It was broad daylight in the town of Stanton and had been for a long time.

“Get out o’ that bed, boy!” Aunt Hager yelled. “Here’s Buster waitin’ out in de yard to play with you, an’ you still sleepin’!”

“Aw, tell him to cut off his curls,” retorted Sandy, but his grandmother was in no mood for fooling.

“Stop talkin’ ’bout that chile’s haid and put yo’ clothes on. Nine o’clock an’ you ain’t up yet! Shame on you!” She shouted from the kitchen, where Sandy could hear the fire crackling and smell coffee boiling.

He kicked the sheet off with his bare feet and rolled over and over on the soft feather tick. There was plenty of room to roll now, because his mother had long since got up and gone to Mrs. J. J. Rice’s to work.

“Tell Bus I’m coming,” Sandy yelled, jumping into his trousers and running with bare feet towards the door. “Is he got his marbles?”

“Come back here, sir, an’ put them shoes on,” cried Hager, stopping him on his way out. “Yo’ feet’ll get long as yardsticks and flat as pancakes runnin’ round barefooted all de time. An’ wash yo’ face, sir. Buster ain’t got a thing to do but wait. An’ eat yo’ breakfast.”

The air was warm with sunlight, and hundreds of purple and white morning-glories laughed on the back fence. Earth and sky were fresh and clean after the heavy night-rain, and the young corn-shoots stood straight in the garden, and green pea-vines wound themselves around their crooked sticks. There was the mingled scent of wet soil and golden pollen on the breeze that blew carelessly through the clear air.

Buster sat under the green apple-tree with a pile of black mud from the alley in front of him.

“Hey, Sandy, gonna make marbles and put ’em in the sun to dry,” he said.

“All right,” agreed Sandy, and they began to roll mud balls in the palms of their hands. But instead of putting them in the sun to dry they threw them against the back of the house, where they flattened and stuck beautifully. Then they began to throw them at each other.

Sandy’s playmate was a small ivory-white Negro child with straight golden hair, which his mother made him wear in curls. His eyes were blue and doll-like and he in no way resembled a colored youngster; but he was colored. Sandy himself was the shade of a nicely browned piece of toast, with dark, brown-black eyes and a head of rather kinky, sandy hair that would lie smooth only after a rigorous application of vaseline and water. That was why folks called him Annjee’s sandy-headed child, and then just⁠—Sandy.

“He takes after his father,” Sister Lowry said, “ ’cept he’s not so light. But he’s gonna be a mighty good-lookin’ boy when he grows up, that’s sho!”

“Well, I hopes he does,” Aunt Hager said. “But I’d rather he’d be ugly ’fore he turns out anything like that good-for-nothing Jimboy what comes here an’ stays a month, goes away an’ stays six, an’ don’t hit a tap o’ work ’cept when he feels like it. If it wasn’t for Annjee, don’t know how we’d eat, ’cause Sandy’s father sho don’t do nothin’ to support him.”

All the colored people in Stanton knew that Hager bore no love for Jimboy Rodgers, the tall good-looking yellow fellow whom her second daughter had married.

“First place, I don’t like his name,” she would say in private. “Who ever heard of a nigger named Jimboy, anyhow? Next place, I ain’t never seen a yaller dude yet that meant a dark woman no good⁠—an’ Annjee is dark!” Aunt Hager had other objections, too, although she didn’t like to talk evil about folks. But what she probably referred to in her mind was the question of his ancestry, for nobody knew who Jimboy’s parents were.

“Sandy, look out for the house while I run down an’ see how is Mis’ Gavitt’s niece. An’ you-all play outdoors. Don’t bring no chillen in, litterin’ up de place.” About eleven o’clock Aunt Hager pulled a dustcap over her head and put on a clean white apron. “Here, tie it for me, chile,” she said, turning her broad back. “An’ mind you don’t hurt yo’self on no rusty nails and rotten boards left from de storm. I’ll be back atter while.” And she disappeared around the house, walking proudly, her black face shining in the sunlight.

Presently the two boys under the apple-tree were joined by a coal-colored little girl who lived next door, one Willie-Mae Johnson, and the mud balls under her hands became mud pies carefully rounded and patted and placed in the sun on the small box where the little chickens lived. Willie-Mae was the mama, Sandy the papa, and Buster the baby as the old game of “playing house” began anew.

By and by the mailman’s whistle blew and the three children scampered towards the sidewalk to meet him. The carrier handed Sandy a letter. “Take it in the house,” he said. But instead the youngsters sat on the front-door-sill, their feet dangling where the porch had been, and began to examine the envelope.

“I bet that’s Lincoln’s picture,” said Buster.

“No, ’taint,” declared Willie-Mae. “It’s Rossiefelt!”

“Aw, it’s Washington,” said Sandy. “And don’t you-all touch my mama’s letter with your hands all muddy. It might be from my papa, you can’t tell, and she wants it kept clean.”

“ ’Tis from Jimboy,” Aunt Hager declared when she returned, accompanied by her old friend, Sister Whiteside, who peddled on foot fresh garden-truck she raised herself. Aunt Hager had met her at the corner.

“I knows his writin’,” went on Hager. “An’ it’s got a postmark, K-A-N⁠—Kansas City! That’s what ’tis! Niggers sho do love Kansas City!⁠ ⁠… Huh!⁠ ⁠… So that’s where he’s at. Well, yo’ mama’ll be glad to get it. If she knowed it was here, she’d quit work an’ come home now.⁠ ⁠… Sit down, Whiteside. We gwine eat in a few minutes. You better have a bite with us an’ stay an’ rest yo’self awhile, ’cause I knows you been walkin’ this mawnin’!”

“ ’Deed I is,” the old sister declared, dropping her basket of lettuce and peas on the floor and taking a chair next to the table in the kitchen. “An’ I ain’t sold much neither. Seems like folks ain’t got no buyin’ appetite after all that storm an’ wind last night⁠—but de Lawd will provide! I ain’t worried.”

“That’s right,” agreed Hager. “Might o’ been me blowed away maself, ’stead o’ just ma porch, if Jesus hadn’t been with us.⁠ ⁠… You Sandy! Make haste and wash yo’ hands, sir. Rest o’ you chillens go on home, ’cause I know yo’ ma’s lookin’ for you.⁠ ⁠… Huh! This wood fire’s mighty low!”

Hager uncovered a pot that had been simmering on the stove all morning and dished up a great bowlful of black-eyed peas and salt pork. There was biscuit bread left from breakfast. A plate of young onions and a pitcher of lemonade stood on the white oilcloth-covered table. Heads were automatically bowed.

“Lawd, make us thankful for this food. For Christ’s sake, amen,” said Hager; then the two old women and the child began to eat.

“That’s Elvira’s boy, ain’t it⁠—that yaller-headed young-one was here playin’ with Sandy?” Sister Whiteside had her mouth full of onions and beans as she asked the question.

“Shsss!⁠ ⁠… That’s her child!” said Hager. “But it ain’t Eddie’s!” She gave her guest a meaning glance across the table, then lowered her voice, pretending all the while that Sandy’s ears were too young to hear. “They say she had that chile ’fore she married Eddie. An’ black as Eddie is, you knows an’ I knows ain’t due to be no golden hair in de family!”

“I knowed there must be something funny,” whispered the old sister, screwing up her face. “That’s some white man’s chile!”

“Sho it is!” agreed Hager.⁠ ⁠… “I knowed it all de time.⁠ ⁠… Have some mo’ meat, Whiteside. Help yo’self! We ain’t got much, but such as ’tis, you’re welcome.⁠ ⁠… Yes, sir, Buster’s some white man’s chile.⁠ ⁠… Stop reachin’ cross de table for bread, Sandy. Where’s yo’ manners, sir? I declare, chillens do try you sometimes.⁠ ⁠… Pass me de onions.”

“Truth, they tries you, yit I gits right lonesome since all ma young ones is gone.” Sister Whiteside worked her few good teeth vigorously, took a long swallow of lemonade, and smacked her lips. “Chillen an’ grandchillen all in Chicago an’ St. Louis an’ Wichita, an’ nary chick nor child left with me in de house.⁠ ⁠… Pass me de bread, thank yuh.⁠ ⁠… I feels kinder sad an’ sorry at times, po’ widder-woman that I is. I has ma garden an’ ma hens, but all ma chillens done grown and married.⁠ ⁠… Where’s yo’ daughter Harriett at now, Hager? Is she married, too? I ain’t seen her lately.”

Hager pulled a meat skin through her teeth; then she answered: “No, chile, she too young to marry yet! Ain’t but sixteen, but she’s been workin’ out this summer, waitin’ table at de Stanton County Country Club. Been in de country three weeks now, since school closed, but she comes in town on Thursdays, though. It’s nigh six miles from here, so de women-help sleeps there at night. I’s glad she’s out there, Sister. Course Harriett’s a good girl, but she likes to be frisky⁠—wants to run de streets ’tendin’ parties an’ dances, an’ I can’t do much with her no mo’, though I hates to say it.”

“But she’s a songster, Hager! An’ I hears she’s sho one smart chile, besides. They say she’s up with them white folks when it comes to books. An’ de high school where she’s goin’ ain’t easy.⁠ ⁠… All ma young ones quit ’fore they got through with it⁠—wouldn’t go⁠—ruther have a good time runnin’ to Kansas City an’ galavantin’ round.”

“De Lawd knows it’s a hard job, keepin’ colored chillens in school, Sister Whiteside, a mighty hard job. De niggers don’t help ’em, an’ de white folks don’t care if they stay or not. An’ when they gets along sixteen an’ seventeen, they wants this, an’ they wants that, an’ t’other⁠—an’ when you ain’t got it to give to ’em, they quits school an’ goes to work.⁠ ⁠… Harriett say she ain’t goin’ back next fall. I feels right hurt over it, but she ’clares she ain’t goin’ back to school. Says there ain’t no use in learnin’ books fo’ nothin’ but to work in white folks’ kitchens when she’s graduated.”

“Do she, Hager? I’s sho sorry! I’s gwine to talk to that gal. Get Reverend Berry to talk to her, too.⁠ ⁠… You’s struggled to bring up yo’ chillens, an’ all we Christians in de church ought to help you! I gwine see Reverend Berry, see can’t he ’suade her to stay in school.” The old woman reached for the onions. “But you ain’t never raised no boys, though, has you, Hager?”

“No, I ain’t. My two boy-chillens both died ’fore they was ten. Just these three girls⁠—Tempy, an’ Annjee, an’ Harriett⁠—that’s all I got. An’ this here grandchile, Sandy.⁠ ⁠… Take yo’ hands off that meat, sir! You had ’nough!”

“Lawd, you’s been lucky! I done raised seven grandchillen ’sides eight o’ ma own. An’ they don’t thank me. No, sir! Go off and kick up they heels an’ git married an’ don’t thank me a bit! Don’t even write, some of ’em.⁠ ⁠… Waitin’ fo’ me to die, I reckon, so’s they can squabble over de little house I owns an’ ma garden.” The old visitor pushed back her chair. “Huh! Yo’ dinner was sho good!⁠ ⁠… Waitin’ fo’ me to die.”

“Unhuh!⁠ ⁠… That’s de way with ’em, Sister Whiteside. Chillens don’t care⁠—but I reckon we old ones can’t kick much. They’s got to get off fo’ themselves. It’s natural, that’s what ’tis. Now, my Tempy, she’s married and doin’ well. Got a fine house, an’ her husband’s a mail-clerk in de civil service makin’ good money. They don’t ’sociate no mo’ with none but de high-toned colored folks, like Dr. Mitchell, an’ Mis’ Ada Walls, an’ Madam C. Frances Smith. Course Tempy don’t come to see me much ’cause I still earns ma livin’ with ma arms in de tub. But Annjee run in their house out o’ the storm last night an’ she say Tempy’s just bought a new pianer, an’ de house looks fine.⁠ ⁠… I’s glad fo’ de chile.”

“Sho, sho you is, Sister Williams, you’s a good mother an’ I knows you’s glad. But I hears from Reverend Berry that Tempy’s done withdrawed from our church an’ joined de Episcopals!”

“That’s right! She is. Last time I seed Tempy, she told me she couldn’t stand de Baptist no mo’⁠—too many low niggers belonging, she say, so she’s gonna join Father Hill’s church, where de best people go.⁠ ⁠… I told her I didn’t think much o’ joinin’ a church so far away from God that they didn’t want nothin’ but yaller niggers for members, an’ so full o’ forms an’ fashions that a good Christian couldn’t shout⁠—but she went on an’ joined. It’s de stylish temple, that’s why, so I ain’t said no mo’. Tempy’s goin’ on thirty-five now, she’s ma oldest chile, an’ I reckon she knows how she wants to act.”

“Yes, I reckon she do.⁠ ⁠… But there ain’t no church like de Baptist, praise God! Is there, Sister? If you ain’t been dipped in that water an’ half drowned, you ain’t saved. Tempy don’t know like we do. No, sir, she don’t know!”

There was no fruit or dessert, and the soiled plates were not removed from the table for a long time, for the two old women, talking about their children, had forgotten the dishes. Young flies crawled over the biscuit bread and hummed above the bowl of peas, while the wood fire died in the stove, and Sandy went out into the sunshine to play.

“Now, ma girl, Maggie,” said Sister Whiteside; “de man she married done got to be a big lawyer in St. Louis. He’s in de politics there, an’ Maggie’s got a fine job herself⁠—social servin’, they calls it. But I do’t hear from her once a year. An’ she don’t send me a dime. Ma boys looks out for me, though, sometimes, round Christmas. There’s Lucius, what runs on de railroad, an’ then Andrew, what rides de horses, an’ John, in Omaha, sends me a little change now an’ then⁠—all but Charlie, an’ he never was thoughtful ’bout his mother. He ain’t never sent me nothin’.”

“Well, you sho is lucky,” said Hager, “ ’cause they ain’t no money comes in this house, Christmas nor no other time, less’n me an’ Annjee brings it here. Jimboy ain’t no good, an’ what Harriett makes goes for clothes and parties an’ powderin’-rags. Course, I takes some from her every week, but I gives it right back for her school things. An’ I ain’t taken nothin’ from her these three weeks she’s been workin’ at de club. She say she’s savin’ her money herself. She’s past sixteen now, so I lets her have it.⁠ ⁠… Po’ little thing!⁠ ⁠… She does need to look purty.” Hager’s voice softened and her dark old face was half abashed, kind and smiling. “You know, last month I bought her a gold watch⁠—surprise fo’ her birthday, de kind you hangs on a little pin on yo’ waist. Lawd knows, I couldn’t ’ford it⁠—took all de money from three week’s o’ washin’, but I knowed she’d been wantin’ a watch. An’ this front room⁠—I moved ma bed out last year an’ bought that new rug at de secondhand store an’ them lace curtains so’s she could have a nice place to entertain her comp’ny.⁠ ⁠… But de chile goes with such a kinder wild crowd o’ young folks, Sister Whiteside! It worries me! The boys, they cusses, an’ the girls, they paints, an’ some of ’em live in de Bottoms. I been tried to get her out of it right along, but seems like I can’t. That’s why I’s glad she’s in de country fo’ de summer an’ comes in but only once a week, an’ then she’s home with me. It’s too far to come in town at night, she say, so she gets her rest now, goin’ to bed early an’ all, with de country air round her. I hopes she calms down from runnin’ round when she comes back here to stay in de fall.⁠ ⁠… She’s a good chile. She don’t lie to me ’bout where she goes, nor nothin’ like that, but she’s just wild, that’s all, just wild.”

“Is she a Christian, Sister Williams?”

“No, she ain’t. I’s sorry to say it of a chile o’ mine, but she ain’t. She’s been on de moaner’s bench time after time, Sunday mawnin’s an’ prayer-meetin’ evenin’s, but she never would rise. I prays for her.”

“Well, when she takes Jesus, she’ll see de light! That’s what de matter with her, Sister Williams, she ain’t felt Him yit. Make her go to church when she comes back here.⁠ ⁠… I reckon you heard ’bout when de big revival’s due to come off this year, ain’t you?”

“No, I ain’t, not yet.”

“Great colored tent-meetin’ with de Battle-Ax of de Lawd, Reverend Braswell preachin’! Yes, sir! Gwine start August eighteenth in de Hickory Woods yonder by de edge o’ town.”

“Good news,” cried Hager. “Mo’ sinners than enough’s in need o’ savin’. I’s gwine to take Sandy an’ get him started right with de Lawd. An’ if that onery Jimboy’s back here, I gwine make him go, too, an’ look Jesus in de face. Annjee an’ me’s saved, chile!⁠ ⁠… You, Sandy, bring us some drinkin’ water from de pump.” Aunt Hager rapped on the window with her knuckles to the boy playing outside. “An’ stop wrastlin’ with that gal.”

Sandy rose triumphant from the prone body of black little Willie-Mae, lying squalling on the cinderpath near the back gate. “She started it,” he yelled, running towards the pump. The girl began a reply, but at that moment a rickety wagon drawn by a white mule and driven by a grey-haired, leather-colored old man came rattling down the alley.

“Hy, there, Hager!” called an old Negro, tightening his reins on the mule, which immediately began to eat corn-tops over the back fence. “How you been treatin’ yo’self?”

“Right tolable,” cried Hager, for she and Sister Whiteside had both emerged from the kitchen and were approaching the driver. “How you doin’, Brother Logan?”

“Why, if here ain’t Sis’ Whiteside, too!” said the old beau, sitting up straight on his wagon-seat and showing a row of ivory teeth in a wide grin. “I’s doin’ purty well for a po’ widower what ain’t got nobody to bake his bread. Doin’ purty well. Hee! Hee! None o’ you-all ain’t sorry for me, is you? How de storm treat you, Hager?⁠ ⁠… Says it carried off yo’ porch?⁠ ⁠… That’s certainly too bad! Well, it did some o’ these white folks worse’n that. I got ’nough work to do to last me de next fo’ weeks, cleanin’ up yards an’ haulin’ off trash, me an’ dis mule here.⁠ ⁠… How’s yo’ chillen, Sis’ Williams?”

“Oh, they all right, thank yuh. Annjee’s still at Mis’ Rice’s, an’ Harriet’s in de country at de club.”

“Is she?” said Brother Logan. “I seed her in town night ’fore last down on Pearl Street ’bout ten o’clock.”

“You ain’t seed Harriett no night ’fore last,” disputed Hager vigorously. “She don’t come in town ’ceptin’ Thursday aftenoons, an’ that’s tomorrow.”

“Sister, I ain’t blind,” said the old man, hurt that his truth should be doubted. “I⁠—seen⁠—Harriett Williams on Pearl Street⁠ ⁠… with Maudel Smothers an’ two boys ’bout ten o’clock day before yestidy night! An’ they was gwine to de Waiters’ Ball, ’cause I asked Maudel where they was gwine, an’ she say so. Then I says to Harriett: ‘Does yo’ mammy know you’s out this late?’ an’ she laughed an’ say: ‘Oh, that’s all right!’⁠ ⁠… Don’t tell me I ain’t seen Harriett, Hager.”

“Well, Lawd help!” Aunt Hager cried, her mouth open. “You done seed my chile in town an’ she ain’t come anear home! Stayed all night at Maudel’s, I reckon.⁠ ⁠… I tells her ’bout runnin’ with that gal from de Bottoms. That’s what makes her lie to me⁠—tellin’ me she don’t come in town o’ nights. Maudel’s folks don’t keep no kind o’ house, and mens goes there, an’ they sells licker, an’ they gambles an’ fights.⁠ ⁠… Is you sho that’s right, Brother Logan, ma chile done been in town an’ ain’t come home?”

“It ain’t wrong!” said old man Logan, cracking his long whip on the white mule’s haunches. “Gittiyap! You ole jinny!” and he drove off.

“Um-uh!” said Sister Whiteside to Hager as the two toil-worn old women walked towards the house. “That’s de way they does you!” The peddler gathered up her things. “I better be movin’, ’cause I got these greens to sell yit, an’ it’s gittin’ ’long towards evenin’.⁠ ⁠… That’s de way chillens does you, Sister Williams! I knows! That’s de way they does!”