Ellie. 'Wha' d' y' mean, take? I ain't grabbin' after neither one of 'em, y' know.'

'I mean ef dey bofe ast you to marry 'm.'

'Oh, to marry 'em? And both drawin' the same pay? Why, Wesley, by all-' Ellie bit her lip, and withdrew into the cautious neutrality out of which the unexpected contemplation of matrimony had surprised her. 'Or-welleither one- I don't know.' This old woman was nearer to either boy than was she herself, she remembered. Both the bumpkins spent on her. Why reduce her chances for a good time by making a betraying choice? Play the boobs off against each other, let them both strut their stuff. Maybe a better catch then either would meanwhile gulp your bait. Then you could discard both these poor fish with a laugh. 'You know what the song says, Mammy: "Don't let no one man worry your mind."

999

Mammy looked at Ellie as she might have looked at the armadillo in the zoo - this strange, unbelievable creature who in the spring of her life subjected romance to utility. For Mammy saw that the girl really preferred Wesley to Sam, yet had no apology of word or manner in prospectively renouncing Wesley's character for Sam's superior pay. Young, pretty, live girls like Ellie should have to be told to consider their suitors' pay. With them it ought to be secondary to youth's more compelling absurdities. But here was a slip of a girl who spoke like a thricemarried widow of fifty.

Mammy accepted this as one of the mysteries of city breeding. Having done so, it was easy to prophesy. Ellie's willingness to take equally what Sam and Wesley had to give would be the crux of the boys' antagonism. Wesley claimed right of priority. Neither Ellie nor Sam cared a sneeze

for such right. Ellie, city-wise, 'liked them both.' Into the mould of this situation all of the vague potent bitterness of the boys' recent hatred would be poured, to take definite form. The city had broken the bond between them. The city now fashioned them a bludgeon with which to shatter their common life.

'Listen, daughter. How come you carry on wid Sam lak dat las' night? Did n' you know 't would start trouble?'

'Carry on? Wha' d' y' mean, carry on? I only danced with 'im.'

'Dat all? Den whut start d' trouble?'

'Wesley buttin' in, the dumbbell. Why don't somebody tell him something? He ain't down home now. This is New York.'

'Uh-huh. Dis is New York. Dis is New York. An' ain't New York in God's worl'? Don' New York come under His eyes a-tall?'

This was quite out of Ellie's line. She shrugged and kept still. Mammy's voice, however, grew stronger with her pain.

'New York. Harlem. Thought all along 't was d' las' stop 'fo' Heaven. Canaan hitself. Reg'lar promis' lan'. Well, dat's jes' whut 't is a promis' lan'. All hit do is promise. Promise money lak growin' on trees — ain' even got d' trees. Promise wuk fo' dem whut want wuk - look at my boy, Wesley. Promise freedom fum d' whi' folks white man be hyeh to-day, take d' las' penny fo' rent. You know why 't is? You know how come?'

Ellie stared. Mammy got up, stood erect with almost majestic dignity. 'Hit's sin. Dat's whut 'tis - sin. My people done fo'got dey God, grabbin' after money. I warn 'm 'fo' dey all lef'. Longin' fo' d' things o' dis worl' an' a-fo'gittin' d' Lawd Jesus. Broke up dey homes in d' countrylef' folks behind sick an' dyin'. So

great show of eagerness; comforted him at the end of a poor day when he dropped in for a while before dinner; suggested some means of disposing of the day's return which, of course, was too small to save. But to-day, after peeping out as usual, she had slammed the door in his face.

'Ellie-wha's a matter?' Only a diminuendo of angry clicks, receding down her hallway.

Well, it had served him right. He'd been warned about these uppity Northern gals, these 'gimme' gals. Always had their hands out, expecting something. Something for nothing. Taxis. Eats. Liquor. Big times. Back home a girl could n't want so much because there was n't so much to want. But here no effort on his part in spending three days' earnings on Ellie in a single night. No effort on her part to save it, either. And in return a kiss and a promise a promise to go out again with him some night. Gimme.

Probably sore because he'd started a row at her party last night. Well, was she his gal or was n't she? A kiss. In the city a kiss has many meanings. Maybe she kissed Sam also. Maybe her kisses were a commodity.

He stopped polishing to look down on the street five stories below. Folks look funny at that distance and angle. All look alike. None human. Long thin feet alternately passing each other, arms circling awkwardly outside the feet, heads gliding squatly forward in the midst of arms and legs. People seen on end resemble spiders.

Ellie, maybe, was a spider, and he had been her fly. Having withdrawn his little substance, she now discarded his shell. Sam's turn now. Fly guy, Sam. Ought to swat him. Leave it to Ellie - she'll swat him for sixty bucks a week. Gimme.

'Don' set dey idle, son. Fust thing you know you'll lose yo' holt an' fall.'

'Make no diff'unce ef I land on my haid.'

'Git th'ough in d' kitchen nex'. Got to git supper. Sam be home tireckly.' 'M-hm.'

Wesley did the kitchen window and proceeded to Mammy's room. The airshaft was quite dark, so that he had to light the gas jet. He soaped his wet rag and clambered half through, turned, and clamped his heels as usual against the wall beneath the sill, thus leaving both hands free for work. He soaped the outside surface of the pane and, while waiting for it to dry, twisted about to look behind him at Ellie's window. It was still unrepaired; a newspaper covered the jagged opening in the pane. His enlarged shadow fell misshapen on the wall about the window and the jagged opening looked like a wound in his side.

Somewhere beyond the broken window a door banged loudly shut. Soon another, closer door did likewise.

Sam shuffled angrily into the kitchen and tossed something black on to the table, where it landed with a thump. Peering over her 'specks,' Mammy recognized her Bible. She reproved:

'Don't you know no better 'n to th'ow d' Word of d' Lawd aroun' lak dat? Better learn to keep it near yuh.' 'Did n' th'ow it half as fur as you did.'

'I th❜owed it to keep you young fools fum doin' harm. You jes' th'owed it to be th'owin'.'

'Da's aw right 'bout doin' harm. Ef I had busted Wesley, he could 'a' gone to d' free hospital. But you busted d' winder. Who go'n' pay fo' dat?'

'Lan'lawd oughter pay fo' it. He charge enough rent.'

'Maybe he would, but sump'n done got into Ellie-she raisin' d' devil. 'Clare out she go'n' tell d' lan'lawd

'Hmph!'

'Den she slam' d' do' in my face." 'Maybe dat 'll help you stay 'way fum 'uh.'

'Stay 'way fo' whut?'

"'Cause she ain' got d' love o' God in huh heart, dat's fo' whut. An' neither is you. Hit's a bad combination.'

'Ain' lookin' fo' no love o' God. Lookin' fo' Wesley. Wha' he at?'

'Washin' my room winder. Let 'im 'lone.'

To Sam it was galling, derisive, contemptuous laughter, laughter of victory. Anger, epithets, blows he could have exchanged, but laughter found him defenseless. In a hot flush of rage he drew back a foot and kicked viciously at Wesley's legs.

At the moment Wesley had only one leg pressed firmly back against the wall. It was this that received the blow, and the quick sharp pain loosened its grip. In swift effort to catch himself, Wesley snatched at the bottom edge of the lower frame, but with such desperate force that it slid instantly upward, so that his hold was broken by the upper. Grabbing wildly, Sam sprang forward, frightened into contrition succeeded only in further dislodging his already unbalanced cousin. A brief mad

Only Wesley's legs were visible to Sam, entering the room. Wesley was wiping off the frosting of soap that he had allowed to dry on the pane. As he wiped, more of his body appeared through the glass thus made clear, and at last his troubled face. It showed surprise at the presence of Sam, who stood glowering accusation.

'What d' hell you been tellin' Ellie 'bout me?'

Even through intervening glass Wesley's anger was quick to respond. 'What d' hell could I tell 'uh bad enough?'

'You been puttin' me in- else she would n' 'a' slam' no do' in my face.' 'She slam' d' do' in yo' face?' 'Reckon you tole 'uh to do it.' Wesley's anger subsided. He repeated, with something akin to relief, eagerly,

'Say she slam' d' do' in yo' face?'
'Did n' miss it.'

Wesley threw back his head and filled the airshaft with loud laughter.

a moment's incredulous silence silence that broke with a soft and terrible thud.

Sam shrank back and threw one hand up over his mouth like a child that has heard something forbidden; wheeled, to see Mammy stiff in the doorway, staring with stricken eyes. Hysteria gripped him.

'I did n' do it - I 'clare out 'fo' God, Mammy-' He turned back toward the window; backed off from it, crouching and trembling; faced again toward Mammy. Deprecation gave way to bravado. He whispered sharply, 'Ef you tell anybody, I'll —' Then suddenly rushed with insane menace toward her as panic rushed through his brain, reached her, stopped abruptly collapsed at her feet, shuddering with sobs.

Mammy, roused by a spirit which still hoped in the face of calamity, quickly bent down and shook the crumpled lad with sobering vigor. 'Git up, son! Make has'e! Git up! Mammy seen yuh! Seen yuh try to

The boy raised a countenance wretched with fear and doubt and weakness, but the strength and will in Mammy's eyes brought him to his

senses.

'Make has 'e, I tell yuh!'

He jumped up, his face still convulsed, and sped toward the outer door and the stairs.

IV

Again Mammy sat by her window, her fingers groping amid the thin leaves of her Bible.

Out of the airshaft sounds came to her, sounds of the land of promise. Noise of a rent party somewhere below from a tiny dwelling that had to be hired out if it was to be dwelt in at all - peculiar feature of a place where

Noise of a money quarrel somewhere above, charges, taunts, disputes fruit of a land where sudden wide differences in work and pay summoned disaster. Noise of sinful singing and dancing, pastime of Ellie's generation, breed of a city where children cursed and threatened the old and went free.

For Ellie still went her way rejoicing, heedless of what she had precipitated in a passing fit of temper. Sam in a week had forgotten was with Ellie at this very rent party below. And when the white folks had come to investigate the unfortunate death by violence, Mammy had sworn with stiffened lips it was all an accident.

Into the airshaft crept her old hymn, lifting toward Harlem's black sky:

'Bow low!- How low mus' I bow
To enter in de promis' land?'

IN the constant discussions about the failure of Christianity to function in the modern world, there is a usual assumption that the typical man of the moment has no religion to speak of. Therefore, it is said, either the Christian Church must be unusually stupid or its message must be hopelessly outgrown. Otherwise it would surely appeal winningly to these spiritually hungry souls. This seems a curious delusion. Our world is not spiritually empty. We are absorbed in sacrifice to gods which seem to us rich and satisfying. We may conceivably be

devotionally poisoned, but we are not spiritually starved. In point of fact, some of us are becoming positively fed up. It may be that in this last circumstance alone lies ultimately the chance for Christ and Christianity.

A professor of sociology asked me not long ago if I had ever noted that the Christian religion has usually made strong appeal only to rural, simple, and Arcadian peoples or else to those who were urbane, sophisticated, and disillusioned. The more one thinks about this interesting generalization, the more nearly true it seems. 'Observe,'