In a room a woman sat at a table
eating like a fat monk in a picture.
A soiled, unshaven man pushed
open the door and entered.
"Well," said he, "Mag's
dead."
"What?" said
the woman, her mouth filled
with bread.
"Mag's dead," repeated
the man.
"Deh hell she is," said
the woman. She continued her
meal.
When she finished her coffee
she began to weep.
"I kin remember when her two
feet was no bigger dan yer t'umb,
and she weared worsted boots," moaned
she.
"Well, whata dat?" said
the man.
"I kin remember when she weared
worsted boots," she cried.
The neighbors began to gather
in the hall, staring in at the
weeping woman as if watching
the contortions of a dying dog.
A dozen women entered and lamented
with her. Under their busy hands
the rooms took on that appalling
appearance of neatness and order
with which death is greeted.
Suddenly the
door opened and a woman in
a black gown rushed
in with outstretched arms. "Ah,
poor Mary," she cried, and tenderly
embraced the moaning one.
"Ah, what ter'ble affliction
is dis," continued she. Her vocabulary
was derived from mission churches. "Me
poor Mary, how I feel fer yehs!
Ah, what a ter'ble affliction
is a disobed'ent chil'."
Her good, motherly face was
wet with tears. She trembled
in eagerness to express her sympathy.
The mourner sat with bowed head,
rocking her body heavily to and
fro, and crying out in a high,
strained voice that sounded like
a dirge on some forlorn pipe.
"I kin remember when she weared
worsted boots an' her two feets
was no bigger dan yer t'umb an'
she weared worsted boots, Miss
Smith," she cried, raising her
streaming eyes.
"Ah, me poor Mary," sobbed
the woman in black. With low,
coddling cries, she sank on her
knees by the mourner's chair,
and put her arms about her. The
other women began to groan in
different keys.
"Yer poor misguided
chil' is gone now, Mary, an'
let us hope
it's fer deh bes'. Yeh'll fergive
her now, Mary, won't yehs, dear,
all her disobed'ence? All her
t'ankless behavior to her mudder
an' all her badness? She's gone
where her ter'ble sins will be
judged."
The woman in black raised her
face and paused. The inevitable
sunlight came streaming in at
the windows and shed a ghastly
cheerfulness upon the faded hues
of the room. Two or three of
the spectators were sniffling,
and one was loudly weeping. The
mourner arose and staggered into
the other room. In a moment she
emerged with a pair of faded
baby shoes held in the hollow
of her hand.
"I kin remember when she used
to wear dem," cried she. The
women burst anew into cries as
if they had all been stabbed.
The mourner turned to the soiled
and unshaven man.
"Jimmie, boy,
go git yer sister! Go git yer
sister an' we'll put
deh boots on her feets!"
"Dey won't fit her now, yeh
damn fool," said the man.
"Go git yer sister, Jimmie," shrieked
the woman, confronting him fiercely.
The man swore sullenly. He
went over to a corner and slowly
began to put on his coat. He
took his hat and went out, with
a dragging, reluctant step.
The woman in black came forward
and again besought the mourner.
"Yeh'll fergive
her, Mary! Yeh'll fergive yer
bad, bad,
chil'! Her life was a curse an'
her days were black an' yeh'll
fergive yer bad girl? She's gone
where her sins will be judged."
"She's gone where her sins
will be judged," cried the other
women, like a choir at a funeral.
"Deh Lord gives and deh Lord
takes away," said the woman in
black, raising her eyes to the
sunbeams.
"Deh Lord gives and deh Lord
takes away," responded the others.
"Yeh'll fergive her, Mary!" pleaded
the woman in black. The mourner
essayed to speak but her voice
gave way. She shook her great
shoulders frantically, in an
agony of grief. Hot tears seemed
to scald her quivering face.
Finally her voice came and arose
like a scream of pain.
"Oh, yes, I'll
fergive her! I'll fergive her!" |