Newspaper Page Text
Page 6
THE MAROON TIGER
^3he c ls>iger
(This is the prize story.—Editor.)
SMALL TOWN
Jenkins is a little place between Live Oak and San-
dersville. Nothing much ever happens there; it’s just
a hot and dry little town that tourists slow up for, be
cause a sign tells them to, wave their hands at, and pass
through on their way to Palm Beach and Miami.
Ellie Bret lived on the edge of town—right where the
tourists began to slow up—and she died there. Once
you fall in love with a small town it won’t let you go;
and once you take a liking to the earth and all it stands
for. it isn’t likely that you'll go very far away from it.
Ellie had been to Tampa once and to Jacksonville three
times, hut she always returned to Jenkins with deeper
love in her heart for it. The ground had been mighty
good to Ellie and her kin. It kept her citrus trees in
good, marketable fruit, and it received her dead with
quiet courtesy. The ground, wonderful as it was, didn’t
show any favors: it was as good to colored folks as it
was to white, so long as they took good care of it. Ellie
had buried her husband and two of her boys in it, and
they were resting at peace. Only her living boy was
restless; only he was at war with Jenkins.
Ellie had always believed that she was the cause for
his unrest. Two summers earlier she had let him go
to Jacksonville to work. He had gotten a job on one
of those big boats that run between Philadelphia and
Jacksonville. He’s seen too much of the North, Ellie
always said when Floyd got into some trouble with the
white boys in town. And Floyd got into much trouble.
Any nigger that don’t know how to talk polite to white
folks is bound to get mess»d up. Floyd must have for
gotten, after his job in Jacksonville, that he was sup
posed to say Yes, Sir, to storekeepers when they ask
you anything, because he and Mr. Salter got in a big
fight about it in Mr. Salter’s store. Before the fellows
could part them Mr. Salter had hit Floyd on the head
with an axe handle. Judge Rourke gave Floyd six months
on the gang because he hit Mr. Salter first.
Ellie was rocking by the fire the night Floyd got
c.'vay and came home.
“You’re a fool, son; it’s gona be harder when dey
catch you!”
“But dey ain't gona git me! Gimme that ole black
suit and my cap. I gotta be movin’.”
“Which way you goin’?”
“Down through th' creek to Barnesville. I’ll make it.
don't worry!”
“You can’t come back to Jenkins.”
“I know dat. I hate dis dump, anyway.”
He was ready to go when he remembered the pistol
under his mattress. He got it in a bound and came
back into the room with his cap pulled way down.
“I’ll send for you, ma, when things quiet down. 1
will.”
“You’re foolish, boy, when you didn’t have but six
months; but I hope to God you make it!”
He was wanting to cry on her lap when the sheriff
came in. Floyd let him have it before he could say a
word; let him have it quick in the belly.
“Damn his soul.” said Floyd.
“Listen, son,” Ellie told him; “you’ll hang for this,
sure.”
“I'm goin' to drag him out in the woods.”
“No, you won’t. You’ve gotta get away—far away as
possible. Leave him here and gimmie your gun.”
“An" let ’em git you for somethin’ I done? I been a
man so far, ain’t I ?”
Ellie didn’t hear what he was saying. She knew,
though.
“Dey don’t lynch wimmen as a rule, Floyd. 1 been
here a long time: they don t respect me, but they be
lieve me. I kin tell ’em somethin’! Sheriff’s scum, you
know. And dey know it. Leave me th’ gun, and I’ll
manage things. You git out of here; go to Jacksonville.
I’m old, but I kin look out for myself. Go save yer-
self: the Lord’ll take care of me.”
Floyd plunged into the woods, calling himsdf a
damned fool for not staying and facing things. Ellie
looked at the sheriff and the thick [tool of blood on the
floor. Then she made her decision. Lynching a dead
nigger isn’t much fun. So Ellie played her first prac
tical joke on Jenkins by putting the big pistol against
one of the breasts that had nursed Joe, Fred and Floyd
and pulling the trigger with her thumb.
A few minutes later Floyd ran into town and told
Mayor Dixon that he had just shot the sheriff. The mob
got him while two deputies went to see if his statement
was true.
The morning after they strung up and burned Floyd,
Mr. Salter told a lady that came in for a can of Red
Rover sardines:
"I knowed he was gona wind up on the loose end
ot a rope, but I didn’t figger it was gona be so soon.
Course Jim wasn’t much of anything, much less a sheriff;
but it wasn't for a nigger to lay him out.—Need any
bacon? 1 got a fresh side in this morning.—What I
can’t frnger out. though, is how come he killed his
mammy, too.”
(This is the prize verse.—Editor.)
DON’T QUIT
W lien things go wrong, as they sometimes will.
When the road you are trudging seems all up hill,
W hen the funds are low and debts are high,
A nd you want to smile, but you have to sigh.
Rest, if you must—but do not quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one must sometime learn,
And many a “failure” turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don’t give up, though the pace seems slow,
■’ may succeed with another blow.
Often the goal is nearer than
m to a faint and faltering man;
Often the straggler has given up
W hen he might have captured the victor’s cup.
* ml he learned too late when the night slipped do")
How close he was to the golden crown.
Success is failure turned inside out—
The silver tint of the cloud of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are;
It may be near when it seems afar.
So stick to the fight when you are the hardest hit.
It’s when things seem worse that you mustn’t quit.
- John Benjamin Clemmons. ’35.