Trotwood's Monthly, Vol. I, No. 3, December 1905

NO. 3, DECEMBER 1905 ***

[Illustration: ST. JOHN’S CHURCH, ASHWOOD, TENN.

(See “Historic Highways of the South,” in this issue.)]

TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY

VOL. I. NASHVILLE, TENN., DECEMBER, 1905. NO. 3

Christmas Eve Decorations.

Garlands of starlight o’er the heavens toss’d, And mistletoe of moonmist hung afar,— Wreaths of star-leaves, berry bright, emboss’d In cluster’d panicles of full red-ripe star. And trellises of soft white—coronals flung— In winding wreaths and festoons of star-spray, And lighted planets in dim alcoves hung Unto the coming of His natal day. And potted star-plants massed in splendor bright About a lake whose mirror is the moon, While sprays of milky-ways float soft and light Or sink into the placid lake too soon. And blossoming chorals burst from star-bud pod: “The Heavens declare the glory of our God!”

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

A Caprice of Santa Claus

By VALERIE FARRINGTON.

“How long is it before Christmas, Miss Edith?” inquired Mammy Rose, bending forward to peer into the oven where two mammoth fruit cakes in the process of baking were sending out a delicious, savory odor.

“Just five days more, I am sorry to say. The yellow opera bag is still unfinished, so are the monogram handkerchiefs; these nuts must be picked for the praulines, and Agnes and I have undertaken to set the children’s doll house in order before the holidays. Rob and Jerry say we girls ought to begin to make our Christmas gifts on the 26th of December to be ready by next year.”

“Hit ’pears to me, honey, you an’ Miss Agnes with yo’ needles and paintin’ has turned out nigh ’nough contraptions fur a county fair. Sakes alive! Miss Edith!” exclaimed Mammy Rose, glancing through the window into the garden, “Look at dat big barr’l w’at Jeff’s a-bringin’ in!”

The kitchen door opened suddenly and the good-natured face and woolly head of the yard man appeared inside for a moment.

“Here’s a heap o’ apples or oranges w’at somebody’s done sont,” he announced. “De ’spress man dumped ’em at de side do’. I ’spect dey’s a present; he said thar wan’t nothin’ ter pay.”

“O! They must be oranges or grapefruit for Mother from Florida. Uncle Alex always remembers us at Christmas time,” said Edith. “Roll them into the store room and remove the head of the barrel!”

“We sho’ air gwine ter hev’ some nice little puddin’s did Christmas ef folks does say de orange crap’s a failure,” declared Mammy Rose, standing with arms akimbo, her face brightening over the prospect of good cheer, then, in a stentorian voice she hailed the young negro who was disappearing in the direction of the barn.

“You Jeff! Stop dar! Wa’n’t dar a box or a package or somethin’ else lef’ here? Dar ought ’er been,” she said, assuming an air of mingled mystery and importance. “I was kind o’ ’spectin’ a ’spress package myse’f.”

“You? An express package, Mammy Rose? From whom?” asked Edith, pausing in her work to scrutinize the picturesque and somewhat bent figure in the plaid gingham apron and bandanna head-handkerchief.

“From dem lazy niggers up dar in Virginia, Lizzie and Callie. I’m gittin’ mighty tired o’ deir onreliableness, always promisin’ an’ promisin’ ter do things an’ neber doin’ ’em. ’Pears ter me like a little book learnin’s done turned ’em plumb fools, but ef dey does flop dey se’ves ’round wid dey high edycation, de’s one word in the booktinary dey ain’t neber foun’ de meanin’ ob; dey don’t know nothin’ ’tall ’bout gratichude. Ain’t I done had dat Lizzie and Callie down here, livin’ off o’ me a whole winter, neber feelin’ sure fur cartain dat dey was my nieces, dey being yaller-brown like m’lasses candy an’ me as black as der pot hit’s made in? Ain’t I axed ’em ter come all unbeknownst ’case dey wrote dey was my sister Car’line’s orphan chil’un, an’ case dey come from Petersburg whar I come from when I was a little gal? Ain’ I sont ’em things an’ sont ’em things Christmas after Christmas till I’se clean wo’ out? I b’lieves in ’ciprocation, I does fur er fac’!”

For more than thirty years Mammy Rose had been a faithful employee in the Radcliffe family, and naturally everything that affected her happiness was a matter of household concern. She had taken up her abode in the old Colonial residence before any of the children were born, and, in point of fact, she was as much a fixture there as were the drawing-room mirrors or the mahogany stairway. As an accomplished cook, Mammy Rose’s reputation had spread far and wide till she had become the envy of every troubled housekeeper in the vicinity. Strange to say, though she could prepare a hundred dainty dishes fit “to set before a king,” she couldn’t for the life of her have given the exact recipe for a single one. When asked how she made her famous Sally-lunn, corn-pudding, waffles or jelly cake, she would look very wise and say, “You see, I cooks by ’sperience; I takes a little ob dis, an’ a little of dat, an’ ef tain’t ’nough I takes some mo’.” But, perhaps, in the care of young children Mammy Rose was most truly in her element. She loved them and “spoiled” them as if they were her own, and often, when tired of wrestling with the pots and kettles, she would resort to the nursery for a fresh assignment of duty. Nothing delighted her more than to play the role of fairy godmother to the little folks.

Provoked beyond her habitual good humor on this December afternoon by the neglect of her young kinswomen, Mammy Rose’s tirade was at its height when Mrs. Radcliffe stepped into the room to give an order. Upon hearing the names Lizzie and Callie pronounced in strident, contemptuous tones, she glanced significantly at Edith, suspicioning that the derelict nieces were again at the bottom of the trouble.

“I wouldn’t set my heart upon getting that box if I were you, Rosa,” said the mistress, when the matter had been explained. Judging from past delinquencies that the girls’ promises were of the pie crust kind, she wished to soften the servant’s disappointment.

“Now, see here, Mammy, Lizzie and Callie may not be totally ungrateful, but perhaps they just won’t remember to send you a gift,” suggested Edith, offering the only consolation that came to mind.

“Humph! won’t remember!” sniffed the old darky, with a fine show of scorn. “What is it de Scripture says about rememberin’—Thee, O, Jerusalem, if my right hand be cut off? They can’t fergit dis time! I done made Jeff write ter Lizzie and Callie mo’n a month ago tellin’ ’em ’xactly w’at I’se ’spectin’!”

“Oh, you surely didn’t do that!” cried Edith, amused as well as shocked at the old woman’s candor.

“Yes’um, I swar I did!” came the unwavering reply. “Thar’ ain’t no beatin’ ’round de bush ’bout me; ef dey’s got a spark ob decency or se’f-respec’ dey’ll do w’at I tole ’em.”

“What did you say you wanted?” asked Mrs. Radcliffe, whose curiosity had become thoroughly aroused.

“I tole ’em ter sen’ me a bedquilt an’ I sent ’em a bushel o’ calico scraps ter he’p it ’long. Then I wanted a big jar of watermillon-rind pickle, a gallon of peach preserves, an’ er sack full ob fresh goose feathers. Last of all I axed fur er warm gray shawl. Ef dey had ter leabe off anything, I said let it be dat shawl, ca’se my ole one’s mighty nigh good ’nough to w’ar to pra’r meetin’s an’ funerals.”

During the days that intervened the conversation in the kitchen and the Christmas festivities, Mammy Rose was constantly on the alert, each morning awakening with new hope and at night evincing great disappointment as package after package arrived for old and young and nothing came for her. By the morning of the 24th, she had become extremely morose and ceased to take further interest in the holiday preparations. However, even in that state of mind she continued to hail every express man, delivery man, and “A. D. T. boy” who came in sight, demanding to know whether they had a package at the ’spress office for Rose Wilkerson that they were “too triflin’ ter deliver.”

But, poor old soul, miserable as she was, she was by no means the only individual who was dejected over the non-appearance of the presents from Lizzie and Callie. Edith and Agnes were inclined to regard the matter very seriously. In fact, after luncheon on Christmas Eve, they called a family council in the library, desiring that some action be taken in the case. In spite of pressing engagements elsewhere, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe, Grandfather and Grandmother, Rob and Jerry, and Uncle Joe Echols were present to lend a sympathetic ear to this vexed domestic problem.

Edith as voluntary counsel for the faithful stewardess plead her cause feelingly, eloquently, and with eminent success. Every member of that august body agreed that Mammy Rose must receive her box before bedtime on Christmas Eve, preferably by fair means, otherwise, by foul. If, upon investigation at the Southern office, there proved to be no package for her from those Virginia ingrates, why Old Santy himself must provide one. A very simple plan was put into operation. The men formed themselves into a “ways and means” committee, authorizing the girls to draw upon them for the necessary finances. Mrs. Radcliffe believed that she could purchase a pretty calico quilt from the “Ladies’ Aid Society” of her church, and the pickle and preserves could be procured from the Woman’s Exchange. Grandma thought she knew where a soft, warm shawl might be found and she put on her bonnet and cloak to go and select it herself. In the bustle and stir of the fleeting afternoon, however, the sack of fresh goosefeathers loomed up as a staggering proposition.

“Suppose we give her an eiderdown sofa pillow; she can rip it and take the feathers out after Christmas if she wishes to make some other use of them,” proposed Agnes.

“Yes, that’s all right. We haven’t time to go poking around in poultry yards or to rip Grandma’s feather bed,” chimed in Rob.

“Buy her a pair of flannel foot-warmers as a contribution from me,” said Grandpa Radcliffe. “I am aware how uncomfortable cold feet are in the winter.”

“Well, if you’ll have all of that—I was about to say plunder—up at my office at five sharp, I’ll undertake to send it out in a transfer wagon by half-past six,” said Uncle Joe, thus solving the last difficulty.

By the time the family had assembled for the sumptuous Yule feast that evening, the depression of Mammy Rose’s mental status manifested itself in grumpy monosyllables. She was secretly lamenting the fact that she had told anybody about her expectations. The other servants had been whispering and snickering over her chagrin, or, she thought they had, while the white people from the children up seemed fairly bubbling over with Christmas mirth. Apparently, every one had some particular reason for rejoicing except herself. Thus far, this Christmas had been the most “disappintin’” one that she could remember.

Half an hour later when the salad course was being served the cuckoo clock and the front door bell sounded in unison. Everyone seated around the table gave an expectant start. Presently the man servant staggered in under the weight of a great wooden box that was directed to “Rose Wilkerson, Care of Mr. Theodore Radcliffe, 456 Spruce Street, Memphis, Tenn.” Mammy Rose bounded in through the back hall door the moment her name was pronounced. The thunder clouds had disappeared from her brow and her face was wreathed with smiles. “I know’d it, I know’d it all along!” she declared. “My, but ain’t it heavy, an’ don’t h’it rattle. It’d be jes like dem scatter-brained gals ter pack things so as ter get peach preserves all ober my bran’-new shawl.”

A friendly audience followed the radiant old woman to the kitchen amid stifled laughter and concealed nudging and many pairs of eyes rested with affectionate interest upon her while she nervously assisted Jeff to draw out the nails. The first thing that met her gaze was the peach preserves; three whole jars of it were lifted out in succession. “Land o’ Goshen!” she exclaimed. “Ain’t I gwine ter hab a feast? They must o’ thought I was gwine ter set up a eatin-house—an’ a whole gallon o’ watermillon-rind pickles. Ef dat don’t beat——”

Rob had extracted the gray shawl from the odd conglomeration in the box, and he laid it lightly over her shoulders. “Lor! Dis here gyarment sho’ is warm an’ must er cost a heap o’ money. All dis comin’ on top o’ my grumbling, too. ’Pears like wonders don’t neber stop ceasin’!” Next she drew out the satin sofa cushion and for a half a minute she stared at it in blank amazement. For the first time vague misgivings as to where the gifts came from began to arise within her. “My—ee! Dis sho’ is pretty, an’ somebody had mighty good taste,” she ventured to say. She handled it very gingerly, however; according to her way of thinking it hardly seemed intended for her personal use and was far too perishable to adorn a negro cabin.

“Well, I guess Lizzie and Callie must hev struck the Louisiana Lott’ry,” she declared, sighting the pink and white satin quilt. “Dis here spread cartin’ly is made after a handsome pattern, but I’ll be blest ef I knows how dey done it out o’ dem mixed calico scraps. Jes ter think o’ dem young niggers puttin’ dey se’ves to all dis trouble fur de sake ob Mammy Rose!”

In the midst of her jubilation the electric bell rang again; rang furiously this time. A man at the door handed in a wooden box about two and a half feet square. It was for Mistress Rose Wilkerson and came from Petersburg, Virginia. Every confederate in the room gasped audibly. Mammy Rose grasped the end of the table to steady herself. Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe exchanged uneasy glances, Grandma Radcliffe turned very white and sat down suddenly, and a sepulchral silence reigned broken only by the sound of the hatchet in Jerry’s deft hand. To the darkies assembled in the background there was something “spookey” about the square parcel; they wouldn’t have touched it for worlds. Edith was the first person to whom the humorous side of the situation presented itself. Stepping forward with commendable presence of mind, she tore away the brown butcher’s paper that concealed the contents of the second box. A small gray plaid shoulder shawl fell out upon the floor; a card was attached to it bearing these words: “To Aunt Rose from her deserving nieces Lizzie and Callie Goode.”

Simultaneously both women dived into the melange of queer treasures and brought forth a little China vase that was decidedly “niggery” (no other word could adequately describe it), a small jar of peach marmalade, and a sack of loose goose feathers. That last article broke the spell. Further effort at maintaining the deception was useless—the plot was out. Mammy Rose, no longer mystified, but on the verge of hysterics over the honors done her, essayed to express her gratitude: “Well, if you all ain’t de beatin’est white folks an’ ef I ain’t de discomboberatedest critter dat ever——!” Choking with emotion, she raised her brimming eyes to her benefactors to find herself—alone.

The Air and the Water

By WM. DENISON, FARGO, N. D.

“The air and the water contain all the invisible essences of things, that from which all plants and minerals arise, and of which they are, so to speak, only condensations or precipitations, so that they become manifest to our crude senses.” Assuming that the above idea is the truth, and we fully believe it is, then the air and the water of this earth certainly must play a most important role in the weal or woe of all things terrestrial, whether animate or inanimate.

Corroborating the above idea, at least the air part of it, which is true, being of such paramount importance was advanced four or five years ago at a meeting of the National Convention of Chemists, at Washington, D. C. But they failed to recognize that the water was equally as important. However, some wonderful things were said at that meeting of chemists, among others, that for a long time past suggestions had been thrown out to the effect that the exhaustion of the soil would inevitably wipe out the human race; or at least reduce it greatly in numbers before many hundred years. But these scientists announced a new discovery, which put another face on the problem. They declared that this country alone was able to support In comfort 500 million people—a number equal to nearly one-third the world’s population at that time. Thanks for this discovery. The land, while producing greater amounts of foods, is to become steadily richer and more fertile. This great discovery of these chemists at the national convention, is that it is atmosphere, and not the soil, mainly, that produces the crops. Take all the hay or wheat or corn that is yielded on an acre of land and burn it, stalks and all. It will all disappear save about two per cent of the total weight. This two per cent of ash represents what the soil has furnished in the shape of mineral matter. The farmer of the future must look above for his nitrogen. Aye, and also look below for his moisture. With the aid of this new knowledge the present wheat growing regions can be multiplied by three. Today ten average acres planted to wheat produce 150 bushels of cereal. With very little trouble and slight cost those average ten acres can be made to yield 400 bushels. This is simply a question of increasing the average yield from thirteen to about forty bushels.

A good many acres of new land in the Northwest produce forty bushels of wheat at a crop. They do it because the land contains the requisite quantities of nitrogen, phosphoric acid and potash. Supply those materials to other acres in proper amounts and with climatic conditions not unfavorable their yield will be as great.

According to these chemists this is the keynote of the whole business. They say it is no longer accepted as a fact that a non-fertile field is useless. On the contrary, it is known that such a field merely needs to be supplied with the proper elements, cheaply obtained, in order to produce richly. Suppose a farmer has such a field, and that he has intelligence enough to take advantage of the new knowledge. He goes to a chemist and has a sample of the soil analyzed. One, perhaps more, of three things is certainly the matter with it. It lacks potash, it does not contain sufficient phosphoric acid or there is an undue absence of nitrogen. Just for argument’s sake, suppose that there is enough potash and phosphoric acid—the two mineral earth elements essential to the make-up of plant life, but that nitrogen is lacking. The chemist, in that case, tells the farmer that he must put his field into condition to absorb the nitrogen from the air. This is extremely simple, and this is all there is about it. All the farmer has to do if his soil is deficient in nitrogen is to plant a legume (of which there are 6,500 species scattered over this earth of ours) suitable to his section of country. The cowpea is best adapted for the South, and beans and red clover for the North, or any other leguminous plants suited to his locality. These plants have an affinity for nitrogen, and they drink it from the atmosphere as a baby takes milk from a bottle. The most costly and indispensable of all plant foods is nitrogen. Yet there is plenty of it at hand, inasmuch as that substance composes eighty per cent of the atmosphere. The only trouble is to get it out of the air and into the soil, but there is no real difficulty about that.

Strange, is it not, readers, that the costliest, most expensive plant food—nitrogen—heretofore, to every farmer, is so abundantly supplied by an all-wise Creator.

We have been advocating through the press this knowledge for the past twelve years, which these scientists call new. But we regret that in their deliberation they did not give due consideration, in fact, not any at all, of the equal importance to the water end of this article.