The cool fogginess of an August morning has melted under the fierce sun. The level fields, like a waveless ocean, stretch away into the dim, green distance. The hot air quivers above cotton-fields, heavy with bolls and gay with blossoms, which give out a half-sickening fragrance. A languid air rustles low amid the corn, from whose dense growth arises a damp, hot breath. Out in the pasture, work-horses leisurely crop the sunburnt grass, or stand under the trees, lazily switching away the swarming gnats.
A restful quiet broods over the big plantation, for the plow and the hoe have finished their task; sun and showers must do the rest. The crop is “laid by,” and the summer holidays have begun. Three days of rest before the gathering in begins.
Over at the quarter, the young people fill the long, lazy day with patting and dancing, banjo-playing and watermelon-eating. The elders, for the most part, are absorbed in preparations for the big holiday dinner. By dawn, holes have been dug in the ground and heated for the barbecuing of various meats, and those who hold the honorable posts of cooks are busily engaged in basting, tasting, and sending the small urchins after fuel. Some of the women are kneading flour hoe-cakes; others, gathered about a table under a great mulberry tree, are peeling fruit for pies, while now and then they raise their voices with blood-curdling threats to hasten the lagging steps of a little gang, which, looking like a string of black beetles, troop slowly along from the orchard, each holding in the skirt of his solitary garment the small store of fruit which he has not been able to eat. A row of tables spread in the shade stands ready for the feast, and, along the pathway, the guests from neighboring plantations are already approaching.
Up at the great house an unnatural quiet prevails, for upon this day all work is laid aside and all are off to the barbecue; even old Aunt Sylvie has forgotten the “misery” in her back, has donned her Sunday garments, and stepped briskly off to the quarter; cook, too, has closed the ever-open kitchen door and departed, along with nurse, over whose toilet her little charges have presided with so much zeal that they have emptied their mother’s cologne flask in order to bedew their mammy’s pocket-handkerchief to their satisfaction.
Tiny curly-headed Jack feels rather disconsolate without his mammy, but is partially consoled by flattering visions of what her pockets will bring home at the end of the day.[1]
Away down upon the creek the little gristmill stands silent; the old mossy wheel has for to-day ceased its splash and clatter, and, like all else upon the plantation, is resting from its labor; to-day no sacks stand open-mouthed, awaiting their turn; no little creaking carts, no mill boys mounted astride their grists are seen upon the path, and Wat, the miller, in the lazy content of dirt and idleness, lies basking in the sun. Within the wattle fence on the other side of the path, his three children, little Dave, Emma Jane, and a fat baby, are sprawling upon the ground, along with the house pig, two puppies, and the chickens. Little Dave, who is perhaps somewhat dwarfed by toting first Emma Jane in her infancy, and now the fat baby, looks not unlike a careworn little ape, as he sits flat upon the ground, spreading his bony toes for the baby to claw at.
Emma Jane, with her stout little body buttoned into a homespun frock, is also seated in the sand, solemnly munching upon a hunk of corn bread, while the chickens, with easy familiarity, peck at the crumbs which fall upon her black shins. Within the cabin, Polly, the miller’s wife, has tied a string of beads about her sleek black throat, and now, in all the bravery of her flowered calico, is ready to set off for the quarter; first, though, she pauses at the gate to speak to little Dave. “When de chile git hongry, you git dat sweeten water off de shelf and gie it to him long wid his bread;” then adds, with a suspicion of tenderness upon her comely face; “I gwine fetch you some pie.” Then, calling to Wat, that he had better “fix his sef and come along, ef he speck to git any of de dinner,” she steps briskly along the narrow pathway, mounts the zigzag fence, and disappears amid the high corn.
Some miles below, where the little creek which turns the mill-wheel steals from out the swamp to join the river, a clumsy, flat-bottomed scow lies grounded upon a sand-bar. This is no evil to Boat Jim, who, sprawled upon the deck, snores away the hours, regardless of the blistering sun beating down upon his uncovered head, and all unconscious of the departure of his chance passenger, an itinerant organ-grinder. This fellow, having had the ill luck to lose the respectable member of the firm, his monkey, and finding difficulty without the aid of his little partner to attract an audience, had, while idling about the docks, encountered Boat Jim, and persuaded the latter to give him a lift up the river, the condition being that he was to grind as much music as Jim should desire. But, disgusted with three days of slow progress upon the boat, he had, after viciously kicking the unconscious Jim, stolen the small boat and put himself ashore. Following the windings of the creek, he came to the little mill, where, attracted by the shade, he seated himself close to the wattle fence of Polly’s little yard. Hearing voices, he peeped through the fence, and his eyes were soon fixed upon little Dave, who, with the fat baby and Emma Jane for spectators, is performing various tricks with infinite delight to himself. He stands upon his head, he turns somersaults, he dances, he pats, and finally he swings himself into a tree, where he skips about with the agility of a monkey. A thought comes into the organ-grinder’s head; he glances at the silent mill and at the cabin: evidently both are deserted; here is a chance to replace the dead monkey.
The sun is sending long shafts of crimson light into the swamp and glinting upon the millhouse; the high corn, awakening from its midday torpor, rustles softly to the evening breeze, as Wat and Polly wend their way homeward. A bucket, lightly poised upon Polly’s head, holds scraps of barbecue and little Dave’s promised pie, and, as she draws near the wattle fence, she thinks, with a pleased smile, of how she will set it before “de chilluns,” when a prolonged howl falls upon her ears. Recognizing the voice of Emma Jane, she says to herself: “She hongry, I spek,” and trudges on, in nowise disturbed by this familiar sound. But, when they enter the yard, there is only Emma Jane, bawling, open-mouthed, beside the baby, who, with the house pig, lies asleep on the warm sand. The chickens are daintily picking their way to the house, the old muscovy duck has tucked her head under her wing for the night, Old Keep, the stump-tailed coon dog, crawls from under the cabin to greet them. But where is Dave?
The miller carries the sleeping child indoors, followed by the still bawling Emma Jane, while the wrathful Polly goes to the back of the house. Stripping the twigs from a switch, she mutters: “I knows what you’s arter; you tuck yoursef to dat watermillion patch, dat whar you gone; but ne’ mine, boy, you jest le’ me git hold o’ you.” Then, after a time given to unsuccessful search, calls of “Da-a-vie—oh, oh, Dave!” fall upon the stillness, to be answered only by weird echo from the lonely swamp. Returning from her search, she finds Wat seated upon the doorstep.
“Dave done took hissel off to de quarter,” he says; “but no mind, I gwine fill him full o’ licks in de mornin’.”
But, when morning comes and brings no little Dave, wrath gives place to fear. The plantation is aroused; finally the mill-pond is dragged, and, although the body is not found, the conclusion is that the boy has been drowned.
After a time Polly’s smile beams as broadly as ever, but her heart still yearns for her boy, and amid the sleepy drone of her spinning-wheel, she pauses to listen; or, standing in her door, she looks ever wistfully along the crooked path. Across the way, the little mill clatters on as merrily as of yore; Wat heaves the great sacks upon his brawny shoulder, metes out the grist, and faithfully feeds the hopper; but, when a chance shadow falls athwart the sunny doorway, he looks up with a gleam of hope upon his stupid, honest face, then brushes his hand across his eyes, and goes on in stolid patience with his work. So the summer and the autumn pass, without change, save that Emma Jane substitutes sweet potatoes for corn bread, and the fat baby has learned to balance himself upon his bowlegs.
Upon a winter evening Wat enters the cabin at the usual hour. Polly has laid a bit of clean homespun upon the table; his bowl of coffee, his fried meat, and his hoe-cake stand ready; but, instead of falling to, as his custom is, he sits silent and despondent, with his face buried in his hands, until Polly asks:—
“What de matter; is you po’ly?”
“I dunno as I ’se, to say, po’ly,” Wat replies, “but dat boy’s been a-pesterin’ me dis livelong day, a-callin’ ‘Daddy, Daddy!’ jes’ like I talkin’ now, till seem like I ’se most beat out along o’ him.” “Dat mighty curous,” Polly answered, “’cause Ole Keep, he’s been a-howlin’ dis blessed day. I ’lowed dat Ung Silas were gwine be tuck.”
“’T ain’t dat,” the miller interrupted. “Ung Silas, he done got better; he howlin’ arter sompen nother, but ’t ain’t arter Ung Silas.”
Upon that identical winter’s day, in a back alley of New York, a small crowd of idlers had gathered to witness the performance of the “Man Monkey.” A little creature, dressed in tinsel, leaped and capered, keeping time to the grinding of an organ. When the spectators were silent, he would glance timidly at his ill-favored keeper, but when they cheered, the poor little figure would strive to outdo itself, in spite of laboring breath and trembling limbs. Then a rope was stretched, and “The Man Monkey,” seizing an end, swung himself up, and, amid the acclamations of the admiring mob, began a new act of his performance. The day was cold, and at that dizzy height the wind struck bitterly through the starved little overtaxed body; he lost his footing, caught wildly at the rope, missed it, and—fell.
In that brief second did he see the old mill and the little cabin standing in the sunshine? Did he hear his mother’s voice? God knows. When a pitying hand gently turned the little heap of quivering humanity, a happy smile lit up the pinched face, and the dying lips murmured, “Daddy.”
