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6
Worth Woman’s While
The Doctor’s Little Polly.
In the mountains of North Carolina, twelve miles
from the old town of R , stands a brick man-
sion, which, fifty years ago, was known as the
Creighton place. From its position at the foot
of a darkly-wooded peak, it looks out beyond its
terraces and the long driveway leading up to it?
from the main road like some old feudal castle across
a moat. To the left lie the acres and barns of gen
erations of Dexters; to the right and at the rear,
stretched, in the days of the Doctor and his little
Polly, the long line of negro quarters with their
gnarled old shade trees and cleanly swept door
yards. Hither stole Polly when, escaping Aunt
Betty’s falcon eye, her little feet could be seen fly
ing down the path to “the quarters,” sure to be
followed all too soon by the old nurse’s indignant
form and the high falsetto in which she cried,
“Don’t you know you ain’t got no business playin’
wid niggers?” and overpowered, but quite cheerful
and fully determined to return again, Polly would
be led away.
Polly was always a cheerful child till the winter
when she was five years old the rain and mist that
hung about the mountains seemed to cast their
chill over her little heart, and she would sit ini
the old window seat or stand with her face pressed
against the panes looking out in unchildlike silence
till Aunt Betty would mumble as she moved about,
“Sump’n’ got to be done wid dat chile—sump’n’
got to be done! Jos’ gazin’ an’ gazin’ day after
day. I can’t go about dat window myself widout
seein’ dat black line creepin’ ’long de road like it
was some monster er crawlin’, an’ de rain er driz
zlin’ down, an’ de mud up to de hub o’ de kerridge
wheels. Lawd, Lawd, it was a sight to see her ma
carried off like dat! ’Pear like sump’n’ in the
chile’s min’ like what in mine, jes’ er settin’ dar
lookin’ an’ er keepin’ so still! An’ her pa gone
off way to de Nor’f, an’ dat ’oman er settin’ in
yonner in her ma’s place; Lawd, but dere’s been
strange doin’s in dis house! Mistus in her grave
but t’ree mont’s when here come dis new one
what ain’t skurcely our kind o’ folks, nohow, an’
ev’ything so change ’round. But what kin ole Bet
ty do?”
As the spring grew on Polly would fall into
strange fits of crying and sobbing.
“I want to go to the Cross-Roads—T will go! I
want to go and stay with Brother Joe!” she would
cry.
“Now. Miss Polly, what make yon go on lak
dat?” It was a warm night toward the end of
April, and Polly had demanded that the windows
be left open to let in the flood of moonlight and
the sounds from “the quarters.” The thumping
of Tom’s banjo, accompanied by subdued singing
and the cries of the little negroes at play in the
open, floated up to her. “What would Marse
Audley say? You know de Cross Roads ain’t no
place for you! ’Tain’t no place for Marse Joe
yit—jes’ er livin’ dar in dat room at de sto’ wid
yer Cousin Henry. An’ you know he never would
er been dar ’ceptin’ he was bleedged to go to
school some’ers. What you gwine to do when
he go off to college nex’ fall? You might as well
git use’ to it—you and Nat, too. Dat nigger sho’
look lak he is goin’ to ’struction, sence Marse Joe
went away he don’t do nothin’ but prowl ’round
over dese mountains wid dem dogs. Dar now!
Ain’t I jes’ tell yer? Hear dat, don’t you? Ole
Skip er howlin’ like all possessed, and Nat an’ the
yether dogs gone over the mountain. He needn’t
think he gwine to college wid Marse Joe, case I
heard de Mistis tell Marse Audley dey warn’t no
use in Marse Joe havin’ a servant while he at
school—dat how come he ain’t at de Cross-Roads
wid ’im now.”
Skip’s voice raised in prolonged and piteous la
ment pierced the heart of Polly.
The Golden Age for September 13, 1906.
By FLORENCE TUCKER
“It’s mean to chain him up,” she cried—“it’s
mean!” and burying her face in Aunt Betty’s lap
she fell into a passion of weeping. “I will go to
the Cross-Roads, and I’ll take Skip, too!”
Aunt Betty gathered the convulsive little form
into her arms and soothed and crooned over her
till she fell asleep with the tears on her round
cheek. Then laying her down gently she stole from
the room and along the shaded path to “the quar
ters,” where Tom still sat before his door idly
thumping.
“Tom,” she said, with the hectoring air the old
carriage-driver was so long accustomed to. “Tom,
you git dat kerridge ready in de mawnin’! I’m
gwine take dat chile to de Cross-Roads. She been
er pinin’ an’ er pinin’ here twell she mighty nigh
grieve herself to death. She dunno what it is,
but she grievin’ after her ma. She think she want
her brother Joe, an’ if dat gwine comfort her, I
gwine take her to ’im!”
“What Marse Audley gwine say?” Tom looked
at her askance. “What she gwine say?”
“Now, you look here, nigger!” Aunt Betty set
tled her hands more firmly on her hips. “What
Marse Audley say is ’tween Marse Audley an’ me
’tain’t none o’ yo’ consarnment. Likewise, her
what calls herself de mistis. You have dat ker
ridge ready—dat’s all you got to do!” And haugh
ty and erect she marched back.
Next morning, as Nat threw wide the big gate
Tom flourished his whip and lines, and shining ii
the spring sunlight the carriage swung through.
Polly, dimpling with delight, stood up and waved
her two hands and cried, “Good-by, Good-by!” to
the troop of little negroes who st&od watching her
off, and Skip, from his position on the front seat,
yelped in delicious excitement.
“And, Aunt Betty,” cried the child as she set
tled herself happily, “I can have a poke-bonnet,
can’t I? —like my new mamma! You know they
will have them at the store—they have everything
at the store!”
“Lor’, chile, how er ole nigger like me know what
you kin have? You’ll have what yo’ pa bring you
from de Nor’f, an’ what yo’ new ma git you when
she go to de city, an’ dat you will be satisfied wid.
As to dey havin’ ev’ything at de sto’, I wish it
was so; den I wouldn’t be so misput in my min’
’bout what I gwine to do wid you when I git you
dar.”
And Cousin Henry and Brother Joe were at first
as much perplexed as was Aunt Betty. It was
very nearly as Polly said, they had everything at
the store—a little of everything—as was the re
quirement of a country store, nine miles from the
nearest town; and among the sundries might have
been included hospitality. At the rear of the build
ing the smaller of the two rooms was reserved for
the not infrequent wayfarer, the other being oc
cupied by the clerk and shared at present by the
doctor’s son. Tn the smaller room, after some con
sternation, Polly and Aunt Betty were domiciled.
“Drawn the elephant this time, by Jupiter!
Nurses and babies at the general merchandise es
tablishment of Creighton and Company. Whew!”
Henry Holleman gave a low whistle as he mounted
the high stool at his desk. “Wonder what the
doctor will say?”
But Polly felt no share in the general apprehen
sion. In the peculiar relation existing between the
doctor and his little girl, fear had no part. Re
garding him with a sort of adoration she was in
turn the child of his tenderest devotion. Happy
to be again with the brother who was her hero, she
allowed him never out of her sight; trudged after
him to school, where she sat contentedly through
the long hours, and out of school was hijs faithful
shadow, whether following him to set bird traps
or looking on in admiration at; the trials of strength
through which the men put the boy. Aunt Betty
grew daily more irascible—she wanted, to be at
home, this rather primitive living did not answer
the demands of her pampered tastes, and, perhaps,
too, she dreaded the day now drawing near when
she must answer to the doctor. But Polly had no
notion of return..
“I won’t go home,” she cried. “I won’t! Fath
er is not there, and Brother Joe is not there, and
I won’t go—l say I won’t! ”
So it was the middle of a warm afternoon in
May found her perched in the mulberry tree over
the horse-rack. Joe had managed to put her off, and
had ridden away on some quest of which she was not
told. She was lying back among the thick leaves
listening to the birds and lulled to dreaminess by
the droning insects—even her new bonnet was for
gotten—the poke-bonnet Henry Holleman had been
teased into giving her, and which he had himself
trimmed with a wreath of brilliant cotton flowers.
It mattered not to Polly that it was several sizes
larger than her little head could fill, being intended
for a well-grown miss—it satisfied her utterly, and
now was most comfortable as she leaned back oa
the leafy branches, making of it, in her abstraction,
a sort of pillow for her day-dreams. Presently her
attention was drawn to two horsemen who approach
ed slowly, dismounted, hitched their animals to
the rack, and seated themselves upon the root of
the mulberry.
“Dick Simpson was in Charlotte Tuesday,” said
the taller of the two, “and seen him receive the two
thousand dollars. He told me so hisself last night
at James’ store.”
The shorter man’s answer was spoken in tones
too low to be distinguishable.
“We’ve got to have that money,” went on the
first. “He’ll be along here about dark, or some
thin’ after, and it’s all easy enough.”
Polly held her breath as she peered down through
the thick branches, they looked so rough, and the
sight of a bottle which one pulled from 'his pocket
and passed to his companion filled her with terror
even more than did their language which she coujld
only tell hinted at dark things. She had heard the
maids whisper together of the silent, mysterious
doings over the mountain—how men had gone over
and never come back, and none ever knew what
fate had been theirs, for those silent mountains
told no tales. It was there they made the whiskey
which so crazed Tom that he beat his poor wife
till her screams almost threw Polly into convul
sions. She was sure these two had come from
Cherry Mountain, and here they were planning to
get money from somebody—she held tightly to the
limb and listened.
“We’ll jest wait there in that thicket at the
turn o’ the road by that big muscadine vine, and
when he comes on he’ll give up the money, or we’ll
jest take it if we have to take somethin’ else with
it. Those here men that’s got more’n their share,
and don’t seem disposed to divvy up is likely to
get called on to do it soon or late, anyhow.”
\\ hile Polly lay out in the mulberry tree, resting
her head against her poke-bonnet and soothed bv
the summer sounds, Mr. Holleman had said to Aunt
Betty that he would leave Pete Nowell in charge
of the store while lie rode over to Graham’s—word
had come that the doctor would be on that night,
and would have business with Graham, who must
be notified. M hen the two men got up and saunter
ed into the store, Polly, round-eyed and breathless,
tumbled from the old mulberry, and sped into the
room where Aunt Polly was mending a little torn
truck. Pale and limp she fell into tne old nurse’s
arms.
“Aunt Betty!” she gasped, “they’re going to
kill him! They’re going to take all his money,
and then they’re going to kill him!”
“Kill? Kill who? Chile, what in the name o’
God’s trufe be you talkin’ ’bout?” she said, iras
cibly, thinking, perhaps, of the meeting with the
doctor, her mind not easily distracted from so en
grossing a prospect But as Polly insisted on de
tailing every word, of the two dreadful looking