“Huh!  Not much good about it that I can see!” was her gloomy reply.  Lowering the basket she carried from her head to a fence-post, she began the story of her grievances.  It was an old story to Uncle Billy, somewhat on the order of “The house that Jack built;” for, after telling John Jay’s latest pranks, she always repeated the long line of misdeeds of which he had been guilty since the first day he had found a home under her sagging rooftree.

Usually she found a sympathetic listener in Uncle Billy, but this morning the only comfort he offered was an old plantation proverb, spoken with brotherly frankness.

“Well, sis’ Sheba, I ’low it’ll be good for you in the long run.  ‘Troubles is seasonin’.  ‘Simmons ain’t good twel dey er fros’bit,’ you know.”

He stole a sidelong glance at her from under his bushy eyebrows, to see the effect of his remark.  She tossed her head defiantly.  “I ’low if the choice was left to the ’simmon or you eithah, brer Billy, you’d both take the greenness an’ the puckah befo’ the fros’bite every time.”  Then a tone of complaint trembled in her voice.

“I might a needed chastenin’ in my youth, I don’t ’spute that; but why should I now, a trim’lin’ on the aidge of the tomb, almos’, have to put up with that limb of a John Jay?  If my poah Ellen knew what a tawment her boy is to her ole mammy, I know she couldn’t rest easy in her grave.”

“John Jay, he don’t mean to be bad,” remarked Uncle Billy soothingly.  “It’s jus’ ‘cause he’s so young an’ onthinkin’.  An’ aftah all, it ain’t what he does.  It’s mo’ like what the white folks say in they church up on the hill.  ‘I have lef’ undone the things what I ought to ‘uv done.’”

Doubled up out of sight, behind the bushes that lined the roadside ditch, John Jay held his breath and listened.  When the ringing strokes of the axe began again, he ventured to poke out his woolly head until the whites of his eyes were visible.  Sheba was trudging down the road with her basket on her head, to the place where she always washed on Tuesdays, she was far enough on her way now to make it safe for him to come out of hiding.

The tears had dried on the boy’s long curling lashes, but his bare legs still smarted from the blows of the shingle, as he climbed slowly out of the bushes and started back to the cabin.

“Hey, Bud!  Come on, Ivy!” he called cheerfully.  Nobody answered.  It was a part of the programme, whenever John Jay was punished, for the little brother and sister to run and hide under the back-door step.  There they cowered, with covered heads, until the danger was over.  Old Sheba had never frowned on the four-year-old Bud, or baby Ivy, but they scuttled out of sight like frightened mice at the first signal of her gathering wrath.

Ivy lay still with her thumb in her mouth, but Bud began solemnly crawling out from between the steps.  Everything that Bud did seemed solemn.  Even his smiles were slow-spreading and dignified.  Some people called him Judge; but John Jay, wise in the negro lore of their neighborhood Uncle Remus, called him “Brer Tarrypin” for good reasons of his own.