded tenement house, and the necessity of grinding day after day to keep the wolf—a very terrible and ravenous wolf—from the door. No wonder that Mandy was discouraged and finally gave up to more than her old shiftless ways.

Jim was no less disheartened. He had been so hopeful when he first came, and had really worked hard. But he could not go higher than his one stuffy room, and the food was not so good as it had been at home. In this state of mind, Mandy’s shiftlessness irritated him. He grew to look on her as the source of all his disappointments. Then, as he walked Sixth or Seventh Avenue, he saw other coloured women who dressed gayer than Mandy, looked smarter, and did not wear such great shoes. These he contrasted with his wife, to her great disadvantage.

“Mandy,” he said to her one day, “why don’t you fix yo’se’f up an’ look like people? You go ’roun’ hyeah lookin’ like I dunno what.”

“Whyn’t you git me somep’n’ to fix myse’f up in?” came back the disconcerting answer.

“Ef you had any git up erbout you, you’d git somep’n’ fu’ yo’se’f an’ not wait on me to do evahthing.”

“Well, ef I waits on you, you keeps me waitin’, fu’ I ain’ had nothin’ fit to eat ner waih since I been up hyeah.”

“Nev’ min’! You’s mighty free wid yo’ talk now, but some o’ dese days you won’t be so free. You’s gwine to wake up some mo’nin’ an’ fin’ dat I’s lit out; dat’s what you will.”

“Well, I ’low nobody ain’t got no string to you.”

Mandy took Jim’s threat as an idle one, so she could afford to be independent. But the next day had found him gone. The deserted wife wept for a time, for she had been fond of Jim, and then she set to work to struggle on by herself. It was a dismal effort, and the people about her were not kind to her. She was hardly of their class. She was only a simple, honest countrywoman, who did not go out with them to walk the avenue.

When a month or two afterward the sheepish Jim returned, ragged and dirty, she had forgiven him and taken him back. But immunity from punishment spoiled him, and hence of late his lapses had grown more frequent and of longer duration.

He walked in one morning, after one of his absences, with a more than usually forbidding face, for he had heard the news in the neighbourhood before he got in. During his absence a baby had come to share the poverty of his home. He thought with shame at himself, which turned into anger, that the child must be three months old and he had never seen it.

“Back ag’in, Jim?” was all Mandy said as he entered and seated himself sullenly.

“Yes, I’s back, but I ain’t back fu’ long. I jes’ come to git my clothes. I’s a-gwine away fu’ good.”

“Gwine away ag’in! Why, you been gone fu’ nigh on to fou’ months a’ready. Ain’t you nevah gwine to stay home no mo’?”

“I tol’ you I was gwine away fu’ good, didn’t I? Well, dat’s what I mean.”

“Ef you didn’t want me, Jim, I wish to Gawd dat you’d ’a’ lef’ me back home among my folks, whaih people knowed me an’ would ’a’ give me a helpin’ han’. Dis hyeah No’f ain’t no fittin’ place fu’ a lone colo’ed ooman less’n she got money.”

“It ain’t no place fu’ nobody dat’s jes’ lazy an’ no ’count.”

“I ain’t no ’count. I ain’t wuffless. I does de bes’ I kin. I been wo’kin’ like a dog to try an’ keep up while you trapsein’ ’roun’, de Lawd knows whaih. When I was single I could git out an’ mek my own livin’. I didn’t ax nobody no odds; but you wa’n’t satisfied ontwell I ma’ied you, an’ now, when I’s tied down wid a baby, dat’s de way you treats me.”

The woman sat down and began to cry, and the sight of her tears angered her husband the more.

“Oh, cry!” he exclaimed. “Cry all you want to. I reckon you’ll cry yo’ fill befo’ you gits me back. What do I keer about de baby! Dat’s jes’ de trouble. It wa’n’t enough fu’ me to have to feed an’ clothe you a-layin’ ’roun’ doin’ nothin’, a baby had to go an’ come too.”

“It’s yo’n, an’ you got a right to tek keer of it, dat’s what you have. I ain’t a-gwine to waih my soul-case out a-tryin’ to pinch along an’ sta’ve to def at las’. I’ll kill myse’f an’ de chile, too, fus.”

The man looked up quickly. “Kill yo’se’f,” he said. Then he laughed. “Who evah hyeahed tell of a niggah killin’ hisse’f?”

“Nev’ min’, nev’ min’, you jes’ go on yo’ way rejoicin’. I ’spect you runnin’ ’roun’ aftah somebody else—dat’s de reason you cain’t nevah stay at home no mo’.”

“Who tol’ you dat?” exclaimed the man, fiercely. “I ain’t runnin’ aftah nobody else—’tain’t none o’ yo’ business ef I is.”

The denial and implied confession all came out in one breath.

“Ef hit ain’t my bus’ness, I’d like to know whose it gwine to be. I’s yo’ lawful wife an’ hit’s me dat’s a-sta’vin’ to tek keer of yo’ chile.”

“Doggone de chile; I’s tiahed o’ hyeahin’ ’bout huh.”

“You done got tiahed mighty quick when you ain’t nevah even seed huh yit. You done got tiahed quick, sho.”

“No, an’ I do’ want to see huh, neithah.”

“You do’ know nothin’ ’bout de chile, you do’ know whethah you wants to see huh er not.”

“Look hyeah, ooman, don’t you fool wid me. I ain’t right, nohow!”

Just then, as if conscious of the hubbub she had raised, and anxious to add to it, the baby awoke and began to wail. With quick mother instinct, the black woman went to the shabby bed, and, taking the child in her arms, began to croon softly to it: “Go s’eepy, baby; don’ you be ’f’aid; mammy ain’ gwine let nuffin’ hu’t you, even ef pappy don’ wan’ look at huh li’l face. Bye, bye, go s’eepy, mammy’s li’l gal.” Unconsciously she talked to the baby in a dialect that was even softer than usual. For a moment the child subsided, and the woman turned angrily on her husband: “I don’ keer whethah you evah sees dis chile er not. She’s a blessed li’l angel, dat’s what she is, an’ I’ll wo’k my fingahs off to raise huh, an’ when she grows up, ef any nasty niggah comes erroun’ mekin’ eyes at huh, I’ll tell huh ’bout huh pappy an’ she’ll stay wid me an’ be my comfo’t.”

“Keep yo’ comfo’t. Gawd knows I do’ want huh.”

“De time’ll come, though, an’ I kin wait fu’ it. Hush-a-bye, Jimsella.”

The man turned his head slightly.

“What you call huh?”

“I calls huh Jimsella, dat’s what I calls huh, ’ca’se she de ve’y spittin’ image of you. I gwine to jes’ lun to huh dat she had a pappy, so she know she’s a hones’ chile an’ kin hol’ up huh haid.”

“Oomph!”

They were both silent for a while, and then Jim said, “Huh name ought to be Jamsella—don’t you know Jim’s sho’t fu’ James?”

“I don’t keer what it’s sho’t fu’.” The woman was holding the baby close to her breast and sobbing now. “It wasn’t no James dat come a-cou’tin’ me down home. It was jes’ plain Jim. Dat’s what de mattah, I reckon you done got to be James.” Jim didn’t answer, and there was another space of silence, only interrupted by two or three contented gurgles from the baby.

“I bet two bits she don’t look like me,” he said finally, in a dogged tone that was a little tinged with curiosity.

“I know she do. Look at huh yo’se’f.”

“I ain’ gwine look at huh.”

“Yes, you’s ’fraid—dat’s de reason.”

“I ain’ ’fraid nuttin’ de kin’. What I got to be ’fraid fu’? I reckon a man kin look at his own darter. I will look jes’ to spite you.”

He couldn’t see much but a bundle of rags, from which sparkled a pair of beady black eyes. But he put his finger down among the rags. The baby seized it and gurgled. The sweat broke out on Jim’s brow.

“Cain’t you let me hold de baby a minute?” he said angrily. “You must be ’fraid I’ll run off wid huh.” He took the child awkwardly in his arms.

The boiling over of Mandy’s clothes took her to the other part of the room, where she was busy for a few minutes. When she turned to look for Jim, he had slipped out, and Jimsella was lying on the bed trying to kick free of the coils which swaddled her.

At supper-time that evening Jim came in with a piece of “shoulder-meat” and a head of cabbage.

“You’ll have to git my dinnah ready fu’ me to ca’y to-morrer. I’s wo’kin’ on de street, an’ I cain’t come home twell night.”

“Wha’, what!” exclaimed Mandy, “den you ain’ gwine leave, aftah all.”

“Don’t bothah me, ooman,” said Jim. “Is Jimsella ’sleep?”

MT. PISGAH’S CHRISTMAS ’POSSUM

MT. PISGAH’S CHRISTMAS ’POSSUM

No more happy expedient for raising the revenues of the church could have been found than that which was evolved by the fecund brain of the Reverend Isaiah Johnson. Mr. Johnson was wise in his day and generation. He knew his people, their thoughts and their appetites, their loves and their prejudices. Also he knew the way to their hearts and their pocket-books.

As far ahead as the Sunday two weeks before Christmas, he had made the announcement that had put the congregation of Mt. Pisgah church into a flurry of anticipatory excitement.

“Brothahs an’ sistahs,” he had said, “you all reckernizes, ez well ez I does, dat de revenues of dis hyeah chu’ch ain’t whut dey ought to be. De chu’ch, I is so’y to say, is in debt. We has a mo’gage on ouah buildin’, an’ besides de int’rus’ on dat, we has fuel to buy an’ lightin’ to do. Fu’thahmo’, we ain’t paid de sexton but twenty-five cents on his salary in de las’ six months. In conserquence of de same, de dus’ is so thick on de benches dat ef you’d jes’ lay a clof ovah dem, dey’d be same ez upholstahed fu’niture. Now, in o’dah to mitigate dis condition of affairs, yo’ pastoh has fo’med a plan which he wishes to p’nounce dis mo’nin’ in yo’ hyeahin’ an’ to ax yo’ ’proval. You all knows dat Chris’mus is ’proachin’, an’ I reckon dat you is all plannin’ out yo’ Chris’mus dinnahs. But I been a-plannin’ fu’ you when you was asleep, an’ my idee is dis,—all of you give up yo’ Chris’mus dinnahs, tek fifteen cents er a qua’tah apiece an’ come hyeah to chu’ch an’ have a ’possum dinnah.”

“Amen!” shouted one delighted old man over in the corner, and the whole congregation was all smiles and acquiescent nods.

“I puceive on de pa’t of de cong’egation a disposition to approve of de pastoh’s plan.”

“Yes, yes, indeed,” was echoed on all sides.

“Well, den I will jes’ tek occasion to say fu’thah dat I already has de ’possums, fo’ of de fattes’ animals I reckon you evah seen in all yo’ bo’n days, an’ I’s gwine to tu’n ’em ovah to Brothah Jabez Holly to tek keer of dem an’ fatten ’em wuss ag’in de happy day.”