Commerce High School - Commerce Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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“Stan there an grin! Where am dat ignorant ole man of yourn? I done tell him ter fetch dat ’ar wood. You go long wid you an tell him fo' to git hisself long here right smart, ’fore I comes arter him.” Jim knew too well what was coming and decided to champion his grandmother no matter to what extremes the case might go. For every time in the family jars that had arisen, since he could remember, his grandmother, right or wrong, had come out victor. In the meantime Henry had goue to the stable; his usual retreat. Jim started on a run but soon stopped. The idea of a coming conflict appealed to his excitable imagination. “The longer it takes him to get there the moah he’ll kotch it,” mused the curly headed, grinning little imp of darkness. Henry was talking to a younger fellow who pretended to work, but who loafed around the stables, which belonged to “Mas'r Harry.” a prosperous southern gentleman, and .apparently didn’t like the thought of being interrupted by Jim. “You jes run chil’ an doan you bodder me no moah.” “Mammy, she done tell me for to tell you to git long heah right smart.” Henry’s stooped shoulders straightened and his bowed legs sprung a sharper cum as he yelled at the boy. “You jes tell dat ole woman ob mine dat she aint got no string on me.” Jim had accomplished what he intended, so he started back at once in order to cut off any contradiction that his worthy old grandfather might add. The half hour that had elapsed since Aunt Sallie had sent Henry for wood was sufficient cause to put her into a sweet mood. “Where am dat ole man?” greeted Jim when he put his head in at the door. “My pop”—Jim’s father died before his boy was old enough to know him and Henry had been “Pop” to Jim from the time the little fellow was old enough to talk. “My pop, he said you doan got no string on him an he aint cornin’ for you all.” Aunt Sallie’s fat sides shook as she laughed, a derisive, malignant laugh, and she waddled out through the door-way. Her head bobbed up and down as she grumbled to herself about the good for nothing “ole man what I done got to keep.” After Jim had informed Henry that his presence was desired at the cabin, and then had left no chance for him to add a favorable message for Aunt Sallie, Henry decided that he had better busy himself some'place where she would not be apt to look for him. As a rule he could walk to Sanford in an hour, but he was in a hurry today and covered the distance in a remarkably short time. He stayed in town until he thought Aunt Sallie’s temper would have cooled, and strange to say arrived home just in time for the chicken supper. The fact that no one eats at Aunt Sallie’s table without an invitation accounts for the anxious look on Jim’s face and also for the uncomfortable angle 131

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“Home!” “Home!” made him run the faster. He heard the shrill, “slide!” and he slid, reaching the plate a second before the ball did. The game ended with a score of 8 to 5 in favor of Verdi. The boys lifted Webber to their shoulders and paraded around the field. Many were the “three times three for Webber” given. The election, the following day. was a unanimous victory for the hero. Dawson, after hearing the result, quit Verdi High School and started in at another school where, he said. “Decent playing would be appreciated.” AMANDA HEIMBERGER, 1912. Aintt halite's (Chirkrn Supper AN unpainted, weather stained cabin, stood in the midst of a group of beautiful Carolina palm trees, and in their shade romped a little pickaninny. His big, dark eyes rolled and sparkled with delight as the delicious cool breeze played with his dusky curls, that hung about his shoulders. Yes. Jim had curls; not tight woolly ones, but beautiful, soft, silky curls. As he stood on his little bare toes to reach a big, glossy leaf that hung down, he heard a voice from behind. The voice belonged to Jim's grandfather, who had just come out of the cabin. He was well known, in the little near-by town of Sanford, by the name of Henry Patrick, for he was head deacon in the Methodist Church and in his younger days had been the most powerful singer in the congregation. “Now. Jim. I reckon you bettah jest ’have yourself dis here day, ’cause yer ole mudder is guan ter hab chicken for supper, an’ if 1 sen’ you all to bed you doan git none.” Henry was a bow-legged, stooped, white-haired negro, who appeared to be eighty years old. but in reality he had not passed his sixtieth birthday. Jim didn't get a chicken supper every day and he naturally became interested in the prospect of one so soon to come. “Lawdy. Mister Henry Patrick. I’se did all you don’ tol’ me an I aint deserbin’ ob dis here talkin’,” answered Jim, rolling his eyes and grinning at his grandfather, for Jim knew how to be polite, but he didn’t make use of his knowledge unless he could attain his desired result in no other way. “Jim,” the old man’s voice was one of command now, “you jest go long right smart an’ git dat wood for your mudder.” Since Henry was too lazy to do anything else. Aunt Sallie, his wife, had always insisted that he should carry in wood, and Jim on any other occasion would have reminded his white-haired grandparent of this fact, but a chicken supper was a chicken supper. Jim took the wood into the kitchen and for once was careful to get it into the box and not on the white, newly-scrubbed floor. “Jim.” the voice was like a man’s, “Jim! You heali me? I aint guan ter call you all day.” Jim didn’t answer other then to roll his eyes and grin. 130

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at which Henry sat in his corner, on a cane seated chair. The chair was, however, minus the cane seat with the exception of a fringe around the inside of the frame. Aunt Sal lie arranged the tempting dishes on the crimson table cloth, and after a self-satisfied look at the result she turned to Jim. “Jim, you has been a good chile an your ole mammy is mighty proud ob you. Jes pull your chair up to dis heah table an I’ll git you some ob dis chicken.” A cunning smile played round the corner of her mouth and a queer light shone in her eyes. Now if Jim had been anxious before, he was astonished this time for Henry had always been the first told, that he should come to the table and Jim always followed. His face nowr took on a troubled, anxious look, at he stood on one foot by his chair. “Set down chile, set down! I reckon you doan eat your supper standin’ dat 'ar way.” Aunt Sallie smiled wickedly as she seated herself and urged Jim to eat. “Neber ’fore dis time did I ebber hab sech a fat tendah fowl as what dat one am.” As she spoke thus to Jim she watched Henry, out of the corner of her eye, to see just what effect her words had on him. Henry was gazing longingly at the delicious bite that Jim was just about to put into his mouth. She was satisfied with Henry but believed that he needed still more practical admonition. “Hab some ob dis graby on your taters, Jimf It’ll make your mawf wattah all over your face. It jes does my heart good to see you eat dat ’ar way. —Um! ----! dat am a sure ’nuff fine bird.” Jim’s eye happened to catch sight of Henry’s face and a guilty look flashed over his own. For a minute he was decidedly uncomfortable but consoled himself with the thought that it was all Aunt Sallie’s doing. Nevertheless, the next bite of chicken was mighty hard to swallow. To see Aunt Sallie and Jim devouring this delicious meal was more then Henry could stand. He could wait no longer but cautiously drew his chair toward the table. “Nigger,” yelled Aunt Sallie, holding her head as high as her thick, short neck permitted. “You jes gwan out in dat ’ar kitchen. You can hab your suppah out dar. We doan want none ob you in dis room!” “Now—now’—jes you let me set here long side ob you Sallie, you done cooked a mighty fine suppah you has.” His attempt to pacify his irate spouse was indeed in vain for she had seemingly determined not to be pacified. “You done run roun’ dat town all day an’ you aint eben chopped a stick ob wood for my fiah! I aint got no call for to keep sech a lazy nigger. You jes gwan back to town an ax them to gib you some suppah. I’se jes gwan to quit dis workin’ all day to keep the likes ob you.” 132