Green thursday

Ashes	9
Green Thursday	26
Missie	50
Meeting	62
Mount Pleasant	79
Finding Peace	94
The Red Rooster	103
Teaching Jim	115
Cat Fish	123
Son	132
A Sunday	143
Plum-Blossoms	170

AN OLD PLANTATION WITH smooth-planted fields and rich woodlands and pastures, where little shaded streams run, lies right at the edge of a low wide swamp.

Steep red hills, rising sheer above the slimy mud, lift it out of the reach of two yellow-brown rivers that sprawl drowsily along before they come together to form one stream.

The rivers are hidden by huge trees garlanded with tangled vines, and the swamp seems a soft, undulating, colourful surface that fades into a low line of faint blue hills far away on the other side.

Those hills are the outside world, but the swamp is wide and pathless.

The two rivers commonly lie complacent, but on occasion they rouse and flood low places with furious, yellow water. They lunge and tear at the hillsides that hold the plantation above them until their violence is spent; then they creep back into their rightful channels, leaving other sodden acres desolate and covered with bent, ruined stalks that show where fields of cotton and corn were ripe and ready for harvest.

The old plantation sits always calm. Undisturbed. The rivers can never reach it. And the outside world may wamble and change, but it cannot come any nearer.

Years pass by and leave things unaltered. The same narrow, red roads run through cotton-and cornfields. The same time-grayed cabins send up threads of smoke from their red-clay chimneys. Summer brings the same flowers to bloom around doorways, and china-berry and crape-myrtle blossoms to drop gay petals on little half-clothed black children.

Fields lush with cotton and corn are enlivened by bright-turbaned black women. Sinewy men with soft-stepping bare feet laugh and sing as they guide patient mules up and down the long rows.

When winter browns the fields and brings cold winds up from the swamp, women and children huddle over uncertain fires or gather on sunshiny doorsteps while the men creep down to the swamp in search of food and adventure.

There is nothing to hint that life here could be sweet or that its current runs free and strong. Winter, summer, birth, death, these seem to be all.

The main road on the plantation divides. One straggling, rain-rutted fork runs along the edge of a field to a cluster of low, weather-beaten houses grouped under giant red-oak trees. The Quarters, where most of the black people live.

The other fork bends with a swift, smooth curve and glides into a grove of cedars and live-oaks and magnolias, whose dense evergreen branches hide all beyond them but slight glimpses of white columns and red brick chimneys.

Right where the two roads meet is a sycamore tree. Its milk-white branches reach up to the sky. Its pale, silken leaves glisten and whisper incomplete cadences in the hot summer sunshine.

When frost crisps the leaves and stains them and cuts them away, they flutter down, leaving golden balls to adorn every bough.

There is hardly a sign of the black, twisted roots. There is not a trace to be seen of their silent, tense struggle as they grope deep down in the earth. There is nothing to show how they reach and grapple and hold, or how in the darkness down among the worms they work out mysterious chemistries that change damp clay into beauty.

 

A little one-roomed log cabin sitting back from the crooked plantation road was gray and weather-stained and its shingled roof was green with moss, but its front was strangely like a cheerful face.

Its narrow open front door made a nose, at each side a small square window with a half-open wooden blind made an eye, and the three rickety steps that led from the door into the front yard made a very good mouth.

The face was warped and cracked with age, but it looked pleasant in the bright morning sun. The gnarled crape-myrtle tree that hugged one corner and almost hid the cabin’s red clay chimney was gay with pink blossoms. The front yard, divided in the middle by a clean-swept sandy path, was filled with rich-scented red roses and glossy-leaved gardenia bushes, whose white, waxen blooms perfumed the air.

This was old Maum Hannah’s home. Most of the land around her had been sold. But the space she occupied was very small, she was no trouble to anybody, and there was really no reason to disturb her. A few hens, a cow, a patch of peanuts, and a vegetable garden fenced around with hand-split clap-boards made her independent. The cross-roads store was not far away, “des a dog’s pant” she called it, and there she exchanged well-filled peanuts, new-laid eggs, and frying-size chickens for meal and coffee and plug-cut tobacco. And she was always ready to divide whatever she had with her friends, or with anybody in need.

To a stranger her old arms might look weak and withered, but they were strong enough to wield an ax on the fallen limbs of the trees in the woods back of the house, and the fire in her open fireplace was never allowed to go out, summer or winter.

On this spring morning she sat in a low chair by the fireplace and warmed her crusty bare feet by the charred sticks that burned smokily there among the ashes. She held her breakfast in a pan in her lap and ate slowly while she talked to herself and to the gray cat that lay on the clay hearth by her feet. The cat opened its eyes and purred lazily when she spoke, then drowsed again.

At a sudden rumbling sound outside, the cat jumped up and stretched and walked slowly to the door to look out.

“Who dat?” Maum Hannah asked, and she turned to look out too.

Two strange white men were driving up to the house in a buggy. When they got out, they hitched the horse to the clap-board garden fence.

“A nice house spot,” one of them said, looking around him.

“Yes,” the other agreed, “and the darkies say there’s a fine spring coming out of the hill right behind the house there.”

Maum Hannah was a little hard of hearing, but her eyes were keen. She put down her pan of breakfast and stood in the door. Her astonishment made her forget her manners, until one of the men called out sociably:

“Good morning, Auntie.” Then she dropped a low curtsey and answered:

“Good mawnin’, suh.”

“We’re just a-lookin’ around a little,” the man continued in an apologetic tone, for her old eyes, puzzled and alarmed, were fixed on him.

“Yes, suh,” she said politely, but she leaned against the door-facing for support.

“It must be a healthy place. That old woman looks like she might be a hundred years old,” one said facetiously, and they both chuckled as they walked back into the woods behind the house toward the spring.

Presently Maum Hannah saw them coming back into the front yard. She watched them step off distances. They drove down a few stakes. When they had finished, one of them came to the doorstep and held out a silver coin to her. She bowed gravely as she took it.

“Buy you some tobacco with this, Auntie,” he drawled, and he turned away awkwardly. Then he faced her again, and cleared his throat as if embarrassed.

“Auntie,” he hesitated, “I hate to tell you this—but you’ll have to make arrangements to go somewhere else, I reckon.” He did not meet her eyes.

“You see,” he continued, “I’ve done bought this place, and I’m goin’ to build my house right here.”

Maum Hannah stared at him, but did not reply.

“Well, good-by,” he added, and the two men got into the buggy and drove away.

Maum Hannah watched them until they were out of sight, then she held the coin out in her wrinkled hand and looked at it. It shone bright against the dark-lined palm.

Tears welled up under her shriveled eyelids and hesitated, as if uncertain which path to take through the maze of wrinkles on her cheeks. One shining drop fell with a splash on the silver in her hand. With a sigh she dropped the money into her apron pocket, wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron and turned inside. Taking a handful of meal from a large gourd on the shelf by the door, she scattered it on the ground near the doorstep where a hen with tiny, fluffy chickens around her clucked and scratched.

 

The very next day, white men with wagonloads of lumber drove into the yard. They had red, sunburned faces, and their shoes and blue overalls were worn and dusty. Maum Hannah looked at them.

“Po-buckra,” she said to the cat.

The men sawed and hammered and mixed mortar and smoothed it between red bricks with clinking trowels. Day after day they came. Yellow pine boards made the air fragrant and soon the frame of a new house cast its shadow over Maum Hannah’s gardenias and red rose-bushes.

“I ’f’aid dey gwine stop bloomin’ now,” she said sadly to the cat.

At last the house was finished. One of the men who first came walked up the narrow, clean-swept, sandy path and tapped on the side of Maum Hannah’s house with a stick. She came to the door and listened as he drawled nasally:

“Auntie, my house is done now. My folks want to move in next week. You’ll have to be movin’. You know I told you that at first. We can’t have you a-livin’ here in our back yard. Of course, if you was young enough to work, it ’ud be different, but you ain’t able to do nothing. I’ll need your house anyway to put a cook in. I thought you’d ’a’ done been gone before now. I told you in time, you know.”

Maum Hannah listened attentively. She heard only part of what he said, but she understood. She must go. She must leave home. It was no longer her home, but his.

Her loose old lips trembled as she bowed in answer to him.

She did not go to bed that night. She sat in the low chair by the clay hearth where a pine knot fire wavered and flickered. She filled her cob pipe and puffed at it briskly until it burned red, then she mumbled to herself until it died out and grew cold in her fingers. Rousing up, she’d light it with a fresh coal, smoke for a few puffs, then, absorbed in her trouble, she’d forget it and let it go out.

The cat on the hearth looked up and blinked sleepily whenever Maum Hannah repeated:

“He say dis he place an’ I haffer go f’om heah. Whe’ I duh gwine? Who kin tell me dat? Whe’ I duh gwine?”

There was Killdee. “My niece,” she called him. He was her sister’s son and her neighbor. Killdee might come and take her to live with him. But his cabin was very small. Rose’s voice was sharp sometimes. No, she could not go there. If Margaret were living—or if she knew where any of her boys were—she might go to them.

She thought of the peaceful graveyard and lifted her old, wrinkled hands above her head in prayer.

“Oh, do, Massa Jedus, he’p me fo’ know wha’ fo’ do. I ain’ got no place fo’ go. I ain’ got nobody fo’ tell me. I don’ haffer tell You de trouble I got. You know, I ain’ got nobody fo’ he’p me but You. I know You mus’ be gwine he’p me. I eber did been do de bes’ I kin. Mebbe sometime I fail.—But, Jedus! Gawd! I know You couldn’t hab de hea’t to see me suffer! Widout a place to lay my haid.” She intoned her prayer and rocked from side to side as she plead for help.

Then she stood up. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Do gi’ me a sign fo’ know wha’ fo’ do. Please, Suh! Do, Massa Jedus! Gi’ me a sign! All my chillen’s gone an’ lef me heah——”

Her bony arms were raised high and her knotted fingers held the cold pipe. Her supplications were emphasized with tense jerks of her arms. With a start she became conscious that ashes from her pipe were trickling down through her fingers and falling on the floor. She stopped and looked at them.

Ashes! Cold ashes! She had asked for a sign and the sign had come! It was ashes! Plain as the dawn that streaked the East! There was no doubt of it!

The thought stimulated her like a drug. She went to the door and looked out. A young day reddened the East. The sky was red like fire! “Another sign,” she thought. A sign from Heaven.

She lifted her arms and, with tears streaming, said softly:

“Yessuh, Massa Jedus, I understan’ You, Suh. You say it mus’ be ashes! Ashes an’ de fiery cloud! Yessuh, I know wha’ You tell me fo’ do.”

Without hesitating, she went to the hearth and took up a smoldering brand of fire. Walking quickly to the front of the new dwelling and stumbling up the steps, she laid it with trembling hands near the front door. Then she went back into the yard and gathered up an apronful of shavings. She sprinkled these carefully on the smoking pine, and knelt and blew until her breath fanned it into flame. Then she went for more shavings and blocks of wood. When the fire grew strong, she left it and went to her own cabin.

She did not sit down but unlocked a trunk in the corner.

Selecting a clean white apron from the clothing there, she put it on, put a stiff-starched white sun-bonnet on her head, and tied the strings carefully under her chin. Then she locked the trunk again and put the key in her apron pocket.

The crackle and the roar of the fire outside was startling, but she made herself take time. She closed the wooden blinds of the cabin and latched them on the inside. She pulled the chair away from the hearth, then went out of the door and closed it and locked it behind her. She stepped carefully down the steps, walked past the flaming house, and then on, and on, down the narrow road.

Once she stopped to look back at the flames that already rose high in the sky, but she did not change her steady gait.

 

“Jedus! It’s a long way!” she complained when the road got sandy and her breath became short, but she kept up her pace.

At last the village came in sight. The open spaces became smaller. Low, white-painted cottages huddled close together. She walked slower. Then she stopped and gazed ahead of her, uncertain where to go.

A man driving a team of mules to a wagon was coming. She waited until he reached her, then inquired calmly:

“Son, kin you tell me which-a-away de sheriff lib?”

“Yes’m,” the man answered. He stood up in the wagon and looked toward the houses in the little town.

“You see da’ kinder high-lookin’ house up yonder on da’ hill? De one wid de big white pillar in f’ont ob’em? Da’s de place. De sheriff lib right dere.”

Her eyes followed where he pointed.

“T’ank you, son,” she said; “Gawd bless you,” and started on toward the house he indicated.

The man watched her a minute, then he clucked to his mules to move on. She was a stranger to him. What did she want with the sheriff? Such an old woman. He couldn’t imagine.

The sheriff had just finished breakfast when she reached the back door and asked to see him.

“Who is she?” he asked the servant who told him.

“I dunno, suh,” was the answer. “A old ’oman. Look lak ’e come a long way. E seem out o’ breat’.”

The sheriff lit a cigar and went to see for himself.

“Good morning, Auntie,” he said pleasantly in response to her profound curtsey. “What can I do for you this morning?”

The old woman looked at his kind face, and tears came to her eyes.

“Cap’n sheriff,” she began brokenly, “I too troub-led, suh.”

Her dry old hands held to each other nervously.

“I dunno wha’ you gwine do wid me, suh——” She swallowed a sob. “I reckon you haffer put me on de chain-gang—— I done so ol’, too—— I wouldn’t be much ’count at you put me on——”

The sheriff smiled behind his hand.

“Why, Auntie, what have you been doing?”

“A po-buckra man de one done it, suh. He de one. I lib all dis time. I ain’ nebber do nobody a hahm t’ing een my life, not tell dis mawnin’. No, suh. You kin ax anybody ’bout me, suh, an’ dey’ll tell you de same t’ing.”

“Well, what have you done now?” the sheriff insisted.

She came nearer to him, encouraged by his gentleness. She spoke in a low tone.

“Dis is how it been, suh.” She looked around to see that nobody heard, then began to tell.

“A po-buckra man come an’ buil’ ’e house right een my front ya’d. ’E say it he place, now. ’E say I got to go way. I been lib een my house eber sence I kin ’member. Ol’ Cap’n sell de plantation, but ’e tell me fo’ stay whe’ I is. I stay. Dis po-buckra man come an’ tell me I mus’ go. Whe’ I gwine? My peoples is all gone. Mos’ o’ dem a-layin’ een de grabeya’d. I dunno why Jedus see fitten to leab me heah all dis long time——” She lifted her apron to wipe her eyes.

“Las’ night I call on Him, up yonder. I beg ’em fo’ he’p me. Fo’ tell me wha’ fo’ do. I rassle wid ’em tell ’E gi’ me a sign. Yessuh! ’E answer me! ’E gi’ me one!”

Her puckered old face lighted up with emotion. Her voice quivered.

“’E gi’ me a sign f’on heaben, yessuh. Ashes! Ashes an’ fire! Him up yonder tell me so!”

Then she leaned forward and whispered: “I put fire to de man house. I bu’n ’em down same lak Jedus tell me fo’ do. Yessuh! Den I come right on heah fo’ tell you I done ’em.”

“Did your house burn too?”

“Oh, no, suh. Jedus sen’ a win’ fo’ blow de spark de udder way.”

“Who are you, Auntie?” The sheriff’s voice was pitying. Gentle.

“Dis duh me, Hannah Jeems, suh. I one o’ ol’ Mass Richard Jeems’ niggers, suh. My white folks is all gone. Gone an’ lef’ me. Times was tight. Dey had to sell de plantation an’ go.”

She stood before him awaiting sentence with her eyes cast down.

“You walked all the way here from the James plantation this morning?”

“Yessuh. Quick ez I set de house on fire, I come heah fo’ tell you, suh.”

“Why did you come to tell me?” he asked.

“Well, suh,” she hesitated and a far-away look filled her eyes, “when I was a chillen I heah ol’ Mas’s Richard say, de niggers ain’ know, but he know. De sheriff is de bes’ frien’ de niggers is got een dis worl’, next to Him and Jedus. Mas’s Richard been a mighty wise man.”

The sheriff looked at the pathetic figure before him. At the mesh of fine wrinkles on her face. At the small, black, frightened hands, clasping and unclasping. At the bare, old, dusty feet. They had walked many a weary mile since life for them first began. His own clear eyes became moist.

“Come on into the kitchen, Auntie. The cook will give you a cup of coffee and some breakfast. Then, we’ll talk things over.”

“T’ank you, suh,” she said gravely as she followed him.

When he reached the door, he faced her again and held up a finger.

“It’s best not to talk much, Auntie,” he warned her.

She smiled at him brightly.

“Ef da man didn’ been a po-buckra ’e wouldn’ do me so,” she said wistfully.

His brow was knit as if he were uncertain what to say.

“Auntie,” he spoke slowly, distinctly, “you believe in the Bible, don’t you?”

“Oh, yessuh,” she affirmed solemnly, “I can’ read ’em, but I b’lieb ’em.”

“Did you ever hear how the Bible says you must not let your right hand know what your left hand does?”

“Oh, yessuh,” she said reverently.

“Can you remember that passage of Scripture? I think you can.”

She looked at him shrewdly, then she smiled and bowed very low.

“T’ank you, suh. T’ank you! An’ may Gawd bless you, suh!”

The sheriff was embarrassed. He cleared his throat and awkwardly flicked the ashes off his cigar.

“Auntie,” he hesitated, “I’m thinking about riding up that way this morning. I might take you back home.” Maum Hannah bowed again.

 

The distance to the cross-roads store was soon covered by the sheriff’s high-powered car. He stopped.

“Jim,” he called out to the proprietor, “I hear one of your neighbors lost his new house by fire last night. Did he have any insurance on it?”

“Yes, sir,” Jim answered. “Wasn’t he lucky to have it?”

“How does he think the house caught?” asked the sheriff.

“He doesn’t know, sir, unless it caught from a spark out of Maum Hannah’s chimney. It seems she was gone off for the night.”

“Yes,” said the sheriff, “she came all the way to me hunting for a place to stay. I’m taking her back home now. She may as well stay on there for the present, don’t you think so?”

Jim nodded his head confidently.

“I tell you, sheriff, I don’t believe anybody’d build a house there again. It’s a bad-luck place. It always was.”

 

When Maum Hannah got out of the car in front of her home, a great pile of ashes still smoldered there. She held to the sheriff’s hand with both of her quivering ones when she told him good-by.

“Gawd bless you, son! Gawd bless you,” she sobbed gratefully, and bright tears followed each other down her old cheeks.

“Come back to me if you ever get in trouble again,” the sheriff told her.

“T’ank you kindly, suh,” she answered, “but I ain’ gwine nebber risk gittin’ in trouble no mo’. Not me.”

She unlocked her door and fed the cat, and added a few pieces of wood to the fire; then she scattered meal for the frightened hen and little chickens.

When the fire blazed bright, she drew up the little chair before it and sat down. She was tired. She sat still and smoked and nodded. As she dozed, she said softly to the cat:

“Ashes is de bes’ t’ing eber was fo’ roses.”

THE day was bright and hot. Cotton-and cornfields glittered green. Dancing, quivering heat waves blurred the distant woods and cabins.

Killdee could not see a single soul anywhere. He was the only man working to-day. Green Thursday.

Slowly, steadily, patiently, he walked behind his plow. Up and down the long rows. Back and forth. Thinking. Reasoning with himself. Was he right or wrong to work to-day? The day Jesus went back to heaven.

He watched indifferently the spurts of red dust that rose with each step his mule took. The ground was dry. Baked. Parched. The stiff clay broke into clods as the plow’s edge cut through its rigid crust. The lumps of earth that fell awkwardly away from each other were fettered with tough, jointed grass. Tense grass roots had burrowed deep. They had wound a strong net to choke and strangle the crop. They were sucking all the moisture out of the ground. They were eating all the fertilizer. They’d leave nothing but starvation for the cotton and corn.

The grass had to be killed. Every root must be torn up and cut. Every green blade must be turned under and buried.

The sun stood blinding white straight overhead. The sun was a friend in the fight against the grass. Its heat to-day would kill every root that was cut.

The long shadow that had started out traveling beside him early this morning had shortened and darkened until now it crept small and black right under his feet. It seemed to be trying to hide from the sun. It must be near noon. Time for Mike and himself to stop and eat and drink and rest.

With a low-spoken “Whoa, Mike,” he reined in the tall, bony beast that he plowed and cast a swift glance up at the sun. Yes, it was noon. He could tell, although the sun’s brilliance clouded his vision.

“Le’s go home, Mike,” he said, and he stuck the plow’s point deep into the earth to stand alone until noon was over.

The loosened joints of the old plow stock creaked with the strain and reminded him to be careful how he wrenched them. They were giving out in the hard fight with the grass. If they came apart, broken, no good, he had no money to buy new ones. He must remember to be easy with them.

He unhooked the trace chains from the singletree and tossed them over Mike’s back. As he slipped the frayed rope lines through the rings in the bit, Mike’s rib-marked hide swelled with a grateful sigh. Mike’s long, shaggy neck stretched and his cloudy eyes closed as he gave a long whicker of approval.

Killdee laughed. His strong white teeth gleamed through the soft sparse beard that covered his mouth and chin as he murmured:

“You hongry, enty, Mike? I is too. Come on. Le’s go home. You got sense like people, son.”

He smoothed the rough hair on the hollowed back and stroked the haggard neck while Mike nibbled at grass in the furrow ahead.

When Killdee started across the uneven ground toward the line of woods where a tiny, drab-colored cabin showed dim in the smoky distance, Mike stopped eating and followed him.

Killdee scanned the quiet fields. Not a soul was in sight. He and Mike seemed to be the only living things in the world to-day.

Small cabins scattered at intervals over the landscape showed no sign of life at all. Narrow red roads that ran by them were empty. Idle. The day itself was still. Stiller than Sunday. Green Thursday. Ascension day. The day Jesus went back to God.

Maybe it was a holier day than Sunday.

All Killdee’s life he had heard that to stir the earth on Green Thursday was a deadly sin. Fields plowed, or even hoed to-day would be struck by lightning and killed so they couldn’t bear life again. God would send fire down from heaven to punish men who didn’t respect this day. Yet here he and Mike were plowing. Risking the wrath of the great I-Am.

Everybody else on the whole plantation had gone fishing in the river swamp. Dry weather made the fish bite fast. Rose would have been trying her luck too if she had been able to walk so far. But it was near time now for her to “go down.” She wouldn’t risk walking so far from home.

 

Rose asked him to hitch Mike to the wagon and take her and baby Rose to fish for a while. Meat was mighty scarce and when a woman is pregnant, fish bite better for her than for anybody else. Rose wanted to go and try them. She wanted to go even if the crop was eaten up with grass. She was worried and hurt right now because he and Mike were out in the field plowing.

Last night he lay awake and thought it all over. He made up his mind. He would fight the grass this year to the end. He would make a crop. God ought to know Rose hadn’t been able to hoe a lick since the crop was planted. And how old and slow Mike was! Mike couldn’t step fast like the grass. He never had plowed on Green Thursday before. Never. But this year he was too far behind to miss a day. God ought to know how it was.

Clear drops of sweat trickled down Mike’s thin flanks and down Killdee’s lean black face. Killdee’s faded patched shirt was blotched with wetness. It clung to his shoulders and outlined his strong, straight back. Its unbuttoned, open neck let the hot breeze reach his big throat and breast.

Ragged overalls turned high at the bottom slouched along with each step he took and laid open their torn places for the sun to shine through on the firm black flesh of his narrow hips and sinewy legs.

He stopped where a path divided. Instead of going straight home, he took the path that dropped down the steep hill behind it.

The trees made a cool, dark shade. Leaves fluttered and let bits of white light fall on the ground. The path became even and wet and comforting to his hot, bare feet.

He trampled on ferns and white violets as he hurried forward and dropped on his knees to drink from the spring that bubbled out from under great brown rock. Water ran smooth for the length of an old rotting trough, then fell with a bright splash on its bed of white sand and clean pebbles.

When a spring puppy clung to the side of the trough not far from his mouth, Killdee laughed.

“You better be glad dis is me ’stead o’ Mike, son. I kin see you. I ain’ gwine swallow you. Mike ain’ got good eyes like me. You’d be ruint ef you got een dat big, ol’ mout’ o’ his’n. It ’ud sen’ you down dat big ol’ t’roat an’ Mike wouldn’ know nuttin’ ’bout it.”

When his own thirst was quenched, Killdee sat and watched Mike’s shaggy throat forcing the water up until Mike raised his head and looked at him with gentle, somber eyes. He was ready to go home and eat dinner.

Man and mule suddenly paused stock-still while a snake writhed through the green shadows. Tufts of grass and slender vines with satiny leaves almost hid its silent, stealthy slipping.

Killdee watched with serious eyes, then spoke to the reptile.

“I know I ought to kill you an’ hang you up on a limb to mek it rain. De groun’ is awful dry. De plow can’ ha’dly cut ’em. But I ain’ got de heart fo’ kill nuttin’ to-day. I gwine le’ you go home to you’ fambly.”

As Killdee got to his feet a strong-smelling he-goat rustled through the bushes and stopped to look.

“Hey!” Killdee called to him.

“How-come you dis close to water, ol’ man? You better come wash. You smell powerful rank to me. I don’ see how lil Nan kin stan’ you. No, my Gawd! But ’oman is strange. Nan t’ink nobody ain’ fine ez you. Nobody. An’ you know dat, too.”

Killdee picked up a pebble and threw it and the goat scampered away. Killdee laughed. Preachers say sinners are like goats and Christians are like sheep. He’d a lot rather be a goat than a sheep. Goats have sense.

Old Bill yonder went home to sleep with the other goats at night. He was afraid of the dark. But in the daytime he ran around by himself and went where he liked and ate what he pleased and had a good time. He was too smart to huddle with others of his kind. Bill was a sinner maybe, but he was better off than the foolish, scary sheep that stayed in a flock all the time.

Mike’s head was close to his shoulder. Killdee looked at the quiet, smoky eyes. One of them was covered over with a milky film and the other was dim and cloudy. Soon Mike would be blind. Good, faithful, old Mike. God ought not to make Mike blind. Not a good fellow like Mike.

Mike’s ribs stuck out bold too, and the corn pile was low, and the new crop didn’t promise much. If it didn’t rain soon, everything would dry up. The corn’s hands were shut tight to-day. The corn’s feet were scorched till they were yellow. The cotton leaves were hanging limber.

Maybe that was the way they all prayed for rain. And yet—if it rained, the grass would eat them up.

Killdee looked at the path leading up the hill to his cabin. He was tired. Rose would be cross, vexed with him, because he had plowed Green Thursday. He’d lie down and rest here a little while in the shade. He took Mike’s bridle off and dropped it on the ground, saying sadly:

“Pick roun’, Mike, an’ git a lil fresh grass fo’ taste you mout’. You teeth is too bad fo’ chaw cawn anyhow.”

Killdee stretched himself out on the damp ground. It was good to lie here in the cool, green shade. There was scarcely a sound but the water flowing over the pebbles.

It sounded so fresh. So cheerful. Not tired a bit. All day, all night, it ran like this. Creeping out of the earth like a living thing. Weak. Small. Yet too strong for anybody to hold it back. It was like life itself.

Two years ago this very month his little baby Rose was born. As soon as the moon changed, another baby would come. His baby too, the same as baby Rose was his.

Maybe this next child would be a boy-child. He hoped it would. Every man needs boy-children. Wants them.

Not that he didn’t love baby Rose. He loved her better than life. God, yes! He would do for her what he’d do for nobody else in the world. He’d slave and sweat and struggle for her. He’d do anything to provide for her.

Yes, he’d plow on Green Thursday for her. He’d go to hell for her if he had to do it!

Funny how he felt about her at first. When Maum Hannah first told him a girl-child was born his heart fell. He wanted a son. But when the teeny little fingers closed tight over one of his big ones as he slipped it inside them that morning, his heart mighty near broke with joy. He shook all over, and laughed. He cried a little bit too.

That baby knew then he was hers. That they two were the same flesh. She was so like him. He could see it. Her little hands, her little feet, even her face, were all shaped like his from the very first.

The wonder of it made him feel humble and helpless and weak, yet it fired his pride and courage. He made up his mind to fend for her. Work for her. Suffer for her if it came to that. And he would. He was no poor fool of a sheep. No. He was a man. He’d plow to-day and not be afraid. If God was, He was fair. Kind. God would like a man better if He saw him doing his best.

He must soon go get Maum Hannah to come stay with Rose. He must take a bushel of corn over to Daddy Cudjoe and swap it for a quart of whiskey. Rose would soon need it. Maum Hannah said it helps a woman to “birth” a child better if she has a little whiskey to deaden the pain.

Rose wanted a bottle of castor oil from the cross-roads store, too. There was no money to buy it with. He’d have to take corn for it too. The corn pile was low. He and Rose and Baby Rose had to eat. Mike too. Grass got the crop last year. Mike crept too slow to keep up with the grass. But this year, he’d kill that grass or die trying! Plowing every day was the only way. Let lightning strike where it pleased!

Fire burned a house in Maum Hannah’s yard yesterday. Nobody knew how it caught. Maum Hannah said Jesus burned it. How could fire know Jesus wanted it burned? And yet, the little baby that was coming would know when the moon changed. It would come then. Baby Rose came on the change of the moon.

How do things buried deep know when the moon changes? Seed in the ground know. The water in the river knows. The weather knows. The wind knows. All know more than men. Maum Hannah said Jesus tells His children a lot of things.

Killdee lay on his back and a spot of sunshine fell right in his eyes. The noon hour was passing and neither he nor Mike had eaten dinner. What a fool he was to lie here thinking!

He got slowly to his feet and looked around. Mike had wandered away to find grass that was tender and sweet. Killdee called him.

“Come on, Mike. You got to go home and eat some cawn. Grass won’ gi’ you de strengt’ to pull de plow t’rough da tough grass. Come on. You too greedy. You gwine miss an’ eat a pizen weed ef you don’ mine. Den you’ll hab belly-ache.”

While Mike came, Killdee knelt beside the spring and with cupped hands dipped up water and cleansed his dusty face, then he trudged up the hill with Mike following behind him.

Once he stumbled on a root in the narrow crooked path. Thinking had made him unsteady. He had plowed on Green Thursday.

Already the sky was darkening. Thunder rumbled far over the river. It had a threatening loury sound.

Raising his eyes, he looked at his home. The low roof was half-hidden with smoke that rose out of the red-clay chimney at its side. Rose had a fire trying to keep his dinner hot for him there on the hearth inside. He was late to-day. As he hurried forward, a flick of lightning was followed by muted thunder. What if lightning should strike that cabin—burn it—burn all he had within it! God, what a thought!

Shucks! Thinking had made him a coward. When had he ever feared lightning? He was no woman. No. He was a man. Hadn’t he promised himself he’d be like a goat? Not a sheep. Not a frightened, huddling, scary fool. No.

The crop needed rain and it was coming. He’d feed Mike first, then eat himself. He had let the snake go, but it would rain anyway. The cloud was rolling nearer every minute.

As he got further up the hill, he could see that the back door had been whitened with some of the clay from the gully down near the spring. The wooden blinds, half open on each side of the chimney, were whitened inside and out. How nice it made the house look!

Rose had done it all since morning. She liked to have things clean. She was getting everything ready for her venture. Childbirth. Poor Rose! Soon pain would wrench her!

Some of these days he would build Rose a better house. If the crop made anything this year, he would “wash-white” the house all over and maybe build another shed room there at the back.

When he opened the door of Mike’s stable, a shed room added to the log barn, streaks of light shone through the roof. Mike must have a better stable before next winter. Mike was old, but he was faithful.

If the crop was good, it might seem hard-hearted, but he must try to arrange somehow to get a better mule. The thought made Killdee feel guilty.

He shucked a few ears of corn and put them into the trough and watched Mike’s feeble efforts to bite the grains off.

“You teet’ ain’ no count, not no mo’, Mike. It make me sad fo’ see you strive fo’ chaw.”

He’d have to take a sack of corn to mill and get it ground up for Mike. Mike’s old teeth were worn out. They couldn’t crack corn any more.

Killdee sighed as he closed the barn door and walked toward the cabin. The sun shone out with a sudden, dazzling flash of brilliance. The china-berry tree beside the doorstep made a round, thick spot of shade. The wild-cherry tree cast light, leafy shadows that played up and down over the red-clay chimney.

Rose called out of the window:

“How-come you so late to-day? You been to see Maum Hannah? I know you didn’ plow so long an’ it Green Thursday.”

Killdee shook his head wearily and walked inside.

“Yes,” he admitted, “I been plowin’ sence sunrise tell twelve o’clock. I lay down by de spring fo’ res’ a lil while.”

Rose shook her head dolefully, then leaned to dip his dinner out of the pot. Her brows were knotted with a frown. She dropped a few peas on the clean hearth as she helped a pan for him. She was cross. She thought he had done wrong.

“Somet’ing bad’ll happen to you sho as Gawd’s een heaben. People ain’ fo’ plow to-day.”

“Somet’ing bad’ll happen ef I don’t plow. Grass is got de crop now.” Killdee answered meekly, but Rose’s anger was not easy to quench.

“I know you mean I didn’ he’p you none wid de crop, but I ain’ able fo’ do nuttin’——” She began crying.

“Now, now,” Killdee went forward and petted her shoulder, “I didn’ say nuttin’ ’bout you. You mus’n fret, honey. No. You fo’ be happy. Look wha’ a nice lil gal we got. Mebbe dis time nex-week we would hab a nice lil boy. ’Member how de people say when we was ma’ied: ’I wish you joy, a gal an’ a boy’? We gwine hab all two.”

Rose drew away from him. She was not to be appeased so easily.

Killdee went and stood by the bed where Baby Rose, covered over with a patchwork quilt, lay asleep. Flies crawled over the child’s delicate features. They rose and buzzed and crawled again.

“Whyn’t you git on off!” Killdee growled angrily at them. He waved his hands violently to frighten them off.

“Do don’ wake em, Killdee. Le’em sleep. Da chile ain’ been still all day. ’E keep me busy watchin’ ’em. I done tired. Le’em sleep. You come on an’ eat you’ dinner.”

Killdee took the pan of food from Rose’s hand and sat down in the doorway to eat. He looked at the cow-peas and bacon and cornbread and stirred among them absent-mindedly with his spoon.

Rose didn’t look right. She was vexed because he had plowed to-day, but she didn’t look well. Maybe he was wrong to worry her.

He glanced toward her heavy, bulging body, at her swollen ankles, and pity for her stirred him.

How could she breathe like that? Of course she couldn’t hoe. No. Yet she had struggled up and down the hill bringing water to scour the floor. How clean it’s bare boards were!

She had whitened the windows and doors. Getting her house ready. Poor Rose. She needed help here at home. Baby Rose was a frisky baby. The hill was long and steep. Bringing up water was hard work. After this he must bring it for her before he went to work in the field.

“Come set heah by me an’ le’s talk,” he suggested kindly.

“I ain’ able fo’ set low ez dem steps, not now,” Rose said with a wistful sigh.

“I haffer set high een cheer now.”

As she drew a chair to the door a flash of lightning lit the cabin and a peal of thunder crashed close behind it. Rose shivered and put up a hand.

“You see, enty!” she whispered. “Lightnin’s gwine strike you field!”

Lightning flashed again and Rose’s eyes shone white in the glare as she quavered.

“Git up out de do, Killdee. De wedder is too cross. ’E might miss an’ strike you. I so faid em, Killdee....”

Killdee wiped his mouth on his sleeve and got up. He put an arm around her and led her to the bed where Baby Rose slept peacefully.

“Lay down by de baby an’ res’, Honey. Don’ be faid. Nuttin’ ain’ gwine hu’t you. No. Rain’ll do de crop good. De cawn an’ cotton’ll grow. Next fall I gwine buy you a fine dress and shoe an’ hat. I’ll git a wagon an’ harness an’ hitch up ol’ Mike an’ tek you to Mount Pleasant Church. De people’ll say: ’Who is dat dress’ up so fine comin’ yonder?’”

Rose’s fingers rested on the strong thews of Killdee’s forearm. With him close beside her like this, she felt comforted. Dress—shoes—hat—she smiled to think of them all.

But the heavy cloud darkened the cabin. Lightning blazed in through the open windows and door. Thunder clapped savagely.

“Do shet de do, Killdee—an’ de window——”

As Killdee got up to do it, there were muffled bangs from Mike’s stable. He listened, then ran stumbling down the steps. Had Mike gotten fastened in a crack of the stable?

Hot stench filled his nostrils when he opened the stable door. Flies sung over the moist dung where Mike lay kicking, groaning, rolling with pain. Mike’s belly was puffed with colic.

Bad corn. Bad teeth. Or—was it because Mike stirred the earth on Green Thursday? Something must be done. A mule can’t last long swollen up like this.

Killdee shouted through the wind:

“Rose! Rose! See ef a kerosene is lef’ een de bottle! Fetch em quick!”

Rose came hurrying across the yard, panting, trembling, ashy, with a quart bottle in her hand.

The wind twisted her skirts and blew the stable door shut with a bang. Killdee opened it and took the bottle from her shaking fingers.

“Jedus,” she sobbed, “Ef Mike dead, wha’ we gwine do!”

Killdee knelt and pulled the mule’s great black lips open. He forced the worn, yellow teeth apart and poured the kerosene down the unwilling throat.

“Git up on you feet, Mike!” he called sternly.

“You can’ leddown wid colic. You mus’ walk ’em off. Das do only way.”

Mike lay prone. Moaning, rolling. Killdee got the bridle and put it on him. He shook the bit and coaxed:

“Get up, Mike. Don’ mek me git a whip. You mus’ git up and walk, son.”

Lightning blazed, and wind, mean and wet, sung through the cracks of the log barn. Rose whimpered and clung to Killdee’s arm.

“You mus’ go back to de house, Rose. De lightnin’ know good you is faid em. Dat mek em do wusser. Go on een de house. I can’ lef Mike fo’ go wid you. Go leddown on de bed side de baby. Kiver up you haid. Try fo’ go sleep tell I come.”

Rose went and Killdee led Mike out into the yard to keep him walking. Spikes of water drove against his cheeks. Things dazzled a little before his eyes. He felt confused. Distracted. He must pull himself together. Mike and Rose depended on him. He must be strong. Not afraid. Rain fell in a solid flood and Mike stopped and tried to lie down. Killdee was firm and urged him on. Round and round the barn they went. Walking, walking.

Sheets of water hid the cabin. Beat and slashed on his shoulders. Chilled the very flesh on his bones. Made him shudder foolishly.

Something braced him. Maybe shame. Was he a man or not? What were wind and rain and thunder and lightning that he’d fear them?

Women and children mind such things. Not strong men.

Mike must not lie down and die. He must walk this colic off. Plowing Green Thursday had nothing to do with his sickness. Bad teeth. Rotten, weevily corn. They were worse than lightning. Or plowing Green Thursday.

Rose was scary. Chicken-hearted. All good women are so. It was right for them to be afraid of things. Right.

The rain battered down and Mike and Killdee walked on and on unheeding.

A voice piped shrill above the storm’s roaring. Killdee smiled. Rose wanted him. She thought he could keep harm away from her. He’d go to her soon and put on dry clothes. A fire was still in the chimney. He would build it up and its light would make the cabin bright and cheerful. Mike was getting better. His belly was less near bursting. Soon he could go back to his stable. Thank God!

Rose was running toward him! Screaming! Was she sick? No, she had Baby Rose in her arms. She held Baby Rose out to him.

Killdee felt numb. Dazed. What had happened? He couldn’t think. He was stunned—or drunk——

As he went into the cabin a fog of smoke filled his eyes. The air was rank with the smell of burned cloth—burned meat——

He stumbled to a chair and sat down in it. He was holding Baby Rose’s fire-blackened, scorched little body in his arms. What must he do? What?

“Go git Maum Hannah,” Rose said between teeth that chattered.

Killdee put the baby on the bed and went staggering blindly across the fields through the storm. Lightning mocked him. Thunderbolts flouted him. Made him go the wrong way. Made him stumble. Made him afraid. Told him it was Green Thursday, and this morning he stirred the earth!

At last he reached Maum Hannah’s cabin. It sat safe behind the pile of ashes where a man’s house had been. Fire burned that house, yesterday. Maum Hannah said Jesus burned it.

 

All night Killdee and Rose sat beside the bed. Rose moaned incessantly. Her own burned hands were held out in front of her. She didn’t seem to know he was there.

Maum Hannah kept putting white hog lard and white cotton over the little crisp ears and fingers. Mary West held the pan. The pan itself kept shaking. Killdee took it and tried to hold it steady, but it shook in his hand just the same.

Baby Rose never cried at all. Her breath came easy. Soft. Like whispering. It made Killdee weak and sick to hear the long gaps that came between.

All night he listened for it. Then just before day, it stopped. He kept trying to hear it. Just one more time. His own breast cramped with an effort to catch air! Baby Rose wasn’t breathing! No! She was gone! Gone!

Rose got down on her knees and prayed and begged and called to her to come back. Not to go. Not to leave her. But she was gone. Gone.

Rose got up and shrieked and cried and waved her arms. She said God was hard. Unfair. Killdee had done wrong. He had stirred the earth on a holy day. He should suffer. Not her. Not her child. But Baby Rose lay still. Dead.

Maum Hannah talked to Rose and tried to quiet her. She told Rose that it was to be. The child’s time had come. God called Baby Rose because her work here was over. Her time was out. To question what God had done was a sin. Rose must bear her sorrow with patience.

Killdee sat in the doorway and looked out at the thick, black night. His muscular hands shook helplessly and clutched at the rough board step. His strength had left him. He felt weak. Shaken. Afraid. The darkness came up close. It filled his eyes and ears and nostrils. It slipped past him into the fire-lit room. The fire still burned. There was no other light to be had. But darkness filled the corners. Silent darkness. Black, dumb darkness. It told nobody what it was, or what it was doing. It was like death. It came. It went. Nobody could keep it away. Nobody.

The wind had died. Faint flashes of lightning low in the sky were followed by thunder that muttered and mumbled. Killdee’s heart was black. Bitter.

If God wanted to call Baby Rose, why did He burn her to death? She had never harmed God. Or anybody. She had never done anything wrong. She was too little to sin. If God was mad with him for plowing Green Thursday, why didn’t He strike him with lightning and kill him? That would have been easy enough. But to burn a baby—it wasn’t square.

How could God have the heart to burn a baby? Who made the baby so she loved to play in the fire, if God didn’t? Yes. God did it!

Rose gave her other things to play with. Rose made her a pretty little cloth doll. He had gotten an empty cigar box from the cross-roads store and made her a nice little doll wagon. But she loved the fire more than anything else.

She didn’t know it would burn her. He told her it would. Rose told her too. But she was a baby. She didn’t understand.

Maybe she wasn’t playing with fire! Who could tell? Rose was on the bed with her head covered up to keep from seeing the lightning. A gust of wind might have sucked a flame out to catch her little dress. The lightning might have sent a tongue of fire in through the window to kill her.

Rose didn’t know. Rose was on the bed. With her eyes shut. Scared. A coward. She let her baby burn to death. She was to blame. Rose and God.

Something inside him made him shake and shiver as he sat there trying to think things out. Something kept telling him he had plowed the ground on Green Thursday. He had stirred the earth on a holy day.

Keen, blasting grief wrung him to the core. Resentment heated his blood like a fever. Burnt the marrow in his skull. Emboldened him. With set lips and rigid muscles, he glared at the overhead darkness. He was helpless. Yes. He had to take whatever came. There was nothing else to do. Nothing! He could fight men. Settle with them. But God—Ha!—that was a different matter. God kept out of reach. Yes. He did his worst. He cut men at the very roots. Blighted them. He burned tender girl-children. And nobody could ever get even with Him. Up there in the sky, He had the whole world in His cold-blooded reach.

 

A star blinked out between flying clouds and was gone. Where was baby Rose? Was she up there? No. She was inside on the bed. Dead. Dead.

Maum Hannah laid a light hand on his shoulder.

“Son,” she said, “better come eenside now. De night air’ll gi’ you a chill. Day’ll soon be clean. Andrew mus’ come mek a lil box to fit de baby. You haffer lay em way, you know.”

Her hand waited. It must have felt his misery, for it shook just a little. Killdee knew she pitied him as she murmured:

“Try to fret out loud, son. You could bear de pain mo better ef you would cry. Eenside frettin’ kin bus’ you’ heart open.”

 

They waited until the sun had set in the little grave, then Killdee and Andrew placed the small pine box that held Baby Rose, carefully down in the earth. Together they filled in the damp, red clay, and smoothed it over the top, into a mound. When it was done, Killdee fell to his knees on the ground and wept bitterly. But Andrew said solemnly to him:

“Don’ cry, Killdee. De Lawd hab gi’ em. De Lawd hab tek em away. Bressed be de name ob de Lawd.”

Andrew walked home with him to Rose, who strove with Maum Hannah’s help and encouragement to bring another child into the world.

Maum Hannah looked up at Killdee when he walked in, and said:

“Some duh comin’ an’ some duh gwinen. Him up-yonder duh tek an’ sen. Be tanksful, son. Be tanksful.”

But Killdee’s eyes were fixed on a small cloth doll that had fallen out of its cigar-box wagon and that lay face down on the floor.

THE day was almost gone. Rose was cooking supper when a shadow darkened the doorway. She looked around quickly. Who was there? Killdee always came in with heavy steps that could be heard.

A strange little figure stood on the top step. A girl who was small and dirty and ragged. A broken, rusty dishpan filled with fat light-wood splinters was balanced on her head. Thin, trembling, black hands steadied it as the child looked up into Rose’s face with a diffident smile and said softly:

“Dese is some fat chip I fetch fo’ you.”

Rose looked at the rich pine chips piled high on the pan. Then she searched the child’s narrow face. Her keen eyes noted the pointed chin, the curve of the purplish, dark-red lips, the delicate, bluish bloom on the black cheeks. A stranger. Who?

“Who is you, gal?” she asked abruptly. “Whe’ you come f’om?”

Rose knew everybody in this part of the world and she had never seen or heard of this child before.

“I name Missie,” the child answered. “My mammy an’ all o’ we come f’om ober de ribber fo’ pick cotton. None ain’ mek to we home.”

“Whe’ you git dem chip?” Rose asked after a moment’s thought.

“I cut dem off a stump back o’ we house,” was the prompt reply.

“Whe’ you house dey?” Rose asked again.

The child turned and pointed across the field to a dark line of woods that showed a jagged edge under the sunset sky.

“We house is yonder,” she said simply.

“Great Gawd,” Rose said, “I know em. Da ol’, broke-down house. Da’s a bad-luck house, gal. Too much a people dead een em. I wouldn’ trust fo’ stay dey. I too faid o’ hants.”

Missie’s big eyes glistened in the firelight as she heard, but she did not answer.

“Put de chip down by de fireplace,” Rose bade her. “I glad to git em. Wha’ you want fo’ em?”

Missie dropped her eyes and said shyly.

“Please, ma’am, gi’ me a lil piece o’ bread.”

Rose scanned the thin face, the slight body. Was the child hungry? She went to the safe and looked in a pan there. She broke off a piece of corn pone left from dinner and handed it to Missie, who took it eagerly and started out of the door.

“Wait,” Rose said. “You ain’ got no manners? You ain’ gwine say ’Tank you’?”

Missie bowed and pulled a foot back to make a curtsey and said solemnly:

“Tank you, ma’am.”

“Da’s right,” Rose laughed. “You kin cutsey good fo-true. But look how you drap crumbs on de clean flo’.”

Missie gave a quick look around the room and spied a field-straw broom in the corner. She laid her bread carefully on the table and, getting the broom, swept all the crumbs into the fire with a few deft strokes.

“Why, you is a smart lil gal,” Rose approved. “You kin sweep nice. When you gits hongry again, fetch me some mo splinters an’ I’ll gi’ you bread.”

Missie took up her bread and made another curtsey.

“Good ebenin’, ma’am,” she said respectfully.

Rose laughed again and responded:

“Good ebenin’.” But as an afterthought she called to the child:

“Come back heah a minute. Wha’ you las’ name, gal?”

Missie reflected seriously and answered:

“I dunno, ma’am. Ma ain’ nebber tell me.”

“I don’ reckon you got none,” Rose pronounced severely.

Missie seemed not to understand, for she gave a puzzled look at Rose, then went away down the path.

In the fading light Rose saw that a thin, yellow cur dog walked beside her and that Missie fed him bits of her bread.

When Killdee came in from the field and saw the fat splinters and heard how Missie swept up crumbs off the floor and curtseyed when she said good-by, the thought flashed into his mind that Missie would be the very person to come and stay with Rose and help her take care of Jim.

“Let’s git em,” he said.

“You reckon ’e mammy would gi’ em ’way?” Rose considered.

“Sho ’e will. Anyway, I kin go ax em.”

 

The next day at noon when Killdee and Mike came home for dinner, Missie and the yellow cur dog were walking behind them. Both waited outside by the stable door until Mike was fed, then they walked slowly behind Killdee into the house.

“I got em,” Killdee announced brightly. “I got you a lil gal.”

Rose’s eyes were on the dog. Killdee saw she disapproved.

A string of fresh egg-shells hung on a nail by the chimney dangled in the draught. Rose had put them there this morning. Strung like that and hung beside the fire, egg-shells would make her hens lay.

Missie looked from them to Rose, then at the dog.

“Son don’ suck egg. No’m,” she defended.

“Don’ tell me no lie, gal,” Rose warned.

“No’m, Son ain’ suck a egg een e life. We raise em,” Missie affirmed.

“Wha ’e name?” Rose asked sternly.

“We call em ’Son,’ ma’am.”

“You gi’ de dawg to me, Missie. I eber did want a coon dawg. I bet e is a good one,” Killdee intervened. “An’ I’ll kill em ef e suck one o’ Rose eggs.”

Missie looked up quickly, but the expression on Killdee’s face reassured her. Rose saw something like a message pass between Killdee and Missie and she retorted:

“Ef ’e suck eggs you won’ hab a chance to kill em. I’ll tend to em my own se’f,” she threatened. Her tone was sharp.

Killdee drew a chair forward and sat down.

“Come heah, gal,” he said. “Lemme look at you good. I ain’ had time tell now.”

Rose stood with arms akimbo and watched Missie come forward. The small bare head with its sunburned wool was bowed humbly. The slim, black fingers plucked nervously at the soiled, ragged dress. One ashy toe of a slender foot dug at a line of a crack in the floor.

“Look een my eye, gal. Don’t be faid. Tell me you name,” Killdee coaxed with an amused smile on his face.

“Come heah, close to me, gal,” he repeated.

“Don’ plague em, Killdee,” Rose chided him.

“I ain’ plaguin’ em,” Killdee declared. “I des axin’ em ’e name. I haffer know ’e name, enty?”

Missie lifted her eyes timidly. They met Killdee’s and her curved lashes flickered and dropped. Killdee saw that the dark-red lips quivered and a dimple came and went in the pointed chin. The child was shy as a wild bird. The little breast was heaving with a sudden sob and a bright tear fell with a tiny pat on Rose’s clean floor. Missie quickly put up an arm to wipe away the others that were following it.

Killdee was distressed. He hadn’t meant to frighten her. No.

“Don’ cry, lil gal. Don’ cry. I wasn’ makin’ fun o’ you. No. Come heah close to me. I like lil gals like you.”

He put out a big hand and pity made his deep voice very gentle.

“Come heah, lil gal. Come close to me. I had a lil gal one time.”

Missie raised her eyes again and, though there were tears on her long lashes, her lips parted and Killdee saw teeth white as rice grains showing between them.

“Da’s right,” he encouraged. “Da’s right. Try fo’ laugh, gal. Don’t cry. I can’ stan’ fo’ see a gal-chillen cry. Come stan’ close to me and tell me yo’ name.”

Missie came closer, but when Killdee put an arm around her and drew her up to him, her heart beat fast with fear. He was so big. So strong. So different from anybody she had ever seen in her life before.

Yet mingled with the fear was a thrill of something like joy. She sensed that in the strength of this man she would find safety. Protection. And she sensed in the sharp tone of Rose’s voice something that made her afraid and unhappy.

Yes, Killdee was her friend. It was good to lean right against him so. To feel his arm around her. And she leaned with simple trust and wiped her eyes and cheeks dry with her sleeve.

Rose was shocked. The girl was filthy. More than likely, full of lice. Killdee was a thoughtless man. He didn’t know how to look after himself.

“You le’ da gal git close you, Killdee?” she cried out. “Wait tell I scour ’em an’ put clean clo’es on em. Gawd! I wouldn’ le’ em touch me no-how.”

Killdee laughed and drew his arm away, saying:

“You reckon e’s lousy?”

“Sho ’e is,” Rose affirmed. She pointed to the shelf.

“Look on de shelf, gal. Git dem two buckets an’ go to de spring fo’ water. I gwine hotten a potful and scrub you hide good.”

As Missie started for the buckets, Killdee shook his head.

“No, Rose. One bucket is plenty fo’ a lil gal to fetch up da steep hill. You ain’ fo’ strain a gal-chillen. Missie ain’ had no dinner. E don’ know de way to de spring. You fo-git. Missie ain’ nuttin’ but a baby.”

“Baby!” Rose scoffed. “Baby nuttin’! E might lil an’ dry, but shucks! e’s plenty ol’ fo’ go to de spring an’ fetch two buckets o’ water.”

“Gi’ em some dinner fus’, Rose. When I finish my own, I’ll git you de water.”

Rose said no more. She fixed a pan of food for Killdee, then one for Missie and one for herself, and they all sat down to eat. There was a strange silence. Somehow the little girl’s presence made a difference already.

When Killdee finished eating, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and got up.

“I’ll git you all de water you want now. Ef Jim ain’ wake when I come back, I gwine wake him. I haffer play wid em a lil befo’ I go back to de fiel’.”

“No, you ain’ gwine wake em nuttin’,” Rose declared, looking over at the bed, and a tender smile softened her heavy mouth.

“Yes I is,” Killdee returned playfully. “You got a gal to nuss em fo’ you now. I wan’ see how Jim like dis gal anyhow.”

Missie ate her dinner hungrily. It tasted good, for she had never had many full meals in her life.

After Killdee had gone to the field again, Rose and Missie washed the pots and pans together. Rose showed the child where each thing stayed when it was clean.

“You is fo’ do dis ebey day, Missie,” Rose said simply, and Missie nodded assent.

When all the pots and pans were put away, Rose sat down to rest and smoke her pipe.

“Sweep de flo’, gal. Sweep easy, too. Don’ wake Jim.”

But Jim did wake and when Missie started toward him with an eager, happy smile, Rose stopped her.

“No,” she said, “don’ touch em. You’s full o’ lice. I don’ want Jim to git none on em. No, my Gawd! Wait tell I git you clean. Den you kin mind em all you want.”

 

When Killdee came home at dark, a queer, comical little figure stood by the hearth helping Rose cook supper. Missie, after Rose had cleaned her.

Every bit of wool had been clipped from her small head. The only garment she wore was one of Killdee’s own shirts. The sleeves were cut off the right length for the thin arms, and the neck-band, lapped over and pinned together, hung awkwardly. The child glanced shamefacedly at him when he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, Rose! Dis gal look like a skinned rabbit.”

Killdee looked at Missie again and held his sides. Rose stood looking and laughing too.

“I had to do em so, Killdee,” Rose explained. “E was pure lousy. ’E dress was sewed on em. I cut off ebyting e had on an’ bu’nt em up. Den I clip ’e haid. Dat ol’ shu’t o’ you’ own been too ol’ fo’ patch any mo’. But de gal is clean. An’ Jim is pure crazy ’bout em. ’E play so much ’e gone sleep by fus’ dark.”

Killdee walked over to the hearth where Missie stood and put a hand on her shoulder. How pitiful that poor little bare head was! He didn’t know just what to say.

“Nemmine, Missie,” he murmured, “You haih’ll soon grow back. I’m gwine to de sto’ nex’ Sat’day an’ I’ll buy you a dress. A purty dress. An’ some o’ dese days I’m gwine buy you some shoes fo’ wear on Sunday, too.”

Missie could not look up. Two bright tears dropped on the clean white sand of the hearth.

Killdee leaned and took her hand and led her with him to a chair.

“Jim is gone to sleep, lil gal. I got to hol’ some kinder chillen een my lap. Lemme hol’ you a minute.”

“No-suh,” Rose objected, “Missie ain’ no baby fo’ you to spile. Go git me a pan out de safe, gal. You too big fo’ set een Killdee lap.”

Missie went to the safe and Killdee sat down in the doorway. He took out his pipe and lit it and smoked in silence.

The day was gone. A slender, young moon guarded the evening star. Crickets chirped a few trial notes together. A cow bell jangled down in the pasture. A whippoorwill called uneath words. The hot breeze that fanned his face blew the smoke from his mouth back into the cabin.

A sudden weariness seemed to sap his strength. A feeling of loneliness darkened his heart. The fields out there, the woods beyond them, all lay quiet. Peaceful. Why could he not be so? Why must he always strive, struggle with something inside his heart? Rose didn’t understand. No.

His pipe was finished. Looking inside, he asked:

“Whe’ is Missie gwine sleep, Rose?”

“I gwine mek em a pallet on de flo’,” Rose answered cheerfully. “I got plenty o’ quilt.”

When Missie was curled up on one folded quilt on the floor and covered over with another, she knew she must not let Rose and Killdee hear her crying. But when she thought of her Mother, of Sis, of all of them at home, her heart felt likely to burst with longing for them.

Could she bear to stay here? When everybody got sound asleep, she’d get up and slip out of the door and go back to her mother. She wouldn’t be afraid of the dark with Son. He’d go with her and keep anything from hurting her.

But her clothes were burned up. Her hair was clipped off. She had nothing on but Killdee’s old shirt. She couldn’t let them see her like that. Not like that.

Sobs wrenched her. She was afraid. Misery made her ache all over.

Killdee leaned over her, patting her gently, saying: “Good night.”

She slipped a hand into his big, warm one and held to it. If he would just stay here by her a little!

“You mus’ dream a good dream to-night, lil gal. Dis is de fus’ night you sleep in dis house. All you dream’ll come true,” he whispered.

Missie looked at him and tried to smile. She would never be afraid of him any more. No. And if he wanted her, she’d stay here and try to be happy with Rose.

“Do, Killdee,” Rose scolded. “Le’ de gal go to sleep.”

 

Next morning Missie woke early. She tried to recall her dream. What was it? She couldn’t quite remember. But it was something pleasant. It seemed to be something about Killdee.

WHEN Missie came to live with Rose and Killdee, she had never been to church or to prayer-meeting in her life, and the first time she went to the quarters for meeting with Rose her heart thrilled at what she saw.

The night was dark, and as they got nearer Maum Martha’s cabin where meeting was held every Wednesday night, the light from the open door shone out on black people who stood in the yard, laughing and talking.

As they went up the weak old steps, Rose warned her:

“Mine you’ eye an’ don’ fall. Don’ le’ dese steps broke you leg de fus’ time you come to meetin’.”

Narrow wooden benches filled the room. Missie took her seat on one of those back near the door. Rose had explained to her on the way that only members could sit up in front near the fire. Sinners had to sit far back. And Missie was a sinner, for she had never sought to find peace, nor had she been baptized.

As Rose sat on the front bench, it creaked with her weight.

“Jedus! Do don’ fall!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “Dese bench is gittin’ too ol’ fo’ be trusted.”

Maum Martha, an old, fat woman who sat on one on the opposite side of the fire, sighed:

“Lawd, yes. Dey is ol’. My own daddy, Champagne, mek dem befo’ my time. Da’s how-come dey stay under my house. Da’s how-come meetin’ is heah wid me. Dey ain’ gwine las’ much longer ef de mens ain’ ca’ful how dey tote em. Mens is change sense I was young. Dey don’ keer ef dey broke de meetin’ bench. Dey ain’ got prays een de back side o’ dey head. Dey mind run too fas’ on gals an’ dancin’ an’ sin. Dey povoke me!”

Maum Martha’s eyes narrowed as she peered through the half-light at Missie.

“Who dat gal a-settin’ by de do?” she asked.

“Dat de gal Killdee git fo’ me to raise,” Rose owned it proudly.

“I declea!” Maum Martha approved. “You hab luck fo’ git sich a big gal. E big ’nough fo’ mind you baby, enty?”

“Sho,” Rose agreed. “E ain’ so big, but e strong. E kin hoe, too. An’ cut wood. An’ fetch water f’om de spring. E kin put one bucket on e head an’ tek one een each hand and walk right up dat steep hill. E stronger’n me.”

People were coming in. Men, women, children, followed Daddy Cato, an old man, who took his place at the little pine table in the center of the room. With a splinter from the hearth, he lit the small glass kerosene lamp.

What a strange-looking person he was! His arms seemed too long. The sleeves of his greenish black coat left his bony wrists naked. His vest was too short. It left part of his shirt showing above his big, loose pantaloons.

He rested the finger-tips of his great hands on the table in front of him and looked over the crowd of quiet people that filled the room.

One eyelid drooped and covered an eye. One side of his kind old mouth was twisted.

“Chillen,” he said in a deep, booming voice, “hell ain’ no hole.”

The silence was tense. The congregation listened attentively.

“A hole would ’a’ been full long time ago,” he continued.

“Do Jedus!” somebody exclaimed, but most of the people stayed silent.

Daddy Cato rubbed the scattered white hairs on his chin thoughtfully.

“Chillen,” he said solemnly, “I dunno e-zactly wha’ hell is.” He hesitated and cleared his throat before he went on. “But I tink e mus’ be a lake.”

“Yes, my Gawd! E mus’ be,” somebody answered fervently.

Missie felt uncomfortable. Rose had told her a lot about hell and God since she came. God lived in heaven. He loved Christians and hated sinners. He burned sinners in a place he called hell.

All the fire in the world came from hell. God swam it through seven rivers to cool it before he brought it here. Seven wide rivers.

The fire in the chimney behind Daddy Cato was so hot that sweat ran out on his forehead and drops fell from his face. Hell fire is seven times hotter than that fire. God must be terrible. It scared her to think about him.

Killdee was a sinner, Rose said. Killdee laughed when Rose said it. Killdee wasn’t afraid of God or hell or anything. How could he be so bold!

Wind through the open door fluttered the fringe of cut newspapers that covered the mantelshelf. They began a funny, wild dancing behind Daddy Cato’s back.

“De do haffer shet,” he said, and Andrew got up and closed it and put up the bar to hold it in place.

Soon somebody knocked and Andrew had to open it again. Maum Hannah came in, and old Daddy Cudjoe. They hurried past the sinners and went to the benches where the members sat, away from the draughty back walls. As Maum Hannah warmed her hands by the fire, she looked behind her.

“E too col’ to-night fo’ mek de sinners set so far f’om de fire. Gawd mek de win’ blow. Him know good how col’ e is. Le’ dem chillen come up an’ warm. Po’ lil creeter. Gawd ain’ gwine be bex ’bout dat.”

But the members looked serious and shook their heads and the sinners stayed where they were.

Newspapers that were pasted all over the walls swelled out when the wind blew a hard gust. The paste that held them must be stout! Brown spots showed where rain had beaten in through cracks and stained them. Age had yellowed them. But to Missie they looked very fine.

The rafters overhead were almost hidden with newspapers tied to barrel hoops and cut into fringes. These swung gently like blossoms.

Pictures were tacked around the walls. Over the mantelshelf a beautiful wild bay horse pranced with all four of its feet lifted high.

A white lady with a pink dress on was near him. She laughed and looked at a bottle of something brown in her hand.

On the opposite wall was a double row of large pictures. Awful pictures. Negroes naked to the waist. All of them broken out with an ugly sickness. Missie did not know that they were pictures of small-pox victims sent out by the State, but she felt sick inside to see such swollen cheeks and bodies.

What did Maum Martha want with them there? Maybe they were sinners——

Daddy Cato was singing. The people were getting to their feet, and joining in the song. How solemn it sounded! Chills ran over her as she listened.

“Roll, Jordan, roll,” were the only words she could make out, but these were sung over and over.

Daddy Cato held up his hand and sang some words alone. His deep voice filled the cabin and roused an aching in Missie’s heart.

“Roll, Jordan, roll,” he sang, and the firelight flickered over the low, dark walls. Nobody else made a sound. His voice was enough. So sad. So pitiful. Missie could hardly keep from crying.

Poor Daddy Cato, old gray-headed man, was crying out to something for help. Was he singing to God?

Then Maum Hannah joined with him and the two old voices swelled upward. The others swayed from side to side and hummed low. Where was God?

Missie had never felt so lonely before. She had never felt sorrow before. But in the cry of those two old voices she felt her own helplessness, her insecurity against some unknown, strange power. She wished Killdee could have come. He was yonder at home taking care of little Jim. But then, Killdee was sinner. God was going to burn Killdee if he didn’t repent. Rose said so. There seemed to be no escape from this God. None.

“Sing, chillen, sing,” Daddy Cato bade, and the whole congregation united in a heaving flood of sound that pressed against the very walls and deadened the moaning of the wind outside.

“Roll, Jordan, roll.”

Missie’s lips moved with the words. Her heart moved with something like prayer. God must be hearing now. Everybody was singing. Calling to Him.

Daddy Cato began praying. Missie shut her eyes. In her darkness her mother’s face came before her. How she wished her mother were here to hold her hand! To keep her from being afraid! For she was afraid. Yes. Of God. Of this singing. Of those sick people on the walls. Of the darkness. Of everything. Yes, everything.

Cold, or maybe it was fear, made gooseflesh break out on her body.

“Chillen,” Daddy Cato said.

The congregation answered: “Yessuh.”

“Dey’s a stranger een de lan’,” he told them.

“Enty?” they answered in surprise.

“Somebody duh meet da stranger eby day.”

What was Daddy Cato talking about? A stranger. Who? The members facing Missie from the other side of the fire had their eyes fixed on Daddy Cato’s face. Maum Hannah nodded sorrowfully at him. She understood him.

“Chillen, da stranger pass me by, mighty close one time,” Daddy Cato said.

“Enty?” they mumbled back.

“So close tell I felt e breat’,——”

Somebody cried out: “Do, Jedus!”

“Yinner see my face—— how e lef’ em——”

A tremble cramped Daddy Cato’s black lips. He held up the smoky lamp and pointed to his motionless cheek. His face was wrong. One whole side of it. It was still. It didn’t move at all. Even when the other side cried it was quiet.

“E pa-lyze,” somebody whispered. “Da wha’ ’e duh talk ’bout——”

There were grunts of sympathy.

“Chillen——” Daddy Cato’s voice broke, then he went on earnestly: “When da stranger kiss you—an’ e gwine kiss eby one—eby one!”

The good side of his face began crying. It twisted like a child’s. The members on the front benches began praying and groaning and moaning: “Do, Jedus! Hab mussy, Lawd!”

Some of them rocked from side to side and begged Daddy Cato to go on.

“Tell em, brudder! Tell em! Heah em, sinners! Heah em fo-true!”

Missie shivered. She was a sinner. Rose said so. A sinner. And it made her afraid to look at Daddy Cato’s face, all crooked—wrong——

“Chillen,” he began again with his voice low and tight in his throat, “yinner know wha’ da stranger leab when e kiss you?”

“No, suh,” they answered him softly. The firelight shone bright in their wide-opened eyes.

“When da stranger kiss you—’e ain’ gwine leab nuttin’—nuttin’!”

Daddy Cato’s lips stumbled with what he wanted to say. “Nuttin ain’ leab but a box o’ col’ meat. Col’ meat!”

His words fell cold. Flat. There was no answer to them. A gust of wind shrilled around the corner of the cabin. The newspaper fringes on the mantelshelf shook with a smoky draught that sucked down the chimney. The heavy, black log made a crunching, frying sound. It had burned through, and it broke in the middle and sent a shower of sparks crackling up the wide, black chimney.

Daddy Cato wiped his eyes on his sleeve and one of the members began to sing: “Hush! Hush! Somebody’s a-callin’ my name.”

Missie thought at first he meant what he said. He said it solemnly. But the others began saying it with him. They sang it. Over and over again they sang it, and a wailing chorus followed it:

“Oh, Lawd, what am I gwine do?”

It was so pitiful. They sounded so humble. So helpless. The little children got closer together. Their lips moved too, as they sang the words. When the song was ended, Daddy Cato called out:

“Come an’ pray, Brudder Andrew.”

Missie knew Andrew. He was Rose’s cousin. She watched him as he came forward to the table and knelt down. He stepped in a slow, easy, careless way, and after he knelt by the table the light of the kerosene lamp in his wide-open eyes made Missie think of a rattlesnake’s eyes in the sun. His head came out from a stoop in his big shoulders. As he folded his arms on the table, his lean, sinewy hands grasped his elbows firmly. His hair was clipped close from his head. The ridges in it showed plain. His nostrils swelled out and his thin lips quivered with the words that burred over them. And his eyes—maybe talking to God made them shine so and glitter—and stare——

Sweat oozed from his smooth black forehead. From his flattened nostrils. He held his words to a smothered singing that almost ran them together.

Missie stood up to see his face better, but somebody touched her and she sat down again and let the words flow over her.

Andrew’s black eyes were staring at something beyond the wall. His big, strong teeth were bared. They ground together harshly, and his hands strained at each other.

The room was still. Too still. Maybe Andrew was in a trance. Rose said people went into a trance when they looked on the face of God.

But suddenly Andrew smiled and said: “Amen!”

He got up and walked slowly back to his seat, and wiped his face on his sleeve as he went. The congregation sat up straight and Daddy Cato began singing:

“Jedus is my maul and wedge——”

Everybody sang it with him. Then Daddy Cudjoe was called on to pray.

Daddy Cudjoe is old and crooked. His face was lined and creased with deep wrinkles. His teeth were all gone so he speaks with a funny, childish lisp.

Everybody smiled in a kindly way when he went forward and knelt by the table. He bent over so low that his head almost touched the floor. The lamplight fell on his snow-white hair and he rubbed his knotted, old, trembling, black hands together.

Some of the children grinned when his thin cracked high voice cried out:

“Massuh Jedus—dis duh me—ol’ Cudjoe——!

I know good fo’-true I ain’ nuttin’!

Des’ a po’ ol’ black nigger!

But de Book say You know all dem lil sparrow-bud an’ ting——

Dat how-come me, Ol’ Cudjoe, hab de hea’t fo’ ax You fo’ don’ fo-git me.

I don’ be f’aid—not liken I nusen to be.

Seem lak—sometime—de grabe’ll be sweet——”

He began to sob, but the members encouraged him to go on.

“Go on, Daddy! Talk wid Him! E ain’ gwine fo-git you! E know you!”

Heartened by them, the old man tussled on with his prayer.

“When I git to heab’n I wan’ leddown an’ res’ tree week. On a big white counterpane bed. Da’s all I wan’ do. Dis res’.

I ain’ no count, not fo’ wuk, no mo—I all de time wanter set down. Yessuh.

I don’ wan’ no gol’ shoe, please, Suh—Shoe eber did hu’t my feet—Don’ gi’ me no okra an’ tomattus soup fo’ eat, Suh—I so lub clabber and sweet milk. An’ honey an’ white flour bread.”

The children laughed out loud at this. Daddy Cato looked at them and shook his head, then he said:

“Dat’ll do now, Cudjoe. You done talk wid Him good. You done say a-plenty. Say ’Amen’ now.”

And Daddy Cudjoe did. He got up painfully from his curved knees and went hobbling back to his seat by the fire, brushing the tears out of his eyes.

Andrew began a spiritual, clapping his hands slowly together as he sang,

“Push de bench back, chillen,” Daddy Cato directed.

There was a great fuss and clutter and rattling. Everybody was moving. Missie felt dazed by the crowding and cramming. The benches were hurried outside and put back under the house, except those placed around the walls.

Sinners and Christians were all mixed together, the men singers in one corner, and the women forming a ring in the middle of the room where the table had been.

The shouting was starting.

Missie didn’t see Rose, so she got close beside Maum Hannah in a corner out of the draught.

Women in the circle took short, shuffling steps and their hands were held out in front of them limp from the wrist.

As the men’s singing and handclapping went faster, the women’s short, shuffling steps became nimbler.

Mothers with babies in their arms stood close to the wall and sang in sharp, high, piercing voices and shook the babies in time. Little children with round, black eyes and spindling bare legs moved their lips earnestly and beat time with small, bony palms and heels.

The cupped hands of the men in the corner made deafening claps. Their knees bent and stiffened with frantic jerks. How could they do it? Their strained throats were corded. Veins swelled in their temples. Their set eyes glared. Sweat poured off their faces. Over and over they shouted fiercely:

Keen treble voices chimed above the thundering rhythm. Missie felt terrified.

“Send de sperit, Jedus!” Daddy Cato cried, and the good part of his face laughed with joy.

Rose was in the ring of shouters with her hat in her hand.

“Hol’ my hat tell I done,” she yelled to Missie as she passed. The hat was tossed forward.

The exhausted singers stopped with a breathless laugh. The door was choked with people trying to push out into the yard for air.

“I decla’ to Gawd, I ain’ got a dry t’read on.” Rose patted her thick wet body as she said it.

“But you sho is shout nice, Cun Rose,” Andrew assured her politely.

There were two ways home. At Maum Hannah’s cabin, the road divided. One way went around the fields and the other dwindled to a path that ran through the woods and across the duck-dam gully.

“Le’s don’ go home t’rough dem woods, not to-night,” Rose suggested to Missie, who was holding fast to her hand. “I ain’ ’f’aid de da’k, but dem woods always hab a kinder strange look when de moon is young lak e is to-night.”

Missie was glad to go around the long way, even if it did lead by the graveyard. God was everywhere, Rose said, but the fields couldn’t hide Him the way thick woods might do. As they walked on, Rose talked pleasantly.

“You know, gal, ef you trabble roun’ at night, ’specialty een de spring endurin’ de small o’ de moon, you more’n likely to see a plat eye,” Rose changed to a husky whisper.

“Long up yonder by Gilliken’s sto’ at de cross-road, close by de two notch mile post, a lil dawg’ll come runnin’ up by you and kinder rub hisse’f up on you’ leg. Ef you shoot em e’ll tu’n to a hog. You shoot em agin an’ e’ll tu’n to a hoss. Shoot em agin, an’ e’ll tu’n to a man ’thout no haid. Ef you keep on a shootin’ em e’ll tu’n to a fog—to dis something nudder kinder like a cloud.

“Den you better run hard ez you kin. Dey say: ’A cowardly man don’ tote no broke bones.’”

Missie listened, and shivered. A plat eye was as bad as God.

THE next Saturday morning Rose said to Killdee:

“I ain’ been to Mount Pleasant Church een so long, man. Lemme hab ol’ Mike an’ de wagon. Me an’ Missie could go by an’ tek Maum Hannah long, too. Missie is a ign’ant gal. E ought to go to a reg-lar preachin’ one time.”

“Sho. Go ef you wanter,” Killdee agreed cheerfully.

And so on Sunday morning before noon, Rose and Missie were dressed, ready to go. Missie’s dress was white and a red ribbon was tied around her waist. Rose washed her face clean and greased it with nice white hog lard. It shone, Killdee said, and he laughed out loud when he looked at her all ready to go.

Missie hardly knew Rose in her fine flowered purple muslin. It stayed in the trunk in the shed room. Rose had on a corset, too, and her wrapped hair was completely covered with a black, wool wig she had bought from the cross-roads store. This fitted smooth and tight and it had a knot right in the back. It made Rose’s black sailor hat almost too small for her head, but it looked very grand.

Rose had no shoes that were whole, so she borrowed a pair from Mary West, and Mary sent along her gold-rimmed spectacles, too, for Rose to wear. Mary was a sinner. She hardly ever bothered to go to church, but she was very kind about lending her things.

Rose’s feet were short and thick and Mary’s were long and narrow, but that didn’t make much difference, because Rose didn’t put the shoes on until she got in sight of the church. Shoes were just for looks.

Killdee helped them into the wagon and handed Rose the rope lines.

“Wait,” she said. “Git a quilt offen de bed fo’ put ober my lap. Dese lines ain’ so clean.” Killdee hurried in and got the prettiest one, the log-cabin one, red and blue and white and yellow.

Missie, sitting up on the plank seat beside Rose, covered her lap, too. Her dress was so beautiful and clean and white she could not bear for dust to get on it.

Maum Hannah was ready and waiting for them when they reached her cabin. She wore a black sailor hat, too, over her black and white head-handkerchief. She had on shoes and stockings, and a big, white apron over her plain black calico dress. She was so neat. So clean. So kind.

“See my new shoe?” she asked happily, holding out a foot. “I git dem f’om de sto’ yestiddy. I been want a slim nine, but I had to tek a wide eight, by de man ain’ had nuttin’ else.”

Mike stood patiently and switched his close-clipped tail at the stinging flies, while Maum Hannah climbed up into the wagon and took her seat beside Rose. Missie sat on a box behind them.

“Lawd, dis is settin’ up mighty high, enty! It good Mike duh walk slow or we-all sho would fall out.”

Mike did walk slow, and Rose and Maum Hannah talked as they rolled on over the rough, dusty road.

They said that Reverend Duncan was getting mighty old, and he was too fat. But where would they ever get another pastor like him? He and his wife were so large they had to ride in two buggies and drive two horses. But he did preach powerful sermons.

Rose thought the assessment of a dollar and a chicken and a peck of corn for each member was too heavy, for there were nine hundred members at Mount Pleasant Church alone, and he had two other churches. But Maum Hannah thought the price was cheap enough to hear the word preached as Reverend Duncan could preach it. Every other Sunday, too. Not once a month, as many churches had.

Rose thought a preacher ought to know how to read, but Maum Hannah said reading out of books wasn’t good. It was better Reverend Duncan couldn’t do it. There were other ways to read. So many things in books were not so. If Reverend Duncan could read, he might get a lot of wrong notions. As it was, he had to think things out by himself. He had to ask the Father up-yonder to tell him what to say. He knew all the hymns. He could line them out good as if he read them. He could marry people word for word like it was in the book. He always held the book open in front of him, and it did as well as if he were reading out of it.

Young people thought a lot about reading, but she was raised to know it wasn’t good for everybody to be reading so much. Let the white people do it if they wanted to take a chance, but the colored people didn’t know enough about books to know what was good to read and what was good to leave alone. There were plenty of other ways to find out about things besides reading out of books. Plenty. All these schools and things were foolish.

A sudden bend in the road brought Mount Pleasant Church into sight. There it stood, facing the big road. A long, low, whitewashed building with a grove of pines at its back. Mules and wagons and buggies and people were thick around it.

Mike walked so slow that other wagons passed them. Clouds of red dust rose and floated over them, then drifted away to the cotton fields on each side of the road. Rose jerked at the rope lines. She tried to make Mike hurry, but he paid no attention at all. He walked steadily, slowly, quietly.

Missie wished for the quilt to put over her clean white dress. This dust would soon spoil it. And she was hot. The sun shone blinding bright down on them.

“Jedus, my haid sho is hot! I wish I ain’ wore my haih to-day,” Rose complained.

“I decla’!” Maum Hannah exclaimed. “I been settin’ heah a-lookin’. I wonder how you git you haih fix sich a way. You buy em outen de sto’, enty? ’E look nice, fo’ true. But den, I rudder see natchel haih wrop’ an’ tie’ een a head-hank’cher. Da’s by I’m ol’, I reckon.”

At last the churchyard was reached. Mike turned in and walked up to one of the trees. He stood while Andrew came and helped Rose and Maum Hannah get out of the wagon.

Missie felt dazed by all she saw. There, right close to the well, with its long pole sweep for drawing the water, was a square pool of water sunk in the ground. How still and deep and green it looked in the gray cement sides that held it. What was it?

Rose was looking at her and laughing.

“Lawd! Looka de gal. E ain’ know de baptizin’ pool. E tink people baptize een de ribber! Git out, Missie. Come heah. Lemme show you wha’ ’e is.”

Other black people stood around and listened and smiled while Rose explained to Missie that this was a watery grave. Sinners buried in it rose up out of it with all their sins left behind them. It did look strange. Queer. Green. Full of sins.

There was to be a baptizing to-day. The pool was filled to the brim. There were steps at one end—for the candidates to step down into it.

Andrew said that all the candidates to-day were young people, not much older than Missie. Rose shook her head sadly and declared that older people became hard in sin. Hard. They thought more of dancing and singing reels than of being saved from everlasting fire and torment. Killdee was in sin right now. Nobody could turn him. Missie must listen to-day. Listen! Reverend Duncan would tell her how to escape hell.

Missie stood and thought while Rose and Maum Hannah greeted their friends. The watery grave looked terrible. She couldn’t exactly understand just all that Rose meant. Killdee was living in sin. Rose wasn’t. And yet Killdee was better in every way.

There was a stir. Reverend Duncan was coming. Missie looked down the road, where all eyes were turned. It was so dusty she could hardly see.

First a roan pony came trotting feebly along with a rattly buggy. A big, fat, black man was driving. Right behind came a gray pony pulling another buggy. A big, fat, black woman drove that.

“Yonder dey come,” Rose said, laughing. “All two so fat dey can’ ha’dly set een de buggy. Good ol’ people, too. Good Lawd, who dat wid Miss Duncan? Who?”

The people crowded around the preacher and his wife and helped them to alight. Everybody bowed politely and shook hands with them.

“I wan’ mek yinner acquainted wid Reveren’ Felder,” Reverend Duncan said, indicating a younger, slenderer, lighter-colored man, who was with them.

“Dis gentleman is de child ob Gawd. ’E’s come to gib de people de message of salwation to-day.”

Missie could hardly see for the crowd, but she held to Rose’s hand and went up the aisle into Mount Pleasant Church. The house of God, Rose said. Where was God?

Rose let her sit between Maum Hannah and herself. Both Reverend Felder and Reverend Duncan went up into the pulpit and sat in the two chairs there. The people who sang at meeting went up and sat on the front bench.

Reverend Felder whispered to Reverend Duncan, then he got up and said: “Breddern! Sistern! We will sing hymn number 524.”

Reverend Duncan stumbled forward anxiously.

“We ain’ hab book, Brudder Felder. De people can’ read. Line em out. Gi’ ’em two line at a time.”

Reverend Felder seemed to cover a smile with his hand, then he read slowly, distinctly:

“Welcome, sweet day of rest, that saw the Lord arise.”

Andrew raised the tune. The whole church was filled with the hymn. Some voices were deep and low, some high. The sound of it all made something inside Missie’s breast quiver. When the two lines were sung, Reverend Felder read two more, and so on to the end of the hymn.

“Let us pray,” he said then, and while everybody stood hushed, quiet, with heads bowed and eyes closed, he spoke to God.

Missie had to look at him. His teeth were shiny, like gold. His eyeglasses were brighter than the ones Mary West lent Rose to wear. His voice boomed like a bumblebee. Talking to God. He was telling God many things. He said these people were going straight to hell! He stamped with a foot on the pulpit floor. He yelled and shouted. Missie held to Rose’s skirt. Reverend Duncan kept saying “Amen” all the way through. It all must be so. Rose said Killdee was a sinner. Killdee would burn—she would too, for she had never been baptized.

When the prayer was over, the people sang another hymn, then the sermon began. Missie tried to listen, but she couldn’t stay awake. She had on a wide-brimmed hat and leaning her head forward made her neck ache. She was sleepy. She nodded. Maum Hannah took her hat off and whispered: “Put you haid een my lap, chile, an’ go sleep.”

When she woke, the people were singing a pitiful tune. It made her cry. The words were:

“Ne-ro—my—Gawd to Dee—— Ne-ro—to Dee——”

Rose shook her by the arm, and put a hot hand over her mouth.

“How-come you duh cry, gal? Shet you’ mout’.”

But Maum Hannah leaned over and patted her and said:

“Da’s all right, Honey. You ain’ wake up good yet. Set back down on de bench.”

Missie did, but she thought of her mother and her brothers and sisters and wondered where they were and if she would ever see them again, and she sobbed on and on, until Rose said impatiently:

“Git up, gal! It time fo’ go to de baptizin’. Don’ wipe you’ dirty face on you’ dress. You gwine ruint ’em.”

She had forgotten all about her fine dress. She didn’t want to spoil that. She brushed the tears away with her bare hands and followed Rose through the steamy crowd to the churchyard where Old Mike stood waiting to take them home.

Reverend Felder and Reverend Duncan and the candidates for baptism hurried around to the back of the church where a little shed served as a dressing room. They came out dressed in long, white robes. They and the deacons and the members formed a line and marched around the church singing:

“We’re marching to Zion, the beautiful city of God.”

Maum Hannah had a painful knee that kept her from joining the marchers, though her voice chimed in with them. Missie stood holding her hand.

When the hymn was finished, the marchers stood still while Reverend Felder stepped down into the pool. Its green depths quivered. A sudden playful breeze fluttered under his robe and parted it so everybody could see his store-bought undergarments. He went waist-deep into the pool, and while the congregation sang a solemn spiritual, one of the candidates, a slim black boy, stepped doubtfully into the watery grave. His face was ashy under the white cloth tied around his head. His fingers clutched nervously at the front opening of his white robe.

“Come on, brother,” Reverend Felder exhorted him. “Soon you sin will be washed white ez snow!”

“Amen!” shouted Reverend Duncan.

There was a sudden splash and strangled cough and a snort. A double spurt of water sprang from his nostrils. He gasped for breath and broke away from the preacher’s grasp.

“Wait, son! Come on back! You haffer dip again! You dis been dip een de name of de Fader and de Son. You haffer dip een de name ob de Holy Ghost.”

The members caught the unwilling, frightened candidate by the arms and led him back to have his baptism completed.

Once more he was dipped. In the name of the Holy Ghost. That finished it. He was a saved sinner. Saved from hell. One after another, all the candidates were dipped three times.

When the baptizing was finished, Rose and Maum Hannah shook hands with the preachers and curtseyed as they said good-by to everybody else. Andrew came forward and politely helped them climb into the wagon and they started home to Killdee and Jim and the little new baby. Maum Hannah went along home with them, for the new baby had thrash in its mouth and Rose didn’t know what to do for it.

Killdee came out to the wagon and helped them get out.

“How was meetin’?” he asked pleasantly.

“Fine! Fine!” Rose answered. “But I too glad fo’ git home.”

“Lawd, you sho ain’ look like de same ’oman lef’ heah,” Killdee laughed.

Rose didn’t. Missie held her hat and the wig of thick wool. Maum Hannah held Mary West’s spectacles. Rose crawled out of the wagon in her stocking feet, saying:

“Gawd, I too rabin’ fo’ git off dis heah cosset. It pure got my stomach a-huttin’. Hurry, Missie, an’ git my pipe. I wan’ smoke too bad. Whe’ de baby, Killdee?”

The baby was asleep, so Maum Hannah and Rose sat down to smoke a pipeful while they told Killdee all about Reverend Felder and the wonderful sermon he preached.

He was coming back when the crop was laid by to hold a revival meeting. He knew a man who owned a moving picture of hell and he was going to get him to come bring it. The people could see the misery that was ahead of them in the next world in that wonderful picture.

Killdee asked thoughtfully:

“Who dat mek da picture? Who dat see hell an’ come back fo’ draw ’em?”

Neither Maum Hannah nor Rose knew, but Reverend Felder did. He knew about it all. Killdee would have to go see it when it came. He’d change his mind then about being a member. He’d join the church then.

Killdee laughed. He said he was willing for Rose to go whenever she liked. He’d stay at home and keep Jim and the baby any time for her, but he couldn’t go to church with her. He hadn’t time, he said.

Missie slipped into the shed room and took off her white dress and folded it up carefully and put in back into Rose’s trunk. She lovingly wrapped the red ribbon around her fingers and laid it smooth and shining on top of the dress. Killdee was the best man in the whole world. He bought the cloth for that dress and the red ribbon to wear with it, too.

Rose called her. The baby was awake. Missie hurried to the bed and took the child up.

“Bring em heah, Missie. Le’ Auntie look at ’e mout’. ’E got de t’rash so bad ’e can’ res’.”

Missie laid the tiny, black thing in Maum Hannah’s arms. Maum Hannah peeped through the soft lips at the tender gums that were covered with whitened patches.

“T’rash, fo-true. Po’ lil creeter,” she said, pulling the small chin down so she could see inside better.

“’E so little, ’e can’ stan’ strong treatment. I dunno wha’ fo’ say. Ef we had somebody heah—somebody wha’ ain’ nebber look on dey daddy face—da’ somebody could cure dis t’rash good——”

Rose beamed. “Looka Missie, Auntie. I doubt ef Missie eber see ’e daddy face een ’e life. We could try Missie—enty?”

Maum Hannah turned her bright, old eyes to meet Missie’s puzzled ones.

“Mebbe ’e ain’ nebber see ’e daddy, fo-true. Who you daddy, honey? Is you know?”

But Missie had no daddy. She never had had one. And she shook her head.

“Le’ Missie try, Rose. Mek em tek ’e finger an’ run em roun’ all een de baby mout’ eby mawnin’. Ef Missie ain’ nebber look on ’e daddy face, dat’ll do de baby all de good. You try dat, Missie. ’E ain’ gwine hu’t nuttin’ fo’ try.”

Rose repeated, “You heah, Missie, enty? Eby mawnin’ you do like Auntie say. Don’ fo-git. Sis mout’ is so so’ ’e can’ eat, eder sleep. You wan’ em fo’ git well, enty?”

Missie promised not to forget and she ran to the spring to get a fresh bucket of water while Rose fed the baby and Maum Hannah helped Killdee take the dinner from the pots on the hearth.

As Missie ran lightly down the hill, she was very happy. She had seen so much to-day. She had worn her new dress and red ribbon. She had heard how to be saved from hell. How to pray. She must seek forgiveness until Jesus gave her a sign.

As the water filled the bucket, she thought some day she’d be a member, too. And now if she could cure “t’rash” in babies’ mouths, Rose would be glad to have her here all the time. Sometimes Rose seemed cross with her and beat her for almost nothing. After this, Rose would like her better. When she became a member, maybe Rose would never beat her again.

With the bucket on her head, she climbed the hill thoughtfully. Reverend Felder was fine-looking. He wore fine clothes and he could read, but nobody was fine like Killdee. Nobody in the world. Killdee was so good. So easy. He never got vexed like Rose and said hard-sounding things.

She’d rather have Killdee for her daddy and look on his face than be able to cure all the sickness in the world. But he wasn’t, so there wasn’t any use to think about it.

Yet Killdee was a sinner. When he died he would go to hell. Rose said so. He would burn and burn always. Forever. He would never stop burning. Daddy Cato said that the fire in hell is seven times hotter than the fire people have here. God swam it through seven rivers to cool it before He brought it into the world.

What a strange man God must be!

When Missie thought about Him, she hurried and stumped her toe on a root in the path and the water spilled, and she had to pick up the bucket and hurry back to the spring for more. How cross Rose would be because she was taking so long! But Maum Hannah was there. Maybe Rose wouldn’t scold her much.

THE big farm bell rang loud. Clear. The noon hour was over. A little figure lying prone on the ditch bank in the warm spring sunshine rose slowly and looked around. It was a little black girl. Missie.

Her big, soft eyes had a rapt expression as they wandered over the wide cotton fields stretched far out in front of her. Heat waves shimmered over them, making the dark earth bright and blue as the sky, the blue sky that held heaven and God and the angels.

The child’s faded, checked homespun dress was stained purple with blackberries. So were her fingers and lips.

As if still in a dream, she took up the tin pail that was near her on the ground. It was filled to the brim with ripe, black fruit. With careful-stepping, slim, bare feet, she picked her way through the thorny, briery vines to the path that led to the cabin barely in sight yonder at the far edge of the woods. Maum Hannah’s house. She’d go by there and talk to her a little while before she took the berries to the store to sell.

She walked slowly until she could plainly see an old woman sitting there in the doorway bent over her sewing. Then she hurried forward and, when she got near, called out eagerly:

“Auntie! Auntie! I b’lieb I done fine peace! Kin you heah me? I b’lieb I is! I seen a house all wash-white. Yes’m.”

The words came distinct to the old woman’s ears. She looked up from the clean, ragged garment she was patching. Tenderness shone in her bright old eyes as she watched Missie coming toward her. They were keen old eyes, although their black lids were withered and hung in tiny, wrinkled folds about them.

“Auntie! Auntie!” the little girl called again, but the old woman answered with a caution:

“Mine, gal, mine! You gwine spill dem blackbe’y fus’ t’ing you know. Walk slow, an’ wait tell you git nigher to me fo’ talk!”

Missie came carefully up the path and up the steps and put the pail on the floor by the pile of clothes to be mended. She came close and leaned on Maum Hannah’s shoulder affectionately.

Maum Hannah searched her face curiously and sympathy showed in her warm, gentle voice as she said:

“Tell Auntie now, Honey. Whe’ you been? Wha’ all you been see? Tell me ’bout em. Whe’ you been when you fine peace?”

The little girl felt Maum Hannah’s arm around her. It gave her a feeling of security, of safety, of courage. Maum Hannah’s voice was saying again:

“Tell Auntie, gal.” Her tone was full of kindliness.

“Auntie——” Missie began, then hesitated. How could she tell it in words?”

From the cabin’s narrow doorway the blue hills far over the river yonder showed plain. They had never seemed so bright to her before. They were almost the color of the shiny clouds that they touched in the sky to-day. Something about them held her eyes until Auntie’s arm pressed her closer and Auntie’s patient voice roused her.

“Wha’ you duh dream ’bout, chile? Wha’ you duh see?”

Missie took a deep breath and the little berry-stained dress tightened across her chest. Maum Hannah’s wise old eyes noticed that coming maturity had already begun to develop slight, curving breasts there. Yes, they showed plain with each quick breath that Missie took. Missie’s little heart seemed very full of something.

Tears came into the wise old eyes, for it came to Maum Hannah for the first time that Missie was becoming a woman. A woman. Maum Hannah’s mind could hardly accept it, yet it was so. Little Missie would soon be a woman, with all the troubles, the sorrows, of womanhood.

Lately, Missie had been seeking peace. Peace. And Maum Hannah knew that womanhood would bring her no peace. None. Missie was already turning to religion. To God. Asking for peace. Tears wet the old eyes, but she could tell Missie nothing. Missie couldn’t understand. Nobody could tell her. Nobody.

Old age might bring her peace. It might. But that was far off for Missie. And old age—— But Missie had started talking. She must listen.

“Auntie,” the low voice was husky, “dis mawnin’ at I git my bucket full up wid blackbe’y, I leddown fo’ rest’—I sta’t den fo’ pray.”

“How much day dis is you been prayin’ and seekin’?” Maum Hannah interrupted.

Missie reflected and answered thoughtfully:

“Dis mus’ be de gwine on een de two week, Auntie.”

“I reckon e is,” Maum Hannah agreed.

Missie went on:

“I leddown right on de ditch bank een de blackbe’y patch. Dut been pile up high underneat’ my haid same lake pillow. I shet my eye—I pray—an’ Auntie—it seem like I was gwine todes sunrise-side—’cross de fiel’. It seem like I was walkin’ deep down een de furrow. Den de furrow, e gone tu’n to hill! De hill been steep. It labor me fo’ climb up em——”

The round, black eyes took on a dreamy look, and the little body leaned heavier on Maum Hannah’s shoulder. But the old woman sat silent. Serious.

“It seem lak a house, same like we-own, been by de side o’ de pat’. A black ’oman come out an’ stan’ een de do’. ’E call me. ’E say: ’Stop heah an’ res’ awhile,’ but I tell em: ’No.’ It seem like I gone on a-climbin’ up de hill. I gone an’ gone——”

The low voice faltered. The soft eyelids drooped drowsily.

“Den I see—a white house—an’ a man. ’E was a-stanin’ een de do’. ’E hab face lak—I dunno who ’e hab face lak——”

Maum Hannah stirred a little. Her shoulder was tired. But she said nothing, and Missie went on, each word dropping slowly:

“De man, ’e say: ’Stop an’ res’.’ I stop. I res’. De noon bell—it wake me.”

That was all. A silence. Maum Hannah stirred again. She must ask Missie some questions. But first—she must think. A man?

“Honey,” she began, “Honey, de man been ol’, enty? Wid long whisker an’ t’ing? ’E hab somep’n nudder lak sheet wrop roun’ em too, enty?”

That was the vision that many claimed to see. Had Missie seen it too? Missie’s lips curved in a smile and she shook her head:

“No, Auntie. No. De man I talk wid, ’e ain’ been stan’ so—no.”

Maum Hannah’s eyes narrowed. She turned and scanned the child’s face. Missie met the look and decided she couldn’t tell more. No, Maum Hannah would think strange if she knew the man was Killdee himself. Killdee!

“Wha’ de man been say, den, Gal? Who ’e been look lak?”

“I fo-git wha’ ’e say, Auntie——”

Missie drew away from Maum Hannah’s shoulder. After all, she must have been mistaken. The house was white, but that may not have been a sign after all. Not a sign her sins were forgiven.

“Mine, gal, mine,” Maum Hannah warned threateningly, “don’ you tell me no lie. You ain’ fo’git a’ready wha’ da man say. No!”

Missie looked straight at her. The spell of the vision she had seen seemed broken. Maum Hannah thought she had not seen the right vision. She had not found peace. Maum Hannah’s face showed it. They had all told her to pray until she saw something white. That would be a sign. She had seen something white—and now Maum Hannah seemed cross about it.

Missie sighed and turned to the pail of berries, saying:

“See how I got de bucket full-up wid blackbe’y, Auntie? Ain’ dese nice one?”

She was sorry she had spoken at all about her dream. The house was white and yet the man looked a lot like Killdee. That was wrong. Killdee was a sinner. Killdee was no sign of peace. No.

“Mebbe you is fine peace, Missie. Mebbe you is. I dunno,” was Maum Hannah’s answer. “You go talk wid Brer Cato. Tell em all you see. Ef de man had-a been ol’, an’ kinder strange fo’ look at, it would ’a’ been mo’ better. But den—maybe Gawd is gi’ you a diff’unt sign. Anyway, de house was white.”

Other words that were in her mind would not come to her lips. She could not say them. Instead she said brightly:

“Take you’ blackbe’y on to de sto’, chile. Hurry. Dey is makin’ wine to-day. Dey needs all de blackbe’y dey kin git. Eby lil bit he’ps em out.

“Tell Killdee you find peace to-day. You ought to be baptize nex’ fo’th Sunday. Tell em des so. ’E might gi’ you a new dress. ’E might. ’E hab a good heart. Killdee’s a mighty good man, eben ef ’e is a sinner. Sho.”

Missie’s eyes were shining happily again. Killdee was good indeed. Better than anybody in the world. She took up her hat from the floor where she had dropped it. It was an old, worn, dusty man’s felt hat. Regular slits had been cut in the brim and through these a strip of turkey-red calico was run with the ends tied in a bow at one side.

Maum Hannah smiled when Missie put the hat on.

“How-come you trim up you’ hat so fine fo’ seek een? You put red on you’ hat when you go fo’ pray! Do, Jedus! A gal is somet’ing else een dis worl’. When de spring o’ de yeah come, dey sho is gwine dress deyse’f up. None o dat ain’ b’longst to seekin’, dough, Missie, or needer to findin’ peace. No. Red bow don’ bring no peace. No, gal. Red bow bring somet’ing else!”

The child’s face was still bright with happiness as she stepped lightly down the steps. She ran down the path that led to the Big House, but Maum Hannah suddenly called her back.

“Come heah des a minute, Missie. I got somet’ing fo’ tell you befo’ you go. Auntie’s a ol’ ’oman fo’ true. But you know ol’ people is wiser’n chillen, enty? Ef you see Brer Cato, you talk wid em. But dey ain’ no need fo’ tell em de man ain’ been a ol’ man. No. Dey ain’ no need fo’ say ef de man been ol’ or ’nyoung. Go long, now. Sell de be’y. Killdee might gi’ you a dress fo’ wear to de baptizin!”

Missie listened and then walked slowly, thoughtfully, down the path. After all, what difference did it make if she found peace or not? Killdee was a sinner. She’d just stay a sinner with him. Sinners seemed better than Christians, anyway, all except Maum Hannah. And Maum Hannah wasn’t a very strict Christian. Maybe she was too old to be one.

Missie took the berries to the cross-roads store and got money for them and took it home to Rose.

“Dis all you git to-day? How come? Seekin’ mus’ be mek you pick be’y mighty slow.”

“I reckon ’e is,” Missie agreed. “I ain’ gwine seek no mo’. I tired prayin’, Aun’ Rose. You better lemme wait. I ain’ gwine dead any time soon. Please lemme wait ’bout prayin’.”

“It ain’ me. It you. Ef you kin stan’ fo be lost, den stop seekin’. You de one gwine bu’n een hell. Not me,” Rose said indifferently.

Killdee had come in and he heard this last.

“Don’ mek de gal seek. Not now, Rose. I miss ’e laughin’ an’ playin’ too much. It don’ seem natchel fo’ Missie to be gwine roun’ wid ’e face so long. A-prayin’. Le’ em res’ off from prayin’ an’ seekin’.”

“’E kin do like ’e wan’ do,” Rose said curtly. Missie grinned gayly and cut a little dance step to show how relieved she was not to have to seek peace any more, but a sharp stinging in the bottom of her foot made her stop with a wry face.

“A splinter,” she said, sitting down on the floor and looking in the sole of her foot to see.

“You see, enty?” Rose exulted. “Gawd mek you stop you’ dancin’ quick. ’E mek splinter stick you.”

But Killdee took out his pocket knife and with its big, sharp blade cut the splinter out as gently as he could.

THE night was hot. The heavy fragrance of the blossoms in the china-berry tree near Killdee’s cabin door thickened the air and made it more difficult to breathe.

The red rooster sleeping high up on one of its limbs stirred uneasily and crowed in a dull hoarse voice.

Killdee lying beside Rose inside moved restlessly. He tried to keep still. He didn’t want to wake Rose. She went hard as she could at her work all day long. When night came, she was tired. Worn out. Glad to go to bed and rest. He must keep still and let her sleep.

She had not mended just right after Sis was born. Maum Hannah said it was the warm weather. Maybe so. But Rose stayed downhearted somehow. Dissatisfied. He felt she had lost faith in him.

To-night he went to meeting because Rose wanted him to go. She wanted him to get religion and join the Church. Rose thought if he’d be a member they might have better luck. Killdee pondered over it.

Being a member could not make old Mike, the mule, younger; or Mike’s teeth sound, so he could chew corn and get fat. Mike was too old and slow to keep up with the grass, especially when dog days came and it rained every day God sent. Being a member could not stop that.

The air in the cabin was close. Killdee got up softly and took the bar down and opened the door wide. Baby Sis moved. Her ears were keen. She had never been as sound a sleeper as Jim.

Killdee stood perfectly still until she seemed quiet, then he stepped out and stood on the doorstep. He breathed deep and looked up at the stars. How thick and bright they were! A sign of rain to-morrow. More rain. Always rain. And the grass had already wound its strong roots around the tender cotton. He would ruin the stand trying to kill the grass out. Why couldn’t the sun shine awhile?

A glittering sliver of light shining through the china-berry tree caught his eyes. He instinctively turned them away from it—then with a wry smile he turned them back again.

No use to look away now. He had seen it. He couldn’t fool himself. No. He knew well enough what it was. The new moon. He had seen it through trees. More bad luck for a month. More bad luck. Of course. He had nothing else. Never. He’d cut that tree down and be rid of it. It was always screening the moon.

He moved to the side of the door where he could see the moon clear. There it was. Thin and white.

Something in his heart felt sick. Why did he always see the new moon through trees? To-night he had been out in the open field. Why didn’t he see it then?

He didn’t mind work. Nor doing without things for Missie and Rose and Jim and Sis. The question was, why couldn’t he have a chance to work and make something? That was all he wanted.

Bad luck. Shucks! Everything bad that could happen had already happened. He turned inside and closed the door and put the bar in its place. He felt in the darkness for the foot of the bed, then laid himself down again beside Rose. He listened for her breathing. She was very still. Then a sudden jerk of her body made him know she was awake. Awake and sobbing.

“Rose,” he said softly, “why you duh cry, Honey? Don’ do dat. Wha’s de matter? I tryin’ fo’ do de bes’ I kin. I know you ain’ de one fo’ complain. I know dat. Not my Rose. Ain’ we got de putties’ lil boy an’ lil gal een de worl’? Tell me dat. How-come you cryin’, Honey? Please don’ do em. Jim’s a-growin’ so fas’, an’ Sis, too. An’ Missie—Missie kin hoe same ez a grown ’oman. We haffer be t’anksful. T’anksful. Da’s de way. You t’ink I can’ mek a good crop o’ cotton? Shucks!”

Rose did not answer and Killdee put his hand on her arm and patted it gently, then let it rest there. Soon it became heavier and heavier, then it slipped down limp on the straw mattress beside her.

Killdee had seemed so downhearted that Rose made him take Missie and go to the quarter to meeting. She thought if he’d listen to the people sing and pray and see his friends and hear a sermon he’d feel better.

She had stayed at home with the children.

When Jim was asleep she put the creaky little rocking-chair close to the door where she could see out across the field while she rocked baby Sis to sleep.

How bright the stars seemed in the sky! There right up over the china-tree was a new moon. She saw it clear. Good luck! Thank God for that! Killdee was at meeting. Maybe he’d decide to pray and seek.

But Killdee came home from meeting as low-spirited as he had gone. Nothing seemed to cheer him up. He did work hard. But things kept going wrong all the time. If Killdee would do like other men——

If Killdee would seek and get religion—that might help. But he wouldn’t. Rain came and made the grass eat up his cotton, and no telling what else would happen unless he changed.

The red rooster out in the china-berry tree crowed huskily. It was hot. The blossoms thick on the tree out there were too heavy sweet. Their fragrance filled the cabin. They made breathing an effort. Rose couldn’t sleep. Killdee lay so quiet, he must be asleep.

Rose sent out a prayer in the darkness; a prayer for her baby, that God, wherever He was, would take care of her little girl. Then she prayed for Jim. She prayed again for herself, that she’d get well—well as she was before Sis was born—— Then she prayed for Killdee, that he would have longer patience—and be happier—and get saved from sin.

But her thoughts wandered. She was praying here in the darkness. Where was God that He could hear her?

A fear of things crept into her heart—a fear of the dark, of what she didn’t know. Her fear made her get closer to Killdee and, gently lifting his heavy arm, she put it over her. She somehow felt protected by it, and soon fell into a heavy sleep.

 

When breakfast was ready the next morning, Killdee got up and ate hurriedly and went to the field with his mule and plow. Missie followed with a hoe. Rose stood in the door and watched them going to the field. Killdee looked tired, though the day’s work had not begun. His lean shoulders were stooped, and he was only a young man.

The plow was rickety. Missie did the best she could, but she was little and the grass was tough and wiry.

But this was Monday morning. Rose didn’t have time to be standing there thinking foolish, useless thoughts. No! She had work to do.

First, she sat down by the hearth and ate a bite of breakfast; then covered up what was left in the pot and put it closer to the coals to keep warm until Jim woke.

She hadn’t slept well last night. The china-berry blossoms were too sweet, and the red rooster kept crowing all through the night. She had never heard him crow so loud before. He woke up baby Sis two or three times. Jim never waked for anything. No. He was a good sleeper. That was why he grew so fast.

She went to the bed where he lay asleep. In the early morning light her two chubby, little black children looked almost exactly alike. One was a very little larger than the other. Rose looked with pride at Jim’s soft, round chin; his curved cheek. The full lips, slightly parted, showed teeth white as new milk. A sturdy little boy, but Rose shook her head as she looked, and her eyes filled with tears. Jim’s little clothes were all ragged.

The red rooster gave a shrill crow right at the doorway. Baby Sis, asleep in the cradle beside Rose’s own bed, woke and cried out sharply. Rose went quickly to her and took her up and held her close and murmured:

“Did de bad ol’ rooster wake up my baby? E did! E skeery ’em. Go to sleep——”

She sat in the creaky rocking-chair and crooned to the child she fed at her breast.

The sun had risen bright and hot. A light breeze fluttered through the leaves of the china-berry tree outside and came in through the door, cooler than the fire-warmed air inside the cabin.

Rose rocked back and forth till Sis’s little eyelids fell, then she kissed the fuzzy little head gently and, rising carefully, tipped over to the cradle and laid the baby down.

The red rooster crowed. Baby Sis’s bright eyes opened wide. Rose leaned over and patted the soft little body and rocked the cradle till the heavy eyelids closed tight again. Then she went to the door and waved her apron fiercely at the red rooster.

“Git on off!” she whispered angrily at him. “Git on off! Sometime I wish you was dead! You won’ let nobody sleep een de night wid you crowin’! Now you keep wakin’ my baby up! Quit you doin’s! I got work fo’ do! I ain’ got time fo’ be runnin’ you ’way f’om de do’! Shoo!”

He ran away cackling with terror. Rose began getting up the clothes to wash. This was Monday morning. She piled them all together in the middle of the floor. Then she took up each garment, piece by piece. She must find where there were missing buttons or torn, worn places.

A small paper box sat on the mantelshelf, a box that had once held shells for Killdee’s gun. Now it held her one needle and a ball of coarse thread. She drew the rocking-chair to the door where there was light, and with her big-eyed needle and coarse thread, she repaired the clothing carefully.

The big, black, iron wash-pot sat out in the yard not far from the woodpile. Killdee and Missie had filled it on Saturday. Rose built up a hot fire under it. She took the two wooden washtubs out from under the house and put them up on a bench by the cabin, in the shade of the china-berry tree. Then she brought out the clothes and separated the white ones from the colored ones. With a tin bucket she dipped hot water from the big, iron pot and poured it into the tubs. Soon she was bending her body up and down, up and down, over the wash-board, and white soap-suds foamed through her fingers.

She sang as she worked, a low, spiritual melody. She felt happier, somehow. Work was good, after all. It helps people to shed their troubles. As she washed each garment in one tub, she dropped it into the other tub to be washed again. They’d all be clean when she finished with them.

The red rooster hopped up in the doorway. Rose did not see him. He peeped around carefully to see if she heard him, but she was thinking just then she would have to be careful or the soap would not last through this washing. Jim and Killdee used so many clothes this rainy weather. So many more than she did, or Missie. They got them so dirty too. She didn’t mind that, bless their hearts, if the soap would hold out. Rubbing clothes without soap made sorry washing.

The red rooster stepped cautiously inside the cabin. He was hungry and curious, and with Rose out of sight he was bold.

He looked at the pot on the hearth. The fire coals near it blinked red and hot. He was afraid to go closer to them.

He looked all around the room. A few white threads were scattered on the floor. He pecked at one. It hung on his beak, a tasteless, annoying thing. He shook it off with a croak of disgust.

Jim was a sound sleeper. He did not wake. But Baby Sis’s ears were keen. Her eyes opened wide and caught sight of the red rooster’s glossy, bright feathers and his scarlet comb. She cooed with delight.

The red rooster listened and walked timidly up to the cradle. He stretched his neck and looked over the side to see what was there. Tiny dimpled fists and small black feet jerked uncertainly, quickly. Two black eyes danced and sparkled.

The red rooster leaned a little closer. The child seemed harmless enough.

He was hungry. He had not had a single grain that morning. Not a crumb. Rose and Missie and Killdee had all forgotten to feed him.

The hens were scratching for worms, but it was very hot. They had to hold their wings out away from their bodies while they scratched. A tiresome thing.

Maybe these two, bright shiny eyes would be good to eat. He would have to be quick to get them. They didn’t keep still like blackberries. No, but maybe they tasted better.

His yellow beak was sharp and his long neck was strong, and he gave a swift peck.

Rose outside was washing and singing, but she heard the strangled gasp of terror, the silent held breath, then the shrill, heart-breaking scream.

She flew up the cabin steps, stumbling over the frightened red rooster. He squawked and cackled with terror and tried to fly past her out through the door.

It was easy to see what had happened. A bloody hole gaped, then it poured out red tears.

Rose’s eyes dazzled. She picked up the child and held her close while she stumbled blindly, wildly over the soft furrows to where Killdee worked to kill grass in the field. Killdee would know what to do. He’d know.

“Killdee—Killdee——” she moaned as she went, “mah po’ lil baby—— Looka wha’ de rooster done to em, Killdee——”

Killdee heard her and went running to meet her. Missie ran too. Killdee looked once at Sis’s poor little blood-stained face and turned away with a breath that whistled sharp through his teeth. His mouth went hard. His lips taut.

Why couldn’t he speak? What was the matter with him?

Rose put out a hand to touch him, then drew it back.

He was laughing—no—not laughing, either, but his face was working curiously——

Missie followed his eyes as they looked wistfully across the fields where heat waves danced merrily in the hot sunshine. What was Killdee thinking? Why was he so quiet?

“Yinner mus’ be blame me—yinner won’ say nuttin’,” Rose sobbed. Killdee said slowly, hoarsely:

“No—I dunno nuttin’ fo’ say——”

Rose turned away crying. Killdee was blaming her. She had let the rooster get in. It was Monday. She had to wash. He knew that.

“Look lak you’d come kill de rooster—Killdee—— Don’ look lak you’d stan’ up dere an’ don’ say nuttin,—an’ don’ do nuttin’——”

Killdee held out his arms.

“Gi’ Sis to me, Rose. Lemme tote em home fo’ you. Missie, you go walk behime Mike. He kin keep to de row an’ plow tell I git back. You des hol’ de plow up fo em.”

With the child in his arms, he walked toward the cabin. Rose followed him, sobbing and saying as she went:

“I can’ wash no mo’ to-day. No. Not at mah baby eye done pick out—— You haffer kill da rooster, Killdee. I can’ stan’ fo’ hab em roun’ de do’ no mo’—no—not at e pick mah baby eye out. I know all de time somet’ing been gwine happen. Nobody wouldn’ lis’n at me when I talk—nobody wouldn’ pray, but me.”

Killdee did not answer, but he remembered how the new moon hid behind the china-berry tree last night. Bad luck had come. Yes.

When he killed the rooster, he’d cut the damned tree down too.

KILLDEE walked home beside the load of wood. In a kind voice he urged Mike on. The sun was going down.

Far across the cotton field it shone red. As Killdee lifted serious eyes to look at it, his lean, gaunt, black face saddened.

The sun that set in Baby Rose’s grave was red, just like this sunset. Red like the fire that burned her tender baby flesh and killed her. He never saw a red sunset without thinking of little Baby Rose.

Now as he thought, his tired eyes filled with tears, and through the tears, the red coppery glow glistened, and flashed and gleamed mockingly before him.

Killdee heaved a deep sigh—a sigh so deep as to be almost a sob. He thought of Baby Jim there at home. Chubby little Baby Jim. Bright-eyed, brown, dimpled, with fuzzy little black wool just beginning to grow on his head.

Little Jim knew his daddy—knew him as well as Rose and Missie did. Jim loved him, too. He always came toddling with funny, uncertain steps to meet him.

Jim had already learned not to fall out of the door any more. He had learned that by falling over and over. He knew how it hurt. When he stood in the doorway, ready to go down the steps now, Rose and Missie laughed at the way Jim’s tiny fingers clutched the door-facing.

Jim laughed with them too. Perhaps he didn’t know why they laughed, but he always tried to join in whatever other people did. Good little Jim!

The thought of Jim cheered Killdee. Jim was his. His son. For Jim he was willing for hard work to crack his very sinews. For Jim’s sake he tried to be careful. Never again would he stir the earth on Green Thursday. Never.

Jim was a part of himself. Jim’s little hands, his funny little words, his stumbling, uncertain little feet, were the most precious things on earth.

Jim thought his old daddy was the greatest thing. The greatest man. Jim thought he was great as God! Jim didn’t know any better.

He liked to play in the fire just as Baby Rose had liked to do. He must be taught not to do it. He must learn that fire burns.

Baby Rose lay yonder in the graveyard in the little pine box Andrew made to fit her, with the heavy red earth piled up on her, all by her little lonesome self, because the thing she loved best to play with had killed her.

He ought to have taken her and shown her how it felt to be burned. She would not forget pain. No. But he didn’t think about it. He thought she would learn by herself.

Why did God make people like the things that would hurt them? Kill them? Why didn’t He let them know danger?

Winter was here. Fire had to burn big and bright in the chimney to keep the cabin warm. All day it must burn and at night be banked deep with ashes so it wouldn’t die out.

Cold weather was here. Even on fair days, Jim would have to stay inside the cabin to keep warm. Rose would be in the field. Missie, too. Rows of brown stalks still held fluffy, white cotton.

Rose and Missie would have to help pick the cotton. Killdee couldn’t gather it by himself. Sometimes nobody would be left at home with Jim.

If Jim were a little older he would be safe, for he’d know that fire burns. But Jim, happy little Jim, did not know it yet. Already he tried to take straws and sticks and hold them in the fire to see them blaze. When Rose or Missie scolded him and made him drop his pretty plaything, Jim didn’t understand why. He’d watch it when they made him drop it on the hearth, and his little lips would quiver because he couldn’t keep it in his hand.

Killdee sighed as he trudged on homeward. The time had come. He must teach little Jim that fire burns! Telling him so did no good. He’d have to show him. To-night he’d have to show him. He and Rose and Missie had talked it over. They had decided. It must be done. Jim must learn that fire burns.

When Killdee got nearer the dusky little cabin by the side of the road, two little black children stood on the doorstep waving at him. Black smoke rushed briskly out of the broad clay chimney. Bright sparks rose with it, shone and died.

A strange thing, fire! Burning inside there, hot, strong, fierce, while Rose cooked the supper. That fire was a good, kind friend that cooked food for them and kept them warm. Yet, it could scorch and kill a baby’s body, too.—Just as it ate up strong wood and turned it to ashes.

When those bright sparks rose and went out, where did they go? Killdee watched them. They sparked, raced, and were gone. Where?

Where did Baby Rose go?

Missie and Jim were coming running to meet him. Killdee stopped Mike and waited. Jim must have a ride. Missie was picking Jim up in her arms to bring him. He walked too slow to keep up with her.

Killdee took Jim from her and set him on the pile of wood in the wagon and put the rope lines into the chubby hands. Missie shouted and laughed when Jim shook the lines and tried to make patient, old Mike go faster.

When Mike stopped with his head at the wide gate of the barnyard, Killdee took Jim down and gave him back into Missie’s arms. He struggled and kicked and screamed to stay with his daddy, but Killdee smiled, and said gently:

“Tek him on een de house, Missie. Night air ain’ good fo’ lil chillen. Jim don’ know no better. Tek him on.”

As Killdee loosened the collar from Mike’s neck, he said to himself:

“Dey’s a lot he don’ know, po’ lil Jim! But I reckon none o’ we don’ know much, atter all.”

When Killdee went into the house, Rose was cooking supper on the open fire.

The chimney’s wide, black, sooty mouth, which stretched across one side of the room, was filled with logs of wood. A great fire licked at them with smacking, hungry tongues. Yellow flames crackled and roared up the chimney, devouring the logs, while red and blue flames played over the coals.

Pot hooks fastened firmly in the stone and clay held black iron pots in the blaze. The sandy hearth held three-legged pots. Pots with handles. Iron kettles. Iron spiders. All had tight-fitting covers. They sat black and comfortable. Missie had just scoured them clean and they were waiting there, ready to be used.

Ashes piled in one corner on the fireplace lay very still, until a puff of steam from underneath raised them like dust, and a fragrant smell went out into the room. Sweet potatoes were roasting there.

In another corner, corn shucks showed through a mound of ashes. Spurts of steam sizzing out made the mound heave like a small volcano. Ash cake was cooking there.

A frying-pan sat on live coals pulled out on the hearth. Slices of fat bacon sputtered and spit and curled around the edges as Rose dropped them on it. Good smells filled the room and streamed out of the open door to where the two little black children sat in the half-light.

They sniffed and laughed and got up and came running inside. Both hurried to the cupboard for a pan. Then to the shelf for a spoon. Little Jim did whatever Missie did. The frying bacon was the supper bell. They knew supper was ready when they smelled it. Killdee, coming in, saw them and smiled wistfully.

When their pans were helped, Missie and Jim sat on the floor to eat. When all the pans were empty, Missie washed them and put them away. Jim crawled up into Killdee’s lap.

“Sonny,” said Killdee, “is you lub you ol’ daddy?”

Jim answered with a bear-like hug.

“Sonny—” Killdee’s voice sounded queer and broken, “wha’ mek you play een de fire?”

Killdee took the baby’s fat fingers and looked at them.

Rose sat by the firelight with her patching.

“Killdee——” She leaned forward. Fear warped her face. “Killdee, wha’ you gwine do?”

“Honey——” Killdee met her eyes, then turned his own to the fire. Jim sat up and looked at each of them. Reaching up, he patted Killdee’s rough cheek.

“Ol’ Pa,” he said, laughing mischievously, “Ol’ Pa.”

Killdee looked at Rose. Her face was queer and drawn.

“I can’ ha’dly stan’ fo’ do em, Rose, but looka da fire. S’pose—s’pose——”

The strong oak logs were already crumbling to ashes, turning from fiery red to gray.

“Jim will play een de fire. Nobody can’ stop em. ’E’s a lil, ign’ant, trus’ful baby. ’E is. I better show em how fire kin bu’n. I better. Don’ look at me sorrowful, Rose. It hu’t me clean to my heart.”

Rose’s hands clasped and unclasped. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Killdee kept trying to comfort her.

“People mus’ try fo show dey chillen how t’ings kin pain ’em. An’ kill ’em. Mebbe ef we had a show lil Rose ’bout fire—I dunno. Some t’ings is to be, I reckon. Maum Hannah say Baby Rose’s time was out.

“Tellin’ people don’ do no good. You haffer show em. Suffer em.”

The bright flames rippled innocently. They gave out a warm, kind light.

“You might be right, Killdee,” Rose tried to agree, but her breath caught with a sob.

Killdee turned up Jim’s small brown palm and looked at it. How could he burn it? How? Yet he must.

His strong fingers tightened sternly. He leaned forward and yook up a hot, live coal off the hearth, and laid it on Jim’s tender fingers.

The baby’s scream, the woman’s cry, the man’s groan, sounded all together. Missie came running to see what was wrong. Big tears rolled down her thin cheeks. She looked at Killdee with big, solemn eyes, then turned away without a word and went slowly back to bed in the shed room.

She understood. Little Jim had to be taught his lesson. Killdee had to do it. It was the only way.

Jim sobbed himself to sleep in Killdee’s lap. Sorrow had come to him without warning from the very one he loved best. His hand was burned and his baby heart was cut to the quick.

Killdee gave him to Rose and walked out into the night. He looked up at the stars. They shone up there like sparks that never did go out. He wondered if Baby Rose was up there—up there with them, and God.

KILLDEE came home from the Cross-roads store one Saturday afternoon and his black face was bright with enthusiasm.

“Rose,” he said, taking a chair and putting it up close to the hearth where an iron pot simmered industriously with catfish stew, “I got a good plan. A good one. Lemme tell you ’bout em.”

Rose looked up from her sewing.

“Wha’ e is?” she asked with interest.

“I dunno wha’ you gwine t’ink ’bout em. We can’ hab much catfish fo’ eat ef I do em.”

Killdee breathed in the appetizing smell thoughtfully.

“Wha’ you duh talk ’bout, Killdee?” Rose asked, puzzled indeed.

He laughed and said teasingly:

“Guess wha’ e is.”

“Oh, go on an’ tell me,” she urged him.

“Well, dis is it. A man sellin’ futilizer wuz at de sto’ dis ebenin’. I heah him talkin’ ’bout de crops an’ t’ing. ’E say fish-scrap is de bes’ futilizer een de bunch. It’ll mek cawn an’ cotton grow off faster dan anyt’ing. De futilizer man say de factory meks de pure, naked fish into fish-scrap.”

Rose forgot all about the fish-stew in the pot there on the coals while Killdee described to her what he had heard. How big boats go on the ocean with wide, long nets, which they spread around schools of fish. How the fish are caught and carried to a place where they are ground up and sacked and sold to farmers for high prices.

“Lawd, Rose, ef I could mek my own futilizer! Ef I didn’t hab to buy none! We’d hab mo’ money dan we’d know wha’ fo’ do wid.”

Rose listened thoughtfully. It sounded wonderful indeed.

“But you ain’ got nuttin’ fo’ grind up de fish wid, Killdee.”

“No. Da’s so. But de fish don’ haffer be grind up. I could easy put dem een de groun’ an’ dey’d rot befo’ you know it. I gwine try em.”

Before many days passed, Killdee had fish traps made of split hickory strips set all along the bank of the tawny river. He used corn meal cooked into thick lumps for bait.

Every morning by daylight he was there at his traps getting out the fat catfish.

“How-come you goes to de ribber so reglar, son?” Maum Hannah asked him one morning, as he passed her cabin.

“I’m a-tryin’ fo’ git catfish,” he answered.

Maum Hannah thought he had a guilty look. She wondered what Killdee was doing back there on the river every day. Maybe he had a still.

“Better mine,” she warned, “you gwine ketch de fever. Too much o’ ribber swamp ain’ good. You better not be mekkin’ whiskey back dere. Mine! I heah you been gittin’ a lot o’ cawn mek eento meal, too. Mine!”

Killdee kept on patiently, persistently, until every stalk of corn in his field had a catfish right at its root. When those fish rotted, what a crop of corn he would have! His crop would be ahead of all the other crops, and he’d have no fertilizer bill to pay.

His fingers were often sore with poison from the catfish fins, and it did take a lot of meal for the bait, but Killdee felt he’d more than make it all back.

In the Fall he’d have more corn than he needed. He’d sell some. The barn would be full. The mule fat. The hogs would make bacon enough to last all year. Killdee was happy over the good work he was doing.

When every stalk was fed with a fish at its roots, he decided to go over and tell Maum Hannah all about it. He’d give her a load of the corn when it was made. She was so good to his folks. Now would be his chance to do something for her.

That night when supper was over, he took the path across the field and went to her cabin. His heart and step were light.

“How you dis ebenin’, Auntie?” he greeted her, as he walked right in through the open door.

“Come een, son. You had supper yet? I’m des’ now sta’tin’ fo’ eat.”

Maum Hannah was always glad to see him. She pointed to a chair.

“Yes’m, I done eat. You go on. Don’ stop. I des’ come fo’ talk wid you a lil, an’ fo’ see how you do.” His face was beaming. Maum Hannah’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she rallied: “I’d do better to-night ef I had catfish stew fo’ eat wid my bread. How-come you don’ bring me catfish no mo’?”

Killdee grinned.

“Da’s de bery t’ing I come fo’ talk wid you ’bout,” he said.

“I don’ see no fish een you han’, dough,” she answered.

“No’m, but I come fo’ tell you wha’ I duh do wid all dem catfish I catch. I feeds my cawn fiel’ on dem fish, ’stead o’ you an’ Rose an’ de chillen.” Killdee laughed heartily at his joke.

“Yes’m. Da same cawn fiel’ out yonder is got a catfish to eby stalk. You wait tell it rain. Da’s gwine be de fines’ piece o’ cawn een dis country. Da’s de reason I been gwine to de ribber so reg’lar. I been baitin’ fish wid all da meal.”

Maum Hannah grunted.

“Whe’ you heah o’ sich a t’ing, son?”

Killdee told her how he had heard the white man talk about fish-scrap and of his decision to make his own fertilizer. She listened gravely.

“It soun’ good fo’ true. But I dunno,” she added doubtfully.

“I dunno. A buckra might could do em. But a nigger—somehow, a nigger don’ hab luck when ’e try fo’ outdo hisse’f. It might be a good t’ing. I hope e is.”

Killdee was confident.

“You wait. I gwine dribe up to you do’ nex’ fall wid a wagon load up wid cawn an’ say: ’Looka wha’ I brought you, Auntie.’ You gwine be glad I fine out dis same t’ing.” He laughed and she joined in.

“Great Gawd, son! Dat do sound fine. I wish you luck wid em. When you git t’rough feedin’ de cawn, dough, do bring me a string o’ catfish.”

“Yes, ma’am. I gwine do dat, too,” he promised cordially.

When her supper was eaten, she took out her pipe and lit it. Between short puffs she said:

“I glad you ain’ been duh mek liquor back een da swamp. I been ’f’aid you wuz doin’ dat.”

“No’m,” Killdee laughed. “I ain’ been doin’ dat. But nex’ fall I gwine hab so much o’ cawn, I reckon I haffer mek a lil fo’ drink fo’ Christmus.”

Maum Hannah said gayly:

“Ef you do, don’ fo-git me. I needs some right now. All de root medicine I meks fo’ sick people don’ keep any time. I can’ get no liquor fo’ seep em een. It spiles too quick.”

“Nex’ fall, I gwine mek you plenty o’ liquor fo’ all you medicine,” Killdee promised. “An’ I’ll gi’ you a load o’ cawn too.”

He got up to go. It was getting late.

“Good night, Auntie. I got to git on home,” he said. He went away whistling down the path towards home. Maum Hannah closed the door and went to bed.

Before day she waked up. Something unusual was happening. A strange growling sound came with the breeze from the direction of Killdee’s field. What was it? She got up and went to the door and opened it and listened. Dogs. What were they doing? Not running rabbits. Nor treeing anything. No. They were fighting. Could a wildcat have come up out of the river swamp?

There was sharp yelp and a man’s voice whooping. Was it Killdee’s voice?

She went down the steps and followed the path. The moon had risen and it was light enough to see some distance ahead. When Killdee’s field was in sight, she knew that the growling, fighting, was there.

She hurried on. The corn, high as her head, rustled in the breeze, but there were other sounds. Killdee was shouting, running through the corn, swearing, cursing, raving. Dogs were everywhere in the field. They were digging up the fish.—Fighting over them.—And the smell of those catfish! Poor Killdee!

There was nothing she could do. She turned and went slowly back over the path to her cabin.

She made up a blaze in the fireplace and sat down to smoke and think. She hated to see Killdee after this. He’d be so disappointed. Without fertilizer, his corn would not make much. The land was too old and worn out. Poor Killdee. All his hard work for nothing. The dogs would not stop until every fish was eaten.

Well, life is like that. She had learned it. Women learn it early. Yes.

Men take trouble harder.—Harder.

The sun was high in the sky next morning when she heard Killdee coming down the path. His step was heavy. Different from the step of last night. Heavy hearts make heavy steps.

She was not prepared for the drawn look on his face. It was thin and haggard, and his eyes were red and sullen.

“Auntie——” he stopped with a harsh laugh. “Dey ain’ gwine be a stalk o’ cawn lef’ een my fiel’.—Not a stalk. Not much ez one year. My fiel’ is ruin’!—Ruin’! De dawgs’ll dig up eby stalk o’ cawn to git dem catfish.”

His hard hands clenched as he spoke. He looked at her helplessly.

“Dey ain’ gwine stop tell dey dig up all. I wouldn’ mine ef I hadn’ a tried so hard. Ef I didn’ done ebyt’ing I could a-tryin fo’ mek a good crop. De rain mek de grass eat up all de cotton, but I did count on plenty o’ cawn fo’ eat. An’ now—now—dem Gawd-damn dawgs——”

Killdee, hurt, spent with disappointment, sat on the doorstep with his chin in his trembling hands. Maum Hannah remembered the little boy who used to come to her long ago. So good, so hard-working, so easily cheered up when things went right. So pitiful when things went wrong.

She got up and went to him and put her wrinkled hand on his hard, sinewy shoulder.

“Son—son,” but what could she say? Life was hard to understand sometimes. He must try to have faith in the rightness of things. How else could she help him now? She felt the strong muscles under her fingers. Killdee was no weakling. No.

“Son,” she said, “eby back is fitted to de bu’den. Dis one seem heaby. But you kin bear em. I know you kin. You gwine hab plenty—fo’ eat.—Sho! You ain’ no chillen. You mus’n’ git downhea’ted. No! You’s de stronges’ man een dis country. An’ de bes’, too. I know.”

It was hard to think of anything more to say to him as he sat there, bitter rebellious, hard. She spoke as much to herself as to Killdee when she added:

“We ain’ got no help anywhe’ but Up-Yonder, son. We haffer trus’ een Him. Haffer!”

Killdee raised his weary eyes to her face. A sneering smile came to his lips. His bared teeth gleamed in a savage way that made her shiver. He laughed boisterously.

“Rose all de time talk de same fool way. Trus’ who?”

He laughed again. “Who?” he repeated, mirthlessly.

ALL night long Son was restless. Under the bed where Killdee slept, he twisted and stretched his lean neck and thin paws,—and clawed and scratched and bit and snapped at the hungry fleas that lived on his rough, yellow hide.

Killdee woke and listened and pitied and studied and tried to go back to sleep again.

Fleas had to be. Dogs always had them. Son ought to know that and keep quiet. He kept himself from sleeping with all this uneasy, impatient fidgeting. Son ought to learn to rule himself. To hold steady.

As long as Son lived, fleas would stay on his hide and lay and hatch and bite and sting and breed more fleas to keep doing it.

Killdee reached down a hand to find and pat the poor, tormented beast. But the hand couldn’t see and it stirred the darkness with long, sleepy fingers, until a moist nose touched it gratefully.

Then the fingers grasped the harsh, warm hair, they tenderly felt the sharp edges of narrow bones and rubbed a limp ear.

“Son,” Killdee murmured, “don’ fight dem fleas too hard. You claw’s mighty sharp. Dey gwine tear a crack een you hide. Den mange’ll git een. Mange is wusser’n fleas. Fleas is natchel. Fleas can’ do nuttin’ but mek you on-res’less. Mange’ll mek you ugly an’ mean.”

Son patted his bony string of a tail on the floor. Killdee’s interest made his breathing husky with joy. Even after Killdee’s hand was withdrawn, Son gave faint whimpers of pleasure.

But soon he was restless again. He got up and went to the door and whined and scratched to be let out.

Killdee followed him and took down the bar and Son slipped by and went down the steps into the night.

First he stood still and listened. Then he trotted away down the weedy path. He knew where he wanted to go. Knew exactly.

Killdee looked out and listened, too. The dwindling old moon cast a gray light that made the frosty night chillier. There were very few sounds at all.

An owl whooed far away in the river swamp, but Son cared nothing for owls.

Something rustled and scurried in the fence corner, but Son’s light, patting feet went steadily on—without slacking.

Cocks near by crowed and got answers faint and far away.

Little chickens hovering under a mother hen gave a few uneasy, troubled peeps and were hushed with a drawling cluck. That was all.

Son had listened at none of these. Something else had called him. He sniffed the air and then went straight to where he wanted to go. Son had keen ears. His nose was hard to fool.

Killdee smiled to himself and closed the door and put up the bar to hold it. He went back to bed and eased himself down beside Rose. But he kept smiling to think how shrewd Son was. How wise.

Son’s faithful interest in love-making made him get up and break his night’s rest and go far in the cold and dark. More than likely, he’d be late getting to the lady’s house. He’d have to fight other dogs there for a chance to get the lady to even notice him. Fight dogs that were younger and bigger and stronger.

If the lady happened to choose him, he’d soon come away and leave her. He’d forget all about her. He would never even know his own children.

It was hard luck to be a dog when you had as much sense as Son. If Son were a man—a man——

Something Maum Hannah said long ago came into Killdee’s mind and mocked him: “It’s a wise man kin tell his own chillen.”

An unpleasant saying. And yet—even a man had to take somebody else’s word—about children.—Whose they really were.

Of course, Rose’s children were his. But Mary’s—since Bully left, children had come to Mary just the same.

How did any man know if they were his or not? Did Mary herself know for certain? She always laughed and said: “My chillen daddy ain’ nobody een pa-ticular.”

After all, maybe fathers don’t matter much. Son knew that. He went about his business and did what he thought was his duty, and then he bothered himself no more about it. Maybe Son’s way was good as any.

Killdee went to sleep and forgot about Son until the next day when dinner-time came. Even then he didn’t remember until his pan of peas and rice was almost empty.

It was Son’s custom to sit patiently by and watch Killdee eat and catch bits of food that his master tossed to him.

Where was Son to-day?

Killdee got up and whistled and called him. He wondered and whistled and called again before Son came creeping out from under the house where a dark corner hid his fresh wounds from meddlesome flies.

Poor Son. One limp ear was torn. His wishful eyes were bloodshot and battered. His thin legs tottered unsteadily. His coarse, yellow hair was reddened and wet. Above open cuts on his body, flies hummed and buzzed and frolicked.

Killdee knelt and took Son’s head ruefully in his big hands. He stroked the sensitive nose and patted a cheek and whispered sorrowful words.

“Po’ ol’ Son. Po’ ol’ man. Dey got you all cripple up, enty? It hu’t me clean to my heart fo’ see you all bung up like dis.—Po’ ol’ Son. Better lef ’oman lone, Son. Better lef em lone, ef you kin.”

Rose stood in the doorway watching. She didn’t love Son, and Killdee was not deceived by her show of sympathy when she suggested kindly:

“You wan’ me fo’ git you a clot’ so you kin tie em up, enty?”

No, he didn’t want a cloth. Son’s hurts were better left uncovered. Son’s tongue could lick them and keep them clean. Son could cure them himself. No other medicine would do as much good as the medicine within Son’s own mouth.

Men have to tie up their sores and grease them. Not dogs. Dogs have learned to cure themselves. Son knew how.

Killdee went to the haystack by the barn and got a bit of fine dried grass. He crawled away back under the house and fixed Son a bed in a dark warm corner.

Son followed and laid himself down with a sigh and wagged his tail weakly.

A lump came in Killdee’s throat to see him so downhearted. Son couldn’t help wanting to go courting last night. Something inside him compelled him. Drove him. Son wasn’t to blame.

Son wasn’t to blame that he wasn’t strong enough to fight other dogs away, without getting himself beat almost to death.

Who was to blame? What? Why couldn’t things be fair to dogs?—And to men—and women?

A face came before Killdee’s eyes—black—eager—young—with a bluish bloom on the cheeks—a pointed chin where a dimple came and went—dark red lips where white teeth gleamed with laughter—lips that quivered in such a pitiful way when things went wrong—little Missie—good little Missie.

She was so little—so tender—so trustful. Could he ruin her because she was what he loved best?

Love was a disease. It was wilting all the joy in her—in himself. It was a poison that would burn and shrivel—that would change her clean freshness to shame.

Son could go and love when he liked. Where he liked. If he came home bruised and torn, he could go off and hide and lick his bloody hurts and get well.—But a man—has to lie—and seem hard and mean——

If a man could only learn to cure his hurts too—that would be good. Maybe a man has to learn to do it. Maybe so.

Killdee crawled out from under the house with a gloomy, frowning face. Rose turned away when she saw him and he walked slowly down the path.

Gray clouds hung low and drops of cold rain were falling on the damp ground. Dull, reddish puddles of water shivered in the wind, as if they were hurt.

Killdee gave a bitter laugh.

“Me and Son ain’ de onlies’ one hab trouble. Mud-puddle hab ’em too! ’E can’ be still. ’E haffer stan’ pain. De wind trouble em. De sun-hot’ll dry em up. Po’ mud puddle! Do Jedus!”

What was the use to try? To want to do anything? Something got everything. Even mud-puddles!

 

Heavy clouds bunched over the wide river swamp. In the distance their rough, dark edges touched the tree-tops, and the hills on the other side were hidden. Down under the trees the rivers were swollen and muddy. They swirled and lapped and rushed along disregarding their rightful channels.

Killdee stood at the edge of the steep hill and looked down. The water was rising. Everything in the swamp would be flooded. Cattle and hogs left down there would be caught soon. Traps would be washed away unless they were fastened strong to trees.

Where was Son? He’d been gone since first daylight, and his hurts were hardly well.

Thinking about him made Killdee automatically give a long, shrill whistle. He missed Son when he went away like this. Son was getting along in years. Since rations were short, Son was weak.

He wouldn’t stop scratching at the fleas. Mange had him. His eyes were dimmer than when he was young. Fighting ruined them. He wouldn’t stay home at night and rest. He’d rather go running around and getting into trouble with other dogs. Son was foolish. He’d be better off asleep.

Killdee whistled again before he turned towards home. He had no hogs in the swamp to bother him to-day. Cholera got them all last year. He didn’t have to go hunt in the swamp for them now. That was something. Those rivers down below were men to-day. Good all his traps were chained to trees.

The solitude was disturbing. Killdee drew his rough shirt together at the neck and buttoned it across his throat. He peered into the colorless, blurred distance. There was something troubling about it. Bare tree-tops hid wicked streams that tore at things to destroy them.

Where was Son? Son knew that swamp too well to risk it now. Killdee wanted to shout and shake those dull clouds. To make those quiet tree-tops rustle. He drew in a full breath and forced it out with all the power of his lungs.

The clouds hung still. The tree-tops did not move. Only the heavy silence was stirred. A deep echo came back to meet his cry and two voices seemed to meet. Something within his breast moved with hope and courage. If Son was down there in trouble, he’d hear that call and take heart and fight his way back home.

Something more than an echo answered. What? A faint yelping. A weak whining. Could Son make a puny yapping like that? It was almost like a fox bark.

Killdee strained his ears to hear. Yes, it was a dog calling for help. Somebody’s dog. Maybe it was Son!

Killdee whistled and called and encouraged, then listened again. The sound was nearer, but still uncertain—then a sharp outcry came. And silence.

Killdee plunged down the hill in the direction of the cry. Through tangled vines and low-growing bushes he went following the bank of the foamy, trashy river, but there was nothing to be seen of Son.

He climbed slowly back up the hill and went home to Rose and the children.

It was night when a scratching at the door made him get up and take down the bar. Biting, cold rain rushed in and hurried Son with it. Wet, shivering, dirty with mud and blood, Son limped toward the fire on three legs. Red drops spattered on the floor, for the fourth leg, a front one, was gone, nipped off close to his body.

“My Gawd, Son,” Killdee whispered, “who dat done you so!”

Then he knew. A trap. Nothing but cold, hard steel could cut Son’s bones and meat like that. Son had gone looking for food. For meat. The trap treated all alike. Possums. Coons. Dogs. Son’s leg was too thin to stand the pinch of it. It came off. Poor Son! Down in the swamp hunting something to eat. To eat!

Son might be wrong to scratch fleas and get mange, and to go fighting dogs for a mate, but Son couldn’t help being hungry. He wasn’t to blame because he wanted a taste of meat.

Son’s hide was no good to anybody, but the trap didn’t care. It caught anything that came in reach of it. Anything.

“You gwine tie em up wid clot’, or le’ em stay so ’e kin lick em?” Rose asked.

Killdee did not answer. He took Son in his arms and held him close to the fire. The poor stub trembled and bled.

Light, flickering flames gave out little warmth. Their yellow fluttering mocked. With an impatient kick, Killdee shoved the logs further back into the chimney. A shower of sparks crackled and flared.

“Son—Son——” It was all Killdee could say. The pain in his breast hurt him through.

What was the use of anything? Something always gets you. Son never harmed anybody. Never! He did his duty the best he knew how.

Fleas wouldn’t let him rest. They made him scratch. His own claws tore holes in his hide and let mange get in.

Son would have stayed around home at night too, but some bitch was always calling him to come breed his kind. Son had to go. Something inside him drove him. Son had sense. He knew he would meet other dogs there. But he couldn’t help taking the risk of being beat.

Son needed meat. His appetite stung him. He was too old to catch rabbits. The bait in the traps was his best chance. Son thought so. Son didn’t know traps were jealous of dogs the same as of possums or coons. Son was too suspectless.

Now his front leg was gone. Cut off. Some possum had gnawed it by now.

It wasn’t good to trust anything. No. Not anything. There was no escape. Some day, Son, he too, would lie still with a mouth full of dirt. Yes, dirt.

SUNDAY morning was the one day in the week when everybody on the plantation could sleep as late as they liked.

The front room of Killdee’s cabin was dim and gray in the early dawn. Gray, like the oak ashes banked over last night’s fire in the wide, open fireplace. Gray, like the wisp of smoke that struggled feebly through them to rise out of the wide open chimney.

The corners of the room were still dark. The night seemed to linger, too deep-dyed to be overcome by the weak light of the fog-veiled morning. The wavy mirror in the new bureau made the one bright spot in the room.

Fresh newspapers, cut into fringes and hung on wires, stretched across the ceiling, fluttered uneasily in the damp breeze that slipped in through the two small, square, open windows.

The window blinds were made of rough boards. One was propped back and held against the side of the cabin by poles. It didn’t fit the window, for it was warped and crooked from the weather. On blustery nights it creaked on its rusty hinges. Teased them. Pestered them. Threatened to break them. It couldn’t. Those hinges were strong. Hand-wrought. The big nails that held them to the solid window facing were deep in the wood. Hard to break or pull out.

That window blind’s creaking often woke Killdee and made him restless, but it was easier to leave it on than to take it off. The head of the bed was opposite the windows. The gray light fell on its bright, turkey-red and white cover, and on the two black heads resting there on the white pillow.

One head lay still. Heavy, open-mouthed, snoring. The other moved tetchily whenever the window blind creaked.

Habit was too strong for Killdee. He could never sleep late on Sunday mornings. He woke at daylight, the same as on week days. He always tried hard to lie still, to go back to sleep, to stay in bed until Rose woke and got up to fix breakfast. But every Sunday it was the same old thing. He’d move his body and turn over and try to wait. He’d think over everything he ever knew in his life. Then finally, utterly worn out with trying, he’d get up, stir the coals in the fireplace, start the fire going, and dress. It was the same thing every Sunday.

This morning he tried hard to wait for Rose to wake. He settled his head on the pillow again and again and tried to lie still.

Then his long black arms just would stretch out from under the quilt. He gave a wide-mouthed yawn, a shiver, and a sudden snuggle back down under the covers. The early morning air was damp. Chilly.

He wished it was Monday morning. Then he’d be up getting to work. He liked his work better than anything else. Planning it. Watching things grow and bear and ripen under his hand. That was what he liked. Work.

Already the land was plowed and ready for planting. Everything was waiting for the weather to turn warmer, when he’d plant the cotton.

Sundays were a nuisance. He was always glad when they were over.

The other Negroes looked forward to them. Rose did. She liked to dress up and go to church. To sit high up in front and sing in the choir.

He looked at the back of her head, there close to his face. What a funny smell it had lately! Rose was using some sort of stuff to take the kink out of her hair. A funny thing to start doing at her age. Why did she want straight hair? She was married. He was satisfied with her hair as it was.

He really liked the natural hair better. Straightened hair had a stiff, queer look. He liked the older women with their heads tied in pretty, bright head-kerchiefs. Rose didn’t. She wanted to be stylish. Stylish. He smiled at the word, then frowned as he thought. Reverend Felder was stylish.

Women are funny things. All of them. Like children. Men have to humor them. He hadn’t always humored Rose, but since he had begun doing so, these last few years, things had gone better with them.

He rose up and sat on the side of the bed, making it creak. He rubbed his lean, black face all over with his hard hands. He scratched his woolly head and yawned again. Then got to his feet and walked slowly to the front door, and took down the wooden bar that held it shut.

He looked out at the big trees in the woods near by. Cedars, oaks, sycamores, were all strangely magnified by the mist. They seemed to be brought near to him. Even the crape-myrtle and china-berry trees in the yard seemed bigger and closer.

“It’ll clear off befo’ twelve to-day,” Killdee muttered to himself. He turned to the hearth and stooped and stirred in the ashes, uncovering the coals that still lived there.

A quick pattering of light feet sounded. A sniffling. A glad whine. Son. The little three-legged cur ran in through the open door. With a great wagging of his tail and wriggling of his lean body, and a licking at Killdee’s bare feet and hands and face and neck, the dog expressed the greetings of the morning.

Killdee patted the yellow body gently a few times, then said a gruff “Git on off wid you, now. Lemme mek up dis fire.”

The dog ran under the bed and lay down. He scratched and licked and snapped at fleas, while Killdee added kindling and pieces of wood to the coals.

Bright blazes flamed up. Killdee watched them leap through the wood. The draught moving steadily up the chimney drew the chill damp air in through the door. Killdee got up and closed it. He put the wooden bar in its place, and with a slight shudder, crawled back into bed beside Rose.

How warm she was! He got closer, but she moved away when he touched her.

Under the bed the little dog was snoring, snoring, and Rose breathed heavily too. Killdee, alone, was awake. Awake and restless. Hungry, too. Rose would be cross if he woke her.

Sometimes she did get cross, but most of the time she did pretty well.

Wouldn’t she be in a rush when she woke this morning! She was going to bring Reverend Felder home to dinner with her to-day. Rose had a hen ready to bake. A cake was already made.

The thought of Reverend Felder was unpleasant. Why did women like preachers? Funny. Preachers were like women. Weak nothings. But women always liked them.—Always. Except women who were like Mary. Mary’s kind didn’t bother with preachers often.

The smell of the hair-straightener became unpleasant. Killdee turned away. He’d get up. He wanted his breakfast. Rose had slept long enough anyway. He sighed heavily. What would he do while she went to church?

She was a good wife. Cross sometimes, but a good wife. She was a good cook, and she kept the house clean. She didn’t nag often. Hardly ever now, for he knew how to stop her when she began it.

One good thing about her, she never had cared about any other man’s attention. Now some women—— But he never would put up with a thing like that. Never! Rose, on the whole, was a good wife. A good wife. Maybe a better wife than he was a husband. He stirred under the covers.

Men are different from women. God made men different. The stronger a man is, the more different from women he is. Women are made to love one man. One. Men—he wondered if any man ever loved one woman all his life. All the way through. He loved Rose——

Here Killdee turned over. Somehow he felt uncomfortable—for his thoughts ran to little Missie. He couldn’t deny it to himself. No. His heart beat with a quiver when he thought about her. But that was because he couldn’t help worrying about her.

There was something about Missie—Killdee didn’t know just what it was. He lay quiet, rapt. Picturing the supple, slender figure, the way her eyes shone when she laughed, the dark purplish red lips, the dimple that came and went in the pointed chin.

Lately Rose was often cross with Missie. Cross. It was wrong. But women are so. They don’t like anybody else to look good, or to be pleasant. No. Women are all jealous. All.

Sometimes he wished he was fool enough to get religion. To get interested in church. It would give him something to do on Sundays. Somewhere to go.

And yet, it was nice to sit here at home, or to walk out into the fields. To plan the week’s work ahead. He liked to be different from the other men on the plantation. To show them he was different.

He thought for himself. He wasn’t a man who could be scared by the preachers. No. He smiled to himself when he thought how he teased Rose by telling her the members paid the preachers just to keep them scared. He said it in fun, but he meant it, down in his heart.

Yes, he did try to think for himself. He wasn’t a sheep. No. He was a goat. A strong he-goat.

A rooster hopped up on the doorstep and crowed shrilly. It was time to get up. Somebody was coming! Killdee laid his hand on Rose’s shoulder. Her firm flesh was good to touch.

“Ain’t you ready fo’ wake up yet?” he asked her gently.

 

Before twelve o’clock, the clouds lifted and the sun shone warm on the wet earth. Spring was in the air.

When Killdee finished breakfast, he drew a chair out on the little front porch. With his feet up on the narrow banister railing, he leaned back and smoked his cob pipe with short puffs. Jay-birds chanted harsh love words to each other in the trees. Crows caw-cawed. Thrushes thrilled over new-made covenants. Cardinals whistled gay assurances. Mocking-birds, perched in budding trees near the cabin, poured out joyful songs. It was spring.

Inside, Rose bustled around. Missie fed the children. Fat pots, full of food, sat on the hearth close to the hot fire. Rose leaned to stir one, then another. The preacher was coming home with her. Reverend Felder was coming. Rose was cooking before she went to church. She couldn’t trust Missie to season the things. No, not for Reverend Felder. Missie could put a cloth on the little table and set the dishes on it. She could put a clean, white apron on over her Sunday dress and wait on Rose and Killdee and Reverend Felder while they sat and ate, but Rose herself must do the seasoning. Rose had everything planned in her mind.

Reverend Felder was handsome. So slim and tall. So educated. So stylish.

Rose came to the door and glanced up at the sun. It was getting high in the sky. Soon it would be time to go. She must hurry. She had to dress yet.

“Better come an’ go wid me to chu’ch to-day, Killdee,” she said. “You’ll heah a mighty fine sermon.”

Killdee puffed at his pipe a few times before he answered:

“No. I reckon not. I don’ feel lak settin’ still to-day. Not for so long. You an’ Missie go. I’ll stay an’ tek keer o’ de chillen to-day.”

But Missie had to stay to watch the precious pots. She couldn’t go to church to-day.

“I’m gwine put a few green walnuts een a sack an’ drag ’em ’roun’ een de pond. Enough to git a few fish. Fish’ud tase mighty good to-night fo’ supper,” Killdee said with sudden inspiration.

Rose was shocked.

“Why, Killdee! On Sunday? You’d stun fish on Sunday! You’s a case, Killdee. What ’ud Reverend Felder t’ink ef he’d find you doin’ sich a t’ing? Do wait tell nex’ Sunday. Don’ mek me shame o’ you to-day.”

Killdee gave a short laugh.

“Lawd! I bet dat nigger preacher ’ud eat dem fish same as me. Shucks!”

“I bet he wouldn’t do no sich a t’ing,” Rose defended indignantly. “You ought to be ’shame’ to talk ’bout a preacher so, an’ ’bout gittin’ fish on Sunday. You don’ know yet, Sunday is Gawd’s Day?”

Killdee smoked on in silence and Rose hurried her preparation. When she was ready to go, Killdee had the mule hitched to the wagon ready for her to drive.

How fine she sounded with her rustling, stiff-starched petticoats and new shoes that squeaked with each step! A corset, too! And Hoyt’s German Cologne from the cross-roads store!

“Lemme git a quilt to put ober you lap,” Killdee suggested, “Dese lines gwine git you’ dress dirty.”

“No. You go git a clean sheet out de trunk, Missie.”

Missie did, and away Rose went down the road and out of sight. Killdee watched until he could see her no longer.

How beautiful the day had turned out to be, and the morning had been dark and threatening.

Who was that coming down the road? A woman.—Mary West.—Killdee knew that walk. That slender, lithe body. It was a good thing Rose had gone. Rose hated Mary. Killdee smiled. You couldn’t blame Rose.

What was Mary coming here for? Something about her farm-work, maybe. He rose to meet her. How neat and nice her homespun dress was! Plain, cheap, but on Mary it looked as nice as silk.

Mary’s face was cheerful, pleasant.

“How you do dis fine day?” she inquired, and Killdee answered cordially, as he held out his hand:

“Fine, fine! An’ you look lak a flowers yard dis mawnin’.”

“I ain’ feel lak one,” Mary answered soberly. “I’m totin’ lightnin’ fo’ strike somebody right now.”

“Who? Me? Le’ ’em come. I kin stan’ a stroke out you’ han’.”

Killdee laughed at his own wit, but Mary stayed serious.

“Better don’ laugh yet, Killdee. Wait tell you heah wha’ I come fo’ say. I don’ know ef I right fo’ come tell you or no.”

She did seem to hesitate about something. Her steady, bright eyes seemed to be searching his face. Killdee laughed at her discomfort.

“You look lak you een chu’ch, Ma’y. But come een an’ set down.”

Mary followed him up the steps, but she would not sit in the chair he offered. She preferred to stand. How droll!

“Better not tell me de bad news. Ef it is so turrible, I might not could stan’ to heah ’em,” he rallied, but his words fell flat. Mary’s face kept its woeful look. She shook her head.

“But you gwine heah it sometime. Boun’ to! All de mens in de quarter is laughin’, makin’ spote o’ you, right now. An’ you settin’ heah an’ don’ know nuttin’ ’bout ’em.”

Killdee’s face changed. This was a different thing. Who had dared make sport of him? Laugh at him? What did Mary mean?

“Wha’ you talkin’ ’bout, gal!”

Killdee felt the very hair on his body bristling. His blood swelled and hottened.

“It ain’ easy fo’ tell you, Killdee! I don’ know ef you gwine b’lieb me or no——” Mary looked full in his eyes.

“Go on an’ tell me! Don’ act fool! Tell me wha’ you mean!”

He must hold still and make her tell all she knew. Mary couldn’t lie to him without flinching. No. She was in earnest. She was uneasy, too, and Mary was no coward of a woman.

“I might be wrong to dip een it. It ain’ none o’ my business. I des’ hates fo’ people speak light ’bout you, Killdee. I ain’ fo’git how good you been to me sence Bully gone off an’ lef’ me——”

“Aw——” Killdee was impatient. “Ef you got anyt’ing fo’ tell, go on an’ tell! I don’ wan’ none o’ you’ sweet-mout’ talk.”

Mary looked at his eyes.

“You call ’em sweet-mout’ talk, enty?” she laughed scornfully.

“Killdee,” she sneered, “you is a plain fool. A fool! You duh set home an’ smoke an’ all de people een de quarter right now is laughin’ ’bout Rose. Rose is fool ’bout da preacher Felder!”

“Wha’ you mean, nigger?” Killdee asked furiously.

He’d like to kill her. Devil!

“Killdee,” Mary answered coolly, “when Rose gone to da convention down de country, e stay een de same house wid Felder. An’ you heah home. So sati’fy. Mens ain’ got no sense. You is bad as any. You wife cuttin’ de buck an’ you blind ez a bat.”

“Who dat talk sich a talk?” Killdee demanded. He grasped Mary’s arm.

“You mus’ be mean who dat ain’ talk em!” Mary answered with a wry laugh.

Killdee was confused by this unexpected news. Rose? Reverend Felder? It was impossible. Ridiculous. He tried to laugh carelessly—easily—— But when he looked at Mary’s face, the laugh dried and stuck in his throat.

“Who sta’t dis talk, Mary? Is it you? I know you ain’ nebber lak Rose. But dis is a low-down talk. Ef you had feelin’ fo’ me, you wouldn’ do em, needer. You couldn’.”

Mary’s lips curled.

“I didn’ t’ink you was sich a ass, Killdee! I is one, myse’f, to come heah an’ tell you. I wish now I ain’ come.”

Mary turned to go. With arms akimbo she stopped in the path.

“Wha’ I keer ef de people laugh een you’ face?” she jeered. “How much you keer ’bout me? Wha’ I keer ef de deacons tu’n Rose out de chu’ch? I ain’ no member. No. I’d scorn to be one. You hanker fo’ ’oman lak Rose, enty? A ’oman who kin set up een de choir. An’ sing. An’ pop chewin-gum een e mout’. An’ wear fine clo’es. An’ shout ’bout Gawd an’ Jedus. Dem is de kinder ’oman you crave, enty? Good day! I gwine!”

Mary flung down the path.

Killdee was perplexed. What was Mary trying to do? Could what she said be true? Rose—Rev. Felder——

“Come back heah, Mary!” Killdee called with sudden decision. “Come heah an’ tell me all you know ’bout dis t’ing.”

Mary stopped. She looked at him.

“Wha’s de nuse?” she asked. “You don’ b’lieb me. You t’ink I’m workin’ some trick on Rose fo’ git you. I—I—— I wouldn’t hab you, Killdee! Not ef you was de las’ man ’pun top dis yearth. I kin stan’ a fool but not a damn one.” She laughed.

Killdee seized her wrist and thundered, “Shut you’ mout’! Don’ you call me no name. I’ll kill you right heah ef you do.”

Mary smiled, but Killdee talked on. He had to talk. Words rushed to his lips. First abuse. He couldn’t help it. He knew he was wrong. But he had to strike out at somebody. And all the time he knew Mary told the truth. Rose had no sense. Felder could easily turn her head. After the flood of bitter words passed, he blurted out: “Felder might be got her haid tu’n fo-true. Might be. I gwine fine out. But ef you lie to me—I—I’ll——”

He could not say “kill” to Mary again. Instead, he said:

“I’ll fine out de trut’. An’ ef you’s a-lyin’——”

As Mary met his gaze, she felt pity for him. He saw it. He released her arm and she walked away down the path that wound around down the hill, then up to the quarter, where she lived.

Killdee went back to his chair and sat down. He filled his pipe. Soon he filled it again. His quick, short puffs burned the tobacco fast.

What was the best thing for him to do? What? Mary might be lying. He couldn’t sit here and think. This was one time he couldn’t hold still. No! He’d get out and walk.

He went out into the yard, then around the house, and followed the path down the hill and on toward the river.

He wandered along the path at first, then he suddenly turned in another direction. He remembered old Daddy Cudjoe. He’d go see him.

Daddy Cudjoe lived away back on the river. He was a cunger doctor. A hoodoo man. He really did work wonders with people. He was feared as no other man in the country was feared. Killdee remembered when he was a little boy how he used to tremble at the sight of that old, bent figure.

Since then, he had learned much from the old man. Not of cungering, but of plain sense. As he grew older and needed advice, there was nobody who could understand his problems, his perplexities, as well as that little, old, shriveled man who lived all alone, away back there in a log-cabin on a hillside above the river. And, to-day, Killdee felt that old Cudjoe could advise him better than anybody else.

It was past noon when he reached the little clearing where the one-roomed cabin stood. Smoke puffed out of the clay chimney, saying that the old man was at home and not in the river-swamp digging roots.

Killdee walked right in without knocking.

“Hey, Daddy?” he said.

“Hey, son!” the keen-eared old man greeted him, looking up from the roots he was assorting. “Come on een. I glad fo’ see you. How you do?”

He held out his bony hand. It was more like a claw than a human hand. Killdee clasped it gently.

“I well, Uncle. How you do?”

“Fine. Fine. Busy. Busy,” he answered in his queer, cracked voice. Then he chuckled. The wrinkles deepened in his small, wizened face, and his bright eyes twinkled kindly.

“Wha’ de matter ail you to-day, son? You’ foot movin’ mighty heaby, enty?”

“Dey ain’ nuttin’, Daddy,” Killdee answered, drawing up a small home-made chair to one side and sitting down. “I des ain’ had nuttin’ much fo’ do to-day, bein’s it wuz Sunday. I t’ought I’d come see how you wuz a-gittin’ along.”

“Shut you’ mout’, boy. Go on an’ tell me wha’ dat got you fretted. You t’ink I too blind fo’ see how you’ face is all squinched up een a knot? Who dat got you bex’, now? A ’oman. I kin tell.”

Daddy’s toothless, red gums shone as he cackled with laughter.

“Daddy Cudjoe, you sho is got a second sight!” Killdee laughed, too. “I don’ b’lieb nobody could fool you. No. How you kin know so much?”

“I dunno,” the old man answered simply. “De buckra read book. I read face. You kin read cloud, enty? An’ sky? You kin tell when it gwine rain? Sho! I practise a diff’unt readin’. Da’s all. Face an’ book an’ sky. All is de same at you know how fo’ read ’em. Sho.”

Killdee listened thoughtfully.

“I reckon dey is ef you know de sign good. Yes. I reckon dey is.”

“Who dis you wan’ me fo’ cunger, now?” Daddy Cudjoe asked, chuckling again.

“Nobody, Daddy. Nobody. But I’s worriet. Worriet. I got to do somet’ing or nudder. An’ I don’ wanter mek mistake.”

Killdee pushed his worn, stained hat back from his forehead, then he took it off and laid it on the little bare, pine table beside him.

“Mistake is a bad t’ing,” Daddy Cudjoe admitted seriously. “Bad,” he added.

Killdee looked at the fire and blurted out:

“Women is de Debbil, Daddy Cudjoe.”

Daddy Cudjoe nodded his old, white head. Then he turned to Killdee with a merry light in his eyes.

“Who dis duh talk? Dis ain’ Killdee! Dis can’ be Killdee! My Gawd, son! You don’ mean fo’ say you l’a’n sich a t’ing. Can’ be!” and he laughed softly.

A wistful smile played over Killdee’s face as he sensed the old man’s amusement.

“I’ve know it a long time, Daddy,” he said, toying with his hat.

“Well, da’s good. Good,” said the old man, wiping the tears out of his eyes. “At you know a t’ing is de Debbil, den you know how fo’ deal wid ’em. Sho.”

“But I don’ always know how fo’ deal wid ’em. Da’s de trouble right now. I don’ know.”

“Who’s de ’oman, son?” Daddy Cudjoe asked. “Diff’unt kinder ’oman need diff’unt kinder treatment.”

“It Rose,” Killdee said simply.

“Rose?” The old man looked astonished.

“Rose? You don’ mean you’ Rose?” he asked, incredulous.

Killdee nodded his head. It shamed him to say it, even to Daddy Cudjoe.

“Wha’ dat Rose done, now?”

“It’s dat damn preacher,” Killdee asserted fiercely.

“Preacher? Wha’ preacher? You mean Andrew, enty?”

Daddy Cudjoe remembered things he had heard years ago.

“No. I mean Felder! ’E’s de one. Gawd-damn his black soul!”

Daddy Cudjoe could not restrain a relieved laugh, as he said:

“Oh, Felder. Don’ be a fool, son. No. You mus’n’ t’ink hard ef Rose pleasure ’e’se’f a lil wid de new preacher. Ki! You’s wrong. De preacher mought be a nicer man’n you, Killdee. Preachers is mighty sweet-smellin’ creeters mos’ ob de time. You ought not to be bex wid Rose.”

Daddy Cudjoe laughed at his joke. He felt easier. But Killdee’s face was gloomy. He couldn’t treat it lightly.

“Don’ plague me, Daddy Cudjoe. I can’ stan’ it. I ready right now fo’ kill da low-down son of a bitch. But I ain’ sho it bes’ for’ do em. De t’ing gits me is dis: Mary West say all de people on de plantation know ’bout dis t’ing befo’ me. Dey all is a-laughin’ at me fo’ a fool. Dat’s de t’ing riles me. I des’ like to sho ’em—sho ’em I ain’ on de lebbel wid common niggers lak dem. Sho ’em I don’ give a rip ’bout all dey say——”

Daddy Cudjoe listened, but said nothing.

“I could kill Rose. Killin’ a ’oman’s easy fo’ do——” Killdee stopped.

“Talk on, son. Talk on. You’ own mine’ll tell you wha’ fo’ do, toreckly.—Talk on. Talk. You’ mine’ll listen. It de one fo’ tell you wha’ fo’ do. You ain’ chillen fo’ me fo’ say wha’ you mus’ do. No. You own mine kin tell you better’n me.”

Killdee looked at him. Daddy Cudjoe was right. He himself must decide.

Daddy Cudjoe looked at the fire. His old face was sad. His voice cracked.

“I nuse to be a nyoung man, too, Killdee. I wuz strong one time ez you. I had trouble, too. Plenty. When I fus’ hab trouble, I’d talk it to people. Dey’s plenty o’ people fo’ listen when you talk ’bout you’ trouble.

“But, I soon fine out dat wa’n’ good. No. Den I begin gwine een de woods fo’ talk to myse’f. I talk t’ing out wid myse’f. You kin talk close-talk out een de woods. Dey ain’ nobody fo’ heah you. It’s de bes’ place, son. De bes’ place. Go talk dis t’ing out wid you’se’f. I can’ do you no good. You go off een dem woods an’ talk ’em. Da’s de bes’ way. Nobody can’ do you no good. You de onlies’ one kin do you’se’f good. Go talk ’em out wid you’se’f, son.”

Presently he added:

“You ain’ ’f’aid nobody, enty?”

’F’aid? ’F’aid, nuttin’!” Killdee answered fiercely.

“Den you ain’ hab no trouble. No. Trouble ain’ nuttin’ but bein’ ’f’aid. Bein’ ’f’aid! No! Ebbybody’s ’f’aid o’ somet’ing. You lucky ef you ain’ ’f’aid o’ nuttin’. Talk it ober wid you own se’f, son. Fine out wha’ mek you ’f’aid. You ’f’aid o’ somet’ing, or you wouldn’ o’ come fo’ see ol’ Daddy dis mawnin’.”

Killdee looked at the fire. Presently he said:

“Mebbe you’s right, Daddy. Mebbe I’s ’f’aid. Mebbe I’s ’f’aid o’ dem niggers laughin’. I ain’ gwine be ’f’aid no mo’. Not me! Not Killdee! Ef I is, Daddy, an’ you heahs ’bout it, you come gi’ me a dose o’ pizen. Yessuh. You gi’ me a good dose, an’ lemme die!”

Killdee rose to go. Daddy Cudjoe nodded approval.

“Da’s right, son! Da’s de way fo’ talk! Sho! Lemme tell you dis one t’ing befo’ you go. Dese preacher, dese member, all dese Christian, dey is ’f’aid, too! You ’member dat! You mus’n’ be ’f’aid dem! Not no mo’.”

Killdee took the skinny, old, outstretched hand and held it affectionately, then he dropped it and followed the path to the woods.

It was almost dark when Killdee reached home. Missie and the other children were out in the yard. Missie said Rose was sick with a headache. She was lying down on the bed.

Killdee went inside. He couldn’t tell whether Rose was asleep or not, for she did not move or speak to him. “How you’ feelin’, now, Rose?” he asked somewhat gruffly.

Rose sniffled.

“I t’ink I feelin’ a lil better right now. I mek Missie git a collard leaf an’ tie on my haid. Dat he’p ’em some.”

Killdee turned from the bed.

“I t’ink so much chu’ch ain’ good fo’ you.”

Rose moved and sniffled again, but said nothing.

“Whe’ Revern’ Felder? ’E ain’ come home wid you? At you fix so much fine eatin’ fo’ eb e ain’ come?” Killdee demanded.

“’E ain’ come to Mount Pleasant to-day. ’E sen’ a answer ’e mighty sick,” Rose answered humbly.

“How-come you hab de haid-ache? You mus’ be eat too much.”

Killdee sat down in the doorway and took out his pipe and lit it again. His tongue was sore from so much smoking to-day, but he puffed fiercely on. It was hard to keep from saying what was in his mind. Hard. How he would like to wring the necks of a lot of people. Rose among them. Headache! He knew well enough she was only scared. That was what ailed her. She ought to be scared. Worse than scared.

He had stopped and talked to Mary again on his way home. Things were even worse than he suspected. Rose had made a fool of herself. Of him. The deacons were going to meet at the church next Sunday and consider what they would do with Rose and Felder. They’d mouth and rant and then turn them out. He knew.

Whether Rose had done wrong or not, she had gotten herself talked about. That was almost as bad as being guilty. She had gotten Felder talked about too. Andrew was spreading the news as fast as he could. Scoundrel!

The only thing to do was to meet the whole crowd of them face to face and say what he had to say to them all together. How could he do it? Where? Killdee smoked and thought.

 

Rose stayed sick all the week. Even Killdee began to be worried about her, although at first he thought she was pretending. Night after night he could hear her crying, and she scarcely ate enough to keep her alive.

When the next Sunday morning came, Killdee got up early and bathed and put on the best clothes he had.

“Whe’ you duh gwine, Killdee?” Missie asked him with a mischievous grin. “To church?”

“I gwine off a piece,” he replied with dignity.

Over and over he anxiously cast his eyes up at the sun to tell the time. When the hour before noon arrived, Killdee went into the barnyard and put a bridle and saddle on the mule, mounted him, and rode away. When he was gone, Rose sat up in bed and called Missie.

“Whe’ Killdee duh gwine?” she asked.

But Missie knew no more than Rose.

 

When Killdee rode up he could see through the windows that a large congregation was gathered at Mount Pleasant Church. There was no preacher, and the deacons were gathered all together in the pulpit.

Daddy Cato announced the hymn and lined it out two lines at a time. The congregation sang it slowly, solemnly. Daddy Cato called on Andrew to pray, but before Andrew’s prayer was ended, Killdee could see that the congregation was becoming restless. Instead of bowing their heads with closed eyes while Andrew told God the purpose of their gathering together, they craned their necks to look at him, as he stood waiting in the door for Andrew’s prayer to be finished.

Killdee could tell by the way Andrew yelled out his words that he must feel terribly annoyed. He prayed well. He must have studied up this prayer last night. It was like one old Reverend Duncan used to pray. But it was being wasted because the congregation did not listen.

Andrew’s eyes were open. He could see that the people did not hear his fine prayer. When he said “Amen” every eye was turned to the door. Killdee was there. He stood in the door waiting. As soon as “Amen” was said, Killdee walked right up the aisle to the little steps at the side of the pulpit. He did not stop there. He went right up where the deacons sat in the pulpit.

What in the world was Killdee thinking about? Was he crazy? The congregation sat with open mouths. No such behavior had ever been seen in Mount Pleasant Church before. Killdee, of all people in the world! Here to-day, when Rose’s misconduct was to be discussed. And up in the pulpit with the deacons themselves. He must be going crazy. Rose had run him crazy. Killdee could see it all in their faces. It made him smile. His heart had been beating uncomfortably, but now that the time had come it troubled him no more.

There was silence. The deacons could not speak for astonishment. What did Killdee mean?

Killdee stood there before them with a cool smile on his face. His words were cool. Quiet. He did not lift his voice one bit.

“I reckon you-all is surprise’ to see me heah to-day,” he said pleasantly, looking at each deacon, then at the congregation. Sheep. Scary sheep all running together. Flustered now. Addled. Andrew cleared his throat. The other deacons moved uncomfortably in their chairs. None of them seemed ready to answer, although Killdee gave them opportunity.

“I ain’ gwine tek up much o’ you’ time. I got to hurry on back home, bein’s my wife don’ feel so well to-day.”

He stepped forward a little and put his hand on the Bible. Some of the congregation took in sharp breaths. What did he mean? Putting his hand on the Word of God like that! Killdee was a good enough man, but everybody knew he was a sinner. He didn’t pretend to be anything else. Then why did he come here? It was too much. Too brazen. The deacons ought to make him get down. A wonder God didn’t strike him dead for blasphemy!

The deacons themselves seemed confounded. They sat staring. Dumb. Open-mouthed.

Killdee’s voice was a little tense when he began, but his words soon flowed distinctly. They were emphatic. Explicit, too. But quiet.

“I know why yinner come to chu’ch to-day,” he said. “I know all yinner been talkin’. You been talkin’ ’bout Rose. My wife. I ain’ fool ez I look,” he added.

A smile broke over his face as he looked at the congregation. His eyes twinkled at the deacons. They seemed, somehow, bewildered. Killdee continued:

“I come heah fo’ say des’ one t’ing. One! Yinner listen good. I ain’ gwine say em but one time. You listen. It’s dis——”

Killdee laid his hand right on the Bible. It was as if he swore to something. He leaned forward. His words snipped off short. His lips flared and bared his strong teeth.

“De fus’ nigger eber call my wife name een dis chu’ch is got to deal wid me! Me! Killdee Pinesett! Da’s all.”

Killdee took his hand off the Bible. He smiled pleasantly at them. Surprise numbed the tense faces. Taut muscles held still.

“I’ll say good day to yinner now. I see you-all done heah me good.”

He went down the pulpit steps. Down the aisle. On out of the church. He unhitched his mule and rode away down the red dusty road.

 

Afterward Killdee heard many stories of what was said and done when he left. But Rose’s name was not mentioned. That was certain.

Resolutions that asked Reverend Felder never to darken the door of Mount Pleasant Church again were passed. Daddy Cato was appointed to carry the message to him. But it wasn’t possible to turn Rose out without calling her name. She remained a member in good standing.

Before Daddy Cato got down the country to see Reverend Felder, news came that the preacher was dead. Dead with lockjaw. It was whispered that the lockjaw was caused by a wound. A strange wound. Somewhere in his leg. But nobody ever said how he got it.

THE soft dusk of the enervating spring evening had come, but Killdee plowed on. Since dawn, with only an hour at noon for food and water, his easy-stepping, bare, black feet had trudged up and down the cotton rows, his steady hands had held the plow stock in place.

All day his eyes had watched for sprigs of grass. Every slight blade told of deadly roots that were sneaking down to strangle the tender cotton.

Deftly he turned and guided the plow’s sharp steel edge, cutting grass away without injuring the plants he protected.

Monotonous. Yes. But as Killdee walked and walked, dreams came to him. Here, alone in his field, between the warm earth and the sky, dreams filled the hours. They kept fatigue and discouragement away. Kept hope bright in his heart. Hardships were forgotten. Disappointments paled.

He pictured to himself a time when things would be better. Easier. When his labor, his striving, would bear fruit.

He’d give his folks a better house to live in. Give them pleasures. He himself would be different. Better. Happier. Freer.

The picture was never quite finished. Even the clearest, plainest dreams melted, faded—without ever telling the secret of what would make them come true. They went away and left him nothing but this unending struggle, day after day, to provide a bread and a roof for himself and his family.

The spring always made them glow. They quickened and stirred something in his blood. He was glad to live. Glad to strive.

Maybe he was only like the grass here underfoot. Like those trees yonder. Everything was restless with life. Everything gave some sign. Maybe the joy in his heart was just his sign, his way of showing the rising sap that the spring called up.

To him the whole world was only the bit of surface lying quiet around him. The long low line of soft blue hills trembling into haze yonder over the river, the narrow band of purple pines, showing dark against the bright afterglow, and rimming the brown fields, these seemed the boundary of things, the farthest edge.

The fields, cut at intervals by narrow, rough, red roads and dotted with small, gray, weather-stained cabins, lay quiet and still. Nothing showed that life here was precious, and pain bitter or how men here strove and women trembled when love and joy were threatened.

Turning around at the end of the row, Killdee stopped and looked at the dark, ragged edge of the pines where the sun had set. The light had grown too dim for him to see the grass. He must stop. The moist, brown earth gave the air a rich, warm smell. It was good. To breathe it deep rested him. The smell of it roused him.

He unhitched the mule and, leading him by one of the rope plow-lines, walked down a furrow towards home.

The firelight in his cabin yonder shone from its wide, open door. It gleamed like a great, red star just risen from the edge of the field.

Rose would have his supper there waiting. He would eat and smoke a pipeful, and then he ought to go straight to bed, so he’d be fresh and ready for work in the morning.

To-day was Friday, the last working-day in the week for everybody on the plantation but Killdee. But he worked on Saturdays too. Work was the way to make his dreams come true.

For years after he and Rose were married, he had worked an old, slow mule. Poor old Mike. Dead now. In Mike’s place he had gotten Joe. Young. Fast-stepping. Steady. Plowing had become a pleasure. A satisfaction.

Mike had always been tired. He couldn’t hurry. His teeth were worn out. Even with the ground meal Killdee fed him, Mike stayed weak and poor. Joe’s teeth were strong and sound. At night Killdee heard them crunching ears of corn, and it sounded like music.

Killdee had bought Joe himself. He had gone into debt to get him. He bought a new set of harness too, and the harness had cost a lot of money.

When Mike died, he had tried plowing two oxen that he raised and broke. But they couldn’t keep ahead of the grass. He bought Joe. He worked every fair day but Sunday. He would pay for Joe in a year or two. Sure!

Every Sunday now Rose could go to church in the wagon. The new harness was strong. Joe never could run away with a harness like that. Never.

Missie was big enough to stay at home and take care of the children. Missie was almost a grown woman. Little and black and dry, but wise. She was young, and old too.

That was a lucky day for Rose and himself when they took little Missie to raise. Poor little girl! As he walked across the mellow, fresh-plowed earth, the smell of it filled his nostrils. Missie came before his eyes. The slender, unformed figure in its straight, homespun dress. The small, black head, with its wool wrapped tight with ball thread. The dark, red mouth, almost purple. The bluish bloom on the black cheeks. The pointed chin where that dimple showed when she laughed. The soft, black eyes, the curved lashes, the slim, black feet that touched the ground with such lightness. Missie—good little Missie——

Killdee was passing close by a thicket of wild plums near the edge of the field. They were just bursting into full bloom. He stopped and threw back his head and shoulders and took a deep breath of fragrance. Spring was come! Plum blossoms!

Moonlight whitened the dusk, frogs chanted merrily, crickets were chirping. Killdee closed his eyes and murmured:

“Sing, brudders! Sing! You been sleepin’, enty! But now you’s a-wakin’ up.”

He walked on, whistling a low tune.

 

With Rose, the day had been a hard one. Many things had gone wrong. A stray dog had come and broken up a nest full of eggs that would soon have hatched. The clothes she and Missie washed on Monday did not dry because it rained on them, and now some of them showed signs of mildew. Her very best petticoat, the one she wanted to wear to church Sunday, was ugly with it. Sparrows had scratched up seed in the garden. Everything seemed to be wrong!

There was a frown on her face as she rolled the sleeves back from her plump arms. Holding her skirts aside, she drew red coals out on the hearth. She placed an iron griddle carefully on them, and going to the shelf where she kept the groceries, she dipped up a measure of meal out of the sack, put it into a pan, and added water from a bucket on the shelf.

With a sigh she thought how glad she was the children were fed and asleep in bed. She wished Killdee would come on. It was late. She glanced out of the open door. It was nearly night, yet she saw nothing of him. She was tired. The spring days were getting long.

Killdee loved work. He was strong and able to go all day. All night too, if he wanted to. But she was jaded when night came. Glad to rest. Killdee ought to think of her and come on.

Missie came out of the shed-room, where she had been putting the children to sleep. She still hummed the tune she had sung to them, “Bye-and-bye, when the morning comes.”

“Do don’ keep on a-singin’,” Rose said complainingly.

Missie sang too much. She was always singing. Rose jerked the spoon as she stirred the meal and water together. It was aggravating to have somebody always singing and happy. There was nothing to be so happy about.

If Missie cared about things as she ought to do, she wouldn’t be singing. Not with Mike dead and Killdee in debt for the new mule—and that new harness. Missie was old enough now to feel responsibility.

Yet why should Missie care? She got her good three meals a day. And clothes. A bed to sleep in. Her mother before her hadn’t cared about things. That was why somebody had to take Missie to raise her. Rose sighed, and stirred the meal with such energy that bits of it fluttered over the side of the pan and fell lightly on the fresh-scoured floor.

“Git a broom an’ sweep up da meal befo’ you’ foot step on ’em,” she said abruptly to Missie.

How quick and sharp her words sounded! Missie glanced at Rose’s face, then got the field-straw broom from its place in the corner and began to sweep. She had scoured the floor that day, and the bare room had a fresh, clean, cozy look in the warm, flickering light.

She had taken a few fresh eggs to the cross-roads store and exchanged them for clean newspapers. These cut into fringes fluttered from the wide mantelshelf, where a coco-cola bottle filled with water held a spray of plum blossoms, white, fragile, already shattering.

“Dem plum blossom duh mess up de flo’ wusser’n de meal,” Rose said crossly. “Sweep ’em up!”

Missie carefully swept the bits of meal and the delicate petals into the fire, and then put the broom back where it belonged.

She stopped to look at the mantelpiece. How pretty it looked! Killdee liked things to look pretty. He didn’t mind if they littered the floor a little.

Rose turned to her impatiently.

“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, don’ be stannin’ dere a-gazin’. Heah lately you all de time doin’ like you’s a-walkin’ een you sleep. Wha’ de matter ail you, gal?”

Missie’s eyes lifted to Rose’s face. She was startled by its hard, accusing look.

“You—you wan’ me fo’ do—anything—Aun’ Rose?” she asked timidly.

“I can’ be a-tellin’ you wha’ fo’ do eby minute.” Rose answered, as she took the long fire-stick and impatiently shoved pieces of blazing wood farther back in the fireplace. “Looks like old ez you is, you could see wha’ fo’ do.”

There was a cheery clinking of trace-chains and a whistled tune outside. Killdee was coming. Missie went to the door. She leaned against the lintel and listened. How she loved the thud-thud of the new mule’s feet. He came home brisk, almost trotting, after plowing all day. And Killdee was whistling.

So different from the days when he plowed old Mike. It was better that old Mike died. He was too slow, poor old fellow. It took him all day to plow just a little piece of the crop. And every night Killdee came home so tired. So downhearted.

But now with Joe it was different. Joe and Killdee were matched up together. Both were strong. Stout. Able to work without tiring. Killdee had the crop all clean and growing fast. Every night he came home happy. To-night he was even whistling. What if he was in debt? He was a man. He could work and pay. He had Joe to help him. He had the fine new harness.

Missie’s heart beat fast with pleasure. It was right for Killdee to have the best mule in the world. The best harness. She wished he could have—well, everything!

She smiled to think how pleased Killdee would be to see she had oiled the new harness that day.

When she finished the scouring, she had taken it down from the peg on the wall where it hung and greased it all and wiped every buckle clean. There it hung. Shiny. New as the day it was bought.

Joe would look fine dressed up in it when Killdee took Rose to Mount Pleasant Church next Sunday.

Missie looked up at the starlit sky. It was clear. Sunday would be clear too. Joe would hold his head high and prance. Killdee would have to hold the lines tight to rule him. Everybody would look at Killdee and Joe.

The gentle breeze blowing in Missie’s face seemed to hold some of the light of the clear sky. Some of the freshness of the plowed earth. The delicious smell of plum blossoms had never seemed so piercing sweet as to-night.

Rose’s voice, sharp, reproving, interrupted Missie’s thoughts.

“Looks like you’d go help Killdee feed up, ’stead o’ standin’ dere a-moonin’. Killdee mus’ be mighty tired to-night.”

“Why—Aun’ Rose,” Missie faltered.

“Oh, you mek surprise, enty? You t’ink you kin go an’ dress you’se’f up, an’ stan’ ’roun’ an’ look at de moon, while me an’ Killdee duh wuk.”

“I ain’ dress’ up, Aun’ Rose. I been so dirty—my dress been wet at I scour.”

“Mighty strange how I haffer keep on my same one. You kin go put on clean one,” Rose snapped.

Missie’s fingers felt the rough cloth of the dress she wore. What Rose said was true. She had put on a clean one when she finished scouring. The one she had on was wet and soiled. She had greased the harness and that made it worse. She had put on a clean one. And Rose had on the same one she had worn all the week. Rose was provoked about it.

“Aun’ Rose—I—I ain’——” Missie tried to explain, but there was nothing to say. There was no excuse. She felt sick inside that Rose could not understand.

“You could ’a’ gone an’ put een feed good ez Killdee. You could do ’em eby night good ez him. You could tek de mule to de branch fo’ drink. But no. You rudder go dress up. An’ stan’ een de do’. An’ watch me an’ him. Me an’ Killdee could wuk finger to de bone! Wha’ you keer?”

Rose poured the batter of meal and water on the hissing hot griddle. She took pains to scrape every bit from the sides of the pan. She smoothed it over the top with the big, iron spoon. Missie saw that the spoon was unsteady. Holding the empty pan and the spoon out to Missie, she said, without looking up:

“Heah! Tek dese an’ wash ’em!”

Missie took them and went slowly to the shelf where three galvanized water buckets stood in a row full to the top with water. Keeping these full was part of her work. With one on her head and one in each hand, she had learned to come up the hill from the spring with them full, almost as easily as she went down with them empty.

Her heart felt troubled. She hardly thought what she was doing as she took the gourd dipper from the nail where it hung beside the buckets and poured water into the pan. Rose watched her. Then suddenly railed:

“You can’ wash nuttin’ clean wid col’ water! Much times ez I don tol’ you! Gi’ ’em heah to me!”

Rose reached for the pan.

“No,” said Missie, holding it back. “No, Aun’ Rose, I kin wash ’em. I was des a-rinsin’ ’em. We mos’ always wait tell mawnin’ fo’ wash de supper t’ings good. I kin wash ’em now.”

She went to the hearth where the big, black iron kettle sat breathing steam from its spout. She poured hot water into the pan and began stirring it around. Rose dropped a knife on the door. China plates in her hands rattled against each other.

“Aun’ Rose——” Missie hesitated, “you set down an’ lemme fix Killdee’s supper. I ain’ offer fo’ do ’em-by-it seem lak you would rudder—do ’em you’se’f—— You know I be’s glad when I kin he’p you—or eeder him——”

Missie’s words trailed slower and slower, for she saw the expression on Rose’s face. Hard. Angry. Missie felt like crying, yet she waited for Rose’s answer.

“Ki!” Rose sneered. The water in the kettle simmered loud.

“How you mean ’Ki,’ Aun’ Rose?” Missie was distressed.

“I mean ’em des lak I say ’em,” Rose retorted.

“I mean ’em des lak e soun’. You know ef you had-a respec’ fo’ me, you’d be cookin’ de supper now. Ef you keered ’bout Killdee, you’d ’a’ been out yonder een de bahnyahd a-puttin’ up de mule—an’ feedin’ ’em.—No! You gone dress up! Dress up so nobody can’ call on you to do nuttin’.”

“I is keer ’bout Killdee. ’Bout you too, Aun’ Rose. Yinner’s all de mammy and daddy I got. Dey ain’ nuttin’ I wouldn’ do fo’ Killdee—nuttin’——” Missie could hardly talk.

“Talk you’ sweet-mout’ talk to Killdee. ’E’ll b’lieb anyt’ing. But you can’ fool me. No! I know you don’ keer nuttin’ ’bout ’em. You des keer ’bout dem t’ing Killdee buy fo’ you. I know!”

Rose was putting a dish on the little bare pine table in the middle of the room. It fell with a crash and shattered into white bits all over the floor.

“Lemme git ’em up, Aun’ Rose——” Missie said quickly. She dropped to her knees and began picking up the broken pieces.

“No! Don’ tech ’em! I’m tired tell I’m pure trim’lin’. Da’s how-come I drap da dish. Keep you’ han’ offen ’em! You pick flowers an’ cut paper lambrekin all day. You heah Killdee comin’. You wan’ mek out you duh wuk. No. Git up off de flo’! Git up!”

Missie got to her feet slowly. What was the matter with Rose? She must be sick.

Rose picked up the broken pieces and tossed them into the fire. Then she got a knife to turn over the hoe-cake baking there on the griddle. It was burnt black. The smoke from it stung her eyes. Tears sprung, kindled with anger.

“Look at dis! Look!” she said furiously. “Bu’n up! De bread fo’ Killdee’s supper! Bu’n up! Bu’n up!”

The knife in her fat hand trembled. Her short fingers tightened on its handle.

“I reckon nobody didn’ tol’ you fo’ watch de bread, enty?”

Missie felt queer inside. Rose had often scolded her, but never like this before.

“Aun’ Rose,” she said humbly, “I too sorry—I would ’a’ watch de bread—I des’ fo’git—I des——”

“Shet you’ mout’, gal! You mek me too cross! Go git een de shed-room whe’ my eye can’ see you. Respec’! Respec’! You ain’ got a respec’ fo’ nobody. Go!”

Rose was in a rage.

“But, Aun’ Rose——” Rose did not hear the appeal in Missie’s voice.

“Go, I tell you!” she screamed. “Before my han’ slap you! You le’ Killdee’s bread bu’n up! You don’ keer nuttin’ ’bout ’em! No! I gwine tell ’em so, too!”

“But I is keer ’bout ’em, Aun’ Rose. You couldn’t tell ’em I don’——” Missie protested sorrowfully. “Aun’ Rose——”

Missie was miserable.

“Aun’ Rose——”

Rose scraped the charred crust off the bread and did not answer.

“Aun’ Rose—ef you tell Killdee—I ain’ keer ’bout ’em—you tell somet’ing ain’ so——”

Rose lifted narrowed eyes to look at her.

“You mean to call me a lie, gal? Tell me dat!”

“No’m—but ef you tell Killdee——”

Rose got up and faced her there in the shed-room door.

“Well, I gwine tell ’em, heah? I gwine tell ’em soon’s ’e come. I gwine tell ’em you talk impident talk to me! Soon’s ’e come! Ef I wasn’t a good ’oman I’d kill you right now!”

“Aun’ Rose,”—Missie stopped crying. She met Rose’s eyes without flinching. She spoke firmly. Distinctly.

“Ef you tell Killdee dat, you is a lie.”

Her little figure seemed to heighten. Killdee was coming up the steps. Rose heard him and raised her voice.

“Killdee, dis gal call me a lie! You heah ’em?”

She began crying hysterically.

“I try fo mek em do right! You heah em? E call me lie! Lie! E t’ink you gwine side wid em! E t’ink you gwine uphold em agains’ me!”

“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, wha’ is dis?” Killdee asked. He was shocked. Astonished.

“Who you call lie, Missie?”

“You heah wha’ e say, enty, Killdee?” Rose quavered. “I glad you come een time fo’ heah em. You wouldn’ a’ b’lieb’ me. Not lessen you heah em——”

“Wha’ you mean by sich a talk, Missie?” Killdee was looking straight at her. “You mek me feel ’shame’. You would say sich a t’ing.”

Missie’s knees trembled under her.

“I decla’ to Gawd!” Killdee lamented.

Missie stood silent with her head down.

“No! E ain’ shame! E ain’t got no shame!” Rose sobbed violently.

“You haffer beg Rose pardon, Missie. You is, enty?” Killdee asked her. He couldn’t bear to be hard on her.

Missie lifted great, wet eyes and looked at him. She shook her head. She couldn’t do it. Killdee did not understand.

“No, Killdee. No. Aun’ Rose ain’ talkin’ straight. No. E know good too, e ain’ tellin’ you wha’ I say to em.”

She looked at Rose and waited. Rose would have to tell him.

“Listen at em, Killdee,” Rose wailed. “E duh talk sassy talk to me now.”

Missie held still. Surprised. Rose was willing to let Killdee believe what was not so. Rose was not ashamed to stand there and let a lie stand for the truth. A lie!

Killdee’s eyes flashed with anger. He took a step forward.

“Look-a at me, Missie. You dassn’t to talk sassy to Rose!” He came still nearer. “You would call Rose a lie, too? Me an’ Rose is been too easy on you. Da’s de trouble. Da’s how-come you pass lie so glib on you’ tongue! I ain’ lay my han’ on you yet een my life, gal. But, befo’ Gawd, ef you don’t tek back wha’ you call Rose, I’m gwine lick you to-night! Lie? Lie? I’ll show you how fo’ call people lie. I’m gwine lick you.”

He did not wait for Missie to answer him. He jerked the new harness down from its peg on the wall. He fumbled and tugged and pulled at the oiled pieces of leather.

What was Killdee doing? Missie’s heart quivered with terror. She shivered, for Killdee was holding up one thick leather trace. He looked at it, then dropped it. Dark thin streaks of grease marked the floor. Killdee kept fumbling until he selected one of the holding-back straps. He unbuckled this from the harness and, with it clutched in one tense hand, came toward her.

She was sure now what he meant to do. He was going to beat her. Beat her! Her mouth felt dry. Icy chills went down her spine. Killdee was going to beat her with that strap in his hand.

She tried to say something. To tell him. But her lips were stiff. They would not move.

Killdee stood glaring at her and the black leather strap shook in his grasp.

“Come heah, gal!” he said sternly, “I gwine l’a’n you some manners to-night.”

Missie seemed somehow unable to move. She took one step forward. Tottering. Uncertain. What was she to do? Killdee mistrusted her.

“What de matter ail you? Ain’ you heah me say ’Come heah’?”

He seized her by the shoulder. The grip of his fingers hurt. They were set on ruling her. Crushing her. Each one of them. Hard. Cruel. Galling.

They needn’t tighten like that. She wouldn’t try to get away. No. She’d stand still. Let him beat her if he wanted to do it. Yes, beat her. And she had thought he was her friend. That he loved her. And he didn’t even believe what she said.

 

Killdee’s breath labored. Blood beat in his ears. He’d teach this girl a lesson. One she’d never forget. He’d show her he was master in this house. Rose was watching. She’d see that he’d give Missie her due.

Bright drops glittered on Missie’s lashes. Her soft lips began trembling in a pitiful, helpless way. The dimple in her chin came and went. It seemed to beg for tenderness, gentleness.

Killdee had made up his mind. He would not be changed. He would do what he started to do.

He clutched the slight shoulder tighter. Its thin, narrow blade moved a little under his taut fingers. His hand holding the strap with resolute steadiness began faltering. It shook. It let go. For a soft, wet cheek was pressed close against it.

The strap fell to the floor. Its shiny buckle made a dull, flat thump. The length of leather twisted over and lay still.

Missie staggered a little. She closed her eyes and put up a hand to her forehead.

Killdee turned away. He couldn’t bear to look at her again. As he hurried out of the door, Rose gleeked a scornful “Chicken heart” at him, but he hardly heard what she said for his blood drummed thick in his ears.

He stumbled out into the night and walked blindly across the moon-lit fields. The warm breath of them filled with the scent of plum-blossoms was disturbing. Smothering. Like the heated air in his cabin. He longed for a breath that was cool and clear. It would help him to think.

What was he to do—What? He had to face things. He couldn’t run away—not from Missie. Not now. She needed him more than ever. And he needed her. Yes, needed her—

He was caught in a trap. Caught fast. How could he ever get loose? Deep down in his heart, did he want to get loose? He was not sure.

Voices of the singers at Meeting in the Quarter floated over the fields and blent with his throbbing pulses.

He knew the singers and the words and the mournful tune well, but to-night all of them seemed strange. Different. He stopped to listen.

People singing to God. Asking for help. How far away they seemed. As far as those faint stars in the glowing sky. As far as God. He was alone in the night.

Something in his heart answered the singers.

“Joy can’ las’ always needer. You sing about trouble. I’m gwine take one joy whilst I kin.”

THE END

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