And that night Woodrow Woodson Simmons, the son of Tampa Bay Florida Simmons, who was the son of Wisdom, a chattel without surname belonging to the Pickens estate; who was the son of Zebulon, likewise a slave; who was the son of a naked savage of the Congo jungle, walked alone through his native woods like a murderer reprieved, with a heart too big for his breast; and, throwing the old pistol far out into the swamp, caught the sound of the myriad feet of his people stumbling painfully along the way his father had travelled, out of the land of ignorance and out of the house of fear, and swore that some spark of his father’s spirit should march in him at the head of that army until he died. MONKEY MOTIONS BY ELEANOR MERCEIN KELLY From _Pictorial Review_ Having lately discovered our Aunt Lady after a lapse of years, we made the most of it, and frequently accepted her standing invitation to motor over to the old town for Sunday dinner, saving up our Hooverized appetites for days beforehand, since no mere world war had been able to affect to any appreciable extent Aunt Lady’s table. “A doctor’s got to keep his strength up these days,” she explained apologetically, “and it isn’t as if we didn’t raise ’most everything on the place.” On such an occasion--and they were occasions--we noticed for the first time a singularly limber, spindling, knock-kneed youth of a pale saddle colour, who was being taught, with some difficulty, to wait on table. He moved about his duties in a sort of rhythmical, high-stepping manner that made one rather nervous, especially when soup was being served. His eyes had the mournful, wistful anxiety of a young hound’s, but his manner affected an easy pomposity, modelled obviously upon the best of butler traditions, which are good in that part of the country. “Sarvent, Moddom, sarvent!” he murmured as he placed me in my chair at table; and at my husband’s ear he breathed solicitously, “I hopes de julep was to Yore Honour’s tas’e?” My husband, who is a mere business man and unaccustomed to such attentions and entitlements, sat down with some suddenness as his chair was thrust vigorously beneath his knees. “Where,” he inquired of the Curtises, “did you get that?” “It’s just the Infant Samuel; Mahaly’s child, you know.” Aunt Lady spoke in rather a _distraite_ manner, her ear turned toward the pantry, whence issued sounds of more or less repressed African mirth. Suddenly there was a crash, and the mirth rose beyond repression. “Excuse me one moment,” murmured Aunt Lady. “I expect Sam’l’s dropped the shoat again.”