Transcriber's Note:
This eBook was produced from Weird Tales, March1951, pp. 26-36. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
Something of the wonder that must have come to men
seeking magic in the sky in days long vanished.
Heading by Jon Arfstrom
Jimmy watched the Natchez Belledraw near, a shining eagerness in hisstare. He stood on the deck of theshantyboat, his toes sticking out of his socks,his heart knocking against his ribs. Straightdown the river the big packet boat came,purpling the water with its shadow, itssmokestacks belching soot.
Jimmy had a wild talent for collectingthings. He knew exactly how to infuriatethe captains without sticking out his neck.Up and down the Father of Waters, fromthe bayous of Louisiana to the Great Sandyother little shantyboat boys envied Jimmyand tried hard to imitate him.
But Jimmy had a very special gift, agenius for pantomime. He'd wait untilthere was a glimmer of red flame on theriver and small objects stood out with astartling clarity. Then he'd go into his act.
Nothing upset the captains quite so muchas Jimmy's habit of holding a big, croakingbullfrog up by its legs as the riverboatswent steaming past. It was a surefire way ofreminding the captains that men and frogswere brothers under the skin. The puffed-outthroat of the frog told the captainsexactly what Jimmy thought of their cheek.
Jimmy refrained from making faces, orsticking out his tongue at the grinningroustabouts. It was the frog that did thetrick.
In the still dawn things came sailingJimmy's way, hurled by captains with atwinkle of repressed merriment dancing ineyes that were kindlier and more tolerantthan Jimmy dreamed.
Just because shantyboat folk had no rightto insult the riverboats Jimmy had collectedforty empty tobacco tins, a down-at-heelsshoe, a Sears Roebuck catalogue and—morerolled up newspapers than Jimmy couldever read.
Jimmy could read, of course. No matterhow badly Uncle Al needed a new pair ofshoes, Jimmy's education came first. SoJimmy had spent six winters ashore in afirst-class grammar school, his books paidfor out of Uncle Al's "New Orleans"money.
Uncle Al, blowing on a vinegar jug andmaking sweet music, the holes in his socksmuch bigger than the holes in Jimmy'ssocks. Uncle Al shaking his head and sayingsadly, "Some day, young fella, I ain'tgonna sit here harmonizing. No siree! I'mgonna buy myself a brand new store suit,trade in this here jig jug for a big roundbanjo, and hie myself off to the MardiGras. Ain't too old thataway to git a littlefun out of life, young fella!"
Poor old Uncle Al. The money he'dsaved up for the Mardi Gras never seemedto stretch far enough. There was enoughkindness in him to stretch like a rainbowover the bayous and the river forests ofsweet, rustling pine for as far as the eyecould see. Enough kindness to wrap all ofJimmy's