title: 100 stories in black : a collection of bright, breezy, humorous stories of the colored race as seen in the sunny South
text: CL ^ 'a oV ^ * " y 'V' / ^’^ Xr -l~ o>’ V V° t 0 " C ^V'" SS /v 4l,,< %/°* X %^ G c° Nc y,a\ v Jfn f //yz 2 ^ + <s - ^ '*btf : \° o«. • H . * * \a° „..,<?*.* »»« •>. -e-. .A 0 ’ '\^V^ V *’*«' <* ’* /,. * *77. ■>'>'’ s.., * » * C‘ V * * 0 a ^,<v s s T s, & \ V.v •%. c 1 ^ *VS£jN'. V ^ <* „ A£yA ° •%. ^ - JaSDIBL - ^ *  IN BLACK. BY BRIDGES SMITH. A COLLECTION OF BRIGHT, BREEZY, HUMOROUS STORIES OF THE COLORED RACE AS SEEN IN THE SUNNY SOUTH. Copyright, 1910, by Bridges Smith. New York: J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 57 Bose Street, WHY THIS BOOK. These one hundred stories were selected from the many that were written to portray certain phases of the negro character, and were written hurriedly, because they were a part of the daily routine work of a newspaper reporter. This is my apology for their imperfections. I have endeavored to frame them, as near as possible, in the true dialect of the middle Georgia negro, and a visit to Yamacraw and Tybee, two negro settlements in Macon, and to the police court, will prove how well I have succeeded. The stories originally appeared from day to day in the Macon Daily Telegraph, but the demand — for which I am grateful — that they be printed in book form has induced me to thus give them to the public. This is my apology for publishing them. Macon, Ga. A TYPICAL FIGHT. Half a dozen boys in a Yamacraw backyard. One pulls an orange out of his pocket, cuts a hole in it and begins to suck it. “Where you get that owange, Jim?” “Git hit from the gittin’ place, that where er gittit.” “Gimme piece er dat owange.” “Gimme piece er dat how he got hit,” said Pete. “Jim steal dat owange, that how he got hit,” said Pete. “Nawer didn’t never,” said Jim lifting the orange from his mouth long enough to resent the accusation, “that while many would keep the store down there on Poplar Street, he gave it to me. He gave you one of them ax ’im.” “What! That Eyetalyun who got the ground candy in the show case?” Five boys looked wistfully at Jim as he sucked his orange. Five months watered, and five boys felt like licking him for his good luck. Pete especially. Pete believed that Jim had hooked the orange, and being mad, anyhow, because Jim had eaten it without so much as offering a suck to any of the boys, he started out to get even. “What do you do for that Eyetalyun who mek him?” “That owange, Jim? Dem Eyetalyuns ainter guvvin owanges anyway for nuffin.” “Mine he sto’ when he went to the bank to take the money, that water dun,” says Jim. “Dat Eyetalyun lef’ you ter mine he sto’?” “Mer goodniss, man, ain’t dat wotter tol’ yer? Tol’ yer dat fo time, anner ainter gwinter tell yer no mo’.” “How many owange yer put in yer pockit w’ile de Eyetalyun gone ter de bank?” “Look hyere, Pete, yer talks lakker steal. Dun tol* yer dat de mans gi’ me de owange. Wot de matter wid yer?” “Jisser axin yer how many owange yer steal fum dat Eyetalyun.” “Efyer say datter ’gin me’n you sho gwineter hitch.” “Wot else yer tek sides de owange?” “Better lemme lone, Pete, you izzer breedin’ scabs : now.” “Gimme some er dat groun’pea candy, efyer got any lef’.” “Jiss keep on. Doan mine er buss yer brains out wid- der brick.” j “Er seed some big red apples in he sto’, yer git any er dem ?” “Iser gwineter holler fur de poleeces ef yer doan lemme lone. Er ainter bovrin’ yer, izzer Tom?” 100 STORIES IN BLACK 9 “How long yer ben off de chaingang, Jim? Tain’t ben long.” This was the turning point. Jim had wished to him- self that he had never seen that orange, and of all the things he regretted most was that he did not share it with his fellows. But regrets were brushed aside when Pete accused him of being on the chaingang. This had been a sore point with him ever since his time on the gang expired. So, when Pete asked him about it, then came the fight. When the case came up yesterday morning the story told by the witnesses and the fighters themselves was wholly unlike the actual facts. Each accused the other of cussing and drawing knives and bricks. But the court understood. It was an everyday fight between a couple of little negro thieves, and as they were too young to be put to work on the gang, they were given thirty days to carry water to the convicts. Except that this de- prived them of opportunity of roaming the streets that they might steal anything that they could reach, they cared no more for being sent to the gang than for taking a drink of water. THE TISSUE-PAPER BALL. They had a tissue-paper ball in Atlanta the other day, and Emma, the dressmaker’s delivery girl, read about it. She had been studying up something new for her society, the Tybee Social and Outing Club, and a ball with dresses made of tissue paper struck her as the very thing. Her employer entered into the spirit of the affair. 10 100 STORIES IN BLACK seeing as how she could get about fifty cents each for the paper dresses that would cost her not over fifteen, and Emma brought up the matter before the society. This was two weeks ago, and last Saturday night was the time set for the ball, that being the only night the girls could get off to stay up late. The ball was pulled off at the house of Minerva Jack- > son in Sympathy Alley, her house having the largest I front room. Ten o’clock found the ball in motion. They were all there, including Slowfoot Sal, Whispering Annie, Fatty Fan, Delia, the Doper, and all the girls. Among the male members of the society were Hog- Eye Jake, Hare- lip Pete, Jack Jackson, of Jacksonville, Trimlin Dick, and all the other boys. The girls were dressed in red, white and blue, yellow, pink and tan tissue paper, artistically arranged to represent flowers. Slow-foot Sal was a lily of the valley; Whispering Annie was a morning glory; Fatty Fan appeared as a modest violet; Delia, the Doper, was a poppy, and so on. By the light of the lamp on the mantel, the scene was one of brilliancy. The music was furnished by Banjo Bill, who came all the way from Hawkinsville for the purpose. “Kinner haves de plejjer uvver two-step wid yer, Miss Dely ?” said Pete, bending low over the Doper. “Skuse me, Mister Pete, er izzer pickin mer comp’ny ter-night,” said Delia loftily. “Yer ack lak yer allers do, seemster me. Yer nevvy did haves nuff sense ter git out’n er shower er rain,” said Pete, as he crossed the room and bowed low before Fatty Fan. THE TISSUE PAPER BALL. 11 12 100 STORIES IN BLACK “Iz yer gotter podner, Fatty ?” he asked. “Skuse me, Mister Pete, iz yer talkin' ter er lady, er izyer talkin’ ter Slow-foot Sal?” “Yer sho haster skuse me, Fatty. Er giftin' mix u hyere ter-night, butter gwineter dance dis two-step e buss wide op’n.” Whispering Annie was playing the wallflower, and straight to her he went. “Skuse me, Miss Annie, if you ain’t engaged for the next dance or she would like to take this room for a few.” “Yes, dear, dear,” whispered Annie; “then low-down niggers don't do nothing but study about those folks got on. I feel just like taking a look at that, but I’m getting on my mind that if they can’t hit me, they’ll have to go the limit. I’ll slip that ham around my waists and less show those niggers whether two-step is.” When the music stopped and the dancers had taken seats there were scraps of vari-colored paper on the floor. Perspiration had begun to leak from the merry dancers, and the paper costumes began to show signs of weakening. Fatty Fan was beginning to be a sight. Up started the music again, and the partners took their places on the floor. There was a grab for waists and off came great wads of paper roses and violets and morning glories and poppies and things. The perspiration had gotten in its work of destruction. “Your step on that frock begin, Jack Jackson, and me, you’re too tired to tie up,” said Sal. “Now look what you don’t, Pete, you’re too tired to tie up,” said Fatty Fan, who was now bathed in perspiration. “Er, you’re too tired to tie up,” said Fatty Fan, who was now bathed in perspiration. Erder waited for the dollar weaver to give this, said Emma, who saw several dollars' worth of paper work going to wreck, and none of it paid for. "Yer mouter knew dat niggers gwineter sweat on er hot night lak dis, an’ yer mouter knowed dat hit tek mo’n paper ter kivver er fat oomans lak me. Yer ain’t got de sense yer wuz bawned wid nohow." This from Fatty Fan, who was thinking of how she was going to get home in the remnants of her costume without being taken by the police. "Tain dat! Hit de nigger. Yer nevvy kin mek nuffin butter nigger,” retorted Emma, who was now disgusted. "Tek dat back,” shouted Sal, who hadn’t had a fight in a long time, and now she was stripped for the fray, so to speak, "eat dem wuds errer gwineter rammum down yer th’oat, yer stuck-up heffer.” No sooner was the word heffer used than Emma forgot her dignity and made a pass for Sal. Nothing could have suited the men better. They were happy over the prospect of a fight. "Stan back dar, Fatty, gi’ um room,” said one. "Doan nobody totch um, hit dey picnic,” said another. But Emma was no match for Sal, who had grown strong working on the chain gang. She gathered Emma up as if she had been a baby and tossed her against the mantelpiece, overturning the lamp and spilling the oil on the floor. The blaze caught the flimsy paper of such dresses as it could reach, and then came yells and Screams, and a rush for the door. Packed against the door in their efforts to get out, the fire had but little chance to spread. A dress would catch and was gone in a second. But the fight was over. Under cover of the darkness, the girls went home, and every one of them said hard words about Emma, who had designed the paper ball. It is possible that the club is broken up. There was a good deal of talk about busting it, but Emma may be forgiven and the club saved. PRECIOUS JACKSON'S LAST BEAU. They met at the nickel club entertainment, and were formally introduced by the hostess, Mittie Mills, who was giving the thing for the benefit of her church. Dan, the Dandy, that was the name the boys give him in Savannah, he said, was a worker in the crate factory before the fruit season opened, and right now he was shy a job. That didn’t matter to Precious Jackson, who was in need of a new beau. “Dooz yer lives byers, Miss Precious? Er is?” “Wese come from Servanny to this place, butter ben hyere so long now datter feels like hit her home. Where is your home, Mister Dan?” “Er come from Servanny, too. Maybe I know some of your kin down there. Er used to know everybody in Servanny.” “Mer mar wuzzer Russul for she gets married, and me par he wuk on the wauf where deys roll the cotton.” “Wunner of yer mar wuz any kin ter Polly Russul wot used ter sell crarbs down ter de market?" “She de one. Er hyerd mer mar say menyer time dat her sis Polly could sell mo’ crabs dan anybody, doan kyeer who dey wuz. Polly Russul mer mar's own loving sister. Doz yer knows Polly Russul, Mister Dan?" “Er sho dooz. Er bode at her house when in Servanny. She de bess cook in de whole town. She sho kin cook. Er kin tas’e her cooking right now. Dat oomans sho know how ter debbul er crarb. An' chick'n! She kin brile er chick’n, er she kin smuvver er chick’n, tell hit melt in yer mouth. An’ rice! Time she tekker lot After rice and dish hit up with red peppers and butter, an' butter an' dasher onion in hit ter sorter season good, hits go way honey and gimme room! Er shame ter go ter her house kaser eat so much. Look lakker nevvy kin gitter nuff. Datter sho nuff good oomans, dat same Polly Rus-sul. Er love dat oomans. Dat oomans kin git the lass shut off'n mer back of she want hit. Er walk down the daakis alley in Servanny ter do dat oomans er favor er sho would. An' she yer auntie! Er sho is glad ter hyeers dat. When yer hyers fum yer auntie, Miss Precious?" "Er seed her jiss now, she in the back room dar dishin up der ice cream ter de peoples hyere. Lemme go an' tell her dat you hyere, she be so glad ter seed yer, Mister Dan." "Ne'er mine, she busy. Er gotter be gwine, anyhow. Hit most twenty o'clock, after dinner, after dinner, to the former friend mine that day meet him down town for twenty-five o'clock. So long, Miss Precious, as hopes to have the pleasure of meeting him down town for twenty-five o'clock. But Polly came into the room just at this time. She had dished ice cream at a nickel or plate until she was tired, and she had turned the job over to someone else for a while. “Look who here, Aunt Polly!” If only Precious had known, but she didn’t. Polly shot a glance at Dan, who had tried every way to slip out of the room, but it was too much crowded. “Look at me, yer trifling low-down scoundrel you! You look like your better stealing sheep, and the reezing your ain’ been because of the sheep rund for your. Your yellow-face Koun, your old chicken teef, your summer de airth! You the man’s what owes me ten dollars for holding your bedding yer. Your eat up mer vittles and steal your rags out of the house when you gone down town, and your slip out and all's that down paying me. Er tuck your in your house we’en your was in rags, and your so poor fum stowin, and your ain hadder mou-fuller sump’n to eat inner don’t know when, and your eats mer vittles and your slip out of the house on er Saddy night, and this the fuss timer got your eye on your, yer trifling vago-bone yer. And here you is the fellow wearing dem sto’ close with yaller streakit shut anner blue necktie anner par yaller shoes! Your sho rizzer low-down nigger! Er is she gwineter haves your restid. Go get the poles, Pre-cious.” But Dan was not arrested. He bent his head and made A dive for the door, scattering the guests who were looking on at the tongue-lashing Polly was giving him and enjoyed it. And that was the last of Dan. As for Precious, she felt like crying, for she had lost another beau. Henrietta bent over her tub in the back yard, singing as she rubbed the clothes. In the house where she had left the baby lying on the bed to kick up its little black heels, her husband was sleeping. He was on the night shift in one of the railroad yards, and after his breakfast he went to bed. The child, tired of being left alone, began to fret and from fretting went to crying, and from crying went to squalling. Then it was that Henrietta wiped her hands on her apron and went into the house to pacify the child so that it would not wake up her husband. The child was taken from the bed, the rocking chair sneaked out of the house, and on the far side of the house she began the task of getting the child to sleep. There is nothing like singing to rock the baby to sleep with, and she began in a low crooning tone: “Rocksy-bye baby, in the tree top, Daddy, going to him-tin’ Ter gitter it cooney skin Ter wrop de baby bunk in. When de win’ blow Der cradle gwinter rock; When de bough break De cradle gwinter rock; You be er baby by-bye, Erl be er Babtiss teller die.” Over and over she sang this string. The baby hadn’t the slightest notion of going to sleep, and in its way it tried to keep up with its mother, putting in a word of the song now and then. So absorbed was Henrietta in thinking of something else that she had paid no attention to the baby. Suddenly she dropped her eyes on it and saw no signs of sleep. “Shot dem eyes ! Shot um er tell yer ! Gitter sleep dis minnit! Hyere er is stoppin’ mer wuk ter git yer sleep, an’ hyere yer is shootin’ off dat mout’ ! Shot dem eyes, an’ doan lemmer hafter tell yer no mo’.” And then over and over went the string of words she had heard in snatches of song somewhere. This went j on for some time, until she happened to look down at the baby, who had forgotten the last outburst of its 1 mother’s temper, and was lying there contented, but with no idea of sleep. “Yer nasty, stinkin’, liT brat, didn’t er tell yer ter gitter sleep! Shot dem eyes er tell yer! Yer de hod haiditiss liT brat er evvy seed sence er been bawnded. Shot dem eyes an’ git right ter sleep, ef yer doan er gwineter spank yer good !” And once more Henrietta began the song. Again she ceased to rock and took another look at the child to find it sleepless. She jerked it up, turned it over her lap, and for a minute her hand flew up and down like a trip-hammer. “Shot dat mout’ ! Ef yer ain de mos’ aggervatin’ chile dat evvy wuz bawn. Hyere er got mer washin’ on, an’ hit mouty nigh twevver clock an’ yer ain sleep yit, an’ dar dat goo’fur nuttin’ daddy layin’ up dar in de baid jister knockin’ hit off. Us wimmens sho haves er hod time in dis wul.” But the child cried on, and with its squalling and Hen- rietta’s singing, which was louder than ever now, being 100 STORIES IN BLACK 19 mad with the child, the noise woke up Dick, and he ap- peared in the doorway with : Hen’retta, wot de namer de Lawd yer benner doin' ter dat chile? Hitter shame de way yer w’ip dot po’ liT in’cent t’ing.” ‘Ef yer doan git back ter baid, Dick Johnson, er is : gwineter tek er sticker wood ter yer. Dis mer brat, an- ner is gwineter beat hit effer feel lak hit. Ef hit doan shot hit mout’ er is gwineter beat de debbul out’n hit too. Go back in dat house, er tell yer !” Dick disappears, but not to sleep. He goes back to study the situation. Henrietta had no right to talk that way to him. He asked her a civil question and she flew all to pieces. The more he thought over it the grosser the insult. In the meanwhile, Henrietta, now that she was mad with both the child and the daddy, was handling the baby roughly. “Dat de way wid dese yer trifling menses. De comans gotter dooz all de wuk, an’ nuss de baby, an’ men’ all de clo’es, an’ cook all de vittles, an’ dooz every whicherway ter git 'long, an’ den dey’s git mad an’ squall at um jiss lak us wuz dogs! Er is sho gittin’ money tied er all diss, er sho is.” Dick reappears in the doorway, and having been prevented from sleeping, and smarting under what he considers an insult, he says: “Ef yer wants ter tek yer spite out’n anybody, tek hit out’n me. Doan yer hit dat chile ergin! Ef yer de lower stick anner buss yer brains out! Yer de low-downiss comans er evvy seed nohow. Yer ain dun nuf-fin but beat dat po’ chile mouty nigh ter deff all dis maw-in’, and de po’ liT t’ing ben crying tell er jiss kain’t sleep. De debbul sho gwine ter git yer fur de way yer beat dat po’ chile. This was about as much as Henrietta could stand. She threw the child down on the ground and picked up what is known to washwomen as a battling stick, and before Dick could realize it, he had received a Whack over the head. He grabbed a brick, and she dared him to throw it. He saw the fire in her eye, and he dropped it. '‘Wot de namer Gawd de matter wid yer, Henrietta? Is yer gone bug house? Nevvy seed yer ack datter way afo ! Er gwine in de house an’ git mer ress now, an’ yer better lemme ’lone.” Henrietta resumed her washing at the tub, and then in a short time looked around to see what had become of the baby. There it was, lying flat on the ground in the hot sun, fast asleep. FALL STYLES. After breakfast conversation across the alley, from kitchen window to kitchen window. Both cooks waiting to clear away the table, and just waiting for the white folks to get through the meal. “How yer feelin’ dis mawnin’, Calline?” “Jiss tolluble, Sister Harris. Ain’ shot mer eyes de whole night long wid dis ol’ toof. Hit hut all night, an’ tain’t much better dis mawnin’, butter hadter come git de w’ite folkses brekfus.” “How come yer doan haves de ol’ snag juk out? Yer 100 STORIES IN BLACK 21 ain lak me. Er had dot oY snag out fo yer bat yer eye. De Bible says of yer right hand, cut it off, anner eye for er eye anner too for er too. Dat me. Erder had dot ol’ snag out long ’go, datter would.” “What yer reckin’ er hyeered de white folks say lass night?” “Er clar er dunno. What doys say, Sister Harris?” “Deys say de shawt sleev gwine outer style, an’ deys is gwineeter haves um ter come over de han.” “Er sho gladder dat, Sister Calline, kase er nevvy did lak dat style. Er oomans look lak deys jiss come fum de washtub widder sleeve all roll up. Hit dooz fer dem wimmenses dat gotter om dat look lak sump’n, but dese yer gals dat ain got nuffin’ but skin’n bone sho looker plum sight. Deys look lak liT straws sticking out deys shoulder. Er jiss nachly spize er spinlin om er laig. Hit doan look decent ter me.” “Yer muss memmer, Sister Harris, dat de Lawd mek dem kiner wimmenses, an’ deys kain’t he’p hit. Dat the way de Lawd mekum. He mek dem wot got de big om and de big laig sames He mek dem with de om wot skin’n bone. Yer sho mussn 'T mek fault with what de Lawd mek.” “Ain that de trufe? Er furgit all dat. But He didn’t have nuffin’ ter dooz wid dem shawt sleeve, anner reckin er kin sayes wotter please ’bout dem, anner izzer sayin’ hit right dis minnit. Dem shawt sleeves sho izzer scannle.” “Dat right, Sister Harris. Yer is plum right about that. Is de style gwineter be fur de liT gals ter war dem socks?” “Er hyerd de w’ite folks say dat de style gwineter be wussun dat nex’ year.” “Fur de namer de Lawd! How deys gwineter mek-kum any wuss? Tell me dat. Er so sorry for dem liT gals dat deys put dem socks on. Er seed um lass winter wid deys po’ liT laigs blue wid de col. Is deys gwineter tek any mo’ does off um?” “Deys ain no telling what er oomans dooz ef hit de style. Ef de style say tek evvy ragger clo’es offum an letum go in de street stiff stock nekkid, dar is some wimmenses dat gwineter dooz hit, doan kyeer ef hit kill de chile. Dunno wot de good Lawd gwineter dooz wid dem kiner wimmenses w’en deys died. Hit dooz look cuyus ter me dat dem folkses wot dooz mean while deys is living gotter wait tell deys died fo de git wot cornin’ ter um. Deys tell me dat de sinner gwineter go ter torment an’ bun up in de fi’ry funniss, but deys kain’t git dat tell deys daid. Seem lak ter me dat now de time when de ought to be burning some. Er ax Bruver Breedlove ter 'splain that ter me one day, and all he say is hit de Lawd’s will. That money poor satisfaction. Effer gotter wait teller daid for er bun up, er mout ez well be havin’ all de fun er kin fo er go daid.” “Dese preachers doan know everything, Sister Harris. Deys mek out deys knows, but deys doan knows. But yer ain't tol’ me what de style for de liT gals winter beed.” “Er hyed de white folks say dat dey is gwineter mek de frock shawter in de skut an’ longer in de wais’es.” “For de lanner Goshen! Dat scan’lous! Hit sho is. Er tank de Lawd er ain got no chilluns, no gal chilluns, kase er sho heap ruvver seed um daid dan be follern de style lak deys gittin’ up dese days. Wot yer reckin de matter wid de peoples no how? Is us all gone plum crazy? Hit look lak ter me dat every year us git crazy an’ crazy. Fuss noos yer knowed de wul gwineter come ter de een. Den whar yer gwineter be?” “Ain dat de trufe? Er hyed de white folks calling me. Deys is thoo brekfus, anner gotter go. So long, Calline.” “So long, Sister Harris. Er seed yer later.” HASLIT PETE. It was the noon hour, and the draymen had driven up to the usual place down the street to eat their dinner, and at the same time be in easy call of anyone who might want any hauling done. “Any yer fellers hyeer ’bout Haslit Pete Sunday night?” asked Jim, the cut-rate drayman. “Yes,” said Jim, the cut-rate drayman. “Yes,” said Henry. “That’s talkin’ about Hare-lip Pete, the one that talks thoo he nose, that who you talk about! He name ain Haslit Pete,” said Henry. “That’s what Jack Jackson er Jacksons-villes call him. Wunner wot cummer Pete! Ain saw him inner coon's age. Wuz dat nigger here Sundy?” “Dat wotter fixing ter tell yer now, ef yer ain heard hit.” “Go long an tell hit. Wese ain hyerd nuffin ’bout Pete.” “Sence dey shot up de Yamacraw Meffodis, so de pastor kin have he suffocashun, Pete ain ben gwineter chu’ch tell lass Sundy. He tek him er botler dis bline tiger licker an’ he go ter de woods, way out in the country, an' he jiss hit dat botler licker tell he git fullern er ol’ goat. He santer down de road tell he come ter er chu’ch. Dunno wot kiner chu’ch, but bitter chu’ch. Pete gotter noshun in he had datter he ought ter go ter chu’ch, jiss lakker fool nigger wot drunk is gwineter dooz, and fuss noos yer know dar wuz Pete sottin’ up in dat chu’ch jiss lak he sot in de Fuss Meffodis down dar in Yamacraw. Pete sot dar an sorter th’ow he had back lak he gwineter sleep. De preacher sot him w’en he fuss git in, but he mek out he ain noticin’ Pete. De preacher mans went on wid Her sarmon, an' gotter talking about the miracles, sump'n 'bout de loaves and de fishes, an' all dat, an fuss noos yer know Pete he sing out and say, ‘Mister, kinyer’ form er miracle?’ Wid dat the preacher gets down fum the pulpit an’ he walk up ter Pete, an’ he say easy lak, ‘Mer fren, dat all right ’bout dat, after chu’ch er gwineter pray for yer.’ Den he go back an’ gotter preaching ergin. After while Pete he wake up, an’ he sing out ergin, ‘Say, mister, kinyer ’form er miracle?’ Cose Pete dunno what miracle is, an’ he don't keep ever if he doesn't, but that what he heard the man say. The preacher gets down fum the pulpit an’ go up ter where Pete was, an’ he say, easy lak, ‘Mer fren, yer muss keep sort of quiet.’ Peter sorter lay back an’ sorter look lak he sleep, an after while he does jiss lakker mans wot drunk gwineter dooz, he riz up an’ he ax the preacher ef he kin ’form er miracle. The preacher he er great big mans. BEFORE-DAY AND LITTLEBIT. They were known as the Tybee Twins, but they were not twins, only neighbors. They were about the same size and the same age and the same color. Possibly they were ten years old, but that is a matter of guesswork, for Mandy, the mother of the boy, never kept account of the passing years, and Hildy, the mother of the girl, never cared. Both mothers were widows, and had lived adjoining lots for a long time; both took in washing for their bread, and allowed their progeny to shift for themselves, knowing that they would always turn up at meal times. But this was before they got to running with larger children. Then their comings and goings were without regularity. “Hildy, is your seed dem chilluns around here sence deys brekfus?” Mandy asked one morning. “Er ain’t laid me in my eyes on dem chilluns inner, don’t you know. Er specs deys round here summers. Today! er Foday! Yer hyer me calling you here. Come right here to me, you triflin scoundle,” and Mandy called loudly for her boy. He was born just before day, and they say that is how he got his name. But Foday did not answer, and then Hildy yelled: “Little bit! er Little bit! Come to your mar, honey!” But Littlebit answered not. “Where you reckon dem chilluns got to? Go along With her, Hildy, they were coming home after awhile. They were gone for a while, and both returned to their tubs. An hour passed, and then Hildy happened to think of the children. She stopped washing and wiped her hands on her apron. Then she went to the fence and looked up and down the road. Then she called Libby. Still no answer. Mandy kept on at her tub, but Hildy was uneasy. “Wunner where dem children are. Er she gwine to look for that child or mine. Er tol’ today not to be taken that child off and staying all day. See he tuck her down town, er cross the railroad. Gwineter be back after awhile, Mandy.” As she passed out of the gate, Mandy was heard to say to herself: “Dunno what got into Hildy these last week. She calls the time want that child in the yard. She wants to keep her eye on her all the time. Today ain gwine to let the child get but. Datter must have good boy, after the boys hit myself. He or her fine boy, but he just like daddy. He daddy the boss nigger in Tybee, if he did get drunk on Saddy night. He she wusser good provider. No beginning over the tub when that nigger living. The railroad sho killer good nigger when they run over here Pete.” She was still talking to herself when Foday came running up. “Where there been, your trifling?” Raskil?” she asked. “Er nevvy dun hit mar, please doan w’ip me, mar, er newy dun hit, er couldn’t he’p hit, oh ” Right then Mandy knew that something terrible had happened. She threw down the clothes she was washing, and with arms akimbo she spoke commandingly: “Stop that crying, and tell me what you dun. Where L’l’bit?” “The train ran over her; oh, mar, please doan w’ip me, or couldn’t he’p it. Er ” But Mandy had suspended judgment. She would see for herself, and off she hurried. She saw the crowd at a distance, and she fairly flew in that direction. There on the ground, surrounded by a crowd, and with Hildy bending over her and rubbing the little cold hands, was the mangled form of L’l’bit. Mandy pushed her way through the crowd and knelt by the side of Hildy. “Mer po’ chile! Er keep telling yer, Mandy, dat er oneasy ’bout de chile. Sump’n told me dat mer chile daid. Hit musser ben de daid sperrit uvver daddy dat come cropping up ter me an’ w’isperin’ ‘go ter yer chile,’ an dat wot mek me oneasy lak. Efferder dun hit de fuss time dat sperrit w’isper ter me dis po’ chile Er tol’ Foday notter tekker off " “Ner mine ’bout Foday! Er ten ter him w’ener gits ter him. Er sho gwineter beat dat boy ter deff ” “No, you are not,” said a gruff voice, that of a white man, who had heard Mandy’s threat, “you are not going to touch that boy. You ought to take that boy in your arms and thank the Lord for giving you a child like that. I saw the whole thing. That boy did everything anybody could do to keep the girl from running across the track. He risked his own life for her, and a boy who would do as he did, don’t care how black he is, can’t be whipped if I can help it. That boy is a little hero. The effect was instantaneous. Such praise as that, coming from a white man, was unlooked for. The crowd for a minute couldn’t understand what makes a hero, whether white or black, but the white man had said today was not at fault, and there was not one to say aught against it. As for Mandy and Hildy, they arose and clasped each other in their arms and cried. Hildy cried in sorrow for the lost little bit; Mandy cried for joy. Today was a hero, whatever that is. THE FORTUNE TELLER. All Yamacraw was in an uproar yesterday morning when Minerva made known that some time during the night her house had been broken open, and four dollars she had been saving up to buy winter clothes for her daughter had been stolen. The women gathered about her to hear all the particulars. They went to the window that had been prized open, and they looked for tracks. Then they went into the house and looked at the exact spot on the mantelpiece where the glass jar that contained the money had been taken from. “Some low down Tybee nigger dun that she’s your bawn. Nunner these Yamacraw niggers steal that money summer lone widder comans like that.” This From Melinda, who put her trust in all that is Yamacraw. “Spec hit one or two of these white tramps who all the time coming through the Yamacraw. Nigger ain gonna steal summer nigger if he knows it, anner just knew he ainter gwineter steal summer widder comans.” This from Miz Passmore. “Tell your water dooz, Sister Minervy, just put down everything and go seed Miss Maggie Allen over your money in Tybee. All's your gotter dooz is to say: ‘Miss Maggie, the breaks in my house last night and the kids took my money, anner ainter skusin’ nobody. That all your gotter dooz is to tell you who buss that winner open, who tuck that money, where it took fum, how much money was there, and you seed of your money back.” This was the advice of Sister Breedlove. “Ain dat de trufe,” said Becky, “anner knows what talkin’ about. Yer knows dat nigger Bill was wotting in the bue-ry! Bill bought him er par er dese shiny packing leather shoes and gin six dollars for um after regular shoe store. Up on the mantelpiece was something one er dese year banks wot yer saves nickels in. Dat nigger save up fifteen dollars, an' fool lak he keep hit in dat bank sottin' up there on de mantelpiece. Next morning Bill fine the bank in de yod where the booglar buss hit open widder hatchit. Dat med Bill so sick he 'bout ter do daid. He go ter Miss Maggie, an' he say: 'Miss Maggie.' An' Miss Maggie she say, ‘Hooh!’ Bill say, ‘Deys buss op’n me house lass night and they tuck me bank, an' they buss that op’n, an' they tuck all my money and mer Sundy shoes.' Miss Maggie she say, ‘Sho’ nuff!' Bill say, 'Dey sho did.’ Miss Maggie say, 'Lemme look in yer hand.' She say, 'Lemme run the keys.' Den she run the keys. She say, 'Er seed er tall black nigger widder skyar." Over the left eye. Bill jump up, and he say, ‘That’s low down. Sim Bailey. But Miss Maggie doesn't pay no attention to Bill, she just keeps on running the keys. She says, ‘He fixing the going to the baptizing tomorrow morning, and he gets better there.’ That all Bill wants to know. He runs the hand in the pocket and he puts down the quarter, and he says, ‘Er, she’s able to get more, Miss Maggie, Sim Bailey ain’t going to be no baptizing in her pocket, or tell you that!’ Bill was at Sim Bailey's house for the next morning. He's sort of cracked open the door, and there was Sim Bailey's in the door. He's sort of cracked open the door, and there was Sim Bailey's in the door. Bill push de do' wide open an' step in. He say, 'Sim,' whar yer gwine so airily dis mawnin'? Sim say, 'Er is gwineter go ter de babtisin'. Bill he say, 'What kiner shoes yer gwineter goes in?' Sim say, 'Er gin er liT boy er dollar fur dese shoes, an effer doan mek no mis- tek, er is gwineter go in dese shoes.’ Bill he say, 'Yer sho’ mekker mistek, kase dey is mer shoes.’ Sim say, 100 STORIES IN BLACK lak he gittin’ mad, ‘Dese mer shoes, kaser buyed urn fummer liT boy, an gi’ him er dollar fur urn.’ Bill say, ‘Er dun ben ter Miss Maggie, an she say yer tuck dem shoes out’n mer house, an’ yer buss de bank, an’ yer got mer fifteen dollars.’ Wid dat Sim wuz skeered. He shuck dem shoes, an’ he pull ten dollars out’n he pocket. an’ he say he pay de ress jisses soons he git hit. Dem Tybee niggers sho skyerder Miss Allen. Ef Bill got he money back an’ dem packing levver shoes wot cosses six dollars, yer sho git yer fo dollars, kase she gwineter tell yer who got dat money.” Nobody paid attention to Slowfoot Sal, as she sneaked out of the crowd Somewhere in the city, the crowd was bustling with excitement. and slipped into the house for about half a minute, and got in the crowd again. “Tain’t nunner mer bisniss,” she said, “but yer alls better look out how yer go skusin’ yer neighbors er stealing yer money. Er knowed er heaper peoples ter git in trouble datter way.” “Er ain skuse nobody! Er ain sayin’ nuffin’. Butter sho go ter seed dat Miss Maggie. Er hyerd Sister Flowers tell ’bout wotter good forchun teller she is. Sister Flowers say all de white comans go ter seed Miss Maggie, an’ she ain tellum no lie yet. Er sho git mer fo dollars, kase Ise gwine, jiss berry minnit, dat wotter doz.” And Minerva went inside the house, followed by Slowfoot Sal and others. “For yer go, Mernervy, tekker good look, kaser jiss knew yer doan wants no failing out with yer neighbors. Spec dot money some where yer laid hit down an’ dun furgit all ’bout hit. Er dooz datter way money time, an’ denner wants somebody ter kick me.” Minerva, without knowing why, took a look on the mantel, and there, under the little glass jar, was the four dollars. “Somebody ben in dis house an’ put dat money there, deys sho did,” said Minerva. “Deys ain nobody ben in dat house Sence we all come out, not even seed. Is any year all seed or soul go in this house?” asked Sal. No one had seen anybody go in the house. “That she beat me time,” said Minerva, examining the four dollars to see if they were the same that were taken. “Ain that the trust?” said Sal. 