Shortridge High School - Annual Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

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FROM THE OLD SOUTH LUCY ANN BALCH FIRST caught a glimpse of her as I turned from the broad teeming thoroughfare of Canal Street into the quaint foreign atmosphere of Rue Royale in New Orleans. She was sitting on a small three- legged stool, selling her wares from a basket be- side her to any passerby who yielded to her sun- ny smile and cheery greeting. I had heard from a friend that any one who visits New Orleans would miss one of its most interesting sights if he neglected to buy some of Mammy Jackson's famous Louisiana sugar pra- lines and get her to tell of her experiences as a slave in the war days. Seeking out this quaint character, I found her in the place she had occupied for years, both winter and summer, a small cubby-hole in one of the beautiful old Span- ish patios in the old French quarters. As I approached her, Mammy Jackson smiled broadly, revealing a row of pearly white teeth. She greeted me with Nice mawnin', missy- would you all lak to try mah pralines? The brilliant red bandana kerchief tied about her head accentuated her shiny black face, and when she smiled, it reminded me of pieces of ivory set in shining ebony. A great white shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, and her massive figure was enveloped in a plain but immaculate calico dress. Mammy Jackson had never revealed her age to any one, but iiguring that she was a slave in- the Civil War days, I surmised that she was at least eighty-five years old. After purchasing two of her pralines, I said Mammy Jackson, I hear that you went through the Civil War days. I'm sure you could tell some interesting stories about your experiences, couldn't you? Oh, yassum, missy, I sho' went through plenty of 'speriencesj' she replied, with a broad smile. Couldn't you tell me just one? I begged. Lawsy, honey, 'deed I can. Res' yo'sel' on dat curbin', and I'll tell you all 'bout my old Massa General Beauregard and the Union soldiehsf' Mammy J ackson's eyes glistened as she proudly boasted of her days as a young slave in the household of General Beauregard, one of the' famous Confederate leaders. In her quaint southern drawl she told how she watched him march up Rue Royale at the head of the light infantry, composed of the flower of Southern chivalry, how they marched sol- emnly into the tiny church attached to the ancient Ursaline convent across from the General's home and received the benediction of Father Pierre. The old negress vividly described the company of gallant Southern gentlemen proudly marching down narrow Rue Royale amid the shower of flowers from the hands of the fair Southern belles upon the grilled balconies above them. Their triumphant departure was a grim contrast to the sad, bedraggled remnant of that proud soldiery when they came straggling back, defeated. Mammy Jackson's eyes dimmed with tears as she told how many of them returned in plain pine coflins, deaf to their last mass, read in the same little church by Father Pierre.

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THE SONG OF THE STEVEDORES Written on the New Orleans waterfront- Down by the river You Will find the stevedores Working and singing, At heart troubadours. When their backs are bent with heavy loads, Their song grows louder, Wilder. Now it floats upon the wind, Now their song is waxing milder. It bursts forth again, Like adding fuel to fire. Now it trembles and it fades As their backs begin to tire. The stevedores now board the ship- Their song ends in a moan. The stevedores are gone now, And I find I'm all alone. --William McGaw

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FROM THE OLD SOUTH The old negress fairly bristled when she told how the hated Yanks came marching down the same Rue Royale when the Union commander, General Butler, seized New Orleans. Them very soldiehs that killed mah two boys in the wah, them thievin' scoundrels ma'ched right pas' ol' Massa Beauregard's home j eerin' and yellin' when they passed. Ah had to sell fried apple turn-oveh pies fo' ma livin' after Massa left, but ah sho' didn't sell none to dem 'Yanks' No ma'am! Mammy Jackson was indignantly aroused by her own heated descrip- tion of General Butler's seizure of New Orleans and the seemingly insult- ing behavior of the Union so-ldiers. Suddenly she said, You all are from theiSouth, a'n't you? turning rather startled eyes upon me. No, I'm a Northernerj' I replied, but everyone is privileged to believe in his own traditions and ideals. Oh Lawdy, missy, ah didn't mean to hu't you all, but ah guess I jes' cain't fo'get mah old Massa Beauregard and mah two boys who died fo' the South. As Mammy Jackson talked of her youth, I thought of the long event- ful life that she had lived. She was a true child of the South and repre- sented the last of the old Southern slaves, who had been part of the fami- lies they served and remained devoted to them even after the Emancipa- tion Proclamation. Now she was living in the past with the ghosts of her younger days, the gallant Southern gentlemen and the fair young belles of the South. That was her lifeg she did not belong to this modern world. I reluctantly left Mammy Jackson and the quaint Rue Royale to start back towards Canal Street and the modern New Orleans. As I turned for a last glimpse of Mammy Jackson, I saw her, a perfect personification of three types. 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