Etext of Ozeme's Holiday 
by Kate Chopin    
The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine, 52 (n.s.30) (Aug.
1896): 629-31.
The Century Company 
New York

OZ ME'S HOLIDAY.
By Kate Chopin    

OZ ME often wondered why there was not a special dispensation
of providence to do away with the necessity for work. There
seemed to him so much created for man's enjoyment in this world,
and so little time and opportunity to profit by it. To sit and do
nothing but breathe was already a pleasure to OzŠme; but to sit in
the company of a few choice companions, including a sprinkling
of ladies, was even a greater delight; and the joy which a day's
hunting or fishing or picnicking afforded him is hardly to be
described. Yet he was by no means indolent. He worked faithfully
on the plantation the whole year long, in a sort of methodical way;
but when the time came around for his annual week's holiday,
there was no holding him back. It was often decidedly
inconvenient for the planter that OzŠme usually chose to take his
holiday during some very busy season of the year. 

He started out one morning in the beginning of October. He had
borrowed Mr. LaballiŠre's buckboard and Padue's old gray mare,
and a harness from the negro S‚v‚rin. He wore a light-blue suit
which had been sent all the way from St. Louis, and which had
cost him ten dollars; he had paid almost as much again for his
boots; and his hat was a broad-rimmed gray felt which he had no
cause to be ashamed of. When OzŠme went <<broading, he
dressed -- well, regardless of cost. His eyes were blue and mild; his
hair was light, and he wore it rather long; he was clean shaven, and
really did not look his thirty-five years. 

OzŠme had laid his plans weeks beforehand. He was going visiting
along Cane River; the mere contemplation thrilled him with
pleasure. He counted upon reaching Fr‚deaus' about noon, and he
would stop and dine there. Perhaps they would ask him to stay all
night. He really did not hold to staying all night, and was not
decided to accept if they did ask him. There were only the two old
people, and he rather fancied the notion of pushing on to Beltrans',
where he would stay a night, or even two, if urged. He was quite
sure there would be something agreeable going on at Beltrans',
with all those young people -- perhaps a fish-fry, or possibly a ball! 

Of course he would have to give a day to Tante Sophie and another
to Cousine Victoire; but none to the St. Annes unless entreated --
after St. Anne reproaching him last year with being a fain‚ant for
broading at such a season! At Cloutierville, where he would linger
as long as possible, he meant to turn and retrace his course,
zigzagging back and forth across Cane River so as to take in the
Duplans, the Velcours, and others that he could not at the moment
recall. A week seemed to OzŠme a very, very little while in which
to crowd so much pleasure. 

There were steam-gins at work; he could hear them whistling far
and near. On both sides of the river the fields were white with
cotton, and everybody in the world seemed busy but OzŠme. This
reflection did not distress or disturb him in the least; he pursued
his way at peace with himself and his surroundings. 

At Lam‚rie's cross-roads store, where he stopped to buy a cigar, he
learned that there was no use heading for Fr‚deaus', as the two old
people had gone to town for a lengthy visit, and the house was
locked up. It was at Fr‚deaus' that OzŠme had intended to dine. 

He sat in the buckboard, given up to a moment or two of
reflection. The result was that he turned away from the river, and
entered the road that led between two fields back to the woods and
into the heart of the country. He had determined upon taking a
short cut to the Beltrans' plantation, and on the way he meant to
keep an eye open for old Aunt Tildy's cabin, which he knew lay in
some remote part of this cut-off. He remembered that Aunt Tildy
could cook an excellent meal if she had the material at hand. He
would induce her to fry him a chicken, drip a cup of coffee, and
turn him out a pone of corn-bread, which he felt would be
sumptuous enough fare for the occasion. 

Aunt Tildy dwelt in the usual log cabin of one room, with its
chimney of mud and sticks and its shallow gallery formed by the
jutting of the roof. In close proximity to the cabin was a small
cotton-field, which from a little distance looked like a field of
snow. The cotton was bursting and overflowing foam-like from
bolls on the drying stalk. On the lower branches it was hanging
ragged and tattered, and much of it had already fallen to the
ground. There were a few chinaberry-trees in the yard before the
hut, and under one of them an ancient and rusty-looking mule was
eating corn from a rude trough. Some common Page 630

little creole chickens were scratching about the mule's feet and
snatching at the grains of corn that occasionally fell from the
trough. 

Aunt Tildy was hobbling across the yard when OzŠme drew up
before the gate. One hand was confined in a sling; in the other she
carried a tin pan, which she let fall noisily to the ground when she
recognized him. She was broad, black, and misshapen, with her
body bent forward almost at an acute angle. She wore a blue
cottonade of large plaids, and a bandana awkwardly twisted
around her head. 

<<Good land, man! Whar you come from? was her startled
exclamation at beholding him. 

<<F'om home, Aunt Tildy; w'ere else do you expec'? replied
OzŠme, dismounting composedly. 

He had not seen the old woman for several years -- since she was
cooking in town for the family with which he boarded at the time.
She had washed and ironed for him, atrociously, it is true, but her
intentions were beyond reproach if her washing was not. She had
also been clumsily attentive to him during a spell of illness. He
had paid her with an occasional bandana, a calico dress, or a
checked apron, and they had always considered the account
between themselves square, with no sentimental feeling of
gratitude remaining on either side. 

<<I like to know, remarked OzŠme, as he took the graymare from
the shafts, and led her up to the trough where the mule was -- <<I
like to know w'at you mean by makin' a crop like that an' then
lettin' it go to was'e? Who you reckon's goin' to pick that cotton?
You think maybe the angels goin' to come down an' pick it fo' you,
an' gin it an' press it, an' then give you ten cents a poun' fo' it, hein? 

<<Ef de Lord don' pick it, I don' know who gwine pick it, Mista
OzŠme. I tell you, me an' Sandy we wuk dat crap day in an' day
out; it's him done de mos' of it. 

<<Sandy? That little --  

<<He ain' dat li'le Sandy no mo' w'at you ric'lec's; he 'mos' a man,
an' he wuk like a man too. He wuk mo' 'an fittin' fo' his strenk, an'
now he layin' in dah sick -- God A'mighty knows how sick. An' me
wid a risin' twell I 'bleeged to walk de flo' o' nights, an' don' know
ef I ain' gwine to lose de han' atter all. 

<<W'y, in the name o' conscience, you don' hire somebody to pick? 

<<Whar I got money to hire? An' you knows well as me ev'y chick
an' chile is pickin' roun' on de plantations an' gittin' good pay. 

The whole outlook appeared to OzŠme very depressing, and even
menacing, to his personal comfort and peace of mind. He foresaw
no prospect of dinner unless he should cook it himself. And there
was that Sandy -- he remembered well the little scamp of eight,
always at his grandmother's heels when she was cooking or
washing. Of course he would have to go in and look at the boy, and
no doubt dive into his traveling-bag for quinine, without which he
never traveled. 

Sandy was indeed very ill, consumed with fever. He lay on a cot
covered up with a faded patchwork quilt. His eyes were half
closed, and he was muttering and rambling on about hoeing and
bedding and cleaning and thinning out the cotton; he was hauling
it to the gin, wrangling about weight and bagging and ties and the
price offered per pound. That bale or two of cotton had not only
sent Sandy to bed, but had pursued him there, holding him through
his fevered dreams, and threatening to end him. OzŠme would
never have known the black boy, he was so tall, so thin, and
seemingly so wasted, lying there in bed. 

<<See yere, Aunt Tildy, said OzŠme, after he had, as was usual
with him when in doubt, abandoned himself to a little reflection;
<<between us -- you an' me -- we got to manage to kill an' cook
one o' those chickens I see scratchin' out yonda, fo' I'm jus'about
starved. I reckon you ain't got any quinine in the house? No; I didn'
suppose an instant you had. Well, I'm goin' to give Sandy a good
dose o' quinine to-night, an' I'm goin' stay an' see how that'll work
on 'im. But sun-up, min' you, I mus' get out o' yere. 

OzŠme had spent more comfortable nights than the one passed in
Aunt Tildy's bed, which she considerately abandoned to him. 

In the morning Sandy's fever was somewhat abated, but had not
taken a decided enough turn to justify OzŠme in quitting him
before noon, unless he was willing <<to feel like a dog, as he told
himself. He appeared before Aunt Tildy stripped to the undershirt,
and wearing his second-best pair of trousers. 

<<That's a nice pickle o' fish you got me in, ol' woman. I
guarantee, nex' time I go abroad, 't ain't me that'll take any cut-off.
W'ere's that cotton-basket an' cotton-sack o' yo's? 

<<I knowed it! chanted Aunt Tildy -- <<I knowed de Lord
wargwine sen' somebody to holp me out. He warn' gwine let de
crap was'e atter he give Sandy an' me de strenk to make hit. De
Lord gwine shove you 'long de row, Mista OzŠme. De Lord gwine
give you plenty mo' fingers an' han's to pick dat cotton nimble an'
clean. Page 631



<<Neva you min' w'at the Lord's goin' to do; go get me that
cotton-sack. An' you put that poultice like I tol' you on yo' han', an'
set down there an' watch Sandy. It looks like you are 'bout as
helpless as a' ol' cow tangled up in a potato-vine. 

OzŠme had not picked cotton for many years, and he took to it a
little awkwardly at first; but by the time he had reached the end of
the first row the old dexterity of youth had come back to his hands,
which flew rapidly back and forth with the motion of a weaver's
shuttle; and his ten fingers became really nimble in clutching the
cotton from its dry shell. By noon he had gathered about fifty
pounds. Sandy was not then quite so well as he had promised to
be, and OzŠme concluded to stay that day and one more night. If
the boy were no better in the morning, he would go off in search of
a doctor for him, and he himself would continue on down to Tante
Sophie's; the Beltrans' was out of the question now. 

Sandy hardly needed a doctor in the morning. OzŠme's doctoring
was beginning to tell favorably; but he would have considered it
criminal indifference and negligence to go away and leave the boy
to Aunt Tildy's awkward ministrations just at the critical moment
when there was a turn for the better; so he stayed that day out, and
picked his hundred and fifty pounds. 

On the third day it looked like rain, and a heavy rain just then
would mean a heavy loss for Aunt Tildy and Sandy, and OzŠme
again took to the field, this time urging Aunt Tildy before him to
do what she might with her one sound hand. 

<<Aunt Tildy, called out OzŠme to the bent old womanmoving
ahead of him between the white rows of cotton, <<if the Lord gets
me safe out o' this ditch, 't ain't to-morrow I'll fall in anotha with
my eyes open, I bet you. 

<<Keep along, Mista OzŠme; don' grumble, don' stumble; de
Lord's a-watchin' you. Look at yo' Aunt Tildy; she doin' mo' wid
her one han' 'an you doin' wid yo' two, man. Keep right along,
honey. Watch dat cotton how it fallin' in yo' Aunt Tildy's bag. 

<<I am watchin' you, ol' woman; you don' fool me. You got to
work that han' o' yo's spryer than you doin', or I'll take the rawhide.
You done fo'got w'at the rawhide tas'e like, I reckon -- a reminder
which amused Aunt Tildy so powerfully that her big negro laugh
resounded over the whole cotton-patch, and even caused Sandy,
who heard it, to turn in his bed. 

The weather was still threatening on the succeeding day, and a sort
of dogged determination or characteristic desire to see his
undertakings carried to a satisfactory completion urged OzŠme to
continue his efforts to drag Aunt Tildy out of the mire into which
circumstances seemed to have thrust her. 

One night the rain did come, and began to beat softly on the roof
of the old cabin. Sandy opened his eyes, which were no longer
brilliant with the fever flame. <<Granny, he whispered, <<de rain!
Des listen, granny; de rain a-comin', an' I ain' pick dat cotton yit.
W'at time it is? Gi' me my pants -- I got to go --  

<<You lay whar you is, chile alive. Dat cotton put aside clean and
dry. Me an' de Lord an' Mista OzŠme done pick dat cotton. 

OzŠme drove away in the morning looking quite as spick and span
as the day he left home in his blue suit and his light felt drawn a
little over his eyes. 

<<You want to take care o' that boy, he instructed Aunt Tildy at
parting, an' get 'im on his feet. An', let me tell you, the nex' time I
start out to broad, if you see me passin' in this yere cut-off, put on
yo' specs an' look at me good, because it won't be me; it'll be my
ghos', ol' woman. 

Indeed, OzŠme, for some reason or other, felt quite shamefaced as
he drove back to the plantation. When he emerged from the lane
which he had entered the week before, and turned into the river
road, Lamerie, standing in the store door, shouted out: 

H‚, OzŠme! you had good times yonda? Ibet you danced holes in
the sole of them new boots. 

Don't talk, La‚rie, was OzŠme's ratherambiguous reply, as he
flourished the remainder of a whip over the old gray mare's
sway-back, urging her to a gentle trot. 

When he reached home, Bod‚, one of Padue's boys, who was
assisting him to unhitch, remarked: 

How come you didn' go yonda down the coas' like you said, Mista
OzŠme? Nobody didn' see you in Cloutierville, an' Mailitte say you
neva cross' de twenty-fo'-mile ferry, an' nobody didn' see you no
place. 

OzŠme returned, after his customary moment of reflection: 

You see, it's 'mos' always the same thing on Cane Riva, my boy; a
man gets tired o' that … la fin. This time I went back in the woods,
'way yonda in the Fr‚deau cut-off; kin' o' campin' an' roughin' like,
you might say. I tell you, it was sport, Bod‚.