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CANE

Jean Toomer

With a Foreword PS
by
3539
Waldo Frank
6478

C3

1951

Oracular.
Redolent offermenting syrup,
Purple ofthe dusk,
Deep-rooted cane.

LIVERIGHT

NEW YORK
INDIANA UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

COPYRIGHT © 1923 BY BONI & LIVERIGHT

Ⓡ 1951 BY JEAN TOOMER

1.987654

STANDARD BOOK NUMBER : 87140-535-0

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER : 23-12749

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

12-10-80
To my grandmother ..
 FOREWORD

EADING this book, I had the vision of a

R
land, heretofore sunk in the mists of mute-
ness , suddenly rising up into the eminence of song .
Innumerable books have been written about the
South; some good books have been written in the
South. This book is the South. I do not mean
that Cane covers the South or is the South's full

voice. Merely this : a poet has arisen among our

American youth who has known how to turn the
essences and materials of his Southland into the

essences and materials of literature. A poet has

arisen in that land who writes, not as a South-
erner, not as a rebel against Southerners, not as
a Negro, not as apologist or priest or critic : who

writes as a poet. The fashioning of beauty is

ever foremost in his inspiration : not forcedly but
simply, and because these ultimate aspects of his
world are to him more real than all its specific
problems. He has made songs and lovely sto-
ries of his land . • • not of its yesterday, but of

its immediate life. And that has been enough.

How rare this is will be clear to those who

[vii ]
 FOREWORD

have followed with concern the struggle of the

South toward literary expression, and the par-

ticular trial of that portion of its folk whose skin

is dark. The gifted Negro has been too often
thwarted from becoming a poet because his
world was forever forcing him to recollect that
he was a Negro. The artist must lose such

lesser identities in the great well of life. The

English poet is not forever protesting and recall-
ing that he is English. It is so natural and easy
for him to be English that he can sing as a man.
The French novelist is not forever noting : "This
is French." It is so atmospheric for him to be
French, that he can devote himself to saying :
"This is human." This is an imperative con-
dition for the creating of deep art. The whole
will and mind of the creator must go below the
surfaces of race. And this has been an almost

impossible condition for the American Negro to

achieve, forced every moment of his life into a
specific and superficial plane of consciousness.

The first negative significance of Cane is that

this so natural and restrictive state of mind is

completely lacking. For Toomer, the Southland

is not a problem to be solved ; it is a field of love-

[viii ]
 FOREWORD

liness to be sung: the Georgia Negro is not a

downtrodden soul to be uplifted ; he is material
for gorgeous painting : the segregated self-
conscious brown belt of Washington is not a
topic to be discussed and exposed ; it is a subject
of beauty and of drama, worthy of creation in
literary form.
It seems to me, therefore, that this is a first

book in more ways than one. It is a harbinger

of the South's literary maturity : of its emergence

from the obsession put upon its minds by the

unending racial crisis-an obsession from which
writers have made their indirect escape through

sentimentalism, exoticism, polemic, "problem "

fiction, and moral melodrama. It marks the

dawn of direct and unafraid creation. And, as

the initial work of a man of twenty-seven, it is

the harbinger of a literary force of whose incal-

culable future I believe no reader of this book
will be in doubt.

How typical is Cane of the South's still virgin

soil and of its pressing seeds ! and the book's
chaos of verse, tale, drama, its rhythmic rolling
shift from lyrism to narrative, from mystery to

intimate pathos ! But read the book through

[ix]
 FOREWORD

and you will see a complex and significant form

take substance from its chaos. Part One is the

primitive and evanescent black world of Georgia.

Part Two is the threshing and suffering brown
world of Washington, lifted by opportunity and
contact into the anguish of self-conscious strug-

gle. Part Three is Georgia again . . . the in-

vasion into this black womb of the ferment

seed : the neurotic, educated, spiritually stirring

Negro. As a broad form this is superb, and the
very looseness and unexpected waves of the
book's parts make Cane still more South, still
more of an æsthetic equivalent of the land,
What a land it is! What an Eschylean

beauty to its fateful problem ! Those of you

who love our South will find here some of your
love. Those of you who know it not will per-

haps begin to understand what a warm splendor

is at last at dawn.

A feast of moon and men and barking hounds,

An orgy for some genius of the South
With bloodshot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth
Surprised in making folk-songs . . . .

So, in his still sometimes clumsy stride (for

[x]
 FOREWORD

Toomer is finally a poet in prose ) the author

gives you an inkling of his revelation. An indi-

vidual force, wise enough to drink humbly at

this great spring of his land ... such is the

first impression of Jean Toomer. But beyond

this wisdom and this power (which shows itself
perhaps most splendidly in his complete free-
dom from the sense of persecution ) , there rises
a figure more significant : the artist, hard, self-
immolating, the artist who is not interested in
races, whose domain is Life. The book's final
Part is no longer "promise" ; it is achievement.
It is no mere dawn: it is a bit of the full morn-
ing. These materials · • • the ancient black

man, mute, inaccessible, and yet so mystically

close to the new tumultuous members of his race,

the simple slave Past, the shredding Negro

Present, the iridescent passionate dream of the
To-morrow • · • are made and measured by a

craftsman into an unforgettable music. The

notes of his counterpoint are particular, the
themes are of intimate connection with us Amer-
icans. But the result is that abstract and abso-

lute thing called Art.

WALDO FRANK.

[ xi ]
Certain of these pieces have appeared in
Broom, Crisis, Double Dealer, Liberator,
Little Review, Modern Review, Nomad,
Prairie, and S4 N.
To these magazines : thanks.
 CONTENTS
PAGE
FOREWORD, by Waldo Frank ... vii

KARINTHA I
REAPERS 6
NOVEMBER COTTON FLOWER .. 7
BECKY.. 8
FACE .... 14
COTTON SONG. 15
CARMA ..... 16
SONG OF THE SON ... 21
GEORGIA DUSK ... 22
✓FERN 24
NULLO 34
EVENING SONG .. 35
ESTHER 36
CONVERSION 49
PORTRAIT IN GEORGIA . 50
BLOOD-BURNING MOON ... 51

SEVENTH STREET ... 71

RHOBERT 73
AVEY.... 76
BEEHIVE .. 89
STORM ENDING.. 90
THEATER ... 91
HER LIPS ARE COPPER WIRE . ΤΟΙ
CALLING JESUS .. 102
YBOX SEAT... 104
PRAYER 131
HARVEST SONG .... · 132
BONA AND PAUL... 134

KABNIS 157
CANE
 KARINTHA

Her skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon,

O cant you see it, O cant you see it,
Her skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon
When the sun goes down.

EN had always wanted her, this Karintha,

MEN
even as a child, Karintha carrying beauty,
perfect as dusk when the sun goes down. Old
men rode her hobby-horse upon their knees .
Young men danced with her at frolics when
they should have been dancing with their grown-

up girls. God grant us youth, secretly prayed

the old men . The young fellows counted the

time to pass before she would be old enough to

mate with them. This interest of the male, who

wishes to ripen a growing thing too soon, could

mean no good to her.

Karintha, at twelve, was a wild flash that

told the other folks just what it was to live. At

sunset, when there was no wind, and the pine-

[1 ]
 CANE

smoke from over by the sawmill hugged the

earth, and you couldnt see more than a few feet
in front, her sudden darting past you was a bit
of vivid color , like a black bird that flashes in

light. With the other children one could hear,

some distance off, their feet flopping in the two-
inch dust. Karintha's running was a whir. It
had the sound of the red dust that sometimes

makes a spiral in the road. At dusk, during

the hush just after the sawmill had closed
down, and before any of the women had started
their supper-getting-ready songs, her voice, high-
pitched, shrill, would put one's ears to itching.
But no one ever thought to make her stop be-
cause of it. She stoned the cows, and beat her
dog, and fought the other children. . . Even

the preacher, who caught her at mischief, told

himself that she was as innocently lovely as a
November cotton flower/ Already, rumors were

out about her. Homes in Georgia are most often

built on the two-room plan. In one, you cook
and eat, in the other you sleep, and there love
goes on. Karintha had seen or heard, perhaps
she had felt her parents loving. One could but
imitate one's parents, for to follow them was the
[ 2]
 KARINTHA

way of God. She played "home" with a small

boy who was not afraid to do her bidding. That

started the whole thing. Old men could no

longer ride her hobby-horse upon their knees.

But young men counted faster.

Her skin is like dusk,

O cant you see it,
Her skin is like dusk,
When the sun goes down.

Karintha is a woman. She who carries beauty,

perfect as dusk when the sun goes down. She

has been married many times. Old men remind
her that a few years back they rode her hobby-
horse upon their knees. Karintha smiles, and

indulges them when she is in the mood for it.

She has contempt for them. Karintha is a
woman. Young men run stills to make her
money. Young men go to the big cities and run

on the road. Young men go away to college.

They all want to bring her money. These are
the young men who thought that all they had to

[3]
 CANE
Boby
Kill
do was to count time. But Karintha is a woman,
the
shi

and she has had a child. A child fell out of

y

her womb onto a bed of pine-needles in the for-

est. Pine-needles are smooth and sweet. They
are elastic to the feet of rabbits.. · A sawmill

was nearby. Its pyramidal sawdust pile

smouldered. It is a year before one completely
burns. Meanwhile, the smoke curls up and
hangs in odd wraiths about the trees, curls up,
and spreads itself out over the valley... Weeks
after Karintha returned home the smoke was

so heavy you tasted it in water. Some one

made a song :

Smoke is on the hills. Rise up.

Smoke is on the hills, O rise
And take my soul to Jesus.

Karintha is a woman. Men do not know that

the soul of her was a growing thing ripened

too soon. They will bring their money; they
will die not having found it out... Karintha at
[4]
 KARINTHA

twenty, carrying beauty, perfect as dusk when

the sun goes down. Karintha.. ·

Her skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon,

O cant you see it, O cant you see it,
Her skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon
• When the sun goes down.

Goes down. .

[5]
 REAPERS

Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones

Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones
In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done,
And start their silent swinging, one by one.
Black horses drive a mower through the weeds,
And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds,
His belly close to ground. I see the blade,
Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.

[6]
 NOVEMBER COTTON FLOWER

Boll-weevil's coming, and the winter's cold,

Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,
And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,
Was vanishing ; the branch, so pinched and slow,
Failed in its function as the autumn rake;
Drouth fighting soil had caused the soil to take
All water from the streams ; dead birds were found
In wells a hundred feet below the ground-
Such was the season when the flower bloomed.
Old folks were startled , and it soon assumed
Significance. Superstition saw
Something it had never seen before :
Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear,
Beauty so sudden for that time of year.

[ 7]
 BECKY

Becky was the white woman who had two

Negro sons. She's dead ; they've gone away.
The pines whisper to Jesus. The Bible flaps
its leaves with an aimless rustle on her mound.

ECKY had one Negro son. Who gave it to

B
her? Damn buck nigger, said the white
folks' mouths. She wouldnt tell. Common,

God-forsaken, insane white shameless wench,

said the white folks' mouths. Her eyes were

sunken, her neck stringy, her breasts fallen, till

then. Taking their words, they filled her, like
a bubble rising-then she broke. Mouth setting
in a twist that held her eyes, harsh, vacant,
staring.. · Who gave it to her? Low-down
nigger with no self-respect, said the black folks'
mouths. She wouldnt tell. Poor Catholic poor-
white crazy woman, said the black folks' mouths.

White folks and black folks built her cabin, fed

her and her growing baby, prayed secretly to

God who'd put His cross upon her and cast her
out.

[ 8]
 BECKY

When the first was born, the white folks said

they'd have no more to do with her. And black
folks , they too joined hands to cast her out. . .
The pines whispered to Jesus. . The railroad
boss said not to say he said it, but she could
live, if she wanted to, on the narrow strip

of land between the railroad and the road. John

Stone, who owned the lumber and the bricks,
would have shot the man who told he gave the
stuff to Lonnie Deacon, who stole out there at

night and built the cabin. A single room held

down to earth. . . O fly away to Jesus · ·

by a leaning chimney..· ·

Six trains each day rumbled past and shook

the ground under her cabin. Fords, and horse-
and mule-drawn buggies went back and forth
along the road. No one ever saw her. Train-
men, and passengers who'd heard about her,
threw out papers and food. Threw out little

crumpled slips of paper scribbled with prayers,

as they passed her eye-shaped piece of sandy
ground. Ground islandized between the road
and railroad track. Pushed up where a blue-
sheen God with listless eyes could look at it.
[9 ]
 CANE

Folks from the town took turns, unknown, of

course, to each other, in bringing corn and meat

and sweet potatoes. Even sometimes snuff..
O thank y Jesus. • · Old David Georgia,

grinding cane and boiling syrup, never went her

way without some sugar sap. No one ever saw
her. The boy grew up and ran around . When
he was five years old as folks reckoned it, Hugh

Jourdon saw him carrying a baby. "Becky has

another son," was what the whole town knew.

But nothing was said, for the part of man that

says things to the likes of that had told itself
that if there was a Becky, that Becky now was
dead.

The two boys grew. Sullen and cunning. · ·

O pines, whisper to Jesus ; tell Him to come and
press sweet Jesus-lips against their lips and
eyes. .. It seemed as though with those two
big fellows there, there could be no room for
Becky. The part that prayed wondered if per-

haps she'd really died, and they had buried her.

No one dared ask. They'd beat and cut a man
who meant nothing at all in mentioning that

they lived along the road. White or colored ?

[ 10]
 BECKY

No one knew, and least of all themselves. They

drifted around from job to job. We, who had
cast out their mother because of them, could we
take them in? They answered black and white

folks by shooting up two men and leaving town.

99
"Godam the white folks ; godam the niggers ,'
they shouted as they left town. Becky ? Smoke
curled up from her chimney ; she must be there.

Trains passing shook the ground . The ground

shook the leaning chimney. Nobody noticed it.
A creepy feeling came over all who saw that thin

wraith of smoke and felt the trembling of the

ground. Folks began to take her food again.
They quit it soon because they had a fear.
Becky if dead might be a hant, and if alive-it
took some nerve even to mention it. . . O pines,
whisper to Jesus. .

It was Sunday. Our congregation had been

visiting at Pulverton, and were coming home.
There was no wind. The autumn sun, the bell
from Ebenezer Church, listless and heavy. Even
the pines were stale, sticky, like the smell of food
that makes you sick. Before we turned the bend
of the road that would show us the Becky cabin,

[ 11 ]
 CANE

the horses stopped stock-still , pushed back their

ears , and nervously whinnied. We urged, then

whipped them on. Quarter of a mile away thin

smoke curled up from the leaning chimney. •

O pines, whisper to Jesus. · · Goose-flesh

came on my skin though there still was neither

chill nor wind. Eyes left their sockets for the

cabin. Ears burned and throbbed. Uncanny

eclipse ! fear closed my mind. We were just

about to pass . . Pines shout to Jesus ! . ·

the ground trembled as a ghost train rumbled by.

The chimney fell into the cabin. Its thud was

like a hollow report, ages having passed since it

went off. Barlo and I were pulled out of our

seats. Dragged to the door that had swung

open. Through the dust we saw the bricks in a

mound upon the floor. Becky, if she was there,

lay under them. I thought I heard a groan.
Barlo, mumbling something, threw his Bible on

the pile. ( No one has ever touched it. ) Some-

how we got away. My buggy was still on the

road. The last thing that I remember was whip-

ping old Dan like fury ; I remember nothing
after that-that is, until I reached town and
[ 12 ]
 BECKY

folks crowded round to get the true word of it.

Becky was the white woman who had two

Negro sons. She's dead ; they've gone away.
The pines whisper to Jesus. The Bible flaps
its leaves with an aimless rustle on her mound.

[13]
 FACE

Hair-
silver-gray,
like streams of stars,
Brows-
recurved canoes

quivered by the ripples blown by pain,

Her eyes-
mist of tears
condensing on the flesh below
And her channeled muscles
are cluster grapes of sorrow
purple in the evening sun
nearly ripe for worms.

[ 14]
 COTTON SONG

Come, brother, come. Lets lift it ;

Come now, hewit ! roll away !
Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day
But lets not wait for it.

God's body's got a soul,

Bodies like to roll the soul,
Cant blame God if we dont roll,
Come, brother, roll, roll !

Cotton bales are the fleecy way

Weary sinner's bare feet trod,
Softly, softly to the throne of God,
"We aint agwine t wait until th Judgment Day !

Nassur ; nassur,
Hump.
Eoho, eoho, roll away!
We aint agwine t wait until th Judgment Day !"

God's body's got a soul,

Bodies like to roll the soul,
Cant blame God if we dont roll,
Come, brother , roll, roll !

[15 ]
 CARMA

Wind is in the cane. Come along.

Cane leaves swaying, rusty with talk,
Scratching choruses above the guinea's squawk,
Wind is in the cane. Come along.

ARMA, in overalls, and strong as any man,

CAstands behind the old brown mule, driving

the wagon home. It bumps, and groans, and

shakes as it crosses the railroad track. She, rid-
ing it easy. I leave the men around the stove to

follow her with my eyes down the red dust road.

Nigger woman driving a Georgia chariot down

an old dust road. Dixie Pike is what they call

it. Maybe she feels my gaze, perhaps she ex-
pects it. Anyway, she turns. The sun, which
has been slanting over her shoulder, shoots prim-
itive rockets into her mangrove-gloomed, yellow

flower face. Hi ! Yip ! God has left the Moses-

people for the nigger. "Gedap. " Using reins
to slap the mule, she disappears in a cloudy
rumble at some indefinite point along the road.
[ 16 ]
 CARMA

(The sun is hammered to a band of gold.

Pine-needles, like mazda, are brilliantly aglow.
No rain has come to take the rustle from the

falling sweet-gum leaves. Over in the forest,

across the swamp, a sawmill blows its closing
whistle. Smoke curls up. Marvelous web spun

by the spider sawdust pile. Curls up and

spreads itself pine-high above the branch, a
single silver band along the eastern valley. A
black boy · . you are the most sleepiest man
I ever seed, Sleeping Beauty . .. . cradled on a

gray mule, guided by the hollow sound of cow-

bells, heads for them through a rusty cotton
field. From down the railroad track, the chug-

chug of a gas engine announces that the repair

gang is coming home. A girl in the yard of a
whitewashed shack not much larger than the

stack of worn ties piled before it, sings. Her

voice is loud. Echoes, like rain, sweep the

valley. Dusk takes the polish from the rails.

Lights twinkle in scattered houses. From far
away, a sad strong song. Pungent and com-

posite, the smell of farmyards is the fragrance

of the woman. She does not sing; her body is
a song. She is in the forest, dancing. Torches

[17 ]
 CANE

flare .. juju men, greegree, witch-doctors . •

torches go out. . . The Dixie Pike has grown

from a goat path in Africa.
Night.

Foxie, the bitch, slicks back her ears and barks

at the rising moon. )

Wind is in the corn. Come along.

Corn leaves swaying, rusty with talk,
Scratching choruses above the guinea's squawk,
Wind is in the corn. Come along.

Carma's tale is the crudest melodrama . Her

husband's in the gang. And its her fault he

got there. Working with a contractor, he was
away most of the time. She had others. No one
blames her for that. He returned one day and

hung around the town where he picked up week-

old boasts and rumors. · • Bane accused her.

She denied . He couldnt see that she was be-

coming hysterical. He would have liked to take
his fists and beat her. Who was strong as a man.

Stronger. Words , like corkscrews, wormed to

her strength. It fizzled out. Grabbing a gun,
she rushed from the house and plunged across

[ 18 ]
 CARMA

the road into a cane-brake.. There, in quarter

heaven shone the crescent moon. Bane

was afraid to follow till he heard the gun

go off. Then he wasted half an hour gathering
the neighbor men. They met in the road where

lamp-light showed tracks dissolving in the

loose earth about the cane. The search began.
Moths flickered the lamps. They put them out.
Really, because she still might be live enough to
shoot. Time and space have no meaning in a
canefield . No more than the interminable

stalks... Some one stumbled over her. A cry

went up . From the road, one would have

thought that they were cornering a rabbit or a

skunk . • · It is difficult carrying dead weight

through cane. They placed her on the sofa. A

curious, nosey somebody looked for the wound.

This fussing with her clothes aroused her. Her

eyes were weak and pitiable for so strong a

woman. Slowly, then like a flash, Bane came
to know that the shot she fired, with averted
head, was aimed to whistle like a dying hornet
through the cane. Twice deceived , and one de-
ception proved the other. His head went off.

Slashed one of the men who'd helped, the man

[ 19]
 CANE

who'd stumbled over her. Now he's in the gang .

Who was her husband. Should she not take

others, this Carma, strong as a man, whose tale

as I have told it is the crudest melodrama ?

Wind is in the cane. Come along.

Cane leaves swaying, rusty with talk,
Scratching choruses above the guinea's squawk,
Wind is in the cane. Come along.

[ 20 ]
 SONG OF THE SON

Pour pour that parting soul in song,

O pour it in the sawdust glow of night,
Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night,
And let the valley carry it along.
And let the valley carry it along.

O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree,

So scant of grass, so profligate of pines,
Now just before an epoch's sun declines
Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee,
Thy son, I have in time returned to thee.

In time, for though the sun is setting on

A song-lit race of slaves, it has not set ;
Though late, O soil, it is not too late yet
To catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone,
Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone.

O Negro slaves, dark purple ripened plums,

Squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air,
2
Passing, before they stripped the old tree bare
One plum was saved for me, one seed becomes

An everlasting song, a singing tree,

Caroling softly souls of slavery,
What they were, and what they are to me,
Caroling softly souls of slavery.

[21 ]
 GEORGIA DUSK

The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue

The setting sun, too indolent to hold
A lengthened tournament for flashing gold,
Passively darkens for night's barbecue,

A feast of moon and men and barking hounds,

An orgy for some genius of the South
With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented
mouth,
Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.

The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop,

And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill,
Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill
Their early promise of a bumper crop.

Smoke from the pyramidal sawdust pile

Curls up, blue ghosts of trees, tarrying low
Where only chips and stumps are left to show
The solid proof of former domicile.

Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp,

Race memories of king and caravan ,

High-priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man,

Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp.

[22 ]
Their voices rise . . the pine trees are guitars,
Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain ..
Their voices rise .. the chorus of the cane
Is caroling a vesper to the stars. .

O singers, resinous and soft your songs

Above the sacred whisper of the pines,
Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines,
Bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs.

[ 23 ]
 FERN

ACE flowed into her eyes. Flowed in soft

FACE
cream foam and plaintive ripples, in such

a way that wherever your glance may mo-

mentarily have rested, it immediately thereafter

wavered in the direction of her eyes. The soft

suggestion of down slightly darkened, like the
shadow of a bird's wing might, the creamy

brown color of her upper lip . Why, after notic-

ing it, you sought her eyes, I cannot tell you.
Her nose was aquiline, Semitic. If you have
heard a Jewish cantor sing, if he has touched
you and made your own sorrow seem trivial

when compared with his, you will know my feel-

ing when I follow the curves of her profile, like
mobile rivers, to their common delta. They were
strange eyes. In this, that they sought noth-
ing—that is, nothing that was obvious and tan-

gible and that one could see, and they gave the
impression that nothing was to be denied. When
a woman seeks, you will have observed, her eyes
deny. Fern's eyes desired nothing that you
[24 ]
 FERN

could give her ; there was no reason why they

should withhold. Men saw her eyes and fooled
themselves. Fern's eyes said to them that she

was easy. When she was young, a few men

took her, but got no joy from it. And then, once
done, they felt bound to her ( quite unlike their
hit and run with other girls) , felt as though it
would take them a lifetime to fulfill an obliga-

tion which they could find no name for. They

became attached to her, and hungered after find-

ing the barest trace of what she might desire.
As she grew up, new men who came to town felt
as almost everyone did who ever saw her : that

they would not be denied . Men were everlast-

ingly bringing her their bodies. Something in-
side of her got tired of them, I guess, for I am
certain that for the life of her she could not tell

why or how she began to turn them off. A man

in fever is no trifling thing to send away. They
began to leave her, baffled and ashamed, yet

vowing to themselves that some day they would

do some fine thing for her : send her candy every
week and not let her know whom it came from ,

watch out for her wedding-day and give her a

magnificent something with no name on it, buy

[ 25 ]
 CANE

a house and deed it to her, rescue her from some

unworthy fellow who had tricked her into marry-

r ing him. As you know, men are apt to idolize

or fear that which they cannot understand, es-
pecially if it be a woman. She did not deny
them, yet the fact was that they were denied. A
sort of superstition crept into their consciousness
of her being somehow above them. Being above
them meant that she was not to be approached
by anyone. She became a virgin. Now a virgin
in a small southern town is by no means the
usual thing, if you will believe me. That the

sexes were made to mate is the practice of the

South. Particularly, black folks were made to
mate. And it is black folks whom I have been

talking about thus far. What white men thought

of Fern I can arrive at only by analogy. They
let her alone.

Anyone, of course, could see her, could see her

eyes. If you walked up the Dixie Pike most

any time of day, you'd be most like to see her

resting listless-like on the railing of her porch,

back propped against a post, head tilted a little
forward because there was a nail in the porch

[ 26 ]
 FERN

post just where her head came which for some

reason or other she never took the trouble to pull
out. Her eyes, if it were sunset, rested idly

where the sun, molten and glorious, was pouring

down between the fringe of pines . Or maybe
they gazed at the gray cabin on the knoll from
which an evening folk-song was coming. Per-
haps they followed a cow that had been turned
loose to roam and feed on cotton-stalks and corn
leaves. Like as not they'd settle on some vague

spot above the horizon, though hardly a trace of

wistfulness would come to them. If it were dusk,

then they'd wait for the search-light of the

evening train which you could see miles up the
track before it flared across the Dixie Pike, close
to her home. Wherever they looked , you'd follow
them and then waver back. Like her face, the
whole countryside seemed to flow into her eyes.
Flowed into them with the soft listless cadence of

Georgia's South. A young Negro, once, was

looking at her, spellbound, from the road. A
white man passing in a buggy had to flick him
with his whip if he was to get by without run-
ning him over. I first saw her on her porch. I
was passing with a fellow whose crusty numb-

[27 ]
 CANE

ness ( I was from the North and suspected of be-

ing prejudiced and stuck-up) was melting as he

found me warm. I asked him who she was.

"That's Fern," was all that I could get from

him. Some folks already thought that I was

given to nosing around ; I let it go at that, so far

as questions were concerned. But at first sight
of her I felt as if I heard a Jewish cantor sing.
As if his singing rose above the unheard chorus
of a folk-song. And I felt bound to her. I too
had my dreams : something I would do for her.
I have knocked about from town to town too

much not to know the futility of mere change of

place. Besides, picture if you can, this cream-

colored solitary girl sitting at a tenement window
looking down on the indifferent throngs of Har-
lem. Better that she listen to folk-songs at dusk
in Georgia, you would say, and so would I.
Or, suppose she came up North and married.
Even a doctor or a lawyer, say, one who would
be sure to get along—that is , make money. You
and I know, who have had experience in such
things, that love is not a thing like prejudice
which can be bettered by changes of town. Could
men in Washington, Chicago, or New York,
[ 28 ]
 FERN

more than the men of Georgia, bring her some-

thing left vacant by the bestowal of their bodies ?
You and I who know men in these cities will

have to say, they could not. See her out and

out a prostitute along State Street in Chicago.

See her move into a southern town where white

men are more aggressive. See her become a

white man's concubine. .. Something I must

do for her. There was myself. What could I

do for her? Talk, of course. Push back the

fringe of pines upon new horizons. To what

purpose ? and what for? Her? Myself ? Men

in her case seem to lose their selfishness . I lost

mine before I touched her. I ask you, friend ( it

makes no difference if you sit in the Pullman or
the Jim Crow as the train crosses her road) ,
what thoughts would come to you—that is, after
you'd finished with the thoughts that leap into
men's minds at the sight of a pretty woman who

will not deny them ; what thoughts would come

to you, had you seen her in a quick flash, keen
and intuitively, as she sat there on her porch
when your train thundered by? Would you
have got off at the next station and come back
for her to take her where? Would you have

[ 29]
 CANE

completely forgotten her as soon as you reached

Macon, Atlanta, Augusta, Pasadena, Madison,
Chicago, Boston, or New Orleans ? Would you

tell your wife or sweetheart about a girl you saw?

Your thoughts can help me, and I would like to
know. Something I would do for her. . .

One evening I walked up the Pike on purpose,

and stopped to say hello. Some of her family
were about, but they moved away to make room
for me. Damn if I knew how to begin. Would
you? Mr. and Miss So-and-So , people, the
weather, the crops, the new preacher, the frolic ,
the church benefit, rabbit and possum hunting,
the new soft drink they had at old Pap's store,
the schedule of the trains , what kind of town
Macon was, Negro's migration north, boll-
weevils, syrup, the Bible-to all these things
she gave a yassur or nassur, without further
comment. I began to wonder if perhaps my own

emotional sensibility had played one of its tricks

on me. "Lets take a walk," I at last ventured.

The suggestion , coming after so long an isola-

tion, was novel enough, I guess, to surprise.
But it wasnt that. Something told me that men

[ 30]
 FERN

before me had said just that as a prelude to the

offering of their bodies. I tried to tell her with
my eyes. I think she understood. The thing

from her that made my throat catch, vanished.

Its passing left her visible in a way I'd thought,
but never seen. We walked down the Pike with

people on all the porches gaping at us. "Doesnt

it make you mad ?" She meant the row of petty

gossiping people. She meant the world.

Through a canebrake that was ripe for cutting,

the branch was reached . Under a sweet-gum

tree, and where reddish leaves had dammed the

creek a little, we sat down. Dusk, suggesting

the almost imperceptible procession of giant
trees, settled with a purple haze about the cane.
I felt strange, as I always do in Georgia, par-
ticularly at dusk. I felt that things unseen to
men were tangibly immediate. It would not

have surprised me had I had vision. People

have them in Georgia more often than you would
suppose. A black woman once saw the mother
of Christ and drew her in charcoal on the court-
-house wall.. · When one is on the soil of one's

ancestors, most anything can come to one. •

From force of habit, I suppose, I held Fern in

[31 ]
 CANE

my arms—that is, without at first noticing it.

Then my mind came back to her. Her eyes,

unusually weird and open, held me. Held God.

He flowed in as I've seen the countryside flow

in. Seen men. I must have done something—

what, I dont know, in the confusion of my

emotion. She sprang up. Rushed some distance
from me. Fell to her knees, and began swaying,

swaying. Her body was tortured with some-

thing it could not let out. Like boiling sap it
flooded arms and fingers till she shook them as
if they burned her. It found her throat, and
spattered inarticulately in plaintive, convulsive
sounds, mingled with calls to Christ Jesus. And

then she sang, brokenly. A Jewish cantor sing-

ing with a broken voice. A child's voice, un-
certain, or an old man's. Dusk hid her ; I could
hear only her song. It seemed to me as though
she were pounding her head in anguish upon
the ground. I rushed to her. She fainted in
my arms.

There was talk about her fainting with me in

the canefield. And I got one or two ugly looks
from town men who'd set themselves up to pro-

[ 32 ]
 FERN

tect her. In fact, there was talk of making me

leave town. But they never did. They kept a
watch-out for me, though. Shortly after, I came
back North. From the train window I saw her as

I crossed her road. Saw her on her porch, head

tilted a little forward where the nail was, eyes

vaguely focused on the sunset. Saw her face

flow into them, the countryside and something

that I call God, flowing into them. . . Nothing
ever really happened . Nothing ever came to
Fern, not even I. Something I would do for her.
Some fine unnamed thing. . . And, friend, you?
She is still living, I have reason to know. Her
name, against the chance that you might happen
down that way, is Fernie May Rosen.

[ 33 ]
 NULLO

A spray of pine-needles,
Dipped in western horizon gold,
Fell onto a path.
Dry moulds of cow-hoofs.
In the forest.
Rabbits knew not of their falling,
Nor did the forest catch aflame.

[ 34 ]
 EVENING SONG

Full moon rising on the waters of my heart,

Lakes and moon and fires,
Cloine tires,
Holding her lips apart.

Promises of slumber leaving shore to charm the moon,

Miracle made vesper-keeps ,
Cloine sleeps,
And I'll be sleeping soon.

Cloine, curled like the sleepy waters where the moon-

waves start,
Radiant, resplendently she gleams,
Cloine dreams,
Lips pressed against my heart.

[ 35 ]
 ESTHER

Nine.

ESTHER'S hair falls in soft curls about

her high-cheek-boned chalk-white face.
Esther's hair would be beautiful if there were

more gloss to it. And if her face were not pre-

maturely serious , one would call it pretty. Her

cheeks are too flat and dead for a girl of nine.

Esther looks like a little white child, starched,

frilled, as she walks slowly from her home

towards her father's grocery store. She is about

to turn in Broad from Maple Street. White and

black men loafing on the corner hold no inter-
est for her. Then a strange thing happens.

A clean-muscled, magnificent, black-skinned

Negro, whom she had heard her father mention
as King Barlo, suddenly drops to his knees on
a spot called the Spittoon . White men, unaware

of him, continue squirting tobacco juice in his

direction. The saffron fluid splashes on his

[36]
 ESTHER

face. His smooth black face begins to glisten

and to shine. Soon, people notice him, and

gather round. His eyes are rapturous upon the
heavens. Lips and nostrils quiver. Barlo is in
a religious trance. Town folks know it. They
are not startled. They are not afraid. They
gather round. Some beg boxes from the grocery
stores. From old McGregor's notion shop. A
coffin-case is pressed into use. Folks line the
curb-stones. Business men close shop. And

Banker Warply parks his car close by. Silently,

all await the prophet's voice. The sheriff, a great

florid fellow whose leggings never meet around

his bulging calves, swears in three deputies.

"Wall, y cant never tell what a nigger like King
Barlo might be up t." Soda bottles , five fingers

full of shine, are passed to those who want them.

A couple of stray dogs start a fight. Old Good-
low's cow comes flopping up the street. Barlo,
still as an Indian fakir, has not moved. The
town bell strikes six. The sun slips in behind
a heavy mass of horizon cloud. The crowd is

hushed and expectant. Barlo's under jaw re-

laxes, and his lips begin to move.

[37 ]
 CANE

"Jesus has been awhisperin strange words

deep down, O way down deep, deep in my ears."
Hums of awe and of excitement.
"He called me to His side an said, ' Git down
on your knees beside me, son, Ise gwine t whis-
per in your ears.' ”
An old sister cries, "Ah, Lord."
66
'Ise agwine t whisper in your ears,' he said,
an I replied, "Thy will be done on earth as it
is in heaven." "

"Ah, Lord. Amen. Amen."

"An Lord Jesus whispered strange good words

deep down, O way down deep, deep in my ears.
An He said, "Tell em till you feel your throat

on fire.' I saw a vision. I saw a man arise, an

he was big an black an powerful-”

Some one yells, "Preach it, preacher, preach
it ! "

"-but his head was caught up in th clouds.

An while he was agazin at th heavens, heart
filled up with th Lord, some little white-ant
biddies came an tied his feet to chains. They
led him t th coast, they led him t th sea, they
led him across th ocean an they didnt set him
free. The old coast didnt miss him, an th new

[ 38 ]
 ESTHER

coast wasnt free, he left the old-coast brothers,

t give birth t you an me. O Lord, great God
Almighty, t give birth t you an me."
Barlo pauses. Old gray mothers are in tears.
Fragments of melodies are being hummed.

White folks are touched and curiously awed.

Off to themselves, white and black preachers
confer as to how best to rid themselves of the

vagrant, usurping fellow. Barlo ) looks as

though he is struggling to continue. People are

hushed. One can hear weevils work. Dusk is

falling rapidly, and the customary store lights

fail to throw their feeble glow across the gray

dust and flagging of the Georgia town. Barlo

rises to his full height. He is immense. To
the people he assumes the outlines of his visioned
African. In a mighty voice he bellows :
"Brothers an sisters , turn your faces t th sweet
face of the Lord, an fill your hearts with glory.
Open your eyes an see th dawnin of th mornin

light. Open your ears- "

Years afterwards Esther was told that at that

very moment a great, heavy, rumbling voice ac-

tually was heard. That hosts of angels and of
demons paraded up and down the streets all

[ 39 ]
 CANE

night. That King Barlo rode out of town astride

a pitch-black bull that had a glowing gold ring

in its nose. And that old Limp Underwood,

who hated niggers, woke up next morning to find

that he held a black man in his arms . This

much is certain : an inspired Negress , of wide

reputation for being sanctified, drew a portrait
of a black madonna on the court-house wall.

And King Barlo left town. He left his image

indelibly upon the mind of Esther. He became

the starting point of the only living patterns that

her mind was to know.

2
Sixteen.

Esther begins to dream. The low evening sun

sets the windows of McGregor's notion shop
aflame. Esther makes believe that they really

are aflame. The town fire department rushes

madly down the road. It ruthlessly shoves
black and white idlers to one side. It whoops .

It clangs. It rescues from the second-story win-

dow a dimpled infant which she claims for her
own. How had she come by it ? She thinks of
[40]
 ESTHER

it immaculately. It is a sin to think of it im-

maculately. She must dream no more. She
must repent her sin. Another dream comes.

There is no fire department. There are no

heroic men. The fire starts. The loafers on the

corner form a circle, chew their tobacco faster,

and squirt juice just as fast as they can chew.

Gallons on top of gallons they squirt upon the
flames. The air reeks with the stench of

scorched tobacco juice. Women, fat chunky

Negro women, lean scrawny white women, pull

their skirts up above their heads and display

the most ludicrous underclothes . The women

scoot in all directions from the danger zone.

She alone is left to take the baby in her arms.

But what a baby ! Black, singed , woolly,

tobacco-juice baby-ugly as sin. Once held to

her breast, miraculous thing : its breath is sweet

and its lips can nibble. She loves it frantically.
Her joy in it changes the town folks' jeers to
harmless jealousy, and she is left alone.

Twenty-two.

Esther's schooling is over. She works behind

[41 ]
 CANE

the counter of her father's grocery store. "To

keep the money in the family," so he said. She
is learning to make distinctions between the busi-
ness and the social worlds. "Good business

comes from remembering that the white folks

dont divide the niggers, Esther. Be just as
black as any man who has a silver dollar. ”

Esther listlessly forgets that she is near white,

and that her father is the richest colored man in

town. Black folk who drift in to buy lard and

snuff and flour of her, call her a sweet-natured ,

accommodating girl. She learns their names.

She forgets them. She thinks about men. “I
dont appeal to them. I wonder why." She re-
calls an affair she had with a little fair boy while
still in school. It had ended in her shame when
he as much as told her that for sweetness he pre-

ferred a lollipop. She remembers the salesman

from the North who wanted to take her to the

movies that first night he was in town. She

refused, of course. And he never came back,
having found out who she was. She thinks of
Barlo. Barlo's image gives her a slightly stale
thrill. She spices it by telling herself his glories.

Black. Magnetically so. Best cotton picker in

[42 ]
 ESTHER

the county, in the state, in the whole world for

that matter. Best man with his fists, best man
with dice, with a razor. Promoter of church

benefits. Of colored fairs. Vagrant preacher.

Lover of all the women for miles and miles
around. Esther decides that she loves him. And

with a vague sense of life slipping by, she re-

solves that she will tell him so, whatever people
say, the next time he comes to town. After the

making of this resolution which becomes a sort

of wedding cake for her to tuck beneath her pil-
low and go to sleep upon, she sees nothing of
Barlo for five years. Her hair thins. It looks

like the dull silk on puny corn ears. Her face

pales until it is the color of the gray dust that
dances with dead cotton leaves..

Esther is twenty-seven.

Esther sells lard and snuff and flour to vague

black faces that drift in her store to ask for
them. Her eyes hardly see the people to

whom she gives change. Her body is lean and

[43 ]
 CANE

beaten. She rests listlessly against the counter,

From the street some one
too weary to sit down.
99
shouts, "King Barlo has come back to town. '
He passes her window, driving a large new car.

Cut-out open. He veers to the curb, and steps

out. Barlo has made money on cotton during
the war. He is as rich as anyone. Esther sud-
denly is animate. She goes to her door. She
sees him at a distance, the center of a group of

credulous men. She hears the deep-bass rumble

of his talk. The sun swings low. McGregor's
windows are aflame again. Pale flame. A

sharply dressed white girl passes by. For a

moment Esther wishes that she might be like
her. Not white ; she has no need for being that.
But sharp, sporty, with get-up about her. Barlo
is connected with that wish. She mustnt wish.

Wishes only make you restless. Emptiness is a

thing that grows by being moved. "I'll not

think. Not wish. Just set my mind against it."

Then the thought comes to her that those pur-

poseless, easy-going men will possess him, if

she doesnt. Purpose is not dead in her, now
that she comes to think of it. That loose women
will have their arms around him at Nat Bowle's

[44 ]
 ESTHER

place to-night. As if her veins are full of fired

sun-bleached southern shanties, a swift heat
sweeps them. Dead dreams, and a forgotten

resolution are carried upward by the flames.

Pale flames. "They shant have him. Oh, they
shall not. Not if it kills me they shant have

him." Jerky, aflutter, she closes the store and

starts home. Folks lazing on store window-
sills wonder what on earth can be the matter with

Jim Crane's gal, as she passes them. "Come to

remember, she always was a little off, a little

crazy, I reckon." Esther seeks her own room,

and locks the door. Her mind is a pink mesh- ✓

bag filled with baby toes.

Using the noise of the town clock striking

twelve to cover the creaks of her departure,
Esther slips into the quiet road. The town, her
parents, most everyone is sound asleep. This

fact is a stable thing that comforts her. After

sundown a chill wind came up from the west.
It is still blowing, but to her it is a steady, settled
thing like the cold. She wants her mind to be
like that. Solid, contained, and blank as a sheet
of darkened ice. She will not permit herself to

[45 ]
 CANE

notice the peculiar phosphorescent glitter of the

sweet-gum leaves. Their movement would ex-

cite her. Exciting too, the recession of the dull

familiar homes she knows so well. She doesnt

know them at all. She closes her eyes, and holds

them tightly. Wont do. Her being aware that
they are closed recalls her purpose. She does not
want to think of it. She opens them . She turns
now into the deserted business street. The cor-

rugated iron canopies and mule- and horse-

gnawed hitching posts bring her a strange com-

posure. Ghosts of the commonplaces of her
daily life take stride with her and become her
companions. And the echoes of her heels upon
the flagging are rhythmically monotonous and
soothing. Crossing the street at the corner of
McGregor's notion shop, she thinks that the

windows are a dull flame. Only a fancy. She

walks faster. Then runs. A turn into a side

street brings her abruptly to Nat Bowle's place.

The house is squat and dark. It is always dark.
Barlo is within. Quietly she opens the outside
door and steps in. She passes through a small
room. Pauses before a flight of stairs down
which people's voices, muffled , come. The air

[46 ]
 ESTHER

is heavy with fresh tobacco smoke. It makes her

sick. She wants to turn back. She goes up the
steps . As if she were mounting to some great
height, her head spins. She is violently dizzy.
Blackness rushes to her eyes. And then she
finds that she is in a large room. Barlo is be-
fore her.

"Well, I'm sholy damned-skuse me, but

what, what brought you here, lil milk-white
gal?"
"You." Her voice sounds like a frightened
child's that calls homeward from some point
miles away.

"Me?"

"Yes, you Barlo.”

"This aint th place fer y. This aint th place

fer y."

"I know. I know. But I've come for you."

"For me for what?"

She manages to look deep and straight into

his eyes. He is slow at understanding. Guf-
faws and giggles break out from all around the
room . A coarse woman's voice remarks, "So

thats how th dictie niggers does it." Laughs.

"Mus give em credit fo their gall."
[47 ]
 CANE

Esther doesnt hear. Barlo does. His fac-

ulties are jogged. She sees a smile, ugly and

repulsive to her, working upward through thick
licker fumes. Barlo seems hideous. The

thought comes suddenly, that conception with a

drunken man must be a mighty sin. She draws
away, frozen. Like a somnambulist she wheels

around and walks stiffly to the stairs. Down

them. Jeers and hoots pelter bluntly upon her
back. She steps out. There is no air, no street,
and the town has completely disappeared.

[48 ]
 CONVERSION

African Guardian of Souls,

Drunk with rum ,
Feasting on a strange cassava,
Yielding to new words and a weak palabra
Of a white-faced sardonic god-
Grins, cries
Amen,
Shouts hosanna,

[49]
 PORTRAIT IN GEORGIA

Hair-braided chestnut,
coiled like a lyncher's rope,
Eyes-fagots,
Lips-old scars, or the first red blisters,
Breath-the last sweet scent of cane,
And her slim body, white as the ash
of black flesh after flame.

[ 50]
 BLOOD-BURNING MOON

P from the skeleton stone walls , up from

the rotting floor boards and the solid hand-

hewn beams of oak of the pre-war cotton factory,

dusk came. Up from the dusk the full moon

came. Glowing like a fired pine-knot, it illu-
mined the great door and soft showered the
Negro shanties aligned along the single street of
factory town. The full moon in the great door
was an omen. Negro women improvised songs
against its spell.
Louisa sang as she came over the crest of the
hill from the white folks' kitchen. Her skin was

the color of oak leaves on young trees in fall.

Her breasts, firm and up-pointed like ripe

acorns. And her singing had the low murmur of
winds in fig trees. Bob Stone, younger son of
the people she worked for, loved her. By the
way the world reckons things, he had won her.
By measure of that warm glow which came into
her mind at thought of him, he had won her.
[ 51 ]
 CANE

Tom Burwell, whom the whole town called Big

Boy, also loved her. But working in the fields
all day, and far away from her, gave him no
chance to show it. Though often enough of
evenings he had tried to . Somehow, he never
got along. Strong as he was with hands upon
the ax or plow, he found it difficult to hold her.
Or so he thought. But the fact was that he held
her to factory town more firmly than he thought
for. His black balanced, and pulled against,
the white of Stone , when she thought of them.
And her mind was vaguely upon them as she
came over the crest of the hill , coming from the
white folks' kitchen. As she sang softly at the
evil face of the full moon.

A strange stir was in her. Indolently, she tried

to fix upon Bob or Tom as the cause of it. To
meet Bob in the canebrake, as she was going
to do an hour or so later, was nothing new. And

Tom's proposal which she felt on its way to

her could be indefinitely put off. Separately,
there was no unusual significance to either one.
But for some reason, they jumbled when her eyes

gazed vacantly at the rising moon. And from

the jumble came the stir that was strangely with-
[ 52 ]
 BLOOD-BURNING MOON

in her. Her lips trembled. The slow rhythm of

her song grew agitant and restless. Rusty black
and tan spotted hounds, lying in the dark cor-
ners of porches or prowling around back yards ,
put their noses in the air and caught its tremor.
They began plaintively to yelp and howl. Chick-

ens woke up and cackled . Intermittently, all

over the countryside dogs barked and roosters
crowed as if heralding a weird dawn or some
ungodly awakening . The women sang lustily.
Their songs were cotton-wads to stop their ears.
Louisa came down into factory town and sank
wearily upon the step before her home. The
moon was rising towards a thick cloud-bank
which soon would hide it.

Red nigger moon. Sinner!

Blood-burning moon. Sinner !
Come out that fact'ry door.

Up from the deep dusk of a cleared spot on

the edge of the forest a mellow glow arose and
spread fan-wise into the low-hanging heavens.
And all around the air was heavy with the scent

[ 53 ]
 CANE

of boiling cane. A large pile of cane-stalks lay

like ribboned shadows upon the ground. A

mule, harnessed to a pole, trudged lazily round

and round the pivot of the grinder. Beneath a
swaying oil lamp, a Negro alternately whipped
out at the mule, and fed cane-stalks to the

grinder. A fat boy waddled pails of fresh

ground juice between the grinder and the boiling

stove. Steam came from the copper boiling pan.
The scent of cane came from the copper pan and
drenched the forest and the hill that sloped to
factory town, beneath its fragrance. It drenched
the men in circle seated around the stove. Some

of them chewed at the white pulp of stalks, but

there was no need for them to, if all they wanted
was to taste the cane. One tasted it in factory
town. And from factory town one could see the
soft haze thrown by the glowing stove upon the
low-hanging heavens.
Old David Georgia stirred the thickening
syrup with a long ladle, and ever so often drew it

off. Old David Georgia tended his stove and

told tales about the white folks, about moon-

shining and cotton picking, and about sweet

nigger gals, to the men who sat there about his

[ 54 ]
 BLOOD-BURNING MOON

stove to listen to him. Tom Burwell chewed

cane-stalk and laughed with the others till some-

one mentioned Louisa. Till some one said some-

thing about Louisa and Bob Stone, about the

silk stockings she must have gotten from him.

Blood ran up Tom's neck hotter than the glow

that flooded from the stove. He sprang up.
Glared at the men and said, "She's my gal. "
Will Manning laughed. Tom strode over to
him. Yanked him up and knocked him to the
ground. Several of Manning's friends got up
to fight for him. Tom whipped out a long knife
and would have cut them to shreds if they hadnt
ducked into the woods. Tom had had enough.
He nodded to Old David Georgia and swung

down the path to factory town. Just then, the

dogs started barking and the roosters began to
crow. Tom felt funny. Away from the fight,
away from the stove, chill got to him. He shiv-
ered. He shuddered when he saw the full moon

rising towards the cloud-bank. He who didnt

give a godam for the fears of old women. He
forced his mind to fasten on Louisa. Bob Stone.
Better not be. He turned into the street and saw
Louisa sitting before her home. He went

[ 55 ]
 CANE

towards her, ambling, touched the brim of a

marvelously shaped , spotted, felt hat, said he
wanted to say something to her, and then found
that he didnt know what he had to say, or if he

did, that he couldnt say it. He shoved his big

fists in his overalls, grinned, and started to move
off.

"Youall want me, Tom?"

"Thats what us wants, sho, Louisa. "
"Well, here I am-"
"An here I is , but that aint ahelpin none, all
99
th same.
99
"You wanted to say something ? ·

"I did that, sho. But words is like th spots on

dice : no matter how y fumbles em, there's times
when they jes wont come. I dunno why. Seems
like th love I feels fo yo done stole m tongue. I

got it now. Whee ! Louisa, honey, I oughtnt

tell у, I feel I oughtnt cause yo is young an goes

t church an I has had other gals , but Louisa I

sho do love y. Lil gal, Ise watched y from them
first days when youall sat right here befo yo
door befo th well an sang sometimes in a way
that like t broke m heart. Ise carried y with me

into th fields, day after day, an after that, an I

[ 56]
 BLOOD-BURNING MOON

sho can plow when yo is there, an I can pick

cotton. Yassur ! Come near beatin Barlo yes-
terday. I sho did. Yassur ! An next year if
ole Stone'll trust me, I'll have a farm. My own.

My bales will buy yo what y gets from white

folks now. Silk stockings an purple dresses-
course I dont believe what some folks been

whisperin as t how y gets them things now.

White folks always did do for niggers what
they likes. An they jes cant help alikin yo ,
Louisa. Bob Stone likes y. Course he does.
But not th way folks is awhisperin . Does he,
hon ?"

"I dont know what you mean, Tom."

"Course y dont. Ise already cut two niggers.
Had t hon, t tell em so. Niggers always tryin t
make somethin out a nothin. An then besides,
white folks aint up t them tricks so much nowa-
days. Godam better not be. Leastawise not
with yo. Cause I wouldnt stand f it. Nassur."

"What would you do, Tom?"

"Cut him jes like I cut a nigger."
"No, Tom-"
"I said I would an there aint no mo to it.

But that aint th talk f now. Sing, honey Louisa,

[ 57 ]
 CANE

an while I'm listenin t y I'll be makin love. "

Tom took her hand in his. Against the tough
thickness of his own, hers felt soft and small.
His huge body slipped down to the step beside
her. The full moon sank upward into the deep
purple of the cloud-bank. An old woman

brought a lighted lamp and hung it on the com-

mon well whose bulky shadow squatted in the
middle of the road, opposite Tom and Louisa.
The old woman lifted the well-lid, took hold the
chain, and began drawing up the heavy bucket.
As she did so, she sang. Figures shifted , restless-
like, between lamp and window in the front

rooms of the shanties. Shadows of the figures

fought each other on the gray dust of the road.
Figures raised the windows and joined the old
woman in song. Louisa and Tom, the whole
street, singing :

Red nigger moon. Sinner !

Blood-burning moon. Sinner !
Come out that fact'ry door.

Bob Stone sauntered from his veranda out into

[ 58]
 BLOOD-BURNING MOON

the gloom of fir trees and magnolias. The clear

white of his skin paled, and the flush of his

cheeks turned purple. As if to balance this outer
change, his mind became consciously a white
man's. He passed the house with its huge open
hearth which, in the days of slavery, was the
plantation cookery. He saw Louisa bent over
that hearth. He went in as a master should and

took her. Direct, honest, bold. None of this

sneaking that he had to go through now. The

contrast was repulsive to him. His family had
lost ground. Hell no, his family still owned the
niggers, practically. Damned if they did, or he
wouldnt have to duck around so. What would

they think if they knew? His mother ? His

sister? He shouldnt mention them, shouldnt
think of them in this connection. There in the
dusk he blushed at doing so. Fellows about

town were all right, but how about his friends up

North? He could see them incredible, repulsed .

They didnt know. The thought first made him

laugh. Then, with their eyes still upon him, he
began to feel embarrassed. He felt the need of

explaining things to them. Explain hell. They

wouldnt understand, and moreover, who ever

[ 59 ]
 CANE

heard of a Southerner getting on his knees to any

Yankee, or anyone. No sir. He was going to
see Louisa to-night, and love her. She was

lovely-in her way. Nigger way. What way

was that ? Damned if he knew. Must know.

He'd known her long enough to know. Was

there something about niggers that you couldnt
know? Listening to them at church didnt tell
you anything. Looking at them didnt tell you
anything. Talking to them didnt tell you any-
thing-unless it was gossip, unless they wanted
to talk. Of course, about farming, and licker,

and craps-but those werent nigger. Nigger

was something more. How much more ? Some-
thing to be afraid of, more ? Hell no. Who

ever heard of being afraid of a nigger? Tom

Burwell. Cartwell had told him that Tom went
with Louisa after she reached home. No sir .

No nigger had ever been with his girl. He'd

like to see one try. Some position for him to be
in. Him, Bob Stone, of the old Stone family, in
a scrap with a nigger over a nigger girl. In
the good old days. . . Ha ! Those were the

days. His family had lost ground. Not so much ,

though. Enough for him to have to cut through
[ 60]
 BLOOD-BURNING MOON

old Lemon's canefield by way of the woods, that

he might meet her. She was worth it. Beautiful

nigger gal. Why nigger ? Why not, just gal ?

No, it was because she was nigger that he went to
her. Sweet. . . The scent of boiling cane came
to him. Then he saw the rich glow of the stove.
He heard the voices of the men circled around it.

He was about to skirt the clearing when he heard

his own name mentioned . He stopped. Quiver-
ing. Leaning against a tree, he listened .

"Bad nigger. Yassur, he sho is one bad

nigger when he gets started."
"Tom Burwell's been on th gang three times
fo cuttin men."

"What y think he's agwine t do t Bob Stone ?"

"Dunno yet. He aint found out. When he
does- Baby ! "
"Aint no tellin. "

"Young Stone aint no quitter an I ken tell y

that. Blood of th old uns in his veins."

"Thats right. He'll scrap, sho."

"Be gettin too hot f niggers round this away."

"Shut up, nigger. Y dont know what y talkin
bout."

Bob Stone's ears burned as though he had

[61 ]
 CANE

been holding them over the stove. Sizzling heat

welled up within him. His feet felt as if they
rested on red-hot coals. They stung him to
quick movement. He circled the fringe of the
glowing. Not a twig cracked beneath his feet.

He reached the path that led to factory town.

Plunged furiously down it. Halfway along, a
blindness within him veered him aside. He

crashed into the bordering canebrake. Cane

leaves cut his face and lips . He tasted blood.

He threw himself down and dug his fingers in
the ground. The earth was cool. Cane-roots
took the fever from his hands. After a long
while, or so it seemed to him, the thought came
to him that it must be time to see Louisa. He

got to his feet and walked calmly to their meet-

ing place. No Louisa. Tom Burwell had her.
Veins in his forehead bulged and distended.
Saliva moistened the dried blood on his lips.

He bit down on his lips. He tasted blood . Not

his own blood; Tom Burwell's blood. Bob
drove through the cane and out again upon the

road. A hound swung down the path before him

towards factory town. Bob couldnt see it. The

dog loped aside to let him pass. Bob's blind

[ 62 ]
 BLOOD-BURNING MOON

rushing made him stumble over it. He fell with

a thud that dazed him. The hound yelped.

Answering yelps came from all over the country-
side. Chickens cackled . Roosters crowed , her-

alding the bloodshot eyes of southern awaken-

ing. Singers in the town were silenced. They

shut their windows down. Palpitant between

the rooster crows, a chill hush settled upon the
huddled forms of Tom and Louisa. A figure
rushed from the shadow and stood before them.

Tom popped to his feet.

"Whats y want ?"
"I'm Bob Stone."

"Yassur―an I'm Tom Burwell. Whats y

want?"

Bob lunged at him. Tom side-stepped, caught

him by the shoulder, and flung him to the
ground. Straddled him.
"Let me up .'99

"Yassur- but watch yo doins, Bob Stone."

A few dark figures, drawn by the sound of
scuffle, stood about them. Bob sprang to his
feet.

"Fight like a man, Tom Burwell , an I'll

lick y."

[63 ]
 CANE

Again he lunged. Tom side-stepped and flung

him to the ground . Straddled him.
"Get off me, you godam nigger you."
"Yo sho has started somethin now. Get up."

Tom yanked him up and began hammering at

him. Each blow sounded as if it smashed into

a precious, irreplaceable soft something. Be-

neath them, Bob staggered back. He reached in
his pocket and whipped out a knife.
"Thats my game, sho."
Blue flash, a steel blade slashed across Bob
Stone's throat. He had a sweetish sick feel-

ing. Blood began to flow. Then he felt a sharp

twitch of pain. He let his knife drop. He
slapped one hand against his neck. He pressed
the other on top of his head as if to hold it down.

He groaned. He turned, and staggered towards

the crest of the hill in the direction of white

town. Negroes who had seen the fight slunk

into their homes and blew the lamps out.

Louisa, dazed, hysterical, refused to go indoors.

She slipped, crumbled, her body loosely propped
against the woodwork of the well. Tom Burwell

leaned against it. He seemed rooted there.

[64]
 BLOOD-BURNING MOON

Bob reached Broad Street. White men rushed

up to him. He collapsed in their arms.

99
"Tom Burwell. . . .'

White men like ants upon a forage rushed

about. Except for the taut hum of their moving,
all was silent. Shotguns, revolvers , rope, kero-
sene, torches. Two high-powered cars with glar-
ing search-lights. They came together. The
taut hum rose to a low roar. Then nothing

could be heard but the flop of their feet in the

thick dust of the road. The moving body of

their silence preceded them over the crest of the

hill into factory town. It flattened the Negroes
beneath it. It rolled to the wall of the factory,

where it stopped. Tom knew that they were

coming. He couldnt move. And then he saw
the search-lights of the two cars glaring down on
him. A quick shock went through him. He
stiffened. He started to run. A yell went up
from the mob. Tom wheeled about and faced

them. They poured down on him . They

swarmed. A large man with dead-white face
and flabby cheeks came to him and almost

jabbed a gun-barrel through his guts.

"Hands behind y, nigger."

[ 65]
 CANE

Tom's wrist were bound. The big man shoved

him to the well. Burn him over it, and when the
woodwork caved in, his body would drop to the
bottom . Two deaths for a godam nigger.

Louisa was driven back. The mob pushed in.

Its pressure, its momentum was too great. Drag

him to the factory. Wood and stakes already

there. Tom moved in the direction indicated.

But they had to drag him. They reached the

great door. Too many to get in there. The mob
divided and flowed around the walls to either

side. The big man shoved him through the door.

The mob pressed in from the sides . Taut hum-
ming. No words. A stake was sunk into the
ground. Rotting floor boards piled around it.

Kerosene poured on the rotting floor boards.

Tom bound to the stake. His breast was bare.
Nails scratches let little lines of blood trickle
down and mat into the hair. His face, his eyes

were set and stony. Except for irregular breath-

ing, one would have thought him already dead.
Torches were flung onto the pile. A great flare
muffled in black smoke shot upward. The mob
yelled. The mob was silent. Now Tom could
be seen within the flames. Only his head, erect,

[66 ]
 BLOOD-BURNING MOON

lean, like a blackened stone. Stench of burning

flesh soaked the air. Tom's eyes popped. His
head settled downward. The mob yelled. Its
yell echoed against the skeleton stone walls and

sounded like a hundred yells. Like a hundred

mobs yelling. Its yell thudded against the thick
front wall and fell back. Ghost of a yell slipped

through the flames and out the great door of the

factory. It fluttered like a dying thing down
the single street of factory town. Louisa, upon
the step before her home, did not hear it, but her
eyes opened slowly. They saw the full moon
glowing in the great door. The full moon, an

evil thing, an omen, soft showering the homes of

folks she knew. Where were they, these people?

She'd sing, and perhaps they'd come out and

join her. Perhaps Tom Burwell would come.
At any rate, the full moon in the great door was
an omen which she must sing to:

Red nigger moon. Sinner !

Blood-burning moon. Sinner !
Come out that fact'ry door.

[67]
 SEVENTH STREET

Money burns the pocket, pocket hurts,

Bootleggers in silken shirts,
Ballooned, zooming Cadillacs,
Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks.

SEVENTH STREET is a bastard of Prohibi-

tion and the War. A crude-boned, soft-
skinned wedge of nigger life breathing its loafer
air, jazz songs and love, thrusting unconscious
rhythms, black reddish blood into the white and
whitewashed wood of Washington. Stale soggy
wood of Washington. Wedges rust in soggy
wood.. Split it! In two ! Again ! Shred
it!. • the sun. Wedges are brilliant in the sun ;
ribbons of wet wood dry and blow away. Black
reddish blood. Pouring for crude-boned soft- p
as
skinned life, who set you flowing? Blood suck- si
on
ers of the War would spin in a frenzy of dizzi-
ness if they drank your blood. Prohibition
would put a stop to it. Who set you flowing ?
White and whitewash disappear in blood. Who
set you flowing? Flowing down the smooth
asphalt of Seventh Street, in shanties, brick
[71]
 CANE

office buildings, theaters, drug stores, restaurants ,

and cabarets ? Eddying on the corners ? Swirl-
ing like a blood- red smoke up where the buz-
zards fly in heaven ? God would not dare to
suck black red blood . A Nigger God ! He
would duck his head in shame and call for the

Judgment Day. Who set you flowing ?

Money burns the pocket, pocket hurts,

Bootleggers in silken shirts,
Ballooned, zooming Cadillacs,
Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks.

[ 72 ]
 RHOBERT

HOBERT wears a house, like a monstrous

RH
diver's helmet, on his head. His legs are
banty-bowed and shaky because as a child he
had rickets. He is way down. Rods of the
house like antennæ of a dead thing, stuffed ,
prop up in the air. He is way down. He is
sinking. His house is a dead thing that weights
him down. He is sinking as a diver would
sink in mud should the water be drawn off. Life

is a murky, wiggling, microscopic water that

compresses him. Compresses his helmet and
would crush it the minute that he pulled his head
out. He has to keep it in. Life is water that is
being drawn off.

Brother, life is water that is being drawn off.

Brother, life is water that is being drawn off.

The dead house is stuffed . The stuffing is

alive. It is sinful to draw one's head out of live
stuffing in a dead house. The propped-up
antennæ would cave in and the stuffing be
strewn . . shredded life-pulp . . in the water.
It is sinful to have one's own head crushed .
[73 ]
 CANE

Rhobert is an upright man whose legs are banty-

bowed and shaky because as a child he had
rickets. The earth is round. Heaven is a

sphere that surrounds it. Sink where you will.

God is a Red Cross man with a dredge and a

respiration-pump who's waiting for you at the

opposite periphery. God built the house. He
blew His breath into its stuffing. It is good to
to die obeying Him who can do these things.
A futile something like the dead house wraps
the live stuffing of the question : how long before
the water will be drawn off ? Rhobert does not
care. Like most men who wear monstrous hel-

mets, the pressure it exerts is enough to con-

vince him of its practical infinity. And he cares
not two straws as to whether or not he will ever

see his wife and children again. Many a time

he's seen them drown in his dreams and has

kicked about joyously in the mud for days after.

One thing about him goes straight to the heart.
He has an Adam's-apple which strains some-
times as if he were painfully gulping great
globules of air · · air floating shredded life-
pulp. It is a sad thing to see a banty-bowed,
shaky, ricket-legged man straining the raw in-
sides of his throat against smooth air. Holding
furtive thoughts about the glory of pulp-heads
[74]
 RHOBERT

strewn in water. • He is way down. Down.

Mud, coming to his banty knees , almost hides
them. Soon people will be looking at him and
calling him a strong man. No doubt he is for
one who has had rickets. Lets give it to him.
Lets call him great when the water shall have
been all drawn off. Lets build a monument and

set it in the ooze where he goes down. A monu-

ment of hewn oak, carved in nigger-heads . Lets
open our throats, brother, and sing "Deep
River" when he goes down.

Brother, Rhobert is sinking.

Lets open our throats, brother,
Lets sing Deep River when he goes down.

[75 ]
 AVEY

COR a long while she was nothing more to me

FOR
than one of those skirted beings whom boys

at a certain age disdain to play with. Just how

I came to love her, timidly, and with secret
blushes, I do not know. But that I did was

brought home to me one night, the first night

that Ned wore his long pants. Us fellers were
seated on the curb before an apartment house

where she had gone in. The young trees had

not outgrown their boxes then. V Street was
lined with them. When our legs grew cramped

and stiff from the cold of the stone, we'd stand

around a box and whittle it. I like to think now
that there was a hidden purpose in the way we
hacked them with our knives . I like to feel that

something deep in me responded to the trees,

the young trees that whinnied like colts impatient
to be let free... On the particular night I have

in mind, we were waiting for the top- floor light

to go out. We wanted to see Avey leave the flat.
This night she stayed longer than usual and gave
[ 76]
 AVEY

us a chance to complete the plans of how we were

going to stone and beat that feller on the top
floor out of town. Ned especially had it in for
him . He was about to throw a brick up at the
window when at last the room went dark. Some

minutes passed. Then Avey, as unconcerned as

if she had been paying an old-maid aunt a visit,
came out. I don't remember what she had on,
and all that sort of thing. But I do know that I
turned hot as bare pavements in the summer-
time at Ned's boast : "Hell, bet I could get her

too if you little niggers weren't always spying

and crabbing everything." I didnt say a word
to him. It wasnt my way then. I just stood
there like the others, and something like a fuse

burned up inside of me. She never noticed us,

but swung along lazy and easy as anything. We
sauntered to the corner and watched her till her

door banged to. Ned repeated what he'd said.

I didnt seem to care. Sitting around old Mush-
Head's bread box, the discussion began. "Hang

if I can see how she gets away with it," Doc

started . Ned knew, of course. There was noth-
ing he didnt know when it came to women. He
dilated on the emotional needs of girls. Said
[77 ]
 CANE

they werent much different from men in that

respect. And concluded with the solemn avowal :
"It does em good." None of us liked Ned much .
We all talked dirt ; but it was the way he said it.
And then too, a couple of the fellers had sisters
and had caught Ned playing with them. But

there was no disputing the superiority of his

smutty wisdom. Bubs Sanborn, whose mother
was friendly with Avey's, had overhead the old

ladies talking. "Avey's mother's ont her," he

said. We thought that only natural and began
to guess at what would happen. Some one said
she'd marry that feller on the top floor. Ned
called that a lie because Avey was going to
marry nobody but him. We had our doubts

about that, but we did agree that she'd soon

leave school and marry some one. The gang

broke up, and I went home, picturing myself as

married.

✓ Nothing I did seemed able to change Avey's

indifference to me. I played basket-ball , and

when I'd make a long clean shot she'd clap with

the others, louder than they, I thought. I'd meet
her on the street, and there'd be no difference
[ 78 ]
 AVEY

in the way she said hello. She never took the

trouble to call me by my name. On the days for
drill, I'd let my voice down a tone and call for a
complicated maneuver when I saw her coming.
She'd smile appreciation, but it was an imper-
sonal smile, never for me. It was on a summer
excursion down to Riverview that she first

seemed to take me into account. The day had

been spent riding merry-go-rounds , scenic-rail-
ways, and shoot-the-chutes. We had been in

swimming and we had danced. I was a crack

swimmer then. She didnt know how. I held
her up and showed her how to kick her legs and
draw her arms. Of course she didnt learn in

one day, but she thanked me for bothering with

her. I was also somewhat of a dancer. And I

had already noticed that love can start on a

dance floor. We danced . But though I held
her tightly in my arms, she was way away. That
college feller who lived on the top floor was
somewhere making money for the next year. I

imagined that she was thinking, wishing for

him. Ned was along. He treated her until his
money gave out. She went with another feller.

Ned got sore. One by one the boys' money gave

[ 79]
 CANE

out. She left them. And they got sore. Every

one of them but me got sore. This is the reason,
I guess, why I had her to myself on the top deck
of the Jane Mosely that night as we puffed
up the Potomac, coming home. The moon was
brilliant. The air was sweet like clover. And

every now and then, a salt tang, a stale drift of

sea-weed. It was not my mind's fault if it went
romancing. I should have taken her in my
arms the minute we were stowed in that old

lifeboat. I dallied , dreaming. She took me in

hers. And I could feel by the touch of it that it
wasnt a man-to-woman love. It made me rest-

less. I felt chagrined . I didnt know what it

was, but I did know that I couldnt handle it.

She ran her fingers through my hair and kissed

my forehead. I itched to break through her
tenderness to passion. I wanted her to take me
in her arms as I knew she had that college feller.
I wanted her to love me passionately as she

did him. I gave her one burning kiss. Then

she laid me in her lap as if I were a child. Help-
less . I got sore when she started to hum a lull-
aby. She wouldnt let me go. I talked. I knew
damned well that I could beat her at that. Her

[80]
 AVEY

eyes were soft and misty, the curves of her lips

were wistful, and her smile seemed indulgent of
the irrelevance of my remarks. I gave up at
last and let her love me, silently, in her own way.
The moon was brilliant. The air was sweet like

clover, and every now and then, a salt tang, a

stale drift of sea-weed.. •

The next time I came close to her was the

following summer at Harpers Ferry. We were

sitting on a flat projecting rock they give the
name of Lover's Leap. Some one is supposed to
have jumped off it. The river is about six hun-
dred feet beneath. A railroad track runs up the

valley and curves out of sight where part of the

mountain rock had to be blasted away to make
room for it. The engines of this valley have a
whistle, the echoes of which sound like iterated
gasps and sobs. I always think of them as crude
music from the soul of Avey. We sat there
holding hands. Our palms were soft and warm
against each other. Our fingers were not tight.
She would not let them be. She would not let
me twist them. I wanted to talk. To explain
what I meant to her. Avey was as silent as
those great trees whose tops we looked down
[81 ]
 CANE

upon. She has always been like that. At least,

to me. I had the notion that if I really wanted

to, I could do with her just what I pleased. Like
one can strip a tree. I did kiss her. I even let
my hands cup her breasts . When I was through,

she'd seek my hand and hold it till my pulse

cooled down. Evening after evening we sat
there. I tried to get her to talk about that college
feller. She never would. There was no set

time to go home. None of my family had come

down. And as for hers, she didnt give a hang
about them. The general gossips could hardly
say more than they had. The boarding-house
porch was always deserted when we returned.
No one saw us enter, so the time was set con-
veniently for scandal. This worried me a little,
for I thought it might keep Avey from getting an
appointment in the schools. She didnt care.

She had finished normal school. They could

give her a job if they wanted to. As time went

on, her indifference to things began to pique me;
I was ambitious. I left the Ferry earlier than
she did. I was going off to college. The more I

thought of it, the more I resented, yes, hell, thats

what it was, her downright laziness . Sloppy
[82 ]
 AVEY

indolence. There was no excuse for a healthy

girl taking life so easy. Hell ! she was no better

than a cow. I was certain that she was a cow
when I felt an udder in a Wisconsin stock-

judging class. Among those energetic Swedes,

or whatever they are, I decided to forget her.
For two years I thought I did. When I'd come
home for the summer she'd be away. And be-

fore she returned , I'd be gone. We never wrote ;

she was too damned lazy for that. But what a

bluff I put up about forgetting her. The girls

up that way, at least the ones I knew, havent
got the stuff: they dont know how to love. Giv-

ing themselves completely was tame beside just

the holding of Avey's hand. One day I received
a note from her. The writing, I decided , was
slovenly. She wrote on a torn bit of note-book

paper. The envelope had a faint perfume that

I remembered. A single line told me she had
lost her school and was going away. I com-

forted myself with the reflection that shame held

no pain for one so indolent as she. Neverthe-

less , I left Wisconsin that year for good. Wash-

ington had seemingly forgotten her. I hunted

Ned. Between curses, I caught his opinion of

[83 ]
 CANE

her. She was no better than a whore. I saw

her mother on the street. The same old pinch-

beck, jerky-gaited creature that I'd always
known.

Perhaps five years passed. The business of

hunting a job or something or other had bruised
my vanity so that I could recognize it. I felt old.
Avey and my real relation to her, I thought I
came to know. I wanted to see her. I had been

told that she was in New York. As I had no

money, I hiked and bummed my way there. I

got work in a ship-yard and walked the streets

at night, hoping to meet her. Failing in this, I
saved enough to pay my fare back home. One
evening in early June, just at the time when dusk

is most lovely on the eastern horizon, I saw

Avey, indolent as ever, leaning on the arm of a
man, strolling under the recently lit arc-lights
of U Street. She had almost passed before she
recognized me. She showed no surprise. The
puff over her eyes had grown heavier. The eyes

themselves were still sleepy-large, and beautiful.

I had almost concluded- indifferent. "You look
older," was what she said. I wanted to con-

[84]
 AVEY

vince her that I was, so I asked her to walk with

me. The man whom she was with, and whom

she never took the trouble to introduce, at a nod

from her, hailed a taxi, and drove away. That
gave me a notion of what she had been used to.

Her dress was of some fine, costly stuff. I sug-

gested the park, and then added that the grass
might stain her skirt. Let it get stained, she
said, for where it came from there are others .

I have a spot in Soldier's Home to which I

always go when I want the simple beauty of
another's soul. Robins spring about the lawn
all day. They leave their footprints in the
grass. I imagine that the grass at night smells
sweet and fresh because of them. The ground

is high. Washington lies below. Its light spreads

like a blush against the darkened sky. Against
the soft dusk sky of Washington. And when
the wind is from the South, soil of my homeland

falls like a fertile shower upon the lean streets

of the city. Upon my hill in Soldier's Home. I

know the policeman who watches the place of

nights. When I go there alone, I talk to him. I

tell him I come there to find the truth that people

[85]
 CANE

bury in their hearts. I tell him that I do not

come there with a girl to do the thing he's paid
to watch out for. I look deep in his eyes when

I say these things, and he believes me. He comes

over to see who it is on the grass. I say hello to
him . He greets me in the same way and goes
off searching for other black splotches upon the

lawn. Avey and I went there. A band in one

of the buildings a fair distance off was playing
a march. I wished they would stop. Their
playing was like a tin spoon in one's mouth. I
wanted the Howard Glee Club to sing " Deep
River," from the road. To sing "Deep River,
Deep River," from the road. . . Other than
the first comments, Avey had been silent. I
started to hum a folk-tune. She slipped her
hand in mine. Pillowed her head as best she
could upon my arm. Kissed the hand that she

was holding and listened, or so I thought, to

what I had to say. I traced my development
from the early days up to the present time, the
phase in which I could understand her. I de-

scribed her own nature and temperament. Told

how they needed a larger life for their expres-

sion. How incapable Washington was of un-

[ 86 ]
 AVEY

derstanding that need. How it could not meet

it. I pointed out that in lieu of proper channels,

her emotions had overflowed into paths that dis-
sipated them. I talked , beautifully I thought,
about an art that would be born, an art that
would open the way for women the likes of her.

I asked her to hope, and build up an inner life

against the coming of that day. I recited some

of my own things to her. I sang, with a strange

quiver in my voice, a promise-song. And then
I began to wonder why her hand had not once
returned a single pressure. My old-time feeling
about her laziness came back. I spoke sharply.

My policeman friend passed by. I said hello

to him. As he went away, I began to visualize

certain possibilities . An immediate and urgent
passion swept over me. Then I looked at Avey.

Her heavy eyes were closed. Her breathing was

as faint and regular as a child's in slumber.
My passion died. I was afraid to move lest I
disturb her. Hours and hours, I guess it was,

she lay there. My body grew numb. I shiv-

ered. I coughed. I wanted to get up and
whittle at the boxes of young trees. I withdrew
my hand. I raised her head to waken her. She

[87]
 CANE

did not stir. I got up and walked around. I

found my policeman friend and talked to him.

We both came up, and bent over her. He said it

would be all right for her to stay there just so

long as she got away before the workmen came
at dawn. A blanket was borrowed from a neigh-
bor house. I sat beside her through the night.
I saw the dawn steal over Washington. The

Capitol dome looked like a gray ghost ship

drifting in from sea. Avey's face was pale, and

her eyes were heavy. She did not have the gray
crimson-splashed beauty of the dawn. I hated

to wake her. Orphan-woman.

[88 ]
 BEEHIVE

Within this black hive to-night

There swarm a million bees ;
Bees passing in and out the moon,
Bees escaping out the moon,
Bees returning through the moon,
Silver bees intently buzzing,
Silver honey dripping from the swarm of bees
Earth is a waxen cell of the world comb,
And I, a drone,
Lying on my back,
Lipping honey,
Getting drunk with silver honey,
Wish that I might fly out past the moon
And curl forever in some far-off farmyard flower.

[89]
 STORM ENDING

Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads ,

Great, hollow, bell-like flowers,
Rumbling in the wind,
Stretching clappers to strike our ears ..
Full-lipped flowers
Bitten by the sun
Bleeding rain
Dripping rain like golden honey-
And the sweet earth flying from the thunder.

[90]
 THEATER

IFE of nigger alleys, of pool rooms and

L' restaurants and near-beer saloons soaks

into the walls of Howard Theater and sets them

throbbing jazz songs. Black-skinned, they

dance and shout above the tick and trill of white-

walled buildings. At night, they open doors to

people who come in to stamp their feet and
shout. At night, road-shows volley songs into

the mass-heart of black people. Songs soak the

walls and seep out to the nigger life of alleys and
near-beer saloons, of the Poodle Dog and Black
Bear cabarets. Afternoons, the house is dark,
and the walls are sleeping singers until rehearsal
begins. Or until John comes within them. Then
they start throbbing to a subtle syncopation.
And the space-dark air grows softly luminous .
John is the manager's brother. He is seated
at the center of the theater, just before rehearsal.
Light streaks down upon him from a window
high above. One half his face is orange in it.
One half his face is in shadow. The soft glow

[91 ]
 CANE

of the house rushes to, and compacts about, the

shaft of light. John's mind coincides with the
shaft of light. Thoughts rush to, and compact
about it. Life of the house and of the slowly
awakening stage swirls to the body of John, and

thrills it. John's body is separate from the

thoughts that pack his mind.
Stage-lights, soft, as if they shine through
clear pink fingers. Beneath them, hid by the
shadow of a set , Dorris. Other chorus girls drift
in. John feels them in the mass. And as if his
own body were the mass-heart of a black audi-

ence listening to them singing, he wants to

stamp his feet and shout. His mind, contained
above desires of his body, singles the girls out,

and tries to trace origins and plot destinies.

A pianist slips into the pit and improvises
jazz. The walls awake. Arms of the girls , and
their limbs, which . · jazz, jazz · by lifting

up their tight street skirts they set free, jab the

air and clog the floor in rhythm to the music.
(Lift your skirts, Baby, and talk t papa ! )
Crude, individualized , and yet • · monoto-
nous. · ·

John : Soon the director will herd you, my

[92 ]
 THEATER

full-lipped, distant beauties, and tame you, and

blunt your sharp thrusts in loosely suggestive

movements , appropriate to Broadway. (0

dance ! ) Soon the audience will paint your dusk
faces white, and call you beautiful. (O dance ! )
Soon I... ( O dance ! ) I'd like. . .

Girls laugh and shout. Sing discordant

snatches of other jazz songs. Whirl with loose

passion into the arms of passing show-men.

John : Too thick. Too easy. Too monot-
onous. Her whom I'd love I'd leave before she

knew that I was with her. Her? Which ? (0

dance ! ) I'd like to...

Girls dance and sing. Men clap. The walls

sing and press inward. They press the men and
girls, they press John towards a center of physi-
cal ecstasy. Go to it, Baby ! Fan yourself, and
feed your papa ! Put . . nobody lied . and
take · • when they said I cried over you. No

lie ! The glitter and color of stacked scenes, the

gilt and brass and crimson of the house, con-

verge towards a center of physical ecstasy.
John's feet and torso and his blood press in.
He wills thought to rid his mind of passion.
[93 ]
 CANE

"All right, girls . Alaska. Miss Reynolds ,

please."
The director wants to get the rehearsal
through with.

The girls line up. John sees the front row :

dancing ponies. The rest are in shadow. The

leading lady fits loosely in the front. Lack-life,

monotonous. "One, two, three-❞ Music starts.
The song is somewhere where it will not strain
the leading lady's throat. The dance is some-
where where it will not strain the girls . Above
the staleness, one dancer throws herself into it.
Dorris. John sees her. Her hair, crisp- curled,
is bobbed. Bushy, black hair bobbing about her
lemon-colored face. Her lips are curiously full,

and very red. Her limbs in silk purple stockings

ev
are lovely. John feels them. Desires her. Holds

er up
off.
Re

John : Stage-door johnny; chorus-girl. No,

pi

that would be all right. Dictie, educated, stuck-

dy

up; show-girl. Yep. Her suspicion would be

stronger than her passion. It wouldnt work.

Keep her loveliness. Let her go.

Dorris sees John and knows that he is looking
at her. Her own glowing is too rich a thing to
[94]
 THEATER

let her feel the slimness of his diluted passion.

"Who's that?" she asks her dancing part-
ner.
"Th manager's brother. Dictie. Nothin

doin, hon."
Dorris tosses her head and dances for him

until she feels she has him. Then, withdrawing

disdainfully, she flirts with the director.
Dorris : Nothin doin ? How come? Aint I

as good as him? Couldnt I have got an educa-

tion if I'd wanted one ? Dont I know respect-

able folks , lots of em, in Philadelphia and New

York and Chicago ? Aint I had men as good as
him ? Better. Doctors an lawyers. Whats a

manager's brother, anyhow?

Two steps back, and two steps front.

"Say, Mame, where do you get that stuff?"
"Whatshmean, Dorris ?"

"If you two girls cant listen to what I'm tell-

ing you, I know where I can get some who can.
Now listen."

Mame: Go to hell, you black bastard.

Dorris: Whats eatin at him, anyway?

"Now follow me in this, you girls. Its three

[ 95 ]
 CANE

counts to the right, three counts to the left, and

then you shimmy-"

John : and then you shimmy. I'll bet she

can. Some good cabaret, with rooms upstairs.
And what in hell do you think you'd get from it ?

Youre going wrong. Here's right : get her to

herself (Christ, but how she'd bore you after
the first five minutes) -not if you get her right
she wouldnt. Touch her, I mean. To herself-

in some room perhaps . Some cheap, dingy bed-

room. Hell no. Cant be done. But the point
is, brother John, it can be done. Get her to her-
self somewhere, anywhere. Go down in your-
self-and she'd be calling you all sorts of asses

while you were in the process of going down.

Hold em, bud. Cant be done. Let her go.

(Dance and I'll love you ! ) And keep her

loveliness.

"All right now, Chicken Chaser. Dorris and

girls . Where's Dorris ? I told you to stay on the
stage, didnt I? Well ? Now thats enough. All
right. All right there, Professor ? All right.
One, two, three-"

Dorris swings to the front. The line of girls,

four deep, blurs within the shadow of sus-
[96]
 THEATER

pended scenes. Dorris wants to dance. The

director feels that and steps to one side . He

smiles, and picks her for a leading lady, one of
these days . Odd ends of stage-men emerge
from the wings , and stare and clap. A crap
game in the alley suddenly ends. Black faces

crowd the rear stage doors . The girls, catching

joy from Dorris , whip up within the footlights'
glow. They forget set steps ; they find their own.
The director forgets to bawl them out. Dorris
dances.

John : Her head bobs to Broadway. Dance

from yourself. Dance ! O just a little more.
Dorris' eyes burn across the space of seats to
him .

Dorris: I bet he can love. Hell, he cant love.

He's too skinny. His lips are too skinny. He

wouldnt love me anyway, only for that. But
I'd get a pair of silk stockings out of it. Red
silk. I got purple. Cut it, kid. You cant win
him to respect you that away. He wouldnt any-
way. Maybe he would. Maybe he'd love. I've

heard em say that men who look like him ( what

does he look like ?) will marry if they love. O
will you love me? And give me kids, and a
[97 ]
 CANE

home, and everything ? ( I'd like to make your

nest, and honest , hon , I wouldnt run out on you. )
You will if I make you. Just watch me.
Dorris dances. She forgets her tricks. She
dances.

Glorious songs are the muscles of her limbs.

And her singing is of canebrake loves and

mangrove feastings.
The walls press in, singing. Flesh of a throb-
bing body, they press close to John and Dorris.
They close them in. John's heart beats tensely
against her dancing body. Walls press his mind
within his heart. And then, the shaft of light

goes out the window high above him. John's

mind sweeps up to follow it. Mind pulls him
upward into dream. Dorris dances . . .

John dreams:

Dorris is dressed in a loose black gown splashed

with lemon ribbons. Her feet taper long and slim
from trim ankles. She waits for him just inside
the stage door. John, collar and tie colorful and
flaring, walks towards the stage door. There are
no trees in the alley. But his feet feel as though
they step on autumn leaves whose rustle has been
pressed out of them by the passing of a million
satin slippers. The air is sweet with roasting
[ 98]
 THEATER

chestnuts, sweet with bonfires of old leaves. John's

melancholy is a deep thing that seals all senses
but his eyes, and makes him whole.
Dorris knows that he is coming. Just at the
right moment she steps from the door, as if there
were no door. Her face is tinted like the autumn
alley. Of old flowers, or of a southern canefield,
her perfume. "Glorious Dorris." So his eyes
speak. And their sadness is too deep for sweet
untruth. She barely touches his arm. They glide
off with footfalls softened on the leaves, the old
leaves powdered by a million satin slippers.
They are in a room. John knows nothing of it.
Only, that the flesh and blood of Dorris are its
walls. Singing walls. Lights, soft, as if they
shine through clear pink fingers. Soft lights, and
warm.
John reaches for a manuscript of his, and reads.
Dorris, who has no eyes, has eyes to understand
him. He comes to a dancing scene. The scene is
Dorris. She dances. Dorris dances. Glorious
Dorris. Dorris whirls, whirls, dances. . .

Dorris dances.

The pianist crashes a bumper chord. The whole

stage claps. Dorris, flushed, looks quick at

John. His whole face is in shadow. She seeks

for her dance in it. She finds it a dead thing in

the shadow which is his dream. She rushes from

[99]
 CANE

the stage. Falls down the steps into her dress-

ing-room. Pulls her hair. Her eyes, over a
floor of tears, stare at the whitewashed ceiling.
(Smell of dry paste, and paint, and soiled cloth-
ing. ) Her pal comes in. Dorris flings herself
into the old safe arms , and cries bitterly.
"I told you nothin doin," is what Mame says
.to comfort her.

[ 100 ]
HER LIPS ARE COPPER WIRE

whisper of yellow globes

gleaming on lamp-posts that sway
like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog

and let your breath be moist against me

like bright beads on yellow globes

telephone the power-house

that the main wires are insulate

(her words play softly up and down

dewy corridors of billboards)

then with your tongue remove the tape

and press your lips to mine
till they are incandescent

[ 101 ]
 CALLING JESUS

HER soul is like a little thrust-tailed dog that

follows her whimpering. She is large
enough, I know, to find a warm spot for it. But
each night when she comes home and closes the
big outside storm door, the little dog is left in
the vestibule , filled with chills till morning.
Some one . • eoho Jesus ... soft as a cotton

boll brushed against the milk-pod cheek of

Christ, will steal in and cover it that it need not
shiver, and carry it to her where she sleeps upon
clean hay cut in her dreams.

When you meet her in the daytime on the

streets, the little dog keeps coming. Nothing
happens at first, and then, when she has forgot-
ten the streets and alleys, and the large house
where she goes to bed of nights, a soft thing like
fur begins to rub your limbs, and you hear a low,
scared voice, lonely, calling, and you know that
a cool something nozzles moisture in your palms.
Sensitive things like nostrils, quiver. Her
breath comes sweet as honeysuckle whose pistils
bear the life of coming song. And her eyes carry
[ 102 ]
 CALLING JESUS

to where builders find no need for vestibules, for

swinging on iron hinges, storm doors.

Her soul is like a little thrust-tailed dog, that

follows her, whimpering. I've seen it tagging on
behind her, up streets where chestnut trees flow-
ered, where dusty asphalt had been freshly
sprinkled with clean water. Up alleys where
niggers sat on low door-steps before tumbled
shanties and sang and loved. At night, when
she comes home, the little dog is left in the vesti-
bule, nosing the crack beneath the big storm
door, filled with chills till morning. Some
one ... eoho Jesus .. . . soft as the bare feet of
Christ moving across bales of southern cotton,
will steal in and cover it that it need not shiver,
and carry it to her where she sleeps : cradled in
dream-fluted cane.

[ 103]
 BOX SEAT

OUSES are shy girls whose eyes shine

HOUSES
reticently upon the dusk body of the street.

Upon the gleaming limbs and asphalt torso of a

dreaming nigger. Shake your curled wool-
blossoms, nigger. Open your liver lips to the
lean, white spring. Stir the root-life of a with-
ered people. Call them from their houses, and
teach them to dream.

Dark swaying forms of Negroes are street

songs that woo virginal houses.
Dan Moore walks southward on Thirteenth

Street. The low limbs of budding chestnut trees

recede above his head. Chestnut buds and blos-

soms are wool he walks upon. The eyes of

houses faintly touch him as he passes them.

Soft girl-eyes, they set him singing. Girl-eyes

within him widen upward to promised faces.
Floating away, they dally wistfully over the
dusk body of the street. Come on, Dan Moore,
come on. Dan sings. His voice is a little hoarse.

[ 104 ]
 BOX SEAT

It cracks. He strains to produce tones in keep-

ing with the houses' loveliness. Cant be done.

He whistles. His notes are shrill. They hurt

him. Negroes open gates, and go indoors , per-

fectly. Dan thinks of the house he's going to.
Of the girl. Lips, flesh-notes of a forgotten
song, plead with him. . .
Dan turns into a side-street, opens an iron
gate, bangs it to. Mounts the steps , and searches
for the bell. Funny, he cant find it. He fumbles
around. The thought comes to him that some one
passing by might see him, and not understand.
Might think that he is trying to sneak, to break
in.

Dan : Break in. Get an ax and smash in.

Smash in their faces. I'll show em. Break into

an engine-house, steal a thousand horse-power

fire truck. Smash in with the truck. I'll show

em. Grab an ax and brain em. Cut em up.

Jack the Ripper. Baboon from the zoo. And
then the cops come. "No, I aint a baboon. I

aint Jack the Ripper. I'm a poor man out of

work. Take your hands off me, you bull-necked
bears. Look into my eyes. I am Dan Moore.
I was born in a canefield . The hands of Jesus
[ 105 ]
 CANE

touched me. I am come to a sick world to heal

it. Only the other day, a dope fiend brushed

against me Dont laugh, you mighty, juicy,
meat-hook men. Give me your fingers and I

will peel them as if they were ripe bananas. "

Some one might think he is trying to break in.
He'd better knock. His knuckles are raw bone

against the thick glass door. He waits. No one

comes. Perhaps they havent heard him. He
raps again. This time, harder. He waits. No

one comes. Some one is surely in. He fancies

that he sees their shadows on the glass . Shadows
of gorillas. Perhaps they saw him coming and
dont want to let him in. He knocks. The

tension of his arms makes the glass rattle. Hur-

ried steps come towards him. The door opens.
"Please, you might break the glass-the bell-
oh, Mr. Moore ! I thought it must be some

stranger. How do you do? Come in, wont you?

Muriel? Yes. I'll call her. Take your things

off, wont you? And have a seat in the parlor.

Muriel will be right down. Muriel ! Oh
Muriel ! Mr. Moore to see you. She'll be right

down. You'll pardon me, wont you ? So glad

to see you . "
[ 106 ]
 BOX SEAT

Her eyes are weak. They are bluish and

watery from reading newspapers. The blue is

steel. It gimlets Dan while her mouth flaps
amiably to him.

Dan : Nothing for you to see, old mussel-

head. Dare I show you ? If I did, delirium
would furnish you headlines for a month. Now
look here. Thats enough. Go long, woman.
Say some nasty thing and I'll kill you. Huh.
Better damned sight not. Ta-ta, Mrs. Pribby.
Mrs. Pribby retreats to the rear of the house.

She takes up a newspaper. There is a sharp

click as she fits into her chair and draws it to
the table. The click is metallic like the sound

of a bolt being shot into place. Dan's eyes sting.

Sinking into a soft couch, he closes them. The
house contracts about him. It is a sharp-edged,
massed, metallic house. Bolted. About Mrs.

Pribby. Bolted to the endless rows of metal

houses. Mrs. Pribby's house. The rows of
houses belong to other Mrs. Pribbys. No won-
der he couldn't sing to them.
Dan: What's Muriel doing here? God,
what a place for her. Whats she doing? Put-
ting her stockings on ? In the bathroom. Come

[ 107 ]
 CANE

out of there, Dan Moore. People must have their

privacy. Peeping-toms. I'll never peep. I'll
listen. I like to listen .

Dan goes to the wall and places his ear against

it. A passing street car and something vibrant
from the earth sends a rumble to him. That

rumble comes from the earth's deep core. It is

the mutter of powerful underground races. Dan
has a picture of all the people rushing to put
their ears against walls, to listen to it. The next
world-savior is coming up that way. Coming
up. A continent sinks down. The new-world
Christ will need consummate skill to walk upon

the waters where huge bubbles burst... Thuds

of Muriel coming down. Dan turns to the piano
and glances through a stack of jazz music sheets .
Ji-ji-bo, JI-JI-BO ! " .
"Hello, Dan, stranger, what brought you
here ?"

Muriel comes in, shakes hands, and then

clicks into a high-armed seat under the orange

glow of a floor-lamp. Her face is fleshy. It

would tend to coarseness but for the fresh fra-
grant something which is the life of it. Her hair

like an Indian's. But more curly and bushed

[ 108 ]
 BOX SEAT

and vagrant. Her nostrils flare. The flushed

ginger of her cheeks is touched orange by the

shower of color from the lamp.

"Well, you havent told me, you havent an-

swered my question, stranger. What brought

you here?"

Dan feels the pressure of the house, of the

rear room , of the rows of houses, shift to Muriel.

He is light. He loves her. He is doubly heavy.

"Dont know, Muriel-wanted to see you-
wanted to talk to you to see you and tell you

that I know what you've been through— what

pain the last few months must have been-"
"Lets dont mention that."

"But why not, Muriel? I-"

"Please."

"But Muriel , life is full of things like that.

One grows strong and beautiful in facing them .
What else is life ?"

"I dont know, Dan. And I dont believe I

care. Whats the use ? Lets talk about some-

thing else. I hear there's a good show at the

Lincoln this week."

"Yes, so Harry was telling me. Going?"

"To-night. "
[ 109 ]
 CANE

Dan starts to rise.

99
"I didnt know. I dont want to keep you.'

"Its all right. You dont have to go till Ber-

nice comes. And she wont be here till eight. I'm
all dressed . I'll let you know."
"Thanks."
Silence. The rustle of a newspaper being
turned comes from the rear room.
Muriel: Shame about Dan. Something
awfully good and fine about him. But he don't

fit in. In where? Me ? Dan, I could love you

if I tried . I dont have to try. I do. O Dan,
dont you know I do? Timid lover, brave talker

that you are. Whats the good of all you know if

you dont know that ? I wont let myself. I?
Mrs. Pribby who reads newspapers all night

wont. What has she got to do with me ? She

is me, somehow. No she's not.
No she's not. Yes she is.

She is the town, and the town wont let me love

you, Dan. Dont you know? You could make it

let me if you would. Why wont you ? Youre

selfish. I'm not strong enough to buck it . Youre
too selfish to buck it, for me. I wish you'd go.
You irritate me. Dan, please go.

"What are you doing now, Dan ?"

[ 110]
 BOX SEAT

"Same old thing, Muriel. Nothing, as the

world would have it. Living, as I look at

things. Living as much as I can without-"

"But you cant live without money, Dan. Why

dont you get a good job and settle down?"
Dan : Same old line. Shoot it at me, sister.
Hell of a note, this loving business . For ten
minutes of it youve got to stand the torture of an
intolerable heaviness and a hundred platitudes .
Well, damit, shoot on.
"To what? my dear. Rustling newspapers ?"

"You mustnt say that, Dan. It isnt right.

Mrs. Pribby has been awfully good to me."
"Dare say she has. Whats that got to do
with it? "
"Oh, Dan, youre so unconsiderate and selfish.

All you think of is yourself."

"I think of you."

"Too much- I mean, you ought to work more

and think less. Thats the best way to get

along."
"Mussel-heads get along, Muriel. There is
more to you than that-"
"Sometimes I think there is, Dan. But I
dont know. I've tried. I've tried to do some-

[111 ]
 CANE

thing with myself. Something real and beau-

tiful, I mean. But whats the good of trying?
I've tried to make people, every one I come in
contact with, happy- "

Dan looks at her, directly. Her animalism,

still unconquered by zoo-restrictions and keeper-

taboos, stirs him. Passion tilts upward, bring-

ing with it the elements of an old desire. Muriel's

lips become the flesh-notes of a futile, plaintive
longing. Dan's impulse to direct her is its fresh
life.

"Happy, Muriel? No, not happy. Your aim

is wrong. There is no such thing as happiness .

Life bends joy and pain, beauty and ugliness, in

such a way that no one may isolate them. No

one should want to. Perfect joy, or perfect

pain, with no contrasting element to define them,

would mean a monotony of consciousness, would

mean death. Not happy, Muriel. Say that you

have tried to make them create. Say that you

have used your own capacity for life to cradle

them. To start them upward-flowing. Or if you

cant say that you have, then say that you will.

My talking to you will make you aware of your

[ 112 ]
 BOX SEAT

power to do so. Say that you will love, that you

will give yourself in love— "
"To you, Dan?"
Dan's consciousness crudely swerves into his

passions. They flare up in his eyes. They set

up quivers in his abdomen. He is suddenly
over-tense and nervous.
"Muriel-"

The newspaper rustles in the rear room.

"Muriel- "
Dan rises. His arms stretch towards her.

His fingers and his palms, pink in the lamp-

light, are glowing irons. Muriel's chair is close
and stiff about her. The house, the rows of
houses locked about her chair. Dan's fingers
and arms are fire to melt and bars to wrench and

force and pry. Her arms hang loose. Her hands

are hot and moist. Dan takes them. He slips
to his knees before her.

"Dan, you mustnt. "

"Muriel-"

"Dan, really you mustnt. No, Dan. No. "

"Oh, come, Muriel. Must I-"

"Shhh. Dan, please get up. Please. Mrs.

Pribby is right in the next room. She'll hear
[ 113]
 CANE

you. She may come in. Dont, Dan. She'll see

you-"
"Well then, lets go out."
"I cant. Let go, Dan. Oh, wont you please
let go.99

Muriel tries to pull her hands away. Dan

tightens his grip. He feels the strength of his
fingers. His muscles are tight and strong. He
stands up. Thrusts out his chest. Muriel
shrinks from him. Dan becomes aware of his

crude absurdity. His lips curl. His passion

chills. He has an obstinate desire to possess her.

"Muriel, I love you. I want you, whatever

the world of Pribby says. Damn your Pribby.

Who is she to dictate my love ? I've stood

enough of her. Enough of you. Come here."
Muriel's mouth works in and out. Her eyes

flash and waggle. She wrenches her hands

loose and forces them against his breast to keep
him off. Dan grabs her wrists. Wedges in be-
tween her arms. Her face is close to him. It is
hot and blue and moist. Ugly.
"Come here now."

"Dont, Dan. Oh, dont. What are you

killing?"

[114]
 BOX SEAT

"Whats weak in both of us and a whole litter

of Pribbys. For once in your life youre going

to face whats real, by God-"
A sharp rap on the newspaper in the rear
room cuts between them. The rap is like cool

thick glass between them. Dan is hot on one

side. Muriel, hot on the other. They straight-
en. Gaze fearfully at one another. Neither
moves. A clock in the rear room, in the rear
room, the rear room, strikes eight. Eight slow,
cool sounds. Bernice. Muriel fastens on her

image. She smooths her dress. She adjusts her

skirt. She becomes prim and cool . Rising, she
skirts Dan as if to keep the glass between them.
Dan, gyrating nervously above the easy swing
of his limbs, follows her to the parlor door.
Muriel retreats before him till she reaches the

landing of the steps that lead upstairs. She

smiles at him. Dan sees his face in the hall

mirror. He runs his fingers through his hair.

Reaches for his hat and coat and puts them on.

He moves towards Muriel. Muriel steps back-

ward up one step. Dan's jaw shoots out. Muriel

jerks her arm in warning of Mrs. Pribby. She

gasps and turns and starts to run. Noise of a

[ 115 ]
 CANE

chair scraping as Mrs. Pribby rises from it,

ratchets down the hall. Dan stops. He makes
a wry face, wheels round, goes out, and slams
the door.

People come in slowly · mutter, laughs,

flutter, whishadwash, "I've changed my work-

clothes- " • and fill vacant seats of Lincoln

Theater. Muriel, leading Bernice who is a cross

between a washerwoman and a blue-blood lady,
a washer-blue, a washer-lady, wanders down the
right aisle to the lower front box. Muriel has
on an orange dress. Its color would clash with

the crimson box-draperies, its color would con-

tradict the sweet rose smile her face is bathed

in, should she take her coat off. She'll keep it

on. Pale purple shadows rest on the planes of
her cheeks. Deep purple comes from her thick-
shocked hair. Orange of the dress goes well

with these. Muriel presses her coat down from

around her shoulders. Teachers are not sup-

posed to have bobbed hair. She'll keep her hat

on. She takes the first chair, and indicates that
[ 116]
 BOX SEAT

Bernice is to take the one directly behind her.

Seated thus, her eyes are level with, and near to,
the face of an imaginary man upon the stage .

To speak to Berny she must turn. When she

does, the audience is square upon her.

People come in slowly . "-for my Sun-

day-go-to-meeting dress. O glory God! O

shout Amen ! " · and fill vacant seats of

Lincoln Theater. Each one is a bolt that shoots

into a slot, and is locked there. Suppose the Lord

should ask, where was Moses when the light
went out? Suppose Gabriel should blow his

trumpet ! The seats are slots . The seats are

bolted houses. The mass grows denser. Its

weight at first is impalpable upon the box. Then

Muriel begins to feel it. She props her arm

against the brass box-rail , to ward it off. Silly.

These people are friends of hers : a parent of a
child she teaches, an old school friend. She
smiles at them. They return her courtesy, and
she is free to chat with Berny. Berny's tongue,

started, runs on, and on. O washer-blue ! O

washer-lady !
Muriel : Never see Dan again. He makes
me feel queer. Starts things he doesnt finish.
[ 117 ]
 CANE

Upsets me. I am not upset. I am perfectly

calm . I am going to enjoy the show. Good
show. I've had some show! This damn tame

thing. O Dan. Wont see Dan again. Not

alone. Have Mrs. Pribby come in. She was in.

Keep Dan out. If I love him, can I keep him

out? Well then, I dont love him. Now he's
out. Who is that coming in? Blind as a bat.
Ding-bat. Looks like Dan. He mustnt see
me. Silly. He cant reach me. He wont dare

come in here. He'd put his head down like a

goring bull and charge me. He'd trample them.
He'd gore. He'd rape ! Berny ! He won't dare
come in here.

"Berny, who was that who just came in? I

havent my glasses."

"A friend of yours, a good friend so I hear.

Mr. Daniel Moore, Lord .”
"Oh. He's no friend of mine."
"No? I hear he is."
"Well, he isnt. "
Dan is ushered down the aisle. He has to

squeeze past the knees of seated people to reach

his own seat. He treads on a man's corns. The
man grumbles, and shoves him off. He shrivels

[ 118]
 BOX SEAT

close beside a portly Negress whose huge rolls

of flesh meet about the bones of seat-arms. A

soil-soaked fragrance comes from her. Through

the cement floor her strong roots sink down.
They spread under the asphalt streets. Dream-
ing, the streets roll over on their bellies, and suck

their glossy health from them. Her strong roots

sink down and spread under the river and dis-
appear in blood-lines that waver south. Her
roots shoot down. Dan's hands follow them.

Roots throb. Dan's heart beats violently. He

places his palms upon the earth to cool them.
Earth throbs. Dan's heart beats violently. He
sees all the people in the house rush to the walls
to listen to the rumble. A new-world Christ is

coming up. Dan comes up. He is startled .

The eyes of the woman dont belong to her. They

look at him unpleasantly. From either aisle,
bolted masses press in. He doesnt fit. The
mass grows agitant. For an instant, Dan's and

Muriel's eyes meet. His weight there slides

the weight on her. She braces an arm against the
brass rail, and turns her head away.
Muriel: Damn fool ; dear Dan, what did you
want to follow me here for? Oh cant you
[ 119]
 CANE

ever do anything right ? Must you always pain

me, and make me hate you? I do hate you. I

wish some one would come in with a horse-whip

and lash you out. I wish some one would drag
you up a back alley and brain you with the

whip-butt.
Muriel glances at her wrist-watch.
"Quarter of nine. Berny, what time have
you ?"
"Eight-forty. Time to begin. Oh, look
Muriel , that woman with the plume ; doesnt she
look good! They say she's going with, oh,
whats his name. You know. Too much powder.
I can see it from here. Here's the orchestra now.

O fine! Jim Clem at the piano ! "

The men fill the pit. Instruments run the
scale and tune. The saxophone moans and

throws a fit. Jim Clem, poised over the piano,

is ready to begin. His head nods forward.

Opening crash. The house snaps dark. The

curtain recedes upward from the blush of the
footlights. Jazz overture is over. The first
act is on.

Dan : Old stuff. Muriel-bored. Must be.

But she'll smile and she'll clap. Do what youre

[ 120]
 BOX SEAT

bid, you she-slave. Look at her. Sweet, tame

woman in a brass box seat. Clap, smile, fawn,

clap. Do what youre bid. Drag me in with you.

Dirty me. Prop me in your brass box seat. I'm

there, am I not ? because of you . He-slave.

Slave of a woman who is a slave. I'm a

damned sight worse than you are. I sing your

praises, Beauty! I exalt thee, O Muriel ! A

slave, thou art greater than all Freedom because

I love thee.

Dan fidgets, and disturbs his neighbors. His

neighbors glare at him. He glares back with-
out seeing them. The man whose corns have
been trod upon speaks to him.
"Keep quiet, cant you , mister. Other people
have paid their money besides yourself to see
the show."

The man's face is a blur about two sullen

liquid things that are his eyes. The eyes dis-

solve in the surrounding vagueness. Dan sud-
denly feels that the man is an enemy whom he
has long been looking for.
Dan bristles. Glares furiously at the man.

"All right. All right then. Look at the show.

I'm not stopping you."
[ 121 ]
 CANE

"Shhh," from some one in the rear.

Dan turns around.

"Its that man there who started everything.

I didnt say a thing to him until he tried to start
something. What have I got to do with whether
he has paid his money or not? Thats the man-
ager's business. Do I look like the manager?”
"Shhhh. Youre right. Shhhh."
"Dont tell me to shhh. Tell him. That man
there. He started everything. If what he

wanted was to start a fight, why didnt he say

so?"
The man leans forward.

"Better be quiet, sonny. I aint said a thing

about fight, yet. "
"Its a good thing you havent."
"Shhhh."

Dan grips himself. Another act is on.

Dwarfs, dressed like prize-fighters, foreheads

bulging like boxing gloves, are led upon the
stage. They are going to fight for the heavy-
weight championship. Gruesome. Dan glances
at Muriel. He imagines that she shudders. His
mind curves back into himself, and picks up
tail-ends of experiences. His eyes are open,

[ 122 ]
 BOX SEAT

mechanically. The dwarfs pound and bruise

and bleed each other, on his eyeballs.

Dan : Ah, but she was some baby ! And not

vulgar either. Funny how some women can do
those things. Muriel dancing like that ! Hell.
She rolled and wabbled. Her buttocks rocked.

She pulled up her dress and showed her pink

drawers. Baby ! And then she caught my

eyes. Dont know what my eyes had in them.

Yes I do. God, dont I though ! Sometimes I

think, Dan Moore, that your eyes could burn

clean ... burn clean ... BURN CLEAN! ..

The gong rings. The dwarfs set to. They

spar grotesquely, playfully, until one lands a
stiff blow. This makes the other sore. He com-

mences slugging. A real scrap is on. Time!

The dwarfs go to their corners and are sponged
and fanned off. Gloves bulge from their

wrists. Their wrists are necks for the tight-

faced gloves. The fellow to the right lets his

eyes roam over the audience. He sights Muriel.
He grins.
Dan: Those silly women arguing feminism.
Here's what I should have said to them. "It

[ 123 ]
 CANE

should be clear to you women, that the propo-

sition must be stated thus :

Me, horizontally above her.

Action : perfect strokes downward oblique.
Hence, man dominates because of limitation.
Or, so it shall be until women learn their stuff.

So framed, the proposition is a mental-filler,

Dentist, I want gold teeth. It should become
cherished of the technical intellect. I hereby

offer it to posterity as one of the important

machine-age designs . P. S. It should be noted,
that because it is an achievement of this age, its

growth and hence its causes, up to the point of

99
maturity, antedate machinery. Ery . .
The gong rings. No fooling this time. The
dwarfs set to. They clinch. The referee parts
them. One swings a cruel upper-cut and knocks
the other down. A huge head hits the floor.
Pop ! The house roars. The fighter, groggy,
scrambles up. The referee whispers to the con-

tenders not to fight so hard. They ignore him.

They charge. Their heads jab like boxing-
gloves. They kick and spit and bite. They
pound each other furiously. Muriel pounds.
[ 124 ]
 BOX SEAT

The house pounds. Cut lips. Bloody noses.

The referee asks for the gong. Time!!
Time The

house roars. The dwarfs bow, are made to bow.

The house wants more. The dwarfs are led from
the stage.

Dan : Strange I never really noticed him be-

fore. Been sitting there for years. Born a slave.
Slavery not so long ago. He'll die in his chair.

Swing low, sweet chariot. Jesus will come and

roll him down the river Jordan. Oh, come along,

Moses , you'll get lost ; stretch out your rod and

come across. LET MY PEOPLE GO ! Old

man. Knows everyone who passes the corners.

Saw the first horse-cars. The first Oldsmobile.

And he was born in slavery. I did see his eyes.

Never miss eyes. But they were bloodshot and
watery. It hurt to look at them. It hurts to

look in most people's eyes. He saw Grant and

Lincoln. He saw Walt-old man, did you see

Walt Whitman ? Did you see Walt Whitman !

Strange force that drew me to him. And I went
up to see. The woman thought I saw crazy. I
told him to look into the heavens . He did, and
smiled. I asked him if he knew what that rum-

bling is that comes up from the ground. Christ,

[ 125 ]
 CANE

what a stroke that was. And the jabbering

idiots crowding around. And the crossing-cop

leaving his job to come over and wheel him

away . ·
The house applauds. The house wants more.
The dwarfs are led back. But no encore. Must

give the house something. The attendant comes

out and announces that Mr. Barry, the cham-
pion, will sing one of his own songs, "for your
approval. " Mr. Barry grins at Muriel as he
wabbles from the wing. He holds a fresh white
rose, and a small mirror. He wipes blood from
his nose. He signals Jim Clem. The orchestra
starts. A sentimental love song, Mr. Barry
sings, first to one girl, and then another in the
audience. He holds the mirror in such a way
that it flashes in the face of each one he sings to.

The light swings around.

Dan: I am going to reach up and grab the
girders of this building and pull them down.
The crash will be a signal. Hid by the smoke
and dust Dan Moore will arise. In his right
hand will be a dynamo. In his left, a god's face
that will flash white light from ebony. I'll grab

a girder and swing it like a walking-stick.

[ 126 ]
 BOX SEAT

Lightning will flash. I'll grab its black knob

and swing it like a crippled cane. Lightning ...

Some one's flashing ... some one's flashing . ..
Who in hell is flashing that mirror ? Take it
off me, godam you.

Dan's eyes are half blinded. He moves his

head. The light follows. He hears the audience
laugh. He hears the orchestra. A man with a
high-pitched, sentimental voice is singing. Dan
sees the dwarf. Along the mirror flash the song
comes. Dan ducks his head. The audience
roars. The light swings around to Muriel. Dan
looks . Muriel is too close. Mr. Barry covers
his mirror. He sings to her. She shrinks away.
Nausea. She clutches the brass box-rail. She

moves to face away. The audience is square

upon her. Its eyes smile. Its hands itch to
clap. Muriel turns to the dwarf and forces a

smile at him. With a showy blare of orchestra-

tion, the song comes to its close. Mr. Barry
bows. He offers Muriel the rose, first having
kissed it. Blood of his battered lips is a vivid
stain upon its petals. Mr. Barry offers Muriel
the rose. The house applauds. Muriel flinches
back. The dwarf steps forward, diffident ;

[ 127 ]
 CANE

threatening. Hate pops from his eyes and

crackles like a brittle heat about the box. The
thick hide of his face is drawn in tortured

wrinkles. Above his eyes, the bulging, tight-

skinned brow. Dan looks at it. It grows calm
and massive. It grows profound . It is a thing
of wisdom and tenderness, of suffering and
beauty. Dan looks down. The eyes are calm
and luminous. Words come from them ·

Arms of the audience reach out, grab Muriel,

and hold her there. Claps are steel fingers that
manacle her wrists and move them forward to

acceptance. Berny leans forward and whispers :

"Its all right. Go on-take it."
Words form in the eyes of the dwarf :

Do not shrink. Do not be afraid of me.

Jesus
See how my eyes look at you.
the Son of God
I too was made in His image.
was once-
I give you the rose.

Muriel, tight in her revulsion, sees black, and

daintily reaches for the offering. As her hand
[ 128 ]
 BOX SEAT

touches it, Dan springs up in his seat and

shouts :

"JESUS WAS ONCE A LEPER ! "

Dan steps down.

He is as cool as a green stem that has just
shed its flower.

Rows of gaping faces strain towards him.

They are distant, beneath him, impalpable.
Squeezing out, Dan again treads upon the corn-
foot man. The man shoves him.

"Watch where youre going, mister. Crazy or

no, you aint going to walk over me. Watch

where youre going there."

Dan turns, and serenely tweaks the fellow's
nose. The man jumps up. Dan is jammed

against a seat-back. A slight swift anger flicks

him. His fist hooks the other's jaw.
"Now you have started something. Aint no
man living can hit me and get away with it.
Come on on the outside."

The house, tumultuously stirring, grabs its

wraps and follows the men.
The man leads Dan up a black alley. The
alley-air is thick and moist with smells of gar-
[129]
 CANE

bage and wet trash. In the morning, singing

niggers will drive by and ring their gongs..
Heavy with the scent of rancid flowers and with

the scent of fight. The crowd, pressing forward,

is a hollow roar. Eyes of houses, soft girl-eyes,
glow reticently upon the hubbub and blink out.
The man stops. Takes off his hat and coat.

Dan, having forgotten him, keeps going on.

[ 130]
 PRAYER

My body is opaque to the soul.

Driven of the spirit, long have I sought to temper it
unto the spirit's longing,
But my mind, too, is opaque to the soul.
A closed lid is my soul's flesh-eye.
O Spirits of whom my soul is but a little finger,
Direct it to the lid of its flesh-eye.
I am weak with much giving.
I am weak with the desire to give more.
(How strong a thing is the little finger !)
So weak that I have confused the body, with the soul,
And the body with its little finger.
(How frail is the little finger.)
My voice could not carry to you did you dwell in
stars,
O Spirits of whom my soul is but a little finger . •

[131 ]
 HARVEST SONG

I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All

my oats are cradled .
But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them.
And I hunger.

I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it.

I have been in the fields all day. My throat is dry.
I hunger.

My eyes are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-

time.
I am a blind man who stares across the hills, seeking
stack'd fields of other harvesters.

It would be good to see them . . crook'd, split, and

iron-ring'd handles of the scythes. It would be
good to see them, dust-caked and blind. I hunger.

(Dusk is a strange fear'd sheath their blades are dull'd

in.)
My throat is dry. And should I call, a cracked grain
like the oats . . . eoho-

I fear to call. What should they hear me, and offer

me their grain, oats, or wheat, or corn ? I have
been in the fields all day. I fear I could not taste
it. I fear knowledge of my hunger.

[ 132 ]
My ears are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-
time.
I am a deaf man who strains to hear the calls of other
harvesters whose throats are also dry.

It would be good to hear their songs . · reapers of

the sweet-stalk'd cane, cutters of the corn · •
even though their throats cracked and the
strangeness of their voices deafened me.

I hunger. My throat is dry. Now that the sun has

set and I am chilled, I fear to call. ( Eoho, my
brothers !)

I am a reaper. (Eoho ! ) All my oats are cradled.

But I am too fatigued to bind them. And I hun-
ger. I crack a grain. It has no taste to it.
My throat is dry. . .

O my brothers, I beat my palms, still soft, against the

stubble of my harvesting. (You beat your soft
palms, too. ) My pain is sweet. Sweeter than
the oats or wheat or corn. It will not bring me
knowledge of my hunger.

[133 ]
 BONA AND PAUL

N the school gymnasium floor, young men

ON
and women are drilling. They are going
to be teachers, and go out into the world . . thud,
thud .. and give precision to the movements of
sick people who all their lives have been drilling.
One man is out of step. In step. The teacher
glares at him. A girl in bloomers, seated on a
mat in the corner because she has told the di-

rector that she is sick, sees that the footfalls of

the men are rhythmical and syncopated. The
dance of his blue-trousered limbs thrills her.
Bona : He is a candle that dances in a grove

swung with pale balloons .

Columns of the drillers thud towards her. He
is in the front row. He is in no row at all. Bona
can look close at him. His red-brown face-
Bona : He is a harvest moon. He is an

autumn leaf. He is a nigger. Bona ! But dont

all the dorm girls say so ? And dont you, when
[134]
 BONA AND PAUL

you are sane, say so? Thats why I love Oh,

nonsense. You have never loved a man who

didnt first love you . Besides-

Columns thud away from her. Come to a halt
in line formation. Rigid. The period bell rings,
and the teacher dismisses them.

A group collects around Paul . They are

choosing sides for basket-ball . Girls against
boys. Paul has his. He is limbering up be-
neath the basket. Bona runs to the girl captain

and asks to be chosen. The girls fuss. The

director comes to quiet them. He hears what
Bona wants.

"But, Miss Hale, you were excused- "

"So I was, Mr. Boynton, but-"

"-you can play basket-ball, but you are too

sick to drill.”

"If you wish to put it that way."

She swings away from him to the girl captain.
"Helen, I want to play, and you must let me.
This is the first time I've asked and I dont see
why- "
99
"Thats just it, Bona. We have our team.'
"Well , team or no team, I want to play and
thats all there is to it."

[ 135]
 CANE

She snatches the ball from Helen's hands, and

charges down the floor.

Helen shrugs. One of the weaker girls says

that she'll drop out. Helen accepts this. The
team is formed. The whistle blows. The game

starts. Bona, in center, is jumping against Paul .

He plays with her. Out-jumps her, makes a
quick pass , gets a quick return, and shoots a goal
from the middle of the floor. Bona burns crim-

son. She fights, and tries to guard him. One of

her team-mates advises her not to play so hard.
Paul shoots his second goal.

Bona begins to feel a little dizzy and all in.

She drives on. Almost hugs Paul to guard him.

Near the basket, he attempts to shoot, and Bona

lunges into his body and tries to beat his arms .
His elbow, going up, gives her a sharp crack on
the jaw. She whirls . He catches her. Her body
stiffens. Then becomes strangely vibrant, and
bursts to a swift life within her anger. He is

about to give way before her hatred when a new

passion flares at him and makes his stomach fall.
Bona squeezes him. He suddenly feels stifled,
and wonders why in hell the ring of silly gaping
faces that's caked about him doesnt make way

[ 136 ]
 BONA AND PAUL

and give him air. He has a swift illusion that it

is himself who has been struck. He looks at

Bona. Whir. Whir. They seem to be human

distortions spinning tensely in a fog. Spin-
ning · · dizzy · spinning... Bona jerks
herself free, flushes a startling crimson, breaks
through the bewildered teams, and rushes from
the hall.

Paul is in his room of two windows.

Outside, the South-Side L track cuts them in

two.

Bona is one window. One window, Paul.

Hurtling Loop-jammed L trains throw them
in swift shadow.

Paul goes to his . Gray slanting roofs of

houses are tinted lavender in the setting sun.

Paul follows the sun, over the stock-yards where

a fresh stench is just arising, across wheat lands
that are still waving above their stubble, into
the sun. Paul follows the sun to a pine-matted

hillock in Georgia. He sees the slanting roofs

of gray unpainted cabins tinted lavender. A
[137 ]
 CANE

Negress chants a lullaby beneath the mate-eyes

of a southern planter. Her breasts are ample

for the suckling of a song. She weans it, and

sends it, curiously weaving, among lush melo-

dies of cane and corn. Paul follows the sun into
himself in Chicago .

He is at Bona's window.

With his own glow he looks through a dark

pane.

Paul's room-mate comes in.

"Say, Paul, I've got a date for you . Come on.

Shake a leg, will you?"
His blonde hair is combed slick. His vest
is snug about him.

He is like the electric light which he snaps on.

"Whatdoysay, Paul ? Get a wiggle on. Come

on. We havent got much time by the time we eat
and dress and everything."
His bustling concentrates on the brushing of
his hair.

Art: What in hell's getting into Paul of late,

anyway? Christ, but he's getting moony. Its

his blood. Dark blood : moony. Doesnt get
)
[ 138]
 BONA AND PAUL

anywhere unless you boost it . You've got to

keep it going-
"Say, Paul ! "

-or it'll go to sleep on you. Dark blood ;

nigger ? Thats what those jealous she-hens say.
Not Bona though, or she . . from the South . •
wouldnt want me to fix a date for him and her.

Hell of a thing, that Paul's dark : you've got to

always be answering questions.
"Say, Paul, for Christ's sake leave that win-
dow, cant you ?"
"Whats it, Art ?”
"Hell , I've told you about fifty times . Got a
date for you. Come on. "
"With who?"
Art: He didnt use to ask ; now he does. Get-
ting up in the air. Getting funny.
"Heres your hat. Want a smoke? Paul!

Here. I've got a match. Now come on and I'll

tell you all about it on the way to supper."
Paul : He's going to Life this time. No doubt
of that. Quit your kidding. Some day, dear Art,
I'm going to kick the living slats out of you, and
you wont know what I've done it for. And your
slats will bring forth Life beautiful
woman. ·
[ 139]
 CANE

Pure Food Restaurant.

"Bring me some soup with a lot of crackers ,

understand ? And then a roast-beef dinner.

Same for you, eh, Paul ? Now as I was saying,

you've got a swell chance with her. And she's
game. Best proof: she dont give a damn what
the dorm girls say about you and her in the gym ,
or about the funny looks that Boynton gives her,
or about what they say about, well, hell, you
know, Paul. And say, Paul , she's a sweetheart.
Tall, not puffy and pretty, more serious and
deep-the kind you like these days. And they
say she's got a car. And say, she's on fire. But
you know all about that . She got Helen to fix it
up with me. The four of us- remember the last

party? Crimson Gardens ! Boy ! "

Paul's eyes take on a light that Art can settle
in.

Art has on his patent-leather pumps and fancy

vest. A loose fall coat is swung across his arm.
His face has been massaged, and over a close

shave, powdered. It is a healthy pink the blue

[ 140 ]
 BONA AND PAUL

of evening tints a purple pallor. Art is happy

and confident in the good looks that his mirror
gave him. Bubbling over with a joy he must
spend now if the night is to contain it all. His

bubbles, too, are curiously tinted purple as Paul

watches them. Paul, contrary to what he had
thought he would be like, is cool like the dusk,
and like the dusk, detached. His dark face is
a floating shade in evening's shadow. He sees
Art, curiously. Art is a purple fluid, carbon-
charged, that effervesces besides him. He loves

Art. But is it not queer, this pale purple fac-

simile of a red-blooded Norwegian friend of his ?
Perhaps for some reason, white skins are not
supposed to live at night. Surely, enough nights
would transform them fantastically, or kill them.
And their red passion ? Night paled that too,
and made it moony. Moony. Thats what Art
thought of him. Bona didnt, even in the day-
time. Bona, would she be pale? Impossible.

Not that red glow. But the conviction did not

set his emotion flowing.

"Come right in, wont you ? The young ladies

will be right down . Oh, Mr. Carlstrom, do play

something for us while you are waiting. We just

[ 141 ]
 CANE

love to listen to your music. You play so well."

Houses, and dorm sitting-rooms are places
where white faces seclude themselves at night.
There is a reason. . .

Art sat on the piano and simply tore it down.

Jazz. The picture of Our Poets hung perilously.
Paul: I've got to get the kid to play that stuff
for me in the daytime. Might be different.
More himself. More nigger. Different ? There
is. Curious, though.

The girls come in . Art stops playing, and

almost immediately takes up a petty quarrel,
where he had last left it, with Helen.
Bona, black-hair curled staccato, sharply con-
trasting with Helen's puffy yellow, holds Paul's
hand. She squeezes it. Her own emotion sup-
plements the return pressure. And then, for no
tangible reason, her spirits drop . Without them,
she is nervous, and slightly afraid. She resents
this. Paul's eyes are critical. She resents Paul.
She flares at him. She flares to poise and

security.
"Shall we be on our way?"

"Yes, Bona, certainly."

The Boulevard is sleek in asphalt, and , with

[ 142 ]
 BONA AND PAUL

arc-lights and limousines, aglow. Dry leaves

scamper behind the whir of cars. The scent of
exploded gasoline that mingles with them is
faintly sweet. Mellow stone mansions over-

shadow clapboard homes which now resemble

Negro shanties in some southern alley. Bona
and Paul, and Art and Helen, move along an

island-like, far-stretching strip of leaf- soft

ground. Above them, worlds of shadow-planes
and solids , silently moving. As if on one of
these, Paul looks down on Bona. No doubt of

it : her face is pale. She is talking. Her words

have no feel to them. One sees them. They are
pink petals that fall upon velvet cloth. Bona is
soft, and pale, and beautiful.
"Paul, tell me something about yourself-or
would you rather wait ?"
"I'll tell you anything you'd like to know."
"Not what I want to know, Paul ; what you
want to tell me."

"You have the beauty of a gem fathoms un-

der sea."

"I feel that, but I dont want to be. I want to

be near you. Perhaps I will be if I tell you
something. Paul, I love you . "
[ 143 ]
 CANE

The sea casts up its jewel into his hands, and

burns them furiously. To tuck her arm under
his and hold her hand will ease the burn.

"What can I say to you, brave dear woman-

I cant talk love. Love is a dry grain in my
mouth unless it is wet with kisses ."

"You would dare ? right here on the Boule-

vard ? before Arthur and Helen ?"

"Before myself ? I dare."

"Here then."

Bona, in the slim shadow of a tree trunk, pulls

Paul to her. Suddenly she stiffens. Stops.
"But you have not said you love me."
"I cant-yet- Bona."
"Ach, you never will. Youre cold. Cold."

Bona : Colored ; cold. Wrong somewhere.

She hurries and catches up with Art and
Helen .

Crimson Gardens. Hurrah ! So one feels.

People . . . University of Chicago students,

members of the stock exchange, a large Negro in
crimson uniform who guards the door . had

[ 144 ]
 BONA AND PAUL

watched them enter. Had leaned towards each

other over ash- smeared tablecloths and high-

balls and whispered : What is he, a Spaniard, an
Indian, an Italian, a Mexican, a Hindu , or a
Japanese ? Art had at first fidgeted under their
stares . • what are you looking at, you godam

pack of owl-eyed hyenas? . . but soon settled

into his fuss with Helen, and forgot them. A
strange thing happened to Paul. Suddenly he

knew that he was apart from the people around

him. Apart from the pain which they had un-
consciously caused. Suddenly he knew that
people saw, not attractiveness in his dark skin,

but difference. Their stares, giving him to him-

self, filled something long empty within him,
and were like green blades sprouting in his con-
sciousness. There was fullness, and strength

and peace about it all. He saw himself, cloudy,

but real. He saw the faces of the people at the
tables round him. White lights, or as now, the

pink lights of the Crimson Gardens gave a glow

and immediacy to white faces. The pleasure of
it, equal to that of love or dream, of seeing this.
Art and Bona and Helen ? He'd look. They
were wonderfully flushed and beautiful. Not
[ 145 ]
 CANE

for himself; because they were. Distantly.

Who were they, anyway ? God, if he knew them.

He'd come in with them. Of that he was sure.

Come where ? Into life ? Yes. No. Into the

Crimson Gardens. A part of life. A carbon

bubble. Would it look purple if he went out

into the night and looked at it ? His sudden

starting to rise almost upset the table.
"What in hell-pardon-whats the matter,
Paul?"
99
"I forgot my cigarettes-
"Youre smoking one."
"So I am. Pardon me.'

The waiter straightens them out. Takes their

order.

Art : What in hell's eating Paul ? Moony

aint the word for it. From bad to worse. And

those godam people staring so. Paul's a queer

fish. Doesnt seem to mind. . . He's my pal,
let me tell you, you horn-rimmed owl-eyed hyena
at that table, and a lot better than you whoever
you are... Queer about him. I could stick up
for him if he'd only come out, one way or the
other, and tell a feller. Besides, a room-mate
has a right to know. Thinks I wont under-
[ 146]
 BONA AND PAUL

stand. Said so. He's got a swell head when it

comes to brains, all right. God, he's a good

straight feller, though. Only, moony. Nut.
Nuttish. Nuttery. Nutmeg.. • "What'd you

say, Helen?"

"I was talking to Bona, thank you. "

"Well, its nothing to get spiffy about."
"What? Oh, of course not. Please lets dont
start some silly argument all over again."
"Well."
"Well."

"Now thats enough. Say, waiter, whats the

matter with our order ? Make it snappy, will
you?"
Crimson Gardens. Hurrah ! So one feels.
The drinks come. Four highballs. Art passes
cigarettes. A girl dressed like a bare-back rider

in flaming pink, makes her way through tables

to the dance floor. All lights are dimmed till
they seem a lush afterglow of crimson. Spot-
lights the girl. She sings. "Liza, Little Liza
Jane."
Paul is rosy before his window.
He moves, slightly, towards Bona.
With his own glow, he seeks to penetrate a
dark pane.

[ 147 ]
 CANE

Paul: From the South. What does that

mean, precisely, except that you'll love or hate a

nigger? Thats a lot. What does it mean except

that in Chicago you'll have the courage to neither
love or hate. A priori. But it would seem that
you have. Queer words, arent these, for a man

who wears blue pants on a gym floor in the day-

time. Well, never matter. You matter. I'd

like to know you whom I look at. Know, not

love. Not that knowing is a greater pleasure ;

but that I have just found the joy of it. You

came just a month too late. Even this after-

noon I dreamed. To-night, along the Boule-

vard, you found me cold. Paul Johnson, cold !

Thats a good one, eh, Art, you fine old stupid

fellow, you ! But I feel good ! The color and
the music and the song. . . A Negress chants a
lullaby beneath the mate-eyes of a southern
planter. O song ! . . And those flushed faces.

Eager brilliant eyes. Hard to imagine them as

unawakened . Your own. Oh, they're awake

all right. “And you know it too, dont you

Bona ?"

"What, Paul?”
"The truth of what I was thinking."

[148 ]
 BONA AND PAUL

"I'd like to know I know- something of you. "

"You will-before the evening's over. I

promise it. "

Crimson Gardens . Hurrah ! So one feels.
The bare-back rider balances agilely on the ap-

plause which is the tail of her song. Orchestral

instruments warm up for jazz. The flute is a
cat that ripples its fur against the deep-purring
saxophone. The drum throws sticks. The cat

jumps on the piano keyboard. Hi diddle, hi

diddle, the cat and the fiddle. Crimson Gar-
dens · · hurrah ! • • jumps over the moon.
Crimson Gardens ! Helen . • O Eliza

rabbit-eyes sparkling, plays up to, and tries to

placate what she considers to be Paul's contempt.
She always does that .. Little Liza Jane. . .
Once home, she burns with the thought of what
she's done. She says all manner of snidy things
about him, and swears that she'll never go out

again when he is along. She tries to get Art to

break with him, saying, that if Paul, whom the
whole dormitory calls a nigger, is more to him
than she is, well, she's through. She does not
break with Art. She goes out as often as she can
with Art and Paul. She explains this to herself
[ 149]
 CANE

by a piece of information which a friend of hers

had given her : men like him ( Paul ) can fasci-
nate. One is not responsible for fascination.
Not one girl had really loved Paul ; he fascinated
them. Bona didnt ; only thought she did. Time
would tell. And of course, she didnt. Liza. . .

She plays up to, and tries to placate, Paul.

"Paul is so deep these days, and I'm so glad
he's found some one to interest him. "
"I dont believe I do."

The thought escapes from Bona just a moment

before her anger at having said it.
Bona : You little puffy cat, I do. I do !
Dont I, Paul? her eyes ask.

Her answer is a crash of jazz from the palm-

hidden orchestra. Crimson Gardens is a body
whose blood flows to a clot upon the dance floor.
Art and Helen clot. Soon, Bona and Paul.
Paul finds her a little stiff, and his mind, wan-
dering to Helen (silly little kid who wants every
highball spoon her hands touch, for a souve-
nir) , supple, perfect little dancer, wishes for the
next dance when he and Art will exchange.
Bona knows that she must win him to herself.

"Since when have men like you grown cold ?"

[ 150]
 BONA AND PAUL

"The first philosopher."

"I thought you were a poet -or a gym di-
rector. "
"Hence, your failure to make love."
Bona's eyes flare. Water. Grow red about

the rims. She would like to tear away from him

and dash across the clotted floor.

"What do you mean?"

"Mental concepts rule you. If they were flush
99
with mine-good. I dont believe they are.'
"How do you know, Mr. Philosopher ?"
"Mostly a priori. "
"You talk well for a gym director."
"And you- "

"I hate you. Ou ! "

She presses away. Paul, conscious of the

convention in it, pulls her to him. Her body

close. Her head still strains away. He nearly
crushes her. She tries to pinch him. Then sees
people staring, and lets her arms fall. Their
eyes meet. Both, contemptuous. The dance

takes blood from their minds and packs it, tin-

gling, in the torsos of their swaying bodies.

Passionate blood leaps back into their eyes.

They are a dizzy blood clot on a gyrating floor.

[151 ]
 CANE

They know that the pink- faced people have no

part in what they feel. Their instinct leads
them away from Art and Helen, and towards the

big uniformed black man who opens and closes

the gilded exit door. The cloak- room girl is
tolerant of their impatience over such trivial
things as wraps. And slightly superior. As the
black man swings the door for them , his eyes
are knowing. Too many couples have passed
out, flushed and fidgety, for him not to know.
The chill air is a shock to Paul. A strange thing

happens. He sees the Gardens purple, as if he

were way off. And a spot is in the purple. The
spot comes furiously towards him . Face of the
black man. It leers. It smiles sweetly like a
child's. Paul leaves Bona and darts back so

quickly that he doesnt give the door-man a

chance to open. He swings in. Stops . Before
the huge bulk of the Negro.
99
"Youre wrong."
"Yassur. "

"Brother, youre wrong.

"I came back to tell you, to shake your hand,

and tell you that you are wrong. That some-

thing beautiful is going to happen. That the
[152 ]
 BONA AND PAUL

Gardens are purple like a bed of roses would be

at dusk. That I came into the Gardens, into
life in the Gardens with one whom I did not

know. That I danced with her, and did not

know her. That I felt passion, contempt and
passion for her whom I did not know. That I

thought of her. That my thoughts were matches

thrown into a dark window. And all the while

the Gardens were purple like a bed of roses

Iwould be at dusk. I came back to tell you ,
brother, that white faces are petals of roses.
That dark faces are petals of dusk. That I am
going out and gather petals. That I am going
out and know her whom I brought here with me
to these Gardens which are purple like a bed of
roses would be at dusk."
Paul and the black man shook hands.

When he reached the spot where they had been

standing, Bona was gone.

[ 153 ]
 )

to WALDO FRANK.
 KABNIS

RALPH KABNIS, propped in his bed, tries

to read. To read himself to sleep. An oil
lamp on a chair near his elbow burns unsteadily.
The cabin room is spaced fantastically about it.
Whitewashed hearth and chimney, black with
sooty saw-teeth. Ceiling, patterned by the

fringed globe of the lamp . The walls, un- black

painted, are seasoned a rosin yellow. And
Bret
cracks between the boards are black. These

cracks are the lips the night winds use for whis-
pering. Night winds in Georgia are vagrant
poets, whispering. Kabnis, against his will, lets
his book slip down, and listens to them. The
warm whiteness of his bed, the lamp-light, do
not protect him from the weird chill of their

song:
White-man's land.
Аля
Niggers, sing. evenz
Burn, bear black children
Till poor rivers bring
Rest, and sweet glory
In Camp Ground.

[ 157 ]
 CANE

Kabnis' thin hair is streaked on the pillow.

His hand strokes the slim silk of his mustache.

His thumb, pressed under his chin, seems to be

trying to give squareness and projection to it.
Brown eyes stare from a lemon face. Moisture
gathers beneath his arm-pits. He slides down
beneath the cover, seeking release.
Kabnis : Near me. Now. Whoever you are,
my warm glowing sweetheart, do not think that

the face that rests beside you is the real Kabnis.

Ralph Kabnis is a dream. And dreams are
faces with large eyes and weak chins and broad
brows that get smashed by the fists of square

faces . The body of the world is bull-necked .

A dream is a soft face that fits uncertainly upon
it.. • God, if I could develop that in words.
Give what I know a bull-neck and a heaving

body, all would go well with me, wouldnt it,

sweetheart? If I could feel that I came to the

South to face it. If I, the dream (not what is

weak and afraid in me) could become the face of
the South. How my lips would sing for it, my
songs being the lips of its soul. Soul. Soul hell.
There aint no such thing. What in hell was
that ?

[ 158 ]
 KABNIS

A rat had run across the thin boards of the

ceiling. Kabnis thrusts his head out from the

covers. Through the cracks, a powdery faded
red dust sprays down on him. Dust of slave-
fields, dried, scattered. · · No use to read.

Christ, if he only could drink himself to sleep .

Something as sure as fate was going to happen.
He couldnt stand this thing much longer. A

hen, perched on a shelf in the adjoining room

begins to tread. Her nails scrape the soft wood.
Her feathers ruffle.

"Get out of that, you egg-laying bitch."

Kabnis hurls a slipper against the wall . The
hen flies from her perch and cackles as if a skunk
were after her.

"Now cut out that racket or I'll wring your

neck for you ."

Answering cackles arise in the chicken yard.

"Why in Christ's hell cant you leave me
alone ? Damn it, I wish your cackle would choke
you. Choke every mother's son of them in this

God-forsaken hole. Go away. By God I'll

wring your neck for you if you dont. Hell of a

mess I've got in : even the poultry is hostile. Go

way. Go way. By God , I'll . . . ”
[ 159 ]
 CANE

Kabnis jumps from his bed. His eyes are

wild. He makes for the door. Bursts through
it. The hen, driving blindly at the window-
pane, screams. Then flies and flops around try-
ing to elude him. Kabnis catches her.
"Got you now, you she-bitch. "
With his fingers about her neck, he thrusts
open the outside door and steps out into the
serene loveliness of Georgian autumn moon-
light. Some distance off, down in the valley, a
band of pine-smoke, silvered gauze, drifts stead-
ily. The half-moon is a white child that sleeps
upon the tree-tops of the forest. White winds

croon its sleep-song:

rock a-by baby . .

Black mother sways, holding a white child on her
bosom.
when the bough bends
Her breath hums through pine-cones.
cradle will fall •
Teat moon-children at your breasts,
down will come baby · •
Black mother.

Kabnis whirls the chicken by its neck, and

throws the head away. Picks up the hopping
[ 160 ]
 KABNIS

body, warm, sticky, and hides it in a clump of

bushes . He wipes blood from his hands onto

the coarse scant grass .
Kabnis : Thats done. Old Chromo in the

big house there will wonder whats become of her

pet hen. Well, it'll teach her a lesson : not to

make a hen-coop of my quarters . Quarters.

Hell of a fine quarters , I've got. Five years
ago ; look at me now. Earth's child . The earth

my mother. God is a profligate red-nosed man

about town. Bastardy ; me. A bastard son has
got a right to curse his maker. God. . .
Kabnis is about to shake his fists heaven-

ward. He looks up, and the night's beauty

strikes him dumb. He falls to his knees. Sharp

stones cut through his thin pajamas . The shock

sends a shiver over him. He quivers . Tears
mist his eyes. He writhes .
"God Almighty, dear God , dear Jesus, do not
torture me with beauty. Take it away. Give

me an ugly world. Ha, ugly. Stinking like un-

washed niggers . Dear Jesus, do not chain me to
myself and set these hills and valleys, heaving
with folk-songs, so close to me that I cannot
reach them. There is a radiant beauty in the

[ 161 ]
 CANE

night that touches and . . . tortures me. Ugh .

Hell. Get up, you damn fool. Look around.

Whats beautiful there ? Hog pens and chicken

yards. Dirty red mud. Stinking outhouse.

Whats beauty anyway but ugliness if it hurts

you ? God, he doesnt exist, but nevertheless He

is ugly. Hence, what comes from Him is ugly.

Lynchers and business men, and that cockroach

Hanby, especially. How come that he gets to

be principal of a school ? Of the school I'm

driven to teach in ? God's handiwork, doubt-

less. God and Hanby, they belong together.

Two godam moral- spouters. Oh , no, I wont let

that emotion come up in me. Stay down. Stay

down, I tell you. O Jesus, Thou art beauti-

ful..
Come, Ralph, pull yourself together.
Curses and adoration dont come from what is
sane. This loneliness, dumbness, awful, in-

tangible oppression is enough to drive a man in-

sane. Miles from nowhere. A speck on a

Georgia hillside. Jesus, can you imagine it-

an atom of dust in agony on a hillside ? Thats

a spectacle for you . Come, Ralph, old man,

pull yourself together."
Kabnis has stiffened . He is conscious now of

[162 ]
 KABNIS

the night wind, and of how it chills him. He rises.

He totters as a man would who for the first time

uses artificial limbs. As a completely artificial

man would. The large frame house, squatting
on brick pillars, where the principal of the
school, his wife, and the boarding girls sleep,
seems a curious shadow of his mind. He tries,
but cannot convince himself of its reality. His
gaze drifts down into the vale, across the swamp,
up over the solid dusk bank of pines, and rests,
bewildered-like, on the court-house tower. It is
dull silver in the moonlight. White child that
sleeps upon the top of pines. Kabnis' mind
clears. He sees himself yanked beneath that
tower. He sees white minds , with indolent as-
sumption, juggle justice and a nigger. . . Some-
where, far off in the straight line of his sight, is
Augusta. Christ, how cut off from everything he
is. And hours, hours north, why not say a life-
time north ? Washington sleeps . Its still,
peaceful streets, how desirable they are. Its

people whom he had always halfway despised.

New York? Impossible. It was a fiction. He
had dreamed it. An impotent nostalgia grips
him. It becomes intolerable. He forces him-

[ 163 ]
 CANE

self to narrow to a cabin silhouetted on a knoll

t about a mile away. Peace.
an Negroes within it
as
pe are content. They farm. They sing. They love.
fe
li They sleep. Kabnis wonders if perhaps they
can feel him. If perhaps he gives them bad
dreams. Things are so immediate in Georgia.
Thinking that now he can go to sleep, he re-
enters his room. He builds a fire in the open

hearth. The room dances to the tongues of

flames, and sings to the crackling and spurting

of the logs. Wind comes up between the floor
boards, through the black cracks of the walls.
Kabnis : Cant sleep. Light a cigarette. If
that old bastard comes over here and smells
smoke, I'm done for . Hell of a note, cant even

smoke. The stillness of it : where they burn and

hang men, you cant smoke. Cant take a swig of
licker. What do they think this is , anyway,

some sort of temperance school ? How did I

ever land in such a hole? Ugh. One might just
as well be in his grave. Still as a grave. Jesus,
how still everything is. Does the world know
how still it is ? People make noise. They are

afraid of silence. Of what lives, and God , of

what dies in silence. There must be many dead

[ 164 ]
 KABNIS

things moving in silence. They come here to

touch me. I swear I feel their fingers. . . Come,
Ralph, pull yourself together. What in hell was
that? Only the rustle of leaves, I guess. You
know, Ralph, old man , it wouldnt surprise me at
all to see a ghost. People dont think there are
such things. They rationalize their fear, and
call their cowardice science. Fine bunch, they
are. Damit, that was a noise. And not the wind

either. A chicken maybe. Hell, chickens dont

wander around this time of night. What in hell
is it?

A scraping sound, like a piece of wood drag-

ging over the ground, is coming near.
"Ha, ha. The ghosts down this way havent
got any chains to rattle, so they drag trees along
with them. Thats a good one. But no joke,
something is outside this house, as sure as hell.
Whatever it is, it can get a good look at me and
I cant see it. Jesus Christ !"
Kabnis pours water on the flames and blows
his lamp out. He picks up a poker and stealthily
approaches the outside door. Swings it open,
and lurches into the night. A calf, carrying a
yoke of wood, bolts away from him and scampers
down the road.
[ 165]
 CANE

"Well, I'm damned. This godam place is

sure getting the best of me. Come, Ralph, old
man, pull yourself together. Nights cant last
forever. Thank God for that. Its Sunday al-
ready. First time in my life I've ever wanted
Sunday to come. Hell of a day. And down

here there's no such thing as ducking church.

Well, I'll see Halsey and Layman , and get a

good square meal . Thats something. And

Halsey's a damn good feller. Cant talk to him,

though. Who in Christ's world can I talk to ?

A hen. God. Myself. • • I'm going bats, no

doubt of that. Come now, Ralph, go in and

make yourself go to sleep. Come now . . in the

door . . thats right. Put the poker down. There.

All right. Slip under the sheets . Close your
eyes. Think nothing . a long time . noth-

ing, nothing. Dont even think nothing. Blank.

Not even blank. Count. No, mustnt count.
Nothing . · blank . · nothing . • blank . ·

space without stars in it. No, nothing . . noth-

ing .
Kabnis sleeps . The winds, like soft-voiced

vagrant poets sing :

[ 166]
 KABNIS

White-man's land.
Niggers, sing.
Burn, bear black children
Till poor rivers bring
Rest, and sweet glory
In Camp Ground.

The parlor of Fred Halsey's home. There is

a seediness about it. It seems as though the fit-

tings have given a frugal service to at least

seven generations of middle-class shop-owners .
An open grate burns cheerily in contrast to the
gray cold changed autumn weather. An old-

fashioned mantelpiece supports a family clock

(not running) , a figure or two in imitation
bronze, and two small group pictures. Directly
above it, in a heavy oak frame, the portrait of a

bearded man. Black hair, thick and curly, in-

tensifies the pallor of the high forehead. The
eyes are daring. The nose, sharp and regular.
The poise suggests a tendency to adventure
checked by the necessities of absolute command.

The portrait is that of an English gentleman

who has retained much of his culture, in that
[ 167 ]
 CANE

money has enabled him to escape being drawn

through a land-grubbing pioneer life. His

nature and features, modified by marriage and

circumstances , have been transmitted to his
great-grandson, Fred . To the left of this picture,
spaced on the wall, is a smaller portrait of the
great-grandmother. That here there is a Negro
strain, no one would doubt. But it is difficult
to say in precisely what feature it lies. On close

inspection, her mouth is seen to be wistfully

twisted . The expression of her face seems to shift
before one's gaze- now ugly, repulsive ; now sad ,
て
and somehow beautiful in its pain. A tin wood-
box rests on the floor below. To the right of the
great-grandfather's portrait hangs a family
group : the father, mother, two brothers, and
one sister of Fred . It includes himself some

thirty years ago when his face was an olive white,

and his hair luxuriant and dark and wavy. The
father is a rich brown . The mother, practically
white. Of the children , the girl, quite young ,

is like Fred ; the two brothers, darker. The

walls of the room are plastered and painted
green. An old upright piano is tucked into the
corner near the window. The window looks out
[ 168]
 KABNIS

on a forlorn, box-like, whitewashed frame

church. Negroes are gathering, on foot, driv-

ing questionable gray and brown mules, and in
an occasional Ford, for afternoon service. Be-

yond, Georgia hills roll off into the distance ,

their dreary aspect heightened by the gray spots
of unpainted one- and two-room shanties.
Clumps of pine trees here and there are the

dark points the whole landscape is approaching.

The church bell tolls. Above its squat tower, a
great spiral of buzzards reaches far into the
heavens. An ironic comment upon the path that
leads into the Christian land. . . Three rocking
chairs are grouped around the grate. Sunday
papers scattered on the floor indicate a recent
usage. Halsey, a well-built, stocky fellow, hair
cropped close, enters the room. His Sunday

clothes smell of wood and glue, for it is his habit

to potter around his wagon-shop even on the
Lord's day. He is followed by Professor Lay-
man, tall, heavy, loose-jointed Georgia Negro,
by turns teacher and preacher, who has traveled
in almost every nook and corner of the state and
hence knows more than would be good for any-
one other than a silent man. Kabnis, trying to
[ 169 ]
 CANE

force through a gathering heaviness, trails in be-

hind them . They slip into chairs before the fire.

Layman : Sholy fine, Mr. Halsey, sholy fine.
This town's right good at feedin folks, better'n
most towns in th state, even for preachers, but
I ken say this beats um all. Yassur. Now aint

that right, Professor Kabnis ?

Kabnis : Yes sir, this beats them all, all right
-best I've had, and thats a fact, though my

comparison doesnt carry far, y'know.

Layman : Hows that, Professor?

Kabnis : Well, this is my first time out-

Layman : For a fact. Aint seed you round
so much. Whats th trouble? Dont like our
folks down this away?

Halsey: Aint that, Layman. He aint like

most northern niggers that way. Aint a thing
stuck up about him. He likes us, you an me,
maybe all-its that red mud over yonder-gets

stuck in it an cant get out. (Laughs. ) An

then he loves th fire so, warm as its been. Cold-
est Yankee I've ever seen. But I'm goin t get
him out now in a jiffy, eh, Kabnis ?
Kabnis : Sure, I should say so, sure. Dont
think its because I dont like folks down this way.

[170]
 KABNIS

Just the opposite, in fact. Theres more hospi-

tality and everything. Its diff-that is, theres
lots of northern exaggeration about the South.
Its not half the terror they picture it. Things
are not half bad, as one could easily figure out
for himself without ever crossing the Mason and
Dixie line : all these people wouldnt stay down
here, especially the rich, the ones that could eas-
ily leave, if conditions were so mighty bad. And
then too, sometime back, my family were south-
erners y'know. From Georgia, in fact-

Layman : Nothin t feel proud about, Pro-

fessor. Neither your folks nor mine.
Halsey (in a mock religious tone) : Amen t
that, brother Layman. Amen (turning to Kab-
nis, half playful, yet somehow dead in earnest) .
An Mr. Kabnis, kindly remember youre in th
land of cotton- hell of a land . Th white folks

get th boll ; th niggers get th stalk. An dont you

dare touch th boll, or even look at it. They'll
swing y sho. (Laughs. )
Kabnis : But they wouldnt touch a gentle-
man- fellows, men like us three here-

Layman: Nigger's a nigger down this away,

Professor. An only two dividins : good an bad.
[171 ]
 CANE

An even they aint permanent categories. They

sometimes mixes um up when it comes t lynchin.
I've seen um do it.

Halsey : Dont let th fear int y, though, Kab-

nis. This county's a good un. Aint been a

stringin up I can remember. (Laughs. )

Layman : This is a good town an a good
county. But theres some that makes up fer it.
Kabnis : Things are better now though since
that stir about those peonage cases , arent they?
Layman: Ever hear tell of a single shot kill-
in moren one rabbit, Professor ?
Kabnis : No, of course not, that is, but
then-

Halsey: Now I know you werent born yester-

day, sprung up so rapid like you aint heard of
th brick thrown in th hornets ' nest. (Laughs. )

Kabnis : Hardly, hardly, I know—

Halsey : Course y do. (To Layman) See,
northern niggers aint as dumb as they make out
t be.

Kabnis (overlooking the remark) : Just stirs

them up to sting.
Halsey: T perfection . An put just like a
professor should put it.

[ 172 ]
 KABNIS

Kabnis : Thats what actually did happen?

Layman : Well, if it aint sos only because th
stingers already movin jes as fast as they ken
go. An been goin ever since I ken remember, an
then some mo. Though I dont usually make
mention of it.

Halsey : Damn sight better not. Say, Lay-

man, you come from where theyre always swarm-
in, dont y ?
Layman : Yassur . I do that, sho. Dont
want t mention it, but its a fact. I've seed th
time when there werent no use t even stretch out

flat upon th ground. Seen um shoot an cut a

man t pieces who had died th night befo. Yas-
sur. An they didnt stop when they found out
he was dead- jes went on ahackin at him any-
way.
Kabnis : What did you do? What did you
say to them, Professor?

Layman: Thems th things you neither does

a thing or talks about if y want t stay around
this away, Professor.
Halsey: Listen t what he's tellin y, Kabnis.

May come in handy some day.

Kabnis : Cant something be done ? But of
[173]
 CANE

course not. This preacher-ridden race. Pray

and shout. Theyre in the preacher's hands.
Thats what it is. And the preacher's hands are
in the white man's pockets.

Halsey: Present company always excepted.

Kabnis : The Professor knows I wasnt refer-
ring to him.

Layman: Preacher's a preacher anywheres

you turn. No use exceptin.

Kabnis : Well, of course, if you look at it

that way. I didnt mean- But cant something

be done?

Layman: Sho. Yassur. An done first rate

an well. Jes like Sam Raymon done it.
Kabnis : Hows that? What did he do ?

Layman: Th white folks ( reckon I oughtnt

tell it ) had jes knocked two others like you kill
a cow- brained um with an ax, when they
caught Sam Raymon by a stream . They was
about t do fer him when he up an says, "White

folks, I gotter die, I knows that. But wont y

let me die in my own way?" Some was fer get-
tin after him, but th boss held um back an says,
"Jes so longs th nigger dies-" An Sam fell

down ont his knees an prayed, "O Lord, Ise

[174 ]
 KABNIS

comin to y," an he up an jumps int th stream.

Singing from the church becomes audible.
Above it, rising and falling in a plaintive moan,

a woman's voice swells to shouting. Kabnis

hears it. His face gives way to an expression of

mingled fear, contempt, and pity. Layman takes

no notice of it. Halsey grins at Kabnis. He
feels like having a little sport with him.
Halsey : Lets go t church, eh, Kabnis ?
Kabnis (seeking control ) : All right- no

sir, not by a damn sight. Once a days enough

for me. Christ, but that stuff gets to me. Mean-

ing no reflection on you , Professor.
Halsey : Course not. Say, Kabnis , noticed y
this morning. What'd y get up for an go out?
Kabnis : Couldnt stand the shouting, and

thats a fact. We dont have that sort of thing

up North. We do , but, that is, some one should
see to it that they are stopped or put out when
they get so bad the preacher has to stop his
sermon for them.

Halsey: Is that th way youall sit on sisters

up North?
Kabnis : In the church I used to go to no
one ever shouted-

[ 175 ]
 CANE

Halsey: Lungs weak?

Kabnis : Hardly, that is-
Halsey : Yankees are right up t th minute in
tellin folk how t turn a trick. They always
were good at talkin.
Kabnis : Well, anyway, they should be

stopped.
Layman: Thats right. Thats true . An its
th worst ones in th community that comes int th
church t shout. I've sort a made a study of it.

You take a man what drinks, th biggest licker-

head around will come int th church an yell th
loudest. An th sister whats done wrong, an is
always doin wrong, will sit down in th Amen
corner an swing her arms an shout her head off.

Seems as if they cant control themselves out in

th world ; they cant control themselves in church .
Now dont that sound logical , Professor ?
Halsey: Reckon its as good as any. But I

heard that queer cuss over yonder-y know him,

dont y, Kabnis ? Well, y ought t. He had a
run-in with your boss th other day-same as
you'll have if you dont walk th chalk-line. An
th quicker th better. I hate that Hanby.

Ornery bastard. I'll mash his mouth in one of

[ 176 ]
 KABNIS

these days. Well, as I was sayin, that feller,

Lewis's name, I heard him sayin somethin about
a stream whats dammed has got t cut loose
somewheres. An that sounds good. I know th
feelin myself. He strikes me as knowin a bucket-

ful bout most things, that feller does. Seems

like he doesnt want t talk, an does, sometimes,

like Layman here. Damn queer feller, him.

Layman : Cant make heads or tails of him,
an I've seen lots o queer possums in my day.
Everybody's wonderin about him. White folks
too. He'll have t leave here soon, thats sho.

Always askin questions. An I aint seed his lips

move once. Pokin round an notin somethin.

Noted what I said th other day, an that werent

fer notin down.
Kabnis : What was that?

Layman : Oh, a lynchin that took place bout

a year ago. Th worst I know of round these

parts.
Halsey : Bill Burnam ?
Layman : Na. Mame Lamkins.

Halsey grunts, but says nothing.

The preacher's voice rolls from the church in
an insistent chanting monotone. At regular in-
[ 177 ]
 CANE

tervals it rises to a crescendo note. The sister

begins to shout. Her voice, high-pitched and

hysterical, is almost perfectly attuned to the nerv-
ous key of Kabnis. Halsey notices his distress ,
and is amused by it. Layman's face is expres-
sionless. Kabnis wants to hear the story of
Mame Lamkins. He does not want to hear it.

It can be no worse than the shouting.

Kabnis (his chair rocking faster ) : What
about Mame Lamkins ?

Halsey : Tell him, Layman.

The preacher momentarily stops. The choir,
together with the entire congregation, sings an
old spiritual. The music seems to quiet the
shouter. Her heavy breathing has the sound of
evening winds that blow through pinecones.
Layman's voice is uniformly low and soothing .
A canebrake, murmuring the tale to its neighbor-
road would be more passionate.

Layman: White folks know that niggers talk,

an they dont mind jes so long as nothing comes
of it, so here goes. She was in th family-way,
Mame Lamkins was. They killed her in th
street, an some white man seein th risin in her

stomach as she lay there soppy in her blood like

[ 178 ]
 KABNIS

any cow, took an ripped her belly open, an th

kid fell out. It was living ; but a nigger baby
aint supposed t live. So he jabbed his knife in
it an stuck it t a tree. An then they all went

away.
Kabnis : Christ no ! What had she done?
Layman : Tried t hide her husband when
they was after him.

A shriek pierces the room. The bronze pieces

on the mantel hum. The sister cries frantically :

"Jesus, Jesus, I've found Jesus. O Lord, glory

t God, one mo sinner is acomin home.' At the

height of this, a stone, wrapped round with

paper, crashes through the window. Kabnis

springs to his feet, terror-stricken. Layman is

worried. Halsey picks up the stone. Takes off
the wrapper, smooths it out, and reads: "You

northern nigger, its time fer y t leave. Git

along now." Kabnis knows that the command

is meant for him. Fear squeezes him. Caves

him in. As a violent external pressure would .

Fear flows inside him. It fills him up. He

bloats. He saves himself from bursting by dash-
ing wildly from the room. Halsey and Layman
stare stupidly at each other. The stone, the
[ 179]
 CANE

crumpled paper are things, huge things that

weight them. Their thoughts are vaguely con-
cerned with the texture of the stone, with the
color of the paper. Then they remember the
words, and begin to shift them about in sen-
tences. Layman even construes them grammati-
cally. Suddenly the sense of them comes back

to Halsey. He grips Layman by the arm and

they both follow after Kabnis.
A false dusk has come early. The country-
side is ashen, chill. Cabins and roads and cane-

brakes whisper. The church choir, dipping into

a long silence, sings :

My Lord, what a mourning,

My Lord, what a mourning,
My Lord, what a mourning,
When the stars begin to fall.

Softly luminous over the hills and valleys, the

faint spray of a scattered star.. •

A splotchy figure drives forward along the

cane- and corn-stalk hemmed-in road. A

[ 180]
 ว
KABNIS

scarecrow replica of Kabnis, awkwardly ani-

mate. Fantastically plastered with red Georgia
mud. It skirts the big house whose windows
shine like mellow lanterns in the dusk. Its

shoulder jogs against a sweet-gum tree. The

figure caroms off against the cabin door, and
lunges in. It slams the door as if to prevent
some one entering after it.

"God Almighty, theyre here. After me. On

me. All along the road I saw their eyes flaring
from the cane. Hounds. Shouts. What in

God's name did I run here for ? A mud-hole

trap. I stumbled on a rope. O God, a rope.

Their clammy hands were like the love of death

playing up and down my spine. Trying to trip

my legs. To trip my spine. Up and down my
spine. My spine. . . My legs. . . Why in hell
didn't they catch me? "
Kabnis wheels around, half defiant, half
numbed with a more immediate fear.

"Wanted to trap me here. Get out o there. I

see you . "

He grabs a broom from beside the chimney

and violently pokes it under the bed. The broom

[ 181 ]
 CANE

strikes a tin wash-tub. The noise bewilders.

He recovers .
"Not there. In the closet."

He throws the broom aside and grips the

poker. Starts towards the closet door, towards
somewhere in the perfect blackness behind the
chimney.
"I'll brain you."

He stops short. The barks of hounds, evi-

dently in pursuit, reach him. A voice, liquid in
distance, yells, “Hi ! Hi ! ”

"O God, theyre after me. Holy Father,

Mother of Christ- hell, this aint no time for
prayer- "
Voices, just outside the door :
"Reckon he's here."

"Dont see no light though."

The door is flung open.
Kabnis : Get back or I'll kill you.

He braces himself, brandishing the poker.

Halsey (coming in) : Aint as bad as all that.

Put that thing down.

Layman : Its only us, Professor. Nobody
else after y.

Kabnis : Halsey. Layman. Close that door.

[ 182 ]
 KABNIS

Dont light that light. For godsake get away

from there.

Halsey: Nobody's after y, Kabnis, I'm tellin

y. Put that thing down an get yourself together.

Kabnis: I tell you they are. I saw them. I
heard the hounds.

Halsey: These aint th days of hounds an

Uncle Tom's Cabin, feller. White folks aint in
fer all them theatrics these days. Theys more

direct than that. If what they wanted was t get

y, theyd have just marched right in an took y

where y sat. Somebodys down by th branch

chasin rabbits an atreein possums .

A shot is heard.

Halsey : Got him, I reckon. Saw Tom goin

out with his gun. Tom's pretty lucky most

times.

He goes to the bureau and lights the lamp.

The circular fringe is patterned on the ceiling.

The moving shadows of the men are huge

against the bare wall boards. Halsey walks up
to Kabnis, takes the poker from his grip, and
without more ado pushes him into a chair before
the dark hearth.

[ 183 ]
 CANE

Halsey: Youre a mess. Here, Layman. Get

some trash an start a fire.

Layman fumbles around, finds some news-

papers and old bags, puts them in the hearth,
arranges the wood , and kindles the fire. Halsey
sets a black iron kettle where it soon will be boil-

ing. Then takes from his hip-pocket a bottle of

corn licker which he passes to Kabnis.
Halsey : Here. This'll straighten y out a bit.
Kabnis nervously draws the cork and gulps
the licker down .
Kabnis : Ha . Good stuff. Thanks . Thank

y, Halsey.
Halsey : Good stuff! Youre damn right .

Hanby there dont think so. Wonder he doesnt

come over t find out whos burnin his oil. Miserly
bastard, him. Th boys what made this stuff—are
y listenin t me, Kabnis ? th boys what made
this stuff have got th art down like I heard you
say youd like t be with words . Eh ? Have some,
Layman ?
Layman : Dont think I care for none, thank
y jes th same, Mr. Halsey.
Halsey : Care hell. Course y care. Every-
body cares around these parts. Preachers an
[ 184 ]
 KABNIS

school teachers an everybody. Here. Here, take

it. Dont try that line on me.
Layman limbers up a little, but he cannot
quite forget that he is on school ground.
Layman : Thats right. Thats true, sho.
Shinin is th only business what pays in these
hard times.

He takes a nip , and passes the bottle to Kab-

nis. Kabnis is in the middle of a long swig when

a rap sounds on the door. He almost spills the

bottle, but manages to pass it to Halsey just as
the door swings open and Hanby enters . He is
a well-dressed, smooth, rich, black-skinned
Negro who thinks there is no one quite so suave

and polished as himself. To members of his

own race, he affects the manners of a wealthy
white planter. Or, when he is up North, he lets
it be known that his ideas are those of the best

New England tradition. To white men he bows ,

without ever completely humbling himself.
Tradesmen in the town tolerate him because he

spends his money with them. He delivers his

words with a full consciousness of his moral

superiority.
Hanby: Hum. Erer, Professor Kabnis, to
[ 185 ]
 CANE

come straight to the point : the progress of the

Negro race is jeopardized whenever the personal
habits and examples set by its guides and men-
tors fall below the acknowledged and hard-won
standard of its average member. This institu-
tion, of which I am the humble president, was
founded, and has been maintained at a cost of
great labor and untold sacrifice. Its purpose is
to teach our youth to live better, cleaner, more
noble lives. To prove to the world that the
Negro race can be just like any other race. It
hopes to attain this aim partly by the salutary
examples set by its instructors. I cannot hinder

the progress of a race simply to indulge a single

member. I have thought the matter out before-
hand, I can assure you . Therefore, if I find
your resignation on my desky to-morrow morn-

ing, Mr. Kabnis, I shall no feel obliged to call

in the sheriff. Otherwise.. "
Kabnis : A fellow can take a drink in his

own room if he wants to, in the privacy of his

own room.
Hanby: His room, but not the institution's
room, Mr. Kabnis.

Kabnis : This is my room while I'm in it.

[ 186 ]
 KABNIS

Hanby: Mr. Clayborn (the sheriff) can in-

form you as to that.
Kabnis : Oh, well, what do I care glad to

get out of this mud-hole.

Hanby: I should think so from your looks.

Kabnis : You neednt get sarcastic about it.
Hanby: No, that is true. And I neednt wait

for your resignation either, Mr. Kabnis.

Kabnis: Oh, you'll get that all right. Dont

worry.

Hanby: And I should like to have the room

thoroughly aired and cleaned and ready for your

successor by to-morrow noon, Professor.
Kabnis (trying to rise): You can have your

godam room right away. I dont want it.

Hanby: But I wont have your cursing.

Halsey pushes Kabnis back into his chair.

Halsey: Sit down, Kabnis , till I wash y.

Hanby (to Halsey) : I would rather not have

drinking men on the premises, Mr. Halsey.

You will oblige me-

Halsey: I'll oblige you by stayin right on

this spot, this spot, get me? till I get damned

ready t leave.

[187]
 CANE

He approaches Hanby. Hanby retreats, but

manages to hold his dignity.
Halsey : Let me get you told right now, Mr.
Samuel Hanby. Now listen t me. I aint no

slick an span slave youve hired, an dont y think

it for a minute. Youve bullied enough about
this town. An besides, wheres that bill youve
been owin me? Listen t me. If I dont get it

paid in by tmorrer noon, Mr. Hanby (he

mockingly assumes Hanby's tone and manner) ,

I shall feel obliged t call th sheriff. An that

sheriff'll be myself who'll catch y in th road an

pull y out your buggy an rightly attend t y. You
heard me. Now leave him alone. I'm takin him
home with me. I got it fixed. Before you came

in. He's goin t work with me. Shapin shafts

and buildin wagons'll make a man of him what

nobody, y get me ? what nobody can take ad-
vantage of. Thats all.. •

Halsey burrs off into vague and incoherent

comment.

Pause. Disagreeable.

Layman's eyes are glazed on the spurting fire.

Kabnis wants to rise and put both Halsey and
Hanby in their places. He vaguely knows that
[ 188]
 KABNIS

he must do this, else the power of direction will

completely slip from him to those outside. The

conviction is just strong enough to torture him.

To bring a feverish, quick-passing flare into his
eyes. To mutter words soggy in hot saliva. To

jerk his arms upward in futile protest. Halsey,

noticing his gestures , thinks it is water that he

desires . He brings a glass to him . Kabnis

slings it to the floor. Heat of the conviction
dies. His arms crumple. His upper lip, his
mustache, quiver. Rap ! rap, on the door. The
sounds slap Kabnis. They bring a hectic color
to his cheeks . Like huge cold finger tips they
touch his skin and goose-flesh it. Hanby strikes

a commanding pose. He moves toward Layman.

Layman's face is innocently immobile.
Halsey: Whos there?
Voice : Lewis.

Halsey: Come in, Lewis. Come on in.

Lewis enters. He is the queer fellow who has
been referred to. A tall wiry copper-colored

man, thirty perhaps. His mouth and eyes sug-

gest purpose guided by an adequate intelligence.
He is what a stronger Kabnis might have been,
and in an odd faint way resembles him. As he
[189 ]
 CANE

steps towards the others, he seems to be issuing

sharply from a vivid dream. Lewis shakes

hands with Halsey. Nods perfunctorily to Han-

by, who has stiffened to meet him. Smiles
rapidly at Layman, and settles with real interest
on Kabnis.

Lewis : Kabnis passed me on the road. Had

a piece of business of my own, and couldnt get
here any sooner. Thought I might be able to

help in some way or other.

Halsey: A good baths bout all he needs now.
An somethin t put his mind t rest.
Lewis : I think I can give him that. That
note was meant for me. Some Negroes have
grown uncomfortable at my being here—
Kabnis : You mean, Mr. Lewis, some col-
ored folks threw it? Christ Amighty!

Halsey : Thats what he means. An just as I

told y. White folks more direct than that.
Kabnis : What are they after you for?
Lewis: Its a long story, Kabnis. Too long
for now. And it might involve present company.

(He laughs pleasantly and gestures vaguely in

the direction of Hanby. ) Tell you about it later
on perhaps.

[ 190]
 KABNIS

Kabnis : Youre not going?

Lewis: Not till my month's up.
Halsey: Hows that?
Lewis : I'm on a sort of contract with my-

self. (Is about to leave. ) Well, glad its noth-

ing serious-

Halsey: Come round t th shop sometime why

dont y, Lewis ? I've asked y enough. I'd like
t have a talk with y. I aint as dumb as I look.
Kabnis an me'll be in most any time. Not much
work these days. Wish t hell there was. This
burg gets to me when there aint. ( In answer to
Lewis' question. ) He's goin t work with me.
Ya. Night air this side th branch aint good fer
him. (Looks at Hanby. Laughs. )
Lewis : I see...

His eyes turn to Kabnis. In the instant of

their shifting, a vision of the life they are to

meet. Kabnis, a promise of a soil- soaked beauty ;
uprooted, thinning out. Suspended a few feet
above the soil whose touch would resurrect him.

Arm's length removed from him whose will to

help... There is a swift intuitive interchange
of consciousness. Kabnis has a sudden need to

rush into the arms of this man. His eyes call ,

[ 191 ]
 CANE

"Brother." And then a savage, cynical twist-

about within him mocks his impulse and
strengthens him to repulse Lewis. His lips

curl cruelly. His eyes laugh. They are glitter-

ing needles, stitching. With a throbbing ache
they draw Lewis to. Lewis brusquely wheels on
Hanby.
Lewis : I'd like to see you , sir , a moment, if
you dont mind.

Hanby's tight collar and vest effectively pre-

serve him.

Hanby: Yes, erer, Mr. Lewis . Right away.

Lewis : See you later, Halsey .
Halsey : So long-thanks-sho hope so,
Lewis.

As he opens the door and Hanby passes out, a

woman, miles down the valley, begins to sing.
Her song is a spark that travels swiftly to the
near-by cabins. Like purple tallow flames, songs
jet up. They spread a ruddy haze over the
heavens. The haze swings low. Now the whole
countryside is a soft chorus. Lord. O Lord...
Lewis closes the door behind him. A flame jets
out...

The kettle is boiling. Halsey notices it. He

[ 192 ]
 KABNIS

pulls the wash-tub from beneath the bed. He

arranges for the bath before the fire.

Halsey : Told y them theatrics didnt fit a

white man. Th niggers , just like I told y. An
after him. though .
Aint surprisin though. He aint

bowed t none of them. Nassur. T nairy a one

of them nairy an inch nairy a time. An only
mixed when he was good an ready-

Kabnis : That song, Halsey, do you hear it?

Halsey: Thats a man. Hear me, Kabnis ?
A man-

Kabnis : Jesus, do you hear it.

Halsey: Hear it ? Hear what ? Course I
hear it. Listen t what I'm tellin y. A man, get

me? They'll get him yet if he dont watch out.

Kabnis is jolted into his fear.
Kabnis : Get him? What do you mean?

How? Not lynch him?

Halsey: Na . Take a shotgun an shoot his
eyes clear out. Well, anyway, it wasnt fer you,
just like I told y. You'll stay over at th house an
work with me, eh, boy? Good t get away from
his nobs, eh ? Damn big stiff though, him. An
youre not th first an I can tell y . (Laughs. )
He bustles and fusses about Kabnis as if he

[193 ]
 CANE

were a child. Kabnis submits, wearily. He

has no will to resist him.

Layman (his voice is like a deep hollow

echo) : Thats right. Thats true, sho. Every-

body's been expectin that th bust up was comin.

Surprised um all y held on as long as y did.
Teachin in th South aint th thing fer y. Nassur.

You ought t be way back up North where some-

times I wish I was. But I've hung on down this
away so long-
Halsey: An there'll never be no leavin time
fer y.

A month has passed.

Halsey's workshop. It is an old building just

off the main street of Sempter. The walls to
within a few feet of the ground are of an age-

worn cement mixture. On the outside they are

considerably crumbled and peppered with what
looks like musket-shot. Inside, the plaster has

fallen away in great chunks, leaving the laths,

grayed and cobwebbed, exposed. A sort of loft
above the shop proper serves as a break-water
[ 194 ]
 KABNIS

for the rain and sunshine which otherwise would

have free entry to the main floor. The shop is

filled with old wheels and parts of wheels,
broken shafts , and wooden litter. A double
door, midway the street wall. To the left of this,

a work-bench that holds a vise and a variety of

wood-work tools. A window with as many

panes broken as whole, throws light on the

bench. Opposite, in the rear wall, a second win-

dow looks out upon the back yard. In the left
wall, a rickety smoke-blackened chimney, and
hearth with fire blazing. Smooth-worn chairs

grouped about the hearth suggest the village

meeting-place. Several large wooden blocks,
chipped and cut and sawed on their upper sur-
faces are in the middle of the floor. They are
the supports used in almost any sort of wagon-
work. Their idleness means that Halsey has no

worth-while job on foot. To the right of the

central door is a junk heap, and directly behind
this, stairs that lead down into the cellar. The
cellar is known as "The Hole." Besides being
the home of a very old man, it is used by Halsey
on those occasions when he spices up the life of
the small town.

[ 195]
 CANE

Halsey, wonderfully himself in his work over-

alls, stands in the doorway and gazes up the
street, expectantly. Then his eyes grow listless.
He slouches against the smooth-rubbed frame.

He lights a cigarette. Shifts his position. Braces

an arm against the door. Kabnis passes the
window and stoops to get in under Halsey's arm.
He is awkward and ludicrous, like a schoolboy

in his big brother's new overalls. He skirts the

large blocks on the floor, and drops into a chair

before the fire. Halsey saunters towards him.
Kabnis : Time f lunch.

Halsey : Ya .

He stands by the hearth, rocking backward

and forward. He stretches his hands out to the

fire. He washes them in the warm glow of the

flames. They never get cold, but he warms them.

Kabnis : Saw Lewis up th street. Said he'd
be down.

Halsey's eyes brighten. He looks at Kabnis.

Turns away. Says nothing. Kabnis fidgets.

Twists his thin blue cloth-covered limbs . Pulls

closer to the fire till the heat stings his shins.

Pushes back. Pokes the burned logs. Puts on

[196 ]
 KABNIS

several fresh ones. Fidgets. The town bell

strikes twelve.
Kabnis : Fix it up f tnight?
Halsey: Leave it t me.
Kabnis : Get Lewis in ?

Halsey : Tryin t.
The air is heavy with the smell of pine and
resin. Green logs spurt and sizzle. Sap trickles
from an old pine-knot into the flames. Layman
enters. He carries a lunch-pail . Kabnis , for
the moment, thinks that he is a day laborer.
Layman: Evenin, gen'lemun.
Both : Whats say, Layman.

Layman squares a chair to the fire and droops

into it. Several town fellows, silent unfathom-
able men for the most part, saunter in. Overalls.
Thick tan shoes. Felt hats marvelously shaped
and twisted. One asks Halsey for a cigarette.

He gets it. The blacksmith, a tremendous black

man, comes in from the forge. Not even a nod

from him. He picks up an axle and goes out.

Lewis enters. The town men look curiously at

him . Suspicion and an open liking contest for

possession of their faces . They are uncomfort-
able. One by one they drift into the street.
[ 197 ]
 CANE

Layman : Heard y was leavin, Mr. Lewis.

Kabnis : Months up, eh ? Hell of a month
I've got.

Halsey : Sorry y goin, Lewis. Just getting

acquainted like.
Lewis : Sorry myself, Halsey, in a way—

Layman: Gettin t like our town, Mr. Lewis ?

Lewis: I'm afraid its on a different basis ,
Professor.

Halsey: An I've yet t hear about that basis .

Been waitin long enough, God knows. Seems
t me like youd take pity on a feller if nothin
more.

Kabnis : Somethin that old black cockroach

over yonder doesnt like, whatever it is.
Layman : Thats right. Thats right, sho.
Halsey : A feller dropped in here tother day
an said he knew what you was about. Said you
had queer opinions. Well , I could have told
him you was a queer one, myself. But not th
way he was driftin. Didnt mean anything by it,
but just let drop he thought you was a little
wrong up here crazy, y'know. (Laughs. )
Kabnis : Y mean old Blodson ? Hell, he's
bats himself.

[198]
 KABNIS

Lewis: I remember him. We had a talk.

But what he found queer, I think, was not my

opinions, but my lack of them. In half an hour

he had settled everything : boll weevils , God, the

World War. Weevils and wars are the pests

that God sends against the sinful. People are

too weak to correct themselves : the Redeemer is

coming back. Get ready, ye sinners, for the

advent of Our Lord. Interesting, eh, Kabnis ?
but not exactly what we want.

Halsey: Y could have come t me. I've sho

been after y enough. Most every time I've seen y.

Kabnis (sarcastically) : Hows it y never

came t us professors ?
Lewis : I did to one.

Kabnis : Y mean t say y got somethin from

that celluloid-collar-eraser-cleaned old codger
over in th mud hole?

Halsey: Rough on th old boy, aint he?

(Laughs. )
Lewis : Something, yes. Layman here could
have given me quite a deal, but the incentive to
his keeping quiet is so much greater than any-
thing I could have offered him to open up, that I
crossed him off my mind. And you-

[ 199]
 CANE

Kabnis : What about me?

Halsey : Tell him, Lewis, for godsake tell

him. I've told him. But its somethin else he
wants so bad I've heard him downstairs mum-
blin with th old man.
Lewis : The old man?
Kabnis : What about me ? Come on now,
you know so much.

Halsey: Tell him, Lewis. Tell it t him.

Lewis : Life has already told him more than

he is capable of knowing. It has given him in
excess of what he can receive. I have been of-

fered. Stuff in his stomach curdled, and he

vomited me.

Kabnis' face twitches. His body writhes.

Kabnis : You know a lot, you do. How
about Halsey ?

Lewis : Yes. . . Halsey ? Fits here. Be-

longs here. An artist in your way, arent you,
Halsey?
Halsey: Reckon I am, Lewis. Give me th

work and fair pay an I aint askin nothin better.

Went over-seas an saw France ; an I come back.
Been up North ; an I come back. Went t school ;
but there aint no books whats got th feel t them
[ 200 ]
 KABNIS

of them there tools. Nassur. An I'm atellin y.

A shriveled , bony white man passes the win-

dow and enters the shop. He carries a broken
hatchet-handle and the severed head. He speaks
with a flat, drawn voice to Halsey, who comes
forward to meet him.

Mr. Ramsay : Can y fix this fer me, Halsey?

Halsey (looking it over) : Reckon so, Mr.
Ramsay. Here, Kabnis. A little practice fer y.
Halsey directs Kabnis , showing him how to
place the handle in the vise, and cut it down.
The knife hangs . Kabnis thinks that it must
be dull. He jerks it hard . The tool goes deep
and shaves too much off. Mr. Ramsay smiles
brokenly at him.
Mr. Ramsay (to Halsey) : Still breakin in
the new hand, eh, Halsey ? Seems like a likely
enough faller once he gets th hang of it.
He gives a tight laugh at his own good humor.
Kabnis burns red. The back of his neck stings
him beneath his collar. He feels stifled.

Through Ramsay, the whole white South weighs

down upon him. The pressure is terrific. He
sweats under the arms. Chill beads run down

his body. His brows concentrate upon the han-

[ 201 ]
 CANE

dle as though his own life was staked upon the

perfect shaving of it. He begins to out and out

botch the job. Halsey smiles.

Halsey: He'll make a good un some of these
days, Mr. Ramsay.
Mr. Ramsay: Y ought t know. Yer daddy
was a good un before y. Runs in th family,
seems like t me.

Halsey : Thats right, Mr. Ramsay.

Kabnis is hopeless . Halsey takes the handle
from him. With a few deft strokes he shaves it.
Fits it. Gives it to Ramsay.

Mr. Ramsay: How much on this ?

Halsey : No charge, Mr. Ramsay.

Mr. Ramsay (going out ) : All right, Halsey.
Come down an take it out in trade. Shoe-strings

or something.

Halsey : Yassur, Mr. Ramsay.

Halsey rejoins Lewis and Layman. Kabnis,
hangdog-fashion, follows him.
Halsey: They like y if y work fer them.

Layman : Thats right, Mr. Halsey. Thats

right, sho.

The group is about to resume its talk when

[ 202 ]
 KABNIS

Hanby enters. He is all energy, bustle, and busi-

ness. He goes direct to Kabnis.

Hanby : An axle is out in the buggy which I

would like to have shaped into a crow-bar. You
will see that it is fixed for me.

Without waiting for an answer, and knowing

that Kabnis will follow, he passes out. Kabnis,
scowling, silent, trudges after him.
Hanby (from the outside) : Have that ready
for me by three o'clock, young man. I shall
call for it.

Kabnis (under his breath as he comes in) :

Th hell you say, you old black swamp-gut.

He slings the axle on the floor.
Halsey: Wheeee !

Layman, lunch finished long ago, rises, heav-

ily. He shakes hands with Lewis.
Layman : Might not see y again befo y leave,
Mr. Lewis. I enjoys t hear y talk. Y might
have been a preacher. Maybe a bishop some
day. Sho do hope t see y back this away again
sometime, Mr. Lewis.

Lewis : Thanks, Professor. Hope I'll see

you.
Layman waves a long arm loosely to the
[ 203 ]
 CANE

others, and leaves. Kabnis goes to the door.

His eyes, sullen, gaze up the street .
Kabnis : Carrie K.'s comin with th lunch.
Bout time.

She passes the window. Her red girl's-cap ,

catching the sun, flashes vividly. With a stiff,
awkward little movement she crosses the door-

sill and gives Kabnis one of the two baskets

which she is carrying. There is a slight stoop to
her shoulders. The curves of her body blend
with this to a soft rounded charm. Her gestures

are stiffly variant. Black bangs curl over the

forehead of her oval-olive face. Her expression
is dazed, but on provocation it can melt into a
wistful smile. Adolescent. She is easily the
sister of Fred Halsey.

Carrie K. Mother says excuse her, brother

Fred an Ralph, fer bein late.
Kabnis : Everythings all right an O.K. ,

Carrie Kate. O.K. an all right.

The two men settle on their lunch. Carrie,
with hardly a glance in the direction of the
hearth, as is her habit, is about to take the second

basket down to the old man, when Lewis rises.

In doing so he draws her unwitting attention.
[204]
 KABNIS

Their meeting is a swift sun-burst. Lewis im-

pulsively moves towards her. His mind flashes

images of her life in the southern town. He sees

the nascent woman, her flesh already stiffening
to cartilage, drying to bone. Her spirit-bloom ,
even now touched sullen, bitter. Her rich

beauty fading. . . He wants to He stretches

forth his hands to hers. He takes them. They

feel like warm cheeks against his palms. The

sun-burst from her eyes floods up and haloes
him. Christ-eyes, his eyes look to her. Fear-
lessly she loves into them. And then something
happens. Her face blanches. Awkwardly she
draws away. The sin-bogies of respectable
southern colored folks clamor at her : "Look out !

Be a good girl. A good girl. Look out ! " She

gropes for her basket that has fallen to the floor.
Finds it, and marches with a rigid gravity to her

task of feeding the old man. Like the glowing

white ash of burned paper, Lewis' eyelids, wa-
vering, settle down. He stirs in the direction of

the rear window. From the back yard, mules

tethered to odd trees and posts blink dumbly at
him. They too seem burdened with an impotent
pain. Kabnis and Halsey are still busy with
[ 205 ]
 CANE

their lunch. They havent noticed him. After

a while he turns to them.

Lewis : Your sister, Halsey, whats to become

of her ? What are you going to do for her?
Halsey : Who ? What ? What am I goin
t do ? . •

Lewis : What I mean is, what does she do

down there?

Halsey: Oh. Feeds th old man. Had lunch,

Lewis ?

Lewis : Thanks, yes. You have never felt

her, have you, Halsey ? Well, no, I guess not.
I dont suppose you can. Nor can she. . . Old

man? Halsey, some one lives down there? I've

never heard of him. Tell me-
Kabnis takes time from his meal to answer

with some emphasis :

Kabnis : Theres lots of things you aint heard
of.

Lewis : Dare say. I'd like to see him.

Kabnis : You'll get all th chance you want
tnight.
Halsey: Fixin a little somethin up fer tnight,

Lewis. Th three of us an some girls. Come

round bout ten-thirty.

[ 206 ]
 KABNIS

Lewis : Glad to. But what under the sun

does he do down there?

Halsey : Ask Kabnis. He blows off t him

every chance he gets.
Kabnis gives a grunting laugh. His mouth
twists. Carrie returns from the cellar. Avoid-

ing Lewis, she speaks to her brother.

Carrie K. Brother Fred, father hasnt eaten

now goin on th second week, but mumbles an

talks funny, or tries t talk when I put his hands

ont th food. He frightens me, an I dunno what
t do. An oh, I came near fergettin, brother, but
Mr. Marmon- he was eatin lunch when I saw

him -told me t tell y that th lumber wagon

busted down an he wanted y t fix it fer him.

Said he reckoned he could get it t y after he ate.
Halsey chucks a half-eaten sandwich in the
fire. Gets up. Arranges his blocks. Goes to

the door and looks anxiously up the street. The

wind whirls a small spiral in the gray dust road.
Halsey: Why didnt y tell me sooner, little
sister?

Carrie K.: I fergot t, an just remembered it

now, brother.

Her soft rolled words are fresh pain to Lewis.

[ 207 ]
 CANE

He wants to take her North with him What for?

He wonders what Kabnis could do for her.
What she could do for him. Mother him. Carrie

gathers the lunch things, silently, and in her

pinched manner, curtsies, and departs . Kabnis
lights his after-lunch cigarette. Lewis, who has
sensed a change, becomes aware that he is not
included in it. He starts to ask again about the
old man. Decides not to . Rises to go.
Lewis : Think I'll run along, Halsey.
Halsey : Sure. Glad t see y any time.
Kabnis : Dont forget tnight.

Lewis : Dont worry. I wont. So long.

Kabnis : So long. We'll be expectin y.

Lewis passes Halsey at the door. Halsey's

cheeks form a vacant smile. His eyes are wide

awake, watching for the wagon to turn from

Broad Street into his road.

Halsey : So long.
His words reach Lewis halfway to the corner.

List . 5

‫بونیتا‬ Night, soft belly of a pregnant Negress , throbs

evenly against the torso of the South. Night
throbs a womb-song to the South. Cane- and
[208 ]
 KABNIS

cotton-fields, pine forests , cypress swamps, saw-

mills, and factories are fecund at her touch.

Night's womb-song sets them singing. Night

winds are the breathing of the unborn child

whose calm throbbing in the belly of a Negress
sets them somnolently singing. Hear their song.

White-man's land.
Niggers, sing.
Burn, bear black children
Till poor rivers bring
Rest, and sweet glory
In Camp Ground.

Sempter's streets are vacant and still. White

paint on the wealthier houses has the chill blue

glitter of distant stars . Negro cabins are a

purple blur. Broad Street is deserted. Winds

stir beneath the corrugated iron canopies and

dangle odd bits of rope tied to horse- and mule-
gnawed hitching-posts . One store window has a

light in it. Chesterfield cigarette and Chero-

Cola cardboard advertisements are stacked in it.
From a side door two men come out. Pause, for

a last word and then say good night. Soon they

melt in shadows thicker than they. Way off
down the street four figures sway beneath iron
[209 ]
 CANE

awnings which form a sort of corridor that im-

perfectly echoes and jumbles what they say. A
fifth form joins them. They turn into the road
that leads to Halsey's workshop . The old build-
ing is phosphorescent above deep shade. The
figures pass through the double door. Night
winds whisper in the eaves. Sing weirdly in the
ceiling cracks. Stir curls of shavings on the
floor. Halsey lights a candle. A good-sized
lumber wagon, wheels off, rests upon the blocks.
Kabnis makes a face at it. An unearthly hush
is upon the place. No one seems to want to
talk. To move, lest the scraping of their feet ..·
Halsey: Come on down this way, folks.
He leads the way. Stella follows . And close
after her, Cora, Lewis, and Kabnis. They de-
scend into the Hole. It seems huge, limitless in
the candle light. The walls are of stone, won-
derfully fitted . They have no openings save a
small iron-barred window toward the top of
each . They are dry and warm. The ground
slopes away to the rear of the building and thus
leaves the south wall exposed to the sun. The
blacksmith's shop is plumb against the right

wall. The floor is clay. Shavings have at odd

[ 210 ]
 KABNIS

times been matted into it. In the right-hand

corner, under the stairs , two good-sized pine mat-
tresses, resting on cardboard, are on either side
of a wooden table. On this are several half-

burned candles and an oil lamp. Behind the

table, an irregular piece of mirror hangs on the
wall . A loose something that looks to be a gaudy
ball costume dangles from a near-by hook. To
the front, a second table holds a lamp and sev-
eral whiskey glasses. Six rickety chairs are near
this table. Two old wagon wheels rest on the
floor. To the left, sitting in a high-backed chair
which stands upon a low platform, the old man.
He is like a bust in black walnut. Gray-
bearded. Gray-haired . Prophetic. Immobile.
Lewis' eyes are sunk in him. The others , un-
concerned, are about to pass on to the front
table when Lewis grips Halsey and so turns him
that the candle flame shines obliquely on the old
man's features.
Lewis: And he rules over-
Kabnis : Th smoke an fire of th forge.
Lewis : Black Vulcan ? I wouldnt say so .
That forehead. Great woolly beard. Those eyes.
A mute John the Baptist of a new religion—or a
tongue-tied shadow of an old.

[211 ]
 CANE

Kabnis : His tongue is tied all right, an I

can vouch f that.
Lewis : Has he never talked to you?
Halsey : Kabnis wont give him a chance.
He laughs. The girls laugh. Kabnis winces .
Lewis : What do you call him?
Halsey: Father.
Lewis : Good . Father what?
Kabnis : Father of hell.

Halsey : Father's th only name we have fer

him. Come on. Lets sit down an get t th pleas-
ure of the evenin.

Lewis : Father John it is from now on. . .

Slave boy whom some Christian mistress

taught to read the Bible. Black man who saw
Jesus in the ricefields, and began preaching to
his people. Moses- and Christ-words used for
songs. Dead blind father of a muted folk who

feel their way upward to a life that crushes or

absorbs them. ( Speak, Father ! ) Suppose your
eyes could see, old man . (The years hold hands.
O Sing ! ) Suppose your lips . · ·
Halsey, does he never talk ?
Halsey : Na. But sometimes. Only seldom.

Mumbles. Sis says he talks-

[212 ]
 KABNIS

Kabnis : I've heard him talk.

Halsey: First I've ever heard of it. You

dont give him a chance. Sis says she's made out
several words, mostly one-an like as not cause
it was "sin."
Kabnis : All those old fogies stutter about
sin.

Cora laughs in a loose sort of way. She is a

tall, thin, mulatto woman . Her eyes are deep-
set behind a pointed nose. Her hair is coarse
and bushy. Seeing that Stella also is restless ,
she takes her arm and the two women move

towards the table. They slip into chairs. Hal-

sey follows and lights the lamp . He lays out a
pack of cards. Stella sorts them as if telling
fortunes. She is a beautifully proportioned ,

large-eyed, brown-skin girl. Except for the

twisted line of her mouth when she smiles or

laughs, there is about her no suggestion of the

life she's been through. Kabnis, with great

mock-solemnity, goes to the corner, takes down

the robe, and dons it. He is a curious spectacle,
acting a part, yet very real . He joins the others
at the table. They are used to him. Lewis is
surprised. He laughs . Kabnis shrinks and

[ 213 ]
 CANE

then glares at him with a furtive hatred. Halsey,

bringing out a bottle of corn licker, pours drinks .
Halsey: Come on, Lewis. Come on, you
fellers . Heres lookin at y.

Then, as if suddenly recalling something, he

jerks away from the table and starts towards
the steps.

Kabnis : Where y goin, Halsey?

Halsey: Where ? Where y think ? That oak
beam in th wagon—
Kabnis : Come ere. Come ere. Sit down.

What in hell's wrong with you fellers ? You

with your wagon. Lewis with his Father John.
This aint th time fer foolin with wagons. Day-

time's bad enough f that. Ere, sit down . Ere,

Lewis, you too sit down. Have a drink. Thats

right. Drink corn licker, love th girls, an listen

t th old man mumblin sin.

There seems to be no good-time spirit to the

party. Something in the air is too tense and deep
for that. Lewis, seated now so that his eyes rest
upon the old man, merges with his source and

lets the pain and beauty of the South meet him

there. White faces, pain-pollen, settle down-
ward through a cane-sweet mist and touch the

[ 214]
 KABNIS

ovaries of yellow flowers. Cotton-bolls bloom,

droop . Black roots twist in a parched red soil
beneath a blazing sky. Magnolias , fragrant, a
trifle futile, lovely, far off. . . His eyelids close.
A force begins to heave and rise. . Stella is

serious, reminiscent.
Stella : Usall is brought up t hate sin worse
than death-

Kabnis : An then before you have y eyes half

open, youre made t love it if y want t live.
Stella: Us never-

Kabnis : Oh, I know your story: that old

prim bastard over yonder, an then old Calvert's
office-
Stella : It wasnt them-

Kabnis : I know. They put y out of church,

an then I guess th preacher came around an

asked f some. But thats your body. Now me-
Halsey (passing him the bottle ) : All right,
kid, we believe y. Here, take another. Wheres
Clover, Stel?

Stella : You know how Jim is when he's just

out th swamp. Done up in shine an wouldnt let

her come. Said he'd bust her head open if she

went out.

[215 ]
 CANE

Kabnis : Dont see why he doesnt stay over

with Laura, where he belongs.
Stella : Ask him, an I reckon he'll tell y.
More than you want.

Halsey : Th nigger hates th sight of a black

woman worse than death. Sorry t mix y up this
way, Lewis. But y see how tis.
Lewis' skin is tight and glowing over the fine
bones of his face. His lips tremble. His nostrils
quiver. The others notice this and smile know-
ingly at each other. Drinks and smokes are

passed around. They pay no neverminds to

him. A real party is being worked up. Then
Lewis opens his eyes and looks at them. Their
smiles disperse in hot-cold tremors. Kabnis

chokes his laugh. It sputters, gurgles. His eyes

flicker and turn away. He tries to pass the

thing off by taking a long drink which he makes

considerable fuss over. He is drawn back to

Lewis. Seeing Lewis ' gaze still upon him, he

scowls.
Kabnis : Whatsha lookin at me for? Y want

+ know who I am? Well, I'm Ralph Kabnis-

lot of good its goin t do y. Well ? Whatsha
keep lookin for ? I'm Ralph Kabnis . Aint that
[216]
 KABNIS

enough f y? Want th whole family history?

Its none of your godam business , anyway. Keep
off me. Do y hear ? Keep off me. Look at

Cora. Aint she pretty enough t lock at ? Look

at Halsey, or Stella. Clover ought t be here an
you could look at her. An love her. Thats
what you need. I know-
Lewis : Ralph Kabnis gets satisfied that
way?
Kabnis : Satisfied ? Say, quit your kiddin.
Here, look at that old man there. See him?
He's satisfied . Do I look like him? When I'm

dead I dont expect t be satisfied . Is that enough

f y, with your godam nosin, or do you want

mor ? Wel , y won get it , unde ?

e l t rsta
nd
Lewis : The old man as symbol, flesh, and
spirit of the past, what do think he would say if
he could see you ? You look at him, Kabnis.
Kabnis : Just like any done-up preacher is

what he looks t me. Jam some false teeth in his

mouth and crank him, an youd have God Al-
mighty spit in torrents all around th floor. Oh,
hell, an he reminds me of that black cockroach

over yonder. An besides , he aint my past. My

ancestors were Southern blue-bloods-

[217]
 CANE

Lewis: And black.

Kabnis : Aint much difference between blue

an black.

Lewis : Enough to draw a denial from you.

Cant hold them , can you ? Master ; slave. Soil ;

and the overarching heavens. Dusk ; dawn.
They fight and bastardize you. The sun tint of
your cheeks, flame of the great season's multi-

colored leaves, tarnished, burned . Split, shred-

ded : easily burned . No use ..

His gaze shifts to Stella . Stella's face draws

back, her breasts come towards him.

Stella: I aint got nothin f y, mister. Taint

no use t look at me.

Halsey: Youre a queer feller, Lewis, I swear

y are. Told y so, didnt I, girls ? Just take him
easy though, an he'll be ridin just th same as
any Georgia mule, eh, Lewis ? (Laughs. )
Stella : I'm goin t tell y somethin, mister. It
aint t you, t th Mister Lewis what noses about.
Its t somethin different, I dunno what. That
old man there—maybe its him-is like m father
used t look. He used t sing. An when he could
sing no mo, they'd allus come f him an carry him

t church an there he'd sit, befo th pulpit, aswayin

[218 ]
 KABNIS

an aleadin every song. A white man took m

mother an it broke th old man's heart. He died ;
an then I didnt care what become of me, an I

dont now. I dont care now. Dont get it in y

head I'm some sentimental Susie askin for yo
sop. Nassur. But theres somethin t yo th
others aint got. Boars an kids an fools- thats
all I've known. Boars when their fever's up.

When their fever's up they come t me. Halsey

asks me over when he's off th job. Kabnis- it

ud be a sin t play with him. He takes it out in
talk.

Halsey knows that he has trifled with her.

At odd things he has been inwardly penitent be-
fore her tasking him. But now he wants to hurt
her. He turns to Lewis.

Halsey : Lewis, I got a little licker in me,

an thats true. True's what I said. True. But

th stuff just seems t wake me up an make my

mind a man of me. Listen. You know a lot,
queer as hell as y are, an I want t ask y some
questions. Theyre too high fer them, Stella an
Cora an Kabnis, so we'll just excuse em. A chat
between ourselves. (Turns to the others. ) You-
all cant listen in on this. Twont interest y. So
[ 219]
 CANE

just leave th table t this gen'lemun an myself.

Go long now.

Kabnis gets up, pompous in his robe,

grotesquely so, and makes as if to go through a
grand march with Stella. She shoves him off,
roughly, and in a mood swings her body to the
steps. Kabnis grabs Cora and parades around ,
passing the old man, to whom he bows in mock-
curtsy. He sweeps by the table, snatches the

licker bottle, and then he and Cora sprawl on

the mattresses . She meets his weak approaches
after the manner she thinks Stella would use.

Halsey contemptuously watches them until he

is sure that they are settled.
Halsey: This aint th sort o thing f me, Lewis,
when I got work upstairs. Nassur. You an me
has got things t do. Wastin time on common
low-down women-say, Lewis , look at her
now-Stella-aint she a picture? Common

wench- na she aint, Lewis. You know she aint.

I'm only tryin t fool y. I used t love that girl.

Yassur. An sometimes when th moon is thick

an I hear dogs up th valley barkin an some old

woman fetches out her song, an th winds seem
like th Lord made them fer t fetch an carry th

[220]
 KABNIS

smell o pine an cane, an there aint no big job on

foot, I sometimes get t thinkin that I still do.
But I want t talk t y, Lewis, queer as y are. Y
know, Lewis, I went t school once. Ya. In

Augusta. But it wasnt a regular school . Na.

It was a pussy Sunday-school masqueradin un-
der a regular name. Some goody- goody teachers
from th North had come down t teach th nig-
gers. If you was nearly white, they liked y. If

you was black, they didnt. But it wasnt that-

I was all right, y see. I couldnt stand em messin
an pawin over m business like I was a child. So

I cussed em out an left. Kabnis there ought t

have cussed out th old duck over yonder an left.
He'd a been a better man tday. But as I was
sayin, I couldnt stand their ways. So I left an
came here an worked with my father. An been
here ever since. He died. I set in f myself. An
its always been ; give me a good job an sure pay
an I aint far from being satisfied, so far as satis-
faction goes. Prejudice is everywheres about
this country. An a nigger aint in much standin

anywheres. But when it comes t pottin round an

doin nothing, with nothin bigger'n an ax-handle
t hold a feller down, like it was a while back
[221 ]
 CANE

befo I got this job-that beam ought t be-

but tmorrow mornin early's time enough f that.
As I was sayin, I gets t thinkin . Play dumb
naturally t white folks. I gets t thinkin. I used
to subscribe t th Literary Digest an that helped
along a bit. But there werent nothing I could
sink m teeth int. Theres lots I want t ask y,

Lewis. Been askin y t come around. Couldnt

get y. Cant get in much tnight. ( He glances at
the others. His mind fastens on Kabnis. ) Say,
tell me this, whats on your mind t say on that
feller there? Kabnis' name. One queer bird

ought t know another, seems like t me.

Licker has released conflicts in Kabnis and

set them flowing. He pricks his ears, intuitively

feels that the talk is about him, leaves Cora, and
approaches the table. His eyes are watery, heavy
with passion. He stoops. He is a ridiculous
pathetic figure in his showy robe.
Kabnis : Talkin bout me. I know. I'm th
topic of conversation everywhere theres talk
about this town. Girls an fellers. White folks

as well. An if its me youre talkin bout, guess I

got a right t listen in. Whats sayin ? Whats
sayin bout his royal guts, the Duke ? Whats
sayin, eh ?
[222 ]
 KABNIS

Halsey (to Lewis ) : We'll take it up another

time.

Kabnis : No nother time bout it. Now. I'm

here now an talkin's just begun. I was born an

bred in a family of orators, thats what I was.
Halsey: Preachers.
Kabnis : Na. Preachers hell. I didnt say
wind-busters. Y misapprehended me. Y un-
derstand what that means, dont y? All right
then, y misapprehended me. I didnt say preach-
ers. I said orators . ORATORS. Born one
an I'll die one. You understand me, Lewis.

(He turns to Halsey and begins shaking his

finger in his face. ) An as f you, youre all right
f choppin things from blocks of wood. I was
good at that th day I ducked th cradle. An since
then, I've been shapin words after a design that
branded here. Know whats here? M soul.
Ever heard o that ? Th hell y have. Been
shapin words t fit m soul. Never told y that
before, did I? Thought I couldnt talk. I'll
tell y. I've been shapin words ; ah, but some-
times theyre beautiful an golden an have a taste
that makes them fine t roll over with y tongue.
Your tongue aint fit f nothin but t roll an lick
hog-meat.
[223 ]
 CANE

Stella and Cora come up to the table.

Halsey : Give him a shove there, will y, Stel ?
Stella jams Kabnis in a chair. Kabnis
springs up.

Kabnis : Cant keep a good man down. Those

words I was tellin y about, they wont fit int th
mold thats branded on m soul. Rhyme, y see?

Poet, too. Bad rhyme. Bad poet. Somethin

else youve learned tnight. Lewis dont know it

all, an I'm atellin y. Ugh. Th form thats

burned int my soul is some twisted awful thing
that crept in from a dream, a godam nightmare,
an wont stay still unless I feed it. An it lives on
words. Not beautiful words. God Almighty
no. Misshapen, split-gut, tortured , twisted
words. Layman was feedin it back there that
day you thought I ran out fearin things. White

folks feed it cause their looks are words. Nig-

gers, black niggers feed it cause theyre evil an
their looks are words. Yallar niggers feed it.
This whole damn bloated purple country feeds
it cause its goin down t hell in a holy avalanche
of words. I want t feed th soul-I know what

that is ; th preachers dont-but I've got t feed

it. I wish t God some lynchin white man ud
[224]
 KABNIS

stick his knife through it an pin it to a tree.

An pin it to a tree. You hear me? Thats a wish
fy, you little snot-nosed pups who've been makin

fun of me, an fakin that I'm weak. Me, Ralph

Kabnis weak. Ha.

Halsey: Thats right, old man. There, there.

Here, so much exertion merits a fittin reward.

Help him t be seated, Cora.

Halsey gives him a swig of shine. Cora glides
up, seats him, and then plumps herself down on
his lap, squeezing his head into her breasts.
Kabnis mutters. Tries to break loose. Curses.
Cora almost stifles him. He goes limp and gives
up. Cora toys with him. Ruffles his hair.
Braids it. Parts it in the middle. Stella smiles

contemptuously. And then a sudden anger

sweeps her. She would like to lash Cora from

the place. She'd like to take Kabnis to some

distant pine grove and nurse and mother him.
Her eyes flash. A quick tensioning throws her
breasts and neck into a poised strain. She
starts towards them. Halsey grabs her arm and
pulls her to him. She struggles. Halsey pins
her arms and kisses her She settles, spurting

like a pine-knot afire.

[ 225 ]
 CANE

Lewis finds himself completely cut out. The

glowing within him subsides. It is followed by
a dead chill. Kabnis, Carrie, Stella, Halsey,
Cora, the old man, the cellar, and the work-shop ,

the southern town descend upon him. Their

pain is too intense. He cannot stand it. He
bolts from the table. Leaps up the stairs.
Plunges through the work-shop and out into the
night.

The cellar swims in a pale phosphorescence.

The table, the chairs, the figure of the old man

are amoeba-like shadows which move about and

float in it. In the corner under the steps, close

to the floor, a solid blackness. A sound comes
from it. A forcible yawn. Part of the blackness
detaches itself so that it may be seen against the
grayness of the wall. It moves forward and then

seems to be clothing itself in odd dangling bits

of shadow. The voice of Halsey, vibrant and
deepened, calls.
Halsey : Kabnis. Cora. Stella.

He gets no response. He wants to get them up,

[226 ]
 KABNIS

to get on the job. He is intolerant of their sleep-

iness.
Halsey : Kabnis ! Stella ! Cora!

Gutturals, jerky and impeded , tell that he is

shaking them.
Halsey: Come now, up with you.
Kabnis (sleepily and still more or less in-
toxicated ) : Whats th big idea? What in
hell-

Halsey: Work. But never you mind about

that. Up with you.
Cora : 000000 ! Look here, mister, I aint
used t bein thrown int th street befo day.
Stella: Any bunk whats worked is worth in
wages moren this. But come on. Taint no use
t arger.
Kabnis : I'll arger. Its preposterous-

The girls interrupt him with none too pleas-

ant laughs.
Kabnis : Thats what I said. Know what it

means, dont y? All right, then. I said its pre-

posterous t root an artist out o bed at this un-

godly hour, when there aint no use t it. You

can start your damned old work. Nobody's
stoppin y. But what we got t get up for ? Fraid
[ 227]
 CANE

somebody'll see th girls leavin ? Some sport,

you are. I hand it ty.

Halsey : Up you get, all th same.

Kabnis : Oh, th hell you say.

Halsey : Well , son, seeing that I'm th kind-

hearted father, I'll give y chance t open your
eyes. But up y get when I come down.

He mounts the steps to the work-shop and

starts a fire in the hearth . In the yard he finds

some chunks of coal which he brings in and

throws on the fire. He puts a kettle on to boil.

The wagon draws him. He lifts an oak-beam ,

fingers it, and becomes abstracted. Then comes

to himself and places the beam upon the work-

bench. He looks over some newly cut wooden

spokes . He goes to the fire and pokes it. The

coals are red-hot. With a pair of long prongs he

picks them up and places them in a thick iron

bucket. This he carries downstairs. Outside,

darkness has given way to the impalpable gray-

ness of dawn. This early morning light, seep-

ing through the four barred cellar windows, is

the color of the stony walls. It seems to be an

emanation from them. Halsey's coals throw out

[228 ]
 KABNIS

a rich warm glow. He sets them on the floor, a

safe distance from the beds.

Halsey : No foolin now. Come. Up with

you .
Other than a soft rustling, there is no sound
as the girls slip into their clothes. Kabnis still
lies in bed.

Stella (to Halsey) : Reckon y could spare us

a light?

Halsey strikes a match, lights a cigarette, and

then bends over and touches flame to the two
candles on the table between the beds. Kabnis

asks for a cigarette. Halsey hands him his and

takes a fresh one for himself. The girls, before
the mirror, are doing up their hair. It is bushy
hair that has gone through some straightening
process. Character, however, has not all been

ironed out. As they kneel there, heavy-eyed and

dusky, and throwing grotesque moving shadows

on the wall , they are two princesses in Africa

going through the early-morning ablutions of

their pagan prayers . Finished, they come for-

ward to stretch their hands and warm them over

the glowing coals. Red dusk of a Georgia sun-

[229 ]
 CANE

set, their heavy, coal-lit faces . . . Kabnis sud-

denly recalls something.
Kabnis : Th old man talked last night.
Stella : An so did you.

Halsey: In your dreams.

Kabnis : I tell y, he did. I know what I'm
talkin about. I'll tell y what he said. Wait
now, lemme see.

Halsey : Look out, brother, th old man'll be

getting int you by way o dreams. Come, Stel,
ready? Cora ? Coffee an eggs f both of you.

Halsey goes upstairs.

Stella : Gettin generous, aint he?
She blows the candles out. Says nothing to
Kabnis. Then she and Cora follow after Hal-
sey. Kabnis, left to himself, tries to rise. He

has slept in his robe. His robe trips him. Fi-

nally, he manages to stand up. He starts across
the floor. Half-way to the old man, he falls and
lies quite still. Perhaps an hour passes. Light
of a new sun is about to filter through the win-
dows. Kabnis slowly rises to support upon his
elbows. He looks hard, and internally gathers

himself together. The side face of Father John

is in the direct line of his eyes. He scowls at
[ 230 ]
 KABNIS

him. No one is around. Words gush from

Kabnis.
Kabnis: You sit there like a black hound

spiked to an ivory pedestal. An all night long

I heard you murmurin that devilish word. They
thought I didnt hear y, but I did. Mumblin ,
feedin that ornery thing thats livin on my in-
sides . Father John. Father of Satan, more

likely. What does it mean t you? Youre dead

already. Death. What does it mean to you?
To you who died way back there in th ' sixties.
What are y throwin it in my throat for? Whats
it goin t get y? A good smashin in th mouth,
thats what. My fist'll sink int y black mush
face clear t y guts-if y got any. Dont believe
y have. Never seen signs of none. Death.

Death. Sin an Death. All night long y mum-

bled death. (He forgets the old man as his mind

begins to play with the word and its associa-

tions.) Death . . . these clammy floors . . .

just like th place they used t stow away th worn-
out , no-count niggers in th days of slavery ·
that was long ago ; not so long ago · no win-

dows (he rises higher on his elbows to verify this

assertion. He looks around, and, seeing no one

[ 231 ]
 CANE

but the old man, calls. ) Halsey ! Halsey ! Gone

an left me. Just like a nigger. I thought he was
a nigger all th time . Now I know it. Ditch y
when it comes right down t it. Damn him any-
way. Godam him. ( He looks and re-sees the

old man. ) Eh, you? T hell with you too.

What do I care whether you can see or hear?
You know what hell is cause youve been there.
Its a feelin an its ragin in my soul in a way
that'll pop out of me an run you through, an
scorch y, an burn an rip your soul. Your soul.
Ha. Nigger soul. A gin soul that gets drunk
on a preacher's words . An screams. An shouts.
God Almighty, how I hate that shoutin. Where's

th beauty in that? Gives a buzzard a windpipe

an I'll bet a dollar t a dime th buzzard ud beat

y to it. Aint surprisin th white folks hate y so.

When you had eyes, did you ever see th beauty
of th world? Tell me that. Th hell y did. Now
dont tell me. I know y didnt. You couldnt
have. Oh, I'm drunk an just as good as dead, but
no eyes that have seen beauty ever lose their

sight . You aint got no sight. If you had, drunk

as I am, I hope Christ will kill me if I couldnt

see it. Your eyes are dull and watery, like fish
[232 ]
 KABNIS

eyes. Fish eyes are dead eyes. Youre an old

man, a dead fish man, an black at that. Theyve
put y here t die, damn fool y are not t know it.

Do y know how many feet youre under ground ?

I'll tell y. Twenty. An do y think you'll ever

see th light of day again, even if you wasnt
blind? Do y think youre out of slavery? Huh?

Youre where they used t throw th worked-out,

no-count slaves. On a damp clammy floor of a
dark scum-hole. An they called that an in-
• Why I can al-
firmary. Th sons-a ·
ready see you toppled off that stool an stretched

out on th floor beside me-not beside me, damn

you, by yourself, with th flies buzzin an lickin

God knows what they'd find on a dirty, black,

foul- breathed mouth like yours . . .

Some one is coming down the stairs . Carrie,

bringing food for the old man. She is lovely in

64473
78
her fresh energy of the morning, in the calm un-
tested confidence and nascent maternity which mike d

rise from the purpose of her present mission.

She walks to within a few paces of Kabnis.
Carrie K.: Brother says come up now, broth-

er Ralph.
[233]
 CANE

Kabnis : Brother doesnt know what he's

talkin bout.

Carrie K.: Yes he does, Ralph. He needs

you on th wagon.
Kabnis : He wants me on th wagon, eh?
Does he think some wooden thing can lift me up?
Ask him that.
Carrie K.: He told me t help y.
Kabnis : An how would you help me, child,
dear sweet little sister?
She moves forward as if to aid him.

Carrie K.: I'm not a child , as I've more than

once told you, brother Ralph, an as I'll show

you now.
Kabnis : Wait, Carrie. No, thats right.
Youre not a child. But twont do t lift me bodily.
You dont understand. But its th soul of me that
needs th risin.

Carrie K; Youre a bad brother an just wont

listen t me when I'm tellin y t go t church.
Kabnis doesnt hear her. He breaks down and
talks to himself.

Kabnis : Great God Almighty, a soul like

mine cant pin itself onto a wagon wheel an sat-
isfy itself in spinnin round. Iron prongs an

[234]
 KABNIS

hickory sticks , an God knows what all . . . all

right for Halsey . . . use him. Me? I get my

life down in this scum-hole. Th old man an

me
Carrie K.: Has he been talkin?
Kabnis : Huh ? Who ? Him? No. Dont
need to. I talk. An when I really talk, it pays

th best of them t listen. Th old man is a good

listener. He's deaf ; but he's a good listener.

An I can talk t him. Tell him anything.
Carrie K.: He's deaf an blind, but I reckon
he hears, an sees too, from th things I've heard.
Kabnis : No. Cant. Cant I tell you. How's
he do it?

Carrie K.: Dunno, except I've heard that th

souls of old folks have a way of seein things.
Kabnis : An I've heard them call that super-
stition.

The old man begins to shake his head slowly.

Carrie and Kabnis watch him, anxiously. He

mumbles. With a grave motion his head nods

up and down. And then, on one of the down-
swings-
Father John (remarkably clear and with great
conviction) : Sin.
[235]
 CANE

He repeats this word several times, always on

the downward nodding. Surprised, indignant,

Kabnis forgets that Carrie is with him.

Kabnis : Sin ! Shut up. What do you know

about sin, you old black bastard. Shut up, an

stop that swayin an noddin your head.

Father John : Sin.

Kabnis tries to get up.

Kabnis : Didnt I tell y t shut up?

Carrie steps forward to help him. Kabnis

is violently shocked at her touch. He springs
back.
Kabnis : Carrie ! What .. how .. Baby,

you shouldnt be down here. Ralph says things.

Doesnt mean to. But Carrie, he doesnt know

what he's talkin about. Couldnt know. It was

only a preacher's sin they knew in those old

days, an that wasnt sin at all. Mind me, th only

sin is whats done against th soul . Th whole

world is a conspiracy t sin, especially in Amer-

ica, an against me. I'm th victim of their sin.

I'm what sin is. Does he look like me? Have

you ever heard him say th things youve heard me

say? He couldnt if he had th Holy Ghost t

[ 236 ]
 KABNIS

help him. Dont look shocked, little sweetheart ,

you hurt me.

Father John : Sin.

Kabnis : Aw, shut up, old man.
Carrie K.: Leave him be. He wants t say
somethin. (She turns to the old man . ) What
is it, Father?
Kabnis : Whatsha talkin t that old deaf man

for? Come away from him.

Carrie K.: What is it, Father ?

The old man's lips begin to work. Words are

formed incoherently. Finally, he manages to
articulate-

Father John : Th sin whats fixed . . . ( Hesi-

tates. )
Carrie K. (restraining a comment from Kab-
nis ) : Go on, Father.

Father John : . . . upon th white folks—

Kabnis : Suppose youre talkin about that
bastard race thats roamin round th country. It

looks like sin, if thats what y mean. Give us

somethin new an up t date.

Father John :-f tellin Jesus-lies. O th

sin th white folks 'mitted when they made th
Bible lie.
[237]
 CANE

Boom. Boom. BOOM! Thuds on the floor

above. The old man sinks back into his stony

silence. Carrie is wet-eyed. Kabnis, contempt-
uous.

Kabnis : So thats your sin. All these years t

tell us that th white folks made th Bible lie.

Well, I'll be damned . Lewis ought t have been

here. You old black fakir-

Carrie K. Brother Ralph, is that your best

Amen?
She turns him to her and takes his hot cheeks

in her firm cool hands. Her palms draw the

fever out. With its passing, Kabnis crumples .
He sinks to his knees before her, ashamed , ex-
hausted. His eyes squeeze tight. Carrie presses

his face tenderly against her. The suffocation

of her fresh starched dress feels good to him.
Carrie is about to lift her hands in prayer, when

Halsey, at the head of the stairs, calls down.

Halsey : Well , well. Whats up? Aint you
ever comin? Come on. Whats up down there?
Take you all mornin t sleep off a pint ? Youre
weakenin, man, youre weakenin. Th axle an th

beam's all ready waitin f y. Come on.

Kabnis rises and is going doggedly towards
[238 ]
 KABNIS

the steps. Carrie notices his robe. She catches

up to him, points to it, and helps him take it off.

He hangs it, with an exaggerated ceremony, on
its nail in the corner. He looks down on the

tousled beds . His lips curl bitterly. Turning,

he stumbles over the bucket of dead coals. He

savagely jerks it from the floor. And then, see-

ing Carrie's eyes upon him, he swings the pail
carelessly and with eyes downcast and swollen,
trudges upstairs to the work-shop. Carrie's

gaze follows him till he is gone. Then she goes

to the old man and slips to her knees before him.
Her lips murmur, "Jesus, come."
Light streaks through the iron-barred cellar
window. Within its soft circle, the figures of
Carrie and Father John.
Outside, the sun arises from its cradle in the Suerw
tree-tops of the forest. Shadows of pines are
dreams the sun shakes from its eyes. The sun

arises. Gold-glowing child, it steps into the

sky and sends a birth-song slanting down gray
dust streets and sleepy windows of the southern
town.
THE END

[ 239]
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HECKMAN
BINDERY INC.

MAR
Bo eas N.
INDIA