The Winslow mail., 1899-07-20
|; In Memory of Martha
By Paul Lawrence Dunbar
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VOC may talk about banjo playing
if you will, but unless you heard
old Ben in his palmy days you have nc
idea what genius can do with five
strings stretched over the sheepsl1in.
You have been told, perhaps, that the
banjo is not an expressive instrument
Well, in the hands of an ordinary player
it is not. But you should have heard
old Ben, as, bending low over the neck
with closed eyes, he made the shell re-
spond like a living soul to his every
mood. 1t sang, it laughed, it sighed !;
and, just as the tears began yelling up
into the listeners eyes, it would break
out into a merry reel that would set feet
a-twinkling before one knew it.
Ben and his music were the delight of
the whole population, white and black,
master and man, and in the evening
when he sat before his cabin door, pick
ing out tune after tune, hymn, ballad
or breakdown, he was always sure of an
audience. Sometimes it was a group of
white children from the big house, with
a row of pickaninnies pressing Gloss
TO them. Sometimes it was old mas
and mis- themselves who strolled up to
the old man, drawn by his strains.
Often there was company, and then Ben
would be asked to leave his door and
play on the veranda of the big house.
Later on he would come back to Martha
laden with his rewards and swelled
with the praises of his powers.
And Martha would say to him: you,
Ben, dom you git conceity now; you
des' keep yo' haid level. L des' mon
low you been up dab playin' some o
dem ongodly chunes, lax Hoe Con an
Dig Tates.'
Ben would laugh and say: 'Well,
den, TEX de wickedness often de ban
10. Swing in, OF 'ooman!" And he
would drop into the accompaniment OF
one of the hymns that were the joy OF
Martha's religious soul, and she would
sing with him until, with flourish and
a thump, he brought the music to an
end.
Next to his banjo, Ben loved Martha
and next to Ben, Martha loved the BAN
10. In time and a region where fire.
mon, these two servants were noted for
their single-hearted devotion to each
other. He had never had any other
wife, and she had called no other man
husband. Their children had grown up
and gone to other plantations, or to
cabins of their own. So, alone, drawn
closer by the habit of comradeship,
Dll
Martha and the banjo.
One day Martha was taken sick, and
Ben came home to find her moaning
with pain, but dragging about trying to
get his supper. With loud pretended
upbraidings he bundled her into bed,
got his own supper, and then ran to his
master with the news.
Marty she down sick, Mas Tawm,'' -
he said, ''an' is mighty Uneasy in my
min bout huh. Seem lax she dom look
right to me outen huh eyes,
III send the doctor right down. Ben
said his master. Il don't reckon it's
anything very serious. l wish YOU
would come up to the house tonight
with your banjo. Mr.. Lewis is going to
be here with his daughter, and want
them to hear you play"
1t was thoughtlessness on the mas
ter's part; that was all. He did not be
lieve that Martha could be very i'll; but
he would have reconsidered his demand
If he could have seen on Ben's face the
look of pain which the darkness hid.
you'll send de doctah right away
mas'?''
''Oh, yes; I'll send him down. Dom
forget to come up"
Il won't fu'git," said Ben as he turned
away. But he did not pick up his banjo
to go to the big house until the planta
tion doctor had come and given Marth;
something to ease her. Then he said
'I's got to go up to the big house
Marty; be back putty soon.
''Don' you hu'y thoo on my count
You go long, an gin Mas Tawm gooC
measure, you hyeah?"
"Quit yo' bossin'," said Ben, littl'
more cheerfully; Il got you whah yol
CANT move, an eff you give me an!
o yo' back talk low frail you mon
st'ous.''
Martha chuckled a ''go long," ant