"Oh yes, the baskets-you came all these miles to sell them?" "We jus' had to have money t' rent a plow, Or else we won't have no co'n It's plantin' time." "But your husband?"-he sat there lumpish. Her voice grew soft as the pink-petalled wind "He nevah c'd sell no baskets Besides, I couldn' let him come alone." THE ROSE-BUSH "Old Mammy Jones, I came to see your rose-bush." "Why does your rose-bush grow so taller and prouder As round as the world!" "It's to trim my ole cabin up, sonny." "My mother has a garden, Mammy Jones, With nice little rose-bushes in it That the gardener trimmed, And this morning there were pink and yellow buds And lots of green ones. But not roses and roses like yours, Way up for God to smell 'em In the sky! Why is it, Mammy Jones?" "Dunno, sonny-praps de good Lo'd like Mammy Jones; Praps he give a bouquet to his gal.” THE QUESTION They were sauntering down the red road As I passed them The round-lipped black woman and her child. And the child was saying: "Why's white folks better'n us, Mammy? What's white folks, anyhow?" THE MEETING The ox-team and the automobile Stood face to face on the long red road. The long red road was narrow At the turn of the hill, And below was the sun-dancing river Afoam over the rocks. The mild-mannered beasts stood pat, chewing their cud. Rustier than his wagon, Unmoving eyed the proud chauffeur. The little ragged girl With sun-bleached hair, Sitting on a hard, yellow-powdery bag, Looked across at the smart motor hats of the ladies, And their chiffon scarfs That the light breeze fingered. The proud chauffeur blew his horn, But nothing moved— Except the foaming, sun-dancing river down below. Then he jerked his head, And turned his wheel. And slowly, carefully, The automobile moved back over the long red road. And the mild-mannered beasts lifted their feet, And the ragged little girl looked ahead up the hill.. And the ox-team lumbered and limped over the long red road. GAS-LAMP GHOST Out of the blue-gray dusk He comes The ghostly one, The gray one, Driving his ghostly wagon. Nearer he comes, and nearer, Except for his singing flower That burns a violet hole in the air, That melts a violet hole in the snowy dusk. He comes with a flower of burning mist He comes with a misty flower that sings In the blue-gray dusk. He touches dark stems in a row, He tips them with his hot mist-flower, Stem after stem; And one by one They bloom, and glow, And have white flowers on them, And burn pale blue holes, green ghastly holes, In the silent air, In the blue-gray snowy dusk. |