The MAKING of a STATESMAN And Other Stories By Author of Uncle Remus" "Gabriel tfolliver" &e. New Tork '- -_- ; - ;:_ - p g fj> 1QO2 Copyright, 1902, by McCumE, PHILLIPS y COMPANY Copyright, 1900, 1902, by THE CURTIS PUBLISHING Co. Copyright, 1901, by COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE Co. Copyright, 1900, by JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS r Published, March, 1902, R, The Contents r P"g* 'The Making of a Statesman .... i A Child of Christmas ...... ^7 Flingirf Jim and His Fool-Killer . . . 757 Miss Puss's Parasol ....... 215 The Making of a Statesman The Making of a Statesman r HERE was surprise and consternation in Middle Georgia when the announce ment was made that Mary Lou Lumsden had consented to take Meredith Featherstone for her husband. She was the most beautiful, the most accomplished, and the most popular young woman in the State. Such was her native tact and amiability, such was the charm of her personality, that she was as popu lar with the women as with the men. She had what is called a sympathetic nature. She had broadened her mind in every way. She had taken advantage of the best educational facilities of her day and time, and, in addition, had made the tour of Europe. The man she had chosen for her husband was, as her friends declared, the last man in the C3] Making of a Statesman world to attract the attention of such a woman. He was at least ten years her senior, and had no qualities of mind or attributes of person to equalize this disparity of years. He was not handsome; on the contrary, he had a gloomy and lowering countenance. And yet, after all was said, he had a certain quality of promise in his features. He was dignified, and he was a fairly good talker. The explanation that Miss Lumsden vouch safed to her friends was that she not only loved Meredith Featherstone, but had discovered in him the slowly developing elements that were finally to make him distinguished among men. She was contented and happy, and her friends were compelled to make the most of a situation they could not control. She married Meredith Featherstone, in due time bore him a daughter who grew to be the embodiment of grace and beauty, and continued to wait hopefully for the day when her husband was to reach distinction. She wanted him to be a public man, a states man; she longed for the day when he would be [41 Making of a Statesman able to rise to his feet in an assemblage and command attention not less by the wisdom and beauty of his words than by his commanding presence and powerful personality. Her heart was set on such a career for Mer edith Featherstone. She dreamed of it, and lived on the dreams. The husband, who was a model of complacency in matters that con cerned his wife, read a number of books to please her "Niles Register," the "Federal ist," arguments on the nature and meaning of the Constitution, histories, biographies, and es says; but there never was a moment when he was not ready to throw away the volumes when an opportunity occurred for him to get the ad vantage of one of his fellow-citizens in a trade or dicker. After her marriage Mrs. Featherstone be came greatly interested in the college com mencements that take place every year. On one occasion, nothing would do but her hus band must take her to the closing exercises of the University of Virginia. Once she went to [5] tfhe Making of a Statesman Harvard, taking her husband along so that he might get such a whiff of oratory and scholar ship as would kindle the smouldering fires of his ambition. In 1853, or it may have been 1854, Mrs. Featherstone, with her husband and daughter, attended the commencement exer cises of Franklin College it is now the Uni versity, of Georgia and she was amply repaid for the trouble of the visit, not only because of the opportunity it afforded her of renewing her associations with friends from all parts of the State, but because it brought her in contact with Billy Spence, who, in his graduating year, had become the hero of his class and college. The Featherstones had not been in the town an hour before they began to hear of the won derful Billy Spence. There was a deep mys tery behind him, and, his admirers declared, a glorious future before him. The mystery be hind him attracted attention, and his personal ity and talents held it. Indeed, there was so much talk of Billy Spence that the Featherstones were compelled in self-defence to inquire [6] Making of a Statesman into his history. It was very simple, and at the same time very mysterious. In the late thirties the old mail-coach drew up at the tavern in Hillsborough in Middle Georgia with two passengers a lady, who was very ill, and her husband, who was very drunk. The night was such a wild one that the coach could not pursue its journey, though there was a relay of fresh horses awaiting it. During the night the lady died, and the man disappeared as mysteriously as if he had been caught up on the bosom of the storm and whirled into infi nite space. In dying, the lady left a new-born infant, whose destiny promised to be a sad one. Happily, the child fell into the gentle hands of Mrs. Janie Spence, who was with the mother when she died. Mrs. Spence was a widow, " who, without resources of her own, supported herself with her needle. In spite of her pov erty, perhaps by reason of it, she took charge of the helpless child and brought it up as her own. Her charitable impulse bore good fruit, for her example made itself felt in the town, [7] Making of a Statesman and she was not without assistance in rearing the boy, who had been humorously named William Shakespeare Spence by one of the town worthies. When the little fellow grew large enough to attract attention, it was seen that he was no ordinary child. He was sent to the village school at the public expense, and when the proper time came, a dozen or more citizens subscribed the funds necessary to send him to - college. In the college he took high rank at once, not because he was particularly studious, but because he was bright. He was not a plodder, and it was observed by his tutors that he was not specially ambitious. He was not moved by the applause that greeted him when he made a speech, nor did he seem to set any great store by the reputation which he had gained at college. His lack of ambition was especially noticea ble during his graduation year. At the begin ning of that college year Mrs. Janie Spence had died; and to the young man it seemed that [8] The Making of a Statesman there was no one else in the world worth living for. His Janie, as he called her, had faithfully fulfilled all the duties of a mother to him, and he had loved her with a tenderness that boys rarely display. Billy did not despair. He had studied and succeeded in his college tasks to please his Janie, and now that she was gone, there seemed little left for him to do. Mrs. Spence was to have heard his gradua tion speech, but now she could not hear him, and it needed all his resolution to rise before the swarming multitude he had never seen so large an audience and deliver the speech that he had intended to make for his Janies sake. When he rose to his feet he cast his eyes over the crowd, and permitted them to wander about until they fell on a group of three, a lady, a little girl, and a man of uncertain age. This group was made up of our friends, the Featherstones. The lady, not half an hour before, had heard Billys strange and sad story from one who liked the young man well enough to tell it well. The little girl had heard it, too; and [9] 'fhe Making of a Statesman though she was not more than ten or eleven years old, she had the charm of sympathy about her and she was wonderfully beautiful. Billy was willing to believe that it was the face of an angel that he saw in the multitude. It seemed to console him for his Janies absence. The face of the lady was even more eloquent of sympathy than that of the child, and was al-most as lovely. To this interesting couple, therefore, he delivered the greater part of his speech. It may be judged whether the speech was successful, not only by the applause with which it was greeted, but by the actions of the stu dents. When the exercises were over, Billys classmates seized him and bore him on their shoulders around the college campus, yelling and singing the college songs. The procession was made more triumphant by reason of the fact that all the students joined in the march,\ thus furnishing a spectacle which, up to that time, was without precedent in the history of the college. [10] Making of a Statesman If the speech was a triumph for Billy, it was also a triumph for the tactics of Mrs. Featherstone, who had all along been trying to make a statesman of her husband. The man fell completely under the spell of Billys oratory. . Surely, he thought, if a mere boy can produce these results, it should not be very difficult for a grown man to match them. And, indeed, it seemed to be a very easy matter. It was no I trouble at all for Billy Spence to seize and hold the undivided attention of the audience, to charm it with his periods, to convulse it with laughter, or melt it to tears. As soon as he could, Mr. Featherstone sought Billy out, drew him away from a crowd of admirers, and presented him to his wife and daughter. The lad found the lady charming and something more. The sympathy that illu minated her countenance told him over and over again that she could be to him a friend whose hearty interest was worth having. With the exception of his Janies eyes, those of the lady were the only ones he had ever seen that Making of a Statesman seemed to hold sincerity always in their liquid depths. Without any preface or prelude, Meredith Featherstone invited the young man to his plantation home near Halcyondale, and this in vitation was warmly seconded by the lady and her daughter. It was the child, indeed, who carried the day. " If you will come," she said, archly, " Ill call you Cousin Billy." She laid her small white hand on his arm, and looked into his eyes with an appeal that he found it impossible to resist; and, instead of returning to the town where he was born, he found him self, when the college exercises were over, jour neying toward Halcyondale in the Featherstone carriage. Wearing his honors with unexampled mod esty, Young Spence was duly installed at the Featherstone place as guest. The hospitality in vogue there, quickened by the enthusiastic sincerity of the mistress, was of such a charac ter as to leave the young man entirely free. Emily, the child, true to her promise, called [12] 'fhe Making of a Statesman him Cousin Billy, and, as it was her vacation time, she was his constant companion. She went with him to the small town not far away; she showed him the curiosities of the neighbor hood the cold well, the high hill, the big lob lolly pine, the thicket where a big black bear had killed a man, the stream of water known as Murder Creek the name growing out of the fact that the Indians had there waylaid and massacred a number of white emigrants, men women, and children. She showed him also a negro man who had been stolen by John A. Murrell, the famous land pirate. But it is not to be supposed that the little girl had the guest all to herself. She was forced into the background at night, when Billy sat on the veranda with his host and hostess; and oftentimes the talk of the lady grew confidential as when she told the lad of the ambition she had for her husband; how she wanted him to become distinguished as a politi cal leader, and how she would never be com pletely happy until he could captivate and hold [13] "T/ie Making of a Statesman a. crowd as she had seen Billy do. Meredith Featherstone, for himself, pooh-poohed his wifes ambitious desires; but Billy, seeing that it would please her, did all he could to stimu late her hope. Indeed, he went so far as to declare that speech-making is an art that can be easily acquired by any intelligent man who will seriously undertake it. " But the speeches," said Meredith Featherstone, lifting his heavy eyebrows; " where are they to come from? " " A speech," declared Billy, with a con temptuous shrug of the shoulders, " is a mere matter of moonshine. You string a lot of high-sounding words and phrases together the sound is more important than the sense and walk out before the crowd. Then you glance around carelessly, and select someone to make your speech to. Do you know to whom I was speaking the other day? Why, to you and your daughter." " I told you so, mother! I told you so! " ex claimed the child, clapping her hands gleefully, and blushing a little. 'The Making of a Statesman There was something in the pleased glances of the child that touched the young man deep ly; and, indeed, the whole situation appealed to his gratitude. As he looked at the mother and daughter, it suddenly occurred to him that he had it in his power to make them both very happy; and to that end he determined to address himself. This determination was the result of many causes. Billy Spence lived among a people who were able to find some thing real and satisfying in the ideals of chiv alry. A womans honor, a womans pleasure, were all in all to them. They held themselves aloof from the spirit and movement of com merce and trade, and they looked askance at what is still glibly called " progress." They had not been bitten by what a prominent Southern man has named the Money Devil. Young Spence was a very definite and sensi tive part of his time and environment. The lady and the little girl were fond of him; they gave him their ready sympathy; and to please one or the other, or both, he was willing to sac- [Si 'fhe Making of a Statesman rifice his own future, which he had never self ishly looked forward to. He had been ready to win fame for his Janie. That incentive hav ing been blown out like a candle, he was ready to relinquish whatever aims he may have had for the sake of those whom he regarded as his friends, and, in a sense, his benefactors. It was a romantic notion, and in the end it caused him no little mortification. With no an nouncement of his plans, he undertook the work of making what the world is pleased to call a statesman of Meredith Featherstone. It was no holiday task. For hours every day they would be closeted together, and sometimes far into the night. The undertaking had its diffi culties, as might be supposed, but Billy Spence kept at it with a persistence that would have been sadly lacking if he had been laboring in his own behalf. We shall have to judge of Billy Spences success as a tutor by the events that followed. So far as his personality was concerned, he dropped out of sight and was effaced. Those [16] "The Making of a Statesman who had mapped out a career for him on the strength of his success in college, which was notable, were obliged to agree with those who said he was a failure. The reports that went abroad in regard to him were such as follow in the wake of all who fall below the ideals they have implanted in the public mind. Even the warmest friends of Billy Spence be gan to lose heart. When they inquired about him, the information they received was not re assuring. He was eating the bread of idleness at Featherstones. Instead of pursuing his studies and making an effort to carve out a career such as his marvellous gifts would have justified, he was clinging to Meredith Featherstones coat-tails, or dancing attendance on him as a lackey does on his master. Such was the common report and belief. All the high prom ises that belonged to Billys college career dropped away from him, one by one, until, finally, it was agreed that he would never be anything more than Meredith Featherstones dependent. [17] 'fke Making of a Statesman Such a condition of things was not uncom mon in that day. Kings had had their fools to amuse them, and it was frequently the case that the more prosperous of the Southern planters had about them neer-do-wells with a nimble wit and a sharp tongue. And this was what Billy Spences reputation came to at last; but not before he had witnessed the success of his persistent efforts in behalf of Meredith Featherstone. Proceeding with the approving smiles of the lady and her daughter (the young girl was growing more charming as the days went by) Billy could well afford to shut his ears to the reports that were in circulation with re spect to his idle and shiftless habits. The mother and daughter, it should be ob served, had no accurate idea of the nature of the process which they were approving so heartily. All that they knew was that Billy was training the husband and father in the ele ments and methods of elocution; preparing him, as it were, to make a presentable figure on the platform, and initiating him in the sim- [18] Making of a Statesman pie art of oratory. The public, as a matter of course, knew nothing of all this preparation. Mr. Featherstone went about among them with an inscrutable countenance but inscru tability had been tacked to his features when he was born, and meant nothing whatever to those who had known him all along. There was considerable astonishment when, one morning, the inhabitants of Halcyondale awoke and found neatly printed handbills post ed in the public places, announcing that Mere dith Featherstone would, on the first Tuesday in August, address his fellow-citizens on the various burning issues of the day. As the year was 1856, the first Tuesday fell on the fifth of the month; and the day is still regarded by the oldest inhabitants as the most memorable in the history of that section. There were many surmises in regard to the announcement, and comment was not lacking, particularly as poli tics was very warm., the issues being practical ly what they were four years later. The main question was Union or Disunion, and the two parties were badly divided on the question. [19] Making of a Statesman On the day that Mr. Featherstone was to deliver his speech, a large concourse of people gathered at the Bush Arbor, which had been newly repaired for the occasion. This arbor had been erected for the accommodation of the Methodist District Conference; but as that body could not, in the nature of things, occupy it every year, it was frequently turned over to the worldly minded, who preferred politics to religion, especially on week-days. The arbor had been built with an eye to the accommoda tion of large audiences, but it is very doubtful if an audience as large as that which greeted Mr. Featherstone had ever assembled there before. Taking advantage of the fine weather, the voters had poured in from the adjoining counties, bringing their families with them, and the woods round about the arbor presented the appearance of a confused wilderness of horses and mules, and all sorts and sizes of vehicles. The speech delivered by Mr. Featherstone need not be described here. It was a very suc cessful effort. It was delivered with cpnsider- [20] Making of a Statesman able vigor and made a profound impression on the multitude. A vein of strong common-sense ran all through it, and there were bursts of elo quence that everybody said were worthy of Toombs and Stephens. It was full of humor, too; the sort of humor that makes an irresisti ble appeal to a mixed assemblage; and when the speaker concluded, he was greeted with the wildest cheering that had ever aroused the echoes in that neighborhood. The wife and daughter had seats close to the front, and with them sat Mr. Billy Spence, the dependent. He sat next the daughter, and more than once when her father grew eloquent, or when his utterances elicited enthusiastic applause, she clasped Billys arm convulsively. As for Mrs. Featherstone, she sat in a state of ecstatic enjoyment from the moment that her husbands triumph was assured; and Billy, gaz ing fondly on the two, thanked heaven that he had been able to contribute to their happiness. He had no thought of himself. It never oc curred to him to measure what he had thrown, [21] The Making of a Statesman and intended to throw, away; he was simply filled with gratitude that he had been able to bring happiness to the hearts of these two. He was willing to make any sacrifice to produce that result. Having made one sacrifice, cir cumstances compelled him to make others; and he went about it with a light heart and a cheer ful mind. The speech was a great success, as we have seen. Mr. Featherstone stepped upon the platform a plain, ordinary citizen; he stepped down a great man. It is fair to say that he put on no airs about it. He seemed surprised, in deed, to find his wife crying when he made his way to her in the dense crowd. For a moment there was an alarmed expression on his face. "Why are you crying, Mary Lou?" he asked, uneasily. "Oh, because I am so happy!" she ex claimed. "Humph!" he grunted, rubbing his nose. " Its a mighty queer way to show happiness dont you think so, Billy? " [22] Making of a Statesman But Billy was laughing and talking with the daughter, and if he heard the remark, he paid no attention to it. He led Emily out to the carriage, she clinging fondly to his arm, and there they waited for the others to join them waited, that is to say, until the girl became impatient, for the newly made orator found it difficult to escape from the enthusiastic congratulations of his friends and acquaint ances. Meredith Featherstone now had nothing to do but to follow up his first success; and he did this so well that he soon became one of the most influential political leaders in the State. He ranked with Stephens, Toombs, and Hill. He carried to a triumphant issue the campaign he had begun at his own home. He was elect ed to the State Senate, where he served two terms. He was energetic in advocating and promoting the secession movement, and when the Confederate Government was organized he was elected to the Lower House of Con gress, where he made a record that was ap- [23] 'fke Making of a Statesman proved not only by his own immediate constit uents, but by the whole South. With the collapse of the Confederacy, Mr. Featherstone found his occupation gone, but he soon found a field for his activity in the op position that the reconstruction acts aroused. He refused to take the oath of allegiance, and became a somewhat embittered irreconcilable. His bitterness was rendered more acute by the fact that his wife died shortly after the close of the war. The poor lady had enjoyed the tri umphs of her husband more than if they had been her own. Her highest ambition had been fulfilled, and she died blessing those whom she had loved so fondly all her life. Now, experience and common-sense, as well as the poet, tell us that to this complexion we must all come at last; and so, in the early seven ties, while Meredith Featherstone was consult ing with some of the political leaders of the State, he suddenly lost his hold upon life and joined the great majority. Thus it fell out that one evening in the late [24] tfhe Making of a Statesman fall of 1872 three men sat in a room that had but one other occupant a dead man, who lay with a sheet spread over his face and form. Two of the men were far past middle age, and, by virtue of that fact, sat close to the small fire which the forethought of someone had caused to be kindled on the wide hearth. The third man was no other than Mr. Billy Spence, who, having barely reached the prime of life, sat farther back, a position that brought him close to the silent figure under the sheet. Mr. Spence was serious enough, but there was something about his attitude and bearing it would be hard to say what that was far from meeting the approval of the old men. As a matter of fact, the younger man had never quite met their approval. According to their view, he had never lived up to his oppor tunities far from it, indeed. They considered that he had wilfully violated one of their treas ured maxims a maxim that had the authority of the Almighty behind it in the sweat of his brow shall mans bread be earned. Now, if the [25] Making of a Statesman younger man had ever earned his bread in the sweat of his brow, or in any shape or form, the two old men had never been witnesses of the performance. Many and many a time they had criticised him up and down, and heaved heavy sighs over the fact that, although he had been given food and raiment and shelter by the dead man for many long years, he had never turned his hand to any useful employment so far as they knew. He had come into the house a dependent -without resources, and a de pendent he had remained, in spite of his acknowledged gifts. And now, when the two old men looked at each other and shook their heads, each knew what the other meant, and so, for that matter, did the younger man. But it was not a part of his policy, nor did it run with his desire, to resent their attitude toward him. He had no feeling against them; he was supremely indif ferent to their opinions; so much so, that if they entered into his thoughts at all, he found amusement in contemplating them. The two [26] 'fke Making, of a Statesman old men, however, mistook his indifference for contempt, and to that extent did him injustice. All day long the house had been crowded with callers, strangers from a distance, rela tives, admirers, and those who take a curious interest in everything that pertains to death and the grave. And numbers of telegrams had come, messages of sympathy and condolence from distinguished men in all parts of the South, addressed to Emily Featherstone, the daughter of the dead man. Many of those who had called were old friends and neighbors, and they had volunteered to remain and watch with the dead; but they were given to under stand that all the necessary arrangements had been made, that the watchers were to consist of the two old men who had been in the dead mans employ for a long time, and the young man who had been his constant companion for so many years. Neither of the two old men made any pre tence of deep grief as they sat with the dead. They had arrived at a time of life when Philos- [27] The Making of a Statesman ophy, seated in the chair of Experience, closes with a firm hand the fountain of sorrow, and ad monishes mourners to be temperate with their tears, since they know not for whom they will weep on the morrow. They had come to know that all events, the accidents that bereave and the maladies that slowly consume, are alike timely and providential. As for Mr. Billy Spence, if he did not realize that he had been left in a peculiar, not to say painful, predicament, the old men realized it for him, and they regarded him furtively now and then with that curious lack of sympathy that sometimes manifests itself in those who are old enough to know that sympathy can heal no wounds and mend no broken bones. The po sition that Billy Spence had occupied was forced on him by events and circumstances which he had made no effort to change. He was, indeed, left in a pitiable plight, but such was his temperament that he had no regrets. He had devoted his high talents to promoting the interests and reputation of his dead friend, [28] Making of a Statesman and now, at thirty-six, he was brought face to face with a most painful contingency. Yet he had not a thought for himself; his chief concern was the daughter. He had witnessed her grief with a sinking heart, and his quick imagination, looking forward in the future, beheld her lonely and forlorn. Emily was now twenty-four, and though she had had suitors by the score, she had turned them away one by one. When Billy was younger, the popularity of the girl, and the in nocent pleasure she took in social affairs, had given him many a secret pang, but now he re gretted though the possibility still gave him a pang that she had not married one of the worthy young men who had so assiduously sought her hand. While Mr. Spence was busy with his futile thoughts he heard the tinkling of glasses in the dining-room. The two old men also heard it, and looked at each other with mutual smiles of anticipation. Presently Uncle Ishmael, who for long years had been the body-servant of the [29] The Making of a Statesman dead man, came into the room bearing a small waiter on which were three glasses containing whiskey and sugar and water. The two old men took theirs without a word, but Mr. Spence waved away the one intended for him. "Drink it yourself, Ishmael," he said; "you need it worse than I do." " Plenty mo whar dis come fum, Marse Billy," Uncle Ishmael remarked. Then, plac ing the waiter on the mantel, he went to the side of the dead man and lifted the sheet. For some moments the old negro stood gazing at the face of him who had not only been his mas ter but his friend. Uncle Ishmaels counte nance cleared as he gazed, and he turned to Mr. Spence with an air of satisfaction. " Marse Billy," he said, " he look like he aint moren forty year ol. Des ez you see im now, dat de way he look when you fust come on de place. It sho put me in min er ol times." Billy Spence leaned forward a little and studied the face of his friend. Death had ob literated the perplexed frown and smoothed [30] cfhe Making of a Statesman away the wrinkles, and it seemed that a faint smile was hovering around the firm mouth. Mr. Spence took advantage of the opportunity to stroke the gray hair that clustered thickly about the dead mans forehead, and there was something in the gentle movements of his hand so suggestive of grief and tenderness that the daughter, who was at that moment entering the room, paused on the threshold, caught her breath, and threw her hand to her throat with a gesture of despair. Mr. Spence turned as the two old men gave her greeting. Somehow, her beauty always gave him a pang, and she was more beautiful now, in her grief, than she had ever been. " Is this the best place for you, Emily? " he asked. The tenderest solicitude betrayed itself in his voice and shone in his eyes. " Oh, I dont know! " she exclaimed. " My mind is in such a whirl that I dont know what to do or where to go." " Where is your aunt? " he inquired. " Fast asleep," she replied. 'fhe Making of a Statesman He made a gesture of impatience. " Then you had best sit here," he said. " No, I will lie on the sofa in the next room, where I can hear your voices. I have been looking over my fathers papers," she went on, turning her melancholy eyes on Mr. Spence, " and the discoveries I have made have upset me. Oh, why, sir, have you kept me in the dark? Why have you deceived me? " She advanced a step toward Mr. Spence with an appealing gesture. " It was cruel oh, cruel! to permit me to go on for so many years without some hint or intimation. Why; you told me once a long time ago you told __?? She paused and looked at Mr. Spence. He sat with his head bowed, his hands over his face. His whole attitude was one of shame. " I would have spared you," he said, " but you would not be spared. I begged you to leave everything to me but you would not. Did you break the lock? " " No, sir; I saw where you placed the key. [32] Making-of a Statesman Oh, I was compelled to do something, and I did that. Oh, sir, how could you deceive me so?" " I deceive you, Emily?" He raised his head and looked at her. " No, sir, you did not," she said impulsively, after a pause. " Oh, you have forgiven me in many things, and you must forgive me in this. But we I thought everything was so different from what it is." Mr. Spences head fell lower. " You neednt be ashamed, sir. It is I oh, I shall look at everything differently after a while." " You have been asleep, Emily, and have had a bad dream," said Mr. Spence, rising from his seat. " Come into the next room and rest upon the sofa. Ishmael, fetch a shawl for your Miss Emily; she will need it over her feet." He took her by the arm, and she permitted him to lead her from the room with a submissiveness that sent a thrill all through him. But she continued to talk about the discovery she had made while looking over her fathers papers. [33] Making of a Statesman " Does anyone else know? " the two old men heard her ask, but they could not hear the re ply, though they strained their time-worn ears to the utmost. They looked at each other and shook their heads solemnly. Whatever it was, it must surely be a pretty come-off. " What you reckon shes found out? " asked one in a stage-whisper. " The Lord only knows," replied the other, " but its upsot her mightly. Maybe Billys been up to some sort of devilment about the propty." "No, no; not that," declared the first old man, " I never seed a livin human bein wuss tuck down than she pears to be. Did you take notice how she sird him? " " I most shorely did," assented the other, " an it mighty nigh tuck away what little breath Ive got left. The last time I seed her talkin to Billy, she had on her high an mighty airs but that was before Meredith went to his long home." " Well, its clean beyand me," said the first [34] The Making of a Statesman old man, still whispering. " He looked like he was ashamed of sumpn, an she done like shes willin for to rub the dust offn his boots." And so she was. In her young girlhood she thought there was no one like Cousin Billy, and when she grew older she found herself in love with him. Then, later, in self-defence, as it were, she felt compelled to treat him with con temptuous indifference. She fell in with the general opinion that he was a neer-do-well, who was too lazy to turn his remarkable talents to account. He fretted her in various ways; but try as she would, she could never make him angry. She was rude to him; she flouted him in a hundred cruel ways possible only to the gentle sex. At times she made him fetch and carry for her as if he had been one of the ser vants; and then there would be long periods during which she ignored his very existence. He was responsive to her every wish, and paid no heed whatever to her changing moods. She even had it against him that he had pre vented her from marrying; and it was true that [35] 'The Making of a Statesman whenever some lover came a-wooing, Billy's face, with its patient smile, rose before her im agination--and there was no other lover for her. But now---- [36] 77 W 'MILY was, indeed, in the depths of hufj miliation. At first, when she came to look over her father's papers, she could hardly believe the evidence of her own senses. He had preserved every scrap, apparently with miserly care, and they filled a huge oak chest that had once been used as a clothes-press. Of all the papers that Emily had the courage to look through, not one was in the handwriting of her father. Here were all his speeches, care fully written out and labelled. Accompanying each was a complete memorandum of direc tions, in addition to the copious side and foot notes in the manuscript. Everything was set forth with the most painful particularity. Here, indeed, were the evidences of a success ful school of oratory, and in the handwriting Billy Spence, the dependent, stood confessed [37] 'The Making of a Statesman as the teacher. Here was the raw and the re fined material, and it was Billy's mind, Billy's brains, that had carried Meredith Featherstone through the shoals, the shallows, the shifting sands, and the deep waters of statesmanship. At first, and for some time, Emily felt that she had been cruelly deceived and cheated. Then when the shock of her discovery had somewhat subsided, she began to realize the nature of the sacrifice that Billy Spence had made. She began to perceive the real extent of the unselfish devotion he had shown in ob literating his own individuality, and in putting his own ambitions aside. There must have been, there must be, she thought, some good and sufficent reason for this unheard-of sacri fice. What was it ? She went from the library straight to the room where her father lay. As she came to the door, she saw Billy Spence ten derly smoothing the dead man's hair. The sight drove out of her mind the questions she had framed, and, womanlike, she fell back weakly on the idea that she had been deceived. [38] 'fhe Making of a Statesman It is woman's way to hark back to first impres sions. But when she and Mr. Spence were out of hearing of the two old men, the great question recurred to her--Why had he surrendered his own career to make one possible for her father? Never before had a man, and a young man at that, done himself such gross, such unnecessary injustice. He had received no salary, and his very clothes were shabby. Womanlike, she ac companied the inquiry with a running fire of comment. He stood before her with his head bent. " I have had my compensations, Emily," he said. " What were they?" she cried, her sobs choking her. " Your mother was kind to me to the day of her death; and there have been times, even of late, Emily, when you were kind. Was there not compensation in this? " In her agony of mind she could have grov elled at his feet; but instead, she fell on the sofa and beat it wildly with her hands. [39] 'fhe Making of a Statesman " You are taking it too seriously, Emily," he said, when her inarticulate cries had ceased. " I would do it all over again with a happy heart if I could bring back the old times and all who were here then. Your mother wanted your father to become a distinguished man; so did you. And after he had entered upon that first campaign, we could not retrace our steps. Don't you see how impossible it was? Your father regretted it a great deal worse than I did; it was a terrible burden to him from the first. Let your condemnation fall on me, and not on his memory. I am the dishonest one." Once more she began to beat wildly on the cushions of the sofa, crying: " And I have been unkind to you! O heaven! have mercy on me! Have mercy! " He said no more, but stood watching 8er, grieving because of her grief, his whole being inflamed with love and pity for her. She grew quieter after a while, and finally rose from the sofa. Pausing for one brief instant, as though to collect her confused and scattered wits, she [40] ''fhe Making of a Statesman went into the room where the two old men were sitting with the dead. " Mr. Weaver/' she said, " it is now past |midnight, and you and Mr. Tuttle will need some rest. My aunt will be down directly, and she and Mr. Spence "--it was the first time they had ever heard her call him so--" will sit up the rest of the night." This information would have been very wel come to the old men if their curiosity had not been aroused, for they were already beginning to feel the effects of the unaccustomed vigil; but they protested that they never felt wider awake in all their lives. Emily insisted, however, and they finally yielded. As they went along the walk to the gate, Mr. Weaver nudged Mr. Tuttle, and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. " It's jest like I tell you," he declared. " Billy's been up to some kind of devilment, an' Em'ly wants a chance for to rake him over the coals. I wouldn't like to be in Billy's shoes, be jinged ef I would!" The Making of a Statesman " She ain't dumb when she's in a tantrum, Em'ly ain't," remarked Mr. Tuttle. " No, Brother Tuttle, none on 'em ain't dumb, contrive 'em! but Em'ly has got lan guage enough for the whole settlement. By jacks ef she ain't! " The two old men toddled on home, glad of the timely release from a vigil that had already begun to weigh heavily on their eyelids, yet burning with curiosity to know what Billy, the dependent, had been doing to excite the ire of Miss Featherstone. Though their curiosity was not appeased, they chuckled at the idea that this man, who stood in their eyes as a vag abond and a loafer, had at last been found out. Emily seated herself near the fireplace, and Billy Spence sat on the opposite side. She kept her eyes on his face, but never once did he look at her. On the contrary, he gazed at the flickering flames on the hearth and on the queer shadows that they cast. Finally she spoke. " Has any provision been made for you in father's will?" [42] 'The Making of a Statesman " None whatever," he replied. " I should have thought after--after all you have done----" " Don't be too hard on your father, Emily. It was his purpose, his desire to leave me some thing. But I convinced him that a bequest to me would create talk and arouse suspicion. Why, suppose that you had gone on in igno rance of what you have found out--what would your feelings have been if I had come in for a share--even the smallest--of the property here? " " I should have resented it," she frankly ad mitted. " But now----" " Most certainly you would," he said. " But now you have nothing to resent, and I have nothing to regret." " But now," she persisted--she was a young woman hard to put down--" the property is mine, and I can do what I please with my own." He divined--or thought he did--the propo sition she was leading up to, and he rose from his chair, his face very red at first, and then [43] Making of a Statesman suddenly pale, " Emily, your contempt for me has been a burden hard to bear, but I have borne it. Through it all I have never had one unkind thought of you. With the lights be fore you, you were entirely justifiable. But I beg you to refrain from grinding me into the dust. Say no more about property. In the course of a very few days I shall cease to annoy you." "You know that you do not annoy me," she said very quietly. " What do you propose to do?" He made no reply to this, but stood leaning against the high mantel, gazing into the fire. "You are to remain here," she went on; " you are to remain here just as though noth ing had happened." Still he made no reply. It seemed as if his mind was concerned with matters and things far beyond her comprehen sion. " I said you were to remain here," she insisted. " I heard you, Emily," he made answer. Her declaration brought a rosy glow to her [44] rfhe Making of a Statesman face, but Billy Spence paid as little attention to the blush as he did to her words. He was wondering where and how he should begin life again. He moved away from the fireplace, and began to pace slowly up and down the room. Emily, for her part, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, while Uncle Ishmael in the next room sat and nodded. Some weeks after the funeral of Meredith Featherstone, the household suddenly awoke to the fact that Billy Spence had disappeared. The man's habits, developed during the long period when he was engaged in initiating his friend and patron in the arts and methods of what is loosely called statesmanship, were very irregular. He frequently turned night into day; and there had been seasons, as, for in stance, in the midst of a warm campaign, when he would lock himself in for days at a time, depending on Uncle Ishmael to keep him supplied with coffee, of which he consumed large quantities, rejecting, for the most part, all substantial food. At the end of such a period [45] The Making of a Statesman Mr. Spence would issue forth from his room pale, haggard, and hollow-eyed, a condition that set afoot the rumor, believed by all the household, save the master and Uncle Ishmael, that he had locked himself in to enjoy a spree. As may be supposed, the habits of Mr. Spence grew regular in their irregularity. If he was missing, no one asked after him, the supposition being that he would make his ap pearance in a few days, somewhat the worse for wear. So now, when he disappeared shortly after the funeral, the members of the household supposed that he was locked in his room. Uncle Ishmael, for the first day or so, did as he had been doing all along. Morning, noon, and night he placed a pot of coffee, with biscuit and butter, on a chair, tapped lightly on the door, as a signal that the food was there, and went his way. But presently the old negro discovered that Mr. Spence was not drinking the coffee nor eating the food he carried up, and then he be gan to investigate. He knocked on the door [46] The Making of a Statesman loudly, but received no answer. He knocked again and again, but the result was the same. Then he tried the bolt, and the door opened at his push, so suddenly and unexpectedly that Uncle Ishmael was within one of falling. Everything about the room was in order and in place, with the exception of the few belong ings of Mr. Spence. These were gone, and so was their owner. When the old negro realized this, which he was not slow to do, he drew a long breath and shook his head, for he was very fond of his Marse Billy, as he called him. Uncle Ishmael reflected for some little time, uttering his thoughts aloud. "He gone! he sho is gone! An' ef dey don't keep a mighty close eye on Ishmael, he'll be gone, too. It wuz bad miff fer marster ter go; but wid Marse Billy gone, dey won't be no livin' on de place." He looked around the room and shook his head again. " I know'd it; I know'd it mighty well. Trouble is got a mighty sight er kinfolks, an' when one come an' set down in de house, you better make room for de rest. Ef I had my way----" [47] Making of a Statesman Uncle Ishmael was going on to say that if he had his way he would scour the country until he found Billy Spence, but he was inter rupted. He heard his Miss Emily calling him. She was standing at the top of the stair-landing. "Uncle Ishmael! Uncle Ishmael!" " Here me, Miss Em'ly," he answered, step ping out into the passage. " Tell Mr. Spence I'd like to speak with him a moment if he's not too busy." " I wish I could, ma'am," replied the old negro; "I wish ter de Lord I could! I'd tell 'im so quick it'd make yo' head swim." " What do you mean? " " He ain't here, Miss Em'ly; an' ef I didn't know better, nobody couldn't make me b'lieve dat he been here sence year 'fo' las'." " Why, I heard you talking to him," Emily insisted. She came forward and went into the room, Uncle Ishmael following her. " I thought I heard his voice," she said, turning to the old negro. " 'Twuz in yo' min', honey, not in de room," he answered. [48] 'fke Making of a Statesman " Well, I'm sure I heard you talking." " Yassum, you did. I wuz makin' a speech. It look like it run in de fambly fer ter make speeches." If he noticed how red her face turned at the allusion, he ignored it. " Look at dat room," he went on; " look at de places whar he hung up his cloze, sech ez he had, an' whar he uster set his shoes, an' whar he kep' his kyarpit-sack! Look at um, honey, an' try ter foller in yo' min' whar he gone. Talk 'bout niggers! Ef Marse Billy Spence ain't wuss off dan any nigger in de lan' you kin take my head fer a ban'-box. In de name er de Lord, what is de man got? He ain't got miff cloze fer ter las' 'im fum here to town, an' in all de time he been here he ain't had but two frien's in de worl' --des two. Marster wuz one on um." " Who was the other? " Emily asked. Her face was very pale now, and it was plain that she was suffering mentally. " No needs fer ter call his name," replied Uncle Ishmael. " He ain't nothin' but a nig ger--a nasty, no-'count ol' nigger. Ef he wuz [491 'fhe Making of a Statesman any 'count, he'd be wid Marse Billy right now. Marster done gone, an' Marse Billy Spence done make his disappearance. Much good his nigger frien'll do him! Yit he ain't got no yuther." " What you say is simply not true, and you know it! " cried Emily. Her indignation--she thought it was indignation--was so great that she could hardly control her voice. She swept out of the room with great dignity, and went to her own. Whether she fell into a fit of weeping or delayed to bite her finger-nails, it would be difficult to say. It is sufficient to know that while Uncle Ishmael was still chuckling over the fact that he had stirred the feelings of his young mis tress, she reappeared in the passageway, fully equipped for an out-door expedition. " Uncle Ishmael," she said, " I want you to take one of the carriage-horses, and find out, if you can, which way Mr. Spence went. He may be wandering in the woods for all we know. Don't waste any time, and don't wait; go now, and go in a hurry." [50] Making of a Statesman " Miss Em'ly, you sholy ain't gwine out nowhar, is you? " inquired Uncle Ishmael with some solicitude. " Kaze I hear Miss Kitty " --this was the aunt--" say p'intedly dat you can't go nowhar inside of a mont' er sech a mat ter. She say ef you does, folks'!! do some mighty talkin'." " Let them talk. I am going to ask the ad vice of Major Perdue----" She paused and looked at the floor, reflecting. Then sudden ly: " No, I am not. Go find Aunt Minervy Ann, and tell her I want to see her. Tell her to come at once if she can." " You sho is sayin' sump'n now, Miss Em'ly. Dey ain't no love lost 'twix' me an' dat nigger 'oman--her tongue too long an' too loud fer me--but dey can't nothin' happen dat she don't know it. She wuz here de night we-all wuz settin' up wid marster, an' she wanter come in, but I 'lowed dat you don't wanter be 'sturbed." " Well, you had no business to say anything of the kind. I am always willing to see Aunt Minervy Ann. Go and find her." [Si] mo' dan a little bits er baby. Whilst I wuz laughin' myse'f mighty nigh ter death, who should I meet but Jedge Ballard? He say, ' I saw you, Minervy Ann, an' I 'lowed maybe you wuz gwine atter my washin', an' so I come 'cross de squar' fer ter gi' you de key er my room.' I say,' You better come go dar wid me, kaze we got big business on our han's. I put one er your shirts in Miss Puss's washin', an' one er her waists in yone; an' fum de way Miss Puss gwine on, it'll be ez much ez we kin do fer ter keep down a scandal.' He 'low:' A scandal? What in de name er goodness does you mean, Minervy Ann?' I say, ' I means dis, suh, dat Miss Puss done got it in 'er head [230] Miss Puss's Parasol dat you put it in my min' fer ter change de pieces--dat what I mean, suh.' He stop right still in de street, an' look at me des like he been pairlyzed. I say, ' I done fix it all right, an' you nee'nter worry; but I had a time!' " Worry!--why, dat man stood dar right in his tracks an' sweat same ez ef he'd 'a' run two mile. He say:' Minervy Ann, why in de worl' do Miss Gresham think dat I'd be so unpolite ez ter git you ter put one er my shirts in her washin'? In among my things I found some kind er conflutement dat de wimmen w'ar-- now s'posin' I wuz ter git de idee in my head dat Miss Gresham swaded you ter put it in dar; what's she think?' I 'low, ' Well, suh, fer all you know, you'd be guessin' right.' He say, ' Minervy Ann, what under de sun does you mean?' I say: ' Ef I wuz ter tell you what I mean, you wouldn't know no more about it dan you does right now. You don't know ez much 'bout wimmen folks now ez you did when you wuz a baby. Don't you worry 'bout Miss Puss, kaze when I left de house she wuz [231] Making of a Statesman laughin'! She say dat atter you git done wid her shirt-waist, she'll be glad ter have it back ag'in. I up an' told dat you had it on at church Sunday.' " Den de Jedge, he turn red an' sorter laugh. He say, ' Why, Minervy Ann, I didn't go ter church Sunday.' I 'low: 'Pity you didn't; you'd 'a' seed Miss Puss dar, an', I tell you, she looks scrumptious.'" The lady of the house appeared to be very much interested in this recital. She laughed as Aunt Minervy Ann paused. Being a woman, she could appreciate the tactics "which the old negress had put into operation. " Wellum," continued Aunt Minervy Ann, now addressing herself altogether to the lady, " I went ter Jedge Ballard's room wid 'im, an' got de waist an' tuck it back ter Miss Puss. I declar', ma'am, you oughter des V been dar fer ter see de way she went on--she fluttered 'roun' me same ez a chicken wid its head wrung off. It wuz, ' O Aunt Minervy Ann, what'd you tell 'im?' an', ' O Aunt Minervy Ann, [232] Miss Puss's Parasol what did he say? ' But I done had it all made up in my min' what I gwine ter tell 'er, an' so atter she tuck de waist an' look it all over fer ter see what de man done gone an' done ter't, I stood dar, I did, an' hoi' up my han's in a great 'miration. " She look at me, she did, an' she fluttered an' quivered same ez ef I was gwine ter take 'er ter de calaboose. I 'low: 'Miss Puss, I des wish you could 'a' been wid me des now!--no, I don't, nudder, kase you'd 'a' des flew'd up an' got mad when dey wa'n't no 'casion fer ter git mad. I went ter de Jedge, an' I ax 'im ef he got any stray gyarments 'mongst his things; an' he make answer dat he know'd right pineblank what I come fer--desso! Den he open his trunk, an' he fish dat waist fum de bottom --an' look at it! Dey ain't a mark ner a wrinkle on it ceppin' dem what I put on it myse'f. He ax me who de waist b'long ter, an' I tol 'im dat 'twon't do no good ef he know'd, an' dat he better not make bad matters wuss. Den he say he kin guess, an' I 'low dat he kin [233] Making of a Statesman guess all he wanter, kaze I ain't gwineter tell 'im an' git deeper inter trouble dan what I wuz.' Miss Puss, she say, ' Oh, I'm so thank ful you didn't tell 'im Aunt Minervy Ann-- but did he guess? ' " Aunt Minervy Ann paused again to laugh, and this time her small audience laughed with her, not so much at what she said as at the curi ous way in which, by gestures of the hand, by movements of the head and body, and by the tones of her voice, she managed to give us an accurate portrait of Miss Puss Gresham--qual ities that are all absent from this dull report. " ' But did he guess? ' she went on, mimick ing the voice and manner of Miss Puss. I 'low,' Yes'm, he guessed, an' he guess right de fust time. He say, dat ef de waist b'long ter anybody in de town, it b'longs ter Miss Gresh am.' Miss Puss cry out, ' Why, Aunt Minervy Ann! how could he 'a' know'd?' I say, ' Dat what pestered me, Miss Puss, an' I ax 'im what make he call your name so pat. He say he ain't bleedge ter tell me, but he don't min' [234] Miss Puss's Parasol it, kaze he know I ain't gwineter say nothin' 'bout it, an' den he up'n tell me a great long rigamarole 'bout how one time when we wuz all lots younger dan what we is now, he walked behime you one Sunday afternoon, an' all de way he kin smell some kinder faint perfume sorter like spice pinks, an' dat when he pick up dat waist he kin smell de same.' "An' it's de trufe, ma'am, dat Miss Puss keeps de sweetest scents on her cloze dat any human bein' ever smelt. I dunner whar she gits um, but she's got um. Dey ain't strong; deyer so faintlike dat you dunner whedder you dremp 'bout um or not--an' you can't wash um out. You may drown de cloze in soap suds er lye-water, an' you may rub an' wring tell you' arms ache--but when you git de cloze all i'oned an' done up, de scent'll be dar des ez strong an' no stronger." " What did Miss Gresham say when you told her that awful fib?" the lady of the house asked. She was more interested in the prac tical features of the affair than she was in the [235] 'fhe Making of a Statesman faint sweet smell of the carnations; but, some how, when Aunt Minervy Ann began to de scribe perfume, the mind of one of her listeners flew away back to the old days when his grand mother's garden-pinks flung their faint spices on the air. " What did she say, ma'am? Why, she like ter had a little bit er fit. She blushed like a school-gal, an' laughed like she wuz happy widout knowin' de rason why. She didn't know what ter say, but bimeby she hit at me wid a towel, an' 'low, ' Oh, go 'long, Aunt Minervy Ann! you must think I'm mighty silly ter b'lieve all dat.' " Wellum, I went 'long, kaze I didn't want ter tell no mo' stories dan I kin he'p. I tol' Miss Vallie 'bout it, an' she tuck up wid de idee right off--you know how de wimmen folks is. An' den Marse Tumlin cotch on--he mo' like a 'oman in some er his ways dan any grown man I ever is see. When Marse Tumlin take a han' in anything, it bleedge ter show some motion; ef dey ain't no life in it, he ain't [236] Miss Puss's Parasol gwineter fool wid it. So 'twa'n't so mighty long 'fo' he had matters on de move, an' he handle um, he say, des like dey wuz politics. " De nex' Sunday de Jedge wuz in church all diked out--Miss Vallie say she didn't know dey wuz ez fine a suit er cloze in town ez dat man had on; an' Miss Puss, she had on some bran new duds. I seed her when she wuz comin' way fum church, an' she look des like a pictur' in a book; not knowin' 'er, you'd 'a' said she wa'n't a day over twenty-five, ef dat. Miss Vallie say dat de two un um would look at one an'er des like dey wuz skeer'd dey wuz committin' some great crime--stealin' glimpses like a skeer'd boy steals peaches, one at a time, an' mighty little ones at dat. " When Marse Tumlin hear dat, he say ever'thing is ripe fer de campaign ter begin. He tol' Miss Vallie what she must do de nex' day, an', sho nuff, she done it. Ef dey wuz anything in de worl' dat de Jedge wuz special fond un, it wuz guns, an', atter guns, dogs. Dat wuz Marse Tumlin's weakness, too. Dem [ 2 37] 'The Making of a Statesman two men 'ud go out on a drizzly day an' walk fum mornin' tell night huntin' birds, an' maybe dey'd come back at night wid one poor little pa'tridge apiece. De nex' day wuz Monday, an' 'long 'bout ten o'clock Marse Tumlin come, an' fotch Jedge Ballard wid 'im. Marse Tumlin had a new gun, an' dey got dat out, an' tuck it ter pieces; an' while dey wuz talkin' 'bout dat, Miss Vallie went thoo de hall, an' hollered an' tol' Marse Tumlin dat he nee'nter wait dinner fer her, kaze she ain't know when she comin' back. " Wellum, she went right straight ter Miss Puss's--dey wuz mighty good frien's--an' nothin' would do but Miss Puss must come an' take dinner wid 'er, atter dey went down town fer ter do some shoppin'. Miss Vallie say she want Miss Puss ter go 'long wid 'er an' he'p 'er choose some goods, an' dat wa'n't no story needer, kaze dey wa'n't nobody in dem diggin's dat had a quicker eye fer color dan Miss Puss--I wish you could see some er de cloze dat white 'oman got. Dey ain't so mighty Miss Puss's Parasol fine, when dey come outer de sto', but when Miss Puss git thoo wid um, dey look like dey er de finest cloze ter be foun' anywhar--anybody'll tell you dat. When she dike herse'f out, she sho does put you in min' er de pictur's you see in books. She ain't purty like Miss Vallie, but dey's sump'n n'er 'bout dat make you feel better--she kinder rests you. " She couldn't git outer gwine wid Miss Vallie, an' I don't speck she tried mighty hard, kaze ef dey's anything she likes ter do it's ter fumble roun' an' fool wid de stuff dey have in de sto's. Miss Vallie dilly-dallied, an' went fum sto' ter sto' tell mighty nigh dinner-time, an' Marse Tumlin, he had de Jedge busy ez a bee, tellin' him what kinder guns is de iest, an' what kinder powder an' shot would do de bus iness fer fowl an' varmint. I had my part ter play, an' I played it. I had ter have dinner on de table des 'fo' de clock struck twelve, an' 'twuz all ready at a quarter ter twelve, an' I rung de bell. De Jedge start up like he wanter go on 'bout his business, ef he had any, [239] T7ie- Making of a Statesman but Marse Tumlin totch 'im up wid a toddy-- one er de long sweet uns dat he know how ter make--an' when de Jedge march inter de dinin'-room he lookt ez game ez one deze yer fightin' chickens. " I wuz kinder skeer'd dat Miss Vallie'd overstay her time--you know how wimmen folks is when dey gits ter foolin' 'roun' in de sto's whar dey buys der dresses--but she come in 'fo' dey got thoo de soup, an' by dat time Marse Tumlin an' de Jedge wuz 'sputin' *bout some kinder doin's, I dunner what; an' dey wuz so het up wid der 'pinions dat dey ain't hear Miss Vallie an' Miss Puss when dey come in, an' I had de do' shet 'twix' Miss Vallie's room an' de dinin'-room. " Wellum, when de do' did open, I let you know de 'spute wuz cut off 'twix' de head an' de tail. Fer de time it'd take you ter count ten, dey wuz mo' stillness in dat quarter dan dey ever is ter be ag'in. Ef a bug had a-flew'd ag'in' de wall I b'lieve 'twould 'a' sounded like a cannon, an' ef I had a stuck my head in [240] Miss Puss's Parasol de do' an' V hollered Booh, Miss Puss an' de Jedge would 'a' bofe fainted dead away. De Jedge cotch his bref right in de middle er de biggest kinder talk, an' Miss Puss fetched a gasp--an' all dis time Marse Tumlin's eyes wuz a-dancin' des like he wuz at a circus. All dis tuck place fum de time de do' opened ter de minnit when Miss Vallie an' Marse Tumlin wuz a-fixin' matters up so de yiithers wouldn't have a word ter say ef dey didn't wanter. An' dey didn't wanter! " Miss Vallie, she talk ter Miss Puss, an' Marse Tumlin rattled away at de Jedge, an' 'twa'n't long 'fo' dey wuz feelin' better dan dey thought dey would. Miss Puss seed dat de Jedge wa'n't makin' no 'rangements fer ter eat her up, an' de Jedge, he seed dat 'twuz des ez easy fer ter set at de same table wid two nice wimmen ez 'twuz ter set dar wid a lot er men, specially when he ain't had ter do no talkin'. Wellum, dey couldn't 'a' fell inter better han's fer makin' um feel at home an' at der ease, an' 'twa'n't long 'fo' dey wuz all talkin' des like Making of a Statesman dey had dinner terge'er eve' day. Atter din ner, Miss Vallie played on de peanner, an', fust thing you know, Miss Puss wuz singm' some kinder song 'bout tetchin' de harp gently, er sump'n n'er like dat. All I know, it 'uz mighty purty, an' de Jedge he sot dar, lookin' like he des beginnin' ter know what 'tis ter be livin'. " I kinder had de idee dat dey'd be some trouble when de time come fer de Jedge an' Miss Puss ter go, kaze de .man sot dar like somebody intranced--fee didn't know what time wuz. Ef you'd 'a' axed 'im right quick whedder it wuz day or night, he couldn't 'a' told you widout lookin' out de winder. Bimeby I got a chance ter beckon ter Miss Vallie, an' I axed her not ter fling de fat in de fire by hintin' fer de Jedge fer ter walk home wid Miss Puss. I say, ' Ef dey's gwineter be any walkin' home, you go 'long wid urn,' an' des dat away she fixed it. " Wellum, all dat would 'a' been thowed away ef I hadn't 'a' thought ter steal Miss [242] Miss Pass's Parasol Puss's parasol. Marse Tumlin say dat dey ain't nobody in de roun' worl' would 'a' done dat but ol' Minervy Ann, an' I speck dat's so." "But why," asked the lady of the house, " did you steal the parasol, and what did that have to do with the Judge and Miss Gresham? " " It come ter me all in a flash," replied Aunt Minervy Ann, with a laugh. " I des know'd in reason dat dat dinner would be de last un it, ef de Jedge ain't got some skuse fer ter call on 'er; kaze dat dinner doin's wuz des a hap pen so, de way she look at it." " Wouldn't she have had enough politeness to ask the gentleman to call on her, if she had wanted him to call? " inquired the lady of the house. " Wellum, in a case like dat, p'liteness ain't got much ter do wid it. De man ain't been a-callin' on 'er, an' dey ain't no way fer her ter know dat it'd be 'gree'ble ter him ter call. You got ter put dese shy folks by deyse'f ef you gwineter say what dey moughter done. I [243] Making of a Statesman most know Miss Puss never did ax a man fer ter call on 'er, an' ez de sayin' is, you can't larn a ol' dog new tricks. Anyhow," Aunt Minervy Ann went on, throwing her head back as if to show by the movement that she was ready to take the whole responsibility--" anyhow, I stole de parasol; they ain't no rubbin' dat out --I stole it whilst dey wuz all eatin' dinner, an' de nex' time I went atter Jedge Ballard's washin' I put it in de bottom er my basket, an' I tuck de fust good chance when he wa'n't lookin' to slip it out an' lean it in de cornder by de bureau. Den I put his cloze in de basket, an' des ez I start ter go I turn 'roun', I did, an' say, ' Jedge Ballard, ain't dat Miss Puss's parasol?' He look at me like he thought I 'uz crazy. I 'low, ' Dat parasol right dar--ain't dat de one dat she been makin' sech a parade 'bout, ez ef dey wa'n't na'er nudder parasol in de Nunited State?' " Wellum, when he see dat parasol, it look like he got so weak dat he'd 'a' fell down efif a breff er win' had blow'd 'gin 'im. He look [244] Miss Puss's Parasol at me, an' den he look at de parasol, an' he say: ' Minervy Ann, I ain't never lay eyes on dat thing befo'--I'll take my oath on it. How in de heav'm's name could it 'a' got in here?' I 'low:' Well, it didn't come yer by itse'f, sho; I been livin' a mighty long time, an' I ain't never see no parasol git up an' walk. De way I look at it, you must 'a' picked it up when you wuz at our house t'er day--you picked it up maybe ter han' it ter Miss Puss, er maybe ter tote it fer 'er, an' you got ter thinkin' 'bout business er surnp'n, an' fergot all about it.' He look at me, an' den he look at de parasol, an' he say:' Ef I did I must be losin' my min'. Minervy Ann, kin I git you ter take it ter Miss Gresham?' I 'low: ' Dat you can't--dat you can't! Dey'd say right off dat ol' Minervy Ann tried to steal Miss Puss's parasol an' got skeer'd an' tuck it back. Oh, no! I'm too ol' fer ter run my head in dat kinder trap! Whyn't you take it back yo'se'f? You don't want no better skuse dan dat fer callin' on Miss Puss. Dat des what you need--you been [2451 T'he Making of a Statesman runnin' fum de wimmen so long dat you got scales on you! " " Ef you'd 'a' seed dat white man when I say dat, suh," said Aunt Minervy Ann, looking at me, " you'd 'a' laughed yo'se'f ter death. He turn roun' an' look at hisse'f in de glass. ' Scales, Minervy Ann--scales!' Dey ain't nothin' funnier in dis worl' dan some er de men folks. I 'low, ' I ain't talkin' 'bout scales on yo' body; I'm talkin' 'bout scales oh yo' min' an' manners.' " Wellum "--Aunt Minervy Ann turned again to the lady of the house--" de parasol done de work. I went right straight an' tol' Miss Puss dat de Jedge had her parasol, an' she look at me in de funniest kinder way--des like a little gal does when you ketch um in some kinder mischief--an' den she laugh, an' ax me what I reckon de Jedge want wid it. I say I speck he want sump'n ter 'member her by. Well, de Jedge, he put off takin' dat par asol back fer de longest, but, bimeby, de day 'fo' las' Christmus, he mustered up sperrit nuff [246] Miss Puss's Parasol fer ter call on Miss Puss; an' alter he got dar, ; * he must 'a' got bold ez a lion, fer not long atter : dat, Miss Puss tell me she gwineter git mar ried. I say ' When?' She 'low, ' Nex' fall!' I des fetched one loud squall, an' fell on de flo'. : She ax what de matter, an' I make answer dat we'll all be dead by dat time. Den she say \ dat I ain't ax her who de man gwineter be, an' I 'low dat dey ain't no need fer me ter ax, kaze I know'd 'fo' she did. " It's all fix up by dis time, an' 'fo' I see you- all ag'in Miss Puss's sho nuff troubles will be at der beginnin'. Ain't I right, ma'am, 'bout de troubles? " With this good-natured fling at me, Aunt Minervy Ann went on her way. THE END