Bypaths In Dixie Part 23

"Dey kin put der haid on de groun', an' make der cross mark, I reckin."

"Where was Miss Queen Bee; you left her out?"

"Miss Queen lef' herse'f out, she say she feer'd her rumaticks 'ud git wusser, but dat ain' so--she feer'd sumbody gwine ketch her 'Crismus gif'."

"Did G.o.d fix their eyes like Johnnie Squinch's, so they could see the tree good at night?"

"Whut he got ter do dat fur, son? Ain' you seed de candles dat grows on de een' er ev'y pine tree branch?"

"No, Mammy Phyllis, I haven't," Mary Van insisted upon an explanation.

"Shucks, gal, ain' yer seed dis hyah lit'le light green candle sorter lookin' things comin' out'n de bushy een' er de pine tree branches?"

"Are they candles?" the little girl did not quite remember.

"Whut else is dey ter light up de Lawd's birfday party wid? I'll show yer dem candles de nex' time we goes on Tink'r k.n.o.b. I tell yer whin de Roost'r telerfome: 'Come on ter de Crismus t-r-e-e-,' 'Come on ter de Crismus t-r-e-e-!' dey all comes er tar'in'. Ole man Roost'r, he fly up ter de highes' rock on Tink'r k.n.o.b, an' watch de clouds. Miss Moon, she bus' th'u er big Black bank uv 'em an' tetch off ev'y candle on dat tree--an' ole man Roost'r say, 'Blessed be de L-a-w-d,' an' all de beastes draps on der knees, an' says der pra'rs. Den dey gits up an' ketches one nuth'r Crismus gif', an' den dey gits der pres'nts."

"Mammy, did Ned Dog, an' Lilly Dove, an' Big Eye Buzzard get sumthin'?"

Willis wanted to remember all.

"No," interrupted Mary Van, shaking her finger at Willis. "Mammy said the bad ones couldn't come, and Big Eye was bad."

"Well, I tell yer, dey let Big Eye come an' clean up de sc.r.a.ps fur 'em, 'caze he done name hisse'f Buzzard ergin, an' he wus gittin' long bet'r."

"Mammy, did everyone that was good get something?"

"Not ev'y single one, baby. Hit hap'n dat Sandy Claus make some mouty bad meestakes, ev'y now an' den. Some time he give bad fokes de things de good fokes orter have. You 'memb'rs dem fire crack'rs dat lit'le yaller dog ax us ter take off'n his tail las' Crismus? Well, dat Weed boy's ole bad bull dog gits er heap mo'n him."

"Mammy, let Yellow Doggie come to Mister Tall Pine's Christmas Tree,"

begged Willis.

"He say he ruth'r eat Crismus dinn'r wid Ned Dog. But dar's er heap er yall'r dogs 'mongst fokes I tell yer. Dat po' white 'ooman come beggin'

hyah las' week, wid dat raggity boy tryin' ter hope car'y de po' lit'le ha'f froz' baby. No, Lawd," she shook her head, "dem fokes ruth'r have er piece er corn bread, an' er han'full er fier'n all de Crismus tree yer kin stick at 'em." The mental picture of the woman was still vivid, for she continued: "I speck dat 'ooman got dat quilt yer ma give her, wrop roun'

her right now, squattin' close ter some hot ashes in de fierplace, wid de baby squose up right clost ter her, an' dat boy gittin' clost es he kin ter her und'r de quilt--an' I speck he say,

"'Ma, doan yer wush we had er stockin' ter hang up, so Sandy Claus 'ud bring us sumpin'?'

"I speck his ma hug him tight wid one arm, an' moan, an' moan, an' moan, an' I speck de boy say:

"'Ma, yer reckin' Sandy 'ud give us er piece er bread, ef I wuster go down ter de sto' wind'r an' ax him fur hit?'

"An' I speck his ma jes' keep on er moanin', 'caze she know dat ole sto'

man's Sandy Claus ain' no bett'r'n de sto' man hisse'f.

"He say, 'Ma, yer reck'n May Van an' Willis 'ud lemme look th'u de wind'r at der nice warm fier, an' all der good sump'in' ter eat, an' de purty Crismus tree?'

"An' his ma mos' bus' her heart in two, 'caze she can' do nuthin' but jes'

luv 'im."

"Mammy," trembled the little girl's voice, "why didn't the little boy write to Santy like me and Willis?"

"'Caze he nuv'r had no stamp ter put on de let'r. I tell yer hit takes money ter buy Sandy Claus stamps."

"We just sent ours up the chimbly," refuted Willis.

"Dat boy didn't had ernuf fire ter make his'n go up de chimbly."

"Why didn't his mama ask G.o.d?" half whispered Mary Van, as she laid her head on Phyllis's shoulder.

"Dat po' creetur's moanin' an' groanin' wus er heap loud'r'n enny pra'r she cud pray."

"Couldn't G.o.d hear her?" Willis clutched her by the arm. "Ask G.o.d to lis'n good, Mammy."

"De Lawd know his biznes', baby, bet'r'n we does. Dat 'ooman got ter set dar an' s.h.i.+v'r tell de Lawd git somebody ter het her up ergin."

"Mammy," said Willis, his lips quivering, "le'ss weall take 'em some of our goodies an' things."

Mary Van begged, "Please."

"Dar now!" She placed a hand on each baby head: "De Lawd done he'rd dat po' creet'rs pra'r right now. He want you chillun ter go fix dat po'

'ooman's fier, an' give her sump'n' ter eat, so you won't nuv'r fergit how good He is ter you, an' whin you kicks at de do', an' holl'ers loud, you'll 'member ter fight sin like Tishy Peafowel do."

Her suggestion went to each eager little heart.

"Yas, suh, an' de Lawd say: 'Doanchu both'r no mo', lit'le boy, er ole black mammy comin' roun' hyah terreckly wid er lit'le boy an' gal, an' dey gwina bring all der ole toys, an' some der warm close too, 'long wid some nice vit'als, an' der pa gwine sen' yer some fier, ter make er fier wid.'"

There was no need to lock the nursery door on Christmas Eve afternoon, for Phyllis and two radiant little children were in the rockaway, fairly packed in under the good things they carried to some of the homes Santa didn't know about. And when the happy little boy said his, "Now I lay me"

that night, he asked, "An' please tell Santy not to forget m' goat harness and m' goat, an' m' drum, an' bring Mary Van a harness like my race hoss harness with bells, an' please show Santy the way to all the lit'le poor children's houses, an' give 'em some stamps for their letters, too. An'

please G.o.d tell Santy to hurry up an' come on. Amen."

XVII

AN AFTERWORD

Expressions of regret have reached me that "Bypaths in Dixie" does not open with a tribute in verse to old Mammy. Let me confess I share this regret. It, therefore, occurs to me that the sympathetic readers who have missed "Lines to Mammy" from my little book may be interested in the following faithful account of the author's failure to furnish this tribute to the heroine of these stories. I am, indeed, the more persuaded to offer this personal experience of authors.h.i.+p, because I believe it explains in no mean degree the missing poems from the pages of many women who follow Art for Art's alluring sake along various pleasant byways, but who journey for the most part on the broad highway of a very practical life.

Moreover, those who hold that poets are born, not made, may by the following true story be constrained to add to their creed that born poets may by some circ.u.mstances be unmade.

The poem above referred to was thought of but not until the ma.n.u.script was on the press, hence when the publisher wired "send at once" the would-be poet succ.u.mbed to a nervousness calculated to destroy rather than inspire poetic impulse. A chair from the chimney corner was drawn closer to the fire in hopes that the odor of burning logs might woo a.s.sociation away from radiators back to the old wood-pile, the chip basket, and the lightwood knot. Nor did this simple ruse fail of expectation, for soon the old home took shape in the flames. I could see the heavy green shutters that tempered the summer sun in the nursery, and through these, flung wide, I could look into the high pitched room, big and square, not crowded for all the crib-beds of varying sizes, and Mammy with a child in one arm stumbling over toys to the bedside of a rebellious charge: "Bett'r shet yer eyes 'fo' ole Mist'r Grab All come an' git yer." And so the pencil moved:

In dreams I see thee bending o'er me.

To the old plantation home we rove, Where--

At this moment Aunt Ellen opened the door and waited. Seeing she was unnoticed, she began:

"You ain' tole me er Lawd's thing 'bout dinn'r er bre'kfus, er supp'r."