True Hospitality

Even the piny woods of Alabama can be chilly when the sun gets toward the west and the day is in February. A visitor to them found them decidedly so one afternoon. She had walked for miles, always coming up on new roads that led into the fragrant depths, and astonishing cabins cuddled in the clearings. But in spite of her assurances — made to herself — that she was in the sunny Southland, she became very conscious of cold feet and a shivering body, and was truly grateful when she saw the smoke from a chimney, indicating that there was a habitation a short way down the road. A walk of a few minutes brought her to the clearing. Two razor–backed hogs, three thin horses and one dejected cow were on the compound before the cabin, and at the wood–pile was a tall and cadaverous man engaged in splitting "fat" pine–knots.

He gave a salute as the lady approached.

"Beent yo' cold, ma'am?" he inquired. The lady confessed that she was. He leaned his axe against a tree.

"Waal, nauow, yo'–all got to come right into the house and hit wahmed up a bit." The invitation was most cordial. It would have been an impertinence not to have accepted it. The cabin was built of logs, with a mud chimney on the outside. There was no glass in the windows, but only thick wooden shutters. As the host led the way into the living–room, the lady saw by the leaping firelight three figures. One was that of the mistress of the house, who sat with a shawl tied about her head, darning by the light of the open window — for to have light enough for her task she had no choice but to open the shutter, which of course admitted the damp and chilly air. A young girl was ironing, heating her flat–irons by standing them near the blaze upon the hearth. The third figure was that of a shrunken little creature, sallow and wrinkled, who sat huddled on the chimney seat beside the roaring pine fire.

"Ah lahk to int'oduce yo' to mah wife," said the host, "and mah daughtah." The woman by the window and the girl at the ironing–board bowed with solemn amiability. "Also," went on the man, hesitating a little, "Ah'd lahk to int'oduce yo' to Mistrees—" He went to the old women in the chimney–corner and said, apologetically, "Ah didn't rightly undehstand yo' name, ma'am."

She turned her curious old face upon him and gazed at him out of her little eyes but said nothing. She merely chewed her snuff–stick with added activity. He shook his head in comic despair. "It's no use, ma'am," he said to his younger guest. "Ah cayn't find out heh name."

"You don't know her?" said the stranger, in a voice which would not carry to the secluded chimney–corner.

"No moah than yo' do, ma'am. She come heah fust day we got heah. We–alls just moved in last week. I'm preachah fo' the Methodist congregation heahabouts. Ah just come up from Mississippi, me 'n' mah wife and daughtah. Waal, fust day we come in, that theah lady she come 'long and set down theah by ouah fiah. Ah said to heh: 'Ah hope you–all make yo'self to home.' She didn't say a wohd. Just set theah. Sence then she come every mohnin' regulah. She sets theah all day, and at night she just natch'lly wandahs out and away down the road."

The younger guest had a momentary wonder why the old creature had not been followed. Then she blushed at her own thought. It would, without quesiton, have been contrary to the perfect hospitality and good breeding of that home. So she accepted the cup of black coffee that was offered, and drank it in good–fellowship with the family and with the silent, munching, nodding little elfin godmother by the fire, and when she left, shook hands with all within the room. The hand of the woman in the chimney–corner was as cold as ice, in spite of the pine–knots, and it was rough and withered — a mummified tragedy! An epitomized history! Leaving the cabin, the stranger saw the flat, uneven footsteps of the old creature led off through the gloomier pines, but she did not follow those steps or learn what lay at their desination. She had learned a lesson in courtesy. She had learned the meaning of "The stranger within your gates."

The Youth's Companion, 26 April, 1900, 74

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