Part 6

The eyes of Jabez Holly shone with pride at the importance of the commission assigned to him. He showed his teeth in a broad smile as he whispered to his neighbour, ’Lishy Davis, “I ’low when I gits thoo wif dem ’possums dey won’t be able to waddle;” and ’Lishy slapped his knee and bent double with appreciation. It was a happy and excited congregation that filed out of Mt. Pisgah church that Sunday morning, and how they chattered! Little knots and clusters of them, with their heads together in deep converse, were gathered all about, and all the talk was of the coming dinner. This, as has already been said, was the Sunday two weeks before Christmas. On the Sunday following, the shrewd, not to say wily, Mr. Johnson delivered a stirring sermon from the text, “He prepareth a table before me in the presence of mine enemies,” and not one of his hearers but pictured the Psalmist and his brethren sitting at a ’possum feast with the congregation of a rival church looking enviously on. After the service that day, even the minister sank into insignificance beside his steward, Jabez Holly, the custodian of the ’possums. He was the most sought man on the ground.

“How dem ’possums comin’ on?” asked one.

“Comin’ on!” replied Jabez. “‘Comin’ on’ ain’t no name fu’ it. Why, I tell you, dem animals is jes’ a-waddlin’ a’ready.”

“O-o-mm!” groaned a hearer, “Chris’mus do seem slow a-comin’ dis yeah.”

“Why, man,” Jabez went on, “it ’u’d mek you downright hongry to see one o’ dem critters. Evah time I looks at ’em I kin jes’ see de grease a-drippin’ in de pan, an’ dat skin all brown an’ crispy, an’ de smell a-risin’ up—”

“Heish up, man!” exclaimed the other; “ef you don’t, I’ll drap daid befo’ de time comes.”

“Huh-uh! no, you won’t; you know dat day’s wuf livin’ fu’. Brothah Jackson, how’d yo’ crap o’ sweet pertaters tu’n out dis yeah?”

“Fine, fine! I’s got dem mos’ plenteous in my cellah.”

“Well, don’t eat em too fas’ in de nex’ week, ’ca’se we ’spects to call on you fu’ some o’ yo’ bes’. You know dem big sweet pertaters cut right in two and laid all erroun’ de pan teks up lots of de riches’ grease when ol’ Mistah ’Possum git too wa’m in de oven an’ git to sweatin’ it out.”

“Have mercy!” exclaimed the impressionable one. “I know ef I don’t git erway f’om dis chu’ch do’ right now, I’ll be foun’ hyeah on Chris’mus day wif my mouf wide open.”

But he did not stay there until Christmas morning, though he arrived on that momentous day bright and early like most of the rest. Half the women of the church had volunteered to help cook the feast, and the other half were there to see it done right; so by the time for operations to commence, nearly all of Mt. Pisgah’s congregation was assembled within its chapel walls. And what laughing and joking there was!

“O-omph!” exclaimed Sister Green, “I see Brothah Bill Jones’ mouf is jes’ sot fu’ ’possum now.”

“Yes, indeed, Sis’ Green; hit jes’ de same ’s a trap an’ gwine to spring ez soon ez dey any ’possum in sight.”

“Hyah, hyah, you ain’t de on’iest one in dat fix, Brothah Jones; I see some mo’ people roun’ hyeah lookin’ mighty ’spectious.”

“Yes, an’ I’s one of ’em,” said some one else. “I do wish Jabez Holly ’ud come on, my mouf’s jest p’intly worterin’.”

“Let’s sen’ a c’mittee aftah him, dat’ll be a joke.” This idea was taken up, and with much merriment the committee was despatched to find and bring in the delinquent Jabez.

Every one who has ever cooked a ’possum—and who has not?—knows that the animal must be killed the day before and hung out of doors over night to freeze “de wil’ tas’e outen him.” This duty had been intrusted to Jabez, and shouts of joy went up from the assembled people when he appeared, followed by the committee and bearing a bag on his shoulder. He set the bag on the floor, and as the crowd closed round him, he put his arm far down into it, and drew forth by the tail a beautiful white fat cleaned ’possum.

“O-om, jes’ look at dat! Ain’t dat a possum fu’ you? Go on, Brothah Jabez, let’s see anothah.” Jabez hesitated.

“Dat’s one ’possum dah, ain’t it?” he said.

“Yes, yes, go on, let’s see de res’.” Those on the inside of the circle were looking hard at Jabez.

“Now, dat’s one ’possum,” he repeated.

“Yes, yes, co’se it is.” There was breathless expectancy.

“Well, dat’s all dey is.”

The statement fell like a thunder-clap. No one found voice till the Reverend Isaiah Johnson broke in with, “Wha’, what dat you say, Jabez Holly?”

“I say dat’s all de ’possum dey is, dat’s what I say.”

“Whah’s dem othah ’possums, huh! whah’s de res’?”

“I put ’em out to freeze las’ night, an’ de dogs got ’em.”

A groan went up from the disappointed souls of Mt. Pisgah. But the minister went on: “Whah’d you hang dem?”

“Up ag’in de side o’ de house.”

“How’d de dogs git ’em dah?”

“Mebbe it mout ’a’ been cats.”

“Why didn’t dey git dat un?”

“Why, why—’ca’se—’ca’se—Oh, don’t questun me, man. I want you to know dat I’s a honer’ble man.”

“Jabez Holly,” said the minister, impressively, “don’t lie hyeah in de sanctua’y. I see ’possum grease on yo’ mouf.”

Jabez unconsciously gave his lips a wipe with his sleeve. “On my mouf, on my mouf!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you say you see no ’possum grease on my mouf! I mek you prove it. I’s a honer’ble man, I is. Don’t you ’cuse me of nuffin’!”

Murmurs had begun to arise from the crowd, and they had begun to press in upon the accused.

“Don’t crowd me!” he cried, his eyes bulging, for he saw in the faces about him the energy of attack which should have been directed against the ’possum all turned upon him. “I didn’t eat yo’ ol’ ’possum, I do’ lak ’possum nohow.”

“Hang him,” said some one, and the murmur rose louder as the culprit began to be hustled. But the preacher’s voice rose above the storm.

“Ca’m yo’se’ves, my brethren,” he said; “let us thank de Lawd dat one ’possum remains unto us. Brothah Holly has been put undah a gret temptation, an’ we believe dat he has fell; but it is a jedgment. I ought to knowed bettah dan to ’a’ trusted any colo’ed man wif fo’ ’possums. Let us not be ha’d upon de sinnah. We mus’ not be violent, but I tu’ns dis assembly into a chu’ch meetin’ of de brothahs to set on Brothah Holly’s case. In de mean time de sistahs will prepah de remainin’ ’possum.”

The church-meeting promptly found Brother Holly guilty of having betrayed his trust, and expelled him in disgrace from fellowship with Mt. Pisgah church.

The excellence of the one ’possum which the women prepared only fed their angry feelings, as it suggested what the whole four would have been; but the hungry men, women, and children who had foregone their Christmas dinners at home ate as cheerfully as possible, and when Mt. Pisgah’s congregation went home that day, salt pork was in great demand to fill out the void left by the meagre fare of Christmas ’possum.

A FAMILY FEUD

A FAMILY FEUD

I wish I could tell you the story as I heard it from the lips of the old black woman as she sat bobbing her turbaned head to and fro with the motion of her creaky little rocking-chair, and droning the tale forth in the mellow voice of her race. So much of the charm of the story was in that voice, which even the cares of age had not hardened.

It was a sunny afternoon in late November, one of those days that come like a backward glance from a reluctantly departing summer. I had taken advantage of the warmth and brightness to go up and sit with old Aunt Doshy on the little porch that fronted her cottage. The old woman had been a trusted house-servant in one of the wealthiest of the old Kentucky families, and a visit to her never failed to elicit some reminiscence of the interesting past. Aunt Doshy was inordinately proud of her family, as she designated the Venables, and was never weary of detailing accounts of their grandeur and generosity. What if some of the harshness of reality was softened by the distance through which she looked back upon them; what if the glamour of memory did put a halo round the heads of some people who were never meant to be canonised? It was all plain fact to Aunt Doshy, and it was good to hear her talk. That day she began:—

“I reckon I hain’t never tol’ you ’bout ole Mas’ an’ young Mas’ fallin’ out, has I? Hit’s all over now, an’ things is done change so dat I reckon eben ef ole Mas’ was libin’, he wouldn’t keer ef I tol’, an’ I knows young Mas’ Tho’nton wouldn’t. Dey ain’t nuffin’ to hide ’bout it nohow, ’ca’se all quality families has de same kin’ o’ ’spectable fusses.

“Hit all happened ’long o’ dem Jamiesons whut libed jinin’ places to our people, an’ whut ole Mas’ ain’t spoke to fu’ nigh onto thutty years. Long while ago, when Mas’ Tom Jamieson an’ Mas’ Jack Venable was bofe young mans, dey had a qua’l ’bout de young lady dey bofe was a-cou’tin’, an’ by-an’-by dey had a du’l an’ Mas’ Jamieson shot Mas’ Jack in de shouldah, but Mas’ Jack ma’ied de lady, so dey was eben. Mas’ Jamieson ma’ied too, an’ after so many years dey was bofe wid’ers, but dey ain’t fu’give one another yit. When Mas’ Tho’nton was big enough to run erroun’, ole Mas’ used to try to ’press on him dat a Venable mus’n’ never put his foot on de Jamieson lan’; an’ many a tongue-lashin’ an’ sometimes wuss de han’s on our place got fu’ mixin’ wif de Jamieson servants. But, la! young Mas’ Tho’nton was wuss’n de niggers. Evah time he got a chance he was out an’ gone, over lots an’ fiel’s an’ into de Jamieson ya’d a-playin’ wif little Miss Nellie, whut was Mas’ Tom’s little gal. I never did see two chillun so ’tached to one another. Dey used to wander erroun’, han’ in han’, lak brother an’ sister, an’ dey’d cry lak dey little hea’ts ’u’d brek ef either one of dey pappys seed ’em an’ pa’ted ’em.

“I ’member once when de young Mastah was erbout eight year ole, he was a-settin’ at de table one mo’nin’ eatin’ wif his pappy, when all of er sudden he pause an’ say, jes’ ez solerm-lak, ‘When I gits big, I gwine to ma’y Nellie.’ His pappy jump lak he was shot, an’ tu’n right pale, den he say kin’ o’ slow an’ gaspy-lak, ‘Don’t evah let me hyeah you say sich a thing ergin, Tho’nton Venable. Why, boy, I’d raver let evah drap o’ blood outen you, dan to see a Venable cross his blood wif a Jamieson.’

“I was jes’ a-bringin’ in de cakes whut Mastah was pow’ful fon’ of, an’ I could see bofe dey faces. But, la! honey, dat chile didn’t look a bit skeered. He jes’ sot dah lookin’ in his pappy’s face,—he was de spittin’ image of him, all ’cept his eyes, dey was his mother’s,—den he say, ‘Why, Nellie’s nice,’ an’ went on eatin’ a aig. His pappy laid his napkin down an’ got up an’ went erway f’om de table. Mas’ Tho’nton say, ‘Why, father didn’t eat his cakes.’ ‘I reckon yo’ pa ain’t well,’ says I, fu’ I knowed de chile was innercent.

“Well, after dat day, ole Mas’ tuk extry pains to keep de chillun apa’t—but ’twa’n’t no use. ’Tain’t never no use in a case lak dat. Dey jes’ would be together, an’ ez de boy got older, it seemed to grieve his pappy mighty. I reckon he didn’t lak to jes’ fu’bid him seein’ Miss Nellie, fu’ he know how haidstrong Mas’ Tho’nton was, anyhow. So things kep’ on dis way, an’ de boy got handsomer evah day. My, but his pappy did set a lot o’ sto’ by him. Dey wasn’t nuffin’ dat boy eben wished fu’ dat his pappy didn’t gin him. Seemed lak he fa’ly wusshipped him. He’d jes’ watch him ez he went erroun’ de house lak he was a baby yit. So hit mus’ ’a’ been putty ha’d wif Mas’ Jack when hit come time to sen’ Mas’ Tho’nton off to college. But he never showed it. He seed him off wif a cheerful face, an’ nobidy would ’a’ ever guessed dat it hu’t him; but dat afternoon he shet hisse’f up an’ hit was th’ee days befo’ anybody ’cept me seed him, an’ nobidy ’cept me knowed how his vittels come back not teched. But after de fus’ letter come, he got better. I hyeahd him a-laffin’ to hisse’f ez he read it, an’ dat day he et his dinner.

“Well, honey, dey ain’t no tellin’ whut Mas’ Jack’s plans was, an’ hit ain’t fu’ me to try an’ guess ’em; but ef he had sont Mas’ Tho’nton erway to brek him off f’om Miss Nellie, he mout ez well ’a’ let him stayed at home; fu’ Jamieson’s Sal whut nussed Miss Nellie tol’ me dat huh mistis got a letter f’om Mas’ Tho’nton evah day er so. An’ when he was home fu’ holidays, you never seed nuffin’ lak it. Hit was jes’ walkin’ er ridin’ er dribin’ wif dat young lady evah day of his life. An’ dey did look so sweet together dat it seemed a shame to pa’t ’em—him wif his big brown eyes an’ sof’ curly hair an’ huh all white an’ gentle lak a little dove. But de ole Mas’ couldn’t see hit dat erway, an’ I knowed dat hit was a-troublin’ him mighty bad. Ez well ez he loved his son, hit allus seemed lak he was glad when de holidays was over an’ de boy was back at college.

“Endurin’ de las’ year dat de young Mastah was to be erway, his pappy seemed lak he was jes’ too happy an’ res’less fu’ anything. He was dat proud of his son, he didn’t know whut to do. He was allus tellin’ visitors dat come to de house erbout him, how he was a ’markable boy an’ was a-gwine to be a honour to his name. An’ when ’long to’ds de ve’y end of de term, a letter come sayin’ dat Mas’ Tho’nton had done tuk some big honour at de college, I jes’ thought sho Mas’ Jack ’u’d plum bus’ hisse’f, he was so proud an’ tickled. I hyeahd him talkin’ to his ole frien’ Cunnel Mandrey an’ mekin’ great plans ’bout whut he gwine to do when his son come home. He gwine tek him trav’lin’ fus’ in Eur’p, so’s to ‘finish him lak a Venable ought to be finished by seein’ somep’n’ of de worl’—’ dem’s his ve’y words. Den he was a-gwine to come home an’ ‘model de house an’ fit it up, ’fu’’—I never shell fu’git how he said it,—‘fu’ I ’spec’ my son to tek a high place in de society of ole Kintucky an’ to mo’ dan surstain de reputation of de Venables.’ Den when de las’ day come an’ young Mastah was home fu’ sho, so fine an’ clever lookin’ wif his new mustache—sich times ez dey was erbout dat house nobidy never seed befo’. All de frien’s an’ neighbours, ’scusin’, o’ co’se, de Jamiesons, was invited to a big dinner dat lasted fu’ hours. Dey was speeches by de gent’men, an’ evahbidy drinked de graderate’s health an’ wished him good luck. But all de time I could see dat Mas’ Tho’nton wasn’t happy, dough he was smilin’ an’ mekin’ merry wif evahbidy. It ’pressed me so dat I spoke erbout hit to Aunt Emmerline. Aunt Emmerline was Mas’ Tho’nton’s mammy, an’ sence he’d growed up, she didn’t do much but he’p erroun’ de house a little.

“‘You don’ mean to tell me dat you noticed dat too?’ says she when I tol’ huh erbout it.

“‘Yes, I did,’ says I, ‘an’ I noticed hit strong.’

“‘Dey’s somep’n’ ain’t gwine right wif my po’ chile,’ she say, ‘an’ dey ain’t no tellin’ whut it is.’

“‘Hain’t you got no idee, Aunt Emmerline?’ I say.

“‘La! chile,’ she say in a way dat mek me think she keepin’ somep’n’ back, ‘la! chile, don’ you know young mans don’ come to dey mammys wif dey secuts lak dey do when dey’s babies? How I gwine to know whut’s pesterin’ Mas’ Tho’nton?’

“Den I knowed she was hidin’ somep’n’, an’ jes’ to let huh know dat I’d been had my eyes open too, I say slow an’ ’pressive lak, ‘Aunt Emmerline, don’ you reckon hit Miss Nellie Jamieson?’ She jumped lak she was skeered, an’ looked at me right ha’d; den she say, ‘I ain’ reck’nin’ nuffin’ ’bout de white folks’ bus’ness.’ An’ she pinched huh mouf up right tight, an’ I couldn’t git another word outen huh; but I knowed dat I’d hit huh jes’ erbout right.

“One mo’nin’ erbout a week after de big dinner, jes’ ez dey was eatin’, Mas’ Tho’nton say, ‘Father, I’d lak to see you in de liberry ez soon ez you has de time. I want to speak to you ’bout somep’n’ ve’y impo’tant.’ De ole man look up right quick an’ sha’p, but he say ve’y quiet lak, ‘Ve’y well, my son, ve’y well; I’s at yo’ service at once.’

“Dey went into de liberry, an’ Mas’ Tho’nton shet de do’ behin’ him. I could hyeah dem talkin’ kin’ o’ low while I was cl’arin’ erway de dishes. After while dey ’menced to talk louder. I had to go out an’ dus’ de hall den near de liberry do’, an’ once I hyeahd ole Mas’ say right sho’t an’ sha’p, ‘Never!’ Den young Mas’ he say, ‘But evah man has de right to choose fu’ his own se’f.’

“‘Man, man!’ I hyeahd his pappy say in a way I had never hyeahd him use to his son befo’, ‘evah male bein’ dat wahs men’s clothes an’ has a mustache ain’t a man.’

“‘Man er whut not,’ po’ young Mastah’s voice was a-tremblin’, ‘I am at leas’ my father’s son an’ I deserve better dan dis at his han’s.’ I hyeahd somebody a-walkin’ de flo’, an’ I was feared dey’d come out an’ think dat I was a-listenin’, so I dus’es on furder down de hall, an’ didn’t hyeah no mo’ ontwell Mas’ Tho’nton come hurryin’ out an’ say, ‘Ike, saddle my hoss.’ He was ez pale ez he could be, an’ when he spoke sho’t an’ rough lak dat, he was so much lak his father dat hit skeered me. Ez soon ez his hoss was ready, he jumped into de saddle an’ went flyin’ outen de ya’d lak mad, never eben lookin’ back at de house. I didn’t see Mas’ Jack fu’ de res’ of de day, an’ he didn’t come in to suppah. But I seed Aunt Emmerline an’ I knowed dat she had been somewhah an’ knowed ez much ez I did erbout whut was gwine on, but I never broached a word erbout hit to huh. I seed she was oneasy, but I kep’ still ’twell she say, ‘Whut you reckon keepin’ Mas’ Tho’nton out so late?’ Den I jes’ say, ‘I ain’t reck’nin’ ’bout de white folks’ bus’ness.’ She looked a little bit cut at fus’, den she jes’ go on lak nuffin’ hadn’t happened: ‘I’s mighty ’sturbed ’bout young Mas’; he never stays erway f’om suppah ’dout sayin’ somep’n’.’

“‘Oh, I reckon he kin fin’ suppah somewhah else.’ I says dis don’t keer lak jes’ fu’ to lead huh on.

“‘I ain’t so much pestered ’bout his suppah,’ she say; ‘I’s feared he gwine do somep’n’ he hadn’t ought to do after dat qua’l ’twixt him an’ his pappy.’

“‘Did dey have a qua’l?’ says I.

“‘G’long!’ Aunt Emmerline say, ‘you wasn’t dus’in’ one place in de hall so long fu’ nuffin’. You knows an’ I knows eben ef we don’t talk a heap. I’s troubled myse’f. Hit jes’ in dat Venable blood to go right straight an’ git Miss Nellie an’ ma’y huh right erway, an’ ef he do it, I p’intly know his pa’ll never fu’give him.’ Den Aunt Emmerline ’mence to cry, an’ I feel right sorry fu’ huh, ’ca’se Mas’ Tho’nton huh boy, an’ she think a mighty heap o’ him.

“Well, we hadn’t had time to say much mo’ when we hyeahd a hoss gallopin’ into de ya’d. Aunt Emmerline jes’ say, ‘Dat’s Gineral’s lope!’ an’ she bus’ outen de do’. I waits, ’spectin’ huh to come back an’ say dat Mas’ Tho’nton done come at las’. But after while she come in wif a mighty long face an’ say, ‘Hit’s one o’ Jamieson’s darkies; he brung de hoss back an’ a note Mas’ gin him fu’ his pappy. Mas’ Tho’nton done gone to Lexin’ton wif Miss Nellie an’ got ma’ied.’ Den she jes’ brek down an’ ’mence a-cryin’ ergin an’ a-rockin’ huhse’f back an’ fofe an’ sayin’, ‘Oh, my po’ chile, my po’ boy, whut’s to ’come o’ you!’

“I went upstairs an’ lef’ huh—we bofe stayed at de big house—but I didn’t sleep much, ’ca’se all thoo de night I could hyeah ole Mas’ a-walkin’ back an’ fofe ercross his flo’, an’ when Aunt Emmerline come up to baid, she mou’ned all night, eben in huh sleep. I tell you, honey, dem was mou’nin’ times.

“Nex’ mo’nin’ when ole Mas’ come down to brekfus’, he looked lak he done had a long spell o’ sickness. But he wasn’t no man to ’spose his feelin’s. He never let on, never eben spoke erbout Mas’ Tho’nton bein’ erway f’om de table. He didn’t eat much, an’ fin’ly I see him look right long an’ stiddy at de place whah Mas’ Tho’nton used to set an’ den git up an’ go ’way f’om de table. I knowed dat he was done filled up. I went to de liberry do’ an’ I could hyeah him sobbin’ lak a chile. I tol’ Aunt Emmerline ’bout it, but she jes’ shuck huh haid an’ didn’t say nuffin’ a’-tall.

“Well, hit went dis erway fu’ ’bout a week. Mas’ Jack was gittin’ paler an’ paler evah day, an’ hit jes’ ’menced to come to my min’ how ole he was. One day Aunt Emmerline say she gwine erway, an’ she mek Jim hitch up de spring wagon an’ she dribe on erway by huhse’f. Co’se, now, Aunt Emmerline she do putty much ez she please, so I don’t think nuffin’ ’bout hit. When she come back, ’long to’ds ebenin’, I say, ‘Aunt Emmerline, whah you been all day?’

“‘Nemmine, honey, you see,’ she say, an’ laff. Well, I ain’t seed nobidy laff fu’ so long dat hit jes’ mek me feel right wa’m erroun’ my hea’t, an’ I laff an’ keep on laffin’ jes’ at nuffin’.

“Nex’ mo’nin’ Aunt Emmerline mighty oneasy, an’ I don’ know whut de matter ontwell I hyeah some un say, ‘Tek dat hoss, Ike, an’ feed him, but keep de saddle on.’ Aunt Emmerline jes’ fa’ly fall out de do’ an’ I lak to drap, ’ca’se hit’s Mas’ Tho’nton’s voice. In a minute he come to me an’ say, ‘Doshy, go tell my father I’d lak to speak to him.’

“I don’ skeercely know how I foun’ my way to de liberry, but I did. Ole Mas’ was a-settin’ dah wif a open book in his han’, but his eyes was jes’ a-starin’ at de wall, an’ I knowed he wasn’t a-readin’. I say, ‘Mas’ Jack,’ an’ he sta’t jes’ lak he rousin’ up, ‘Mas’ Jack, Mas’ Tho’nton want to speak to you.’ He jump up quick, an’ de book fall on de flo’, but he grab a cheer an’ stiddy hisse’f. I done tol’ you Mas’ Jack wasn’t no man to ’spose his feelin’s. He jes’ say, slow lak he hol’in’ hisse’f, ‘Sen’ him in hyeah.’ I goes back an’ ’livers de message, den I flies roun’ to de po’ch whah de liberry winder opens out, ’ca’se, I ain’t gwine lie erbout it, I was mighty tuk up wif all dis gwine on an’ I wanted to see an’ hyeah,—an’ who you reckon ’roun’ dah but Aunt Emmerline! She jes’ say, ‘S-sh!’ ez I come ’roun’, an’ clas’ huh han’s. In a minute er so, de liberry do’ open an’ Mas’ Tho’nton come in. He shet hit behin’ him, an’ den stood lookin’ at his pa, dat ain’t never tu’ned erroun’ yit. Den he say sof’, ‘Father.’ Mas’ Jack tu’ned erroun’ raal slow an’ look at his son fu’ a while. Den he say, ‘Do you still honour me wif dat name?’ Mas’ Tho’nton got red in de face, but he answer, ‘I don’ know no other name to call you.’

“‘Will you set down?’ Mas’ speak jes’ lak he was a-talkin’ to a stranger.

“‘Ef you desiah me to.’ I see Mas’ Tho’nton was a-bridlin’ up too. Mas’ jes’ th’owed back his haid an’ say, ‘Fa’ be it f’om any Venable to fu’git cou’tesy to his gues’.’ Young Mas’ moved erway f’om de cheer whah he was a-gwine to set, an’ his haid went up. He spoke up slow an’ delibut, jes’ lak his pa, ‘I do not come, suh, in dat cha’acter, I is hyeah ez yo’ son.’

“Well, ole Mas’ eyes fa’ly snapped fiah. He was white ez a sheet, but he still spoke slow an’ quiet, hit made me creep, ‘You air late in ’memberin’ yo’ relationship, suh.’

“‘I hab never fu’got it.’

“‘Den, suh, you have thought mo’ of yo’ rights dan of yo’ duties.’ Mas’ Jack was mad an’ so was Mas’ Tho’nton; he say, ‘I didn’t come hyeah to ’scuss dat.’ An’ he tu’ned to’ds de do’. I hyeah Aunt Emmerline groan jes’ ez Mas’ say, ‘Well, whut did you come fu’?’

“‘To be insulted in my father’s house by my father, an’ I’s got all dat I come fu’!’ Mas’ Tho’nton was ez white ez his pa now, an’ his han’ was on de do’-knob. Den all of a sudden I hyeah de winder go up, an’ I lak to fall over gittin’ outen de way to keep f’om bein’ seed. Aunt Emmerline done opened de winder an’ gone in. Dey bofe tu’ned an’ looked at huh s’prised lak, an’ Mas’ Jack sta’ted to say somep’n’, but she th’owed up huh han’ an’ say ‘Wait!’ lak she owned de house. ‘Mas’ Jack,’ she say, ‘you an’ Mas’ Tho’nton ain’t gwine pa’t dis way. You mus’n’t. You’s father an’ son. You loves one another. I knows I ain’t got no bus’ness meddlin’ in yo’ ’fairs, but I cain’t see you all qua’l dis way. Mastah, you’s bofe stiffnecked. You’s bofe wrong. I know Mas’ Tho’nton didn’t min’ you, but he didn’t mean no ha’m—he couldn’t he’p it—it was in de Venable blood, an’ you mus’n’t ’spise him fu’ it.’