H.A. Breard Argues that Catholics Are People in Carolina Magazine, 1926

Are Catholics People

By H. A. Breard

How a certain "shooting parson" of Texas can stand in the pulpit day after day and harangue his credulous listeners with tales of barbaric cruelty and oppression as practiced by the Catholic church, and at the same time callously murder an unarmed citizen who had come to protest certain statements of the parson, is inexplicable.

But the same condition is true of any southern Protestant congregation. Knowing nothing about Catholicism as a religion, they characteristically fear the worst, and are content to believe the wildest tales, whether from the lips of the most illiterate minister, or from the sanctimonious lips of the demagogue. For an office-seeker to openly denounce the Catholic church as an intolerable and dangerous influence to the well-being of our government adds a comfortable quota of votes to his total.

Certain inspired, ignorant, and hard-shelled Protestants are continually blaring about that well-known and highly over-estimated octopus, Romanism, whose Italian tentacles are tearing at the best in one hundred per cent. Americans. They give us the most wonderful pictures, painted by perverted imaginations, of the pernicious practices of the Roman Church. Of these blatant scoffers, none have ever studied the Catholic faith or have been within a church of that persuasion. If they have, their distorted imaginations, having a greater cash value than the truth, are brought into play. They feed the intolerant that which they desire — alarming falsehoods.

Having been raised in the fold of the Catholic church, serving an early apprenticeship as altar boy, and having broken away from the Catholic church, as I have from the orthodox doctrines of all others, I can smile at the petty fear which seems to grip the minds of good Baptists and Methodists when the name Catholic is mentioned. Some seem to have the idea that once a person is allied with the Catholic church, certain forces are brought into play which will keep him forever from gaining his freedom. The only force used to keep me, or any other of the Romanist faith within the church is that of prayer and family persuasion.

Some non-Catholics are laboring under the delusion that the Pope is all powerful with the Catholics; that he wields a temporal influence superior to that of the rulers of the countries in which the Romanists happen to find themselves. This is without foundation. The Pope is all-powerful spiritually, and that alone. He lays down rules of doctrine, and interprets the laws of the Church. But even here he is hampered. He has as much, if not more, precedent to guide him than the Supreme Court of the United States. Catholics believe that he is infallible only when he speaks ex cathedra, that is in matters pertaining to the Church. Of course they do not believe that he is incapable of making mistakes and doing harm in his own private life. There is too much evidence to the contrary for them to hold such an idea.

As to temporal matters the Pope's powers are nil. Without doubt some would like to wield such power, but they realize that discretion is the better part of valor. The popes in ages past did supercede the rulers of the various countries, but this was due to force of circumstances — the invasion of the barbarians and the weakness of the petty states that sprang up after the collapse of the magnificent Roman Empire. A large number of the barbarians had been partially catholicized, and they stood in awe and fear only before the successors of St. Peter. After acquiring this power, the rulers of the Holy See were loath to give it up, but those days are past.

The last vestige of their temporal grandeur crumbled beneath them when the Papal States annexed themselves to the newly formed Kingdom of Italy. The inhabitants were good Catholics, but they voted to go over to Italy. They saw themselves primarily as Italians, secondarily as Catholics. As a protest against this action, the popes have never since left the Vatican grounds.

Some are opposed to the use of Latin and the ritualistic form in the Catholic service. Both have logical foundations. The former is used because it is a universal link. The Latin language ties all Catholic churches together into a great whole, makes all services uniform, and carries the congregation back to the days of the founding of the Church. Then, too, the great Supreme Being possibly understands Latin as well as any other language. It is to Him that the prayers are directed.

The ritual is that to which the Church owes its great strength. After all, religion is a thing of the heart and not of the mind, and what appeals more to the heart and carries one to greater ethereal heights than an imposing ritualistic mass interspersed with beautifully sentimental music? The poor sin-burdened worshipper seems to be raised above this sordid plane during such a ceremony. Protestants, also, realizing the power of music to charm, introduced it into their gatherings.

There is a common belief that the Roman Church forbids the reading of the Bible. This is erroneous. A certain portion of the Bible is read each day at the celebration of the mass, and the reading of Bible history is encouraged. The Holy Book, and prayer books taken from it, may be found in almost all Catholic homes. The Church requires, however, that its version be read, because Catholics are under the impression that their church is the true church and consequently that the Catholic version of the Holy Scriptures is the true version.

Some suspect and many are absolutely sure that the confessional is a means of extorting money from the sinner. This may occur. I will not flatly deny it. But all during my connection with the Catholic Church, I have never had the subject of money raised while in the confessional nor have I ever heard of it being extracted as a condition precedent to absolution. Some priests may do so, but I do not believe that extortion is nearly so prevalent in the Roman Church as in others. The priest has no incentive to extract money. He receives sufficient for his upkeep; the remainder of the money going into the church fund. And any one who knows the Catholic faith realizes that it is not within the power of the priest to forgive. He is merely an intermediary. The priest asks God to forgive the sinner if he is sorry for the sins that he has committed. If the sinner should not be repentant, the confession is of no avail and the sins are all the more magnified.

Some are of the opinion that Catholics think that all marriages outside of the Catholic Church are adulterous. This is not the case. Protestant marriages are considered valid because the Romanists believe that Protestants have not seen the true light, and are not responsible for what they do. This is the explanation given, but in truth, force of circumstance causes the Roman Church to recognize them. It realizes that its members would not follow it in a strict construction. However a Catholic who is married by other than a priest is considered as living in sin, at least by the officials of the Church. Only the more bigoted members give it a second thought. The Catholic Church teaches that marriage is a holy sacrament conferred upon man by God, and only one of God's true representatives is capable of performing the ceremony. Upon this theory no union may be liquidated; the knot has been tied in Heaven. The parties may separate, but only the death of one of them will dissolve the matrimonial hitch.

Purgatory seems to be a stumbling block for many. The logic of the matter seems to me to be very simple. It is merely a midway station between Heaven and earth where those who have not suffered sufficiently for the sins that they have committed may do a little extra duty, in military parlance. Only those who are absolutely clear of sin may enter into the presence of the Almighty. Hell would be overpopulated if those guilty of lesser sins were consigned to that station, so the Church invented an intermediate place. Of course if one is guilty of a mortal sin Satan takes immediate possession of his soul on its passage from its earthly abode, the body. Then too, Purgatory is an excellent means for the Church to save old hypocrites who stage last minute repentances. They have not suffered for their sins on earth. It is necessary for them to suffer somewhere. Purgatory is an excellent place. Masses are said for those in Purgatory in order to strengthen them in their suffering there to attain the Ethereal Presence. The masses are said at a dollar a piece if the relatives are able to pay, but they are said gratuitously upon request. The receipts from such masses go to pay off the indebtedness of the local church. No doubt it is this practice that gives rise to the assertion of outsiders that the priest pretends to have the power to pray sinners out of hell. The Catholic Church teaches that once in hell there is no redemption ; prayers will do no good. Aside from this, the priest can't pray for any one. One must pray for himself. The priest only prays that God grant the sinner strength to fight sin and to listen to his feeble prayers.

Indulgences have been a bone of contention ever since the days of Martin Luther. Their sale was a prime means of raising funds in his time, but this was done away with by the Counter-Reformation. They are now obtained by prayer and good works. If one gains an indulgence, a certain amount of temporal punishment due for his sins are remitted. Remission for sins committed in the future was never granted. Some zealous prelates, however, may have led some credulous communicants to believe to the contrary.

What part does statuary play in Catholic worship: Are they idolaters? By no means. I do not know what the ignorant believe, but I was taught along with many others that the statues arc only material reminders, a tangible representation used to bring to mind the holy one of whom one is seeking a favor. The saints prayed to are not on an equality with God. They are requested to intercede with God, that is to pray to Him, in favor of the repentant sinner, and to ask Him to grant strength to the hitter to carry on in the monumental struggle against sin. The Virgin is not considered the equal of her great Son, but she heads the list of saints. She is often requested in prayers to intercede with her Divinely Conceived Child in favor of some heart-sick sinner who seeks grace. Is this not natural? Are not concessions on this earth often obtained through the intercession of mothers? The beads or rosary that Catholics use are merely counting boards upon which they keep track of prayers said in a certain sequence.

The Church of Rome demands celibacy of its clergy because it believes that an unmarried priesthood will devote itself wholly to the work of saving souls; that there will be no conflict of family ties and church duties; and that there will be no disruption in the congregation, due to the strange makeup of the usual preacher's wife. Doubtless these are reasons enough, but since celibacy is against a law of nature, it is perhaps against a law of God.

From the October 1926 issue of Carolina Magazine, published in Chapel Hill by the Dialectic and Philanthropic Literary Societies of the University of North Carolina.

archive.org/details/carolinamagazine19261927/page/n19/mode/2up Editor’s Note: H. A. Breard was a senior at the University and was on the staff of The Magazine in 1925. From the front page of The Tar Heel, UNC-CH Student Newspaper, Oct. 9, 1926 newspapers.digitalnc.org/lccn/sn92073227/1926-10-09/ed-1/seq-1/

Sunday School Presents Postmaster Hooper with Silver Loving Cup, Nov. 5, 1926

When a Postmaster Wept

Tears came to the eyes of Elizabeth City’s postmaster and he could speak with difficulty when the members of the First Methodist Sunday School of Elizabeth City presented him with a magnificent silver loving cup the other Sunday upon the occasion of his retirement from the superintendency of the Sunday School. Mr. Hooper had served as Superintendent of the school for four years and won for himself the love and affection of one of the largest and most active Sunday School groups in Eastern North Carolina.

Photo by Zoeller shows Mr. Hooper holding the beautiful cup, which is more than 15 inches high.

From the front page of The Independent, Elizabeth City, N.C., Nov. 5, 1926

To see the newspaper photo of the postmaster and his impressive loving cup, go to:

newspapers.digitalnc.org/lccn/sn83025812/1926-11-05/ed-1/seq-1/

K.K.K. Endorsement Doesn't Impress Presiding Elder Culbreth, Nov. 5, 1926

Columbia Preacher Is Popular with Klan. . . Kluckers Petition the Presiding Elder to Send Rev. Crumpler Back Next Year

The popularity of Rev. A. B. Crumpler, pastor of the Columbia circuit M. E. Church South, with the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, is ably attested by a letter that has been received by Presiding Elder Culbreth. An urgent appeal was made in the letter which was written on Klan stationery, but signed only by the impressive symbols “K. K. K.” that Mr. Crumpler be returned by the conference for a second year.

The appeal of the Klan to return Rev. Crumpler back to Columbia will not be forwarded to the Bishop who presides over the conference next week. The letter went into the Elder’s stove. “If I proposed to work for the return of Mr. Crumpler,” says Mr. Culbreth, “that letter would be the last excuse in the world to bring up.”

The work and purposes of the Ku Klux Klan do not arouse enthusiasm in Rev. Culbreth. “The organization is diametrically opposed to the order of things we have given our efforts to build p, and has no place in American life today,” he says.

If Mr. Crumpler is in league with the Klan at Columbia, then his association certainly doesn’t have the endorsement of Elder Culbreth.

From the front page of The Independent, Elizabeth City, N.C., Nov. 5, 1926

newspapers.digitalnc.org/lccn/sn83025812/1926-11-05/ed-1/seq-1/

Schoolteacher Is Bride of William Darden, Nov. 5, 1926

Became a Bride on Saturday

MRS. WILLIAM l. DARDEN

Before her marriage on Saturday at Tabernacle Baptist Church Norfolk, she was Miss India Bartlett, popular teacher in the Elizabeth City Schools. She is the attractive daughter of Mr. and Mrs. W. S. Bartlett of South Mills, N.C. Mr. Darden, who is the son of Mr. and Mrs. J. B. Darden of Sessoms, Va., has a position of responsibility covering several states. The couple will make their home here.

From the front page of The Independent, Elizabeth City, N.C., Nov. 5, 1926

To see the photo of Mrs. William L. Darden, nee Miss India Bartlett, go to:

newspapers.digitalnc.org/lccn/sn83025812/1926-11-05/ed-1/seq-1/

To Keep Husbands Happy at Home, Give Wives Silk Nighties, Nov. 5, 1926

The Bank Clerk and the Soda Jerker. . . Where There Is Discontent in the Home

“That woman judge down in Birmingham, Ala., has certainly stirred up a lot of talk, hasn’t she?” observed the Bank Clerk to the Soda Jerker by way of starting the usual morning chinfest.

“I haven’t heard anything about it,” said the Soda Jerker.

“Don’t you read the newspapers?” asked the Bank Clerk.

“Sure, I read them about the way most folks read them. I open it up and see what Mutt and Jeff are doing; then I turn over and look at the sport page. I glance at the headlines to see if there are any automobile wrecks or whether it was Aimee McPherson’s or some other woman’s nighties in Armiston’s trunk. That’s about all I get out of a daily newspaper.”

“Well, you missed something,” said the Bank Clerk. “They have a woman judge down in Birmingham named Virginia Henry Mayfield. Judge Mayfield broke into print the other day with the statement that women could help the cotton farmer and save their souls at the same time by wearing more cotton and less silk. Yes sir; the old girl said she was sure that homes would be happier if women wore more cotton hose, cotton bloomers, cotton petticoats and cotton night shirts. She thinks that silk underwear and silk stockings have done more to increase the business of the divorce courts than everything else put together. What do you think about it?”

“I think she’s part right and I think she’s part wrong,” said the Bank Clerk. “I have no doubt that silk teddies and silk hose may help the divorce courts, but when the old girls says that cotton petticoats and cotton night shirts make for contentment in the home, she’s all wrong and I have an idea that she’s suffering from one of those things called an inferiority complex. The trouble with so many homes to-day is that the poor, homely little wives wear cotton bloomers, cotton petticoats and cotton night shirts and when their husbands get out and see a peach of a little thing dolled up in about two ounces of silk, he loses his head to the silk.

“Now if that Alabama lady judge would put cotton hose and cotton bloomers on every little drug store hound on Main Street and put flesh colored silk step-ins on all the plain little wives who stay at home, then there might be more contentment in the home and fewer men falling for the stuff they run into away from home. I’ll say that Leigh Sheep is right: Even a married woman feels better in a silk nightie.”

From the front page of The Independent, Elizabeth City, N.C., Nov. 5, 1926

newspapers.digitalnc.org/lccn/sn83025812/1926-11-05/ed-1/seq-1/

George Walton Whitehurst, 77, Has Died, Nov. 5, 1926

Youngest of 10 Dies at Age of 70 Years

George Walton Whitehurst, 77, died Wednesday morning at the residence on West Church Street following an illness of three years. He was the youngest of a family 10 children, and only one other of whom are living, Robert White hurst of Smyrna, N.C., who is 90 years old.

Funeral services took place at the home at 4 o’clock Thursday afternoon, the services being conducted by the pastor of the deceased, Rev. F. S. Love, pastor of the First Methodist Church, assisted by Dr. Samuel Templeman, pastor of the First Baptist Church. Interment was in Hollywood.

Mr. Whitehurst is survived by four children, J.N., J.V., and Miss Mattie Whitehurst of this city, and J. Slaughter Whitehurst of Lake Wales, Florida.

From the front page of The Independent, Elizabeth City, N.C., Nov. 5, 1926

newspapers.digitalnc.org/lccn/sn83025812/1926-11-05/ed-1/seq-1/

Paul Green's Play "Supper for the Dead", November, 1926

Supper for the Dead

By Paul Green

•NOTE: The final d's and g's are in most cases retained as an aid to reading. Oot should be pronounced "gut", put, "putt", right, "raght", what, "whut", etc.

CHARACTERS

Fess Oxendine, a Croatan Negro. Vonie Oxendine, a Negro, his wife. Old Queen i.e., a Negro conjure-woman.

Lil

Fury

her two daughters.

TIME

The latter part of the nineteenth century.

PLACE

In a Cafe Fear River swamp in eastern North Carolina. The burning sun has gone down over the Oxendine clearing and a sort of steaming night-sweat creeps up and around the cabin from the feverish surrounding swamps. FESS OXENDINE, a powerful Croatan Negro of middle age with a swarthy copperish face stands by the pig-pen holding a bucket in his hand and watching his pig eat slops. The pig finally finishes his guzzling and squeals and gnaws at the rails for more, but Fess pays no attention to him now, watching on with unseeing eyes. The dusk gradually thickens in the little field, swamp owls begin their mournful calling, and presently a mocking-bird bursts into a lonely chatter in the one pear tree near the garden. Fess with a mutter shakes his shoulders and looks morosely around at the sky. The spectacle of the west burning in a flame and the clouds marching in their glory seems to irritate and awe him. With a bitter oath, he lurches across his few potato rows and into the house. Sitting down by the fire-place, he begins to dip snuff, now and then running his hand through his mop of heavy hair.

In the back of the room is a bed and to the left of that a broken-down cot. A rough eating-table is in the center. Three or four pots and pans' hang to the right of the fireplace and in the comer a cupboard contains some provisions and a few cracked dishes. There are two or three chairs with untanned cowhide bottoms. A door at the right opens to the outside, and in the left wall is a wooden window with a double-barreled shot gun above it. Old clothes are hanging on nails about the room.

Fess [slapping himself and muttering] : Mon, dem domn muskeeters seem lak try to eat you up. [He beats about him with his ragged felt hat and sits listening.] Why 'on't she come on hyuhr And dem owls, dem owls, seem lak worse dan useter. [He lights a sputtering lamp, sets it on the table and resumes his seat before the hearth. Presently he lifts the lid from the spider sitting near the coals.] Hunh, left me nary a bite t'eat. Knowed it. Min' take my cowhide when she come and beat the clothes off'n her. Whah she gone nohow r [Pondering.] Sump'n in her mind, dat's a fac'. [He wanders to the door, looks out, and gives a sharp whistle. As he waits with no reply, his face grows distorted with anger, and he yells.] Heigh, you, Vonie! 'Come out'n dat 'ere swamp ef you's down dere.' [His hound shakes himself in the yard and corning up into the door leans agonist his leg. The brute's gesture of kindliness infuriates him and with a savage kick, he hurls him from him. In a sudden burst of anger he springs across the room, jerks down the gun and hurries to the door.] Gwine shoot dat God-domn dog. Git f'om hyuh, you dirty suck-aig devil! Alius in de way. [He raises his gun and fires, and the dog runs screaming across the field. He fires a second time and stands listening to the screams of pain dying towards the swamp. Then, heaving a great sigh, he sets the stock of the gun on his foot.] Unh-hunh, I been telling dat Nick to keep out'n my way. Anh, dat purty sudden dough, shooting him lak dat. [Chuckling.] Sho' tore up his tail wid dem shot, I betcha. [He stands thinking.] Seem lak everything gitting wrong wid me. My haid des' flies all to pieces. [Shaking himself.] Wish't I could fohgit dat 'ere dream I had-ohLawd! Next thing I'll be putting a load o' shot in dat Vonie. [He gets two shells from the cupboard, reloads the gun, and replaces it above the window; after which he sets about stirring up the fire and preparing supper. He places a frying-pan on the coals and begins hacking off huge slices of white side meat at the cupboard. While he is thus occupied, Vonie shuffles quietly in. She is a middle-aged Negro, dressed in dirty rags, all hips and feet and with a little pole-like chest. One eye is missing from her head, leaving a red membranous slit between her lids. Her face is dead and sagging and Unrelieved by vitality even in her one good ere. As she enters, Fess whirls upon her with a shout, raising the knife in his hand.] Yeah, and where you been to, 'oman?

Vonie. [Dragging off her bonnet and sitting quietly in a chair.] Off.

Fess. [With a guttural snarl.] Reckon I knows it, and you gone de whole evenin'. [Seizing her and putting the knife against her throat.] Gooder min'er rip yo' gullet open. Whah you been to, I axes you?

Vonie. [Choking out the words.] Off, off a little piece.

Fess. [Crushing her down in her seat.] Spet out, spet out! What you up to. [Vonie closes her eye and drops her head limply against his hand. He gives her throat a little sharp prick and steps back from her with a threatening chuckle.] All right, I'll find out. Better not be up to no tricks, you know me —

Vonie. [Wiping a trickle of blood from her throat with her apron and speaking in a thin stifled voice.] Gouge t'other eye out, anh?

Fess. [Throwing his knife down and slumping in a chair.] Mon's 'oman tell de shuriff on him orter have 'em both bored out wid a chunk o' far.

Vonie. Ain't no shuriff dis time.

Fess. Better not be. But you act so quare all day long! Sump'n in yo' mind?

Vonie. [Quietly.] Dey is.

Fess. [Softly as he punches up the fire.] Still worrying 'bout it — 'bout sump'n?

Vonie. Mought.

Fess. Quit it, quit it, cain't be ho'p.

Vonie. Mought could a mont' ago. [Bowing her head in her hands.] Po' little thing!

Fess. [Eyeing her.] Hanh?

Vonie. Po' little thing.

Fess. [Sharply.] Hyuh now, thought you done say all mebbe foh de best.

Vonie. Mebbe . . [Levelly.] But den I been turning it in my haid. [She darts a quick look at him and stares at the floor.]

Fess. Dat what you been doing off in dem woods?

Vonie. Ne' mind.

Fess. Don't talk too sharp wid me, nigger. [Vonie suddenly breaks into a low sardonic and toothless laugh. Fess turns and gazes at her in astonishment, thru shrugs his shoulders carelessly.] Yo' misery mak' you laugh lak dat?

Vonie. Mebbe.

Fess. [Bounding out of his chair.] 'Y God you stop dat and git a move on you 'bout my supper. [He moves toward her.] Hyuh I been waiting, and I got to hurry to de swamps.

Vonie. Better not go to dat still tonight.

Fess. Hunh?

Vonie. I hearn de depities is on to it. Dey watch tonight.

Fess. Dat de truf?

Vonie. [In the same impersonal voice.] Mebbe.

Fess. [Stopping uncertainly.] Hyuh . . . Quare you telling me dat. Seem lak you'd want 'em to git me, way dey did t'other time.

Vonie. Don't want 'em to git you dis time.

Fess. Not if you wants to keep dat haid where it belongs. [With a touch of kindness.] Whah'd you heah 'bout dem officers, Vonie?

Vonie. Over de creek.

Fess. What you doing over dere?

Vonie. A little business.

Fess. [Raging.] A little business! Cut out dat making fun of me. [With a sudden thought.] You ain't tell dem officers dey find me hyuh, has you?

Vonie. I ain't told 'em nothing.

Fess. Cain't see what you planning.

Vonie. [Giving him another quick glance.] Lonesome hyuh by myself now. Be bad wid you in de pen.

Fess. [Somewhat softened.] Sho' den I set wid you.

Vonie. [Going on in cold impassiveness.] Too lonesome and her not wid me hyuh.

Fess. [Gruffly.] Yeh, but I be hyuh wid you now.

Vonie. Mebbe.

Fess. [Staring at her in angry amazement.] What'n de name o' God you mean, 'oman, wid all dat mebbe talk?

Vonie. [Smiling queerly.] How long since it happened?

Fess. Don't put no membrance 'pon it. Fohgit it, let it go by.

Vonie. 'Bout a mont', ain't it, since us found her in de water?

Fess. Well den, 'bout a mont'!

Vonie. New-moon night?

Fess. [Hurriedly.] Don't know, cain't 'member all dat. Quit fetching it up, I tell you. [In a loud voice.] She up above now, at rest. Preacher say she good girl.

Vonie. [With sudden vehemence.] Her wuh good too, but den somebody wuh mean.

Fess. [Softly.] How come?

Vonie. Who put her in dat creek and drownded her?

Fess. Done told you she must had slipped in when she fishing.

Vonie. Why ain't you tried to find out who 'twas, you her daddy?

Fess. She got drownded, dat's all.

Vonie. [Crying out.] Fess Oxendine, who done it, who wuh de man?

Fess. [Snapping.] How de hell I know? [He quickly goes over to the bed and lies down.] I gwine lie and rest a minute. Git on now and fry me dat meat.

Vonie. [Beginning to beat on her knees.] Some ob 'em say she drownded herself and gone down to hell. Dey say it dat day at de graveyard.

Fess. She fell in I tell you and got dat fish-line all wropped 'round her neck. Dat choked her down.

Vonie. [Standing up.] And what you doing las' night talking 'bout fishlines in yo' dreams? And one time you hollered out and call her purty flower.

Fess. [Starting and then speaking cunningly.] Et too much o' dat grease and dat meat, mak' me have bad dreams. Quit dat worrying. She gone on up to heaben. Sho' she sorry foh you and me way down hyuh.

Vonie. [Mournfully.] I gwine find out whah she gone.

Fess. Hunh?

Vonie. Find out.

Fess. [Snorting.] You must be crazy or sump'n. How you gwine do datr.

Vonie. Find out who done it too.

Fess. [Sitting up on the edge of the bed.] How you mean?

Vonie. Help comin' hyuh. Us gwine find out.

Fess. [In a low voice.] Who coming?

Vonie. I been over to Aunt Queenie's.

Fess. [Sfringin' out of bed.] Dat 'oman ain't coming in my house.

Vonie. Her and de twins is coming hyuh in a few minutes.

Fess. [Getting his gun.] Dem snake folks come in hyuh, I fill 'em full o' lead.

Vonie. She don't keer nothing foh dat.

Fess. Whah dey now?

Vonie. Dey come by de graveyard to git some de dirt off'n her grave.

Fess. I'll kill 'em, I tell you.

Vonie. [Sitting down again and watching him intently.] Nunh-unh, you won't. Lead won't bodder 'em, and 'sides, dey'd han't you and destroy you wid deir power.

Fess. Hunh, dat hain't business! What dey gwine do hyuh?

Vonie. Dey show you.

Fess. [Setting his gun down against the wall.] Pshaw, dey cain't hurt me. Keep strong in de haid, dat's all. Mess wid me and I git me a stick and frail 'em out'n hyuh.

Vonie. [Laughing toothlessly again.] You de only man'd say dat.

Fess. [Throwing up his head.] And I's de man kin do it too. You low-down niggers all got no mo' sense dan a gang o' sheep. Fess Oxendine ain't dat sort. He got de white folks blood in him, and dat old Indian chief wuh my grandpap. [Boldly.] Yeh, let 'em try all deir mess t'won't skeer me.

Vonie. [Cryptically.] Sho' you too much man foh de nigger trash.

Fess. All dat business 'bout Jackmuh-Iantern and dat Plat-eye — hunh, I seed 'em and never 'twon't nothing but old fox-far or lightning bugs. [Laughing.] And you niggers all freezing wid fear of 'em.

Vonie. Sho', dat's all. [She goes to the chimney and taking a little brown packet from a nail, throws it into the fire.]

Fess. [With a shout.] Heigh, what you doing?

Vonie. [Returning to her chair.] Sho' you don't keer 'f I burn up my little trick. Dey ain't no power in it, you said many a time.

Fess. [Moving towards the fire.] You don't want to burn it up now wid old Queenie coming hyuh.

Vonie. Queenie ain't gwine hurt me. [Fess stops, and Vonie laughs sarcastically.] No, he ain't skeered o' nothing. He strong in de haid and all-powerful. [In a monotone.] Fess Oxendine de mighty man o' the Cumberland swamps, don't hadder put no 'pendance in no conjuh bag. He strong enough widout it, de wild buck of de river. How many men has he cut to de hollow? And de wimmen, and de wimmen! Bad Fess dey calls him. [Teasingly.] Bedder not let dat little bag up.

Fess. [Throwing back his shoulders.] Domn dat little bag! What I keer? [Turning and kicking her.] Git now and fix my supper.

Vonie. [Laughing again.] We all eat supper togedder.

Fess. Hunh?

Vonie. Supper foh de daid.

Fess. What's dat?

Vonie. Us gwine feed her, po' little thing.

Fess. [Mumbling in perplexity.] Dat studying 'bout it got her wrong in de haid. [There is a noise outside and old Queenie stands in the door. Fess looks at her a moment and then sits quietly in his chair near the fire. The old woman comes in, followed by her twin daughters. She is an incredibly ancient Guinea Negro of a bluish-black color, drawn and skinny, with bright little eyes, and dressed in a single garment of dull red flannel. She walks with a stick and carries a little leather satchel on her arm. The twins, dressed in the same dull stuff, and holding hands, follow her into the room. They are about sixty years old and walk with short quivering -palsied steps, their tiny bonneted heads rising above their shoulders with the grace and litheness of two snakes. As they enter they fasten their beady eyes on Fess, who moves closer against the wall.]

Queenie. [Motioning with her stick and speaking in a husky jerky voice.] Set over dere. [The twins move over and sit down on the edge of the bed. Old Queenie looks carefully around the room and smiles triumphantly as her eyes rest on the packet burning in the fire.]

Vonie. [Rising and placing her a chair.] Set down and rest yo' se'f.

Queenie. [Huskily.] Who dat man?

Vonie. Dat Fess, de daddy o' her. [Fess watches her narrowly, abstractedly pulling out his snuff-box.

Queenie. Sho' dat Fess. [Pleasantly.] Bad man, ain't you, Fess?

Fess. [Growling.] What you doing hyuh in my house? [He turns his head away and begins dipping.] Old 'oman what de snakes useter suck. [A sudden gleam comes into Queenie's eye, quickly passing away.]

Queenie. How you all gitting on?

Fess. Gitting on all right and you might take dem two bastards off my bed and hit de grit from hyuh.

Queenie. Don't mind us, Fess. D'ain't no harm in us. [Looking at him pleasantly.] Gimme a bit o' yo' snuff, Fess. [She smiles kindly at him. The twins lean forward expectantly.]

Fess. Sho' I don't mind dat. Hyuh. Help yo'se'f. [She takes the snuff and puts some in her lip and nose.] , You don't seem so quare adder all. [Old Queenie suddenly sneezes and then inhales with a deep breath of delight.] But dem two 'omans on dat bed .

Queenie. [Sneezing again and smiling at him.] Dey po' harmless chillun. But ain't dey purty, Fess? I calls 'em my two snakes. Talk to him, chillun. [They lick their tongues out at him.]

Fess. [Starting back.] Great God, dem things ain't human! [Vonie sits down and says nothing.]

Queenie. Oh, dey kin talk bedder'n dat. Dey kin say words at times. Po' things, got marked by a big rattlesnake pilot bit me in de swamp 'fo' dey was bawn. [She sneezes again, gazing indulgently at Fess.] Look at deir little haids and deir little black eyes, des lak a snake foh de world. [She sneezes again and the twins grow more and more excited, their heads appearing to rise higher and higher on the stems of their scrawny necks.]

Fess. Make 'em quit looking at me dat-a-way. [She hands the snuff-box back to him.]

Queenie. Dat mighty good snuff, Fess. [She sneezes twice in rapid succession and turns and looks at the twins. Their tongues begin to flutter between their lifs as they look hungrily at their mother.]

Fess. [Suspiciously.] Why you sneeze so? [Vonie looks up intently.]

Queenie. [Speaking gently over her shoulder.] Good snuff, Fess, good Railroad Mills. [She opens her mouthy wrinkles her nosey and then sneezes sharply. The two women sit up stiff and straight on the bed. Queenie shouts out.] Seben times, chillun, seben times! [She totters over to the door and looks out over her left shoulder.] Dere it is, dere's de new moon behine dat poplar. All ready, fixed and ready, fixed and ready.

Fess. [Standing up.] Don't you start dat 'ere business, I tell you.

Queenie. [With a sharp gesture.] Set down in dat cheer, nigger man, set down. [Fess gradually sinks back in his chair, waiting.]

Fess. [Muttering.] But min' what I told you.

Queenie. [Raising her head and speaking in the air.] God befo' me, God behine me, God be wid me.

Lil and Fury. [Whispering.] God be wid me.

Queenie. Dat right, talk out, speak fo'th chillun. Dere was po' li'l Miny drownded in de creek. Whah she now?

Lil and Fury. Whah?

Queenie. Mebbe in heben, mebbe in hell, mebbe walking in de swamps. [Vonie bows her head on her knees.] Us gwine find out, gwine raise huh ghos' f'om de daid and feed huh, gwine see who kill huh.

Lil and Fury. Who kill huh.

Fess. [With a brutal laugh.] Reckon you won't be gitting de daid back hyuh. [He reaches for his gun and lays it across his lap.]

Queenie. [Touching Vonie's bent back with her stick.] Fetch me huh dress and bonnet. [Vonie rises and gets a dress and bonnet from a nail in the wall. Queenie places a chair to the table, spreads the dress over it, and puts the bonnet on top, forming a crude dummy. Fess watches every movement with skeptical braggadocio. Old Queenie calls.] Chillun!

Lil and Fury. [Softly.] Yeh, mam.

Queenie. Kin you heah me?

Lil and Fury. Us heah you.

Queenie. Kin huh heah me?

Lil and Fury. Huh heah you too.

Queenie. [Chuckling.] Us gut de power?

Lil and Fury. De power.

Queenie. Fetch me de free plates and de bowl. [Vonie goes to the cupboard and brings the dishes to the table. Old Queenies sets them out, a plate before the dummy, one at each end of the table and the bowl in the middle.

Fess. Sech a pack o' fools!

Queenie. Come to de table, chillun. [With jerky steps they move over and seat themselves, one at each end of the table. Queenie opens her satchel and takes out a dirty little paper bag and empties it in the bowl.] Po' in, po' in dirt f'om huh grave.

Lil and Fury. De graveya'd dirt.

Queenie. [Pulling out a handful of herbs and placing them in the bowl.] Bring me de far-coal, 'oman. [Vonie brings a fire-coal on a piece of wood. Queenie takes it in her hand and blows on it.]

Fess. Great God, it don't burn her!

Queenie. [Dropping it into the bowl.] Blow on it, chillun. [They bend their heads toward the center of the table and blow in the bowl. Presently a curl of smoke rises upward.] Breave dat smoke down in you. [They inhale the fumes and sit stiffly back in their chairs looking unblinkingly at old Queenie. The old woman draws several pieces of white meat from her satchel and places one in each of the three plates.] Eat dat, chillun. [They begin eating. Vonie comes up near the table and stands watching.]

Fess. What dat dey eating? [Horrified.] I bet to Christ dat rashers of dead folks!

Queenie. See anything yit?

Lil and Fury. [Dreamily.] Not yit, Mammy.

Queenie. [Pulling out three dark objects resembling frogs and placing them on the plates.] Eat dat, chillun. [Queenie peers into their eyes as they eat.] See yit?

Lil and Fury. See little bit.

Queenie. [Huskily.] What dat, chillun?

Lil and Fury. Sump'n 'way, 'way in a big snow field.

Fess. [Jumping out of his chair.] God A'mighty, dey eating frawgs. [Queenie waves her hand behind her and Fess gradually sinks back in his chair, staring at them with open mouth.]

Queenie. Look clost, look clost. Is dey people dere?

Lil and Fury. People dere.

Queenie. Huh dere?

Lil and Fury. Cain't see urn. [Old Queenie pulls out more dried herbs and puts them in the bowl. Thick clouds of smoke pour upward and settle about the room.] Breave it, chillun, breave it. [She takes a little red flannel pouch out of the satchel and pours some white powder in each of the three plates. The twins wet their fingers and dip the powder into their mouths. Queenie coaxes them on.] Look down, 'waydown yander in dat t'other place. Look down.

Lil and Fury. [In a far-away voice.] Us looking.

Queenie. Kin see dere? [They suddenly draw back horrified.] Look, look dere, I tell you.

Lil and Fury. [Shuddering.] Ah! [They close their eyes and sway from side to side.]

Queenie. [Sternly.] Look down dere, I tell you. [She pulls out a handful of hair and casts it into the bowl. There is a quick puff of flame upward, and Lil and Fury rear back with a low moan.]

Vonie. [Dropping in her chair with a cry.] Don't make 'em look, don't make 'em. Dey done see sump'n, sump'n bad. [She hides her face in her arms.]

Queenie. Look down dere!

Lil and Fury. Kin see now.

Queenie. See huh?

Lil and Fury. See huh.

Vonie. [Shrieking.] Po' little Miny down dere in hell! [She covers her head with her apron.]

Queenie. Keep yo' eye on huh, don't lose huh. [She begins to chant as she draws fetishes from the satchel and arranges them on the table.] Feathers, cakes and beans and cawn, Thumb of de bastard son jist bawn. Spider, wasp and field-mice tongue.

Fess. [Shooting out of his chair with a yell.] I done see dat-ere bonnet move on de cheer! [He jerks up his gun.]

Queenie. [Chanting.] Eye of a man de gallus hung.

Fess. [Snarling, as he cocks his gun.] You quit dat conjure business, don't I shoot you. [He suddenly starts for the door, but old Queenie steps before him holding up her stick.]

Queenie. You ain't gwine out'n hyuh, black man, till we's done. [With a quick movement of her stick she bends down and draws a line on the floor from the door to the fireplace, enclosing Fess.] You step over dat line and you fall daid. Stay back dere man and don't you move. Do, I ruin you fohever. [Fess puts out his foot as if to step over. Queenie watches him with uplifted hand and the twins moan loudly. Finally he slinks back to his chair and sits down shivering.]

Fess. All right, God domn you! I wait and see what you up to.

Queenie. [Laying out more fetishes.] Devil's snuff and de dried dog brains, 'Oman's scabs dat died in chains. Ground calf-tongue and de black cat's bone —[Raising her voice in a high pleading.] Come up, Miny, git yo' own!

Fess. [Beating himself with his hat.] Dat domn smoke mak' me feel quare. [Huskily.] Hunh, I keep strong in de haid, dat's what. Dey cain't hurt me. Dat old bonnet dere limp as a rag yit.

Vonie. [Whining under her apron.] Miny, Miny!

Queenie. Whah she now, chillun?

Lil and Fury. Kin hardly see, 'bout gone.

Queenie. Keep looking. Keep looking. [She takes out a small egg and breaks it in the bowl. Then she pours a small bottle of fluid in.]

Black snake ile and rain-crow aig,

Puts de stren'th in the ghostes laig.

Make um power of muscle and bone —

Come up Miny, hyuh's yo' own.

Lil and Fury. [Softly.] Hyuh's yo' own.

Fess. [Yelling.] I see what you adder now. You wants to ha'nt me. [Cocking his gun.] But you ain't gwine do it. I'll blow yo' brains out wid dis here. [He levels the gun at them.] I gi' you jest one minnit to git out. [Old Queenie pays no attention to him, her head lifted up as if straining toward a vision.]

Lil and Fury. [Joyously.] Us see um now. Huh coming.

Queenie. [In loud exultation.] Coming!

Fess. Hyuh goes den, and dat's de las' o' you. I shoot de old black 'un fust.

Lil and Fury. Huh in de field out dere now.

Queenie. [Throwing her hands up and down in the air.] Yis, yis, I feel it.

Fess. [His face distorted with rage.] I shoot both o' dem eyes out. [He pulls the trigger, but the hammer refuses to fall. He tries the other one.] Dem domn hammers stuck. [He raises the gun again atid pulls savagely on the triggers. Old Queenie turns and looks at him with a low devilish laugh.]

Queenie. Come on, Miny, hyuh's yo' own.

Lil and Fury. Hyuh's yo' own.

Fess. [With a shriek.] She done got dat gun — a spell on it! [He throws the gun from him and whirls to his chair. Sitting down with his back to the women, he clasps his head between his knees, rocking and moaning.] My haid done all gone slam to pieces. O, Lawd, have muhcy on me! [He cowers in his seat.]

Lil and Fury. Huh in de yard out dere now.

Queenie. [Ecstatically.] Yis, yis, fetch her in. [Calling loudly.] Supper, Miny! Come to yo' supper!

Vonie. [Throwing her apron from her head and sitting up calm and straight.] Call her, call her, lemme see her onct mo'.

Queenie. [Turning and looking through the door.] Look dere, look dere. Huh out dere at de well drawing water. [The low rumble of a whirring windlass is heard.]

Fess. [Raising his head.] Listen at dat, listen at dat! [Crouching down on the hearth.] Dat's a ha'nt at my well. [He sits shivering with terror.]

Lil and Fury. De ha'nts is drawing water at his well.

Queenie. [Staring out in the deepening dusk.] De ya'd's full of 'em, all come back wid huh. Fess, you is a lost membuh. [Reaching out her arms towards the night and pleading.] Come in hyuh, Miny, come on. Call to huh, chillun. [Breathlessly.] Call to huh.

Lil and Fury. [Beating their heads against the table.] Heah us, Miny, heah us. Come in. De supper is waiting, de supper is fixed.

Queenie. Look! Look! She 'bout to tuhn back. Feel foh huh, Vonie. Huh gwine back in de field wid all dem others, de little 'uns and de big 'uns. Dey gwine back to de swamps.

Vonie. [Lifting up her voice in a wail.] Miny, Miny, come to yo' po' muh dis night!

Queenie. Huh coming, huh coming in. [Addressing the spectre.] Dat's it, honey, dat's it, come on in. [Her voice trembles and slobbers with eagerness, and she begins patting her hands softly together, keeping time with her foot on the floor.]

Vonie. [Screaming.] Dere she now. [She sits petrified in her chair. A little ragged Negro girl with downcast eyes comes quietly in at the door and seats herself at the table. She is about sixteen years old, with swelling breasts and a plump oval face. She begins eating food from the plate.]

Vonie. [Murmuring over and over.] Miny, Miny, is dat you, chile? Den you ain't daid, thank God. [She stares at her with fascinated eyes.] Fess, Fess, dere's Miny, come back to us!

Fess. Tain't nothing, tain't nothing. Don't you look at dat. [Suddenly old Oueenie begins to caper back and forth across the floor, breaking out into senseless ecstatic words.]

Queenie. [As she capers.] Tibbitybibbity, tchee-tchee-tchee — Tcheetchee-tchee.

Lil and Fury. [Falling on the floor before the little girl.] Purty little flower!

Queenie. [Waving her arms aloft.] Lily o' de valley.

Lil and Fury. [Making obeisance.] Little scrushed Lily.

Queenie. [Singing.] De rose o' Sharon.

Lil and Fury. Rose o' Sharon.

Queenie. Mean man pulled de little flower f'om its bed.

Lil and Fury. Mean man pulled.

Queenie. He hadder die.

Lil and Fury. Gut to die.

Queenie. Who wuh it, honey.

Ln. and Fury. Who wuh it? [The little girl continues eating her food saying nothing.]

Queenie. [Crying out.] You, Fess Oxendine, look up hyuh and see yo' dawtuh !

Fess. [Beginning to sob.] I cain't see huh, have muhcy on me!

Queenie. Look up, I tell you. [She stretches out her hand and Fess slowly lifts his head from the floor.

Fess. [Gasping.] Who dat? [Joy breaking in his voice.] Why dat — Glory to God, dat little Miny come back! [He staggers to his feet and goes towards the table.] Den you ain't daid, thank de Lawd. Dat all a dream I had. Look at you and you so purty. Honey, come hyuh to me. [He suddenly breaks into loud sobs.] Thank de Lawd, thank de Lawd. [As he approaches the table, the little girl backs awav in terror and moves towards the door.]

Vonie. Miny, Miny!

Queenie. Tell us who de man: [Without lifting her head, the little girl nods at Fess.] I knowed it, he de man whut mint you and make you drownd yo'se'f. [She reaches into the bowl, and a galvanic shock seems to run through her. She throws bits of the bowl's contents towards the door and the little girl suddenly disappears into the darkness.]

Vonie. [Starting up and wailing.] Whah she gone? Gi' huh hack to me, gi' huh back!

Queenie. [Throwing part of the mixture on Fess.] Hyuh de man!

Fess. [Screaming and clawing at the back of his neck.] Let me loose! Who dat got me! [He falls writhing and howling on the floor.]

Queenie. Dere he, Vonie, he de man mix wid he own flesh.

Vonie. [Breaking into a loud laugh.] Look at dat bad man lying dere cutting up on de Ho'. Dat you, Fess, de old swamp buck?

Fess. Couldn't git huh out'n my mind. She so purty. [Clawing his clothes from him.] Ooh — let me loose! [Vonie picks up the gun and suddenly fires both barrels into Fess's back. Then she flies out through the door calling pitifully after the little girl.]

Queenie. [Her face illumined.] De power come down to us. [She sprinkles Lil and Fury with the contents of the bowl and they rise from the floor with transfigured faces.]

Lil and Fury. De power.

Queenie. [Skipping and chanting.] Us re'ch and call and de daid do answer.

Lil and Fury. [Beginning to skip with her.] Do answer.

Queenie. [Weaving a pattern around Fess' dead body.] Hallelujah!

Lil and Fury. [Beginning to pat their hands.] Hallelujah! [The dance quickens into a sharp staccato, as they sway and bow and chant.]

Queenie. Us call and git answer.

Lil and Fury. Git answer.

Queenie. De supper fotch um.

Lil and Fury. [In ecstasy.] Fotch um down.

Queenie. Supper foh de daid.

Lil and Fury. Foh de daid.

[The twins continue dancing around the body, as old Queenie moves around the table raking her charms and fetishes into her bag. Their breath comes through their teeth in a hissing sound.]

Queenie. [Dancing towards the door.] Tibbity — bibbity — tchee-tchee— tehee.

Lil and Fury. Tchee-tchee— tehee. [They disappear through the door, their gibbering dying in the night.]

-=-

PAUL GREEN, of this University faculty, is the author of a collected volume of plays, "The Lonesome Road". Two more volumes are being prepared, one of which will contain the two plays to be produced on Broadway soon. He was also the editor of The Reviezver

From the November 1926 issue of Carolina Magazine, Chapel Hill, N.C. : Dialectic and Philanthropic Literary Societies of the University of North Carolina

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