Short Stories by - (easy readers .txt) 📖

Upon the church, the negro denizens of Crippletown focused their opinions. They were about equally divided between the Methodist and Baptist denominations, and no matter how much sociability existed among the men as they went to work together, or among the women as they chatted or sang over their wash-tubs, when Sunday came with its suggestive clangor of church bells, friendliness drew itself into its shell of finery, and only protruded its head to cast depreciative glances at members of any church save its own.

Squads of people bound for the Baptist church, passed squads of people bound for the Methodist church without exchanging even nods of greeting. Extreme reserve and solemnity characterized the general religious bearing.

It is Sunday evening in the cottage of Abraham Wilson, a most devout Methodist of the blackest physical type. He had talked Methodism to his young wife until her brain and tongue were in a tangle. He made it the theme of his evening and morning discourses, and threw in foot-notes at all possible opportunities. He, as well as his neighbors, were curious to know which denomination Caroline would finally join, especially as it had been whispered for some time that she was “on the fence” owing to the fact that her parents had been Baptists and her husband a Methodist.

Few doubted that Abraham’s powers of argument would in time bring her wavering mind to his views. But it seemed that Caroline’s besetting sin, vanity, and love of display, linked with the persuasive powers of the Baptist minister, who called on her often through the day while Abraham was away, were to bulwark the latter’s earnest endeavors.

She had ever looked with charmed eyes on the baptismal ceremonies, which usually took place in a neighboring creek, and her heart had suffered frequent pangs at thinking that she was hindered from being the cynosure of the thousands that sung and shouted on the shore as the dripping candidates were led from the stream. From childhood up she had looked forward to immersion with as much anticipation as she had to marriage. Regardless of this she had married a Methodist, because she had loved him.

“Abrum,” said she, after listening to him in silence for an hour, “Abrum, I know you think you is right, en ev’ybody kin hat der own way er thinkin’ ’bout chu’ches, but ez fur me, I know I’s hat my min’ set on ’mersion in runnin’ water ev’y since I know my min’. I’s been puttin’ it off frum summer ter summer, en now you gwine to disagree wid me.”

Abraham’s surprise rendered him almost speechless. He had felt intuitively that Caroline did not agree with him for a long time, but had nursed the belief that his arguments would wear away her objections ere she gave them voice.

“You ever let me yer er you gwine wadin’ in ’at creek en I swear ’fo’ God I’ll trash you ev’y step frum deh home.”

“Huh!” his wife grunted defiantly. “Shuh, Abrum Wilson! you ain’t man enough; your feared to tech me. I don’t want none er yo’ ol’ ’ligion. ’Sides anything ’at’s good ’nough for Jesus Christ certney is good ’nough fer me. De bible seh He went down into de water; now, Abrum, I can’t go down into de water en hat de preacher des sprinkle my haid out’n er gravy bowl, same as I does w’en I’s ironin’. Now w’t’s de use in talkin’ dat way. Whyn’t Christ des ax um fer er lil in er goa’d dipper? Seem lak dat enough ’cordin’ ter yo all’s way.”

Abraham had exhausted every argument in his brain already, so he could formulate no reply, but inflated almost to explosion with turbulent spleen, he resumed his seat in the door, while she, momentarily triumphant, bustled round the cottage to put their only child, little Asphalt, to bed. The latter two-year old innocent owed its name to the fact that he happened to be born one day while Abram was employed in laying asphalt pavement in the city. He was struck with the high-sounding name and told Caroline that the mixture had “des enough pitch in it fer er nigger child’s name.”

When she had put Asphalt to bed, Caroline timidly drew her chair near to his. He did not look at her.

“Now, Abrum,” said she, pacifically, “you is hat yo’ way, en I hain’t seh nothin’ ergin it all ’long sence we is married.” She waited a moment for him to speak, but as he was stubbornly silent she went on with growing firmness, as she slily eyed him askance: “I ’low ter jine de Baptist chu’ch, de Lawd willin’, en git my ’mersion ’long wid Sallie en Lindy. Brer Brown was here yistiddy en I done give ’im my promise; an he give me lessons w’en ter hol’ my bref ter keep from stranglin’.”

Abraham turned upon her with such suddenness that she shrank back into her chair as if smitten.

“You seh you is hehn? You seh you is?” he growled. “Well, we gwine see. You seh you is gwine wade out in dat creek lak er crippled duck. Le’ me des see it en I’ll git er divo’ce sho en never put my foot in dis house ergin.

“You go git yo’ divo’ce,” she said sullenly, “I’s got er right ter my side same ez you.”

“Look yer, Ca’line!” he snapped out, rising clumsily to his feet, “you des seh ernurr word en I’ll pick up dat plank deh en ’fo’ God I’ll split it over yo’ haid. Huh!”

He waited a moment for the silenced woman to speak, but she did not answer him in words. She angered him more than ever by stealthily regarding him from the corner of her eye and humming, with as much gusto as her caution would allow, a hymn that was usually sung by the Baptists during their baptismal ceremonies.

To this Abraham had no reply, save to look at the offender as if he would thus scorch her with the volcanic heat of his supreme contempt, and walked away into the darkness.

Caroline’s song dwindled into a murmur as he vanished. She went to the door and peered after him as he receded in the misty moonlight, with a look of deep concern upon her.

Abraham went on until he came to the cottage of his widowed sister, Martha Todd. Here he took a seat on the doorstep. A woman came out of the unlighted room.

“Dat you, Abrum?” she grunted in surprise. “Well, well; I do know you skeered me, sho, kase I ain’t ’spectin’ you. What kin er happen ter tek you off frum home dis time er night; I des fixin’ ter go ter baid?”

“Marfy,” said the visitor, in a deeply pained voice, “de storm has riz in my own home at las’. I reckon me en Ca’line done bust up fer good.”

“Why, Abrum; whut’s de matter? How come you seh dat? My!”

“Sister Marfy, you know Ca’line. You know how she is w’en she set ’er haid. She is sho’ nough set on ’mersion en de Baptist chu’ch. You know how I is on dat subjec’.”

“Brer Abrum, dis done come on us at las’.” The woman seemed to filter her tones through a mixture of resignation and satisfaction. “I been hat my eye open fer er long time. I ain’t seh nothin’ kase it no business er mine, en I ’low it bes’ ter wait. Ev’y day while you hard at wuk de Baptist preacher is been er buzzin’ in Ca’line’s ear. I don’t see no way out’n it. It sholly is too bad; Asphy is so young; you is sech er big Mephodis’ an’ er deacon, too. I do know how you feel.”

“Marfy,” said the ebon devotee, sternly, as he evoked a dull thud from his knee onto which his broad hand descended; “Marfy, me en Ca’line gwine be divo’ced, ’at’s de end.”

“Too bad she tuk dat way,” sighed Martha Todd, more deeply than she was given to over her own misfortunes.

The truth was that nothing could have pleased the widowed and childless woman more than to have her brother, who was such a prominent Methodist, and a steady laborer, a member of her own household, which would be, she knew, in case of a separation between the couple.

“Women is er caution, sho, brer,” she went on, “I do know Ca’line is haid-strong. Mighty bad fer bofe, dis disagreement. ’Tain’t ’cordin’ ter scriptur’.”

Silence fell upon the pair, save for the sound of Martha’s breath as it contended with the nicotine in her uncleanly pipe-stem. The hours passed until the clock within struck twelve jingling strokes. Abraham rose stiffly, lingered, stretched himself, for he felt that he needed to apologize for going back.

“Yer gwine back ter ’er, brer?” Martha Todd asked significantly. “May de Lo’d be ’long wid you den.”

“I wouldn’t go er step, but I hatter git my clothes frum ’er’,” said he sheepishly. “You reckon I gwine ’low dat gal ter keep my clothes? Huh! Marfy, w’at you rekon I is?”

“Once you git back she gwine ’suade you ter let ’er be ’mersed. Who knows, we may see Deacon Abrum wid wet clothes on, too. Some women is too sly——”

“You go ’long, sister, I tell you too much is done pass twixt me en Ca’line. I des gwine atter my things, den I’ll come live wid you—I’ll be yer in de mornin’.”

Thus speaking, Abraham turned slowly homeward. Late as it was he found Caroline sitting in the door smoking her pipe. She had a sulky mien on her bent, portly form. She drew her feet under her chair as her liege lord passed wordless into the cottage. He turned up the wick of the low-burning lamp, and as its feeble rays struggled through the room his glance fell on the features of sleeping Asphalt, and a lump rose in his throat.

A crude wardrobe stood against the wall. Through its open door he caught a glimpse of his clothing crowded into the piece of furniture with Caroline’s finery. Therein was his long-tailed broadcloth coat, his bell-shaped silk hat, his shining doeskin trousers, and an overcoat.

He had magnanimously made up his mind that he would demand nothing of the domestic wreck except his own clothing. The furniture of the cottage, all other belongings of him and his wife, should remain with her, even little Asphalt.

While he was looking under the child’s bed for his best boots, which he remembered casting off there a few hours previous, Caroline, with a meaning smile playing round her lips, as if she had divined his plans, rose automatically, walked with a well-assumed air of sleepiness to the wardrobe, and locking it, put the key in her pocket. Then, as if unaware that his startled orbs were on her, she went to the clock on the mantelpiece and began to wind it, singing the while a little air which she often sung when wholly at ease with herself and all the rest of the world.

Abraham stood behind her rigid form, boots in hand, in silence. Something in Caroline’s prompt flank movement gave him a thrill of vague pleasure, while it aroused his aggressiveness. She had thwarted him, it was true, but in doing so had of her own will raised a hindrance to his quitting the place. Abraham had a struggle with himself. Somehow the room seemed to be more cozy than ever before, while Martha Todd’s house rose bleak and dreary before his mental sight. How amicably all might be arranged if Caroline would only relinquish her dream of “runnin’ water.”

Then it occurred to him that, in justice to his usual sternness of manner, he must say something hard to her, must force the key of the wardrobe from her, and secure his clothing, but he could not do it; he was softened by her quiet mien as she stood in the door and looked out at the night. But if he