IN LIGHTER VEIN

BY BADDELEY BOARDMAN

A REMINISCENCE OF MARION CRAWFORD

MANY visitors to Rome will remember the German book-store on the Piazza di Spagna, kept by Herr S——, of whom a story is told which throws a backward light upon the apparently troublesome activities, as a boy, of a distinguished American novelist. Herr S——, who had been established in Rome as a bookseller almost a lifetime, once met in his store another elderly gentleman, who said:

“Isn’t it fine, Mr. S——, about Frank Crawford?”

“Fine about Frank Crawford? Vot you mean?”

“Why, about his book—a great success. Haven’t you heard? Haven’t you read it?”

“Read his pook? No. Frank Crawford ride a pook? Imbossible!”

“Oh, yes; no doubt of it. Giuseppe,”—calling a salesman,—“let me have a copy of ‘Mr. Isaacs,’ please.”

When the volume was brought to the incredulous bookseller, he held it at arm’s-length, looking at it curiously as he turned it from side to side and from end to end; then he cautiously examined the title-page, with its “—th edition,” which he greeted with a guttural “Huh!” Next he turned to the last page, and read the concluding sentence with another grunt of astonishment. Then he dipped into the volume in two or three places, and finally, satisfied that he was not being deceived, handed back the book to Giuseppe without looking at him, and said:

“Vell, vell! dot brooves dot you must neffer trown a poy.”

BY DEEMS TAYLOR

’TISChristmas eve. The very airSeems charged to-night, seems subtly thrilledBy glad previsions of a rare,Strange happiness, yet unfulfilled.I sense this thing, and still my heartIs numb, lethargic, dead. I holdMyself from all the world apart.The Christmas spirit leaves me cold.Below me, in the frosty street,I hear the city’s muffled songOf carnival—the tramp of feet,The voices of the passing throng.I watch them as they hurry byIn kind confusion, faces brightWith Christmas comradeship; but I—I am not one of them to-night.Each hastens, in that host below,To choose the gifts that shall delightAnother on the morrow. No,I am not one of them to-night.The laughing crowd, the siren callOf blazing shops that beckon; nay,Untouched, unmoved, I hear it all:I didmyshopping yesterday!

’TISChristmas eve. The very air

Seems charged to-night, seems subtly thrilled

By glad previsions of a rare,

Strange happiness, yet unfulfilled.

I sense this thing, and still my heart

Is numb, lethargic, dead. I hold

Myself from all the world apart.

The Christmas spirit leaves me cold.

Below me, in the frosty street,I hear the city’s muffled songOf carnival—the tramp of feet,The voices of the passing throng.I watch them as they hurry byIn kind confusion, faces brightWith Christmas comradeship; but I—I am not one of them to-night.

Below me, in the frosty street,

I hear the city’s muffled song

Of carnival—the tramp of feet,

The voices of the passing throng.

I watch them as they hurry by

In kind confusion, faces bright

With Christmas comradeship; but I—

I am not one of them to-night.

Each hastens, in that host below,To choose the gifts that shall delightAnother on the morrow. No,I am not one of them to-night.The laughing crowd, the siren callOf blazing shops that beckon; nay,Untouched, unmoved, I hear it all:I didmyshopping yesterday!

Each hastens, in that host below,

To choose the gifts that shall delight

Another on the morrow. No,

I am not one of them to-night.

The laughing crowd, the siren call

Of blazing shops that beckon; nay,

Untouched, unmoved, I hear it all:

I didmyshopping yesterday!

BY JULIA B. TENNEY

MAWNIN’, Miss Johnson. Is yer out doin’ yer Chris’mas shoppin’? You sure is de forehandestest pusson I eber did see. Here ’t is five whole days ’fore Chris’mas, an’ you ’most frough gettin’ ready.

What’s we goin’ ter do? Why, jes as usu’l, an’ dat’s good ’nough fer we. You see, we spends Chris’mas day sorter foragin’ roun’ ’mongst de white folks, an’ c’llectin’ things tergether, an’ ketchin’ ’em Chris’mas gif’; den de nex’ day we all hasourChris’mas.

What? We ain’t got it on de right date? What’s dat got to do wid de ’joyment ob it, I’d like to know? An’, anyhow, no one doan’ know fer sure what is de right date nohow, ’ca’se dere ain’t no one erlivin’ now what was erlive when Chris’mas started in on us, an’ if dere was, I wouldn’ b’lieve him nohow, ’ca’se he’d be too ole ter trus’ his mem’ry. So one day’s as good as anudder, an’ maybe better. Dis here way suitsme, an’ it saves er lot ob trouble an’ hard wuk, not ter speak ob de money.

Dis is de way we wuks it, an’ ’scusin’ de walkin’ roun’ an’ totin de load home, it ain’t no trouble ’t all.

We ’vides de city up into pahts. I takes de av’nues, ’Lindy teks de lengthways streets, li’le Polly Ann an’ John Andrew de cross streets, an’ Jeemes William—my ole man—de gen’lemen’s clubs. We all has our own way ob doin’ it, but we all gits de things.

Jeemes William he jes stan’s near de do’ ob de club-houses wid his hat in his han’, an’ as de gen’men goes in, he says ter all ob de sassy-lookin’ ones, “Chris’mas gif’, Gen’al,” an’ p’ints ter de army-button what he foun’ in de White Lot, an’ what he puts in his buttonhole on dese ’casions. Den as de South’rn gen’men goes in, he hol’s dat li’le ’Federate flag ober de button an’ says, “Chris’mas gif’, Massa.” An’ I’ve knowed him ter come home wid as much as twelve dollars in his pocket jes f’om his good manners; dey is so skase nowerdays, wid all dis passle ob young niggers growin’ up roun’ here, dat de white folks is willin’ ter pay high fer ’em when dey do come ’cross ’em.

’Lindy she puts on dat black alpacky frock of hern an’ er white collar an’ a starched white ap’on, an’ she takes de rich-lookin’ houses an’ rings de bells, an’ asks kin she hope out wid de extra wuk jes fur er tas’e oh de Chris’mas-time, an’ dat fetches some one ’fore she’s made more ’n five or six tries, an’ den she jes lays herse’f out ter please de white folks, an’ ebery endurin’ one ob dem gibs her sumpen ’nudder what dey doan’ want an’ what somebody else done gibdem, an as ’Lindy mos’ in gen’al picks out de big famblies, dere ain’t no mean showin’ f’om her.

Polly Ann an’ John Andrew dey sings “I’s er-rovin’ li’le darky all de way f’om Alabam’” an’ some yudder sech chunes un’er de winders, an’ folks t’rows dem pennies an’ nickels, an’ lots ob ’em gibs ’em cakes an’ or’nges an’ candy an’ de like er dat.

Me? How do I git my share? Now yer’ll laugh! Jeemes William say’, “No one wouldn’t thunk er sech er thing ’cep’in’ you, Emmy Jane,” but I ain’t nuss nine li’le white chillun, ’sides thirteen ob my own piccaninnies, countin’ de halves an’ de dade ones, an’ not learn nothin’ ter hope me ’long in dis world.

I jes puts on er clean purple caliker frock an’ er stiff white ap’on wid er white handkuchief roun’ my neck, an’ I ties er colored handkuchief ober my h’ad ter make our kind er white folks ’member de days when we all uster be jes like one fambly, an’ laugh an’ cry togeder, an’ dat’s how come it dat I done foun’ out so many ob de quality.

What I do ’sides dress up like ole times? Well, all de endurin’ year I saves up all de putty fedders f’om de tu’keys an’ chickens an’ geese an’ sech, an’ I gets me er ball ob red cord fer five cents, an’ I ties de fedders up in li’le bunches an’ puts ’em in er basket.

Chris’mas I teks dat basket on my arm, an I s’lec’s de houses where dey is babies, an’ dere is plenty ob ’em on de av’nues, too, ’spite ob Mr. Roosterfelt er-sayin’ rich chillun is fallin’ off in comin’ ter our big cities. He oughter hab my job one year an’ see fer hisse’f.

Well, I rings de bell an’ asks kin I gib de baby er Chris’mas gif’, an’ ’most ebery fambly say “Yes,” an’ brings de baby out, an’ acts pleased-like. Den I hol’s out my arms to de li’le chile an’ says, “Come ter Mammy, Honey!” an’ most in gen’al dey jumps right to me, an’ dat settles de mas an’ pas.

Den I s’lec’s er bunch ob fedders an’ gibs dem to de baby. All chillun, white or black, loves ter play wid fedders. Reckon it’s ’ca’se dey ain’t so long lef’ dem off in de wing-country what dey come f’om, an’ I tell you dat basket is er heap sight heavier on de home trip dan on de goin’ out.

Next day we all brings out our pickin’s an’ we builds er fire in de bes’ room, an’den’sour Chris’mas.

Doan’ wegiveno presen’s? Co’se we does. We s’lec’s all de things what we doan’ want, same as de white folks does, an’ we makes er pile ob ’em, den we makes a lis’ ob de names ob de people what we wants ter gib to,—’Lindy she does dat paht, ’ca’se she’s had schoolin’ an’ kin write grand,—den we blin’fol’s li’le John Andrew, an’ ’Lindy she calls out er name, an’ John Andrew grabs er gif’. Dat’s how come you ter git er pair of gallusses, an’ Daddy Bundy er long gingham ap’on las’ year.

I hopes de givin’ dis year will turn ter tu’key an’ cramberry, jes fer de sake ob ole times down home. I sure does get lonesome fer de ole place roun’ ’bout Chris’mas.

BY RUTH McENERY STUART

INCUBATOR CHICKENS

DEMinkybator chickens dat’s hatched by de clockWid a lamp for love, is lonesome stock;Dey feeds in droves but dey envies de othersDat scratches for grubs wid any ol’ mothers.An’ dey ain’t by deyselves, po’ orphans, in dat—No, dey ain’t by deyselves in dat!

DEMinkybator chickens dat’s hatched by de clock

Wid a lamp for love, is lonesome stock;

Dey feeds in droves but dey envies de others

Dat scratches for grubs wid any ol’ mothers.

An’ dey ain’t by deyselves, po’ orphans, in dat—

No, dey ain’t by deyselves in dat!

THE CAULIFLOWER

When de cabbage got ambitiom, in a uppish hour,He lost ’is head an’ bu’st into flowerWid ’is brains outside, an’ addled, at dat—Den he sot ’isself up for a ’ristocrat.An’ he ain’t by ’isself in dat, in dat—An’ he ain’t by ’isself in dat!

When de cabbage got ambitiom, in a uppish hour,

He lost ’is head an’ bu’st into flower

Wid ’is brains outside, an’ addled, at dat—

Den he sot ’isself up for a ’ristocrat.

An’ he ain’t by ’isself in dat, in dat—

An’ he ain’t by ’isself in dat!

Back to Index Next