FullReads

“I’ve been thinking of that,” said Evelyn, reflectively, laying aside her manuscript.

* * * * *

“How does this sound, mammy?” she asked, a week later, when, taking up an unfinished tale, she began to read.

It was the story of their own lives, dating from the sale of the plantation. The names, of course, were changed, excepting Blink’s, and, indeed, until he appeared upon the scene, although mammy listened breathless, she did not recognize the characters. Blink, however, was unmistakable, and when he announced himself from the old woman’s bosom his identity flashed upon mammy, and she tumbled over on the floor, laughing and crying alternately. Evelyn had written from her heart, and the story, simply told, held all the wrench of parting with old associations, while the spirit of courage and hope, which animated her, breathed in every line as she described their entrance upon their new life.

“My heart was teched f’om de fus’t, baby,” said mammy, presently, wiping her eyes; “b-b-b-but look heah, honey, I’d–I’d be wuss’n a hycoprite ef I let dat noble ole black ‘oman, de way you done specified ‘er, stan’ fur me. Y-y-yer got ter change all dat, honey. Dey warn’t nothin’ on top o’ dis roun’ worl’ what fetched me ‘long wid y’ all but ‘cep’ ‘caze I des nachelly love yer, an’ all dat book granjer what you done laid on me I don’ know nothin’ ‘t all about it, an’ yer got ter teck it orf, an’ write me down like I is, des a po’ ole nigger wha’ done fell in wid de Gord-blessedes’ white folks wha’ ever lived on dis earth, an’–an’ wha’ gwine foller’em an’ stay by ’em, don’ keer which-a-way dee go, so long as ‘er ole han’s is able ter holp ’em. Yer got ter change all dat, honey.

“But Blink! De laws-o’-mussy! Maybe hit’s ‘caze I been hatched ‘im an’ raised ‘im, but look ter me like he ain’t no dis grace ter de story, no way. Seem like he sets orf de book. Yer ain’t gwine say nothin’ ’bout Blink bein’ a frizzly, is yer? ‘Twouldn’t do no good ter tell it on ‘im.”

“I didn’t know it, mammy.”

“Yas, indeedy. Po’ Blink’s feathers done taken on a secon’ twis’.” She spoke, with maternal solicitude. “I d’know huccome he come dat-a-way, ‘caze we ‘ain’t nuver is had no frizzly stock ‘mongs’ our chickens. Sometimes I b’lieve Blink tumbled ‘isse’f up dat-a-way tryin’ ter wriggle ‘isse’f outn de morgans. I hates it mightily. Look like a frizzly can’t put on grandeur no way, don’ keer how mannerly ‘e hol’ ‘isse’f.”

The progress of the new story, which mammy considered under her especial supervision, was now her engrossing thought.

“Yer better walk straight, Blink,” she would exclaim–“yer better walk straight an’ step high, ‘caze yer gwine in a book, honey, ‘long wid de aristokercy!”

One day Blink walked leisurely in from the street, returning, happily for mammy’s peace of mind, before he had been missed. He raised his wings a moment as he entered, as if pleased to get home, and mammy exclaimed, as she burst out laughing:

“Don’t you come in heah shruggin’ yo’ shoulders at me, Blink, an’ puttin’ on no French airs. I believe Blink been out teckin’ French lessons.” She took her pet into her arms. “Is you crave ter learn fureign speech, Blinky, like de res’ o’ dis mixed-talkin’ settle mint ? Is you ‘shamed o’ yo’ country voice, honey, an’ tryin’ ter ketch a French crow? No, he ain’t,” she added, putting him down at last, but watching him fondly. “Blink know he’s a Bruce. An’ he know he’s folks is in tribulatiom, an’ hilarity ain’t become ‘im–dat’s huccome Blink ‘ain’t crowed none– ain’t it, Blink ?”