by Myrtle Reed
"Swing Low, Sweet Chariot"
Down in the negro quarters on a Georgia plantation stood a quaintlittle log cabin overlooking cotton fields that were white with theirsnowy fruit. Born in slavery, living in slavery and apparently destinedto die in slavery, yet old Joe was happy; for to him slavery was notbondage--only a pleasant way of being cared for.
His days of active usefulness were over. He had served long andfaithfully in those same cotton fields, then as a house servant andlater as a coachman. Now on account of age and the "misery" in hisback, he spent his days in mending harness, telling stories to thechildren and making playthings out of the odd bits of rubbish theybrought him.
His wife, Sally, was head cook at the mansion which stood in anotherpart of the plantation, in the midst of trees and flowers. Down alittle farther was a tiny brook that sang all the livelong day andturned back, regretfully perhaps, to wind by the window of old Joe'scabin.
"The Pines" was a most hospitable house and usually thronged withguests, for its young mistress had an indulgent husband and moneysufficient to gratify every possible whim. Mrs. Langley she was now,but to old Joe she would be "Miss Eunice" always. He had carried herwhen she was a baby, watched over her when she was ill, and once whena pair of maddened horses dashed down the drive, utterly beyond theirowner's control, he had snatched the unconscious child from almostunder the wild feet, and--saved her life, they said, but the bravefellow had received internal injuries and had not been able to do muchsince.
"Yes," he said one afternoon, to an appreciative audience ofpickaninnies and white children who sat together around his feet in atruly democratic fashion, "dat ar day war a great time fo ol Joe. Iwar jes agwine to de house wen I see dese yer hosses comin _ker-blip_!right whar Miss Eunice war a playin wid her doll-buggy. Dere wasn't notime to call her, so I jes grab her and run, an my foot ketch in dedoll-buggy an I trow Miss Eunice ober my haid in some soft grass anden de hosses tram on me an I kinder lost my 'membunce. Pretty soon Ifin mysel in de house an de doctor an ol Missis war a standin ober me.Doctor say, 'he come to all right,' an ol Missis, she jes stoop down ankiss ol Joe! Tink ob dat!"
"Den Miss Eunice come in, an ol Missis say 'come here dear, and seeUncle Joe. He done sabe yo life.' An den I lose my 'membunce again. Oneday Mas'r walk in an he say, 'Joe, here's yo papers, yo's free now,jus ez free ez I is.' I say Mas'r, I don't want to go away from you anMissis an Miss Eunice. I want to stay here on de ol plantation, along'o my ol woman. And den he wipe is eyes an say, 'I'll gib Sally paperstoo' an Sally say, 'No Mas'r, me an Joe don't want to be free; we wantsto stay here where we's happies' an Mas'r say he keep dose yer papersfor us till we done want em. Dose was mighty fine times for ol Joe!"and he beamed at the children around his feet who had been listeningwith ever-fresh delight to the old, old story.
"Now play something, Uncle," the children cried, and Tommy Langleybrought the fiddle that always hung in one corner of the cabin. Hiseyes brightened at the sight of the old brown thing, but he gently putthe eager child away, saying, "No, honey, not dis time. I got de miseryin my back wuss en eber. Go way, chillens, ol Joe's--so tired!"
They obediently trooped out of the cabin and the old man's head droppedon his breast. The gaunt grey figure twisted with pain, and he did notmove until Sally came in to get his supper.
"Well, honey," she said cheerily, "how's yo back to-day?"
"Pears like de pain gets wuss, Sally," he replied.
"Nebber yo min, yo'll get better byme by." Coming closer she dropped abundle of illustrated papers into his lap. "See wat Miss Eunice sendyo, an look here!" She pointed proudly to her stooped shoulders, wherea scarlet kerchief shone like a ray of light in the dim cabin.
Joe tried to smile, then said feebly, "Miss Eunice mighty good to us,Sally."
Sally assented, and moving quickly about the cabin, soon had theevening meal on the table.
"Come, Joe, move up yo cheer. Dis yere hoe cake done to de tu'n!"
"Pears like I couldn't eat no supper," he said, then gave ahalf-suppressed groan that betokened an extra twinge of the "misery."
"Po ol man," said Sally sympathetically, and she ate in silence,watching the kindly pain-drawn face, with ever-increasing anxiety.
As twilight fell, the sufferer sought his couch, where he moaned andtossed restlessly, and the pitying Sally, stretched wearily on a fadedrug near the door was soon fast asleep.
* * * * *
Up at "The Pines" all was light and laughter and music, for a crowdof young folks were gathered 'neath its hospitable roof and guitarsand mandolins made the whole house ring with melody of a more or lesspenetrating quality. In the midst of the gaiety, Tommy stole up to hismother with a troubled look on his usually merry little face.
"What is it, dearie?" she asked, putting her arm about him.
"Mamma, I'm afraid Uncle Joe is going to die. His 'misery' hurts himawful."
"Is Uncle Joe very sick, dear? I knew he was not well, but he hasalways been ailing, you know. I'll have the doctor see him to-morrow."
"All right, mamma," and the little face grew bright again.
She kissed him tenderly and said: "Run away to bed, little son, thebirds went long ago."
Tommy went off obediently, but Mrs. Langley felt worried aboutthe faithful old fellow who had saved her life. "I'll see to himto-morrow," she thought and began to plan various things for hiscomfort and happiness.
A little later a pretty girl with a mandolin, said: "Do you know I feellike having a lark. Excuse the slang, please, but there's no other wordthat will express my meaning."
"Try a swallow," suggested a young man in a way that was meant to befunny. "There's lots of lemonade left in the pitcher."
She scorned the interruption. "I want a lark, a regular lark!"
"How would a serenade do?"
"Capital!" she laughed. "Just the thing! We'll take our mandolins andguitars into the moonlight and make things pleasant generally."
"But," said a maid with a practical turn of mind, "who is there toserenade? There aren't any neighbours, are there?"
"Give it up!"
"Ask Mrs. Langley--she'll know," and a smiling ambassador from themerry group, Mrs. Langley's own nephew, went to the fair-haired hostesswho sat with her husband in the library.
"Aunty, who is there in this charming spot whom we can serenade? Thegirls think it would be fun, but we don't know where to find a victimin this isolated Eden."
Mrs. Langley rose quickly, and going to the little party, told them ofold Joe and how she owed her life to those strong arms. She finishedthe story with an eloquent gesture that brought tears to the eyes ofmany, and added: "Go down to the old man's cabin and sing the quaintnegro melodies he loves so well--that he used to sing to me when I wasa little child. And take these roses with you; he used to love them so;you can throw them in at the open window."
As she spoke, she took a great handful of white roses from a vase andwith a little pearl-handled knife, dextrously removed the thorns, thenhanded them to her nephew.
"How do we get there, Aunty?" he asked, with something like a tremor inhis voice.
"Follow the brook," she replied. "It flows right under his window, andyou cannot miss the place. I'd go with you, only I can't sing, andwouldn't be of any use." She smiled brightly at them as they went downamong the shadows, then to the tiny brook that seemed like a musicalstream of silver in the moonlight.
The party was strangely silent for one bound for a "lark," and by muchcrossing of the little stream that wound its tortuous way through thegrounds, they came to Uncle Joe's tiny cabin in an unseen nook of theplantation. They grouped themselves under the window in silence.
"Now then!" whispered one of them. The mandolins and guitars played theopening strains of the sweet old melody, then their fresh young voicesrose high and clear:
[Illustration (music): Swing low, sweet char-i-ot, Com-ing for to car-ry me home,]
The old grey head turned feebly on its hard pillow, a
nd Sally stirredrestlessly.
[Illustration (music): Swing low, sweet char-i-ot, Com-ing for to car-ry me home.]
Above the song of the brook that seemed like a tender accompaniment tothe tinkle of the mandolins the music rose, and old Joe woke from hisdream of pain.
[Illustration (music): I looked o-ver Jordan and what did I see Com-ing for to car-ry me home? A]
[Illustration (music): band of an-gels com-ing aft-er me, Com-ing for to car-ry me home.]
Oh, light of the angels! Oh, rapture of the song! The familiar wordsbrought back so much to the old man's listening soul!
[Illustration (music): Swing low, sweet char-i-ot, Com-ing for to car-ry me home,]
The fragrant shower fell around him. He grasped a great white rose thatwas within reach of his hand and pressed it to his parched lips.
[Illustration (music): Swing low, sweet char-i-ot, Com-ing for to car-ry me home.]
Out of the clouds was the chariot coming for _him_? Yes--wrapt incelestial glory.
[Illustration (music): Swing low, sweet char-i-ot.]
The song died away, and the singers heard no sound within.
But the tired head fell back upon its pillow with a sigh of infinitecontent, the chariot came, and Uncle Joe forgot the "misery" and theroses alike in passing from supreme shadow to supreme dawn.
The Face of the Master