Contrary Mary

One day he passed me as I sat tired by the wayside, and offered to give

me a lift toward home. I accepted, and rode beside him. And thus

began an acquaintance which interests me, and evidently pleases him.

He is tall and loosely put together, this knight of the Sandy Road, but

with the ease of manner which seems to belong to his kind. There's

good blood in these sand-hill people, and it shows in a lack of

self-consciousness which makes one feel that they would meet a prince

or an emperor without embarrassment. Yet there's nothing of

forwardness, nothing of impertinence. It is a drawing-room manner,

preserved in spite of generations of illiteracy and degeneration.

He is not an unpicturesque object. Given a plumed hat, a doublet and

hose, and he would look the part, and his manner would fit in with it.

Given good English, his voice would never betray him for what he is.

For another thing that these people have preserved is a softness of

voice and an inflection which is Elizabethan rather than twentieth

century American.

Having grown to know him fairly well, I fished for an invitation to

visit his home. I wanted to see where this gentlemanly backwoodsman

spent the days which were not lived on the road.

I carried a rug with me, and slept for the first night under the open

sky. Have you ever seen a southern sky when it was studded with stars?

If not, there's something yet before you. There's no whiteness or

coldness about these stars, they are pure gold, and warm with light.

My schooner-man slept in his wagon, covered with an old quilt. His

mules were picketed close by, the dog curled himself beside his master,

each getting warmth from the other.

We cooked supper and breakfast over the coals--chickens broiled for our

evening meal, ham and eggs for the morning. We gave the dog the bones

and the crusts. I took bread with me, for Cousin Patty warned me that

I must not depend upon my squire for food. Cooking among these people

is a lost art. Cousin Patty believes that the regeneration of the poor

whites of the South will be accomplished through the women. "When they

learn to cook," she says, "the men won't need whiskey. When the

whiskey goes, they'll respect the law."

A mile before we reached the end of our journey, we were met by the

children of my schooner-squire. Five of them--two boys, two girls, and

a baby in the arms of the oldest girl. They all had the gentle quiet

and ease of the father--but they were unkempt little creatures,

uncombed, unwashed, in sad-colored clothes. That's the difference

between the negro and the white man of this region. The negro is

cheerful, debonair, he sings, he dances, and he wears all the colors of

the rainbow. An old black woman who carries home my wash wore the

other day a purple petticoat with a scarlet skirt looped above it, an

old green sweater, and, tied over her head, a pink wool shawl. Against

the neutral background of sandy hill she was a delight to the eye. The

whites on the other hand seem like little animals, who have taken on

the color of the landscape that they may be hidden.