Evening Star Newspaper, March 17, 1935, Page 80

THIS WEEK March 17, 1935 Fly High Mr. Buzzard! “Yere they comes!”’ she announced. “Wid ole Santify hisse’f leadin’ de purcession.”’ IRVIN S.COBB €6 AWD sho’ is good, Queenie,’” said Waterson Smothers, he naturally having reference to the Lord of the Free Willin' Church and none other whatsoever. “‘Yas, Queenie, I jes’ been layin’ yere studdin’ how good He is to His mo’' deservin' chillen. He give us de night fur sleep an’ de day fur rest!” ‘“Mos’ doubtless that whut He done fur you — wid yore kindly co-operation,” she said. The large black man loopingly suspended in the home-made, barrel-stave hammock chose to disregard this sarcasm. Gently swaying on his cabin porch, a palm leaf fan teetering across his bosom and a pitcher of buttermilk within easy reaching distance, he harkened to a distant rhythmic clamor which momentarily grew louder, and frowned. “An’ yit, seem lak, they allus has to be flies in de ’intment,”” he complained. ‘‘Lissen yonder, Queenie, jes' lissen. No sooner do ever'thin' around git settled down pleasant an’ peaceful than them scandalous Do Right- ers has to go tromplin’ by." The melodious confusion resolved into the words of a sacred tune repetitiously sung by lusty voices. Through a haze of drifting cottonwood pollen and dancing heat waves, Queenie squinted io where, a hundred yards away, Sweetgum Pike crossed the by-lane which flanked their acreage. *‘Yere they coraes!"’ she announced. “Wid Ole Santify hisse'f leadin’ de purcession. Sho’ is a big turnout today. Bigges' I seen yit, endurin’ all de two weeks they been holdin’ this yere ’stracted meetin’ of their'n. Mar- chin’ two by two, lak de critters goin’ into de Ark that time.” Her husband shifted bulk so that the swinging couch creaked under the strain. Properly to see those misguided paraders meant sitting up and turning around, and the sight, however distasteful, wasn’t worth the exertion. He settled his weight down again and was content — or rather was discontent — to give heed. Like an army with banners, the schismatics passed — but their banners were the scrolls and the pennons of dust that those rejoicing feet shuffled up. Now all the throats were strained high in one vast exultant blare: “‘Had a lovin’ mother, Been climbin’ up de hill so long, Been hopin’ git lo Hebbin in due time Befo’ de Hebben-do's close.” It was a favorite hymn of the established creed, which to him made their offending all the more offensive. Illustration by Harry Burne “Tain:t no heavenly do’ gwine swing fur no vellin’ mob lak that,” predicted the head of the household out of the depths of his own sound orthodoxy. ‘‘Saint Peter heap mo’ apt to fasten de golden gates wid extry-strong locks, special fur to keep out all sich trashy odds an’ ends. Thinkin’ they kin git salvation jes’ by sprinklin’, huh! Now what do de Good Book say 'bout 'mersion in de River Jurdan? How they ’spect to answer me that? Even so, jes’ 'mersin’ that nappy-haided gang wouldn’t be 'nuff, naw, ma’am! Have to dip ‘em deep an’ soak 'em long — till they sins come up in lumps.” By the squint of his off-eye, he caught a glimpse of a furtive figure crossing the bare- scoured earth of the house-lot between the ash-hopper and the martinpole and plainly intent on getting behind the shielding well- box as quickly as might be. ‘“You, Soppy!"” he shouted. “Come yere, boy.” And when the circumvented youth had drawn nigh, ‘‘ What you been at ?’’ he de- manded sternly. “Jes’ down to de corner,” explained his truant offspring. “An’ mout I mek so bold as to ast whut you doin' down to de corner?” “Jes' lissenin' to de sweet music of de singin'."” “Wharfo you an’ Crashy ain’t back in that passel of new ground cleanin’' out rubbage, lak I tole you?"” “Crashy back that-a-way now,”’ said the youngster. ‘‘I'm fixin' go, ain't I?” *‘Well, quit fixin’ an’ go! You boys handle that dynamite keerful, too. An’ don't lemme ketch you sneakin’ off again down whar them Do Righters is carryin’ on.” The father relaxed and fetched a deep sigh. "I declare,” he lamented, ‘“‘ef 'tain’t one thing hit’s a dozen. 'Nuff to wilt a man down lak a frost-bit eollard, strivin’ an’ steamin’ an’ 'zaustifyin’ hisse'f frum dawn to dark, tryin’ to keep a coupler haid of wuthless, triflin’, no-count, loafin’ boys earnin’ they keep! How much longer it liable be 'fo’ dinner, Queenie? I don’t know but whut I'll let you fetch some vittles to me out yere whar I kin survey my property an’ eat a few mossils whilst thus so doin’. That-a-way, ain't no precious time wasted." In the ancient ‘‘deadenin’,” now being regenerated into soil fit for cultivation, it was good and warm. It was abundantly warm for Aesop Smothers, the elder son, where he hunkered in the skimpy shade provided by the naked bore of one of the few girdled and fire- scarred trees vet erect. It was distressingly warmer for Crassus Smothers, the minor son, where, out in the glary open, with ax and grubbing hoe, that sticky young agriculturist contended against some flint-hard standing trunk or some stubborn buried root, until almost he could smell himself frying in his own gravy. Aesop had inherited the talent of his sire for the supervisory role. He plainly was what is known as a born executive. Without stirring an inch, he could have planned enough jobs for a dozen underlings, let alone just this one. Too, the smart brother required leisure in which to brood on Birdie May Rucker. The main trouble with Birdie May's steadfastness was that it wasn't. Months and months it had taken him, and he exercising all the blandishments of a fascinating personality, plus a dove-colored eighteen-dollar mail-order suit, plus divers gifts dear to the feminine heart, including a costly quart of Madame Rosalie Buford’'s Magic Hair Straightener — yes, more months added upon all those other months had been required to break down that colt-like skittishness and conquer those way- ward fancies to his will. And then, just as he figured that, romantically speaking, he had Birdie May broken to harness and trained to stand without hitching, she must go kicking up her nimble heels and traipsing off with this crowd of heretical Do Righters. It wasn’t so much that he feared she might get religion of the wrong mode. She might get it, but she wouldn't keep it long enough to make the situation inconvenient for court- ship — he knew her! But the purposely dumb admiration which she languished upen the Rev'n’ F. Douglas Simms, lately arrived and T he big black bird substitutes for the doves of (upid—with devastating results just installed resident pastor of this newest congregation of this noisy new cult; the in- fatuated way in which she trailed him about and whinnied when he spoke to her — these were altogether a different matter. Aesop visioned her now, down yonder at the all-day service in the Holiness Grove on Tupelo Creek, cocking a deceitfully devout face up to the platform where, under a brush arbor, the bachelor charmer would be perched along- side the Most High Rev'n’ Bishop Moses Pomeroy, titular head and chief proselyter of a recently created but fast-growing diocese. It would have been painful enough, being present and having to witness in mute agony the spectacle of‘Birdie May Rucker's per- fidious behavior. But it was absolute anguish to be hobbled fast to this grilling hot spot by the ball and chain of duty, able to do nothing but suffer on and conjure up those hateful mind pictures of a double-dealing girl and a pigeon-breasted interloper. He thought of un- pleasant things amounting to a multitude which he desired to happen to the Rev'n' F. Douglas Simms. He thought of how he'd like to turn the flirtatious Birdie May across his lap and cure her of what ailed her — and had to take it all out in thinking! Well, he could take a little bit of it out on Crassus. Crassus was immediately to hear himself scornfully accused of dawdling. From the screen of greenery that bordered the Waterson Smothers’ holdings, the length- ened shadows were stretching across the scorched clearing before Aesop, that con- scientious overseer, called it a day - for Crassus. They laid their tools by, or rather Crassus laid his tools by, and they strolled into the woods to see whether a few may- apples hadn't ripened ahead of season in some sheltered damp spot. They found no early mayapples in the rank herbage but they found something else. Well down by the swamp waters, where hickory and holly left off and the cypresses and the gallberries began, they whiffed a whiff of something exceedingly robust. ( Continued on page 12)