Hazel

Hazel awoke one morning to find it spring. She had seen it beginning, but she had not fully recognized it until now. A mocking bird told her all about it. He sat on a rosebush and chattered so fast and so gaily and as it seemed to Hazel of such a number of happenings, that she hurried through breakfast to learn what it was all about. And then she saw that spring had come.

“Granny, look!” she cried excitedly. “Everything is growing. The leaves are jumping out, just as fast, and the flowers are opening and the birds are singing, singing! Why that mocking bird”—she stopped for the highest praise she could command, “Why that mocking bird is lots jollier than any birds we have near Boston.”

“Well, sugar,” said Granny, “I’s glad to know once when the South come out on top.”

“Why, Granny,” Hazel went on, disregarding the gentle sarcasm, “our teacher used to take us out in the spring to hear the bluebirds and song sparrows, and they just twitter, twitter like little birds, but that mocking bird!”

She stopped to listen again to the riot of song that came from the slender bird standing with tilted tail on the top of the rosebush.

“He’s talking to his mate, sugar,” said Granny. “Run out and play all the morning. The spring done call you, too.”

Hazel accepted spring’s summons, and ran down the road. She had not gone far when a redbird whistled, and she stopped to hear his full rich notes. A Judas tree blossomed across the road. Sweet-smelling blossoms and bright new leaves seemed everywhere. Even the pine showed fresh young shoots at the end of each bough. Truly the world was made new.

She had wandered for two hours up and down the road and among the pines until she found herself on the hill just above the Lees’ cabin. She wondered if Scip were very busy, and looking about for him she heard an angry voice, and then a child’s cry of pain.

“It’s old man Lee,” she thought, and shrank back trembling. Then remembering what Scip had said of her bravery she walked slowly forward trying to find courage to plead for mercy.

A few steps showed her what was happening. It was not old man Lee, however, whom she saw administering discipline, but Scipio flogging his little brother Tom. He was beating him harshly, and as Hazel ran forward, without timidity now, he gave him a kick. The little fellow limped off, sobbing, and Scipio turned to see Hazel coming toward him, her eyes blazing, her hands clenched.

“What did you do that for?” she cried out.

“He sassed me,” Scipio answered.

“You’re a wicked, wicked boy,” Hazel said, her voice shaking with excitement, “and I’ll never speak to you again.”

Then she turned and ran down the road, leaving the lad staring speechless after her.

She stopped to listen to the riot of song

All the joy had gone out of the spring. It was a commonplace day and the sun made her head ache.

Granny was surprised when, dinner over, Hazel failed to go to her house among the pines. The little girl had been as regular as if she were already a teacher in a real school, and this failure to keep her appointment boded something serious.

“She don’t keep colored people’s time,” Granny had said proudly to a neighbor; “she done never forget the clock on the meeting-house in Boston.” So when Hazel went to her spinning-wheel and worked hard and nervously, the old woman felt troubled but deemed it best to say nothing.

“Will you walk a way with me, dearie?” she said in the middle of the afternoon. “I’s an errand and I’s pining for company.”

Hazel put on the pink sun-bonnet and together they went down the road.

“Look at that turkey-cock,” Granny said, pointing to one in the field at their side. And indeed he was a wonderful sight. Every feather stood out. His great tail was spread, his body thrown back for his majestic stride. Near him was the hen bird, indifferent to all of his efforts to attract her attention. He went up to her, beating his outstretched wings upon the ground. He walked pompously about her. Hazel forgot her trouble for a little in watching him.

“That’s his courting,” said Granny. “He can’t sing like the mocker, so he makes up with his fine feathers.”

“She doesn’t care about him,” said Hazel, and took no further interest in their walk.

A letter from her mother brightened things a little the next morning. It was full of interesting news, of going to the theatre, of the church sale, and of Charity and her perplexities over her school work. But what sunshine the letter brought was clouded by the last message: “Give my love to Scip.”

And she would never speak to him again!

She held to her resolve and stayed indoors after dinner; but at four o’clock, when Scipio surely would not be there, she ran up to her house among the pines. Someone had visited it before her. The cones were brushed away, leaving the floor as she liked to have it, and in the tin can that served as a vase were strange wild flowers, the blossoms of the pitcher-plant. How wonderful they were with their streaked leaves! She had never seen them before.

Near the flowers was a piece of old paper in which something was wrapped. Looking, Hazel found bright birds’ feathers: blue quills from the jay, black iridescent crow’s feathers and the rose-colored quills of the cardinal. Someone must have been collecting them for a long time.

Hazel counted the feathers, drew them, one after another, across her cheek, feeling their soft surfaces, played a little with the flowers and then gathering the offerings together, carried them soberly home. In her room she pulled the little trunk out from under the bed and placed the feathers carefully in the tray. Then she locked the trunk, and pushed it back in its place. Her precious possessions were safe.

She had received many presents in her short life, but they had all been bought with money. These gifts showed the patient toil by which they had been purchased. She was glad she had gone to the pines; she would accept Scipio’s silent message and play with him again, to-morrow.

Granny came in from the garden where she had been at work. “It’s going to rain, sugar,” she called. “We’d best build up the fire.”

“Is my kitten indoors?” Hazel asked anxiously, and ran down the road to find it playing among some dry branches.

When she returned, the kitten in her arms, the drops were already falling, and in a little time the shower had settled into a steady downpour.

“The rain will refresh the earth,” said Granny wisely. “All the world will shine beautiful to-morrow.”

“It’s pleasant to hear the rain on the roof, isn’t it?” said Hazel later, as she sipped the cocoa that Granny had learned to make for her, and ate her cornbread.

Sometimes at supper they did not set any table, but ate before the fire (just like a picnic, Hazel would say) and they were sitting that way to-night.

“I never heard the rain beat on the roof until I came to Alabama,” Hazel said. “I’ve heard a great many new things, haven’t I, but the most beautiful of all is the mocking bird. What is it doing now out in the rain? I should think it would be very wet?”

Granny laughed. “Its head is under its wing and the water done run off its back. But it likes it, honey, it don’t never take cold. Listen how it’ll sing to-morrow.”

They were silent for a minute, enjoying the fire. Then Granny rose to her feet.

“Someone is outside,” she said; and moving quickly, she threw open the door.

On the porch stood Scipio.

“Come in, child,” she invited.

“I can’t,” he answered. “I’s wet and soiled.”

Hazel ran to where he stood. “Come in, oh, please come in, Scip,” she cried; and Scipio stepped within the door while Granny went back to the fire.

The boy’s scanty clothing was soaked. He would not advance into the room, but remained with head bent, a heavy figure in the shadow. He looked tired and the circles beneath his eyes showed the need of sleep.

As he stood, hungry and ragged, he might have embodied the patient laborer of his patient race who for so long has planted the crop only to see another reap the harvest.

Hazel caught her breath as she saw his big lips tremble.

“Oh, Scip,” she whispered, “it was mean of me.”

The boy looked up at her. “I know I’s rough,” he said.

“Shut that door, Scip,” Granny called out, “and come in here. Never mind your clothes, child. We’s had working folks here before, and a little water won’t spoil this floor. Come get warm and drink this cocoa. Our Boston lady,” Granny said this with mock grandeur, “she done try make me believe cocoa beats coffee; she don’t know everything yet, Scip. But you can manage to drink the stuff, I reckon. Set here now, on this stool, close to the blaze. Don’t act like you thought you’d outen the fire. Hazel, pass that cornbread and give Scip a big plate for himself. Our guests always has big plates. And you, Scip, do your best by the bananas we boughten yesterday. Our Boston lady thinks they’s mighty fine, and the Lord certainly done do them up in pretty yellow husks. See me shell one, Scip.” And so Granny talked on until Scip, with his big plate on his lap, seated by the warm fire, felt at home.

When supper was over Granny made the shadows on the wall that Hazel loved, and after she was through Scip made still cleverer ones, Hazel thought. Then they all sat very still while Hazel recited poetry and read out of the book the minister gave her. It was a jolly evening.

When Scipio had said good-night, and with many invitations to come again, had gone out into the rain, Hazel brought the pitcher-plants in to her grandmother.

“Do they grow near here?” she asked.

“No, they come from the swamp, three miles south.”

“I quarrelled with Scipio, Granny,” Hazel pursued, her cheeks hot, “because I saw him beat his little brother Tom.”

“Tom ain’t good for much,” said Granny dryly. “He’s lazy.”

“But he’s so little,” Hazel pleaded. She put down the flowers and, stooping, picked up the kitten playing on the hearth. “He’s little, like a kitten.”

Granny smiled sadly as she replied: “I’s afraid the children here has to learn to catch mice mighty young. Scip has worked ever since he could toddle to the cotton fields. He thinks Tom might naturally help him.”

“They ought both to be at play,” Hazel said with a little catch in her breath. “You said so this morning. It’s spring.”