Produced by Duncan Harrod
by F. Hopkinson Smith
Kennedy Square, in the late fifties, was a place of birds and trees andflowers; of rude stone benches, sagging arbors smothered in vines, andcool dirt-paths bordered by sweet-smelling box. Giant magnolias filledthe air with their fragrance, and climbing roses played hide and seekamong the railings of the rotting fence. Along the shaded walkslaughing boys and girls romped all day, with hoop and ball, attended byold black mammies in white aprons and gayly colored bandannas; while inthe more secluded corners, sheltered by protecting shrubs, happy loverssat and talked, tired wayfarers rested with hats off, and staid oldgentlemen read by the hour, their noses in their books.
Outside of all this color, perfume, and old-time charm, outside thegrass-line and the rickety wooden fence that framed them in, ran anuneven pavement splashed with cool shadows and stained with greenmould. Here, in summer, the watermelon-man stopped his cart; and here,in winter, upon its broken bricks, old Moses unhooked his bucket ofoysters and ceased for a moment his droning call.
On the shady side of the square, and half-hidden in ivy, was a Noah'sArk church, topped by a quaint belfry holding a bell that had not rungfor years, and faced by a clock-dial all weather-stains and cracks,around which travelled a single rusty hand. In its shadow to the rightlay the home of the Archdeacon, a stately mansion with Corinthiancolumns reaching to the roof and surrounded by a spacious garden filledwith damask roses and bushes of sweet syringa. To the left crouched arow of dingy houses built of brick, their iron balconies hung inflowering vines, the windows glistening with panes of wavy glasspurpled by age.
On the sunny side of the square, opposite the church, were more houses,high and low; one all garden, filled with broken-nosed statues hidingbehind still more magnolias, and another all veranda and honeysuckle,big rocking-chairs and swinging hammocks; and still others withporticos curtained by white jasmine or Virginia creeper.
Half-way down this stretch of sunshine—and what a lovely stretch itwas—there had stood for years a venerable mansion with high chimneys,sloping roof, and quaint dormer-windows, shaded by a tall sycamore thatspread its branches far across the street. Two white marble stepsguarded by old-fashioned iron railings led up to the front door, whichbore on its face a silver-plated knocker, inscribed in letters of blackwith the name Of its owner—"Richard Horn." All three, the door, thewhite marble steps, and the silver-plated knocker—not to forget theround silver knobs ornamenting the newel posts of the railings—werekept as bright as the rest of the family plate by that most loyal ofservants, old Malachi, who daily soused the steps with soap and water,and then brought to a phenomenal polish the knocker, bell-pull, andknobs by means of fuller's-earth, turpentine, hard breathing, and thevigorous use of a buckskin rag.
If this weazened-faced, bald-headed old darky, resplendent in whiteshirt-sleeves, green baize apron, and never-ceasing smile of welcome,happened t