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Easter and Special Fiction Edition SP Tristram o/ Blent on Third Page
VOLUME XXXIX
ATLANTA, GA., WEEK ENDING MARCH 30, i 9 oi
NUMBER 4
II EIX* MISTIS’ SWEETHEART
j? STORY OF SOUTHERN LIFE BEFORE THE WAR ^ ^
Written for &f>e SUNNY SOUTH
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Mrs Hugh Hagan
Of Atlanta, Ga
visit be make ter Georgy he kin stay at
Col’ni Noy's en still not ’prive hisseff
er her corap'ny. Den young mistis turn
so red, I think sum her veins gwine bus
shn, but she jes ’turn round en say:
“Mammy, tell mama wt’se waitin' fur
her.' ”
"Den gran’pappy say, “Marthy, I wants
yer ter lisen et dis hear predicament I’m
gwine make: Ef Col’ni Noy take en
mar’y young mistis he gwlen brake her
heart—er man whut’s mean ter his nig
gers ain’t gwine t^r make no good hus-
ban’. Dat man’s got bout fo hundred
darkles, en day ain't one uv ’em dat
wudn’t .line de church ef dey know’ll
he wus dead.’
“Den m’ gran’mammy sed, ‘Abe, you
ilunno whut you talkin' ’bout; you nint
never bin ter nun er his plantashuns.’
“Gran'piappy sed, ‘I knows his kerrigt?
driver en I knows his baggage wagon
driver en I knows his body servant, en
dey all tells de same tale—da^’s he's er
wurk er Satan’s.’
“Gran’rnammy sed, ‘Abe, you sho is
parted comp’ny wid yo senses. I clar ’fo
de Lawd you is. 1 great mine ter take
er muzzle en stop yo mouf squar up.’
“He say, 'Dat’s all rite - . I dun hed my
say, en I'm thoo talkin', but you jes take
en watch.’
“She say, ‘Ole miss gwine ’menee cook
in’ fur de weddin’ termorrer.’
“He say, ‘You sho doan mean hit’s dat
soon ?'
“She say, ‘I means hit tain t but three
weeks ’fo tis. I hear ole miss tell marster
ter sen’ Jim en Boleg’ed Bill out huntin'
ter get venson, en yistiddy she sont Rufus
out wid dat lit’ie yaller wagon ter fetch
all de eggs he kin git in dis hear part de
c’untry. En I hear her ax Fronie how
many turkeys en chickens she got in de
hen’ry, en Fronie sed ’bout sebenty tur
keys er ’twixt fo ’and five hundred chick
ens. Ole miss say, 'Dat ain’t nuf tur
keys,’ ter tell Sam ter git 'bout fifty mo.
Den I hear ole marster tell young mistis,
‘Yo trunks dun cum frum Lundun,’ en
young mistis tuck en blush, en she gwine
ter rite Mister Washfn’ton whut sorter
patrit her par is, en ole marster say he
’spect he hatter sen de clo’es back, en
young mistis sed no, she ’spect she ain't
gwine tell on him dis hear time. Den dey
bofe laff and laff, en marster say, ‘Book
yonder et Marthy, her eyes en her years
is bofe wide open,’ en 1 tuck en drops
him er curt'sy en says, ‘Y'es ser, marster,
but I ain’t got no op’nin in de mouf yit.’
Jes’ den ole mistis cum in en sed de
mail hed dun cum, en dat nil de kin fokes
war cumin’ ter de weddin’ en marster
say he dunno how he gwine make de
’commodashuns uv ’em all, dat dey ain't
got but twenty-fo’ spar bedrooms. Ole
mistis say she ’spect dey kin crowd in fur
er week, en de gue-stes sarvants kin stay
out’n in our quarters wid us, en she know
Continued on Last Page
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Lauretta
By Mary E Wilkins
Author of “A New England Nun,” “A Pot of
Honey,” “The Love of Parson Lord,” Etc. s*
'
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A
‘He take an' cuss her an’ tell her ter git some draps outen de med'cine chist”
•d Ills 11
HE chimes of midnight
echoing through the old
colonial halls aroused
from the depths of pro
found revery one whose
weary burden of years
is emphasized by a new
care, one of sweet re-,
spoosibilitv.
The ripples of inno
cent laughter emanat
ing from the drawing
room set in motion vi
brations which brought
no joy to General Wil
lis’s heart, but the som
bre mood ended when a
pair of soft arms eneir-
d a gentle voice said:
"Why. grandad, you otd wait oh dog;
why are you not In bed?”
“Oil. no. I must watch my jewel lest
some thief come and steal it away/’
“One tried this evening.”
“Yes. and I only fear this will be your
report of many evenings to come.”
“No. 1 mean a lovely thief; one that I
. really like, and one that I want you to
like. too. grandad.”
The old man’s voice lost its tone of
playfulness and his face became at once
grave.
‘‘Who’s that Mary?”
“It’s young Robert Noy that we met
last fall at the springs.”
“No, no; vou are joking—my little girl
could not have selected the one person
that I would, under no circumstances, ac
cept.’
“But. grandad. It’s true—I really like
him. He has the most beautiful face I
ever saw. I do believe I could love hinn—
and. grandad, I do love him a little bit.”
"Discussion is useless. Mary. I’d fol
low you to the grave before I’d see you
married to Robert Noy.”
“Grandfather. T don’t understand you at
all! You, who are so goixj ,md gentle in
all things—to take such a prejudice
against a person of whom every one
speaks well. Why, he admires you above
all men.”
“My child, God has bereaved me of wife
and children; yes, even my old friends
are fast dropping off. and only you are
left to cheer an old man^s desolate
heart.”
“Don’t talk that way.”
"Histon to me further, little girl. Gran
dad can’t lx^ with you much longer, but
God will not take me away until He
gives me the blessing of seeing my little
Mary nobly and happily married. Mam
mon will address you because of your
broad acres: others will love you for your
lovely self. We must go very slowly, dear.
In this affair of marriage, tn cyder to sift
the dross from the gold. First, and fore
most of all, your husband must be well
born.”
“But. grandad, you yourself, the other
night traced Robert’s relationship to our
family.”
“Alas, mv child, too true! There are
many branches on noble trees that rot off
and are cast away. Aristocracy is not the
only claim to admirable manhood. Noble
lives, noble thoughts and noble deeds, as
well as gentle birth, make noble men,
and such is the lineage of which your
husband must boast.”
"But, grandad. Robert is noble and
charming—and you know nothing of bis
family.”
“What! Know nothing of his family!
My child, their history is branded upon
my heart, and I have no faith in their de-
scenda nts.”
“Why, grandad, how hqrd and cruel you
are growing.” v
The old man said: "The great grand
father of Robert Nov was the wealthiest,
handsomest, most dashing aristocrat of
my grandfather's day. but a more ig
noble soul was never put in man. Even
now mv veins tingle and my every im
pulse cries for blood.”
"Grandad, you make me afraid—don’t
look so. Don’t visit the sins of the father
too far. You see. I don’t deceive you—I
tell you my every thought and see how
you are treating me.”
“Dittle Mary, the great grand aunt
from whom you took your name was a
most beautiful and courted woman. Colo
nel Robert Nov broke her heart and
crushed her spirit, and, rather than see
this hand of yours given to one in whom
I see most clearly those family tenden
cies. I’d give your spirit back to God be
fore you'd tasted of dcgiading sorrow.”
“Oh. grandad!”
"There, go to your room if you must
weep; my nerves have never grown ac
customed to the sound. I may give you
sorrow tonight, little one. but as years
roll on and God's blessing descends upon
your union with some good mart, you’ll
thank the wisdom of my gray hairs.
There, kiss me good night, and leave me
to wrestle with, the first pain you have
ever given me.”
“Grandad, we are both so unhappy, let
me stay with you.”
“No. child, your tears unnerve me. my
heart aches afresh from its old wounds.
Go to your own room and ask God to
send light to my little motherless girl.”
“What dat cryin' in here?”
"Oh. mammy, mammyP*
“Come here, honey.’’
"Go with Mary to her room, Phillis.
She Is unhappy and i cannot comfort
her.” *
“Grandad, don't say that.”
"Come on here, honey—doan’ pester
marster. Dat’s rite, come on, an’ 11F up jt-r
head and look whar yer walkin’, eaze ef
yer do n take keer yer keep er stumpin’
yer toes on dese steps, ver sho gwine fall
down. Come on here in you' own room
en set in mammy's lan tell yer gits yo’
cry out; den whin ver gits thoo. tell me
whut’s de matter wid you en marster, an’
I'll go fix hit up twixt yer.”
*
TWO
“Mammy, he says I sha n't marry the
first man I've ever seen that I could
love.”
"Poo, honey, marster orter be ’shamed
er hisse'f. Dis chile jes’ eighteen year
ole en he dun tuk en busted up her life,
'fo she hardly start livin’ bit.”
“That’s all right, mammy. I'll sacri
fice my life for grandad, and take care
of him as long as he lives—and then. I'll
go into a convent, and take the veil.”
“Den whut's ter come er me whin
marster die, en you goes in de convent?”
“Oh, I’ll take you in the convertt, too.
God makes no distinction in color. He
knows our hearts are turned from the
world, and we’ll give all the money gran
dad leaves, to cheer troubled hearts. I’ll
see one of the sisters tomorrow.”
“Hole on chile; do’n make no distrib-
erments uv us, nur de money nether;
dat is, not tell 1 sees marster en fine out
how come him ter treat yer like er dog.”
“There's no need asking him, mammy,
dear. Grandad's unkind to me for the
first tinge in his life.”
"Go off, chile, yer knows I luvs yer
like I does m' eyeballs, but do’n say
dat ’bout marster. Marster wus horned
good, en sence de Lawd dun classified
him wid trouble like He dun, marster
fltten rite now fur hebben. All he got
ter do enny how is ter lit’ up his foot
en he’s dar.”
“But mammy, you don’t know how he
talks about Robert's ancestors.”
“Whut's dem, honey?”
“His grandfather, and his great grand
father.”
“Well, honey, I ’speck marster jes
feerd fer yer ter tak’ en mar'y so young,
en lie’s jes tryin’ ter ’scuse off ev’rybody
dat wants yer.”
“But mammy, that is cruel; Mr. Noy
is not responsible.”
“Whut’s dat name yer jes' sed?”
“Mr. Noy—Robert.”
“Good gracious er live!”
“Why mammy, what's the. matter with
you?”
“Honey, tell me dat name ergin. Sholy
sumthin’ got 'rong wid m’ years."
“Mr. Robert Noy. He’s the handsomest
man, and oil, mammy, such beautiful
mannertV and yet grandad says he is not
noble.”
“Is dat good-looking man dat I see
friskin’ ’bout wid all dese gals Mister
Robert Noy? I been watchin', him bu
I ain't never hurd his name. God knows
I tliort marster en de rite, track cudn't
be fur parted.”
“What do you know about Robr
Noy?”
“Dat's rite: stan’ up dar strait lik*
aror wid dem big eyes icin’ thoo ,
en yer cheeks lookin’ like de Per jjtA
on the' andiruris. 1 ain’t skeered. I been
seein' yer do dat ever sence j-e,r wus
er I it' le yaller he'ded baby, en me en yer
grandad tryin’ ter take keer yer. Set
over dar in dat cheer, en I’m gwine tell
yer er tale, en ef yer got de quality in
yer yo ma, en yo pa, en you gran'ma, en
gran'pa, en all de res' uv de fam’ly got,
den ye’ll be cryin’ on de uther side vo
mouf whin I gits thoo.”
“I don’ wish to hear your nursery tales.
You forget, mammy, I’m a woman.”
“Dis hear ain't no baby tales. I’m gwine
open de closet doo’ en sho' you de fam’ly
skel’ton.”
“We’ve never had a skeleton in our
closet.”
“Yes, ye.r is, honey; dars one grinnin’
in dar, en his name’s Robert Noy.”
“Mammy!”
“Risen! I'm gwine ’mence at de fus’
en tell plum up ter de las’. Hit wus jAs’
utter de war wus good e.n over, en fo’kes
hed dun gin ter git so rich dey dunno
whut ter do wid all de prop’ty en nig
gers dey got.”
“I’ve never heard of such a time since
the war.”
“Not dis hear war yer grandaddv font
in en w e niggers got sot free; not dat
war—de uther one, whut Mister Wash-
in’ton fit, en marster’s gran’pa hep him.”
I he revolutionary war.”
“I dunno nuthin’ ’tall ’bout dat I jes
knows dis war wus Mister Washtn’ton’s
en marster’s gran’pa hope him ter whup
dat U bei r S1 n°' • Dar wus ’ nu ther man
dat hed or han’ in dat war, too, en his
name wus Col’nel Robert Noy. He wus
do grandis, riches, dashin’est white gen’-
mun in de lan’. All de, gals wus plum
crazy bout him, but he ain’t seem ter
S Willtr fur ^body ’ceptin’ Miss
Ma > WiHis, marster’s gran’pa’s darter
Marster ’members ’bout her.”
bUt VOU don,t mammy, because
"I know T Younger than grandad.”
■bout de Ais Z li r ' nut 'r r
hit h„, ,u ' 1 1 sh ° seed de las’ uv
’bout hi/ dUn h '. ar m ’ LTanmammy tell
ote whfi T mUCh dat 1 kin see de big
green u 6 "'‘ d de high colums. en
Kreen blines settm’ way up dar in de
IZ o UV cra P e -mertle trees en magnolias,
wid de. wa ks all Ilnded wid boxwood, oil
de ole coach house, big ’nuf fur er hotel,
all kivered wid honeysuckle an Verginnia
creeper dat Miss Sarah fotch frum Rose-
wall, her home up i„ Verginnia. Oh I
members hit jes’ like 1 hed dun bin dar
yistiddy.
1 ell me what Aunt Martha told vou
mammy.” J
i G . ran mammy sa - v fie nl *e ole miss tole
her bout young mistiss’ weddin’ she run
fas es she kin’ till she gits ter her cabin,
den she grab m’ gran’daddy by de shoul
der en holler. ’Wake up. Abe, an lemme
tell yer de news.
Gran’pappy say, ‘Bawdy, Marthy I
thort you gwine sleep up ter de big hous’
how cum yer ter cum here dis time er
nite?'
"Gran’mammy sed, ‘faze I’m bleeged
ter tell yer dis here news—ole miss sed
1 could cum tell yer ’fo enny de uther
darkies know’ll ’bout hit.’
Gran pappy sed: ‘What sorter news
yer got ter tell?’
She sed: ’Big, fus’-class news—wed
din’ news! Y'oung mistis gwine take en
mar’y Col’ni Noy.’ i
He sed: Go off, Marthy, you know
young mistis ain’t gwine ter mix her
’ligious life wid de ungodliness er dat
man.’
She sed, I»ok er hear, Abe, you’se
too handy wid yo tongue. Col’nl Noy jes’
es thick es he kin be wid Pres’dent Wash-
in’ton; en when de pres’dent wus vis’tin
us he tole young mistis (de ritte he tuck
her ter de ball), dat he hope de nex’
AT’RETTA was my third
L rnusin on my mother’s
side. She was a real
pretty girl, one of the
prettiest girls that ever
’ived, I don’t care
where, but she was very
prim. As I remember
her, Rauretta was about
the prunmest girl I ever
saw. All the village
girls were modest and
well behaved, but Rau
retta went a step beyond
everybody; she wouldn’t
do thi3 and she
wouldn’t do that, and
she didn't act fairly nat
ural about beaux. When Rauretta was
eighteen years old she had never let a
young man go home with her, and I can
••e her face now when her sister Rouisa
‘ d her how John Mitchell had seen her
R*"» T from meeting anil kissed her good
night. Rouisa married John Mitchell af
terwards, but that didn't make any differ
ence. “O Rouisa, you did not allow such
a dreadful thing!” said Lauretta, and she
colored up as if John Mitchell had kissed
her instead of Rouisa. Louisa didn’t like
it very well. “Yes, I did, and I am going
to marry John if he asks me, and I can't
see as I've done anything very dreadful,”
said she.
“f don't see how you could. Louisa,”
said Lauretta, and she still had that
shocked kind of look, and her face and
neck were red. Lauretta had the softest,
finest skin, and colored red as a rose in
a minute, and her blue eyes would widen
and grow- round. I can see them now.
“You are too particular to live,” said
Rouisa. She told me afterwards that she
didn’t believe Rauretta was like other
girls. “I've seen her coming out of meet
ing actually hanging on to mother's arm.
for fear somebody would ask to go home
with her,” said Rouisa. Rouisa had al
ways a great many admirers, and did not
resort to subterfuges to keep them at
bay.
"Edward Adams would be glad to go
to go home with her, I guess,” I said.
"He's just dying to." replied Rouisa.
“I can see him hanging around every
Sunday night after meeting, but he can't
go home with Rauretta unless he goes
home with mother, too. I never saw a
girl like Rauretta. I don't believe she
ever will get married. She won’t give
anybody a chance.”
I felt sort of sorry for Edward Adams,
because he was a good fellow and real in
timate with Joseph Greene, the man I
married three years afterwards. Joseph
used to tell me about liow Edward felt.
“I never saw a man so used up as he is
over Rauretta,” said he, “but she won't
look at him.”
“She won’t look at anybody else, any
more,”said I.
"No; that’s some comfort,” said Joseph;
“but what is it, what has she got against
Edward ?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said I.
I told Joseph I would try to talk to
Rauretta, and see if 1 could find out what
the trouble was and so I did, but I didn’t
make out much. I got a sort of idea that
perhaps it wasn’t so much because she
was prim as we hail always thought, as
because she didn’t really believe any
young man wanted her, or loved her as
much as her mother did; but 1 wasn’t
sure that I was right. She did bring up
Hattie Jones getting jilted, after Amos
Stetson had been keeping company with
her for two years, and Caroline Ander
son, after Jim Radd had been ready lo
die for her, for five. “I don’t believe men
are apt to care very much about girls,”
said Rauretta. “They go home with them
and they go to see them, but I don’t be
lieve they care so very much more for one
girl than another; and I don’t see what
people want to get married for, anyway.
I like my mother better than any man I
ever saw'.”
I got sort of indignant at that “I think
men are just as good as women,” said l.
‘I didn't say they weren’t,” said Raur
etta in her scared, meek kind of way. “1
just said I didn’t believe they eared so
much about girls as their mothers do.”
“There’s Edward Adams ready to wor
ship the ground you walk on,” said I.
“He went home with Annie Whitman
last night,” said Lauretta; but she color
ed up, and I sort of chuckled, for I rea
soned It out that she must have been
watching to know that Edward went
home with Annie, for all she was going
out of meeting herself, clinging as tight
to her mother as if she couldn’t walk
alone.
“Well, he slowed his sense, if he did.
She jufl stared at it She did not know what to think for a minute
long ns you wouldn't let him go with
you,” said I; “and Annie is a real pretty
girl.”
“I don't think she’s pretty at all.” said
Lauretta; “her cheeks are too red, and
she’s too stout. But I don't want any
man going home v’ith me. 1 don't like
men."
So It ended. I couldn't make <) t for
the life; of mo whether Dauretn was
leallv so prudish, that she didn't want
any attention or was afraid of bell ; jilt
ed, and did not believe that at one
cared for her. Lauretta always was a
very modest, meek ittle thing; she never
I ushed and scrambled for anything. I
don't believe that even when she was a
child she ever thought of the biggest
piece of cake or pie, and she gave away
all her apples and candy, and never
teased nor ours.
Well, time went on, and Louisa and I
vtre both married, though Lauretta was
older. She lived with her mother, and
clung to her jest as tightly as ever. Ed
ward Adams wasn’t married either,
though h" had paid attention to several.
He acted as if he had given up Lau
retta.
Lauretta was twenty-eight years old
when the new school teacher came to
Ferrisville. She was a beauty, and no
mistake. I don't know that she was any
prettier than Lauretta; but you could
see her farther, and she came from the
city, and knew how to dress. Edward
from the first acted devoted to her. H-J
was on the school committee, and .so
had a good excuse to visit her school
often; and he used to walk home with
her from meeting, and take her sleigh
riding. and Mrs. Ijansing, the womair
where she boarded, said he called on her
real often. Folks began to think it would
be a match. That was the winter when
Lauretta's mother died, and sho was if ft
all alone. Louisa couldn’t come to live
with her, because her husband had liis
business in Morristown, and couldti t
leave: and Lauretta, though ;-iie had
enough to live on herself, couldn't afford
to hire help. She settled down to live
alone, and it did seem real pitiful, she
was always such a Um.'d little thing.
For a little while I used to go over anil
stay all night with her; but, of course,
1 couldn't keep it up always. I said to
Joseph that it was such a pity that, she
and Edward hadn't got married, but he
said he guessed he'd got over it, that the
new school teacher suited him pretty
well.
“I don't know,” said I. “I've always
thought Edward Adams wasn't one ;o
shift about very easily from one to the
other; and Mrs. Lansing says lie hasn't
been to call on the teacher quite so often
lately. I know he didn’t go home with
her from meeting last Sunday night, and
I saw him looking at Lauretta. I don’t
believe but he has a good deal of feeling
for her, left alone the way she is.”
“More feeling than she would have for
him, I guess,” said Joseph, rather grimly.
He was a little inclined to be severe on
Lauretta; he had always thought so much
of Edward. “I guess Edward is prettv
well suited with the school teacher,” he
said again, “and she’s handsome as a pic
ture. a sight prettier than Lauretta.”
“I don't know,” said I, “anil I don't
know about her being handsomer. You
men always think if a girl has blazing
red cheeks her beauty is settled. Lauretta
is more delicate-looking, but it seems to
me she is much prettier.
“Not according to my way of thinking,”
said Joseph. Joseph is a good man. but
he never trusts one woman s opinion oi
another’s beauty.
It was some three months after Lau
retta’s mother died and the poor girl hail
lived alone through one of the hardest
winters we had ever known; snowstorm
after snowstorm, and bitter cold, and she
did have a lonesome time of it. 1 went
in there all I could, but much of the
time it was too bad for me to walk. I
lived half a mile away, and we didn't keep
a horse, and it was before the electric
cars were put in.
Well, poor Lauretta got along somehow;
she never complained, she was always
just as sweet, and meek, and gentle; but
she grew thin and there was \ sari lit
tle droop at the corners of her mouth,
and her blue eyes seemed to be always
looking past you, though she was pret
tier than ever. Black was very becoming
to Lauretta.
It was Easter Sunday when that hap
pened which no one has ever been able to
explain. I, for one, have never tried to. It
has always seemed to me just as well to
leave some things unexplained. Easter
Sunday was a beautiful day, the first
real mild day we had had. lhe air was
soft as June, the snow had gone except
for patches here and there, the trees be
gan to look green and filmy and once in a
while you couid hear a bird. I may as
well tell it just as it happened, as Lauret
ta told it to me. That Easter Sunday,
when Lauretta came down stairs
In the morning to build her
kitchen fire, she noticed a very
strong, sweet Iragrance all over
the house, and she could not imagine
what it was; but when she opened the
sitting room door, she saw. There, on
the table, stood a great pot of Easter
lilies. The lamp was on the table, and
the Bible, and her sewing, and the pot
of Easter lilies scenting the whole room
and the whole house
She just stared at it. She did not know
what to think for a minute. Then she
1
j*,.