Carolina Chansons Part 6

HAG-HOLLERIN' TIME

Black Julius peered out from the galley fly; Behind Jim Island, lying long and dim; An infra owl-light tinged the twilight sky As if a bonfire burned for cherubim.

Dark orange flames came leering through the pines, And then the moon's face, struggling with a sneeze, Along the flat horizon's level lines Her nostrils fingered with palmetto trees.

Her platinum wand made water wrinkles buckle; Old Julius gave appreciative chuckle; "It's jes about hag-hollerin' time," he said.

I watched the globous buckeyes in his head

Peer back along the b.l.o.o.d.y moon-wash dim To see the fish-tailed water-witches swim.

H.A.

MACABRE IN MACAWS

After the hurricane of the late forties, Peter Polite says, in the live-oak trees Were weird, macabre macaws And ash-colored c.o.c.katoos, blown overseas From Na.s.sau and the West Indies.

These hopped about like dead men's thoughts Among the draggled Spanish moss, Preening themselves, all at a loss, Preening faint _caws_, And shrieking from nostalgia-- With dull screams like a child Born with neuralgia-- And this seems true to me, Fitting the landscape's drab grotesquery.

H.A.

GAMESTERS ALL[7]

The river boat had loitered down its way; The ropes were coiled, and business for the day Was done. The cruel noon closed down And cupped the town.

Stray voices called across the blinding heat, Then drifted off to shadowy retreat Among the sheds.

The waters of the bay Sucked away In tepid swirls, as listless as the day.

Silence closed about me, like a wall, Final and obstinate as death.

Until I longed to break it with a call, Or barter life for one deep, windy breath.

A mellow laugh came rippling Across the stagnant air, Lifting it into little waves of life.

Then, true and clear, I caught a s.n.a.t.c.h of harmony; Sure lilting tenor, and a drowsing ba.s.s, Elusive chords to weave and interlace, And poignant little minors, broken short, Like robins calling June-- And then the tune: "Oh, n.o.body knows when de Lord is goin ter call, _Roll dem bones_.

It may be in de Winter time, and maybe in de Fall, _Roll dem bones_.

But yer got ter leabe yer baby an yer home an all-- _So roll dem bones_, Oh my brudder, Oh my brudder, Oh my brudder, _Roll dem bones!_"

There they squatted, gambling away Their meagre pay; Fatalists all.

I heard the muted fall Of dice, then the a.s.sured, Retrieving sweep of hand on roughened board.

I thought it good to see Four lives so free From care, so indolently sure of each tomorrow, And hearts attuned to sing away a sorrow.

Then, like a shot Out of the hot Still air, I heard a call: "Throw up your hands! I've got you all!

It's thirty days for c.r.a.ps.

Come, Tony, Paul!

Now, Joe, don't be a fool!

I've got you cool."

I saw Joe's eyes, and knew he'd never go.

Not Joe, the swiftest hand in River Bow!

Springing from where he sat, straight, cleanly made, He soared, a leaping shadow from the shade With fifty feet to go.

It was the stiffest hand he ever played.

To win the corner meant Deep, sweet content Among his laughing kind; To lose, to suffer blind, Degrading slavery upon "the gang,"

With killing suns, and fever-ridden nights Behind relentless bars Of prison cars.

He hung a breathless second in the sun, The staring road before him. Then, like one Who stakes his all, and has a gamester's heart, His laughter flashed.

He lunged--I gave a start.

G.o.d! What a man!

The ma.s.sive shoulders hunched, and as he ran With head bent low, and splendid length of limb, I almost felt the beat Of pa.s.sionate life that surged in him And winged his spurning feet.

And then my eyes went dim.

The Marshal's gun was out.

I saw the grim Short barrel, and his face Aflame with the excitement of the chase.

He was an honest sportsman, as they go.

He never shot a doe, Or spotted fawn, Or partridge on the ground.

And, as for Joe, He'd wait until he had a yard to go.

Then, if he missed, he'd laugh and call it square.

My gaze leapt to the corner--waited there.

And now an arm would reach it. I saw hope flare Across the runner's face.

Then, like a pang In my own heart, The pistol rang.

The form I watched soared forward, spun the curve.

"By G.o.d, you've missed!"

The Marshal shook his head.

No, there he lay, face downward in the road.

"I reckon he was dead Before he hit the ground,"

The Marshal said.

"Just once, at fifty feet, A moving target too.

That's just about as good As any man could do!

A little tough; But, since he ran, I call it fair enough."

He mopped his head, and started down the road.

The silence eddied round him, turned and flowed Slowly back and pressed against the ears.

Until unnumbered flies set it to droning, And, down the heat, I heard a woman moaning.

D.H.

[7] "Contemporary Verse," prize poem for 1921.