Chapter XIII
So Enoch Joel would lie and drowse and day-dream a little. The heritage of the Gullah negroes was in his body. He knew how to dream and rest. He knew how to be happy. Sometimes he would gaze idly about him. All those fields were growing because of his efforts. He was captain of the earth. Field service he never looked upon as work. He loved it. The smell of fresh-turned sod was sweet to his nostrils. Some day he'd be rich. Then wouldn't he be good to Ma Linda! He'd buy her gloves. Kid gloves. Perhaps they'd even go to Chicago for a few days, to the Palmer House where, he'd read, all the famous Americans used to visit. It never dawned on Enoch that there were places he might not be welcome because of the shade of his skin. Nature in her coloring is not partial to white. The soil is brown, the richest soil is blackest. White soil is sand. It is desert, unproductive, nothing can grow in it. It is cold unless scorched by the sun. Flowers like best the rich warm dark soil because it is friendliest and most comforting.
Enoch's complexion was not very dark, not much darker than old ivory. His nose was surprisingly well-formed. His lips were a trifle full but otherwise he was handsome. His dark eyes, sparkling with fun and the joy of living, were a pleasure to behold. Few that once met Enoch Joel ever forgot him.
He was not nearly as much a student as his father, nor was he as indefatigable in his quest for knowledge as his mother. He was a true primitive, with all the love of the wild of a young savage. He loved to work about the farm, to care for the chickens, to chop wood, to gather in the hay. But aside from farm-study he was not a good student. In the evenings he enjoyed dozing before the fire more than poring over a book. Perhaps this was because he was always so tired. He was never able to use English nearly as fluently as his parents. He used all sorts of idioms and colloquialisms. He slurred his words. But he talked in a colorful lazy drawl that was pleasing to the ear. Long hours he worked in the fields. There was an enormous amount of work for him to do after the passing of his father. He never complained. He loved his work. There was nothing he would have preferred more. But he was young and despite his enthusiasm he could not keep from growing tired. So most of his evenings were spent dozing in a chair while his mother sat opposite him, busy sewing or knitting. There was almost as much for Linda to do as there was for the boy. Occasionally he would rouse himself when his mother spoke to him but eventually he would slip off into that delightfully vague region which is neither sleeping nor waking.
Benda had always tried hard to break Enoch of the habit of talking in the Gullah manner. He was not ashamed of his race. But he wished Enoch to speak in the same manner as the majority of American citizens. Benda had struggled to banish every mannerism from his own conversation. He desired to use perfect English, as perfect as any man. Linda, too, despite the fact that she had never had any genuine schooling pronounced her words with only an occasional slip back into Gullah jargon. Of course when she sang the old songs and lullabys she always did so in the negro manner. To change them would have been to rob them of their richness. For simple, rustic beauty it would be hard to improve upon such songs as:
"All about me sugar-cane,
Way up dere de moon,
Wind in tree-top's lullaby—
Merry, happy croon.
Mammy Tree's a-singin',
To her baby sleepin'
In de dark earth-cradle
As de night comes creepin'."
Enoch was very tender-hearted. He used to pick up all the stray dogs and cats he found and carry them home with him. He'd make beds in the barn and carry out saucers of potatoes and milk for them, sometimes scraps of meat. At times it happened that he had as many as five or six animals sheltered in the barn, bony, savage, dirty, ugly, occasionally cute little animals. Fortunately most of his canine guests were only transient. They were tramp-dogs that liked to wander about the roads and never settle down anywhere. They kept roving away almost as fast as he brought them home. For this Linda was thankful.
"If they all stayed," she said, "we'd Soon have a hundred dogs."
"Wai," drawled Enoch, "whut you spec' me to do? Leave 'em homeless?"
Linda smiled. "They seem to like to be homeless," she said, "else why do they take to the road again?"
"Dogs is funny critters," mused Enoch dolefully. "They don't know nothin.' Can't see when they's well off. Good home. Run away."
And he'd shake his head and walk off into the fields. Those dogs were a big disappointment to him. He was forever declaring he was through. That he wouldn't bring home another dog or cat if it was starving. Henceforth he was going to be the meanest guy in Illinois. And he would keep his promise, too. At least he'd keep it until he found another homeless mongrel that looked at him with appealing eyes and wagged a drab little tail.
On warm summer nights when the yellow moon was riding the deep billows of the sky, Enoch liked to sit with his mother on the porch of the house. Those nights carried her back in memory to her father's home. When the night shadows hid the countryside so that nothing stood out except vaguely and in silhouette it was not hard to imagine that she was back in the Carolina low country once more. And she would tell Enoch all sorts of preposterous tales of haunts and conjures, of the vast swamp that spread out before her father's door and why no one would enter it after the moon rose. Despite her self-education Linda could not banish superstition from her mind. Nor did she try. She believed in spirits and ghosts. The unseen spiritual world was as real to her as the material. If you burned certain spices in your fireplace it brought happiness to your home. Whether there was any truth in it, doesn't matter. It made the room fragrant with incense, so the experiment was not wasted. All the weird beliefs of Linda were harmless. They gave her pleasure, nor did they prevent her from being a good mother.
When it rained Enoch was the happiest of all. He never tired of listening to the music of the rain upon the roof. He liked to walk to the window and watch the drenching downpour. Sometimes the sun came out before the shower had passed and the sunbeams made the raindrops glisten like jewels. At such times Enoch could control himself no longer. He'd rush out and let the glistening water fall upon him. And he'd gaze at the sun-cleft clouds and laugh and laugh. Fortunately he usually was dressed almost in rags for his farm work so he never had on any clothes that would spoil.
The soft cool sting of the water against his face was delightful. It brought a flow of warm blood to his cheeks. At such moments he was in his glory. Then the shower would cease, routed by the sun and a rainbow would arch in splendor into the sky, growing gradually deeper in color until it seemed to be a bridge of jewels up which one might run to meet the sun. Enoch would stand speechless, gazing upon it open-mouthed in wonder. Even the fields would feel the glory of the moment. The smell of the wet loam would mingle with the sweet smell of hay. Nor would he move until the warm lights faded. A rainbow to him was an entrancing thing.
Perhaps it was natural for Enoch to love the rain. It may have been a heritage. For ever since childhood Linda had told him fairy tales about the raindrops. When he was very young she had held him in her lap when the rain was falling and crooned softly to him.
"Li'l raindrops patter.
Honey, whut's de matter,
Don' yo' hear de patter
O' de dancin' rain?
Dancin', prancin'
On de window-pane.
Caperin' about,
Want yo' to come out,
To play with dem again.
Hear yo' playmates knockin',
Hear yo' playmates knockin'
On de window-pane.
Li'l raindrops patter,
Honey, whut's de matter,
Don't yo' hear de patter,
O' de dancin' rain?"