“Ef a smile we kin renewAs our journey we pursue,Oh, de good we all may doWhile de days is gwine by.”
“Ef a smile we kin renewAs our journey we pursue,Oh, de good we all may doWhile de days is gwine by.”
In this mighty chorus, Dr. Sentelle missed a voice that he loved—the superb baritone of Vinegar Atts. That voice, like the tones of a great pipe-organ, was the joy and pride of Tickfall. Now it was silent.
Dr. Sentelle turned and looked at Vinegar. The pastor of the Shoofly church sat huddled in a heap in his broken-bottomed pulpit chair, looking like a big, fat dumpling soaked in gravy. His simple, childish, baby face was puckered and drawn with sad lines until he looked like a big fat baby just tuning up to cry.
In fact, Vinegar was completely crushed. He had set his heart upon that meaningless piece of parchment and that sham degree, and the loss to him wasoverwhelming. The pathos of ignorance lies here, that the untaught covet above everything the tinsel and feathers and adornments of knowledge.
“Oh, de worl’ is full of sighs,Full of sad an’ weepin’ eyes;He’p yo’ fallen brudder riseWhile de days is gwine by.”
“Oh, de worl’ is full of sighs,Full of sad an’ weepin’ eyes;He’p yo’ fallen brudder riseWhile de days is gwine by.”
Still Vinegar’s superb voice was silent, and Dr. Sentelle felt a sense of loss and dissatisfaction. The music was not complete.
Then something happened which explains why all Tickfall, white and black, loved Dr. Sentelle almost to adoration.
Suddenly an idea burst like an opening blossom in the scholar’s brain, and brought forth its fruit of kindly and gracious service. He rose to his feet, leaning his frail body heavily upon his ponderous cane for support, and held up a thin, blue-veined, delicate hand for silence. The singing stopped.
“My friends,” he began in a voice so thrillingly sweet and musical that every word was like a caress, “for over thirty years your pastor, Vinegar Atts, and I have been the only preachers in Tickfall. He and I have spent many an hour in that time discussing together the problems which concern both the white and the black people of Tickfall. While the days have been going by, Vinegar has added much to my joy of living, and I am sure that he has never robbed you of any happiness.”
“Dat’s right!” a dozen voices murmured.
“I have always tried to stand between you coloredpeople and any kind of harm, and it pleases me tonight that I have been instrumental in preventing you from paying something for nothing—absolutely nothing!”
“Thank ’e, suh!” several voices spoke.
“Nevertheless, I believe that Vinegar Atts very richly deserves the one D which you in your kindness were trying to purchase for him.”
“Hear dat, now!”
“The word ‘doctor’ is an academic title, originally meaning a man so well versed in his department as to be qualified to teach it. I knew Vinegar Atts years ago as a prize-fighter, and I have seen him fight; and I assure you that in the department of pugilistic activity, Vinegar is well enough versed in the manly art of self-defense to know how to teach it!”
“Now you done said a plum’ mouthful!” Hitch Diamond, the Tickfall Tiger, howled. “Elder Atts teached me allIknow ’bout fightin’!”
“Thirty years have passed since Vinegar became the pastor of the Shoofly church. In that time, negro preachers have come and gone through the other negro churches in this parish like a Mardi Gras procession, but Vinegar holds on to his job. It is my conviction that a man so endowed with the gift of continuance possesses the supreme art of pleasing all the people all the time, and should be qualified to teach that art to others.”
“Listen to dat white man!” a chorus of voices mumbled in admiration.
“I therefore believe that Vinegar Atts richly deserves the title of doctor, and I therefore greet himas a fellow clergyman with his honorary entitlements: ‘Dr. Vinegar Atts.’”
Vinegar was not slumped down in his chair now. He was sitting up in his broken-bottomed chair, his backbone as stiff as if he had swallowed a ramrod. Dr. Sentelle walked over and held out his hand. Vinegar sprang up with a half sob and seized that fragile white hand in his gorilla-like black paw.
There was a shout from that congregation which nearly lifted the roof off the church.
Then Dr. Gilbo was suddenly galvanized into action. He sprang up from his seat and knocked his hat on the floor. He jerked his hands in and out of his pockets, seeking for something, and in his eagerness he spilled something out of each pocket.
Suddenly he found what he wanted and held it up—a little square box, such as jewelers use. Taking the top from the box, he brought out a small gold medal about the size of a postage stamp, and almost as thin.
“My colored friends,” Dr. Gilbo announced in a shrill, high voice. “This gold medal which you behold is bestowed upon the deserving pupils of the Silliway Female Institute as a reward of merit. At our graduating exercises last June twenty-five of these medals were given away, but it happened that no pupil earned the one which I hold in my hand. It is now my pleasure to confer this medal on Dr. Vinegar Atts!”
When Dr. Gilbo walked across the platform and pinned his medal upon the lapel of Vinegar’s long-tailed preaching-coat, there is no language to describethe whoop of adulation which sprang from the throats of that delighted audience.
Vinegar Atts sat down and wiped the tears from his eyes upon his coat sleeve.
“Us would like to hear a speech from de Revun Dr. Vinegar Atts!” Hitch Diamond bellowed.
The prince of platform spellbinders stood up and made a speech of two words, but in the intonation of those two words he comprised all that a negro can express of eloquent gratitude:
“Bless Gawd!”
He sat down for the last time in his broken pulpit chair, and his powerful shoulders quivered with emotion. The next day he put a new chair in its place, adorned his pulpit with an electric reading lamp, and recovered his gift of gab.
“Lodge brudders, attention!” Hitch Diamond bellowed. “Give de good-night salute an’ sing de last verse!”
The men folded their hands over their breasts and their superb voices chanted:
“But de deeds of good we sowBofe in shade an’ shine will grow,An’ will keep our hearts aglow,While de days is gwine by.”
“But de deeds of good we sowBofe in shade an’ shine will grow,An’ will keep our hearts aglow,While de days is gwine by.”
Dr. Sentelle listened and smiled. The music was complete.
He reflected that he had never heard Dr. Vinegar Atts sing so well.
The UntamedByMax BrandA tale of the West, a story of the Wild; of three strange comrades,--Whistling Dan of the untamed soul, within whose mild eyes there lurks the baleful yellow glare of beast anger; of the mighty black stallion Satan, King of the Ranges, and the wolf devil dog, to whom their master’s word is the only law,--and of the Girl.How Jim Silent, the "long-rider" and outlaw, declared feud with Dan, how of his right-hand men one strove for the Girl, one for the horse, and one to “‘get’ that black devil of a dog," and their desperate efforts to achieve their ends, form but part of the stirring action.A tale of the West, yes--but a most unusual one, touched with an almost weird poetic fancy from the very first page, when over the sandy wastes sounds the clear sweet whistling of Pan of the desert, to the very last paragraph when the reader, too, hears the cry and the call of the wild geese flying south.G. P. Putnam’s SonsNew YorkLondon
A tale of the West, a story of the Wild; of three strange comrades,--Whistling Dan of the untamed soul, within whose mild eyes there lurks the baleful yellow glare of beast anger; of the mighty black stallion Satan, King of the Ranges, and the wolf devil dog, to whom their master’s word is the only law,--and of the Girl.
How Jim Silent, the "long-rider" and outlaw, declared feud with Dan, how of his right-hand men one strove for the Girl, one for the horse, and one to “‘get’ that black devil of a dog," and their desperate efforts to achieve their ends, form but part of the stirring action.
A tale of the West, yes--but a most unusual one, touched with an almost weird poetic fancy from the very first page, when over the sandy wastes sounds the clear sweet whistling of Pan of the desert, to the very last paragraph when the reader, too, hears the cry and the call of the wild geese flying south.
New YorkLondon
The Beloved SinnerByRachel Swete MacnamaraAuthor of “Fringe of the Desert,” “The Torch of Life,” and “Drifting Waters”But for the sin, they would have lived happily from their meeting—and there would have been no story. But the sin brought misunderstanding, making the old road of true love rough—for awhile. But it strengthened the courage and the devotion of the two, and all the varied and fascinating characters in this charmingly told story. And the Man and the Girl found their hard-won happiness awaiting them—in the proper place—at the end of the road.A tale for all who like a story of true love untouched by war or the rumours of war.G. P. Putnam’s SonsNew YorkLondon
But for the sin, they would have lived happily from their meeting—and there would have been no story. But the sin brought misunderstanding, making the old road of true love rough—for awhile. But it strengthened the courage and the devotion of the two, and all the varied and fascinating characters in this charmingly told story. And the Man and the Girl found their hard-won happiness awaiting them—in the proper place—at the end of the road.
A tale for all who like a story of true love untouched by war or the rumours of war.
New YorkLondon
Transcriber’s Note:Obvious printer errors corrected silently.Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.
Obvious printer errors corrected silently.
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.