African Voodoo and Chicago Spirit Made
a Hero Out of George Washington
George Washington was feeling ill. George Washington had the rheumatiz. That was why he had not responded to his country's call with the alacrity that might have been expected from one with so valiant a name.
Martha Washington, his wife, gave him no sympathy in his misery.
"Why yo' all doan' amount to sumpin'?" she shrilled. "Why yo' all didn't go an' 'list in de ahmy an' come back f'um France a hero, like Mandy Johnson's man, so's I could be proud ob yo'? I'se plumb tired ob seein' de same ol' face, day aftah day, day aftah day. Ah sho wishes yo' had gone an' 'listed."
"Ah was dead sot on dat hero stuff," George opined, "but you knows ah couldn't nevah have gotten in no ahmy wif mah rheumatiz. Ef hit warn't fo' de misery in mah back, ah sholy woulda ben in France. Ah sholy would."
"Go long, yo' lazy good-fo'-nuffin' black trash! Yo' was jes' plumb scairt to death, dat's all. 'Coz ef yo' wasn't, yo'd frow back dem shoulders, an' all dat rheumatiz'd jes' dry up an' blow 'way."
"Huh!" snorted George Washington, scornfully. "Whah hit gwine go to, woman? Answer me dat! Ah nevah beared of sech ig'orance. How you specs mah misery gwine leave me, w'en hit ain't got no place fo' to go?"
He curled his lips in infinite contempt for the feeble mental powers of his spouse. But Martha Washington was not so easily put down.
"Ah hain't got no time to listen to no fool arguments," she said with decision. " Yo' hain't got no mo' rheumatiz dan a fresh-laid aig. Now yo' jes' hurry along an' take dis bundle o' close to Missis Jackson's house, an' come right back, 'coz ah'm gettin' out a big washin' an' ah gotta hab yo' heah to hep me. De good Lawd knows yo' hain't much hep, bein' all hunched ovah like a ol' man, but you'se de on'y hep ah got, an' ah has to make de bes' ob it."
George Washington shouldered the bundle of laundry. An expression of pain flitted across his face.
"Whah mah misery gwine go to?" he repeated as he went out. "Jes' figgah dat out, an' mebbe yo' kin tell me wen ah gets back. Pouf!"
He walked up the street with his shoulders a little less hunched together than usual, for he had subdued Martha Washington with an unanswerable argument. He delivered the clean clothes to Mrs. Jackson, and started back, to help his wife with the washing.
But his mind was troubled. He had pitied Martha Washington for her feeble intellect. But was his own intellect any stronger than hers? His misery must go somewhere, if it left him. He knew of
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