The Southerner | Page 7

with a jovial welcome.
The Boy stood rooted to the spot and watched until the negro
disappeared. It was the first black man he had ever seen. He had heard
of negroes and that they were slaves. But he had no idea that one
human being could be so different from another.
In breathless awe he asked:
"Is he folks?"
"Of course, Boy," his mother answered, smiling.
"What made him so black?"
"The sun in Africa."
"What made his nose so flat and his lips so thick?"
"He was born that way."
"What made him come here?"
"He didn't. The slave traders put him in chains and brought him across
the sea and sold him into slavery."
The little body suddenly stiffened:
"Why didn't he kill 'em?"
"He didn't know how to defend himself."
"Why don't he run away?"
"He hasn't sense enough, I reckon. He's got a home, plenty to eat and
plenty to wear, and he's afraid he'll be caught and whipped."

The mother had to pull the Boy with her into the quilting room. His
eyes followed the negro to the stable with a strange fascination. The
thing that puzzled him beyond all comprehension was why a big strong
man like that, if he were a man, would submit. Why didn't he fight and
die? A curious feeling of contempt filled his mind. This black thing that
looked like a man, walked like a man and talked like a man couldn't be
one! No real man would grin and laugh and be a slave. The black fool
seemed to be happy. He had not only grinned and laughed, but he went
away whistling and singing.
In three hours the quilts were finished and the men had gathered for the
corn-shucking.
Before eight o'clock the last ear was shucked, and a long white pile of
clean husked corn lay glistening in the moonlight where the dark
pyramid had stood at sunset.
With a shout the men rose, stretched their legs and washed their hands
in the troughs filled with water, provided for the occasion. They sat
down to supper at four long tables placed in the kitchen and work room,
where the quilts had been stretched.
Never had the Boy seen such a feast--barbecued shoat, turkeys, ducks,
chickens, venison, bear meat, sweet potatoes, wild honey, corn dodgers,
wheat biscuit, stickies and pound cake--pound cake until you couldn't
eat another mouthful and still they brought more!
After the supper the young folks sang and danced before the big fires
until ten o'clock, and then the crowd began to thin, and by eleven the
last man was gone and the harvest festival was over.
It was nearly twelve before the Boy knelt at his mother's knee to say his
prayers.
When the last words were spoken he still knelt, his eyes gazing into the
flickering fire.
The mother bent low:

"What are you thinking about, Boy? The house you're going to build
for me?"
"No."
"What?"
"That nigger--wasn't he funny? You don't want me to get you any
niggers with the house do you?"
"No."
"I didn't think you would," he went on thoughtfully, "because you said
General Washington set his slaves free and wanted everybody else to
do it too."
He paused and shook his head thoughtfully. "But he was funny--he was
laughin' and whistlin' and singin'!"
V
The air of the Southern autumn was like wine. The Boy's heart beat
with new life. The scarlet and purple glory of the woods fired his
imagination. He found himself whistling and singing at his tasks. He
proudly showed a bee tree to his mother, the honey was gathered and
safely stored. A barrel of walnuts, a barrel of hickory-nuts and two
bushels of chestnuts were piled near his bed in the loft.
But the day his martins left, he came near breaking down. He saw them
circle high in graceful sweeping curves over the gourds, chattering and
laughing with a strange new note in their cries.
He watched them wistfully. His mother found him looking with shining
eyes far up into the still autumn sky. His voice was weak and unsteady
when he spoke:
"I--can--hardly--hear--'em--now; they're so high!"
A slender hand touched his tangled hair:

"Don't worry, Boy, they'll come again."
"You're sure, Ma?" he asked, pathetically.
"Sure."
"Will they know when it's time?"
"Some one always tells them."
"Who?"
"God. That's what the Bible means when it says, 'the stork knoweth her
appointed time.' I read that to you the other night, don't you
remember?"
"But maybe God'll be so busy he'll forget my birds?"
"He never forgets, he counts the beat of a sparrow's wing."
The mother's faith was contagious. The drooping spirit caught the flash
of light from her eyes and smiled.
"We'll watch for 'em next spring, won't we?