A Young New-Yorker Said In
Her Presence, "What A Wonderful Moon You Have Down Here!" She Sighed
And Said, "Ah, Bless Yo' Heart, Honey, You Ought To Seen Dat Moon Befo'
De Waw!"'
The new topic was dead already.
But the poet resurrected it, and gave
it a new start.
A brief dispute followed, as to whether the difference between Northern
and Southern moonlight really existed or was only imagined. Moonlight
talk drifted easily into talk about artificial methods of dispelling
darkness. Then somebody remembered that when Farragut advanced upon
Port Hudson on a dark night - and did not wish to assist the aim of the
Confederate gunners - he carried no battle-lanterns, but painted the
decks of his ships white, and thus created a dim but valuable light,
which enabled his own men to grope their way around with considerable
facility. At this point the war got the floor again - the ten minutes not
quite up yet.
I was not sorry, for war talk by men who have been in a war is always
interesting; whereas moon talk by a poet who has not been in the moon is
likely to be dull.
We went to a cockpit in New Orleans on a Saturday afternoon. I had never
seen a cock-fight before. There were men and boys there of all ages and
all colors, and of many languages and nationalities. But I noticed one
quite conspicuous and surprising absence: the traditional brutal faces.
There were no brutal faces.
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