THE HUMBLE PETITION
Billy, sitting in an old buggy in front of the livery stable, had just engaged in a long and interesting conversation with Sam Lamb.
He was getting out of the vehicle when the sharp wire around a broken rod caught in the back of his trousers and tore a great hole. He felt a tingling pain and looked over his shoulder to investigate. Not being satisfied with the result, he turned his back to the negro and anxiously enquired, “Is my breeches tore, Sam?”
“Dey am dat,” was the reply, “dey am busted Fm Dan ter Beersheba.”
“What I goin' to do 'bout it?” asked the little boy, “Aunt Minerva sho' will be mad. These here's branspankin' new trousers what I ain't never wore tell today. Ain't you got a needle an' thread so's you can fix 'em. Sam?”
“Nary er needle,” said Sam Lamb.
“Is my union suit tore, too?” and Billy again turned his back for inspection.
His friend made a close examination.
“Yo' unions is injured plum scanerous,” was his discouraging decision, “and hit 'pears ter me dat yo' hide done suffer too; you's got er turrible scratch.”
The child sighed. The injury to the flesh was of small importance,—he could hide that from his aunt—but the rent in his trousers was a serious matter.
“I wish I could git 'em mended 'fore I goes home,” he said wistfully.
“I tell you what do,” suggested Sam, “I 'low Miss Cecilia'll holp yeh; jest go by her house an' she'll darn 'em up fer yuh.”
Billy hesitated.
“Well, you see, Sam, me an' Miss Cecilia's engaged an' we's fixin' to marry jes' 's soon's I puts on long pants, an' I 'shame' to ask her. An' I don't berlieve young 'omans patches the breeches of young mans what they's goin' to marry nohow. Do you? Aunt Minerva ain' never patched no breeches for the Major. And then,” with a modest blush, “my unions is tore too, an' I ain't got on nothin' else to hide my skin.”
Again he turned his back to his friend and, his clouded little face looking over his shoulder, he asked, “Do my meat show, Sam?”
“She am visible ter the naked eye,” and Sam Lamb laughed loudly at his own wit.
“I don't believe God pays me much attention nohow,” said the little boy dolefully; “ev'y day I gets put to bed 'cause sumpin's all time a-happenin'. If He'd had a eye on me like He oughter they wouldn't a been no snaggin'. Aunt Minerva's goin' to be mad th'oo an' th'oo.”
“May be my of 'oman can fix 'em, so's dey won't be so turrible bad,” suggested the negro, “'taint fer, so you jes' run down ter my cabin an' tell Sukey I say fix dem breeches.”
The child needed no second bidding,—he fairly flew. Sam's wife was cooking, but she cheerfully stopped her work to help the little boy. She sewed up his union suit and put a bright blue patch on his brown linen breeches.
Billy felt a little more cheerful, though he still dreaded confessing to his aunt and he loitered along the way till it was nearly dark. Supper was ready when he got home and he walked into the diningroom with his customary ease and grace. But he took his seat uneasily, and he was so quiet during the meal and ate so little that his aunt asked him if he were sick. He was planning in his mind how to break the news of the day's disaster to her.
“You are improving, William,” she remarked presently, “you haven't got into any mischief to-day. You have been a mighty good little boy now for two days.”
Billy flushed at the compliment and shifted uneasily in his seat. That patch seemed to burn him.
“If God'd jest do His part,” he said darkly, “I wouldn't never git in no meanness.”
After supper Miss Minerva washed the dishes in the kitchen sink and Billy carried them back to the dining-room. His aunt caught him several times prancing sideways in the most idiotic manner. He was making a valiant effort to keep from exposing his rear elevation to her; once he had to walk backward.
“William,” she said sharply, “you will break my plates. What is the matter with you to-night?”
A little later they were sitting quietly in Miss Minerva's room. She was reading “The Christian at Home,” and he was absently looking at a picture book.
“Sam Lamb's wife Sukey sho' is a beautiful patcher,” he remarked, feeling his way.
She made no answering comment, and the discouraged little boy was silent for a few minutes. He had worn Aunt Cindy's many-colored patches too often to be ashamed of this one for himself, but he felt that he would like to draw his aunt out and find how she stood on the subject of patches.
“Aunt Minerva,” he presently asked, “what sorter patches 'd you ruther wear on yo' pants, blue patches or brown?”
“On my what?” she asked, looking at him severely over her paper.
“I mean if you's me,” he hastily explained. “Don't you think blue patches is the mos' nat'ral lookin'?”
“What are you driving at, William?” she asked; but without waiting for his answer she went on with her reading.
The child was silent for a long time, his little mind busy, then he began, “Aunt Minerva?”
She peered at him over her glasses a second, then dropped her eyes to the paper where an interesting article on Foreign Missions held her attention.
“Aunt Minerva, I snagged—Aunt Minerva, I snagged my—my skin, to-day.”
“Let me see the place,” she said absently, her eyes glued to a paragraph describing a cannibal feast.
“I's a-settin' on it right now,” he replied.
Another long silence ensued. Billy resolved to settle the matter.
“I's gettin' sleepy,” he yawned. “Aunt Minerva, I wants to say my prayers and go to bed.”
She laid her paper down and he dropped to his knees by her side. He usually sprawled all over her lap during his lengthy devotions, but to-night he clasped his little hands and reared back like a rabbit on its haunches.
After he had rapidly repeated the Lord's prayer, which he had recently learned, and had invoked blessings on all his new friends and never-to-be-forgotten old ones, he concluded with:
“An', O Lord, You done kep' me f'om meddlin' with Aunt Minerva's hose any mo', an' you done kep' me f'om gittin' any mo' Easter eggs, an' playin' any mo' Injun, an' You done kep' me f'om lettin' Mr. Algernon Jones come ag'in, an' now, O Lord, please don't lemme worry the very 'zistence outer Aunt Minerva any mo' 'n You can help, like she said I done this mornin,' an' please, if Thy will be done, don't lemme tear the next new breeches what she'll gimme like I done ruint thesehere what I got on.”
A GREEN-EYED BILLY
“Have some candy?” said Miss Cecilia, offering a big box of bonbons to Billy, who was visiting her.
“Where 'd you git 'em?” he asked, as he helped himself generously.
“Maurice sent them to me this morning.”
Billy put all his candy back into the box.
“I don't believe I wants noner yo' candy,” he said, scowling darkly. “I reckon you likes him better 'n me anyhow, don't you?”
“I love you dearly,” she replied.
The child stood in front of her and looked her squarely in the eye. His little form was drawn to its full, proud height, his soft, fair cheeks were flushed, his big, beautiful, grey eyes looked somber and sad.
“Is you in love with that red-headed Maurice Richmond an' jes' a-foolin' o' me?” he asked with dignity.
A bright flush dyed crimson the young lady's pretty face.
She put her arm around the childish, graceful figure and drew the little boy to the sofa beside her.
“Now, honey, you mustn't be silly,” she said gently, “you are my own, dear, little sweetheart.”
“An' I reckon he's yo' own, dear, big sweetheart,” said the jealous Billy. “Well, all I got to say is thishere; if he's a-goin' to come to see you ev'y day then I ain't never comin' no mo'. He's been acarryin' on his foolishness 'bout 's long as I can stand it. You got to chose 'tween us right this minute; he come down here mos' ev'y day, he's tuck you drivin' more'n fifty hundred times, an' he's give you all the candy you can stuff.”
“He is not the only one who comes to see me,” she said smiling down at him. “Jimmy comes often and Len Hamner and Will Reid. Don't you want them to come?”
“Don't nobody pay no 'tention to Jimmy,” he replied contemptuously; “he ain't nothin' but a baby, an' them other mens can come if you wants 'em to; but,” said Billy, with a lover's unerring intuition, “I ain't a-goin' to stand fer that long-legged, sorrel-top Maurice Richmond a-trottin' his great big carkiss down here ev'y minute. I wish Aunt Minerva 'd let me put on long pants to-morrer so 's we could git married.” He caught sight of a new ring sparkling on her finger.
“Who give you that ring?” he asked sharply.
“A little bird brought it to me,” she said, trying to speak gayly, and blushing again.
“A big, red-headed peckerwood,” said Billy savagely.
“Maurice loves you, too,”—she hoped to conciliate him; “he says you are the brightest kid in town.”
“Kid,” was the scornful echo, “'cause he's so big and tall, he's got to call me a kid. Well, he'd jes' awasting' hi'self lovin' me; I don't like him an' I ain't agoin' to never like him an' soon's I puts on long pants he's goin' to get 'bout the worses' lickin' he ever did see.
“Say, does you kiss him like you does me?” he asked presently, looking up at her with serious, unsmiling face.
She hid her embarrassment in a laugh.
“Don't be foolish, Billy,” she replied.
“I'll bet he's kissed you more 'n fifty hunderd times.”
“There's Jimmy whistling for you,” said Miss Cecilia. “How do you two boys make that peculiar whistle? I would recognize it anywhere.”
“Is he ever kiss you yet?” asked the child.
“I heard that you and Jimmy whipped Ed Brown because he imitated your own particular whistle. Did you?”
“How many times is he kiss you?” asked Billy.
The young girl put her arm around him and tried to nestle his little body against her own.
“I'm too big, anyway, for your real sweetheart,” she said. “Why, by the time you are large enough to marry I should be an old maid. You must have Frances or Lina for your sweetheart.”
“An' let you have Maurice!” he sneered.
She stooped to lay her flushed cheek against his own.
“Honey,” she softly said, “Maurice and I are going to be married soon; I love him very much and I want you to love him too.”
He pushed her roughly from him.
“An' you jes' 'ceived me all the time,” he cried, “an' me a-lovin' you better 'n anybody I ever see sence I's born? An' you a Sunday-School teacher? I ain't never a-goin' to trus' nobody no mo'. Good-bye, Miss Cecilia.”
She caught his hand and held it fast; “I want you and Jimmy to be my little pages at the wedding, and wear dear little white satin suits all trimmed with gold braid,” she tried to be enthusiastic and arouse his interest; “and Lina and Frances can be little flower-girls and we'll have such a beautiful wedding.”
“Jimmy an' Lina an' Frances can be all the pages an' flower-girls an' brides an' grooms they wants to, but you can't rope me in,” he scornfully replied. “I's done with you an' I ain't never goin' to have me no mo' sweetheart long's I live.”
CLOSER THAN A BROTHER
It was a bad, rainy day. Jimmy and Billy were playing in Sarah Jane's cabin, she, however, being in happy ignorance of the fact. Her large stays, worn to the preaching the night before, were hanging on the back of a chair. “Ain't I glad I don' have to wear no corset when I puts on long pants?” remarked Billy, pointing to the article. “Ain't that a big one? It's twice's big's Aunt Minerva's.”
“My mama wears a big co'set, too,” said Jimmy; “I like fat womans 'nother sight better 'n lean ones. Miss Minerva's 'bout the skinniest woman they is; when I get married I'm going to pick me out the fattest wife I can find, so when you set in her lap at night for her to rock you to sleep you'll have a soft place to put your head, while she sings to you.”
“The Major—he's mos' plump enough for two,” said Billy, taking down the stays and trying to hook them around him.
“It sho' is big,” he said; “I berlieve it's big 'nough to go 'round both of us.”
“Le's see if 'tain't,” was the other boy's ready suggestion.
He stood behind Billy and they put the stays around both little bodies, while, with much squeezing and giggling, Billy hooked them safely up the front. The boys got in front of Sarah Jane's one looking-glass and danced about laughing with glee.
“We're like the twinses what was growed together like mama read me 'bout,” declared the younger child.
Presently they began to feel uncomfortable, especially Jimmy, whose fat, round little middle was tightly compressed.
“Here, unhook this thing, Billy, and le's take her off,” he said. “I'm 'bout to pop open.”
“All right,” agreed his companion.
He tugged and pulled, but could get only the top and bottom hooks unclasped; the middle ones refused to budge.
“I can't get these-here hooks to come loose,” Billy said.
Jimmy put his short, fat arms around him and tried his hand, but with no better success. The stays were such a snug fit that the hooks seemed glued.
“We sho' is in a fix,” said Billy gloomily; “look like God all time lettin' us git in trouble.”
“You think of more fool stunts to do, William Hill, than any boy they is,” cried the other; “you all time want to get us hooked up in Sarah Jane's corset and you all time can't get nobody loose. What you want to get us hooked up in this thing for?”
“You done it yo'self,” defended the boy in front with rising passion. “Squeeze in, Jimmy; we jes' boun' to git outer this 'fore somebody finds it out.”
He backed the other child close to the wall and pressed so hard against him that Jimmy screamed aloud and began to pound him on the head with his chubby fists.
Billy would not submit tamely to any such treatment. He reached his hand behind him and gave the smaller boy's cheek a merciless pinch. The fight was on. The two little boys, laced up tightly as they were in a stout pair of stays, pinched and scratched, and kicked and jerked. Suddenly Billy, leaning heavily against Jimmy, threw him flat on his back and fell on top of him.
Bennie Dick, sitting on the floor, had up to this time watched the proceedings with an interested eye; now, thinking murder was being committed, he opened his big, red mouth and emitted a howl that could be heard half a mile. It immediately brought his mother to the open door. When she saw the children squirming on the floor in her only corset, her indignation knew no bounds.
“You, Jimmy Garner, an' you, too, William Hill, yuh little imps o' Satan, what you doin' in my house? didn't yo' mammy tell you not to tamper wid me no mo'? Git up an' come here an' lemme git my co'set off o' yuh.”
Angry as she was she could not keep from laughing at the sight they presented, as, with no gentle hand, she unclasped the hooks and released their imprisoned bodies.
“Billy all time—” began Jimmy.
“Billy all time nothin,” said Sarah Jane, “'tain't no use fo' to try to lay dis-here co'set business onto Billy; both o' yuh is ekally in it. An' me a-aimin' fo' to go to three fun'els dis week an' a baptizin' on Sunday. S'pose y' all'd bruck one o' de splints, how'd I look a-presidin' at a fun'el 'thout nare co'set on, an' me shape' like what I is?”
“Who's dead, Sarah Jane?” asked Jimmy, hoping to stem the torrent of her wrath.
“Sis' Mary Ellen's las' husban', Brudder Littlejohn—dat 's a-who,” she replied, somewhat mollified at his interest.
“When did he die?”—Jimmy pursued his advantage.
“He got 'way f'om here 'bout moon-down las' night,” she replied, losing sight of her grievance in his flattering interrogations. “You know Sis' Littlejohn, she been married goin' on five times. Dis-here'll make fo' gentlemans she done buriet an' dey ain't nobody can manage a fun'el like she kin; 'pears like hit jes' come natchel to her. She sho' is done a good part by eb'ry single husban' too, an' she's figgerin' to outdo all the yuthers wid Brudder Littlejohn's co'pse.” Sarah Jane almost forgot her little audience in her intense absorption of her subject. “She say to me dis mornin', she say, 'Marri'ge am a lott'ry, Sis Beddinfiel', but I sho' is drawed some han'some prizes. 'She got 'em all laid out side by side in de buryin' groun' wid er little imige on ebry grabe; an', 'Sis Mary Ellen, seein' as she can't read de writin' on de tombstones, she got a diff'unt little animal asettin' on eb'ry head res' so's she kin tell which husban' am which. Her fus' husban' were all time ahuntin', so she got a little white marble pa'tridge arestin' on he' head, an' hit am a mighty consolement to a po' widda 'oman fo' to know dat she can tell de very minute her eyes light on er grabe which husban' hit am. Her secon' man he got er mighty kinky, woolly head an' he mighty meek, so she got a little white lamb a-settin' on he grabe; an' de nex husban' he didn't have nothin' much fo' to disgueese him f'om de res' 'cep'in' he so slow an' she might nigh rack her brain off, twell she happen to think 'bout him bein' a Hardshell Baptis' an' so powerful slow, so she jest got a little tarrapim an' sot it on him. Hit sho' am a pretty sight jes' to go in dat buryin' groun' an' look at 'em all, side by side; an' now she got Brudder Littlejohn to add to de res'. He de onliest one what's got er patch o' whiskers so she gwine to put a little white cat on he' grabe. Yes, Lord, ef anythink could pearten' a widda 'oman hit would be jes' to know dat yuh could go to de grabeyard any time yuh want to an' look at dat han'some c'llection an' tell 'zactly which am which.”
Sarah Jane stopped for breath and Billy hastened to inquire,
“Who else is dead, Sarah Jane?”
“'Tain't nobody else dead, yit, as I knows on, but my two cousins is turrible low; one's got a hemrage on de lung an' de yuther's got a congestin' on de brain, an' I 'lows dey'll bofe drap off 'twix' now an' sun-up to-morra.” Her eyes rolled around and happened to light on her corset. She at once returned to her grievance.
“An' sposin' I hadn't 'av' came in here when I did? I'd 'a' had to went to my own cousins' fun'el 'thout nare co'set. Y' all gotta go right to y' all's mamas an' Miss Minerva dis very minute. I low dey'll settle yo' hashes. Don't y' all know dat Larroes ketch meddlers?”
TWINS AND A SISSY
Mrs. Hamilton and Mrs. Black were sitting on Miss Minerva's veranda talking to her, and Lira and Frances were in the swing with Billy.
The attraction proved too great for Jimmy; he impolitely left a disconsolate little visitor sitting on his own porch while he jumped the fence and joined the other children.
“Don't you all wish you could see Mrs. Brown's new twinses?” was his greeting as he took his seat by Billy.
“Where'd she get 'em?” asked Frances.
“Doctor Sanford tooken 'em to her last night.”
“He muster found 'em in a holler stump,” remarked Billy. “I knows, 'cause that's where Doctor Shacklefoot finds aller of Aunt Blue-Gum Tempy's Peruny Pearline's, an' me an' Wilkes Booth Lincoln been lookin' in evy holler stump we see ever sence we's born, an' we ain't never foun' no baby 't all, 'cause can't nobody but jes' doctors fin' 'em. I wish he'd a-give 'em to Aunt Minerva 'stidder Mrs. Brown.”
“I wish he'd bringed 'em to my mama,” said Frances.
“I certainly do think he might have given them to us,” declared Lina, “and I'm going to tell him so, too. As much money as father has paid him for doctor's bills and as much old, mean medicine as I have taken just to 'commodate him; then he gives babies to everybody but us.”
“I'm awful glad he never give 'em to my mama,” said Jimmy, “'cause I never could had no more fun; they'd be stuck right under my nose all time, and all time put their mouth in everything you want to do, and all time meddling. You can't fool me 'bout twinses. But I wish I could see 'em! They so weakly they got to be hatched in a nincubator.”
“What's that?” questioned Frances.
“That's a someping what you hatches chickens and babies in when they's delicate, and ain't got 'nough breath and ain't got they eyes open and ain't got no feathers on,” explained Jimmy.
“Reckon we can see 'em?” she asked.
“See nothing!” sniffed the little boy. “Ever sence Billy let Mr. Algernon Jones whack Miss Minerva's beau we can't do nothing at all 'thout grown folks 'r' stuck right under your nose. I'm jes' cramped to death.”
“When I'm a mama,” mused Frances, “I hope Doctor Sanford'll bring me three little twinses, and two Maltese kittens, and a little Japanee, and a monkey, and a parrit.”
“When I'm a papa,” said Jimmy, “I don' want no babies at all, all they's good for is jus' to set 'round and yell.”
“Look like God 'd sho' be busy a-makin' so many babies,” remarked Billy.
“Why, God don' have none 'a the trouble,” explained Jimmy. “He's just got Him a baby factory in Heaven like the chair factory and the canning factory down by the railroad, and angels jus' all time make they arms and legs, like niggers do at the chair factory, and all God got to do is jus' glue 'em together, and stick in their souls. God's got 'bout the easiest job they is.”
“I thought angels jes' clam' the golden stair and play they harps,” said Billy.
“Ain't we going to look sweet at Miss Cecilia's wedding,” said Frances, after a short silence.
“I'll betcher I'll be the cutest kid in that church,” boasted Jimmy conceitedly. “You coming, ain't you, Billy?”
“I gotter go,” answered that jilted swain, gloomily, “Aunt Minerva ain't got nobody to leave me with at home. I jes' wish she'd git married.”
“Why wouldn't you be a page, Billy?” asked Lina.
“'Cause I didn't hafto,” was the snappish reply.
“I bet my mama give her the finest present they is,” bragged the smaller boy; “I reckon it cost 'bout a million dollars.”
“Mother gave her a handsome cut-glass vase,” said Lina.
“It looks like Doctor Sanford would've give Miss Cecilia those twinses for a wedding present,” said Frances.
“Who is that little boy sitting on your porch, Jimmy?” asked Lina, noticing for the first time a lonely-looking child.
“That's Leon Tipton, Aunt Ella's little boy. He just come out from Memphis to spend the day with me and I'll be awful glad when he goes home; he's 'bout the stuck-up-est kid they is, and skeery? He's 'bout the 'fraidest young un ever you see. And look at him now? Wears long curls like a girl and don't want to never get his clean clo'es dirty.”
“I think he's a beautiful little boy,” championed Lina. “Call him over here, Jimmy.”
“Naw, I don't want to. You all'll like him a heap better over there; he's one o' these-here kids what the furder you get 'way from 'em, the better you like 'em.”
“He sho' do look lonesome,” said Billy; “'vite him over, Jimmy.”
“Leon!” screamed his cousin, “you can come over here if you wantta.”
The lonesome-looking little boy promptly accepted the invitation, and came primly through the two gates. He walked proudly to the swing and stood, cap in hand, waiting for an introduction.
“Why didn't you clam' the fence, 'stead of coming th'oo the gates?” growled Jimmy. “You 'bout the prissiest boy they is. Well, why don't you set down?”
“Introduce me, please,” said the elegant little city boy.
“Interduce your grandma's pussy cats,” mocked Jimmy. “Set down, I tell you.”
Frances and Lina made room for him between them and soon gave him their undivided attention, to the intense envy and disgust of the other two little boys.
“I am Lina Hamilton,” said the little girl on his right.
“And I'm Frances Black, and Jimmy ought to be 'shamed to treat you like he does.”
“I knows a turrible skeery tale,” remarked a malicious Billy, looking at Lina and Frances. “If y' all wa'n't girls I 'd tell it to you.”
“We aren't any more scared 'n you, William Hill,” cried Frances, her interest at once aroused; “I already know 'bout 'raw meat and bloody bones' and nothing's scarier 'n that.”
“And I know 'Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive or be he dead, I'll ground his bones to make me bread,”' said Lina.
“This-here tale,” continued Billy, glueing his big eyes to those of the little stranger, “is one Tabernicle learnt fer a speech at school. It's all 'bout a 'oman what was buriet in a graveyard with a diamant ring on her finger, an' a robber come in the night—”
The child's tones were guttural, thrilling, and hair-raising as he glared into the eyes of the effeminate Leon, “an' a robber come in the night an' try to cut it off, an' ha'nts was groanin' an' the win' moan 'oo-oo' an—”
Leon could stand it no longer.
“I am going right back,” he cried rising with round, frightened eyes, “I am not going to sit here and listen to you, scaring little girls to death. You are a bad boy to scare Lina and Frances and I am not going to associate with you;” and this champion of the fair sex stalked with dignity across the yard to the gate.
“I'm no more scared 'n nothing,” and indignant Frances hurled at his back, “you're just scared yourself.”
Jimmy giggled happily. “What'd I tell you all,” he cried, gleefully. “Lina and Frances got to all time set little 'fraid cats 'tween 'em,” he snorted. “It's just like I tell you, he's the sissyest boy they is; and he don't care who kiss him neither; he'll let any woman kiss him what wants to. Can't no woman at all 'cepting my mama and Miss Cecilia kiss me. But Leon is 'bout the kissingest kid they is; why, he'd just as soon's not let Frances and Lina kiss him; he ain't got no better sense. 'Course I gotta let Miss Cecilia kiss me 'cause she's 'bout the plumpest Sunday-School teacher they is and the Bible say 'If your Sunday-School teacher kiss you on one cheek turn the other cheek and let her kiss you on that, too,' and I all time bound to do what the Bible say. You 'd better call him back, Frances, and kiss him, you and Lina 're so stuck on him.”
“I wouldn't kiss him to save his life,” declared Frances; “he's got the spindliest legs I ever saw.”
RISING IN THE WORLD
The painter had just finished putting a bright green coat of paint upon the low, flat roof of Miss Minerva's long back-porch. And he left his ladder leaning against the house while he went inside to confer with her in regard to some other work.
Billy, Jimmy, Frances, and Lina had been playing “Fox and Geese.” Running around the house they spied the ladder and saw no owner to deny them.
“Le's clam' up and get on top the porch,” suggested Jimmy.
“Aunt Minerva'll put me to bed if I do,” said Billy.
“Mother'll make me learn a whole page of the catechism if I climb a ladder,” said Lina.
“My mama'll shut me up in the closet, but our mamas aren't bound to know 'bout it,”—this from Frances. “Come on, let's climb up.”
“I ain't neverpromise not to clam' no ladder but—” Billy hesitated.
“You-all 'bout the skeeriest folks they is,” sneered Jimmy. “Mama'll whip me going and coming if she finds out 'bout it, but I ain't skeered. I dare anybody to dare me to clam' up.”
“I dare you to climb this ladder,” responded an accommodating Frances.
“I ain't never tooken a dare yet,” boasted the little boy proudly, his foot on the bottom rung. “Who's going to foller me?”
“Don't we have fun?” cried a jubilant Frances.
“Yes,” answered Jimmy; “if grown folks don't all time be watching you and sticking theirselfs in your way.”
“If people would let us alone,” remarked Lina, “we could enjoy ourselves every day.”
“But grown folks got to be so pertic'lar with you all time,” cried Jimmy, “they don't never want us to play together.”
He led the way up the ladder, followed by Frances and Billy; and Lina brought up the rear. The children ran the long length of the porch leaving their footprints on the fresh, sticky paint.
“Will it wash off?” asked Frances, looking gloomily down at her feet, which seemed to be encased in green moccasins.
At that moment she slipped and fell sprawling on top of the roof. When the others helped her to her feet, she was a sight to behold, her white dress splotched with vivid green from top to bottom.
“If that ain't jus' like you, Frances,” Jimmy exclaimed; “you all time got to fall down and get paint on your dress so we can't 'ceive nobody. Now our mamas bound to know 'bout us clamming up here.”
“They would know it anyhow,” mourned Lina; “we'll never get this paint off of our feet. We had better get right down and see if we can't wash some of it off.”
While they were talking the owner of the ladder, who had not noticed them—and was deaf in the bargain—had quietly removed it from the back-porch and carried it around to the front of the house.
The children looked at each other in consternation when they perceived their loss.
“What we goin' to do now?” asked Billy.
“If this ain't just like Billy, all time got to perpose to clam' a ladder and all time got to let the ladder get loose from him,” growled Jimmy. “We done cooked a goose egg, this time. You got us up here, Billy, how you going to get us down?”
“I didn't, neither.”
“Well, it's Miss Minerva's house and she's your aunt and we's your company and you got to be 'sponsible.”
“I can clam' down this-here post,” said the responsible party.
“I can climb down it, too,” seconded Frances.
“You can't clam' down nothing at all,” said Jimmy contemptuously. “Talk 'bout you can clam' down a post; you'd fall and bust yourself wide open; you 'bout the clumsiest girl there is; 'sides, your legs 're too fat.”
“We can holla,” was Lina's suggestion.
“And have grown folks laughing fit to pop their sides open? I'm 'shame' to go anywheres now 'cause folks all time telling me when I'm going to dye some more Easter eggs! Naw, we better not holler,” said Jimmy. “Ain't you going to do nothing, Billy?”
“I'll jest slide down this-here post and git the painter man to bring his ladder back. Y' all wait up here.”
Billy's solution of the difficulty seemed the safest, and they were soon released from their elevated prison.
“I might as well go home and be learning the catechism,” groaned Lina.
“I'm going to get right in the closet soon's I get to my house,” said Frances.
“Go on and put on your night-shirt, Billy.” Billy took himself to the bath-room and scrubbed and scrubbed; but the paint refused to come off. He tiptoed by the kitchen where his aunt was cooking dinner and ran into his own room.
He found the shoes and stockings which were reserved for Sunday wear, and soon had them upon his little feet.
Miss Minerva rang the dinner-bell and he walked quietly into the dining-room trying to make as little noise and to attract as little attention from his aunt as possible; but she fastened her eyes at once upon his feet.
“What are you doing with your shoes on, William?” she asked.
Billy glanced nonchalantly at her.
“Don't you think, Aunt Minerva,” he made answer, “I's gittin' too big to go 'thout any shoes? I's mos' ready to put on long pants, an' how'd I look, I'd jest like to know, goin' roun' barefooted an' got on long breeches. I don' believe I'll go barefooted no mo'—I'll jest wear my shoes ev'y day.”
“I just believe you won't. Go take them off at once and hurry back to your dinner.”
“Lemme jest wait tell I eats,” he begged, hoping to postpone the evil hour of exposure.
“No, go at once, and be sure and wash your hands.”
Miss Minerva spied the paint the instant he made his second entrance and immediately inquired, “How did you get that paint on your feet?”
The little boy took his seat at the table and looked up at her with his sweet, attractive, winning smile.
“Paint pertec's little boys' feets,” he said, “an' keeps 'em f'om gittin' hurted, Aunt Minerva, don't it?”
Miss Minerva laid down her fork and gave her nephew her undivided attention.
“You have been getting into mischief again, I see, William; now tell me all about it. Are you afraid of me?”
“Yas 'm,” was his prompt response, “an' I don't want to be put to bed neither. The Major he wouldn't put little boys to bed day times.”
She blushed and eyed him thoughtfully. She was making slow progress with the child, she knew, yet she still felt it her stern duty to be very strict with him and, having laid down certain rules to rear him by, she wished to adhere to them.
“William,” she said after he had made a full confession, “I won't punish you this time for I know that Jimmy led you into it but—”
“Naw'm, Jimmy didn't. Me an' him an' Frances an' Lina's all 'sponsible, but I promise you, Aunt Minerva, not to clam' no mo' ladders.”
PRETENDING REALITY
The chain-gang had been working in the street not far from Miss Minerva's house, and Lina, Frances, Billy and Jimmy had hung on her front fence for an hour, watching them with eager interest. The negroes were chained together in pairs, and guarded by two, big, burly white men.
“Let's us play chain-gang,” suggested Jimmy.
“Where we goin' to git a chain?” queried Billy; “'t won't be no fun 'thout a lock an' chain.”
“I can get the lock and chain off 'm Sarah Jane's cabin.”
“Yo' mama don't 'low you to go to her cabin,” said Billy.
“My mama don't care if I just borra a lock and chain; so I 'm going to get it.”
“I'm going to be the perlice of the gang,” said Frances.
“Perlice nothing. You all time talking 'bout you going to be the perlice,” scoffed Jimmy. “I'm going to be the perlice myself.”
“No, you are not,” interposed Lina, firmly. “Billy and I are the tallest and we are going to be the guards, and you and Frances must be the prisoners.”
“Well, I ain't going to play 'thout I can be the boss of the niggers. It's Sarah Jane's chain and she's my mama's cook, and I'm going to be what I please.”
“I'll tell you what do,” was Billy's suggestion, “we'll take it turn about; me an' Lina'll firs' be the perlice an' y' all be the chain-gang, an' then we'll be the niggers an' y' all be the bosses.”
This arrangement was satisfactory, so the younger boy climbed the fence and soon returned with a short chain and padlock.
Billy chained Jimmy and Frances together by two round, fat ankles and put the key to the lock in his pocket.
“We must decide what crimes they have committed,” said Lina.
“Frances done got 'rested fer shootin' craps an' Jimmy done got 'rested fer 'sturbin' public worship,” said the other boss.
“Naw, I ain't neither,” objected the male member of the chain-gang, “I done cut my woman with a razor 'cause I see her racking down the street like a proud coon with another gent, like what Sarah Jane's brother telled me he done at the picnic.”
The children played happily together for half an hour, Billy and Lina commanding, and the prisoners, entering thoroughly into the spirit of the game, according prompt obedience to their bosses. At last the captives wearied of their role and clamored for an exchange of parts.
“All right,” agreed Lina. “Get the key, Billy, and we'll be the chain-gang.”
Billy put his right hand in his pocket but found no key there; he tried the other pocket with the same success; he felt in his blouse, he looked in his cap, he jumped up and down, he nearly shook himself to pieces all without avail; the key had disappeared as if by magic.
“I berlieve y' all done los' that key,” concluded he.
“Maybe it dropped on the ground,” said Frances.
They searched the yard over, but the key was not to be found.
“Well, if that ain't just like you, Billy,” cried Jimmy, “you all time perposing to play chain-gang and you all time lose the key.”
Lina grew indignant.
“You proposed this yourself, Jimmy Garner,” she said; “we never would have thought of playing chain-gang but for you.”
“It looks like we can't never do anything at all,” moaned Frances, “'thout grown folks 've got to know 'bout it.”
“Yes, and laugh fit to pop theirselfs open,” said her fellow-prisoner. “I can't never pass by Owen Gibbs and Len Hamner now 'thout they laugh just like idjets and grin just like pole-cats.”
“I ain't never hear tell of a pole-cat grinnin',” corrected Billy, “he jes' smell worser 'n what a billy goat do.”
“It is Chessy cats that grin,” explained Lina.
“Look like folks would get 'em a lot of pole-cats stead o' chillens always hafto be wearing assfetty bags 'round their nakes, so's they can keep off whopping-cough,” said Frances.
“You can't wear a pole-cat roun' yo' nake,” grinned Billy.
“And Len Hamner all time now asking me,” Jimmy continued, “when I'm going to wear Sarah Jane's co'set to Sunday-School. Grown folks 'bout the lunatickest things they is. Ain't you going to unlock this chain, Billy?” he demanded.
“What I got to unlock it with?” asked Billy.
As Jimmy's father was taking the crestfallen chaingang to the blacksmith shop to have their fetters removed, they had to pass by the livery stable; and Sam Lamb, bent double with intoxicating mirth at their predicament, yelled:
“Lordee! Lordee! Y' all sho' is de outlandishest kids 'twixt de Bad Place an' de moon.”