Expressions of regret have reached me that “Bypaths in Dixie” does not open with a tribute in verse to old Mammy. Let me confess I share this regret. It, therefore, occurs to me that the sympathetic readers who have missed “Lines to Mammy” from my little book may be interested in the following faithful account of the author’s failure to furnish this tribute to the heroine of these stories. I am, indeed, the more persuaded to offer this personal experience of authorship, because I believe it explains in no mean degree the missing poems from the pages of many women who follow Art for Art’s alluring sake along various pleasant byways, but who journey for the most part on the broad highway of a very practical life. Moreover, those who hold that poets are born, not made, may by the following true story be constrained to add to their creed that born poets may by some circumstances be unmade.

The poem above referred to was thought of but not until the manuscript was on the press, hence when the publisher wired “send at once” the would-be poet succumbed to a nervousness calculated to destroy rather than inspire poetic impulse. A chair from the chimney corner was drawn closer to the fire in hopes that the odor of burning logs might woo association away from radiators back to the old wood-pile, the chip basket, and the lightwood knot. Nor did this simple ruse fail of expectation, for soon the old home took shape in the flames. I could see the heavy green shutters that tempered the summer sun in the nursery, and through these, flung wide, I could look into the high pitched room, big and square, not crowded for all the crib-beds of varying sizes, and Mammy with a child in one arm stumbling over toys to the bedside of a rebellious charge: “Bett’r shet yer eyes ’fo’ ole Mist’r Grab All come an’ git yer.” And so the pencil moved:

In dreams I see thee bending o’er me.
To the old plantation home we rove,
Where—

At this moment Aunt Ellen opened the door and waited. Seeing she was unnoticed, she began:“You ain’ tole me er Lawd’s thing ’bout dinn’r er bre’kfus, er supp’r.”

“Oh, Aunt Ellen, don’t ask me what to have—fix anything.”

In dreams I see thee bend—

“Yassum, but yer got ter have sump’thin’ ter fix ’fo’ yer kin fix hit.”

“Mercy me,” I fretfully turned, “have that roast from yesterday,—it was scarcely touched.” Then again over the fire:

In dreams I see thee—

“Cose I kin heat de roas’, an’ put taters ’roun’ hit, an’—”

“Aunt Ellen,” an idea seized me, “you know that old black dress of mine you’ve been begging me for? Well, I’ll give it to you if you will arrange everything nicely and not ask me a thing.”

In dreams I see thee bend—

“All right, honey, I’ll do hit too, att’r I tells you dey ain’ no flour in de house.”

“That barrel of flour gone?”

“Good Lawd, Miss Sa’, how long you ’speck flour ter las’ an’ you all eatin’ like yer does?”

“Well order a sack, and I’ll see about another barrel when I go down town.”

In dreams—

“Now, Aunt Ellen, go on.”

“Yassum, but I’m bleeg’d ter tell yer de kitchen b’iler’s leakin’.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” I started for the kitchen, then remembered: “Go tell the man working on the furnace to fix it,—and remember, no dress for you if you keep interrupting me.” Once more to the fire I turned, trying to conjure back the nursery, bedtime, Mammy, or anything. I bit my pencil and read once more:

In dreams I see thee bending o’er me,
To the old plantation home we rove,
Where—

“Miss Sa’, dat man say he ain’ got nuthin’ ter do wid kitch’n fixin’s.—He say he’s er furniss man. An’ Tom done cut de wat’r off, an’ I can’t git dinn’r tell de plumb’r come.”

A prolonged telephonic agony ensued with the plumber, which entirely dispelled the charm I had half invoked. On the way back to the library, I heard Tom at the front door: “Yassum, dat’s her, but she’s pow’ful busy ter day.” The next moment Tom’s tall figure appeared at the library door, and over his shoulder peered the taller one of a woman whose masculine features were shaded by a hat of garish variety.

“I simply could not pass without recalling myself to you, and getting one more peep,” exclaimed my visitor as she brushed past Tom, “into this old-fashioned library with shelves up to the ceiling.”

“Will you have this seat?” I murmured, trying to recall a previous meeting.

“Oh, no, I’ll just sit in this seat in the corner.”

This she did, upsetting pencil and paper on the table near-by. Both of us reached over,—I to rescue my lines, she to raise her skirt, from the narrow confines of which also she drew forth a book of dimensions that I hesitate to specify.“I have here some literature,” she drew forth yards of pasteboard arranged in economic design, “that I—”

“Madam,” I raised a hand in protest, “let these over-crowded shelves be my answer,” my mind the while dipping again into the past where Mammy Phyllis seemed to whisper: “Bett’r look out, dat’s Cap’n Yall’r Jackit’s ole lady youse foolin’ wid.” Thus, while my visitor rehearsed the merits of “The American People in Literature and Art,” and differentiated between book agents and traveling educators, I listened to Mammy telling about Cap’n Hornet and Cap’n Yall’r Jackit and Mist’r Grab-All Spider, until finally Mammy and I sat together out under the old cherry tree and watched their famous battle.

“Being a traveling educator, may I see what books these shelves are lined with?”

“Certainly,” I subconsciously assented, while the muse ran:

Thy hand my toddling steps did guide,
Thy soft voice crooned to gentle sleep—

no; that will not do:

Thy wisdom oft my—

“Why on earth did you not tell me you had the books and save me this time and effort?” burst furiously from the far end of the room, putting to blush even Cap’n Yall’r Jackit’s old Lady, “But you did not know it—did not know that such books as these existed, much less in your own library.”

All the while she was nervously repacking the wonderful hidden pocket.

“I bid you good morning,” now perfectly attired for another social call, “and ask you to pardon my emotion when I see such a library in the possession of a woman who does not know even the titles of her own books! I have heard of such ignorance, but never believed it until now!”

“Good-bye, Miss Yall’r Jackit,” I felt, and back in the chimney corner I dropped to dream again with the publishers’ wire commanding me from the mantel-piece.

In dreams again thy hand doth guide
Through meadow land where kine doth—

Tom so softly entered that his presence was unknown until he apologized: “De Bank Man say please ter step ter de telerfome.”

“Hello! Well?”

“Did you get the notice of your overdraft yesterday?”

“Indeed I did, and I was going to see you about it this morning and tell you there was some mistake.”

“In what way?” chillingly interrogated this voice of superior business intelligence.

“You have me overdrawn ten dollars when I know I have twenty dollars and thirty-five cents to my account.”

“I am very sorry,” he loftily and pityingly apologized, “but our books, according to your checks, show an overdraft.”

“Well,” I sighed, perfectly sure I was right and perfectly sure he would convince me I was not, “I cannot attend to it to-day. Just let it stand until I come down town. I am very busy to-day.”

Oh! for an uninterrupted moment!—What so simple as lines to write, if only one has the time.

I found a stingy blaze struggling up the chimney: “Do, Tom, run get some kindling and chips quick.”

“Kin yer wait, Miss Sa’, tell I gits thu settin’ de table? Hit’s near ’bout dinn’r time.”

Alas! even as he spoke the family began to assemble, and the library quietly and naturally changed into a family gathering room, where real people crowded out the dreams in a mother’s mind.

At length the meal ended, the house cleared, once more I turned to the lines. A seat was chosen by the window this time, in hopes that a view of the mountains would call up the spirits of Mist’r Bad Simmon Tree, Miss Wile Grape, de Reed gals, and their forest companions.

Thou lessons teachest through tree and vine
A crookÈd twig’s to thee a sign
For moral lect—In the dim perspective of the street a flying object arrested my thoughts. An instant more and it developed into one of my hopefuls tearing like mad on a four-year-old colt, without saddle or bridle. “Help! Catch him!” I cried, as I threw up the window sash. Passers-by rushed to the rescue as the colt took the hedge, crossed the lawn, and halted under the window without a quiver.

“Mama! just look at these people! Send them away—the colt is as gentle as a cat.”

Echoes of Wild West, Buffalo Bill, came from the dispersing crowd, while the boy grumbled: “A bridle and saddle don’t do a thing but make a ‘Sissy’ out of a boy.”

The mountain view resigned in favor of the chimney corner, where with limbs still trembling I sank almost resigned to give up the lines. Prose was easy enough to write, even with interruptions, but poetry, where one must dream and drift into the spirit of the thought,—this, alas, was not the calling of a busy mother of six, at least not of this busy mother.

“Miss Sa’,” Tom appeared bearing a cup of hot milk, “An’ Ellen say drink dis an’ hit’ll set yer up ergin, den whin I gits dis fier ter blazin’” (he piled the logs higher), “yer’ll write dem poetries ’fo’ yer knows hit.”

Even as he swept the ashes from the hearth, “send at once” spurred my flagging mood to one more effort. Yes, once more I’ll try! Let me see.—I rubbed my brow and tugged at the hair about my temples—Let’s see—

“Miss Sa’,” he sheepishly turned, “I aint tole yer, dey telerfome fum de office comp’ny wus comin’ ter supp’r—yas, mam—two gent’muns.”

“Tell Aunt Ellen to order some shad to go with whatever else she has, and please, p-l-e-a-s-e do not let the King of England open that door again.”

The flames licked up the chimney, the oak logs popped and crackled, and insisted they were singing the same tunes they sang in the nursery of old, when I gazed at them through the tall brass fender and listened to Mist’r Hickory Log and Mist’r Wise Oak telling Mammy all about their kinsfolk and friends. And as the wind whistled drearily around the north corners of the house, I seemed to hear Mist’r Tall Pine’s lonely wail echoing the cries of “hants” and spirits in search of rest from unholy graves. Instinctively, I cuddled to Mammy, who took me by the hand, and led me into the summer sunlight, down the narrow honeysuckle lane, where Miss Queen Bee and Cap’n Hornit and Cap’n Yall’r Jackit droned lazily among the heavy blossoms, keeping rhythm to the low hum of Mammy’s voice. Then, somehow, the pencil began of its own accord to move across the paper.

TO MAMMY
Thy beaming face woos me afresh to-night,
My eyelids droop, for with thy plaintive song
Old times drift back and tender memories throng
With fable-tales. I fondly crave the sight
Of wood and lane and towering mountain height,
With thee as guide. I hear once more among
The distant hills thy thrilling voice prolong
The lore of beasts, of birds, and glowworm’s light.
Their secrets now are locked from anxious man,
And none, since mute thy tongue must ever be,
Can link our child-days with their mystery:
For thou hast passed beyond the mountain span
With faith unfaltering in thy Maker’s plan,
And left to us thy vibrant memory.

—and Mammy led me past honeysuckle lane, through field and grove to pastureland, where old Sis Nanny Goat lies in a corner of the fence moaning and groaning:

Sis Wile Lucy Goose fly down an’ ax:

“Whut ail yo’ haid, Sis Nanny Goat?”

Sis Nanny Goat ’spon,’ she do: “I bin tryin’ ter git out’n dis heah ole pastur’, ov’r yond’r in Mist’r Man’s ole lady’s flower gyard’n,” sez she, “but dat ole wall so hard I done wase m’time, an’ I ain’ got nuthin’ ter show fur hit but dese heah bumps on m’haid.”

Sis Wile Lucy Goose say, sez she: “Law, Sis Nann Goat, ain’ you got no mo’ sense dan ter try ter projick wid Mist’r Man’s doin’s? All yer got ter do is ter flop yer wings an’ give er hop, an’ dar yer is, ov’r de fence mongst de flow’rs.”

“But I ain’ got no wings ter flop wid,” spon Sis Nanny Goat.

“Dar now,” sez Sis Wile Lucy Goose, “den you got ter keep on eatin’ dis same ole grass tell you sprouts somethin’ nuther ter fly wid.”

I reached out for a firmer clasp on Mammy’s hand, now slipping from me, when kindly sleep, with its visions, forsook me and left me only the picture of the impotent bumps on Sis Nanny Goat’s head. But I seemed to catch the faint echo of Mammy’s voice saying: “Hit taint time you orter be cryin’ fer, hit’s sense.”

Footnotes:

[1] Joggling-board.—A long, springy board about three feet from the ground, made fast at each end, and so arranged that children may jump up and down, or joggle on it.

[2] The old Cherokee Indian cure for rattlesnake poison is “Robin Plantain, Sweet Fern, Pine Snake root, Salve Weed, Devil’s Shoe String, Wild Rosemary, and Red Joint.” It was said that by infuriating the reptile until a wound was self-inflicted and then observing his selection of herbs as a remedy, the Indians found the antidote for rattlesnake bite. Reptiles that were bitten and kept in confinement died, while those allowed freedom to select and bite the herbs, recovered.