"You little fool," she said. "What did you mean by laughing when you saw me being converted?"
After that mama really got religion. I saw her baptized in the Mississippi where she was ducked in the water so many times that I thought she was going to be drowned. The baptism worked: Mayann kept her religion.
When I sold papers I got them from a fine white boy named Charles, who was about four years older than I. He thought a lot of me, and he used to give me advice about life and how to take care of myself. I told him about the little quartet in which I sang and about how much money we made when we passed the hat. He was worried because I was going down to the red-light district at my age and singing for pimps and whores. I explained that there was more money to be made there, and that the people were crazy about our singing. This reassured him. I continued to sell papers for Charles until I was arrested on a New Year's Day for carrying an old pistol which one of my stepfathers had hidden in the house during the celebration.
chapter 3
New Orleans celebrates the period from Christmas through the New Year jubilantly, with torch light processions and firing off Roman candles. In those days we used to shoot off guns and pistols or anything loud so as to make as much noise as possible. Guns, of course, were not allowed officially, and we had to keep an eye on the police to see that we were not pulled in for toting one. That is precisely what happened to me, and as a matter of fact that is what taught me how to play the trumpet.
I had found that .38 pistol in the bottom of Mayann's old cedar trunk. Naturally she did not know that I had taken it with me that night when I went out to sing.
First I must explain how our quartet used to do its hustling so as to attract an audience. We began by walking down Rampart Street between Perdido and Gravier. The lead singer and the tenor walked together in front followed by the baritone and the bass. Singing at random we wandered through the streets until someone called to us to sing a few songs. Afterwards we would pass our hats and at the end of the night we would diwy up. Most of the time we would draw down a nice little taste. Then I would make a bee line for home and dump my share into mama's lap.
Little Mack, our lead singer, later became one of the best drummers in New Orleans. Big Nose Sidney was the bass. Redhead Happy Bolton was the baritone. Happy was also a drummer and the greatest showman of them all, as all the old-timers will tell you. As for me, I was the tenor. I used to put my hand behind my ear, and move my mouth from side to side, and some beautiful tones would appear. Being young, I had a high voice and it stayed that way until I got out of the orphanage into which I was about to be thrown.
As usual we were walking down Rampart Street, just singing and minding our own business, when all of a sudden a guy on the opposite side of the street pulled out a little old six-shooter pistol and fired it off. Dy-Dy-Dy-Dy-Dy-Dy.
"Go get him, Dipper," my gang said.
Without hesitating I pulled out my stepfather's revolver from my bosom and raised my arm into the air and let her go. Mine was a better gun than the kid's and the six shots made more noise. The kid was frightened and cut out and was out of sight like a jack rabbit. We all laughed about it and started down the street again, singing as we walked along.
Further down on Rampart Street I reloaded my gun and started to shoot again up into the air, to the great thrill of my companions. I had just finished firing my last blank cartridge when a couple of strong arms came from behind me. It was cold enough that night, but I broke out into a sweat that was even colder. My companions cut out and left me, and I turned around to see a tall white detective who had been watching me fire my gun. Oh boy! I started crying and making all kinds of excuses.
"Please, mister, don't arrest me… I won't do it no more… Please… Let me go back to mama… I won't do it no more."
It was no use. The man did not let me go. I was taken to the Juvenile Court, and then locked up in a cell where, sick and disheartened, I slept on a hard bed until the next morning.
I was frightened when I woke. What were they going to do to me? Where were they going to send me? I had no idea what a Waifs' Home was. How long would I have to stay there? How serious was it to fire off a pistol in the street? Oh, I had a million minds, and I could not pacify any of them. I was scared, more scared than I was the day Jack Johnson knocked out Jim Jeffries. That day I was going to get my supply of papers from Charlie, who employed a good many colored boys like myself. On Canal Street I saw a crowd of colored boys running like mad toward me.
I asked one of them what had happened.
"You better get started, black boy," he said breathlessly as he started to pull me along. "Jack Johnson has just knocked out Jim Jeffries. The white boys are sore about it and they're going to take it out on us."
He did not have to do any urging. I lit out and passed the other boys in a flash. I was a fast runner, and when the other boys reached our neighborhood I was at home looking calmly out of the window. The next day the excitement had blown over.
But to return to the cell in which they had kept me all night for celebrating with my stepfather's old .38 revolver, the door was opened about ten o'clock by a man carrying a bunch of keys.
"Louis Armstrong?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"This way. You are going out to the Colored Waifs' Home for Boys."
When I went out in the yard a wagon like the Black Maria at the House of Detention was waiting with two fine horses to pull it. A door with a little bitty grilled window was slammed behind me and away I went, along with several other youngsters who had been arrested for doing the same thing I had done.
The Waifs' Home was an old building which had apparently formerly been used for another purpose. It was located in the country opposite a great big dairy farm where hundreds of cows, bulls, calves and a few horses were standing. Some were eating, and some prancing around like they wanted to tell somebody, anybody, how good they felt. The average square would automatically say those animals were all loco, to be running like that, but for me they wanted to ex press themselves as being very happy, gay, and contented.
When I got out of the wagon with the other boys the first thing I noticed was several large trees standing before the building. A very lovely odor was swinging across my nostrils.
"What flowers are those that smell so good?" I asked.
"Honeysuckles," was the answer.
I fell in love with them, and I'm ready to get a whiff of them any time.
The inmates were having their lunch. We walked down a long corridor leading to the mess hall where a long line of boys was seated eating white beans without rice out of tin plates. They gave me the rooky greeting saying, "Welcome, newcomer. Welcome to your new home." I was too depressed to answer. When I sat down at the end of the table I saw a plate full of beans being passed in my direction. In times that I didn't have a care in the world I would have annihilated those beans. But this time I only pushed them away. I did the same thing for several days. The keepers, Mr. and Mrs. Jones and Mr. Alexander and Mr. Peter Davis, saw me refuse these meals, but they did not say anything about it. On the fourth day I was so hungry I was first at the table. Mr. Jones and his colleagues gave me a big laugh. I replied with a sheepish grin. I did not share their sense of humor; it did not blend with mine.