The Heart of Happy Hollow

Paul Laurence Dunbar

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Year: 2014
• eBook ISBN: 9780486794983
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: North American Literary Collections
• Index: Literature

Praised by The New York Times as "a true singer of the people — white or black," Paul Laurence Dunbar published this short story collection in 1904, two years before his untimely death. The son of freed slaves, Dunbar was best known for his dialect pieces as well as distinguished for his poetry and prose in standard English.
These sixteen tales of the daily lives of African Americans in the post–Civil War South examine the promise of northward migration, the horrors of lynching, and the complexity of the relationships between former slaves and masters. Highlights include "The Scapegoat," concerning a lawyer who falls prey to envious rivals; "The Mission of Mr. Scatters," the tale of a con man brought to justice; and "Old Abe's Conversion," a thought-provoking look at generational differences in religious practice.

III

THE MISSION OF MR. SCATTERS

IT TOOK SOMETHING JUST SHORT of a revolution to wake up the sleepy little town of Miltonville. Through the slow, hot days it drowsed along like a lazy dog, only half rousing now and then to snap at some flying rumour, and relapsing at once into its pristine somnolence.

It was not a dreamless sleep, however, that held the town in chains. It had its dreams—dreams of greatness, of wealth, of consequence and of growth. Granted that there was no effort to realise these visions, they were yet there, and, combined with the memory of a past that was not without credit, went far to give tone to its dormant spirit.

It was a real spirit, too; the gallant Bourbon spirit of the old South; of Kentucky when she is most the daughter of Virginia, as was evidenced in the awed respect which all Miltonvillians, white and black alike, showed to Major Richardson in his house on the hill. He was part of the traditions of the place. It was shown in the conservatism of the old white families, and a certain stalwart if reflected self-respect in the older coloured inhabitants.

In all the days since the school had been founded and Mr. Dunkin’s marriage to the teacher had raised a brief ripple of excitement, these coloured people had slumbered. They were still slumbering that hot August day, unmindful of the sensation that lay at their very doors, heedless of the portents that said as plain as preaching, “Miltonville, the time is at hand, awake!”

So it was that that afternoon there were only a few loungers, and these not very alert, about the station when the little train wheezed and puffed its way into it. It had been so long since anyone save those whom they knew had alighted at Miltonville that the loungers had lost faith, and with it curiosity, and now they scarcely changed their positions as the little engine stopped with a snort of disgust. But in an instant indifference had fled as the mist before the sun, and every eye on the platform was staring and white. It is the unexpected that always happens, and yet humanity never gets accustomed to it. The loafers, white and black, had assumed a sitting posture, and then they had stood up. For from the cars there had alighted the wonder of a stranger—a Negro stranger, gorgeous of person and attire. He was dressed in a suit of black cloth. A long coat was buttoned close around his tall and robust form. He was dead black, from his shiny top hat to his not less shiny boots, and about him there was the indefinable air of distinction. He stood looking about the platform for a moment, and then stepped briskly and decisively toward the group that was staring at him with wide eyes. There was no hesitation in that step. He walked as a man walks who is not in the habit of being stopped, who has not known what it is to be told, “Thus far shalt thou go and no further.”

“Can you tell me where I can find the residence of Mr. Isaac Jackson?” he asked sonorously as he reached the stupefied loungers. His voice was deep and clear.

Someone woke from his astonishment and offered to lead him thither, and together the two started for their destination, the stranger keeping up a running fire of comment on the way. Had his companion been a close observer and known anything about the matter, he would have found the newcomer’s English painfully, unforgivably correct. A language should be like an easy shoe on a flexible foot, but to one unused to it, it proves rather a splint on a broken limb. The stranger stalked about in conversational splints until they arrived at Isaac Jackson’s door. Then giving his guide a dime, he dismissed him with a courtly bow, and knocked.

It was a good thing that Martha Ann Jackson had the innate politeness of her race well to the fore when she opened the door upon the radiant creature, or she would have given voice to the words that were in her heart: “Good Lawd, what is dis?”

“Is this the residence of Mr. Isaac Jackson?” in the stranger’s suavest voice.

“Yes, suh, he live hyeah.”

“May I see him? I desire to see him upon some business.” He handed her his card, which she carefully turned upside down, glanced at without understanding, and put in her apron pocket as she replied:

“He ain’t in jes’ now, but ef you’ll step in an’ wait, I’ll sen’ one o’ de chillen aftah him.”

“I thank you, madam, I thank you. I will come in and rest from the fatigue of my journey. I have travelled a long way, and rest in such a pleasant and commodious abode as your own appears to be will prove very grateful to me.”

She had been half afraid to invite this resplendent figure into her humble house, but she felt distinctly flattered at his allusion to the home which she had helped Isaac to buy, and by the alacrity with which the stranger accepted her invitation.

She ushered him into the front room, mentally thanking her stars that she had forced the reluctant Isaac to buy a bright new carpet a couple of months before.

A child was despatched to find and bring home the father, while Martha Ann, hastily slipping out of her work-dress and into a starched calico, came in to keep her visitor company.

His name proved to be Scatters, and he was a most entertaining and ingratiating man. It was evident that he had some important business with Isaac Jackson, but that it was mysterious was shown by the guarded way in which he occasionally hinted at it as he tapped the valise he carried and nodded knowingly.

Time had never been when Martha Ann Jackson was so flustered. She was charmed and frightened and flattered. She could only leave Mr. Scatters long enough to give orders to her daughter, Lucy, to prepare such a supper as that household had never seen before; then she returned to sit again at his feet and listen to his words of wisdom.

The supper progressed apace, and the savour of it was already in the stranger’s nostrils. Upon this he grew eloquent and was about to divulge his secret to the hungry-eyed woman when the trampling of Isaac’s boots upon the walk told him that he had only a little while longer to contain himself, and at the same time to wait for the fragrant supper.

Now, it is seldom that a man is so well impressed with a smooth-tongued stranger as is his wife. Usually his hard-headedness puts him on the defensive against the blandishments of the man who has won his better half’s favour, and, however honest the semi-fortunate individual may be, he despises him for his attainments. But it was not so in this case. Isaac had hardly entered the house and received his visitor’s warm handclasp before he had become captive to his charm. Business, business—no, his guest had been travelling and he must be both tired and hungry. Isaac would hear of no business until they had eaten. Then, over a pipe, if the gentleman smoked, they might talk at their ease.

Mr. Scatters demurred, but in fact nothing could have pleased him better, and the open smile with which he dropped into his place at the table was very genuine and heartfelt. Genuine, too, were his praises of Lucy’s cooking; of her flaky biscuits and mealy potatoes. He was pleased all through and he did not hesitate to say so.

It was a beaming group that finally rose heavily laden from the supper table.

Over a social pipe a little later, Isaac Jackson heard the story that made his eyes bulge with interest and his heart throb with eagerness.

Mr. Scatters began, tapping his host’s breast and looking at him fixedly, “You had a brother some years ago named John.” It was more like an accusation than a question.

“Yes, suh, I had a brothah John.”

“Uh, huh, and that brother migrated to the West Indies.”

“Yes, suh, he went out to some o’ dem outlandish places.”

“Hold on, sir, hold on, I am a West Indian myself.”

“I do’ mean no erfence, ’ceptin’ dat John allus was of a rovin’ dispersition.”

“Very well, you know no more about your brother after his departure for the West Indies?”

“No, suh.”

“Well, it is my mission to tell you the rest of the story. Your brother John landed at Cuba, and after working about some years and living frugally, he went into the coffee business, in which he became rich.”

“Rich?”

“Rich, sir.”

“Why, bless my soul, who’d ’a evah thought that of John? Why, suh, I’m sho’ly proud to hyeah it. Why don’t he come home an’ visit a body?”

“Ah, why?” said Mr. Scatters dramatically. “Now comes the most painful part of my mission. ‘In the midst of life we are in death.’” Mr. Scatters sighed, Isaac sighed and wiped his eyes. “Two years ago your brother departed this life.”

“Was he saved?” Isaac asked in a choked voice. Scatters gave him one startled glance, and then answered hastily, “I am happy to say that he was.”

“Poor John! He gone an’ me lef’.”

“Even in the midst of our sorrows, however, there is always a ray of light. Your brother remembered you in his will.”

“Remembered me?”

“Remembered you, and as one of the executors of his estate,”—Mr. Scatters rose and went softly over to his valise, from which he took a large square package. He came back with it, holding it as if it were something sacred,—“ as one of the executors of his estate, which is now settled, I was commissioned to bring you this.” He tapped the package. “This package, sealed as you see with the seal of Cuba, contains five thousand dollars in notes and bonds.”

Isaac gasped and reached for the bundle, but it was withdrawn. “I am, however, not to deliver it to you yet. There are certain formalities which my country demands to be gone through with, after which I deliver my message and return to the fairest of lands, to the Gem of the Antilles. Let me congratulate you, Mr. Jackson, upon your good fortune.”

Isaac yielded up his hand mechanically. He was dazed by the vision of this sudden wealth.

“Fi’ thousan’ dollahs,” he repeated.

“Yes, sir, five thousand dollars. It is a goodly sum, and in the meantime, until court convenes, I wish you to recommend some safe place in which to put this money, as I do not feel secure with it about my person, nor would it be secure if it were known to be in your house.”

“I reckon Albert Matthews’ grocery would be the safes’ place fu’ it. He’s got one o’ dem i’on saftes.”

“The very place. Let us go there at once, and after that I will not encroach upon your hospitality longer, but attempt to find a hotel.”

“Hotel nothin’,” said Isaac emphatically. “Ef my house ain’t too common, you’ll stay right thaih ontwell co’t sets.”

“This is very kind of you, Mr. Jackson, but really I couldn’t think of being such a charge upon you and your good wife.”

“’Tain’t no charge on us; we’ll be glad to have you. Folks hyeah in Miltonville has little enough comp’ny, de Lawd knows.”

Isaac spoke the truth, and it was as much the knowledge that he would be the envy of all the town as his gratitude to Scatters that prompted him to prevail upon his visitor to stay.

Scatters was finally persuaded, and the men only paused long enough in the house to tell the curiosity-eaten Martha Ann the news, and then started for Albert Matthews’ store. Scatters carried the precious package, and Isaac was armed with an old shotgun lest anyone should suspect their treasure and attack them. Five thousand dollars was not to be carelessly handled!

As soon as the men were gone, Martha Ann started out upon her rounds, and her proud tongue did for the women portion of Miltonville what the visit to Matthews’ store did for the men. Did Mrs. So-and-So remember brother John? Indeed she did. And when the story was told, it was a “Well, well, well! he used to be an ol’ beau o’ mine.” Martha Ann found no less than twenty women of her acquaintance for whom her brother John seemed to have entertained tender feelings.

The corner grocery store kept by Albert Matthews was the general gathering-place for the coloured male population of the town. It was a small, one-roomed building, almost filled with barrels, boxes, and casks.

Pride as well as necessity had prompted Isaac to go to the grocery just at this time, when it would be quite the fullest of men. He had not calculated wrongly when he reckoned upon the sensation that would be made by his entrance with the distinguished-looking stranger. The excitement was all the most hungry could have wished for. The men stared at Jackson and his companion with wide-open eyes. They left off chewing tobacco and telling tales. A half- dozen of them forgot to avail themselves of the joy of spitting, and Albert Matthews, the proprietor, a weazened little brown-skinned man, forgot to lay his hand upon the scale in weighing out a pound of sugar.

With a humility that was false on the very face of it, Isaac introduced his guest to the grocer and the three went off together mysteriously into a corner. The matter was duly explained and the object of the visit told. Matthews burned with envy of his neighbour’s good fortune.

“I do’ reckon, Mistah Scatters, dat we bettah let de othah folks in de sto’ know anything ’bout dis hyeah bus’ness of ouahs. I got to be ’sponsible fu dat money, an’ I doesn’t want to tek no chances.”

“You are perfectly right, sir, perfectly right. You are responsible, not only for the money itself, but for the integrity of this seal which means the dignity of government.”

Matthews looked sufficiently impressed, and together they all went their way among the barrels and boxes to the corner where the little safe stood. With many turnings and twistings the door was opened, the package inclosed and the safe shut again. Then they all rose solemnly and went behind the counter to sample something that Matthews had. This was necessary as a climax, for they had performed, not a mere deed, but a ceremonial.

“Of course, you’ll say nothing about this matter at all, Mr. Matthews,” said Scatters, thereby insuring publicity to his affair.

There were a few introductions as the men passed out, but hardly had their backs turned when a perfect storm of comment and inquiry broke about the grocer’s head. So it came to pass, that with many mysterious nods and headshakings, Matthews first hinted at and then told the story.

For the first few minutes the men could scarcely believe what they had heard. It was so utterly unprecedented. Then it dawned upon them that it might be so, and discussion and argument ran rife for the next hour.

The story flew like wildfire, there being three things in this world which interest all sorts and conditions of men alike: great wealth, great beauty, and...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Note
• Foreword
• Contents
• I The Scapegoat
• II One Christmas at Shiloh.
• III The Mission of Mr. Scatters
• IV A Matter of Doctrine
• V Old Abe’s Conversion
• VI The Race Question
• VII A Defender of the Faith
• VIII Cahoots
• IX The Promoter
• X The Wisdom of Silence
• XI The Triumph of Ol’ Mis’ Pease
• XII The Lynching of Jube Benson
• XIII Schwalliger’s Philanthropy
• XIV The Interference of Patsy Ann
• XV The Home-Coming of ’Rastus Smith
• XVI The Boy and the Bayonet