Why, the fact is, marm, I feel sad
at leaving Florence. I must go shortly. My wife has written summoning me home. The children are down with the measles."
O base fabrication! O false Senator! There wasn't a word of truth in that remark. You spoke so because you wished La Cica to know that you had a wife and family. Yet it was very badly done.
La Cica changed neither her attitude nor her expression. Evidently the existence of his wife and the melancholy situation of his unfortunate children awakened no sympathy.
"But, my Senator, did you not say you wooda seeng yoursellef away to affarlastin blees?"
"O marm, it was a quotation, — only a quotation." But at this critical juncture the conversation was broken up by the arrival of a number of ladies and gentlemen.
CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS.
Abridged and arranged for public recitation.
WHEN merry Christmas-day is done,
And Christmas-night is just begun ;
While clouds in slow procession drift
To wish the moon-man "Christmas gift,"
Yet linger overhead, to know
What causes all the stir below;
At Uncle Johnny Booker's ball
The darkies hold high carnival.
From all the country-side they throng,
With laughter, shouts, and scraps of song,
Their whole deportment plainly showing
That to the frolic" they are going.
Some take the path with shoes in hand,
To traverse muddy bottom-land;
Aristocrats their steeds bestride,—
Four on a mule, behold them ride!
And ten great oxen draw apace
The wagon from "de oder place,"
With forty guests, whose conversation
Betokens glad anticipation.
In this our age of printer's ink,
"Tis books that show us how to think, -
The rule reversed, and set at nought,
That held that books were born of thought:
We form our minds by pedants' rules;
And all we know, is from the schools;
And when we work, or when we play,
We do it in an ordered way.
Untrammel'd thus, the simple race is,
That works the craps" on cotton-places!
Original in act and thought,
Because unlearned and untaught,
Observe them at their Christmas party.
How unrestrain❜d their mirth, how hearty!
How many things they say and do
That never would occur to you!
See" Brudder Brown"
Would sanctify a quarter-race-
Out on the crowded floor advance,
To "beg a blessin' on dis dance."
O Mahsr! let dis gath'rin' fin' a blessin' in yo' sight!
Don't jedge us hard for what we does, you knows its Chrismus
An' all de balunce ob de yeah, we does as right's we kin:
Ef dancin's wrong, O Mahsr! let de time excuse de sin!
We labours in de vineya'd, workin' hard, an' workin' true;
Now, shorely you won't notus, ef we eats a grape or two,
An' takes a leetle holiday, a leetle restin'-spell,
Bekase, nex' week, we'll start in fresh, an' labour twicet as well.
Remember, Mahsr, min' dis now,
Is pendin' 'pon de sperret what we goes an' does it in:
An' in a righchis frame ob min' we's gwine to dance an' sing;
A-feelin' like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing.
It seems to me, - indeed it do, I mebbe mout be wrong,
That people raly ought to dance, when Chrismus comes along :
Des dance bekase dey's happy, like de birds hops in de trees;
De pine-top fiddle soundin' to de blowin' ob de breeze.
We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul's prophet king;
We has no harp to soun' de chords, to holp us out to sing;
But cordin' to de gif's we has we does de bes' we knows,
An' folks don't 'spise de vi'let-flow'r bekase it ain't de rose.
You bless us, please sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to-night;
Kase den we'll need de blessin' more'n ef we's doin' right;
An' let de blessin' stay wid us untell we comes to die,
An' goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky!
Yes, tell dem preshis anjuls we's a gwine to jine 'em soon:
Our voices we's a-trainin' for to sing de glory tune;
We's ready when you wants us, an' it ain't no matter when;
O Mahsr! call yo' chillen soon, an' take 'em home! Amen.
The reverend man is scarcely through,
When all the noise begins anew,
And with such force assaults the ears,
That through the din one hardly hears
Old Fiddling Josey "sound his A," -
Correct the pitch, — begin to play,
Stop, satisfied, then, with the bow,
Rap out the signal dancers know:
Git yo' pardners, fust kwattilion!
Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high;
Tune is, "O, dat water-million !
Gwine to git to home bime-bye."
S'lute yo' pardners!- scrape perlitely,-
Don't be bumpin' gin de res',
Balance all!-now, step out rightly;
Alluz dance yo' lebbel bes'.
Fo'wa'd foah!-whoop up, niggers!
Back ag'in!-don't be so slow,
Swing yo' cornahs!-min' de figgers:
When I hollers, den yo' go.
Right an' lef" ! - don't want no walkin',
Make yo' steps, an' show yo' style!
Hands around! -hol' up yo' faces,
Don't be lookin' at yo' feet!
Swing yo' pardners to yo' places!
Dat's de way,—dat's hard to beat.
And so the "set" proceeds, its length
Determined by the dancers' strength;
And all agreed to yield the palm,
For grace and skill, to "Georgy Sam,"
Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high,
"Des watch him!" is the wondering cry,—
"De nigger mus' be, for a fac',
Own cousin to a jumpin'-jack!"
On, on, the restless fiddle sounds,
Still chorus'd by the curs and hounds,
Dance after dance succeeding fast,
Till "supper" is announced at last.
That scene, but why attempt to show it?
The most inventive modern poet,
In fine new words whose hope and trust is,
Could form no phrase to do it justice!
When supper ends, that is not soon,
The fiddler strikes the same old tune;
The dancers pound the floor again,
With all they have of might and main ;
The night is spent; and, as the day
Throws up the first faint flash of gray,
The guests pursue their homeward way;
And through the field beyond the gin,
Just as the stars are going in,
See Santa Claus departing,
His own dear Land of Cotton leaving.
His work is done, - he fain would rest,
Where people know and love him best;
listens, - looks about,
But go he must his pass is out;
So, coughing down the rising tears,
He climbs the fence and disappears.
And thus observes a coloured youth,
(The common sentiment, in sooth,)
"O, what a blessin' 'tw'u'd ha' been,
Ef Santy had been born a twin!
We'd hab two Chrismuses a yeah,
Or p'r'aps one brudder'd settle heah!"
Go’WAY, fiddle! -folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin':
Keep silence fur yo' betters,
- don't yo' heah de banjo talkin'? About de 'possum's tail she's goin to lecter, — ladies, listen! – About de ha'r what isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin'.
"Dar's gwine to be a oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn,
Fur Noah took de Herald, an' he read de ribber column, -
An' so he sot his hands to work a-clarin' timber-patches,
An' low'd he's gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah Natchez
Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin', an' a-chippin', an' a-sawin';
An' all de wicked neighbours kep' a-laughin, an' a-pshawin';
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