The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1894-05-30
SELECTED STORY.
"Sweet BOm-By."

ever since she began to live, and that
was all we knew of her past until
something happened.
We were trio of schoolgirls, and
Roxie the old black washerwoman,
who had left her adopted town, few
miles away, and come to the Springs
to make her fortune by doing laun-
dry work FOR Miss Fancher's school.
Roxie was not liked by people of
her own race at the Springs, who
called her "bigity," and she gloried
In their estimate of her pride, doing
all she could to merit it by switching
and strutting and holding a high
head when they were about, calling
them ugly as ho'made sin and po'
buckra niggers, leaving them to in
fer that she had belonged to ''qual-
fly" although she never gratifed the
curiosity of anybody by saying so.
She made no friends except with us
three, and the other girls wondered
what we saw in the homely, srrly
old woman to even tolerate But
Roxie was an interesting character
to us, and the mystery she managed
to throw about herself had its attrG>
ton.
Roxie had literary aspiration,
though she did not know a letter of
the alphabet, and we were ambitious
for her. To The Lighthouse, reli-
gious weekly published by colored
clergyman in her adopted town, went
many gushing illusions, bearing the
name "Roxie Scales" We wondered
why she persisted in using this in
stead of Roxie Friday, her name, and
demonstrated with her, arguing that
the articles were too good to appear
under pseudonym and she not have
the credit, but she was firm.
These articles were on all manner
of subjects The one she seemed
most concerned over was written in
her own house at her dictation, emit
tied "A Day In Tennessee" We
worked industriously, doing our best,
while Roxie criticised right and left,
made many hourishes of impotence
and said she didn't believe we had
ever heard of Tennessee in our lives
She ordered the best sentences cut
out because they were a little exag-
gerated, and she was more exacting
than was ever Miss Ross, who exam
ined our essays and overlooked gram
NAUTICAL errors purposely made to test
her competency.
Now and again Roxie and her huge
flatiron would make an angry plunge
In our direction, but she always stop
ped before getting too near with the
words in a modified tone, "Chillen,
TIE s'prised at yo' wisdom" She
meant our lack of it,
Her house was mile from the col
lege, in the prettiest, widest spot
about the Springs, and on her front
door a card with the words, This is
my busy day." hung from early Mon
day morning until Saturday night.
On Sundays she would sit at her
little parlor organ and sing Sweet
Bom-By" to an accompaniment i'm
provised for the occasion. She never
varied her song, but the accompani-
ment was changeable as the wind.
We three would stand at the win
dow and with tears in our eyes peep
in upon the lonely old woman, sing
away, her body swaying, her head in
motion, her attitude and voice a des-
perate appeal to the God the poor
soul secretly loved to send that bonn
by, that long delayed Sweet Bonn
by"
Roxie never laughed or smiled.
She had forgotten how, she said.
Her countenance was the same I'M
der all circumstances, even in her
stormiest moods.
Having no children of her own she
had taken in, one at a time, the
homeless, friendless babies she had
heard of and kept them until they
were old enough to earn living.
There was one with her at the
Springs, cunning little pickaninny
and to it Miss Shiday" was won.
derful woman. Roxey never scolded
Beck, except for lettering on the way
to and from the postoffice. Beck's INF
structions had been to remind the alb
sentminded postmaster on Saturday
that The Lighthouse should be forth
coming, and her daily query, ANY
dem Lighthouse papers fer Miss Shi
day." came to be a byword with the
patrons.
7 One day we went to Roxie's and
were somewhat surprised to see al
old negro, ragged and tattered, seat
ed on her front steps, his hat beside
him, his face in his hands, his whole
appearance one of humble mis-
cry. His broken sobs fell mourn
fully upon the quiet air, ant
even the hooking birds that Away
sang in the crooked old apple trees
around the door had been frightened
into silence. We went to the little
washhouse, expecting to find Roxi'
over the tubs up to her elbows il
soapsups, when there she sat on {
stool, looking every bit as miserable
as did the old fellow on the step.