Jonah's Gourd Vine by Zora Neale Hurston Page B

one?”
    â€œLucy, he can’t foller bofe us, lessen us go de same way.”
    â€œThass right, John. Ah done forgot, you live over on de Alf Pearson place.”
    â€œYeah, dat’s right.”
    â€œWhere M’haley and Big ’Oman live.”
    â€œUnh hunh, Ah speck dey do live dere. Ah seen uh lot uh pullet-size girl chillun ’bout de place. Nearly uh hund’ed head uh folks on dat plantation.”
    A heavy silence fell. Lucy looked across the shallow stream and said,
    â€œYou ain’t put de foot-log back, John.”
    â€œDat’s right. Sho nuff Ah done fuhgot. Lemme tote you ’cross den. Ah kin place it back for de other folks.”
    â€œDoncha lemme fall, John. Maybe ’nother ole snake down dere.”
    â€œHow Ahm gonna let uh li’l’ bit lak you fall? Ah kin tote uh sack uh feed-meal and dat’s twice big ez you. Lemme tote yuh. Ah ’clare Ah won’t drop yuh.”
    John bore Lucy across the tiny stream and set her down slowly.
    â€œOh you done left yo’ book-sack, Lucy. Got tuh take yuh back tuh git it.”
    â€œNaw, you hand it tuh me, John.”
    â€œAw, naw, you come git it.”
    He carried Lucy back and she recrossed the stream the third time. As he set her down on her home side he said, “Little ez you is nobody wouldn’t keer how fur he hafta tote you. You ain’t even uh handful.”
    Lucy put herself akimbo, “Ahm uh li’l’ piece uh leather, but well put t’gether, Ah thankee, Mist’ John.”
    â€œMah comperments, Miss Lucy.”
    Lucy was gone up the hill in a blue whirlwind. John replaced the foot-log and cut across lots for home.
    â€œShe is full uh pepper,” John laughed to himself, “but ah laks dat. Anything ’thout no seasonin’ in it ain’t no good.”
    At home, Lucy rushed out back of the corn crib and tiptoedto see if her head yet touched the mark she had made three weeks before.
    â€œAh shucks!” She raged, “Ah ain’t growed none hardly. Ah ain’t never gointer get grown. Ole M’haley way head uh me!”
    She hid and cried until Emmeline, her mama, called her to set the table for supper.
    The night of school closing came. John in tight new shoes and with a standing collar was on hand early. Saw Lucy enter followed by the Potts clan. Frowning mama, placid papa, strapping big sister, and the six grown brothers. Boys with “rear-back” hair held down by a thick coating of soap. Boys hobbling in new shoes and tight breeches. Girls whose hair smelled of fresh hog-lard and sweet william, and white dresses with lace, with pink or blue sashes, with ruffles, with mothers searching their bosoms for pins to yank up hanging petticoats. Tearful girls who had forgotten their speeches. Little girls with be-ribboned frizzed-out hair who got spanked for wetting their starchy panties. Proud parents. Sulky parents and offspring. Whispered envy.
    â€œDere’s Lucy Potts over dere in uh fluted dress. Dey allus gives her de longest piece tuh speak.”
    â€œDat’s ’cause she kin learn more’n anybody else.”
    â€œNaw ’tain’t, dey muches her up. Mah Semmie could learn jes’ ez long uh piece ez anybody if de give it tuh her—in time. Ahm gwine take mah chillun outa school after dis and put ’em tuh work. Dey ain’t learnin’ ’em nothin’ nohow. Dey makes cake outa some uh de chillun and cawn bread outa de rest.”
    Opening prayer. Song. Speech by white superintendent. Speeches rattled off like beans poured into a tin can.
    â€œA speech by Miss Lucy Potts.”
    The shining big eyes in the tiny face. Lacy whiteness. Fierce hand-clapping. Lucy calm and self-assured.
    â€œA chieftain to the highland bound, cried ‘Boatman do not tarry’”—to the final “My daughter, oh my daughter.” More applause. The idol had not failed her public.
    â€œShe