Classic Poem

Before my cheeks were fairly dry,
I heard my dusky playmate say:
" Well, now your mother's in the sky,
And you can always have your way.

" Old Mistress has to stay, you know,
And read the Bible in her room.
— Let's have a party! Will you, though?"
Ah, well, the whole world was in bloom.

" A party would be fine, and yet —
There's no one here I can invite."
" Me and the children." " You forget — "
" Oh, please, pretend that I am white."

I said, and think of it with shame,
" Well, when it's over, you'll go back
There to the cabin all the same,
And just remember you are black.

" I'll be the lady, for, you see,
I'm pretty," I serenely said.
" The black folk say that you would be
If — if your hair just wasn't red."

" I'm pretty anyhow, you know.
I saw this morning that I was."
" Old Mistress says it's wicked, though,
To keep on looking in the glass."

Our quarrel ended. At our feet
A faint-green blossoming carpet lay,
By some strange chance, divinely sweet,
Just shaken on that gracious day.

Into the lonesome parlour we
Glided, and from the shuddering wall
Bore, in its antique majesty,
The gilded mirror dim and tall.

And then a woman, painted by
Ignotus, doubtless, tired and fair,
From her unhappy place on high,
Went with us — just to take the air!

Next the quaint candlesticks we took:
Their waxen tapers every one
We lighted, to see how they'd look; —
A strange sight, surely, in the sun!

Then, with misgiving, we undid
The secret closet by the stair; —
There, with patrician dust half-hid,
My ancestors, in china, were.

(Hush, child, this splendid tale is true!)
Were one of these on earth today,
You'd know right well my blood was blue ; —
You'd own I was not common clay!

There too, long hid from eyes of men,
A shining sight we two did see.
Oh, there was solid silver then
In this poor hollow world — ah me!

We spread the carpet. By a great
Grey tree we let the mirror stare,
While graven spoon and pictured plate
Were wildly scattered here and there.

And then our table: thereon gleamed,
Adorned with many an apple-bud,
Foam-frosted, dainty things that seemed —
Not made of most delicious mud!

Next came our dressing. As to that,
I had the fairiest shoes (on each
Were four gold buttons!), and a hat
And plume like blushes of the peach.

But there was my dark, elfish guest
Still standing shabby in her place; —
How could I use her to show best
My own transcendent bloom and grace?

" You'll be my grandmama," I sighed,
After much thought, somewhat in fear.
She, joyous, to her sisters cried:
" Call me Old Mistress! — do you hear?"

About that little slave's weird face
And rude, round form I fastened all
My grandmama's most awful lace,
And grandmama's most sacred shawl.

Then one last sorrow came to me:
" I didn't think of it before,
But at a party there should be
One gentleman, I think, or more."

" There's Uncle Sam, you might ask him."
I looked, and, in an ancient chair,
Sat a bronze grey-beard, still and grim
On Sundays called Old Brother Blair.

Above a book his brows were bent;
It was his pride, as I had heard,
To study the New Testament
(In which he could not spell one word).

" Oh, he is not a gentleman,"
I said with my Caucasian scorn.
" He is," replied the African:
" He is. He's quit-a-ploughin" corn.

" He got so old they set him free.
He preaches now, you ought to know.
I tell you we are proud when he
Eats dinner at our cabin, though."

" Well — ask him!" Lo, he raised his head.
His voice was shaken and severe:
" Here, Sisters in the Church," he said,
" Here — for old Satan's sake, come here!

" That white child's done put on her best
Silk bonnet. (It looks like a rose!)
And this black little imp is dressed
In all Old Mistress' finest clothes.

" Come, look! They've got the parlour glass,
And all the silver, too. Come, look!
(Such plates as these here on the grass!)"
And Uncle Sam shut up his book.

The priestess of the eternal flame
That warmed our Southern kitchen hearth
Rushed out. The housemaid with her came
Who swept the cobwebs from the earth.

Then there was one bent to the ground; —
Her hair, than lilies not less white,
With a bright handkerchief was crowned;
Her lovely face was weird as night.

I felt the flush of sudden pride; —
The others soon grew still with awe,
For, standing bravely at my side,
My mother's nurse and mine they saw.

" Who blamed my child?" she said. " It makes
My heart ache when they trouble you.
— Here's a whole basketful of cakes,
And I'll come to the party too!" ...

Tears made of dew were in my eyes
(These after-tears are made of brine):
No sweeter soul is in the skies
Than hers, my mother's nurse and mine.