The Winslow mail., 1899-07-20

could play reefs ana JlSS Will lHS
proper swing when before his eyes was
the picture of smoky cabin room, and
on the bed in it a. sick wife, the wife
of 40 years?
The black man hurried back to his
cabin where Martha was doing. She
awoke at his step.
Didn't l tell you not to hu'y back
hyeah?" she asked.
II amt nevah hu'ied. / reckon / gin
'em all de music dey wanted" Ben an
swered little sheepishly. He knew
that he had not exactly covered himself
with glory. "How's you feelin'?'' he
added.
Bout de same. got kim of a mis'ry
in my side"
Il reckon you couldn't jine in de
HYMN to tex de wickedness outen dis
OF banio?" He looked anXiously at
her.
Il don't know bout j'inin' in, but you
go long an play anyhow. Eff l feel lax
iourneyin' wild you l fin you somewhar
on de road"
The banjo began to sing, and when
the hymn was half through Martha S
voice, not so strong and full as usual,
but trembling with new pathos,
Joined in and went on to the end.
Then Ben put up the banjo and went to
his rest.
The next day Martha was no better,
and the same the next. Her mistress
came down to see her, and delegated
one of the other servants to be with
her through the day and to get Ben's
meals. The old man himself was her
close attendant in the evenings, and he
waited on her with the tenderness OF
woman. He varied his duties as nurse
by playing to her, sometimes some llve-
ly cheerful bit, but more often the
HYMNS she loved but was now too weak
to follow.
1t gave him an aching pleasure at his
heart to see how she hung on his music.
1t seemed to have become her very life
He would play for no one else now,
and the little space before his door held
his audience of white and black chill
dren no more. They still came, but
the cabin door was inhospitably shut,
and they went away whispering among
| themselves: "Aunt Martha's sick.
Little Liz, who was very wise pick
aninny, once added: "Yes, Aunt Mar
fy's sick, an my nanny says she ain
never gwine to git up no mo-. An
other child had echoed ''Never!" in the
hushed, awe-struck tones which chill
dren use in the presence of the great
mystery.
LIS mother was right. Ben's Mar
| tha was never to get up again. One
night during pause in his playing she
whispered: ''Play 'Ha'k! F'om de
Tomb" He turned into the hymn, and
her voice, quavering and weak, Joined
in. Ben started, for she had not tried to
sing for so long. He wondered if it
wasn't a token. In the midst of the
hymn she stopped, but he played on to
the end of the verse. Then he got up
and looked at her.
Her eyes were closed, and there was
smile on her face-a smile that Ben
knew was not of earth. He called her,
but she did not answer. He put his
hand upon her head, but she lay very
still, and then he knelt and buried his
head in the bedclothes. giving himself
up to all the tragic violence of an old
mans grief.
Marty! Marty! Marfy!" he called.
'What you want to leave me flu? Marry
wait; 1 amt gwine be long"
His cries aroused the quarters, and
the neighbors came fiocking in. Ben
was hustled out of the way, the news
carried to the big house, and prepara-
tions made for the burying.
Ben took his banjo. He looked at it
fondIy, patted it, and placing it in it's
covering, put it on the highest shelf in
the cabin.
'Brothah Ben allus was mos p'opah
an 'sponsible so't o man." said LIS
mother as she saw him do it. ''Now,
dat's what | call showin' spec to Sis
Marty, putin his banjo up in de ve'y
place whah it'll get all dus'. Brothah
Ben sho is diff'ent f'om any husban' l
evah had" She had just provided Liz
with a third stepfather.
On many evenings after Martha had
been laid away, the children, seeing
Ben come and sit outside his cabin
door, would gather around, waiting,
and hoping that the banjo would be
brought out, but they were doomed to
disappointment. On the high shelf the
old banjo still reposed, gathering dust.
Finally one of the youngsters, bolder
| than the rest, spoke: "Ain't you gwine
play no mo-, Uncle Benz" and received
sad shake of the head in reply, and a
laconic Nope"
This remark Liz dutifully reported to
her mother. mo, O. co'se not said that
wise woman with emphasis; 20 co'se
Brothah Ben ain gwine play no mo-;
not right now, leas'ways; an dom you
go dah pesterin' him, nuther, Liz. You
be perlite an spectacle to him, an
make yo' 'bejunce when you pass
1t was several months after this that
a number of young people came from
the north to visit the young master,
Robert Curtis. 1t was on the second
evening of their stay that young
Eldridge said: Look here, Mr.. Curtis,
my father visited your plantation years
ago, and he told me of a wonderful BAN
Jolst you had, and said if | ever came
here to be sure and hear him if he was
alive. Is hep"
You mean old Ben? Yes, he's still
living, but the death of his wife rather
sent him daft, and he hasn't played for
] a 1OOor firna,