The Strength of Gideon and Other Stories by Paul Laurence Dunbar

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Even Mandy, Jim's wife, had attempted to urge the old man to some more
active efforts in her husband's behalf. She was a pillar of the
church herself, and was woefully disturbed about the condition of
Jim's soul. Indeed, it was said that half of the time it was Mandy's
prayers and exhortations that drove Jim into the woods with his dog
and his axe, or an old gun that he had come into possession of from
one of the younger Mordaunts.

Jim was unregenerate. He was a fighter, a hard drinker, fiddled on
Sunday, and had been known to go out hunting on that sacred day. So it
startled the whole place when Mandy announced one day to a few of her
intimate friends that she believed "Jim was under conviction." He had
stolen out hunting one Sunday night and in passing through the swamp
had gotten himself thoroughly wet and chilled, and this had brought on
an attack of acute rheumatism, which Mandy had pointed out to him as a
direct judgment of heaven. Jim scoffed at first, but Mandy grew more
and more earnest, and finally, with the racking of the pain, he waxed
serious and determined to look to the state of his soul as a means to
the good of his body.

"Hit do seem," Mandy said, "dat Jim feel de weight o' his sins mos'
powahful."

"I reckon hit's de rheumatics," said Dinah.

[Illustration: JIM.]

"Don' mek no diffunce what de inst'ument is," Mandy replied, "hit's de
'sult, hit's de 'sult."

When the news reached Stuart Mordaunt's ears he became intensely
interested. Anything that would convert Jim, and make a model
Christian of him would be providential on that plantation. It would
save the overseers many an hour's worry; his horses, many a secret
ride; and the other servants, many a broken head. So he again went
down to labor with Parker in the interest of the sinner.

"Is he mou'nin' yit?" said Parker.

"No, not yet, but I think now is a good time to sow the seeds in his
mind."

"Oomph," said the old man, "reckon you bettah let Jim alone twell dem
sins o' his'n git him to tossin' an' cryin' an' a mou'nin'. Den'll be
time enough to strive wid him. I's allus willin' to do my pa't, Mas'
Stuart, but w'en hit comes to ol' time sinnahs lak Jim, I believe in
layin' off, an' lettin' de sperit do de strivin'."

"But Parker," said his master, "you yourself know that the Bible says
that the spirit will not always strive."

"Well, la den, mas', you don' spec' I gwine outdo de sperit."

But Stuart Mordaunt was particularly anxious that Jim's steps might be
turned in the right direction. He knew just what a strong hold over
their minds the Negroes' own emotional religion had, and he felt that
could he once get Jim inside the pale of the church, and put him on
guard of his salvation, it would mean the loss of fewer of his shoats
and pullets. So he approached the old preacher, and said in a
confidential tone.

"Now look here, Parker, I've got a fine lot of that good old tobacco
you like so up to the big house, and I'll tell you what I'll do. If
you'll just try to work on Jim, and get his feet in the right path,
you can come up and take all you want."

"Oom-oomph," said the old man, "dat sho' is monst'ous fine terbaccer,
Mas' Stua't."

"Yes, it is, and you shall have all you want of it."

"Well, I'll have a little wisit wid Jim, an' des' see how much he
'fected, an' if dey any stroke to be put in fu' de gospel ahmy, you
des' count on me ez a mighty strong wa'ior. Dat boy been layin' heavy
on my mind fu' lo, dese many days."

As a result of this agreement, the old man went down to Jim's cabin on
a night when that interesting sinner was suffering particularly from
his rheumatic pains.

"Well, Jim," the preacher said, "how you come on?"

"Po'ly, po'ly," said Jim, "I des' plum' racked an' 'stracted f'om haid
to foot."

"Uh, huh, hit do seem lak to me de Bible don' tell nuffin' else but de
trufe."

"What de Bible been sayin' now?" asked Jim suspiciously.

"Des' what it been sayin' all de res' o' de time. 'Yo' sins will fin'
you out'"

Jim groaned and turned uneasily in his chair. The old man saw that he
had made a point and pursued it.

"Don' you reckon now, Jim, ef you was a bettah man dat you wouldn'
suffah so?"

"I do' know, I do' know nuffin' 'bout hit."

"Now des' look at me. I ben a-trompin' erlong in dis low groun' o'
sorrer fu' mo' den seventy yeahs, an' I hain't got a ache ner a pain.
Nevah had no rheumatics in my life, an' yere you is, a young man, in a
mannah o' speakin', all twinged up wid rheumatics. Now what dat p'int
to? Hit mean de Lawd tek keer o' dem dat's his'n. Now Jim, you bettah
come ovah on de Lawd's side, an' git erway f'om yo' ebil doin's."

Jim groaned again, and lifted his swollen leg with an effort just as
Brother Parker said, "Let us pray."

The prayer itself was less effective than the request was just at that
time for Jim was so stiff that it made him fairly howl with pain to
get down on his knees. The old man's supplication was loud, deep, and
diplomatic, and when they arose from their knees there were tears in
Jim's eyes, but whether from cramp or contrition it is not safe to
say. But a day or two after, the visit bore fruit in the appearance of
Jim at meeting where he sat on one of the very last benches, his
shoulders hunched, and his head bowed, unmistakable signs of the
convicted sinner.

The usual term of mourning passed, and Jim was converted, much to
Mandy's joy, and Brother Parker's delight. The old man called early on
his master after the meeting, and announced the success of his labors.
Stuart Mordaunt himself was no less pleased than the preacher. He
shook Parker warmly by the hand, patted him on the shoulder, and
called him a "sly old fox." And then he took him to the cupboard, and
gave him of his store of good tobacco, enough to last him for months.
Something else, too, he must have given him, for the old man came away
from the cupboard grinning broadly, and ostentatiously wiping his
mouth with the back of his hand.

"Great work you've done, Parker, a great work."

"Yes, yes, Mas'," grinned the old man, "now ef Jim can des' stan' out
his p'obation, hit'll be montrous fine."

"His probation!" exclaimed the master.

"Oh yes suh, yes suh, we has all de young convu'ts stan' a p'obation
o' six months, fo' we teks 'em reg'lar inter de chu'ch. Now ef Jim
will des' stan' strong in de faif--"

"Parker," said Mordaunt, "you're an old wretch, and I've got a mind to
take every bit of that tobacco away from you. No. I'll tell you what
I'll do."

He went back to the cupboard and got as much again as he had given
Parker, and handed it to him saying,

"I think it will be better for all concerned if Jim's probation only
lasts two months. Get him into the fold, Parker, get him into the
fold!" And he shoved the ancient exhorter out of the door.

It grieved Jim that he could not go 'possum hunting on Sundays any
more, but shortly after he got religion, his rheumatism seemed to take
a turn for the better and he felt that the result was worth the
sacrifice. But as the pain decreased in his legs and arms, the longing
for his old wicked pleasures became stronger and stronger upon him
though Mandy thought that he was living out the period of his
probation in the most exemplary manner, and inwardly rejoiced.

It was two weeks before he was to be regularly admitted to church
fellowship. His industrious spouse had decked him out in a bleached
cotton shirt in which to attend divine service. In the morning Jim was
there. The sermon which Brother Parker preached was powerful, but
somehow it failed to reach this new convert. His gaze roved out of the
window toward the dark line of the woods beyond, where the frost still
glistened on the trees and where he knew the persimmons were hanging
ripe. Jim was present at the afternoon service also, for it was a
great day; and again, he was preoccupied. He started and clasped his
hands together until the bones cracked, when a dog barked somewhere
out on the hill. The sun was going down over the tops of the woodland
trees, throwing the forest into gloom, as they came out of the log
meeting-house. Jim paused and looked lovingly at the scene, and sighed
as he turned his steps back toward the cabin.

That night Mandy went to church alone. Jim had disappeared. Nowhere
around was his axe, and Spot, his dog, was gone. Mandy looked over
toward the woods whose tops were feathered against the frosty sky, and
away off, she heard a dog bark.

Brother Parker was feeling his way home from meeting late that night,
when all of a sudden, he came upon a man creeping toward the quarters.
The man had an axe and a dog, and over his shoulders hung a bag in
which the outlines of a 'possum could be seen.

"Hi, oh, Brothah Jim, at it agin?"

Jim did not reply. "Well, des' heish up an' go 'long. We got to mek
some 'lowances fu' you young convu'ts. Wen you gwine cook dat 'possum,
Brothah Jim?"

"I do' know, Brothah Pahkah. He so po', I 'low I haveter keep him and
fatten him fu' awhile."

"Uh, huh! well, so long, Jim."

"So long, Brothah Pahkah." Jim chuckled as he went away. "I 'low I
fool dat ol' fox. Wanter come down an' eat up my one little 'possum,
do he? huh, uh!"

So that very night Jim scraped his possum, and hung it out-of-doors,
and the next day, brown as the forest whence it came, it lay on a
great platter on Jim's table. It was a fat possum too. Jim had just
whetted his knife, and Mandy had just finished the blessing when the
latch was lifted and Brother Parker stepped in.

"Hi, oh, Brothah Jim, I's des' in time."

Jim sat with his mouth open. "Draw up a cheer, Brothah Pahkah," said
Mandy. Her husband rose, and put his hand over the possum.

"Wha--wha'd you come hyeah fu'?" he asked.

"I thought I'd des' come in an' tek a bite wid you."

"Ain' gwine tek no bite wid me," said Jim.

"Heish," said Mandy, "wha' kin' o' way is dat to talk to de preachah?"

"Preachah er no preachah, you hyeah what I say," and he took the
possum, and put it on the highest shelf.

"Wha's de mattah wid you, Jim; dat's one o' de' 'quiahments o' de
chu'ch."

The angry man turned to the preacher.

"Is it one o' de 'quiahments o' de chu'ch dat you eat hyeah
ter-night?"

"Hit sholy am usual fu' de shepherd to sup wherevah he stop," said
Parker suavely.

"Ve'y well, ve'y well," said Jim, "I wants you to know dat I 'specs to
stay out o' yo' chu'ch. I's got two weeks mo' p'obation. You tek hit
back, an' gin hit to de nex' niggah you ketches wid a 'possum."

Mandy was horrified. The preacher looked longingly at the possum, and
took up his hat to go.

There were two disappointed men on the plantation when he told his
master the next day the outcome of Jim's probation.

UNCLE SIMON'S SUNDAYS OUT

Mr. Marston sat upon his wide veranda in the cool of the summer
Sabbath morning. His hat was off, the soft breeze was playing with his
brown hair, and a fragrant cigar was rolled lazily between his lips.
He was taking his ease after the fashion of a true gentleman. But his
eyes roamed widely, and his glance rested now on the blue-green sweep
of the great lawn, again on the bright blades of the growing corn, and
anon on the waving fields of tobacco, and he sighed a sigh of
ineffable content. The breath had hardly died on his lips when the
figure of an old man appeared before him, and, hat in hand, shuffled
up the wide steps of the porch.

It was a funny old figure, stooped and so one-sided that the tail of
the long and shabby coat he wore dragged on the ground. The face was
black and shrewd, and little patches of snow-white hair fringed the
shiny pate.

"Good-morning, Uncle Simon," said Mr. Marston, heartily.

"Mornin' Mas' Gawge. How you come on?"

"I'm first-rate. How are you? How are your rheumatics coming on?"

"Oh, my, dey's mos' nigh well. Dey don' trouble me no mo'!"

"Most nigh well, don't trouble you any more?"

"Dat is none to speak of."

"Why, Uncle Simon, who ever heard tell of a man being cured of his
aches and pains at your age?"

"I ain' so powahful ol', Mas', I ain' so powahful ol'."

"You're not so powerful old! Why, Uncle Simon, what's taken hold of
you? You're eighty if a day."

"Sh--sh, talk dat kin' o' low, Mastah, don' 'spress yo'se'f so loud!"
and the old man looked fearfully around as if he feared some one might
hear the words.

The master fell back in his seat in utter surprise.

"And, why, I should like to know, may I not speak of your age aloud?"

Uncle Simon showed his two or three remaining teeth in a broad grin as
he answered:

"Well, Mastah, I's 'fraid ol' man Time mought hyeah you an' t'ink he
done let me run too long." He chuckled, and his master joined him with
a merry peal of laughter.

"All right, then, Simon," he said, "I'll try not to give away any of
your secrets to old man Time. But isn't your age written down
somewhere?"

"I reckon it's in dat ol' Bible yo' pa gin me."

"Oh, let it alone then, even Time won't find it there."

The old man shifted the weight of his body from one leg to the other
and stood embarrassedly twirling his ancient hat in his hands. There
was evidently something more that he wanted to say. He had not come to
exchange commonplaces with his master about age or its ailments.

"Well, what is it now, Uncle Simon?" the master asked, heeding the
servant's embarrassment, "I know you've come up to ask or tell me
something. Have any of your converts been backsliding, or has Buck
been misbehaving again?"

"No, suh, de converts all seem to be stan'in' strong in de faif, and
Buck, he actin' right good now."

"Doesn't Lize bring your meals regular, and cook them good?"

"Oh, yes, suh, Lize ain' done nuffin'. Dey ain' nuffin' de mattah at
de quahtahs, nuffin' 't'al."

"Well, what on earth then--"

"Hol' on, Mas', hol' on! I done tol' you dey ain' nuffin' de mattah
'mong de people, an' I ain' come to 'plain 'bout nuffin'; but--but--I
wants to speak to you 'bout somefin' mighty partic'ler."

"Well, go on, because it will soon be time for you to be getting down
to the meeting-house to exhort the hands."

"Dat's jes' what I want to speak 'bout, dat 'zortin'."

"Well, you've been doing it for a good many years now."

"Dat's de very idee, dat's in my haid now. Mas' Gawge, huccume you
read me so nigh right?"

"Oh, that's not reading anything, that's just truth. But what do you
mean, Uncle Simon, you don't mean to say that you want to resign. Why
what would your old wife think if she was living?"

"No, no, Mas' Gawge, I don't ezzactly want to 'sign, but I'd jes' lak
to have a few Sundays off."

"A few Sundays off! Well, now, I do believe that you are crazy. What
on earth put that into your head?"

"Nuffin', Mas' Gawge, I wants to be away f'om my Sabbaf labohs fu' a
little while, dat's all."

"Why, what are the hands going to do for some one to exhort them on
Sunday. You know they've got to shout or burst, and it used to be your
delight to get them stirred up until all the back field was ringing."

"I do' say dat I ain' gwine try an' do dat some mo', Mastah, min' I
do' say dat. But in de mean time I's got somebody else to tek my
place, one dat I trained up in de wo'k right undah my own han'. Mebbe
he ain' endowed wif de sperrit as I is, all men cain't be gifted de
same way, but dey ain't no sputin' he is powahful. Why, he can handle
de Scriptures wif bof han's, an' you kin hyeah him prayin' fu' two
miles."

"And you want to put this wonder in your place?"

"Yes, suh, fu' a while, anyhow."

"Uncle Simon, aren't you losing your religion?"

"Losin' my u'ligion? Who, me losin' my u'ligion! No, suh."

"Well, aren't you afraid you'll lose it on the Sundays that you spend
out of your meeting-house?"

"Now, Mas' Gawge, you a white man, an' you my mastah, an' you got
larnin'. But what kin' o' argyment is dat? Is dat good jedgment?"

"Well, now if it isn't, you show me why, you're a logician." There was
a twinkle in the eye of George Marston as he spoke.

"No, I ain' no 'gician, Mastah," the old man contended. "But what kin'
o' u'ligion you spec' I got anyhow? Hyeah me been sto'in' it up fu'
lo, dese many yeahs an' ain' got enough to las' ovah a few Sundays.
What kin' o' u'ligion is dat?"

The master laughed, "I believe you've got me there, Uncle Simon; well
go along, but see that your flock is well tended."

"Thanky, Mas' Gawge, thanky. I'll put a shepherd in my place dat'll
put de food down so low dat de littles' lambs kin enjoy it, but'll mek
it strong enough fu' de oldes' ewes." And with a profound bow the old
man went down the steps and hobbled away.

As soon as Uncle Simon was out of sight, George Marston threw back his
head and gave a long shout of laughter.

"I wonder," he mused, "what crotchet that old darkey has got into his
head now. He comes with all the air of a white divine to ask for a
vacation. Well, I reckon he deserves it. He had me on the religious
argument, too. He's got his grace stored." And another peal of her
husband's laughter brought Mrs. Marston from the house.

"George, George, what is the matter. What amuses you so that you
forget that this is the Sabbath day?"

"Oh, don't talk to me about Sunday any more, when it comes to the pass
that the Reverend Simon Marston wants a vacation. It seems that the
cares of his parish have been too pressing upon him and he wishes to
be away for some time. He does not say whether he will visit Europe or
the Holy Land, however, we shall expect him to come back with much new
and interesting material for the edification of his numerous
congregation."

"I wish you would tell me what you mean by all this."

Thus adjured, George Marston curbed his amusement long enough to
recount to his wife the particulars of his interview with Uncle Simon.

"Well, well, and you carry on so, only because one of the servants
wishes his Sundays to himself for awhile? Shame on you!"

"Mrs. Marston," said her husband, solemnly, "you are
hopeless--positively, undeniably, hopeless. I do not object to your
failing to see the humor in the situation, for you are a woman; but
that you should not be curious as to the motives which actuate Uncle
Simon, that you should be unmoved by a burning desire to know why this
staunch old servant who has for so many years pictured hell each
Sunday to his fellow-servants should wish a vacation--that I can
neither understand nor forgive."

"Oh, I can see why easily enough, and so could you, if you were not so
intent on laughing at everything. The poor old man is tired and wants
rest, that's all." And Mrs. Marston turned into the house with a
stately step, for she was a proud and dignified lady.

"And that reason satisfies you? Ah, Mrs. Marston, Mrs. Marston, you
discredit your sex!" her husband sighed, mockingly after her.

There was perhaps some ground for George Marston's perplexity as to
Uncle Simon's intentions. His request for "Sundays off" was so
entirely out of the usual order of things. The old man, with the other
servants on the plantation had been bequeathed to Marston by his
father. Even then, Uncle Simon was an old man, and for many years in
the elder Marston's time had been the plantation exhorter. In this
position he continued, and as his age increased, did little of
anything else. He had a little log house built in a stretch of woods
convenient to the quarters, where Sunday after Sunday he held forth to
as many of the hands as could be encouraged to attend.

With time, the importance of his situation grew upon him. He would
have thought as soon of giving up his life as his pulpit to any one
else. He was never absent a single meeting day in all that time.
Sunday after Sunday he was in his place expounding his doctrine. He
had grown officious, too, and if any of his congregation were away
from service, Monday morning found him early at their cabins to find
out the reason why.

After a life, then, of such punctilious rigidity, it is no wonder that
his master could not accept Mrs. Marston's simple excuse for Uncle
Simon's dereliction, "that the old man needed rest." For the time
being, the good lady might have her way, as all good ladies should,
but as for him, he chose to watch and wait and speculate.

Mrs. Marston, however, as well as her husband, was destined to hear
more that day of Uncle Simon's strange move, for there was one other
person on the place who was not satisfied with Uncle Simon's
explanation of his conduct, and yet could not as easily as the
mistress formulate an opinion of her own. This was Lize, who did about
the quarters and cooked the meals of the older servants who were no
longer in active service.

It was just at the dinner hour that she came hurrying up to the "big
house," and with the freedom of an old and privileged retainer went
directly to the dining-room.

"Look hyeah, Mis' M'ree," she exclaimed, without the formality of
prefacing her remarks, "I wants to know whut's de mattah wif Brothah
Simon--what mek him ac' de way he do?"

"Why, I do not know, Eliza, what has Uncle Simon been doing?"

"Why, some o' you all mus' know, lessn' he couldn' 'a' done hit. Ain'
he ax you nuffin', Marse Gawge?"

"Yes, he did have some talk with me."

"Some talk! I reckon he did have some talk wif somebody!"

"Tell us, Lize," Mr. Marston said, "what has Uncle Simon done?"

"He done brung somebody else, dat young Merrit darky, to oc'py his
pu'pit. He in'juce him, an' 'en he say dat he gwine be absent a few
Sundays, an' 'en he tek hissef off, outen de chu'ch, widout even
waitin' fu' de sehmont."

"Well, didn't you have a good sermon?"

"It mought 'a' been a good sehmont, but dat ain' whut I ax you. I want
to know whut de mattah wif Brothah Simon."

"Why, he told me that the man he put over you was one of the most
powerful kind, warranted to make you shout until the last bench was
turned over."

"Oh, some o' dem, dey shouted enough, dey shouted dey fill. But dat
ain' whut I's drivin' at yit. Whut I wan' 'o know, whut mek Brothah
Simon do dat?"

"Well, I'll tell you, Lize," Marston began, but his wife cut him off.

"Now, George," she said, "you shall not trifle with Eliza in that
manner." Then turning to the old servant, she said: "Eliza, it means
nothing. Do not trouble yourself about it. You know Uncle Simon is
old; he has been exhorting for you now for many years, and he needs a
little rest these Sundays. It is getting toward midsummer, and it is
warm and wearing work to preach as Uncle Simon does."

Lize stood still, with an incredulous and unsatisfied look on her
face. After a while she said, dubiously shaking her head:

"Huh uh! Miss M'ree, dat may 'splain t'ings to you, but hit ain' mek
'em light to me yit."

"Now, Mrs. Marston"--began her husband, chuckling.

"Hush, I tell you, George. It's really just as I tell you, Eliza, the
old man is tired and needs rest!"

Again the old woman shook her head, "Huh uh," she said, "ef you'd' a'
seen him gwine lickety split outen de meetin'-house you wouldn' a
thought he was so tiahed."

Marston laughed loud and long at this. "Well, Mrs. Marston," he
bantered, "even Lize is showing a keener perception of the fitness of
things than you."

"There are some things I can afford to be excelled in by my husband
and my servants. For my part, I have no suspicion of Uncle Simon, and
no concern about him either one way or the other."

"'Scuse me, Miss M'ree," said Lize, "I didn' mean no ha'm to you, but
I ain' a trustin' ol' Brothah Simon, I tell you."

"I'm not blaming you, Eliza; you are sensible as far as you know."

"Ahem," said Mr. Marston.

Eliza went out mumbling to herself, and Mr. Marston confined his
attentions to his dinner; he chuckled just once, but Mrs. Marston met
his levity with something like a sniff.

On the first two Sundays that Uncle Simon was away from his
congregation nothing was known about his whereabouts. On the third
Sunday he was reported to have been seen making his way toward the
west plantation. Now what did this old man want there? The west
plantation, so called, was a part of the Marston domain, but the land
there was worked by a number of slaves which Mrs. Marston had brought
with her from Louisiana, where she had given up her father's gorgeous
home on the Bayou Lafourche, together with her proud name of Marie
St. Pierre for George Marston's love. There had been so many
bickerings between the Marston servants and the contingent from
Louisiana that the two sets had been separated, the old remaining on
the east side and the new ones going to the west. So, to those who had
been born on the soil the name of the west plantation became a
reproach. It was a synonym for all that was worldly, wicked and
unregenerate. The east plantation did not visit with the west. The
east gave a dance, the west did not attend. The Marstons and St.
Pierres in black did not intermarry. If a Marston died, a St. Pierre
did not sit up with him. And so the division had kept up for years.

It was hardly to be believed then that Uncle Simon Marston, the very
patriarch of the Marston flock, was visiting over the border. But on
another Sunday he was seen to go straight to the west plantation.

At her first opportunity Lize accosted him:--

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