O, what would I do
Without dear you,
Sweet mammy?

they moaned reverently, with their thighs shaking.

“Aw, step it, sweet gals!” the men and boys in the audience called approvingly. “We’ll be yo’ mammy and yo’ pappy, too! Do it, pretty mamas!”

A pair of black-faced comedians tumbled on the stage as the girls went off, and began the usual line of old jokes and razor comedy.

“Gee, I wish Aunt Harriett’s act would come on,” Sandy said as he and Annjee laughed nervously at the comedians.

Finally the two blacked-up fellows broke into a song called Walking the Dog, flopping their long-toed shoes, twirling their middles like egg-beaters, and made their exit to a roar of laughter and applause. Then the canvas street-scene rose, disclosing a gorgeous background of blue velvet, with a piano and a floor-lamp in the centre of the stage.

“This is Harriett’s part now,” Sandy whispered excitedly as a tall, yellow, slick-headed young man came in and immediately began playing the piano. “And, mama, that’s Billy Sanderlee!”

“Sure is!” said Annjee.

Suddenly the footlights were lowered and the spotlight flared, steadied itself at the right of the stage, and waited. Then, stepping out from among the blue curtains, Harriett entered in a dress of glowing orange, flame-like against the ebony of her skin, barbaric, yet beautiful as a jungle princess. She swayed towards the footlights, while Billy teased the keys of the piano into a hesitating delicate jazz. Then she began to croon a new song—a popular version of an old Negro melody, refashioned with words from Broadway.

“Gee, Aunt Harrie’s prettier than ever!” Sandy exclaimed to his mother.

“Same old Harriett,” said Annjee. “But kinder hoarse.”

“Sings good, though,” Sandy cried when Harriett began to snap her fingers, putting a slow, rocking pep into the chorus, rolling her bright eyes to the tune of the melody as the piano rippled and cried under Billy Sanderlee’s swift fingers.

“She’s the same Harrie,” murmured Annjee.

When she appeared again, in an apron of blue calico, with a bandanna handkerchief knotted about her head, she walked very slowly. The man at the piano had begun to play blues—the old familiar folk-blues—and the audience settled into a receptive silence broken only by a “Lawdy! . . . Good Lawdy! Lawd!” from some southern lips at the back of the house, as Harriett sang:

Red sun, red sun, why don’t you rise today?
Red sun, O sun! Why don’t you rise today?
Ma heart is breakin’—ma baby’s gone away.

A few rows ahead of Annjee a woman cried out: “True, Lawd!” and swayed her body.

Little birds, little birds, ain’t you gonna sing this morn?
Says, little chirpin’ birds, ain’t you gonna sing this morn?
I cannot sleep—ma lovin’ man is gone.

“Whee-ee-e! . . . Hab mercy! . . . Moan it, gal!” exclamations and shouts broke loose in the understanding audience.

“Just like when papa used to play for her,” said Sandy. But Annjee was crying, remembering Jimboy, and fumbling in her bag for a handkerchief. On the stage the singer went on—as though singing to herself—her voice sinking to a bitter moan as the listeners rocked and swayed.