Part 5

“’Cordin’ to my custom, jes’ befo’ de time fur de sermon I had all de watermilions laid out on de grass, one hundred ob de bigges’ an’ fattes’ ones you eber seed. You see, boss, I am constertushunally upposed to long sermons,” he winked, “an’ I knowed dey wa’n’t a nigger libin’ c’uld preach ober ten minnits wid all dem watermilions a-layin’ dar a-winkin’ at ’im an’ waiting to be led, lak’ lambs, to de sacrifice. Does you see de p’int?”

I saw it.

“Wal, suh, you orter jes’ heurd de prayer Br’er Johnsing put up--it wus short, but mighty sweet. De flavor ob de watermilions seem ter git into hit, an’ de ’roma ob hits juice b’iled outen his mouth. Boss, you’ve seed dese kinder preachers dat talks to de good Lord wid all de easy fermileriaty ob a deestrick skule-teacher axin’ de presedent ob de skule board fur what he wants, an’ wid all de sassy assurance ob de silent partner in a lan’-offis bisness, ain’t you? Wal, dat’s de way Br’er Johnsing prayed, an’ I wus de speshul objec, ob his conversashun wid de Almighty dat day. He tole ’im whut I’d dun fur dat community, informed ’im very posertively ob de fac’ dat I wus a Godly man, refreshed His mem’ry in a gentle way consarnin’ sum’ ob my long-furgotten deeds ob cheerity, an’ gin Him sum’ good, brotherly advice on how to git eben wid me, an’ in a measure pay off de debt of gratitude He owed me by makin’ it His will dat I wus erg’in to administer de law ob de lan’, both spiritual an’ temper’l, an’ fur ernudder twelvemonth ter be de venerbul ram ob de flock ob Zion, to lead His sheep to de fold an’ by de still waters. Wal, suh, when he finish, mighty nigh eb’ry nigger dar said Amen, an’ den dey lick dey chops an’ look sorter dreamy lak ober whar de watermilions lay ’n de col’ spring branch.

“Dis wus my time to spring de s’prise ob de ebenin’ on ’em, dat I’d fixed up. An’ so I riz up wid de most sancterfied look on I c’uld git, one ob dem onworthy, miserbul-sinner sorter looks dat we elders allers carry aroun’ in our coat pockets along with our bandanna handkerchiefs fur enny emergency, an’ I sez: ‘Brudders an’ sistrin, befo’ we listen to de soulful sermon in store fur our spiritual natures, which Br’er Johnsing gwineter gib us in his ellerquent way, I’ve sprung a letle s’prise on you, an’ I wants you all to retire wid me an’ refresh de innard man a leetle. Brudderin’ knowin’ my onworthiness an’ de many obligashuns I am under to dis enlightened community ob Christian saints an’ godly men an’ wimmen, I’ve made two bar’ls ob ice-cold lemmernade, an’ you’ll find ’em asettin’, es a big s’prise,’ sez I, ‘on de houn’s ob my ox-waggin, in de cool shade by de spring, wid plenty ob tin dippers fur all. We’ll now adjourn twenty minnits fur refreshments.’

“Wal, suh, you sh’uld a heurd de shout. Ef de ’lection bed cum’ off den, I’d a got eb’ry vote in de deestrick an’ a fair sprinklin’ ob sum’ in all de yudders. I went wid ’em an’ drunk, too. An’ we all drunk ter one ernudder’s health. I drunk to Sister Ca’line, an’ Br’er Johnsing he drunk to Dinah, an’ de leetle niggers drunk, an’ de ole niggers drunk, de gals an’ de boys. I hilt up my dipper an’ laugh, an’ sed to Br’er Johnsing, ‘Br’er Johnsing, here’s to you,’ sez I, ‘an’ all dat goes up must go down.’ An’ wid dat I swallered down.

“Den Br’er Johnsing--he’s mighty funny--an’ he hilt up his’n and laugh, an’ say: ‘Br’er Washington, here’s to you,’ sez he, ‘an’ all dat goes down nurver comes up ergin.’ An’ den we all laugh.

“But dat wus one time he wus terribly mistaken, es you will see.

“Wal, suh, when we all hed drunk enough we went back to hear de watermilion sermon, an’ den eat de fruit ob whut we heurd. ’Tain’t eb’ry man kin say dat, boss, dat he eats de fruit ob whut he hears; digests de fustly, an’ de secondly, an’ de thudly, assimmerlates in de juicy rime ob de tangerbul thing, de logical konclushun ob de intelectual fac’. An’ darfore I’ve allers sed dat drawin’ yo’ konclushuns frum de heart ob a watermilion makes de bes’ sermon in de wurl’.

“I b’leeve I tole you, boss, dat dat lemmernade wus intended fur a s’prise fur ’em, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I believe you mentioned that it was a little surprise of yours in store for them.”

The old man groaned. “Boss, fur heaben’s sake, annudder drap outen dat bottle! I’ll hafter brace up erg’in to tell de sorrowin’ scene dat follers. Thankee, thankee! I’m better now, an’ maybe I kin finish, fur dat lemmernade turned out to be de bigges’ an’ sorrerfullest surprise dat ever come down a pike.

“Br’er Johnsing tuck fur his tex’ de sermon ob Noah an’ de ark, an’ whilst Noah wus de man menshuned, hit wus plain dat I was de applercashun. He went on to show dat I wus a godly man, jes’ lak’ ole Noah, an’ dat I wus to de community ob Big Sandy whut Noah was to Jeerruselum. He wus makin’ it short, but a-gwine in two-minnit time, a-pacin’ lak’ ole Joe Patchen at a matternee fur a silver cup an’ wreath ob roses, an’ den all at onct he lifted up his voice an’ sed: ‘Yes, brudderin, de waters ob de g-r-e-a-t deep riz up, an’ de bottom drop outen de clouds; de w-i-n-d-e-r-s ob heaben wus flung open, an’ de upheaval ob de u-n-e-v-e-r-s-e begun----’

“Dat wus es fur es he got, befo’ de word upheaval wus outen his mouth, sho’ ’nuff, de upheaval did begun. I seed ’im stop so suddenly he kicked up behind, clap his hands on his stummick an’ try to bolt fur a locus’ thicket, but he c’uldn’t--he jes’ turned a complete summerset, athrowin’ up his immortal soul es he turned. Den I heurd a turrible commoshun in de congregashun, an’ I look erroun’, an’ eb’ry nigger dar wus in de same fix es Br’er Johnsing. Dey wus whoopin’, an’ barkin’, and layin’ out in eb’ry kinder way, an’ all on ’em bent on de same thing. An’ whut dey wus doin’ to dat groun’ wus a-plenty! Dey thought dey was pizened an’ wus gwineter die, an’ den sech s’archin’ prayers es went up to de throne ob grace, mixed in wid moans, an’ groans, an’ ice-cold lemmernade dat seem to think hit wus time ter rise erg’in and fetch eb’rything else frum de grabe along wid it. By dis time I wus so ’stounded I didn’t kno’ whut ter do. I look erroun’ an’ I seed dat me an’ ole Aunt Fat Ferreby wus de onlies’ ones dat wa’n’t tryin’ to turn inside out. She wus lookin’ mighty ashy erroun’ de gills, but she brace hers’f up an’ started out ter raise dat good ole hymn:

‘How firm a foundation’--

But she hadn’t more’n got to ‘foundahun’ befo, her foundation was shaken, I seed her gag an’ double up an’ start in on:

‘My risin’ soul leaps up to sing, A song of praise ter day.’

“’Bount dat time I felt a ’tickler kinder mizzry in my own innards, an’ de nex’ thing I disremember I had Sister Ferreby ’round’ de neck an’ we wus singin’ dat hymn tergedder. Lor’! hit wus awful. I’ve seed menny a sight, but I nurver expect erg’in ter see three hundred an’ sixty-five niggers throwin’ up at de same time. When sum’ on ’em got dey secon’ wind dey wanted to lynch me, but by de time dey got erroun’ to me wid a rope dey ’cided I wus too nigh dead to need killin’, and by dis time dey all had to ’zamperfly de truth ob de biblical sayin’ about de dog an’ de thing he would go back to. By dis time eb’ry doctor in de country wus dar, fetchin’ all de querrintine offercers, an’ pest-tents, an’ disenfec-tents, an’ preparin’ fer c’olera an’ fever. An’ den we foun’ out what ailed us.”

“In the name of heaven, what was it?” I asked eagerly.

The tears rolled down the old man’s cheeks as he feebly begged for another drop to enable him to finish his tale. Then he said:

“Ain’t I dun tole you hundreds ob times it am de leetle mistakes we make in life dat turns de tide? Ain’t I? Wal, dat’s whut ruined me dat day, an’ terday I am a man widout offis an’ widout honor in my ole age. Dat mornin’, ’stead ob gwine down to de sto’ myse’f to get de poun’ ob tartar acid ter make up dat lemmernade wid, I saunt dat trifflin’ Jim Crow gran’son ob mine, an’ he got de names twisted, an’ ’stead ob fetchin’ me back tartar acid, he fotcht me back a poun’ ob tartar emetic, an’ I didn’t do a thing but make up dat lemmernade wid it!”

“But, surely, they wouldn’t treasure up such a mistake against you, seeing that you suffered with the rest,” I said.

“Boss,” said the old man, rising, “how long you gwine ter lib wid niggers, an’ den hafter be tole ober an’ ober ergin de same thing? In course, dey didn’t beat me fur offis on ercount ob dat fool mistake, but jes’ lemme ax you, whar is de nigger libin’ dat gwinter vote fur enny man dat’d lay out a hundred watermilions in de spring branch, let ’em look at ’em an hour, an’ den turn dat nigger’s stummick into a green-persimmon fur a week? Whar is he, I ax?” And the old man crept feebly out to find him a cheap coffin.

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

* * * * *

_We never give, but giving, get again; There is no burden that we may not bear; Our sweetest love is always sweetest pain, And yet the recompense--the recompense is there._

* * * * *

_The sweet things of life do not lie so much in sight as in the heart that sees them._

Stories of the Soil

The Little Things of Life, Happening All Over the World and Caught in Ink for Trotwood’s Monthly.

TIM’S EASTER.

The first streaks of day were breaking. It looked to the fireman of 496 that the old engine was sticking her nose into the red dawn as she plowed ahead hauling her fast freight South on schedule time. Tim Doogan was at the throttle--an old engineer who stood at the head of the road’s list; for Tim had been in service longer than any of them, had never failed in his duty and for twenty years had never taken a day off except one--to bury his wife.

He had never even asked for a promotion, and when it had been offered--the highest post of the engineer--Tim shook his head and declined.

“I guess I’m used to this old route and I’d feel lost if I didn’t pass through the Little Town every few days.”

They were now approaching the Little Town, and Tim had not spoken since he left the city, a hundred miles back. He was naturally quiet, but the fireman had never known him to make the run before and not say something. Something told the fireman that Tim had struck sadness somewhere, and so at intervals he fired up but said nothing to the big, begrimed man in overalls and cap who stood silently at his post, with one hand always on the throttle of his engine.

“I’m goin’ to stop twenty minutes in the Little Town, Jim,” said Tim as they began to pull into the station.

“Any orders?” asked Jim, surprised.

“No, but it’s my orders--ever’ Easter--been doin’ it for twenty years. Company don’t like it, kin lump it,” Tim added dry.

This was Jim’s first year, and he had never heard.

“No. 3 may be late an’ give me the chance. If she don’t, why, we stops anyway, Jim.”

“Why, I’d rather she’d be on time, so we can go on. Don’t you want to go on?” asked Jim.

“Not for twenty minutes, ef I can he’p it. Fact is, we’re goin’ to stop here a little while anyway.”

The fireman said nothing, and Tim slowed up No. 496 in the yard. Then he jumped down and went in to report.

“No. 3 twenty minutes late,” he said, as he came back. “Take keer o’ things till I git back. I’ll not be gone long.”

“You ain’t that there thirsty for a drink this mornin’ are you, Tim? You don’t drink to speak of, and I never knowed you to leave old 496 befo’.”

Tim said nothing, but climbed up and opened his big box. The fireman smelt something sweet, and very tenderly Tim took out a longer pasteboard box.

“Flowers,” said the fireman. “Say, Tim, old man,” he laughed, “I’ve caught on--it’s a gal.”

“She _was_ a gal,” said Tim, quietly, “and the pretties’ and sweetes’ one that ever hit the soil o’ this wurl. An’ the little boy wa’nt no fluke.” He brushed at his eyes as he spoke, and left another grimy smear there.

“I’m a-goin’ over to the little cemetery a bit, Jim--yes, you stay with 496. They’re buried over there. We lived--her an’ the little ’un--we lived here after we was married. She was allers sweet on Easter, and for flowers and sech, an’ I love to do this for her an’ the boy. Been doin’ it twenty year’. We don’t know nothin’, an’ maybe it’s all so--an’ if anybody’ll rise again it’ll be her--with her faith--for I tell you, Jim it was as a little child. Yes, they was both my children.”

He was taking the flowers out, lilies and roses and carnations and cultivated violets, big and blue and beautiful. In his big, grimy, black hands, and amid the soot and dust of 496 they lay beautified and glorified, and the sweet odor went through the rough fireman until he saw pictures of a far-away home.

Silently Tim trudged across the hill to the little cemetery. The village was asleep, the unkept streets empty, the cold, gray mist hung low over everything, and finally Tim disappeared in it. But twenty minutes later, when the sun had risen and 496 was butting through the gray, her throttles open, the smoke belching from her stack, Tim stood at his post, a smile lighting up his grimy face, his eyes fixed on two graves amid pines, far up on the hill upon which shone lilies and roses and violets.

They thundered past, and the old engineer took off his cap and, turning to the fireman, said, above the roar of wheels and steam:

“She used to say it this-a-way, Jim--I’ve heard her so often, an’ fer five years she taught it to the little boy befo’ he left.” He looked toward the sun rising through the mist, and said slowly:

“_In the end of the Sabbath, as it began to dawn, toward the first day of the week came Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to see the sepulchre._

“_And, behold, there was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone from the door and sat upon it.... And the angel answered and said unto the woman, Fear not ye: for I know that ye seek Jesus that was crucified. He is not here for He is risen._”

He shut off steam as he pitched down a steep grade, and then Jim heard him say:

“That’s the way she said it, an’ we don’t know nothin’, Jim, nothin’. But we do know that stranger things is happenin’ ever’ day than jes’ the spirit livin’ agin. What’s light? What’s heat? What’s love? What’s that wireless talkin’ through the air but things to tell us how little we know, how small our minds is an’ how easy it ’ud be to be true, an’ we not know how to explain it with our little standards.”

He threw a kiss at the vanishing hill of pines. “No, I’ll keep on sayin’ it as she sed it, anyway, true or not: ‘I am the resurrection an’ the life.’”

HO! EVERY ONE THAT THIRSTETH!

The corn crop up in the Bigbyville neighborhood is clean, the cotton shows not a spear of grass. The potato field looks as clean and green as a billiard cushion floor and the darkies are still, still hoeing. All this was caused by a sermon old Wash preached there on foot-washing day last month, a literal extract of which I got from the old man himself:

“Brudderin’ an’ Sisterin’--You’ll find my text in de six chapter of Noah’s pistols to de Gentiles. _Ho! every one dat thirsteth! Ho!_

“De commandments we get from de Bible am beyond de scrutiny of man, an’ we natchurly think dat when a man gets hot an’ thirsty de thing fur him to do is to hunt de spring branch an’ quench his burnin’ lips. But not so. Here it is sot down in black an’ white in de book ob books, dat when you git thirsty, _jes’ keep on hoein’. Ho! every one dat thirsteth! Ho!_ And dat is right; de Bible is allers right. Hoein’ is good fur de limbs, good fur de wind, good fur de crap, an’ good fur de soul. De sun am hot now, but de wind’ll be cold agin. De rays pour down now, but de sleet’ll come bye an’ bye. Dese am de rays of drought an’ thirst, but ef you want to set back when de rains come, smoke yo’ pipe an’ sing dat song--

“Bile dat cabbage down For it ain’t gwine to rain no mo’--

jes’ take off yo’ coat, shed yo’ shirt, an’ foller de corn an’ tater row, an’ ef you git thirsty don’t stop to drink, but jes’ keep on a-hoein’!

“_Ho! everyone dat thirsteth! ho!_

“An’ ain’t dat de law an’ de sense? Whut you wanter stop an’ drink fur? Won’t you jes’ get thirty agin? Keep on a-hoein’!

“What did old Noah do when de windows ob de heabens was opened an’ de flood ob de great deep began to kiver de earth, an’ de fools got round him an’ laughed an’ ax him whut he buildin’ dat ole ark for? He was tired, an’ thirsty, an’ hot, but he kep’ on a-hoein’, for he knowed he’d get water enough bye and bye. _Ho! every one dat thirsteth! ho!_

“What did Abraham do when dey got roun’ him an’ tried to stop him from gwine to de Promis’ Lan’? He kept on a hoein’ for Jordan.

“Don’t let de flesh ob dis wurl’ fool you. Things ain’t whut dey seem. Water looks mighty good, specially to Baptists, but whut we Meferdists want to do is to keep on a hoein’. De wicked of Noah’s day didn’t hoe any. Didn’t dey git water enough? De Egyptians didn’t hoe enny, but follered de Israelites into de Red Sea. Didn’t dey get water enough? Ole Jonah didn’t obey de Lord an’ hoe to de mark, an’ de water swallowed him fust an’ de whale swallered ’im next. Let dat be a warnin’ to you to stick to de tex’ of de Bible an’ de doctrine of de church, an’ when you get thirsty keep on a-hoein’. It’s hard now, but it’ll be sweet bye and bye. It’s hot now, but it’ll be cold bye and bye. You git mighty thirsty an’ you think de taters ain’t never goin’ to come, but when de winter rains come, an’ de winds blow, an’ you sot down round de big fiah wid de sweet brown ’possum an’ dem taters, you work so hard fur to get in de heat, an’ sweat, an’ thirst ob summer, den will de heart ob de faithful be glad, den will you shout an’ sing:

“Ho! every one that thirsteth, ho!”

This last appeal was too much. The congregation arose in a body at the words ’possum and potatoes and went off to hoe, leaving the old man with no one to pass around the hat.

A RACE FOR LIFE.

I saw a race--a race for life, too--that interested me the other day more than any that I have seen this year. It occurred in mid-air, in a kingdom not our own; but the fresh air was sweet where the race for life went on, and the fields were green beneath, and the brooks purled below and the sun shone gloriously over all, and to the poor creature who raced for his life I doubt not but he took it all in and life was as sweet to him as it is to us.

It was a golden-winged butterfly, one of those beautiful creatures that is more of heaven than of earth, more of the blossom than of the brown heath, and it seemed cruel to me that this beautiful thing, thrown off from the film of a rainbow and made with an organism so spiritual that it lives on the nectar of flowers, dwells on the bosom of a nodding lily and floats on the breath of a zephyr, must come under the great selfish law of life and be forced to fight for its brief but beautiful existence. Man must fight, we know--and all history, if it lie not, is but a chronicle of battle, blood and death, in which the survival of the fittest and the achievements of human destiny have been gauged by the brains that were behind gunpowder, and the courage that comes of God. Man, beasts, birds, reptiles, fishes--it is a survival merely--and “nature, red in tooth and claw,” has been demonstrated to be more merciful than nature rotting in the decrepitude of age. But, O, that this ethereal thing--half rainbow and rose, half light and lily blossom, half child and cherubim--might have been spared!

And who were its enemies--two glorious mocking birds, that had sung like spirits from an angel choir around my home all spring and summer--that had reared their young in contentment and happiness and should have had nothing against any of God’s creatures, whose life had been a poem, whose breath a summer song--alas, that these should have been its murderers! It almost makes me despair of the ethics of life. I feel like saying to man: “Go, murder your fellow men--it is nature. Go, rob, steal and plunder--it is law.”

And is it not law? In spite of the ethics of religion and dictates of equity, is it not at last a question of one getting and the other giving--of money, love--ay, even life?

Golden Wings was in my garden and he was content until that which sustained his life gave out--food. He had sucked every flower--he must go to pastures new. The distance to my neighbor’s garden was some two hundred yards, and there was nothing but air between us. He thought of it a long time--he hovered from flower to flower and thought--of his mate, of life, of death. Had he been all spirit he had stayed forever among the flowers. He had run no chance of death. But he was half spirit and half life and that life was rebelling and begging for food. He must go. It was life or death. He rose reluctantly--frightened--straight up--every sense awake--every nerve keyed--every eye on the lookout for an enemy--the spirit which had never harmed even a flower, and which should have had no enemy. Up, straight up, he arose--quivering, scared, frightened--then winged his way across the blue ether in a flight, as it proved, for its life.

The mocking-bird is a fly catcher, but not an expert one. Compared with the swallow, the marten, the crested fly-catcher, the expert king bird, the wood pewee, and Phoebe, he is a poor imitation. But the mocking-bird is a poet, and everything is grist that comes to a poet’s mill--from the grasshopper on the ground to the butterfly in the air.

The male bird saw Golden Wings first and gave him the first heat for his life. Up in the air he darted, circled and swooped. Poor Golden Wings fled, turned, ducked, dived--and escaped. The poet dropped to his twig in disgust, and his mate took up the race. Golden Wings saw her coming and his heart bursted with fear. He fairly quivered in the air. He knew not which way to turn. She darted, and all but caught him. For a moment, in mid-air, I saw them whirling and twisting and tumbling--poor Golden Wings panting and fluttering for a chance once more for home and life, and the poetess for a morsel to eat. It ended in the butterfly getting above the bird--which seemed always its tactics--while the latter dropped down in disgust to her mate. Then they both started after poor Golden Wings, and it looked as if his time had come. But all the time he had been heading straight for the thick trees beyond, where rested, perhaps, his distressed mate, waiting for his return.

It was a terrible chase the two poets gave him--the tumbling, darting, circling of the birds in fiendish delight, in maddened earnestness. Their very wings were often so close that they fanned him about until he looked like a speck of gold tissue paper hurled about by contrary winds. Twice they got above him, dropped on him and--missed. Twice I lost him altogether, and, except that I saw the birds fluttering and darting in the air, I had thought he was lost. When I saw him again he had gotten above his enemies and was safely pursuing his zig-zag, frightened, graceless, paper-fluttering flight for the trees and life.

“Success to you, O, Golden Wings,” I said, “for already have you taught me a lesson in life. Let us keep above our enemies, if we would be safe--not beneath them, for there we are a prey to their dirty talons; not on their level, for then we are no better than they; but above them where they cannot reach us and where we may go on to our destiny with only the sunlight around us and the stars above us.”

The birds dropped down, baffled, to rest in the top of a sugar maple. They had evidently lost their tempers, and, between panting and hard breathing, I could hear them quarreling: “It was you,” said the wife--“you conceited thing--all your fault. I had him once if you had let me alone.”

“O, you had him, you did--‘over the left.’ If your talents equaled your tongue we’d be better off.” They screeched and shuffled about and almost spat at each other. They were beaten, chagrined and mad, and they took it out on each other.