Me an' Babby [pp. 58-70]

'"Me an' Babby."
die she had hung on her arm. Her
coarse-grained hands were clumsy and
aimless in their efforts to untie the knot,
but finally with the help of her teeth the
ends loosened and she spread the contents before me: A spool of thread, a
bit of faded ribbon, a rag doll, a much
worn copy of Mother Goose's rhymes, a
dirty nightcap and gingham apron, a yellow, broken-toothed comb, and lastly, in
a delicately carved frame, a small but
exquisite painting of the Madonna, that
could only have been the work of some
master hand.
"I see you are a Catholic," I said kindly, as I gazed fascinated on the picture.
The woman raised her colorless eyes
in dull surprise.
"Hey? Catholic? No'm. Iwarea
Methody when I ware young, but some'ow I had so much sorrer an' sich like
that'pears like I be n't nothin' now."
Poor thing! I fear wiser heads than
hers have found their religion too inelastic to cover the scars and bruises of grim,
pursuing years.
"That picter, ma'am, come to me queer
like, an' you may n't believe it, but it
done me a power o' good. It ware arter
Sam an' Jerry got drownded in the river,
an' my ole man ware lyin' sick with the
ager-chills, that I got so worrit like," passing the back of her hand across her forehead, as though the recollection dazed
and stupefied her, "that I cud hear and
see nothin' but the river rushin' an'
rushin' day an' night; an' every minute
I hed I kep' walkin' up an' down beside
the water, peekin' in to see if I cud get
a look at my poor boys thar. I cud n't
get no comfort nowhar but alongside
the river, till'pears like one night Sam
an' Jerry called' Mammy! Mammy!' an'
allus arter that I heerd em' callin' an'
callin,' till my ole head got numb like,
an' I set my min' that nothin' would
do but I mus' go to'em down to the
river bottom. That night I fixed my
ole man and tidied up the house a bit, an'
stole out unbeknowns to any one, jest
as the sun had made the water look like
blood. I dunno how fur I went along
the bank afore I cud stan' that cry o'
' Mammy, Mammy,' no longer, so I clum
out on a big rock that reached fur over
the crawlin' river, and ware jest thinkin'
'This is the right spot to go to'em,'
when thar at my feet I seed sunthin'
shinin' right up in my face, an' it ware
that ar picter."
She paused for a full miuute, her mind
struggling for words to express what
followed. When she looked up to continue her story, there was a haunting
fear in her eyes, and she nervously
clutched hold of my dress.
"I dunno, ma'am, what it done to me,
but'pears like I cud n't jump in arter
seein' it. My eyes kep' lookin' an' lookin' in hemrn," pointing to the Madonna,
"till all at wunst my boys stopped thar
cryin' fur me, an' as sure as yer live I
never heard'em agin. I tuk the picter
home an' tole my ole man all about it,
an' he said I mus' keep lookin' at it
whenever my head felt queer like, an' so
I did, though sometimes I ware afeared
it ware not right to keep it, seein' I had
only foun' it. All the folkses roun' said
it mus' have belonged to a young man
from the city who ware thar in the summer-time paintin' picters o' the river. I
dunno, I'm sure, but it ware wonderful.
Arter this I knew I ware goin' to hey
another babby, an' kep' the pretty face
in sight most allus, for fear my boys
would begin thar callin' agin. When
Babby come,'pears like she ware the
picter made alive; and arter that I sot
more store by her than all the res'."
A sudden thought struck me. Taking
the painting in my hand I went to the
sleeping child, and looking critically
from one to the other, I doubted not
that I had found the secret of the little
thing's utter unlikeness to her parents.
The beautiful conception of the artist
had in some mysterious manner stamped
its image on the crude imagination of
this mother, whose unreasoning impres
64
[Jan.