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diff --git a/75567-0.txt b/75567-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d0b5c4b --- /dev/null +++ b/75567-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6794 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75567 *** + + + + + +BY OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN + + HIGHLAND ANNALS + LUTE AND FURROW + THE MORTAL GODS AND OTHER PLAYS + LORDS AND LOVERS AND OTHER DRAMAS + THE CYCLE’S RIM + THE PATH FLOWER AND OTHER VERSE + +With Frederic Peterson + + THE FLUTTER OF THE GOLD LEAF AND OTHER PLAYS + +CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + + + + +HIGHLAND ANNALS + + + + + HIGHLAND + ANNALS + + _By_ + OLIVE + TILFORD + DARGAN + + NEW YORK + CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + 1925 + + + + +_The first six of these sketches were published in_ THE ATLANTIC +MONTHLY. _Number seven appeared in_ THE REVIEWER. _The author thanks +the editors of these magazines for permission to reprint._ + + COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY + CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + + COPYRIGHT, 1919, 1924, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY + COPYRIGHT, APRIL, 1925, BY THE REVIEWER + + Printed in the United States of America + + [Illustration] + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + I. _About Granpap and Trees_ 3 + + II. _Coretta and Autumn_ 24 + + III. _Serena and Wild Strawberries_ 54 + + IV. _Sam_ 76 + + V. _Evvie: Somewhat Married_ 107 + + VI. _My Wild-Hog Claim: A Dubious Asset_ 138 + + VII. _Serena Takes a Boarder_ 180 + + VIII. _A Proper Funeral_ 229 + + + + +HIGHLAND ANNALS + + + + +I + +ABOUT GRANPAP AND TREES + + +I + +Granpap accrued to me along with a farm in the Unakas. When I learned +that my inheritance lay, or rather rose, in the Unakas, it at once +passed from prose to poetry. My hundred hills became tipped with +song, bloom calling to bloom from Three Pine Point to Sunrise Spur, +and Blackcap answering from his hemlock shroud with a melodious shake +that did no harm to his hidden acres of anemone and trillium. The +laurel, polished as by the glance of a god, drew a richer green from +its storehouse across a paltry breadth of sky, in the sun. The great +chestnuts leafily defied the blight that was creeping to their hearts. +And where the gray rocks pushed through the living emerald of the +mountain walls, they too seemed listeningly alive, as if in wait for +the key-word that would swing them open on Persia magnificent; though +they needed to borrow no glamour of age from any part of the world. +Unakas! Spenser, under English beeches, rustled his threefold coverlet +of centuries, and began another dream--dream of a region that was old +to God before Helvellyn rose or the Himalayas shone as the planet’s +crest. + +In the wake of a Muse so sure of foot, I entered my forest a little +stumblingly. The first cabin was Granpap Merlin’s. His welcoming +“Howdy” only slightly interrupted his dinner of corn-pone and pickled +beans. But Poesy kept at my ear, swiftly picturing me fields like +blowing seas; gallant stalks with waving green arms, and tassels +flowing, silver, gold, and rose, in the breath of July dawns. With a +thrust into memory, she brought up a rock maize-mill of my childhood, +left by the Indians in an abandoned cave; and chanted the one magic +line of Lanier’s poem. As for beans, I had seen them in blossom, hiding +their pinkness under round, hugging leaves, and not even their passage +through a brine barrel could convert them into mere pabulum. It was a +fitting meal for a mountain seer. + +“Did you grow the corn that made the meal that made that pone?” I +asked, building Jack’s house in the excitement of getting back to the +land. + +“It growed itself. I planted it.” + +“And you ploughed the field that grew the corn, and so forth?” + +“My mule, Tim, ploughed it. I ploughed Tim.” + +His face, like the broken corner of a boulder, did not tell me whether +he was simply, or contemptuously, laconical. + +“This seems rather high for corn land,” I said, in the tone of +ownership. He must at least know that I had read the Farmers’ Bulletins. + +“Wait till you see it growin’. The corn gets so onhandy big and shady +in Hawk Wing Cove, you can see the lightnin’-bugs in thar by daylight. +But ’tain’t easy ploughin’. Twenty-five acres of straight up and down.” + +“Oh, I’ve heard of that cove. From the head of it one can see seven +curves of the river.” + +“If you look from the door thar, you can see the top of the ridge +’tween them two peaks.” + +I looked. + +“It must be glorious to make one’s bread up there.” + +“I never made bread up thar but once. I baked hoecakes on a rock one +day when Cyn sent me meal and water for my dinner. I hadn’t left her +any stove-wood, an’ she had proper spirit, Cyn had,” he added, as if +his wife’s memory must be kept clear of blemish. “But thar wa’n’t no +glory in it, as I see.” + +“I must go there the first thing. I don’t suppose there are any snakes.” + +“No, I don’t see more’n two or three rattlers a year now. Not much +killin’.” + +His voice, like a retired general’s, was bored but tolerant. + +“Rattlesnakes? In those pastures of heaven? Did you ever kill one +there?” + +“One? If they’d been fence-rails I could ’a’ put a mule-proof fence +around that field with all I’ve killed in it.” + +I looked again at the line of pallid gold just showing between two +pointed barriers. It ebbed away, more like a bridge to faith, or some +such unsubstantiality, than the trampled ground where man had battled +for his overlordship. I would go there, come to-morrow. And I did. But +what happens in aerial gardens must have its own chapter and aureole. + + +II + +Granpap’s toleration of me passed into liking very slowly. His +stolidity often brought my imagination down as if it had struck a wall; +and while I gathered up the pieces, the wall would become human and +wonder why I had given such an invidious thrust. Naturally the essence +of comradeship eluded us for some time. But finally he understood that +my assaults were harmless; that he merely happened to be on the horizon +when my enthusiasm was spraying the skies; and I began to see that he +was too much a part of Nature to become consciously her note-book. He +wore externality as a tree wears its bark, receiving all winds with +passionless impartiality; but those winds of change were his breath of +life. + +One day I asked him if he did not sometimes feel that he would like to +live in a city. + +“No,” he said, “I have to stay whar thar’s somethin’ happenin’.” + +Not an eyelash of me betrayed my glee. The least sign of emotion, and +the gates of confidence would be snapped and sealed. + +“In a city,” he said, “you don’t have seasons--jest weather.” + +In the cabin with him lived his son Sam, Sam’s wife, Coretta, and +their children. Once he returned home after a night away, and was much +puzzled on learning of their “goin’s-on” in his absence. Cecil having +the earache, the father and mother had risen in the dead of night, +built a fire, and administered the usual remedy--warm rabbit’s oil +poured into the ear. So far granpap understood. + +“But how,” said he, “could they think the roosters were crowin’ for +daylight when it was only midnight--an’ git breakfast too?” + +“But, granpap,” explained Coretta, “we had been asleep for hours, and +how could you ’a’ knowed the time, with the night cloudy-gray, an’ no +stars, an’ the clock stopped?” + +“Kain’t you _feel_ the time?” he asked, in concerned surprise, as if +she were pathetically deformed. And later he said to me: “K’rettie +kain’t feel the time at all. I hope the little feller ain’t goin’ to +take arter her.” + +“Cecil? Oh, no! He’s a Merlin. You can count on that. Don’t you like +the boy’s name, granpap?” + +He slowly cut a twig from the nearest dogwood and peeled it carefully. + +“You noticed I never handle his name?” + +“I’ve noticed.” + +“K’rettie ain’t high-stocked with brains, but she’s got enough fer a +woman; an’ she’s not great on housekeepin’, but ’tain’t every man can +git hold of a woman like Cyn was. I ain’t got nothin’ agin K’rettie +but her namin’ the boy like that. He might as well be a furriner. I +counted on his bein’ named Dick,--Richard Merlin,--like my father an’ +grandfather, an’ my oldest brother who was killed in the war. But this +sissy name, it’s bitterer’n this dogwood. I jest ain’t a-goin’ to say +it.” + +He cut the twig into inch-long pieces and dropped them into his pocket +to be used as a substitute for tobacco. + +That afternoon I remembered that I wanted to see Coretta about making +me a mattress of new splintered shucks. I did not often seek Coretta. +Married at fifteen, at twenty-two she was the mother of four. If she +had taken her maternal honors lightly, as a child should, I could have +gone happily to and from her presence. But she was determined “to do +right by the Lord’s gifts,” and her soft scramble for any crumbs of +wisdom that I inadvertently dropped usually hurried my departure to a +spot more suitable for meditation, where I could wonder what I had said +anyhow. I should have liked to carry off Coretta’s children and free +her petunia-blue eyes from clouds; but I remembered that I had once +impulsively taken a broom from a child who was struggling to use it, +and then found that I could not stay to do the child’s work. I really +had to be going. And four children might prove more embarrassing than a +broom. Four futures billowing to seas, and my life already pinched for +room! No; better the hurried step and remote gaze as I passed. + +In the least matter of business, the Unakasian expects to be approached +by polite indirection. The more you curve and circle, softly as an +Indian in the enemy’s woods, casually as a sparrow hops, the surer you +may be of attaining your object. A straight march to the point, and you +will find yourself gesturing to empty air, so swiftly will he withdraw +from negotiations; so surely your breach of manners will be punished. + +In half an hour’s talk with Coretta, I came somewhat hastily to the +mattress, and she sat troubled. I could safely begin on my home curve. + +“His name is Richard Cecil, isn’t it? Richard is a fine old name. I +suppose you’ll call him that when he is older.” + +Her surprised eyes swam in the gauze-light of pathos that I had learned +to ignore. + +“Cecil is good enough for a little boy. But so many famous men have +been named Richard.” + +“What men?” + +“There was Richard Lovelace.” + +“What did he do?” + +“He wrote poetry.” + +“Like you write?” + +“Yes--no--not exactly,” I hastened. “And there was Richard Burbage, a +great actor.” + +“One o’ them movie men?” + +“No, he played in great plays--not like you see nowadays. And Richard +Lion-Heart, a mighty king. They buried him in that place I showed you +the picture of--Westminster Abbey,” I ventured, though I had visions of +his death in the arms of Saladin somewhere beyond the Balkans. + +She was impressed, and I thrust on. + +“And Dick Turpin,--Richard Turpin,--who was afraid of nothing.” + +“Did they bury him in the Abbey, too?” + +“No, but he died famously. Half of London went to his--er--funeral.” + +She was silent a moment, and then said: “I’ll shore fix that bed for +you as soon as Sam can shuck out the corn.” + +With this grateful stab in my heart I left her; and Katy went with me +to relate a story her papa had brought home. She pronounced “papa” as +did all the children, like the flower, poppy, with a soft trail at the +end, making a dear word more dear. Katy was eleven, the daughter of +Sam’s first wife. + +When war stretched a hand into the Unakas, and one by one, then dozen +by dozen, the young men began to disappear, the people wondered more +and more what it was about. As a rule, they were not reached by the +daily papers which feed us truth and bathe us in illumination; and +Katy’s story showed how they had adapted the chief argument that had +sifted to them. + +“There was a cripple, and he was a German. He was goin’ over to +Briartown, and stopped at a man’s house. The man and woman were gone +to the store. The childern were cookin’ some beans for dinner. The +cripple ast to stir the beans. An’ he put something into the pot. Some +powder or something. The woman come home and the childern told her. The +man come home and the woman told him. They took up the dinner and ast +the German to set to the table. He took a chair and passed the beans. +Nobody took any. Then the man said: ‘Have some beans yerself.’ But the +German said he wouldn’t choose any. Then the man got his gun, and said: +‘You will eat them beans or die.’ The German took some of the beans. +And in an hour his tongue was swelled out of his head.” + +She paused, lifting anxious eyes, to know if I thought the story was +true. + +“Yes, Katy,” I answered unflinchingly. Could such a climax be chance +invention? A mere accident of art? + +“Papa says it is true, for he found a cripple on the Briartown road one +day an’ let him ride his horse for a mile. He couldn’t speak plain like +papa, an’ he knows it was that German, but he don’t see how Abraham +Ludd and Jim Dow let him git by.” + +She was speaking of two neighbor boys in the service. One had risen to +a captaincy, the other had been decorated. + +“Jim Dow----” + +“Captain Dow, Katy,” said I. + +“He don’t write to Nellie Ludd any more.” + +“Did Nellie tell you?” + +“No, but she’s quit goin’ to the post-office. She’s ashamed to ast an’ +git nothin’ every time.” + +I wondered if that was why Nellie flitted so ghost-like about the +hills, as difficult to capture as a bird fearing human hurt. + +About supper-time I again called at the cabin, and as I sat by the +superfluous fire, I heard Coretta say: “Granpap, please pass the +sorghum to little Dick.” + +And granpap, like a stone image with a movable arm, passed the sorghum. + +The full Southern moon was savagely vivid that evening, devouring +dreams as easily as it did the clouds that saluted too familiarly; so +I left the house by what Sam called the stove-wood trail, a rear way +softened by a lane of shadows. What trips the eye will halt the foot; +and mine poised in air for a second or less as I sighted a hemlock +bough like laced jet against the moon; as if Night, in defense, had +thrown a torn bit of her garment over the face of the usurper. When +I touched earth again, I was on new, mysterious ground, so quickly +are worlds created for us, the ramblers of the universe, tenants +insatiable. The mountains sat about me, cloaked sages waiting my +indiscretions. Like the roll of a hidden sea, the valleys whispered +upward with the life that stirs by night, the smaller wings, that dart +fearlessly when the birds are asleep; and the lithe, furry dwellers +in secret that come out of the earth to thread, more graceful than +swimmers, the channels of shadow. But that purring wave was only +the foam-flower of a vastly bedded silence; silence in which Nature +dreamed of a way to reconquer her world and rule alone; while, against +that dream, Beauty everywhere uncovered her soul. In behalf of man, +the first to divine her, the first to adore, she arrayed her magic, +invincible if so was his love. Everywhere she shone; on the laurel +shedding a vapor of light, on the laps of the orange fungi with their +creamy apron cascades; on the roots of trees, and the rocks that fed +them endurance. Blue mosses, pale lichens, grasses with heads of mauve +and pearl, gleamed in the unsubdued strips of golden light. The world +of minute things pressed as hugely significant as the solar system. And +as the sea, never hushed, the valley whisper reached for an intangible +shore. High above me there was escape by way of a blue eternity, +where two walls of cloud parted to show a chasm of sky. Lower down a +mist wound reverently about a star, then crept elfishly to the most +portentous peak, hanging there like a comic beard. While I waited its +whim, a voice, too fervently human, came through the clump of bushes at +my side. A second later, a tall figure bearing an armful of fagots was +checkered disappearingly along the path toward the cabin. + +The next morning when I recalled the sounds I had heard, and put them +together understandingly, I had this: “K’rettie can make ’most as good +headcheese as ever Cyn could.” And I knew that in Merlin language +granpap had said: “My son’s wife, please God, is my daughter.” + + +III + +If tree-worship was ever the religion of any tribe, I know that I +am ancestrally bound to that folk. Once an artist told me of his +happy method of protecting his wife, children, and friends from the +outbursts incidental to genius. He would go to the woods and beat a +tree until his symptomatic rage was exhausted. As if a tree-beater and +a wife-beater were not cousins german in crime! And now I was going to +steep my soul more heinously. The oak boards of my cabin roof had to +be reinforced. I could not spend another winter with the snows driving +in on me. A “board-tree” had to be felled before the sap was up; and +on one of those days which are claimed by both spring and winter, but +belong to neither, I set out with granpap, the most skilful board-maker +in the Unakas, to select a victim. + +“Now this white oak,” said granpap, pausing by a giant that gazed +reflectively over the valley, “will make as good boards as you’d want +to sleep under.” + +“But, granpap, don’t you see--we are interrupting him.” + +His eyes narrowed in the suspicious way of our first acquaintance. + +“I mean he is sort of on duty here, as if the spirit of the woods +needed a sentry just at this place.” + +His glance became a cold squint, and I plunged for a practical argument. + +“White oaks make good mast. We must think of the hogs. There’ll be +three new litters to feed next winter.” + +“I reckon you’re right,” he said, instantly at home. “And yander at the +head of Flume Cove is a black oak that will make tollable boards if it +don’t do better.” + +“A black oak? With all that green moss on it? And look at the first +branch. It has an elbow crooked round a bellwood. Would you divorce +such a pair? What God hath joined, granpap.” + +“Well, it wouldn’t make prize boards anyhow,” he said, moving on +unregretfully. + +Suddenly a fear gripped me. We were nearing a glen at whose door stood +a tree which for me symbolized the perfect life. I had often wondered +why no human being could achieve maturity so unblemished, and I never +passed it without a wave of happy solemnity rolling over me. I began to +talk about bee-trees, the only subject on which granpap was excitable. +Thickly, hurriedly, I developed a rapacious interest in the wild bee +and its hidden ways. And at the precise moment when we passed the pride +of my woods, granpap was singsonging the lines which an old, old man +had taught his grandfather when a boy: + + “A swarm in May, + Count a dollar a day; + A swarm in June, + A silver spoon; + A swarm in July, + Not worth a house-fly.” + +I had lured him safely by, and we neared the road again. His eye was on +a tree with a long, perfect trunk, but which slanted from the root up, +leaning over the road. + +“I might do with that,” said he. “It’s dangerous thar anyway.” + +“Dangerous! Don’t you see how strong it is, and how gently it leans +over the road, like a great arm of blessing? I’m so used to that tree I +should feel sure of accident overtaking me before I reached the village +if I didn’t pass under it.” + +Granpap halted. “I ain’t got time to waste corkusin’ around like this. +I’ll go to the new ground and do some grubbin’. Then to-morr’ I’ll git +up early and find a tree.” + +I was dismissed, conscience-free. + +Two warm days followed. On the second, I left my desk, feeling sure +that I could find a sourwood in leaf on the south side of High +Point. My path lay through the glen. Nearing it, I heard alarming +sounds of activity, and running past the last obscuring half-acre of +rhododendrons, I looked ahead. The pride of my woods measured his long +trunk on the ground, half of his broken arms digging helplessly into +the earth, the other half appealing to the winds, birds, and skies, +that had loved him, for some mitigation of his doom. Granpap’s beaming +face shone above the bleeding stump. + +“You oughter seen him fall! Just et up those little chestnuts and +poplars as he went down.” + +And I had thought I heard thunder. Had even speculated on the peculiar +crackling quality of the vibrations. + +“I don’t know how I happened to miss it when we were lookin’ around. +Now we’ll get some _boards_.” + +A tightness of the throat kept me silent. Moreover, I could not rebuke +him. He was too happy. Here was material worthy of his skill. + +“Sam is going to help me saw the cuts and make the bolts,” he said. +“Here he comes now.” + +I turned away. I was the primary cause of the murder, but I could not +stay to see the victim drawn and quartered. + +A day or two later I had to carry a message to the board-maker. I found +him a little sad. + +“I’m gittin’ old,” he said. “These here boards are the sorriest I ever +made.” + +“But you’ve got a good pile of them, granpap.” + +“Them’s my splinters,” he said, with high contempt, both for me and +the boards. “That was the desaptivest tree I ever cut. I bumbed on +it as fur as I could reach and it was plumb sound. But in choosin’ a +board-tree you’ve got to ’low so much for what you don’t see.” + +He sat down. Speech was coming on the tide of injury. + +“A shore desaptive tree. Look at them cuts me and Sam made. Half a +day’s work wasted in ’em.” + +I looked at the great blocks and wondered how they had cunningly +escaped further mutilation. And though I saw myself roofless for the +next winter, I could not repress an inward bubble over the tree’s +revenge. + +“It had lost so many limbs when it was young and pushin’ up, that it +was jest the snirliest tree I ever saw.” + +“Snirly, granpap?” + +“Ay, it must ’a’ been an awful thrifty tree. Every time a limb broke +off it plumb healed up, an’ thar’s eight and ten rings over some of the +scars. Here I’ve cut it down an’ split into it jest to find a lot of +knot-holes spilin’ my best boards. And it looked so purty and straight.” + +He got up, adjusted his brake, which was the strong fork of a limb +chained to a log, fixed his bolt upright, set his adze carefully, and +with precise restraint evenly separated a smooth, shining three-foot +board from the rest of the bolt. From the splitting wood came an odor +that must have been the essence of the forest condensed for generations +into its living vase. + +But granpap was not pleased with his work. + +“Did you see how tough that was? When I do git a good board I have to +tear it out. But it’s nateral for the south side of a tree to be tough.” + +“Don’t you mean the north side, granpap?” + +“No,” he said patiently. “It’s the sun that toughens wood. You’ll see +them bolts from the north side are brickle.” + +He balanced the board disapprovingly. + +“Look how narr’ it is. By the time I’ve sapped this there won’t be +enough of it left to turn a rain-drap.” + +He began to chip off the inch of white sap-wood along the edge of the +board. + +“I could ’a’ cast out the snirly blocks, but it was the wind-shake that +finally ruined me. I never counted on a wind-shake in a tree as proud +as that.” + +“Show me the wind-shake, granpap.” + +“Look at this block, here in the crosscut, an’ you’ll see it. A +wind-shake starts at the heart an’ twists round and round, gettin’ +bigger and bigger an’ breakin’ the wood as it goes, till thar’s only +enough left for a little narr’ board ’tween the shake-rings and the +bark. Then sometimes, when the tree weaves in the wind, you can hear it +cry. If I’d ’a’ listened at this tree in a high wind it couldn’t ’a’ +fooled me. But they never make no sign on the outside.” + +“Granpap,” I began slowly. + +He looked up, met my eyes, and laid down his axe. + +“Don’t you think some people are like that?” + +I was trembling. If he failed me now, the line of Merlin would be +extinct. There would be no more seers in the Unakas, or anywhere. + +“Ay,” he said. He still used the “ay” of Westmoreland and the hills of +Malvern. “Ay, Cyn was like that after Ben got killed.” + +He thought my silence was the silence of sympathy, and in alarm took up +his axe. + +“’Tain’t no use to----” + +The axe finished the sentence, slicing a curl of white sap-bark. But +his face was a shade grayer. The tree was avenged. + +I started on, thinking of all the Cyns and Bens I had known; and of a +gay friend, now fallen, who liked to assure me that “A heart is known +by the autopsy.” My foot turned up a boss of sweet turf. A broken heart +makes as good loam as a sound one, I thought. And I would have gone +down the slope singing in the face of a looming to-morrow, if only +granpap had not been standing so still. + + + + +II + +CORETTA AND AUTUMN + + +I + +By pleasant gradations the families on my farm ceased to look upon +me as a mere outsider occasionally invading my own territory. Their +boundaries of courteous but impassable defense receded, until I could +sit by their fires without feeling that invisible doors had been +suddenly locked all about me. They welcomed me without the reserve of a +key in the pocket. Coretta went so far as to say she did not care how +long I “stayed in”; and Coretta’s opinions always echoed the hearth +voice of the clan. + +But it was because of Coretta that I sometimes looked at the horizon +with the desire for flight upon me. One delight of my life in the +highlands was a release from the clock. With prudent infrequency, I +could make the night my own. If the soul made imperial clamor, it could +be satisfied without damage to worldly schedules. But as surely as I +made the star-pointed hours my mates of fortune, and saw them paling +off toward dawn, dropping into a sleep that I meant should last until +noon, just so surely an early daylight voice would bring me tumbling +from bed, and down the crumpling and confining stairs, to unbar the +door and find out whose barn was burning, or whose baby was “bad off.” +Sometimes Sam, more often Katy, would be smiling on the step. Coretta +wanted to borrow such or such an article for breakfast. It was always +something without which no mountain breakfast could proceed, and the +borrower, possessed of it, would go blithely off, leaving me to a +broken day. + +For months I tried to lead Coretta into the habit of doing her +borrowing the day before. “Come at midnight, if you wish, but leave me +my mornings.” + +She would promise; then it would happen again--the violent waking, with +its sequence of futile hours. And she could not understand why her +excuses, so confidently proffered, did not satisfy me. + +“But I didn’t know the salt was out till I looked on the shelf, an’ we +couldn’t eat biscuits ’thout salt in ’em.” + +Or, “That man come after supper to see about sellin’ the cow, an’ we +talked so late I clean forgot we didn’t have a speck o’ coffee for +breakfast.” + +Or, “I was sure there was sody enough to put in the bread, an’ there +was the box plumb empty.” + +Or, “Uncle Rann got in last night. We didn’t have a dust o’ flour, an’ +I couldn’t set him down to pone-bread an’ him come all the way from +Madison to see us.” + +Once, after a particularly disastrous offense, she showed a slight +exasperation over my failure to get her point of view. + +“But Sam _had_ to git to the ploughin’ early, an’ you only had to jest +set an’ write!” + +That moment ended my vain rebellion. I accepted fate and Coretta; which +done, it was an easy matter to become very fond of her. She had a +bluebell prettiness that never failed in any light or under any stress. +It seemed so fragile, that I was always expecting it to vanish, or +break into an untraceable legend of itself; but it never did. One day, +looking in at her kitchen door, I thought of her as the fairy slave of +a witch, made to mix strange brews and perform rude incantations. She +was kneeling on the floor, before a pan of hog’s feet newly scalded. A +sausage-mill, screwed to the table, betrayed its unfinished work. From +the stove came the hiss of a kettle of fat in danger of burning. A tub +in the corner held partly washed clothes, drab with grime. Children +darted, dodged, and crawled. And Sam, no doubt, was momentarily +expected in to a dinner yet uncooked. But Coretta lifted a face so +unconsciously and incongruously pleasing in its boudoir daintiness, +that I laughed aloud, and had to cover the discourtesy with sudden +interest in the baby’s attempt to eat a bit of shiny matter picked from +her continent of discovery, the ash-pan. Coretta snatched the baby and +began to feed it in the way most fashionable where milk-bottles are +unknown. + +“If I could skip a year ’thout a baby, I b’lieve I could ketch up with +my work,” she said. + +But a cherishing squeeze of her offspring confessed immediate +repentance; and I had to remain dumb before the sublimity of ignorance +that accepted death and birth alike as the will of God. + +Her own mind was making occult connections. “Did you see the sign in +the elements last night, Mis’ Dolly?” + +I had not seen. + +“It was jest after the rain stopped, an’ it was awful. There was a +great white cloud with red streaks like blood runnin’ through it, an’ +they ’most made letters. Sam said he guessed it was Hebrew, like the +Bible was first wrote in, if we only had the preacher here to tell us. +Nothin’ ’s goin’ to keep me from meetin’ next Sunday. I want to know if +he read it an’ what it said. It may have been a warnin’ to them people +to stop fightin’; but I reckon we all ort to be a little more keerful +about doin’ the Lord’s will.” + +I decided to defer any unorthodox suggestions, and divagated with: +“What’s the matter with Irma’s nose?” + +“She fell out o’ bed an’ nearly broke it. I had a time stoppin’ the +blood. I was so scared at first I couldn’t remember the verse in the +Bible that stops it right off, an’ I run aroun’ tryin’ everything else +first. Then I got the verse right, an’ her nose never bled another +drap.” + +“What verse is that, Coretta?” + +“The sixth verse of the sixteenth chapter of Ezekiel. Irmie never fell +out of bed ’fore this, an’ it was time she did. I was right glad of it +after I remembered the verse and got the blood stopped.” + +“Why glad, Coretta?” + +“You can’t raise a child that never falls out o’ bed. They die shore. +Didn’t you know that, Mis’ Dolly?” + +Her face was an eager flower, but what I saw was a glimpse of mediæval +gates opening on time’s mossy twilights. Was it possible to pass +through with Coretta, and look at the world with the eyes of a vanished +age? Hitherto she had turned to me for scant crumbs of wisdom. Now she +was aquiver with the reversal of our rôles. + +“I’ve been afraid to tell you about sech things,” she said. “Some +people jest laf at ’em. I been so sorry for you sometimes, doin’ things +I knew were bad, an’ I dasen’t tell you.” + +“What things, dear?” + +“Oh, like sowin’ that sage in the garden. You shore have trouble if you +sow sage. You have to get the bunches an’ set ’em out, or else get some +strange woman ’at’s passin’ to sow it for you.” + +“But isn’t that unfair to her?” + +“No; she loses the trouble as soon as she crosses water. She’d only +have to cross the branch by the spring an’ it ’ud be gone.” + +That was the beginning of my subversion, which was soon alarmingly +complete. If I had given Coretta crumbs, she now spread me a banquet. +Her store of folk-wisdom fell upon me in showers that sometimes took my +breath. Many of her rituals were too complex for memory here to set +down, but she had scores of briefer ones, such as her cure for a dog’s +tendency to vagabondage. With an auger greased with ’coon-oil made from +a ’coon _the dog had caught_, you bore a hole in the gate-post. Then +cut off a bit of the dog’s tail and fasten it in the hole; but do not +let him see you. If he runs away after that, you can be sure he was +peekin’ from somewheres. + +She invited me to be present when granpap cured his mule of the +swinney. Part one: we poured cold water on the mule’s shoulder, then +rubbed it with a flint-rock until it smoked. Part two: carefully +directed by Coretta, we laid the rock back where we had found it, same +side up, “an’ pineblank the same way.” And we did indeed cure the mule. + +But her remedy for fever was perhaps the gem of her store. You take +fodder that has never been wet, grasp all you can in your hand, cut it +squarely off above your hand, and squarely off below. Of the remainder +left in your grasp make a tea. This tea is an unfailing cure for any +kind of fever. + +“Why didn’t you make it for Sam last year, Coretta?” I asked. + +“We didn’t have any fodder that hadn’t been rained on. That’s the +trouble with that cure. You can’t git fodder that hasn’t been wet. +Every year I say I’ll cure a bit in the dry, but I always forgit about +it till it’s too late.” + +She was as learned in signs as in cures. “There,” she might say, “it’s +goin’ to rain, an’ I’d laid out to wash to-morrow!” + +“But the sky is clear, and there’s no wind from the west.” + +“Didn’t you hear that rooster crow when he was gettin’ up into the +cedar? If a rooster crows as he goes to his tree, his head’ll be wet +’fore he comes down. But maybe,” she reflected, casting no doubt on the +oracle, “it’ll clear by sun-up, an’ I can wash anyhow.” + +Her world of signs and portents and conjurations lay about her as +familiar as her children’s faces, or the grass before her door. It +touched her at every point and turn of her daily life. And then one +day I impulsively clashed through it and shook its foundations. I +was passing Sam’s cabin, when I saw, grouped at the roadside spring, +Coretta, the children, and a young man who was holding the baby and +lifting his shoe--yes, lifting his _shoe_ to the baby’s mouth! + +“Wait!” I cried, with a suddenness that made the strange young man +drop the shoe, though luckily he retained the baby. + +Coretta began to explain. “The baby’s got the thrash, an’ I ain’t got +time to take her all the way to old Uncle Dean Larky’s for him to blow +in her mouth.” + +“Blow in her mouth? That toothless old man!” + +“He’s got the power in his breath. Jest blows in her mouth an’ says the +three highest words in the Bible. But I couldn’t go so fur, an’ I’ve +been watchin’ for Zeb Austin to pass. He’s black-eyed, you know.” + +I saw that the young man was black-eyed--at that moment rather +flashingly, hostilely black-eyed. Whether a magician benignly engaged, +or a fool caught in his act, the interruption called for resentment. + +Coretta was still explaining. “If a baby’s got the thrash, an’ a +black-eyed man person gives her a drink out of his right shoe, it’ll +cure the worst case as ever was.” + +“Give me the baby,” said I. + +She was handed to me. I walked off, up the hill, where I could get a +view of the broad valley and a sky clear with sunlight--as clear and +welcome as the dry light of science. Coretta followed. + +“What’s the matter, Mis’ Dolly?” + +“Lies!” + +“Don’t you believe it’ll cure her?” + +“No.” + +“Don’t you believe--any o’ them things?” + +“No.” + +“Give me my baby!” + +The arrogant world of mind, for all its embattled glitter, surrendered +to the physical fact of motherhood. I gave her the baby. + +It was two weeks before I saw Coretta. The day was warm; I had been +circling about a hot stove for hours, canning blueberries, and had +thrown off my slippers for stockinged comfort. Coretta came into the +yard just as I stepped to the door. + +“Don’t move,” she called, beginning to run. “Don’t move till I git your +shoes! Ever’ step you take is a step in trouble.” + +Aghast, I obeyed her. When the shoes were brought, and on my feet, she +looked up triumphantly. “I _knew_ you wasn’t so unbelievin’ as you let +on.” + +And my surprised and chastened soul agreed. + + +II + +One summer--it was a war summer--I thought by personal effort and +example to swell the national harvest. I had suggested, advised, +and implored. Now I would dig and plant and water, hoping that a +beneficent contagion would transform my land from a wasteful reproach +to a prolific blessing. My ambitious programme was interrupted midway +by a distant call that could not be denied, and I had been a forgetful +time away, when I realized, with aching insurrection, that Autumn must +be in the Unakas. In my weariness I thought of her as a giant matron, +seated amid her peaks, with hair flowing like rivers of copper, and +arms stretched out with a vast tenderness to take even me to her bosom. +And I fled toward her, my heart and mind exchanging jumbled murmurs of +extenuation. Did not the country need all its farmers? + +Coretta and her dancing youngsters did not meet me as usual under +the white oak half-way up the mountain. I asked Serena, who joined +me there, concerning the omission, and from her discreet evasion I +surmised that a disclosure awaited me in Coretta’s trepidant breast. It +was several days in fledging. I ignored the mystery, and plunged into +the ardors of conservation. It became quickly evident that my example +was not to be the little candle that far rebukes a wasteful world. +Coretta did not come near me; and one morning, when I saw Serena +approaching, her radiance visible a hundred yards away, I knew that +only one thing could give such a tinge of glory to her countenance. She +was coming to announce one of her sudden journeys. Yes, Len had agreed +for her to visit a sister who lived sixty miles distant. + +“With everything to do?” I cried. + +“I can work harder after I come back. A ja’nt always helps me.” + +That was true. She would look younger, by ten years, on her return. + +“Can Len afford it now, Serena?” + +“I told him I’d git the money from you, an’ work it out when I got +back. I can put in several days ’fore fodder-pullin’. I reckon you’ll +be wantin’ some help by that time,” she added, with a glance at the +beans and tomatoes in piles on the kitchen porch. By that time, indeed! + +Her radiance began to fade. Was it possible I could hesitate? + +“I told Len you’d never refused me _yit_.” + +With the money happily clutched, she turned a shining back upon me. + +I started meekly to Coretta’s. But so many evidences of neglect seen +on the way brought me to her in remonstrative mood. + +She was very busy sewing. The children were to have new dresses. And in +harvest-time! + +“I thought I should find you canning, Coretta.” + +“I ain’t got no heart this year,” she said. + +I tried to recall some of the mottoes of the period. Every mouthful we +save, and so forth. “And your brother is over there, you know.” + +She dropped her head. + +“I see your beans are not picked yet.” + +“I jest ain’t got no heart.” + +“Is that why you didn’t keep the weeds out of my garden?” + +“Yes, Mis’ Dolly.” + +“But I sent you the hat.” + +Her head went lower. I had, while away, spent half of a much-needed day +in search of a hat that would withstand mountain wear and weather, yet +be pretty enough for Coretta’s taste. + +“And you let the pigs get to my potato-patch.” + +She turned to the machine. Well, it was my machine. I looked at the gay +pieces of gingham scattered about and resolved to be drastic. + +“I’m going to have the machine brought home, Coretta. You won’t have +any time for sewing until you get your fruit and vegetables put up.” + +She was dismayed. “Oh, I’ll never git ready!” + +“Ready for what?” + +“To go to the mills.” + +“The mills!” + +“We’re all goin’ to Georgia. Sam can git three dollars a day there. +Katy can keep house an’ tend to the young-uns, an’ I’m goin’ to work, +too. We can make ’tween five and six dollars a day. An’ I’ve got to +have the machine. How’ll I ever git their clo’es made?” + +She ran on, but I shrank aside, looking about me and counting the curly +heads. Our supreme judiciary had that year annulled the law of the +people for the rescue of the child in the mills. + +“Coretta, you can’t take these babies----” + +“Oh, I knowed you’d talk that way, but please don’t, for we’ve got to +go. The tickets have come, an’ we have to use ’em inside o’ two weeks. +I’m jest worn out workin’ on the farm like a man, an’ in the house, +too. We’ll never git a start here.” + +I had no argument against the truth. Once I had thought of making Sam +the legal owner of that part of the farm he was supposed to till, and +had consulted the village wise man about it. + +“Let me see,” he said: “Sam gets the full product of his labor now, +don’t he?” + +“Oh, you read the book?” + +“Sure, I did! And you keep the place up? Pay for fencin’, and the like?” + +I admitted it. + +“And the taxes?” + +“Of course.” + +“And he can’t make ends meet?” + +“No.” + +“Well, if I was Sam, I’d injunct aginst any change that ’ud saddle me +with taxes and improvements.” + +So I had made no change. And I had no answer for Coretta. She was still +talking. + +“They’ll give us a good house at the mill, an’ furnish it too.” + +“If you pay three times over in instalments.” + +“When I git enough for my house, I mean to move back.” + +“You’ll never get it paid for, and if you leave they’ll sell it to +somebody else. They count on getting pay from three families for every +set of furniture they put out,” I exaggerated stoutly. + +“You needn’t talk like that, Mis’ Dolly,” she said, with her face all +protest. “I’ve got to go.” + +“Very well.” I rose, and started out. Spying the hat that had cost me +so much thought, I said: “You didn’t like the hat?” + +Her face became an eager pink with satisfaction. + +“Shore I liked it! Everybody says it jest suits me. I want everything +_like that hat_!” + +So my success had defeated me. She had been seduced by perfection. And +I reflected, as I walked home, that even if one ended in a morass, it +was something to follow the twinkling of a very little star. I had seen +in Coretta the flutter of a potentiality that would one day redeem life +from squalor and give the planet an unquenchable glow. + +The first shock over, I could not stifle the thought that the loss of +Sam would be an excellent thing for me. I could replace him with a man +whose ideas of farming were not inherited from his great-grandfather: +some one who would not make me poorer every year, and keep my wits +exercised on the problem of his family’s support. And then, like the +breaking of a soft light, the thought stole upon me that I need never +again be roused from morning sleep to supply Coretta’s breakfast +omissions. Let her go her way. I would not expostulate; I would not +persuade; I would not even be sad. My pillow should be mine henceforth. + +But I took care to avoid the children. This seemed necessary to the +anticipated enjoyment of that pillow. I kept away from Coretta’s cabin, +and when I saw bobbing curls nearing mine through the bushes, I had +sudden errands elsewhere. + + +III + +I had begun with the beans, fearing an early frost, and remembering the +many summer dawns I had preciously invested in keeping the rows clean. +They hung in green multiplicity, in spite of the choking weeds that had +reared their heads high, unmolested by Coretta’s hoe. In fact, there +was a disconcerting abundance all about me. Having set out to be an +example of thrift, opportunity hung from every bush. + +In this hand-to-hand engagement, I lost sight of general aims and +purposes. The fourteen points were laid by for later digestion. My +New York daily, ordered for filing through a momentous period, served +excellently for wrapping winter stores. I did not quite cease to +look at the labor horizon for epochal phenomena; but one day, after +talking with a farmer on the relative value of two varieties of sweet +potatoes, the Texas White and Early Beauty, I found this pencilled +among my farm-notes: “The Bisbee deportation is mealy for fall use, +but the Soviets are the best winter keepers.” Then I began to have +misgivings; but I crushed the seditious rumbling and kept on the path +indicated by the Department. + +Serena returned, but went at once, as I had known she must, to the +fodder-pulling, and I had only an occasional friendly hand lent me for +help. I had moved my typewriter into the kitchen, thinking that odd +moments might go to the making of a masterpiece; but if genius gave a +surviving flutter, its tremolo was drowned by the drums and tabors of +conservation pomp. To Nature’s tender surprises I became callous; and +for her beauty that challenged obviously, I could say with Coretta that +I had no heart. + +Coretta, who knew of old that I rather liked sunsets, coming one day to +borrow my last machine-needle, called my attention to an aggressively +colored sky by saying it was like a pile of “greenlins an’ ’maters.” +(Greenlands and tomatoes--yes.) I assented so readily that Coretta +flushed with the success of her venture in poetics. + +When she was gone, I reflectively picked a letter from my batch of +half-read mail. It began: “Your last filled me with a veritable +nostalgia for your mountain. The odor of ripened grains and fruits and +new-cut wood overcomes me whenever I think of it. I see great white +clouds rearing their domes against a deep, blue sky; and at my feet +gentians star my way to you.” + +I dropped the letter. Where was Autumn? How had I lost her? Like a +spear-thrust the question kept recurring until the next day, when Aunt +Janey Stiles came. + + +IV + +Aunt Janey lived over the mountain on Juniper Creek, three miles west +of me, and carried all her supplies on her shoulder from the village +two miles to the east. On her way out she would take eggs, butter, +chickens, beans--anything exchangeable at the village store--and on her +way in would carry flour, coffee, sugar, salt, soda, and lard. She had +done this for forty years, and looked wiry and tenacious enough to do +it for forty more. She sometimes paused for half a day, and once spent +the night with me; but, unlike the neighborly highlanders, would never +turn a hand to help me. She watched me work as she might have attended +a play, and this did not make for the smoothness of my operations; +but I was always glad to see Aunt Janey. Her attainments did not +include a knowledge of the alphabet, but her mind sometimes revealed a +glitter that made me think her brown, withered body held an old-world +spirit--Greek, perhaps--a Periclesian favorite. + +“I wasn’t meanin’ to stop,” she said, as her sack slid from her +shoulders; “but seein’ the big kittle smokin’ in the yard, I ’lowed +you’s makin’ apple butter, an’ I like to watch it poppin’. Don’t you +quit stirrin’. I’ll fetch me a cheer from the kitchen. The sun’s as +soft as an old blanket to-day.” + +She returned with the chair, and continued: “You’ve got to watch apple +butter closer’n a creepin’ baby if anybody’s goin’ to _eat_ it.” + +Did she know that I had burned up one kettleful? Though I had tried to +remove all trace of it, there might be a treacherous odor in the air. + +“That’s so, Aunt Janey,” I said; “but I’m going to take time to empty +this anyway.” And I took up a tub of apple-parings. I could utilize +those parings in three ways, and for that triple reason I wished them +to disappear quickly. + +“They’re tellin’ all around that you’re powerful agin wastin’ stuff,” +said Aunt Janey when I had returned, in a tone so intentionally +colorless that I became suspicious and defensive. + +“I am. And I could have carried those parings to Sam’s hogs; but Sam +would be lazier to-morrow than he is to-day. And I could have made +vinegar out of them; but I’d have had to take Len from the field to +bring back the barrel that Serena borrowed last year. And I could make +jelly. But with all those fine jelly apples lying around in bushels on +the ground, why should I save parings?” + +“You forgot beer,” said Aunt Janey. + +“Beer?” I faltered. + +I had elderberry wine, and blackberry cordial, and peaches brandied in +brown sugar as dietetic allurements, but had made no provision for beer. + +“Best beer you ever drunk by a hickory fire in the dead o’ Jinniwary. +Stir, gal, stir!” + +I stirred. “But I don’t drink beer,” said I brightening, “and nobody +ought to now.” + +“You don’t eat pickle either--tomato-pickle, cabbage-pickle, +beet-pickle, pickylilly, onion-pickle, pickle everything. An’ you +_kain’t_ eat much p’sarves, but I noticed you had ’most all sorts when +I looked over your stock.” + +“But the plain fruits and vegetables--everybody likes _them_.” + +“You’re a leetle short on some of ’em, ain’t you? Had a nice lot o’ +beans to spile on you, didn’t you?” + +I had buried the contents of twelve large jars in the garden after +dark, hoping that my influence as a conserver would not be diminished. +How did she know? I looked up from my stirring and met a glance of +Aspasian dubiety. She didn’t know. She had been guessing. But my +start had betrayed me. As soon as I was caught, she became sincerely +consoling. + +“Tut, gal, beans are always hard for a beginner. It was that run you +took off at night, I reckon. I knowed when I passed you’d be in the +night with it; an’ I knowed they’d spile, you was so flustered. It +takes a ca’m sperret to put up beans to stay. Leather breeches is +safer.” + +She took up her sack. + +“There’s a powerful lot o’ wild grapes this year.” + +“Is there?” I said, so dispiritedly that she put down her sack. + +“Biggest and juiciest I ever seen. A body ought to put up a lot o’ +grapes. They’re so tonicky. An’ they make the nicest jelly there is for +the sick. Tarty like. Apple jelly’s too tame for a stomach ’at’s off a +bit. Not speakin’ agin yourn, seein’ you got such a power of it. An’ +namin’ the sick, ain’t you never thought o’ puttin’ up mullin? There’s +enough for Europe an’ Ameriky too in your new ground, an’ it’ll shore +cure that winter cough people has--cure it right now. If you don’t mean +to break off at all, if you ain’t goin’ to stop _anywheres_, if I’s +you I’d fix up some good yarb medicines. You can send _them_ to the +soldiers. There’s shumake for a swelled throat, an’ boneset for the +ager, an’ pokeweed for rheumatiz, an’ spignet for consumption, an’ a +lot more I’ll show you if you go home with me some time. Things to he’p +folks, ’stead of a lot of stuff to chuck up the stomach an’ make ’em +sicker. S’pose you go home with me right now.” + +“With so much to do?” I said. “Oh, I couldn’t!” + +“There’ll always be something to do, gal. If we lived till we finished +up, the world ud be full of Methuselys, an’ no room for the young +folks. Nobody finishes. They got to _break off_.” + +She shouldered her sack and started, pausing a rod away for one more +barb. + +“You goin’ to gether yer sunflower-seed? I’ve hearn they eat ’em in +Rooshia.” + +Aunt Janey was right: I had the uncomfortable habit of hanging on for a +finish that the gods would never uncover. And what could I do about it? +There was one answer--Serena. She could break off without a qualm. She +could sing the doxology while doing it, and give the Amen a sprightly +reverberation. + +Without daring to pause, I started off, stepping as briskly as Aunt +Janey, but in the opposite direction. I would get Serena to come +and clear away every sign of conservation, and I would walk on the +mountains while she was doing it. If only I might find her in the +disengaged period she would be sure to observe between fodder-pulling +and sorghum-making! + +As I neared Len’s cabin the odor of boiling syrup told me I was too +late. I arrived and looked drearily on the scene. A shouting boy was +busily driving the oxen that turned the cane-mill, which was spouting +with juice. More juice foamed in the boiler on the furnace. Len, his +seven children, three neighbors, and their children, were officiating +in various or the same parts. Serena was skimming the boiling syrup. +All the country round acknowledged her as the queen of “lassy-makers.” +She turned a heated face to me just long enough to say with the most +cheerful of smiles: “They don’t give me time to make my beds.” + +I was turning away, when Len stopped me. + +“We’ve taken off one biler, an’ I put a few ’lasses for you in that +jug. Reenie, git the jug!” + +“I don’t want them,” I said, near to tears, and trapped in the +vernacular. + +Len was puzzled. + +“But you’re welcome to the ’lasses. I’ll bring ’em up to you.” + +“Not a spoonful, thank you, Len,” I called, already vanishing and +hastening my steps unconsciously until I found myself running--running +up-hill. I did not turn on the trail toward home, but went out to +Three Pine Point, where one could see the river miles away, smooth, +effortless, winding to some hidden land, safe and far from the malefic +spirit of industry. I dropped to the brown pine-needles. Quickly the +woods set their magical currents flowing, and that sensation as of +smiling veins crept over me. + +Then I saw Nellie Ludd, or part of her. One could get only partial +glimpses of Nellie in the woods--an upreaching arm, a strip of +skirt, the sheen of her head. No, she was not golden-haired, or +green-kirtled, and she did not lead the fancy back to Tempe and the +vales of Arcady. Her dress was dingy brown in hue, and of cloth woven +on her mother’s loom, but fashioned by herself as fittingly to her +grace as fur to the marten or feathers to the swallow. Her eyes, if +ever you met them, you would find to be honey-brown, like the first +falling leaves. Her hair was the color of darkly shining smoke, and +seemingly as loath to stay put. And the world she led the fancy to was +a world which none of us have seen, but to which all secretly intend to +go; a world whose picture every man holds in his heart, but will not +look at in the light lest his neighbor come upon him suddenly. For, +though we may have learned to love our neighbor as ourself, we have not +yet learned to trust him. + +It was a gracious chance that brought me to the Point just as Nellie +was leaving it. “Breaking off” was no longer difficult. That sputtering +kettle--how remote and absurd it seemed! + +Descending late in the afternoon, my hills seemed to shine upon me, +reflecting happy restoration. I passed by the pasture ridge where the +silence was tapped by the falling chestnuts, and felt no impulse to +defeat the squirrels and gophers of their prize. A bellwood crowned +with purple bushels of grapes stirred no acquisitive instinct. I went +calmly through the orchard, picking my way over the fallen fruit that +no hand would rescue from decay; looked unwistfully at the pumpkins, +cushaws, and “candy-roasters” that would feed nothing but the frost; +and from my cabin step smiled at the flaming wing of a young maple that +was like a vivid aspiration airily detaching itself from the clutch of +utility and the lures of bounty. + +When I went in, Serena herself could not have cast a more contented eye +about my kitchen, turbulent with unfinished tasks. The autumnal spirit +had effectually bathed my lacerations. The box on which conveniently +rested my little typewriter was invitingly near. I sank, a willing +non-resistant, into a chair, and my hands mechanically sought the keys +of the machine. For a few minutes I seemed to be having a pleasant +time, with consciousness unaroused to the issue. Then I took out the +sheet and read: + + “Goodly Autumn comes again; + Fills my cupboard, fills my bin; + Piles the leaves beneath my shed + For my pony’s winter bed. + + Goodly Autumn comes again; + Mellows apples, mellows sin; + Drops the bars in every place; + All the world is out to gaze. + + Goodly Autumn with her bread! + Surely now the poor are fed; + And in peace I may sit down + To my fill of white or brown. + + Autumn is so good to me; + I will walk abroad and see + If the earth and if the sun + Sup as well as I have done.” + +“This is how they feel,” thought I, as I drowned in placidity without a +bubble struggling overhead. “This is why protracted meetings are held +in autumn. Ah, I will call my poem ‘The Season of Piety.’” + +I began to feel like the good wife of a deacon. Nay, I was the deacon +himself, and blushed in his elderly trousers. + +With her usual ghostly suddenness, Katy appeared. + +“Mommy’s got the milkweed in her breast agin, an’ the baby’s all broke +out; she’s afraid it’s the measles an’ we’ll all take ’em.” + +I rose. Certainly they would all take them. The season of piety was +ended. + +Both cases were happily light, and when Coretta looked up from her +pillow and said, “We ain’t goin’ away. I’ve been thinkin’ what it ud be +like to git sick away from home an’ everybody,” I did not feel that a +slight reproof would be cruel. + +“Stay? With nothing laid in for the winter?” + +“But you’ve put up such a lot.” + +My heart, which had softened at sight of her young cheek tracked red +with the whimsical fever, felt a stony relapse. + +“You know, Coretta, I have had to consider other plans.” + +She was terrified, but unbelieving. The heavens could not really fall. + +“_You wouldn’t let us stay?_” + +“On one condition, perhaps.” + +Her face shone with relief. She had met conditions before, and melted +through them. + +“What’s that, Mis’ Dolly?” + +“You’ll never wake me up again to borrow something for breakfast?” + +“No, I shore won’t.” + +“Cross your heart?” + +“Cross my heart.” + +“Swear to God?” + +“Swear to God.” + +I looked down at the lovely face, contented with the thought of being +sick and _at home_, and my smile undid me. + +“Swear to God,” she repeated feebly, “unless, o’ course, we’re jest +smack out o’ stuff.” + + + + +III + +SERENA AND WILD STRAWBERRIES + + +I + +She was not an unalloyed joy that first year of our friendship. Her +imperturbability did not always seem as a restful evergreen wall, in +whose shadow I could sit until perplexities lost their heat. At times +it was a “no thoroughfare” with the meadows of desire gleaming beyond. + +I called one day and found her churning by the spring, a pleasing +picture, too, under the trees. Her rounded, youngish figure gave +no hint of her seven-fold maternity, and however ragged the rest +of her family might be, she always magically managed to be neat. +She was singing leisurely and churning in rhythm--a most undomestic +performance; but my eye was not Mrs. Poyser’s, and if it had been, it +could not have embarrassed Serena. + +“I’m takin’ my time,” she said, “fer this is my last churnin’ fer a +good spell, I reckon.” + +“Your last? Why, is the cow sick?--dead? And you have just bought +her?” I asked, my concern sharpened perhaps by the thought of a very +inconvenient loan that had gone abysmally into her purchase. + +“She got so many sweet apples last night she’s foundered herself--clear +light ruined, granpap says.” + +“Surely you didn’t turn her into the orchard?” + +“Why, a few apples wouldn’t hurt her. But there was a whole passel on +the ground that I couldn’t see fer the weeds an’ briers. An’ she got +’em.” + +“But I lent Ben my scythe to cut those briers.” + +“His poppie needed him in the field, an’ he couldn’t git the time right +off. When he did, we couldn’t find that scythe nowheres. I hate it +about the cow,” she assured me cheerfully; “but it had to happen, I +reckon.” + +I looked about me. At that moment I could see nothing artistic in Ned’s +half of a shirt looped about one shoulder; there was only pathos in +little Lissie’s naked, buttonless back; and I could not placidly think +of Len, as I had passed him a few moments before, showing ankles as +sockless as ever was Simpson. But perhaps it was the thought of that +loan, with its indefinite time extension, that made me wish to set a +shade of anxiety on Serena’s unclouded brow. At any rate, I began to +sermonize on the merits of discontent and the virtue of ambition. + +Her face brimmed with astonishment that finally broke into speech: “But +I’ve four beds, and bread on my table! What more do I want?” + +What more could I say? So man, in some grateful season, may look up to +the seated gods: “I’ve four religions and a bumper crop; what more do I +want?” And what can the seated gods do but smile patiently? + +I retreated, seeking my usual solace after all defeats--the +unreproachful woods. Near a small clearing, in the quiet shield of some +bushes, I overheard the latter end of an argument. One voice was Len’s, +the other a neighbor’s. + +“A tater’s a tater, anyhow,” the neighbor was affirming. + +“You might as well say a woman’s a woman,” came the retort from Len. + +“Well, ain’t she?” said the neighbor. + +“Lord, no!” said Len, with contempt freely flowing. + +“Oh, course there ain’t nobody like Reenie. Pity the Lord didn’t think +o’ makin’ her fer Adam. We’d all be in Eden yit, loaferin’ by the river +of life, ’stead o’ diggin’ taters out o’ rocks.” + +“When you’re spilin’ to talk about a woman, Dan Goforth, you needn’t +travel furder’n your own doorstep,” answered Len, his voice, like +drawling fire, creeping on without pause. “Reenie mayn’t be stout +enough to wear out a hoe-handle, but she’s never jowerin’ when I come +in, ’n’ there’s always a clean place in the house big enough fer me to +set my cheer down in, I ain’t layin’ up much more’n debts, but they’s +easy carried when nobody’s naggin’ yer strenth out, a woman’s smile +ain’t no oak-tree in harvest-time, but it’s jest as good to set by, my +coat’s raggeder’n yourn, but I’d ruther Reenie ’ud lose her needle onct +on a while than her temper all the time, neighbors can go by my house +day or night an’ never hear no fire aspittin’, which kain’t be said +o’ yourn, an’ you scootle from here, Dan Goforth; don’t you tech nary +nuther tater in this patch!” + +The neighbor scootled, backward it seemed, to the road. I took the +trouble myself to go down to a trail and come up casually from another +direction, in full view of Len. He was working mightily, digging up a +hill with two strokes of his hoe. + +“Dan gone?” I asked indifferently. + +“Ay, he lit out. Old Nance wanted him, I reckon. He dassen’t stay a +minute after she fixes the clock fer him.” + +“That’s a kind of trouble you and Reenie don’t have.” + +“You’ve said it now. Reenie don’t keep no time on me. If I want to drap +over the mountain to see if I can git old man Diller’s mule fer extry +ploughin’, ’cause the crab-grass is elbowin’ along the ground ’most +rootin’ up my corn, an’ tells Reenie I’ll be back by twelve, an’ I find +the old man spilin’ a ox-yoke, an’ I shapes it up fer him an’ stays to +dinner, an’ comes back by the meetin’-house where they’s puttin’ in +the new windows an’ not gittin’ ’em plumb, an’ I stays till sundown +settin’ ’em in so they won’t make everybody ’at passes think he’s gone +cross-eyed, an’ I remembers we’ve got no coffee, so I slips round by +the store an’ stays till dark talkin’ with Tim Frizbie about the best +way to grow fat corn an’ lean cobs, ’cause I know you want me to git +all the new idies I can, an’ when I strikes Granny Groom’s place she’s +at the gate wantin’ me to talk to her Lizy’s girl who’s fixin’ to leave +an’ strollop over the country, an’ I says to that girl when you’re at +home you’re eatin’ welcome bread, and when you’re out in the world you +don’t know what you’re eatin’, an’ a lot more that was aplenty, an’s +I pass Mis’ Woodlow’s, who’s got a powerful bad risin’, I thinks I’ll +stop an’ see if her jaw’s broke yit, an’ I finds ol’ Jim so out o’ +heart about her, I stays to help him put over a couple o’ hours, an’ +when I walks in home about midnight, Reenie she’s gone to bed sensible, +an’ says there’s bread an’ beans in the cupboard. Now that’s what I +call some comfort to a man, to know he can take what happens ’long the +road, an’ know his wife ain’t frettin’ till her stomach’s gone an’ +she’s as lean as a splinter like ol’ Nance Goforth.” + +“You nearly got what you wanted when you married, didn’t you, Len?” + +“Well, I reckon, but I didn’t know it from the start-off. Reenie was +powerful to be agoin’, an’ I couldn’t git used to draggin’ off every +Saturday night to stay till Monday mornin’. But I felt different about +it after I’d nearly killed her an’ the baby.” + +“Gracious, was it that bad?” + +“I didn’t do it a-purpose. It was back in Madison, where I married +Reenie, an’ jest two days ’fore Christmas. She’d put in to go to her +pap’s, an’ I thought I’d git up a nice lot o’ wood, make me a big fire, +an’ have my Christmas at home. I’d told her I thought she’d feel +different about stayin’ in her own house after she’d got a little ’un +in it, but she ’lowed her sight an’ hearin’ was as good as ’fore she +had a baby, an’ she could enjoy usin’ ’em just the same. So I got out +by good daylight an’ went up the hill above the house to cut a big, +dead chestnut that I was tired o’ lookin’ at; then I means to slip over +to By Kenny’s an’ git him an’ his wife to come over fer Christmas ’fore +Reenie got away. There’d come a skift o’ snow a few days back, bare +enough to make the ground gray, then a little warm rain, an’ on top +o’ that a freeze that stung yer eyeballs, an’ you never saw anything +as slick as that hill was ’fore the sun riz that mornin’. When my +chestnut fell she crackled off every limb agin the hard ground clean as +a sled-runner. Boys, if she didn’t shoot off, makin’ smoke out o’ that +frost! I saw she was pinted fer our little shack an’ I tries to yell +to Reenie to git out, but I never made more’n a peep like a chicken. +When the log struck, it shaved by the corner o’ the house an’ took the +chimbly. Boys, it made bug-bites o’ that chimbly! I knowed Reenie was +settin’ by the fire with the baby, an’ I’d killed ’em both. I felt +’most froze to the ground, an’ I thought if Reenie was only livin’ I’d +let her do her own ’druthers the rest of her days. An’ when I got down +to the house an’ sees her an’ the baby not hurt, with the rocks all +piled around ’em, I says to myself I ain’t ever goin’ back on what I +promised her unbeknownst. An’ I ain’t.” + +“What was she doing?” + +“She was jest settin’ there.” + +“What did she say?” + +“She ’lowed we’d got to go to pap’s fer Christmas. An’ we did.” + + +II + +I stood on the doorstep one morning, balancing destiny. Should I take +the downward road to the post-office, and thereby connect with the +distant maelstrom called progress, or should I choose the upward trail +to the still crests of content? + +Serena, happening designedly by, saved me the wrench of decision. + +“If you want any strawberries this year,” she said, “you’d better go +before the Mossy Creek folks have rumpaged over Old Cloud field. They +slip up from the west side an’ don’t leave a berry for manners. I’m +goin’ now. I always go once.” + +I provided buckets and cups, as expected, and we started. The high +ridge field where the berries rambled had its name from an Indian, Old +Cloud, who, it was said, had lived there behind the cloud that always +rested on the ridge before so many of the peaks had been stripped of +their pine and poplar and balsam that had held the clouds entangled +and the sky so close. After it had passed to the settlers it had taken +forty years of ignorant and monotonous tillage to reduce the rich soil +to a half-wild pasture enjoying the freedom of exhaustion. + +I had been under roof for three days, and the spring air produced the +usual inebriation. Several times I left Serena far behind, but she +always caught up, and we reached the top of the ridge together. Here, +panting, I dropped to a bed of cinquefoil, while Serena stood unheated +and smiling. + +“Did you ever run, Serena?” I asked. + +“I always take the gait I can keep,” she said, her glance already +roving the ground for berries. “The other side o’ that gully’s red with +’em. We’ve got ahead o’ Mossy Creek this time.” + +I was looking at the world which the lifted horizon had given me. North +by east the Great Smokies drew their lilac-blue veil over impenetrable +wildernesses of laurel. I could see the round dome of Clingman, and +turned quickly from the onslaught of a remembered day when my body +was wrapped in the odor of its fir-trees and its heathery mosses +cooled my feet. South lay the Nantahalas, source of clear waters. +West--but what were names before that array of peaks like characters +in creation’s alphabet, whose key was kept in another star? They rose +in every form, curved, swaying, rounded, a loaf, a spear, shadowed and +unshadowed, their splotches of green, gold, and hemlock-black flowing +into blue, where distance balked the eyes and imagination stepped the +crests alone. It seemed easier to follow than to stay behind with feet +clinging to earth. Affinity lay with the sky. + +Serena was steadily picking berries. + +“But, Serena,” I called, “just see!” + +“I come here once a year,” she said, standing up, “an’ I never take my +look till I’ve filled my bucket.” And she was on her knees again. + +Rebuke number two, I thought, and set to work. Avoiding Serena’s +discovered province, I crossed to the next dip of the slope, and there +the field was covered with morning-glories, still radiantly open. All +hues were there, from the purple of night to snow without tint, and +the clusters of berries under them seemed in sanctuary. I plucked them +away, feeling like a ravager of shrines. A breeze flowed over the +field, and every color quivered dazzlingly. It was plainly a protest. +I gave up my robberies and passed to another part of the field, where +rapine seemed legitimate. Here the rank grass of yesteryears was deeply +rooted and matted, and I sank adventurously in the tripping tangles. +The slope was steeper, too, and I slipped, slid, and stumbled from +patch to patch before theft was well begun, losing half my captures in +the struggle. It was tinglingly arduous, however, and I continued a +happy game of profit and loss until I scrambled from a gully into whose +depths I had followed my rolling bucket, and confronted Serena. She +looked as if she had coolly swum the lake of color behind us; but her +fresh apron was unstained, while mine was a splash of coral. I advised +her to return. The picking was better above. + +“I know it is,” she answered, “but them mornin’-glories keep me +fluttery, lookin’ at me all the time. I got to fill my bucket _first_. +I promised Len all he could eat in a pie, an’ it takes a big one fer +ten of us. Granpap’s stayin’ at our house now. But we’d better move +furder over, out o’ this soddy grass. They’s rattlers here.” + +With her word we saw him. He was partly coiled not more than three +feet from Serena’s undulating gingham. The black diamonds shining on +his amber skin assured me of his variety--the kind that, as natives +tell me, Indians will not kill because “he gives a man a chance.” +Certainly he was giving us a chance. His eyes seemed half-shut, +but not sleepy, as if he did not need his full power of vision to +comprehend our insignificant world. His poised head was motionless. +Only his tail quivered, not yet erected for his gentlemanly warning. +He glistened with newness, and was evidently a youngish snake, with +dreams of knighthood still unbattered. His parents had bequeathed him +none of the hatred that belongs to a defeated race. Serena seemed as +motionless as he. I took her hand, drawing her a few paces back, and +we stood watching. Sir Rattle slowly uncoiled, quivered throughout his +variegated length, and moved indifferently from us, disappearing in the +clumps of grass. + +“Well,” said a pale Serena, “I feel like I did after I was baptized. +The preacher, he was old man Diller, put his hand on my shoulder +an’ said, ‘Love the Lord, my sister’; but I was so full o’ lovin’ +everything and everybody I couldn’t think about the Lord. Do you +reckon snakes have brothers and sisters that they know about? Think o’ +that feller throwin’ away sech a chance to git even!” She could not +stop talking any more than I could begin. “Let’s get to the top o’ the +field where it’s cooler. It’s got so hot I’m afeard a shower’s comin’.” + +By the time we reached the top we knew that the shower was to be a +heavy one. There was a cave over the ridge on the Mossy Creek side, +where we could take shelter. But we would wait a little for what +the heavens could show us. The doors of the sky were to be thrown +open. There would be no reservation of magic. Earth knew it by the +quick wind that pressed every grass-blade to the ground and made the +strawberry-blossoms look like little white, whipped flags; and by the +grove of tall, young poplars that bent like maidens, their interlaced +branches resting, a silver roof, on their curved shoulders. The +lightning rippled, and earth was a golden rose spreading her mountain +petals. It was the signal for the assembling of the dragons. They came +swelling from the west, pulling one great paw after another from behind +the walls of distance and puffing black breath half across the sky. +The lightning again, and this time earth was a golden butterfly under +the paws of the dragons. Then the conflict began, the beasts mingled, +and the sound of their bones massively breaking struck and shook the +ground under our feet. A gray sea rose vertically on the horizon and +marched upon us. We fled, blinded, to the cave, tearing off our aprons +to protect our buckets. + +Even here Serena did not pant or gasp. + +“How dry it is!” she said, examining the berries. “They’re not hurt. +My, you didn’t cap yourn!” + +“But I’d never fill my bucket if I stopped to cap them.” + +“You don’t stop. You leave the cap on the vine. It’s as quick done as +not. Now it’ll take you longer to cap than it did to pick. O’ course +you didn’t know. Some folks knows one thing and some another,” she +added kindly. “Ain’t it a thick rain? But we got a good place. Some say +this cave’s ha’nted, an’ won’t come anigh it. Uncle Sim Goforth died +here, but he was a good man an’ wouldn’t harm nobody if he did come +back.” + +“How did he happen to die here?” + +“They killed him. It was in time o’ the war way back. Folks are better +now. They say they’re doin’ awful over the sea, but they’d never be so +mean as they were to Uncle Sim. He hid here, an’ brought his wife an’ +childern. But they found him.” + +“Was he a Unionist or Confederate?” + +“I never could make out ’tween ’em. The Unionists, they wanted to free +the black people, but the Unionists here in the mountains didn’t favor +’em. So I never could git it clear. Anyway, Uncle Sim was a good man. +I’ve heard granpap tell about him many a night. The men, when they +found him, cut down a tree an’ hewed out some puncheons fer a coffin, +an’ made Uncle Sim sit on it an’ play his fiddle. He could play the +best that ever was, an’ they say he played up fine that night. They +kept him playin’ till near daylight; then they shot him, an’ his wife +an’ childern lookin’ right on. I used to cry, hearin’ granpap tell it, +out in Madison, but it don’t make me feel bad now, ’cause I know folks +are better than what they were them days.” + +Such naïveté was possible in the period of our national innocence, +before “the boys” began to drift back home with certain truths on their +tongue. + +“Looky! the rain’s stopped quicker’n it come. We can go right back, fer +the ridge dreens off soon as the water strikes it. Ain’t it cool, an’ +the air like gold!” + +She tried to catch a handful of it to show me its quality. We went +back, and in a minute, as she said, our buckets were full, though we +lost a few seconds while I learned of Serena how to cap and pick at +the same time. Then we started along the ridge to the gap where we had +entered the field. Walking back, I lingered to pluck a giant white +trillium that shone from the fringe of wood. No loss to the forest; +there were thousands more lighting up the cove farther down. As I came +out of the wood, the air over the field seemed visibly to precipitate +some of its gold. A swarm--no, the word is too heavy for anything so +delicately bodied--a band of butterflies, moving in a slow wave over +the ridge, had at that moment broken into myriads of distinct flakes--a +shattered blaze. Nearer, their gold became tinily specked, and showed +flashes and fringes of pearl; the silver-bordered fritillaries, +perhaps, or some kin of theirs. I started to call Serena, but paused +softly, for she was gazing over the mountains, having her “look.” I +was left to the butterflies. Were they as unconscious of their grubby +origin as they seemed, holding no memory of a life bounded by a +sassafras twig, or of the cove behind us where a violet leaf may have +been both food and heaven? + +The butterfly ought to be the symbol on every Christian’s flag. It is +the perfect pietist. Its confidence in the Infinite is as patent as its +wings. Serena, amid that airy fluttering, seemed, in her own shining +way, the sovereign of the band. Deep as piety was her trust in the +morrow. Food would come to her, raiment would be found. + +The butterflies floated past, becoming a dim, coppery tremble in the +shade of the valley. Serena was still gazing in the distance. At last I +said that we must be going; Len was expecting his pie. + +“These berries ain’t goin’ into a pie,” she answered. “They’re worth +more than a pie’ll come to. They’re goin’ into jam.” + +Was Serena taking forethought? No; I could trust her lighted face and +wet eyes. She was still piously improvident. + + +III + +Once more it was May, and early morning. I was out before breakfast, +gathering sticks for my hearth-fire. There had been showers in the +night, and an inch of new grass trembled over the ground. I tugged at +a pile of brush made by my oldest apple-tree, which had fallen in a +winter storm. The limbs, and even the million twigs, were all gray and +green and slate-blue in their wrappings of moss, and in among them, +like a burning heart, sat a cardinal. + +“You ought to be singing from a tree-top,” said I. + +“But I’m getting my breakfast. This is the _cafeteria_ of Wingland. Are +you going to demolish it?” + +“Indeed, no!” I answered, picking up some peripheral sticks and leaving +his stronghold unshaken. + +To thank me, he hopped to the top of the pile, and, right in my face, +sang his most shamelessly seductive song. Serena put her head out +of the kitchen window to listen. He paused, and deserted me for a +tree-top. But sweet was air and earth. Delight summoned an antithesis. +I thought of forgotten pains, some monitions of the night before. +Suppose I were to die, and never again stand in that dip of the +mountain when it was a brimming bowl of springtime? Perhaps there was +no other planet where I might gather in my arms such beautiful gray and +green and slate-blue fagots. I turned to go in, and met rebuke in the +eyes of my Chicago guest. + +“I wonder if you are going to tell me that your woman does not know how +to pick up brush.” + +My woman! If Serena heard that! + +“And after last night! Did you take your medicine?” + +Verily I had. She was unconvinced. + +“The bottle seems full.” + +“Oh, I took it from the cardinal’s throat,” said I, surrendering. + +She laughed, for there was sweetness in her, and we went in to +breakfast. I had prepared it before going out, leaving Serena on guard. +She was with me, not so much for the help she gave, as to save the +feelings of my guest. + +“Do you have much of this soggy weather?” said Chicago, airily +tolerant, as we took our seats. + +“Why, I’ve never noticed.” + +“We shore do,” said Serena, with gloom that was ludicrously alien to +her face. “It’s li’ble to rain now fer two weeks steady.” + +“But I had decided not to go home to-day,” cried the guest, almost +resentfully declining the hot biscuit Serena urged upon her. “Two +weeks! Do you mean two weeks?” + +“I’ve known it to hang wet fer a month.” + +“Why, Serena!” + +“Showery like. You know it’s so, Mis’ Dolly.” + +“Well, we’re going to have perfect weather now. Tender, bright, with +maybe a bit of dew in the air. Stay, and I promise you a miracle among +springs.” I held up a glass of strawberry jam. “The kind of a spring +that produced this.” And I offered her the food of heaven. + +“Thanks, but I’ve cut out sweets.” + +I caught my breath, and looked at Serena, in whose eye sparkled a +triumph that said plainly: “Now you see!” + +My guest did not notice that I sat dumb, bewildered, bereft. She was +talking. + +“No, I think, my dear, that if you wish to memorialize a passing folk, +you will find material more worthy of your pen in the twilight of the +bourgeoisie. They have lived in the main line of evolution, and will +leave their touch on the race. Faint it may be, but indelible. In +art, in literature, perhaps in certain predilections of character and +temperament, it will be possible to trace them. These mountain people +will not have even a fossilized survival. They live in a _cul-de-sac_, +a pocket of society, so to speak. Your mind has an epic cast, and will +never fit into its limits.” + +There was more; then Serena’s voice glided into the monologue. + +“Mis’ Dolly, I don’t like to tell you, seein’ you were ailin’ last +night, but Johnny Diller went by here this mornin’, an’ he said Mis’ +Ludd’s little Marthy wasn’t expected to keep breath in her till +sundown.” + +“I must go,” said I, getting up. + +“I don’t approve of it,” said my friend. + +“I must. You don’t understand----” + +“Please don’t tell me that again, my dear.” + +“But you don’t!” + +“Your hat’s on the porch,” said Serena. + +“You can’t leave to-day, Marie, because I haven’t time to tell you +good-by now,” I said, and hurried away. + +Home again at ten in the evening, I found Serena sitting by a bright +kitchen fire humming “Old Time Religion.” + +“Is Miss Brooks asleep?” I asked. + +“I reckon she is. She said she was goin’ to take a sleeper.” + +“She’s gone?” + +Serena’s affirming nod did not interrupt her tune. + +“Please stop that humming, Serena, and tell me what you did the minute +my back was turned.” + +“Nothin’ at all. That was the matter, maybe.” + +“You didn’t do _anything_ for her?” + +“I fixed her a snack to eat on the train.” + +“Oh, thank you! It was a nice one, wasn’t it?” + +“I give her some pickled beets, an’ turnip-kraut, an’ ’tater salad made +with that blackberry vinegar.” + +I dizzily recalled a remark of Len’s. “That blackberry vinegar ’ud +pickle a horseshoe.” + +“Serena,” I began faintly. + +She had crossed to a shelf and was looking fondly at a jar of +strawberry jam. + +My voice died away; I could not reproach her. + +Sweets, my friend had called it. And, my God, it was May morning on a +mountain-top! + + + + +IV + +SAM + + +I + +He was passing my cabin late at night, and unexpectedly found me +sitting on the moonlit doorstep. I was not longing for conversation, +but Sam’s voice, as mere sound, was no more interruptive than purling +water or a cajoling minor wind. It mellowed its way over uncouth words +in a manner that seemed to be its owner’s gentle amends for using +anything in your presence so angular and knotty as the language of man. + +“I thought,” he said, “maybe I could ketch that coon what uses over in +Grape Vine Cove; but my dog Buck got onter a fox-trail, an’ coon wasn’t +nothin’ to him after that. I knowed that fox ’ud take him to Katter +Knob, so I let him go on by hissef an’ I shammucked along toward home.” + +There was no hint in his easy air that he had broken my rule against +hunting in springtime. Any Merlin would violate any rule occasionally, +as a matter of self-respect; and of all the Merlins, Sam was the least +capable of inferior misgiving. His whole mental interior was as bare of +obeisance as an iceberg of things that grow. + +“I could ’a’ chivvied that fox out if I had gone after him; but if a +man don’t sleep he’s weak at the plough-handles. Yore work first, Mis’ +Dolly.” + +But a falling moon was marking 1 A. M. + +“That fox-hide would ’a’ brought me four dollars, an’ Krettie keeps +pesterin’ me fer a pair o’ shoes. My head might as well be under the +forestick. But she’ll jest have to make out.” + +This was clearly an impeachment, but I made no defense, and he passed +to a topic with, presumably, no implications. + +“Yer company comin’ to-morr’, I reckon?” + +“Yes, Sam.” + +“So ye’re enjoyin’ yersef to-night.” + +I opposed another silence to his deduction. + +“That makes me think now--’f I have to meet the train an’ haul ’em up, +I kain’t plough to-morr’.” + +“But, Sam, you don’t have to go till four o’clock.” + +“Ay, but they’s a little work to do on my wagon ’fore I go down. I +kain’t take any resk with friends o’ yorn.” + +I could always get interested in the way that Sam made use of _yer_, +_yore_, _yorn_, _you_, and _ye_. _Yorn_, with an inflection that +enlarged the _n_, was an avowal of separateness as severing as the +water that washed Pilate’s hands. + +Having arranged for his morning sleep, he merged away, pausing on an +edge of moonlight to say: “Ain’t the whipper-wills awhirlin’ to-night? +Looks like they ain’t goin’ to sleep at all.” + +“Whirling, Sam?” + +“Ay, you know ever’ time they say whipper-will they whirl round on the +limb. Whirl thersevs right round.” + +“What a foolish habit!” + +“Well, the whipper-will ain’t a much smart bird.” + +He flowed into the shadows and left me to ponder my newly acquired +bird-lore. It was the kind of information which Sam frequently +distributed, and with no remonstrance from me. He was too sure and +final; and withal too quieting to the intellect. One doesn’t demur to +the south wind, or try to put it right. + +“I reckon I ain’t a much smart bird,” I said, thinking many times I +had stepped aside for the unstemmed passage of Sam’s incredibly liquid +voice. + +The next day brought my friend, Lucie Harvey, and her husband, whom I +knew only through her raptures. They were happy additions to my tiny +camp, and at the end of their three days’ visit romantically voted to +make a bed in the barn and release my room, thus making an indefinite +stay possible. We were verbally completing the plan when Sam appeared. + +“I knocked off ploughin’.” he said, “to take yer trunks down.” + +“Oh, we’re not going,” said Lucie. + +“When I brought ye up, ye ’lowed ye’d be ready to go back this evenin’ +an’ I’ve come fer ye.” + +“Why, we’ll let you know when we want to go.” + +“I’ve come out o’ the plough to take ye.” + +“Sorry, my man,” said the bridegroom, “but it’s your mistake. We’ll let +you know when we’re ready for you.” + +“You goin’ to live in the barn?” + +“There!” said Lucie, “he knew all about it!” + +They turned away for the walk which Sam had momentarily delayed. I +heard Lucie say, “How did he know?” and I might have followed to tell +her that Sam always knew; but at that moment I was struck motionless by +hearing Ned Harvey drop the word “Imbecile!” + +Sam, very likely, did not know its meaning, but the tone as it floated +back was unmistakable. + +“I’m sorry you knocked off ploughing, Sam,” I said, my eyes slinking. + +“Oh, I left Ben at it. Len said he could spare him.” + +“That means Len is doing double work, so Ben can help you out.” + +“He’p me out? They’s yore friends, not mine. I like Mis’ Harvey though. +She’s mighty nice.” + +“Mr. Harvey, too.” + +He looked toward Harvey, who was wearing a hunting-jacket very +handsomely. + +“Well, as to that, he wears a fine huntin’-jacket, but I’ve seen folks +wearin’ good clo’s that had to hunt up the nest-eggs to fry if company +dropped by to dinner.” + +A pensive shade came into his eyes as they continued to follow +the vanishing figure of Harvey. “I always thought I’d like a +huntin’-jacket,” he said; and as he walked away, something in his +bearing told me that he was imaginarily clothed as his heart desired. +There had been no resentment in his voice. Perhaps he had taken no +notice of that terrible word. And gradually I forgot that it had been +uttered. + + +II + +A few days later Sam passed through my yard, where Ned Harvey was +warmly engaged in persuading me not to have my crimson clover turned +under, but to hog it off. He had carried some of my farm books to the +barn, and the phrase “hog it off” had him in its power. Lucie’s eyes +approved shiningly. + +“And you know, Dolly,” she said, “after all, Ned is a realtor, not a +farmer.” + +“But, Mis’ Harvey,” said Sam, “we don’t fatten hogs round here in the +spring; an’ clover makes soft meat--sorter like bear’s meat. An’ that +makes me think now--hain’t ye heard about that bear runnin’ on Pitcher +Mountain? Hit come down from Smoky.” + +“You’ve bears here?” asked Ned, turning a captured ear. + +“Oh, ay, they’s a few left. They come down from the bear-ground on +Smoky oncet in a while. It’s only eleven miles straight through to +Pitcher. If I can git Tom Bowles to plough fer me, I’m goin’ to have a +look at this feller.” + +He passed on, leaving Harvey intently gazing at nothing. His bride +caught his arm. + +“You are not going, Ned?” + +“Not without your consent, Lucie. It’s an opportunity, of course. I +have never shot a bear.” + +His thoughts wandered. We could see that he was already back at home +telling the boys about it. + +“If only you would be very, _very_ careful, dear!” + +“Oh, that’s all right, thank you, darling!” And he set off after Sam. +When he returned, he was enthusiastic about his guide. “I like him! He +hung back at first, and I finally found that Bowles wouldn’t plough for +him without the money; so I paid him ten dollars in advance. That’s all +he is charging to take me. We shall be gone only three or four days. +He knows all the trails; and we can get our bacon and meal at a little +store on Siler’s creek, and not have to carry a heavy pack from here.” + +“If only you had an intelligent companion!” said Lucie with foreboding. + +“Oh, Sam’s a fine fellow! And he knows a lot of old songs. You know I +want to make a collection.” + +“Do get ‘London City’ for me if you can,” I said. “He will never give +me more than a snatch of it. + + ‘In London City where I did dwell + A merchant boy I loved so well----’ + +I am sure it has been sung under the very bonnet of the Old Lady of +Threadneedle Street, ‘City’ not ‘town’; ‘merchant,’ not ‘soldier’ or +‘sailor.’” + +“It’s a link,” said Harvey. “Think of it! This remote spot where +nothing ever happened, and old London! I’ll get it for you.” + +I wasn’t hopeful, knowing Sam’s disposition to sing only at his own +instance; but I could not discourage any one so gallantly sure as +Harvey. + +The next twenty-four hours were spent by the bear-hunters in making +ready. I asked Sam where he intended to get a bear-dog, and was +surprised to hear that they had decided not to take one. + +“One o’ them big dogs’ll eat three men’s rations,” said Sam. “We’d have +to carry a heap more stuff, an’ pay five dollars fer the hire of him, +too. Anyways, if we took a bear-dog, he’d git all the credit for the +killin’, when like as not he’d be back in camp eatin’ up our victuals.” + +“It’s settled, Sam,” said Harvey. “A gun’s the clean thing.” + +“I knowed you wanted to shoot bear, not claw ’em out like Jed Weaver +does.” + +As preparations went on, Lucie shrank to a wife’s place in the +background; but near the starting-moment she slipped a pair of her +husband’s best silk socks into his kit. + +“They will rest your feet, dear,” she said, suppressing a crinkly catch +in her voice. + +The kiss she received was absent-mindedly given; but when a hundred +yards on his way, Harvey turned thoughtfully and waved a marital hand +broadly rearward. + +The fifth morning thereafter, Lucie, who had been on watch at the curve +of the road, came running in. + +“Dolly,” she cried, “I thought tramps never got up here!” + +“They don’t,” I said. + +“But look!” + +She turned again and gazed out; then stood framed in eerie silence. I +saw, and she saw, that it was Ned. He came up with an unrelaxing smile, +but looking as if he had not slept since his departure. Certainly he +had not shaved, though I had seen him carefully pack his safety razor, +and remembered his remark that even in the woods a man could be a +gentleman. He had on Sam’s ragged coat, and under it we had glimpses +of Sam’s still more ragged, and once blue, cotton shirt. His head was +bare. + +Lucie was white-lipped and wide-eyed. “Did the bears--” she began. + +“No, Lucie, the bears did not get me,” he said; and preceded her to the +barn. + +Two or three hours afterward she returned to tell me that Ned was +sleeping and did not wish to be awakened until next morning. He +appeared at breakfast, neat and smiling, but his face was still marked +by experience. + +“He has suffered,” said Lucie, helping his plate with tender liberality. + +“Oh, it was nothing,” said Ned. “Sam took a bad cold, and seemed +threatened with pneumonia. As my clothes were warmer than his, of +course I exchanged with him.” + +“Your best silk socks, too?” cried Lucie. + +“Certainly. He had _none_.” + +Then he told us about it. “We climbed steadily, and the second day +reached a height of four thousand feet or more. There was a fierce +wind, and it was bitter cold. We had to keep a fire at night, and as +Sam was not well, I attended to that, which cut out my sleep. _Don’t_ +moan like that, please, dearest. I am glad I went. I feel better +prepared for many things. I really do.” + +And truly he did seem to have added to his stature. He had been very +likable; but now I began to admire him. + +“I didn’t get a bear, but I made some notes. You know I have always +been interested in forest life. I ought to have been a woodsman.” + +“I hope you won’t have to limp very long,” said Lucie; and a slight +silence followed. + +“Did Sam sing for you?” she continued, her usual discernment failing. + +“Yes--a little--one song.” + +“Oh, I hope you took it down!” + +“It was very _cold_, Lucie. I did no unnecessary writing.” + +“But you remember it?” + +“I shall never forget it,” he said, and, to my ears, his voice held a +slight acridity. I was glad when Lucie fell into her sweetest manner +and they went off together. + +As I moved about the deserted table, I noticed a note-book lying on the +floor. The floor being frequently a repository for my own note-books, +I picked this one up, to see what subject had lost my devotion. On the +first page I read: “Night of the 15th: very cold; no sleep. 16th: very +cold; no sleep. 17th: very cold; no sleep.” The rest was blank. I laid +the book on the floor, a little under Harvey’s chair. Then I went to +find Sam. + + +III + +“How is your cold, Sam?” I asked. + +He laughed his most purling-water laugh. “I cured that when I was +crossin’ Siler’s creek comin’ home. There’s lots o’ sickness’ll leave +you when you cross water. Hit takes right off.” + +“Sam, do you know that Tom Bowles has not been near the place? There +isn’t a furrow ploughed in that field.” + +“Ay, I know it. I was so busy the day we went off, I forgot to tell you +about that. Mr. Harvey bein’ yore friend, I wanted to do ever’thing +I could to he’p him; but I said to myself that what you wanted ought +to come first, so I went to that field an’ I looked all over it. I +went cleverly all over it. An’ I saw ’twa’n’t no use to throw away ten +dollars on Tom Bowles, fer that ground wouldn’t bring corn. Yer best +chance is to wait until fall, an’ put it in rye. It’ll shore bring rye.” + +“But when I wanted you to put it in rye last fall, you said I ought to +wait until spring and plant corn.” + +“I ain’t fergittin’ that, but last fall I hadn’t gone well over it like +I ought.” + +“It’s not too late for corn now, if you’ll set to ploughing at once.” + +“I’d do it, Mis’ Dolly; I’d be willin’ to do jest as you say, even agin +yer own intrust, which is what corn ’ud be in that ground; but I’ve got +to go to Carson to-morr’ an’ git my front tooth put in. It’s been out +six months now, an’ I’ve got the money in my pocket.” + +“Couldn’t you wait a few days, Sam?” + +“Why, I put it to you now, if you had a front tooth out, wouldn’t you +git one in the first chance? I’ve got my clo’s, an’ the money, an’ it’s +mighty hard to git ever’thing together at oncet.” + +At last he had mentioned the clothes; so, without repulse, might I. + +“Your jacket is a good fit, Sam.” + +“How do you think it suits me, Mis’ Dolly?” + +“I think you wear it about as well as Mr. Harvey did.” + +“It set smart round the shoulders on him.” + +“Smart on you too, Sam.” + +“It looks better with the cap.” He put on the cap for proof. “I let Mr. +Harvey keep his pants an’ leggin’s. That chap from Asheville left me +his, an’ I thought they’s better’n Harvey’s. Jest let me walk off.” + +He walked off, and I duly and sincerely admired. + +“You reckon,” he said, coming back, “if you saw me as fur off as that +black oak on the hill yander, an’ I had my back to you, an’ you didn’t +know I had these clo’s, you reckon you’d take me fer Harvey?” + +I assured him I would. + +“He’s a well-set-up man, Harvey.” + +It was time to hit the nail. “Sam, I want the truth. _Was_ there a bear +on Pitcher Mountain?” + +“Yes, there was--three year ago. I saw it myself, after it ’uz dead.” + +“Go on. Make a clean breast of it.” + +“There, I knowed you’d be right on me. All right, I’ll tell you +ever’thing. I meant to all the time. But ’fore I begin, I want you to +tell me what’s an impersile?” + +“An impersile? Oh--ah--an imbecile is a sort of fool.” + +“I reckoned it was about that,” he said; and, too late, I remembered. + +“I won’t keep back a dod-blessed thing, Mis’ Dolly. You know how +my dog Buck acts when they’s a fox usin’ around. He’ll lay on the +hearth-rock thinkin’ how he’s goin’ to git that fox. An’ ’long about +two o’clock I have to git up an’ let him out. Then he goes to Len’s +an’ rumbles on the door till Len gits up an’ lets _his_ dog out, an’ +Buck takes him off to hunt that fox. He’ll keep that up fer weeks if it +takes weeks to git him. It was jest thataway with me. I had to study +out how I was goin’ to git Harvey. He was a friend o’ yorn, stayin’ in +yore barn, an’ I couldn’t go over there an’ lammux him. I’m a peaceable +man anyhow, an’ that ain’t my way.” + +“I know it isn’t, Sam, and I am surprised that you couldn’t overlook +one thoughtless word, where no harm was meant.” + +“Yer goin’ too fast now. I did overlook, come time. You know the Bible +says that the birds may light on your head, but ye needn’t let ’em make +a nest in yer hair. That means ’at hard words may drap on you, but ye +needn’t harbor ’em in yer heart. When that word kep’ a-stickin’, I +knowed I had to git it out, and I did. I feel all right now, an’ I’ll +do any favor fer Mr. Harvey if he’ll come an’ ast me right. I’ll drive +him down to the depot if he’ll ast me, though I told Krettie I’d +never do it, an’ I said I’d make him push his trunks down hissef in a +wheelbarr’.” + +Concern must have risen to my face, for he became regally assuring. + +“Don’t you worry a bit now. I thought it all out, an’ I ’lowed I could +git along ’thout doin’ him any harm. Overlook it! Ain’t I showed that +plain? Didn’t I knock off ploughin’ in the middle o’ April an’ the +dogwoods a-buddin’ jest to take him bear-huntin’? He was bound to go. +He was wuss’n a hen that’s goin’ to set, eggs er no eggs.” + +“Oh, Sam, you know you started it yourself!” + +“I jest talked a little, as is common. It’s a man’s nater to drap +his talk aroun’ without lookin’ to see whose head is hot. Shorely to +goodness, yer not goin’ to blame that on me!” + +“Well, what happened? You’ve got his gun, his jacket, his cap, and his +shirt.” + +“An’ his safety razor,” added Sam, “an’ these here.” He pulled tenderly +at a pocket of the jacket and gave me a shining glimpse of the silk +socks. “I put ’em on oncet. Boys! Slipper-ellum ain’t nothin’!” Then he +began his story. + + +IV + +“I didn’t take my gun, ’cause I was only goin’ along to ’comerdate +Harvey; an’ the trigger o’ mine was busted. I didn’t take Buck nuther, +fer we _might_ ’a’ run across a bear, an’ Buck’s so swell-headed, he +thinks he can wipe up anything, an’ a bear would ’a’ chawed him to a +dish-rag. I couldn’t take any resk with him, fer Tim Reeves wrote me +from Tennessee that he’d give me fifty dollars fer him when he comes +back, he’s so hot fer fox. That first day me an’ Harvey travelled like +brothers, an’ I got him a good ways along ’thout makin’ him feel the +road. I carried his gun fer him, so he could walk faster, an’ he was +likin’ me first-rate. At night I made a fine fire an’ he put his feet +toward it an’ went to sleep. Next mornin’ he got up an’ et nine slices +o’ bacon an’ a meal-pone I cooked on a rock. I pushed him to eat, +tellin’ him we had a terrible climb afore us. He laffed at me, an’ says +‘Bring on yer mountains, Sam.’ An’ I brought ’em. By night we’s in a +mile o’ the top o’ Smoky.” + +“But you were going to Pitcher Mountain!” + +“Aye, we _started_ there, but when we passed Jed Weaver’s, which is the +last house, I said I’d go in an’ git me a little new terbacker, ’cause +Jed raises it an’ it ’ud be neighborly to ast fer some. When I come +out, I told Harvey that Jed said the bear on Pitcher had been killed +an’ Mose Ashe had the hide. Which wuz ever’ word so. It ’uz the biggest +bear in the memory o’ man, I told him; an’ that ’uz the truth too, fer +I seen it myself. Harvey’s lip fell till I was sorry fer him, an’ I +said I was willin’ to go on to the bear-ground on Smoky, if he thought +he could hold out. I said I wouldn’t drive him, it wuz his trip anyway; +an’ he said he was feelin’ better ever’ minute, that climbin’ agreed +with him, an’ he looked like it did. I told him if he wanted to go on, +it was lucky he took me with him, fer it was give up that I knowed the +trails better’n anybody that had ever gone inter the bear-ground. Ain’t +that so, Mis’ Dolly?” + +“That’s what I’ve heard, Sam.” + +“I spent a year in the woods after my first wife died. I thought it +was the best chance I’d ever git, an’ I took it. So I said to Harvey: +‘Knowledge has got to be paid fer. It’s the custom.’ An’ he says: ‘Oh, +anything, Sam!’ An’ I says: ‘What about yer gun?’ ‘Oh, my gun?’ says +he, a little set back, fer it was fire-new, as you can see.” + +His glance fondled the gleaming barrel of the gun which was leaning +against a tree near us. + +“I told Harvey I wasn’t feelin’ very well myself, an’ it might be +better fer me to go home anyhow; but if we traded, I wouldn’t think +o’ takin’ the gun till we got back home, an’ he could carry it from +there on, ’cause we’s gittin’ inter a country where we might come on +something wuth a bullet any minute. An’ he said: ‘All right, it’s a +bargain. Move, partner.’ + +“So we climbed hard all day, an’ by night, as I told you, we’s well up +Smoky, an’ the coldest wind ablowin’ that ever made an i-shickle out of +a man’s gizzard. We drew up at a spring, an’ I says: ‘We’ll stay right +here, fer there ain’t no water higher up.’ He was puffin’ some, an’ he +says: ‘How fur are we from the bear-ground?’ I says: ‘It’s all around +us. We’re right in it.’ He whitened a little an’ gripped his gun, an’ I +explained o’ course we weren’t in the ackchal la’r’l thicket where the +bears denned, an’ where they tromp roads in the brush big enough fer +a horse to walk through. I told him we hadn’t got to the stair-steps +in the cliffs where they climbed in an’ out o’ their dens; but they +used the neighborhood fer roamin’ an’ fer gittin’ water. I reckoned he +wouldn’t want to go on an’ knock at their doors till mornin’, after +he’d had a good rest, an’ we’d keep a big fire all night so’s they +wouldn’t bother us. + +“I said I’d cook supper if he’d make the fire; an’ he started to git up +some wood; but it was slow work ’cause he’d keep the gun in one hand +an’ pull an’ drag at the brush with the other. When I’d rested good I +went an’ he’ped, fer I was sorry fer him, an’ was pushin’ hungry. When +I’d cooked supper, an’ he’d et enough to make him feel sort o’ cocky, +an’ I’d got up a good lot o’ logs to last all night, he said he guessed +he’d turn in so’s to git a good sleep an’ be ready fer the battle in +the mornin’. An’ I said I b’lieved I would too. He got purty still at +that, an’ watched me fixin’ my bed. It was so dod-a’mighty cold I got +me a lot o’ fir-boughs an’ piled ’em high as my head. Then I began to +crawl inter the middle of ’em. + +“‘Looky here, Sam,’ says Harvey, ‘I never heard of a guide crawlin’ off +to sleep when the camp needed watchin’.’--‘I ain’t no guide,’ I says; +‘I’m a friend what’s a long way from home jest to ’comerdate ye.’ An’ I +went in. + +“Then I put my head out an’ says, frien’ly as could be: ‘You turn in +too. That fire’ll burn ha’f the night, the wind’ll keep it up. An’ +long about one o’clock I’ll crawl out an’ throw on some more logs. Ef +you hear a noise, jest lay still, ’cause it’ll only be me astirrin’. +Bears,’ I says, ‘come up sly.’ + +“I reckon he’s a little stubborn by nater, ’cause he wouldn’t turn in +at all. I looked out after a bit an’ saw he’d took off his cap an’ tied +his muffler round his head, so I ast him if he wouldn’t let me have his +cap. My hat was full o’ holes an’ seemed to draw the wind. I was all +right, I said, ’cept the top o’ my head was freezin’ off. He handed me +his cap then, slow-like, an’ never said I was welcome, ner nothin’. But +I’d made up my mind I was goin’ to overlook ever’thing, jest as you +say. I had some sleep after I got the cap, an’ when I looked out ’round +midnight, he was settin’ there holdin’ his gun, an’ had a big fire that +he’ped warm the whole place. I slept like I was in my own bed. Oncet I +woke up thinkin’ I heard Krettie a-snorin’; then I remembered where I +was an’ knew it was the wind thrashin’ about. + +“An’ you ought to ’a’ seen the stars a-shinin’. When they’d wink, I’d +almost jump, they seemed so close an’ knowin’. I’d been thinkin’ about +leavin’ Harvey up there, an’ tellin’ him to foller one o’ the branches +down the mountain, an’ I thought maybe I’d put him on one that ’ud +bring him out about twenty miles from home. But lookin’ at them stars, +I made up my mind to stand by him an’ bring him clean in to Mis’ Harvey. + +“Next mornin’ he went to the spring, but he said it was so cold he +guessed he wouldn’t wash. Then he looked at hissef in a little glass he +took out o’ his kit. You know he’s one o’ them reddish men that have to +keep the razor goin’ ever’ day ef they keep ahead o’ ther beard, an’ +we’d been out two nights. After he’d looked, he said he guessed he’d +heat some water in our tin cup an’ shave. But the wind was blowin’ so +aggervatin’ hard he got nettleish, an’ I said he might cut hissef even +if it was a safety, an’ bears had an awful scent fer blood. + +“‘We’s huntin’ bears,’ I said, ‘an’ don’t want ’em huntin’ us.’ He +says, ‘You mean it well enough, Sam, but they’s nothin’ in it.’ +However, it was gittin’ late, an’ he guessed he wouldn’t shave till +night. He put the razor back in its little box, an’ drapped it inter +his jacket pocket. But I’d clear forgot I’d seen him put it there when +he was rakin’ his kit fer it that night. I told him I ’lowed he’d +drapped it up by the spring that mornin’ an’ I’d climb all the way +back fer it if he wanted me to.” + +“Why didn’t he look in his pockets?” + +“’Cause I had the jacket then, an’ I didn’t think about it. I told him +when he handed it to me that he’d better look in the pockets, there +might be somethin’ in ’em he wanted; an’ he said they wasn’t nothin’ +there, an’ if they was, I might as well take it now as later; only he +said it rougher, like men’ll talk in the woods. ‘Not a dern thing in +’em,’ he says, if you’ll excuse me, Mis’ Dolly, an’ jest as good as +told me to keep it if there wuz. I found the razor after I’d got home, +an’ by all rights it’s mine. But Harvey can have it if he’ll come an’ +ast fer it, though he’s got another one mighty nigh as good.” + +He interrupted his story to say that I needn’t be lookin’ at him like +that; he never forgot Harvey was a friend of mine, and he tried to do +his best by him even with “influenzy comin’ on.” + +“But you didn’t have influenza, Sam.” + +“You don’t know how near I come to it, though. That very mornin’ after +sleepin’ in the fir-boughs, I got up sneezin’ awful an’ my backbone +creepin’. In the night my ol’ hat had blowed clear away, an’ I said +to Harvey I reckoned he wouldn’t be usin’ the cap an’ muffler both at +oncet, an’ I’d wear whichever he didn’t want. He says: ‘That’s kind of +you, Sam.’ + +“He had took off the muffler when he thought he was goin’ to shave, an’ +the next minute his ears looked so brickle I could ’a’ knocked ’em off +with a stick. So he had put it back on. I told him the cap didn’t have +any ear-pieces, an’ I could stand the wind better’n he could. I said +mighty few bear-hunters ever got out o’ the la’r’l and in home with +anything on their heads at all; that Jed Weaver always went into the +woods bareheaded, ’cause he said it cost too much to put hats an’ caps +on the la’r’l; an’ Harvey says: ‘Oh, jest keep it, Sam, an’ let’s go.’ +I told him we’d scrummish around the mountain toward the sun, an’ maybe +I could shake off my chill. But it stuck to me, an’ after a while I +said I’d have to stop an’ build a fire. + +“He got frustered then, an’ said he’d come fer bear, an’ he was goin’ +to have one if he had to go on by hissef. I told him I’d go with him, +even if it meant pneumony. Then he got frien’ly an’ said it wasn’t +goin’ to be that bad. We’d git our bear an’ go down ’fore night. An’ he +was all fer goin’ inter the la’r’l. + +“I went a little furder with him, an’ then I stopped all in a shiver +an’ told him he must remember I didn’t have on warm clo’s like he +had, though I had the same sort o’ skin; an’ I said if I drapped an’ +died up there, fer him to hit Siler’s creek an’ foller it down to the +settlement. + +“‘How ’m I goin’ ter hit Siler’s creek?’ says he. Not a bit o’ feelin’ +fer me. Jest thinkin’ how he was goin’ to git down. I come near tellin’ +him right then that we’s ten miles west o’ the bear-ground an’ I didn’t +aim to go there with a man ’at couldn’t shoot a buzzard off a washtub.” + +“What do you mean, Sam?” + +“Why, shorely yo don’t think I’d go right where the bears wuz without a +bear-dog! We’s in a bear-ground all right, like I told Harvey, only it +’us the _old_ one, the one they used years ago ’fore the people drove +’em furder back. I knowed Harvey couldn’t shoot, an’ I had to study +out how to take him bear-huntin’ without gittin’ him chawed to death. +’Course the bears do stray ’round there oncet in a while, an’ we might +’a’ come on one any time. + +“Right after Harvey showed me so plain how little feelin’ he had, I +thought I heard a bear growl off in the thicket, an’ I told him to git +ready. I said as I had no gun, I’d climb a tree an’ he could shoot if +we got a sight o’ the feller. He ast me if a man could shoot a bear +from a tree, an’ I told him yes, but it was mighty hard to climb one +with a gun in yer hand. He said as I was feelin’ so bad maybe we’d +better start down an’ he’d come back next year an’ git his bear. I told +him I wasn’t goin’ to spile his trip, an’ I b’lieved I could stick it +out if I only had a warm shirt an’ jacket. + +“About that time I crossed a bear’s trail, shore as you live. I’d seen +the swipe a bear makes too often not to know it. Harvey he leaned over +an’ whispered: ‘Which way’s he goin’, Sam?’ An’ I showed him how it was +goin’ down. ‘It’s below us, Harvey,’ I says, ‘an’ the track ain’t an +hour old. The wind ain’t blowed it dry.’ My heart was jumpin’ like it’d +break through, an’ I thought to myself, ain’t I the one fool fer bein’ +here without a bear-dog an’ with a man ’at kain’t shoot. + +“Harvey says sudden: ‘How can we git down from here, Sam?’ An’ I told +him there was another trail furder round the mountain that ’ud take +us down to Siler’s creek. It would mean a sight more walkin’, but +I thought I could make it if it wasn’t fer my chill. He says, ‘All +right! Strip!’ an’ took off his coat an’ shirt. I give him mine, an’ +after that little talk about the pockets, I got inter his clo’s an’ we +started. I knew I could find the head o’ Siler’s creek an’ could make +it down by keeping in sound o’ the water. Harvey would ’a’ been a lost +man if he hadn’t been with a feller that knowed the country like I did. +But he never let on that he wuz owin’ me anything. Jed Weaver had told +me that old trail had got so thicketty a man would have to tie his +eyeballs in if he come down it an’ didn’t lose ’em. An’ that is what it +wuz. When we come out at Harney’s Bald, our fingers wuz bleedin’, an’ +Harvey said he guessed if that thicket was ’tween us an’ the bear there +wasn’t any more danger, an’ he throwed down the gun. I had to carry +it from there on, which wasn’t the bargain at all. But I shot three +squirrels, an’ Harvey seemed kinder peeved ’stead o’ bein’ glad I had +something fer my trouble. + +“That night it was awful cold agin, fer we come out in a northy cove +about sundown an’ wuz too tired to go on. Harvey said he wouldn’t make +a fire if he froze to death; so I got wood an’ cooked the squirrels, +an’ was jest as brotherly as I could be. After supper he fell on the +ground an’ went right to sleep. I covered him with balsam, ’cause I +wasn’t goin’ to bring a friend o’ yorn back sick. In the mornin’ he +woke up groanin’ an’ said his bones had hurt him so he hadn’t shet his +eyes all night. I got him out an’ hurried him along all day. We had +gone so fur around that bear, we had to camp out an extry night. I +found a purty good campin’-place, but my feet was rubbed sore. Harvey +was a-limpin’. He said it was a long trip to make on firecoals. I told +him to keep in good heart, that he’d be with Mis’ Harvey next day, an’ +she’d pet him up nice. But I couldn’t cheer him up noway, an’ he never +said nothin’ all the time I was gittin’ wood an’ cookin’ supper. + +“After we’d et, him asayin’ nothin’, I pulled off my boots, an’ he +says: ‘Lord, man, don’t you wear socks?’ I said not in the woods. +Mutton taller is better’n socks in the woods any day. An’ I took out +a little piece o’ taller I had in my pack an’ rubbed my feet with it. +Then I turned ’em to the fire an’ it eased ’em up fine. I told him I +was sorry I didn’t have enough taller to divide, but I only had enough +left to rub my feet with in the mornin’ ’fore we started, an’ as he +had socks an’ I didn’t, I needed the taller wuss’n he did. He took off +his boots an’ wrapped his feet in his muffler. A baby ought ’a’ knowed +better, but I didn’t say anything. I was wore out thinkin’ fer him at +ever’ turn. He looked so beat though, layin’ there in my ol’ clo’s, I +thinks I’ll sing a little fer him. The first day we’s a-climbin’ he +kept pesterin’ me to sing, an’ me ha’f out o’ breath, luggin’ pack an’ +gun. I b’lieve in suitin’ a song to the time, an’ settin’ there, with +my feet a-warmin’, I got to thinkin’ how fine it was out in the wild +woods like that, an’ only one night from home too; an’ ’most ’fore I +knowed it I was singin’ ‘Free a Little Bird.’ It goes this a-way: + + “‘I’m as free a little bird as I can be; + I’ll never build my nest on the ground; + I’ll build my nest in a chinkapin-tree, + Where the bad boys can never tear it down. + + Carry me home, sweet Kitty, carry me home! + The stars they are bright, + An’ as soft as candle-light; + Sweet Kitty, carry me home!’ + +“The verses are all jest alike ’cept the tree is different ever’ time. +That little bird builds its nest in nineteen trees ’fore the song is +done; an’ it’s ’lowable fer you to put in more if you want to an’ can +think of ’em. I thought of a lot--the mulberry, the sourwood, the +weepin’ willer, an’ so many more I was nigh an’ hour gittin’ through. +Harvey never said a word when I stopped; he was awake though, fer I +seen him move. But I didn’t expect anything from him. The first day +we’s out it wuz ‘Thank ’e, Sam,’ all the time. But after we got inter +the deep woods where I was his rale dependance, I never heard it oncet. + +“Next mornin’ his feet wuz so sore he couldn’t let his boots tech +’em. ‘Sam,’ he says, ‘what’ll ye take fer that taller?’ I told him I +wasn’t tradin’ it; if he needed it wuss’n I did, he was welcome. I +could make out ef I had a pair o’ easy socks. ‘Yer ain’t used them silk +ones yit, have ye?’ I says. He took ’em out of his kit an’ handed ’em +to me ’thout openin’ his mouth; though I told him over agin that he +was welcome to the taller. But these furriners ain’t got much manners +anyhow, if you notice ’em close. + +“He said he hadn’t shet his eyes, an’ he’d nearly froze, like as if I +ought to ’a’ set up an’ kept the fire goin’. I was glad enough to git +him in home that mornin’; an’ when he wants a friend to go bear-huntin’ +with him agin, he’ll have to look furder’n me. We ain’t quarrelled +though. That needn’t worry ye a bit. When I left him yisterday he says, +‘Sam, yer a ’tellergent feller,’ an’ he stuck out his hand.” + +“You took it, Sam?” + +“Oh, ay, I took it. But,” he added--for in those days in Unakasia every +man was his own Shakespeare--“I knew he was jest aflowerin’ me.” + + + + +V + +EVVIE: SOMEWHAT MARRIED + + +I + +The Kanes were a deserving family, tainted with inarticulate ambition. +I was glad to have them as rather distant neighbors instead of +“share-croppers.” Evvie, the oldest child, possessed beauty of the +appealing sort that stirs even the hurried passer-by with a feeling +of responsibility. As a tenant’s daughter she would have troubled my +sleep. Her mother was a Merlin and usually stopped to see me when +on her way to visit some member of the clan. “Hypnotic,” though an +intolerably cheapened word, must be used in describing the effect that +my typewriter seemed to have on Mrs. Kane. I did not understand this +until the day that she brought Evvie with her. + +“She hain’t strong, Evvie. I kain’t git her to stay with a hoe long +’nough fer me to go in an’ git the dinner. I say to her, ‘Evvie, you +take my place an’ let me go in,’ an’ she’ll try fer a bit, but her +poppie’ll see her drappin’ back an’ gittin’ her breath hard, an’ he’ll +say, ‘You run ’long now, Evvie, an’ he’p yer mother,’ an’ in she’ll +come. So I’ve got in the way o’ lettin’ her git the dinner by herse’f +an’ I stay with the hoe.” + +“But she can’t be more than ten,” I said. + +“She’s twelve, an’ that’s nigh to a woman. Cleve Saunders kain’t pass +our place now ’thout peekin’ fer Evvie.” + +I expected Evvie to drop her head or wriggle behind a chair; but her +chiselled chin was high, and her eyes darkened as easily as twilight +water. She was the traditional woman accepting her rôle. + +Mrs. Kane’s glance swerved again to the typewriter, and her heart +tumbled out as she said: “I been thinkin’ maybe you could learn Evvie +to write on that.” + +“If she is so much help to you,” I answered, snatching at the first +defense, “why not keep her at home until she is married?” + +“That’s jest the trouble--her marryin’. She’ll disapp’int any boy +’round here. They all expect a woman to take a hand in makin’ the +livin’, through crap-time anyway. An’ Evvie kain’t hold out. If she +could learn to work on _that_, an’ git a job in town, like as not some +boy out there ’ud take a notion to her, an’ town boys don’t want their +wives to work. ’Tain’t expected of ’em to do more’n the cookin’ an’ +housework an’ sewin’, an’ that ’ud be easy for Evvie.” + +Evvie had stepped into the yard. It was a habit with her, I found, to +vanish as if for charming asides with herself and to reappear with no +sign of absence upon her. I reminded her mother that there might be +children to care for in addition to the occupations mentioned. + +“’Course there would, but she’d have _them_ anywheres, an’ she’d better +have ’em where life’s easier’n it is here.” + +“No doubt. What is her school grade?” + +“She’s got to the fourth reader. But she ain’t peart in her books, +though she’s so smart-lookin’.” + +Three years glowed in respite, and my voice warmed in reply. + +“Bring her to me when she finishes the seventh grade, and I’ll see.” + +The mother’s face grew long. “She ain’t fitten’ fer school,” she said. +“She’s had to quit, ’count o’ that wheezin’ ’at ketches her when she +climbs up the mountain. Her poppie had to meet her half-way down ever’ +day an’ carry her up on his back. She’s too big fer that now, an’ he +says he reckons she knows enough. He’s awful proud o’ Evvie. An’ she’s +as smart as Annie Dills who learned to write on one o’ them things an’s +makin’ twelve dollars a week in Asheville.” + +I held out that skill on the machine would be useless without a little +schooling behind it. Evvie, who had shown no interest in her future, +revealed no disappointment. She was a flower and had implicit faith in +the sun. But there was a touch of desperation in Mrs. Kane’s voice as +she took her leave. I tried to believe with Evvie in the reliability of +sunshine. + +A year later Evvie was “talkin’ to” Cleve Saunders. He was a good boy +who had here and there learned the carpenter’s trade. Occasionally he +would go to Asheville to work on a job, and then a weekly letter would +come to Evvie. I approved of Cleve, but Evvie was only thirteen, and +though vividly and perfectly moulded as a woman, she was small for her +years. I protested to Mrs. Kane. + +“I ain’t goin’ to let her git married ’fore she’s fifteen,” the mother +assured me. “Not if I can he’p it. Ef she had some work to keep her +mind on----” + +“I’ve a friend,” I said, as I stepped between Mrs. Kane and my +typewriter, “who would like a helper with her children. It would be a +good home for Evvie and she would have nothing to do but play.” + +“You mean anybody’d pay her jest fer playin’?” + +“With children. And Evvie is fine with her little brothers and +sisters.” (I’ll _make_ Sue Waters take her, said I to myself.) + +“Where’d the place be?” + +“It’s on a big farm near Knoxville.” + +“It’ll cost a heap to go, an’ we ain’t got nary calf we can sell now.” + +“My friend will send the money for her fare, and Evvie can pay it back +if she stays.” + +Mrs. Kane, thin and worn, threw up her head with almost as fine an air +as Evvie herself. + +“Ef she don’t stay, I’ll pay it back ef it takes ever’ egg fer a year,” +she said. + +We thought it settled; but before I could sufficiently browbeat Sue +Waters, Evvie’s mother came to me with a face grayer and more pinched +than ever. + +“I reckon,” she said, “Evvie kain’t go till next year. I shore thought +I was through with babies, but there’s another acomin’, an’ Evvie’s all +the he’p I’ve got.” + +Now, during preparations for Evvie’s setting forth, I had seen more of +her than usual, and had detected signs of a quick temper that gave me +uneasy visions of her amid the Waters brood. Also I feared that her +ideas of _fraternité et égalité_, which were as natural to her as the +ground under her feet, might give some trouble. If little Margaret +Waters should receive a piano for her birthday, Evvie would expect the +same or “just as good.” Sue Waters, having taken her degree in the +right subjects, would of course comprehend, but could hardly supply the +piano. My relief was almost as deep as my concern when Mrs. Kane made +her joyless announcement. + +“Perhaps it is better to wait,” said I. “Evvie will be older and larger +by a year.” + +“I dunno as that’s better,” said the mother. “She’s a woman to the +bone, an’ a year’ll seem a long time.” + +Before the year was half out I left the mountains and was gone for +several months. As soon as conditions in the Kane home permitted, I +arranged by correspondence for Evvie’s going away. She was to write +to Mrs. Waters when she was ready, and the money for her fare would +be sent to her. As the train taking me home pulled into the village, +I thought of Evvie, supposing her to be with Mrs. Waters, and I felt +that I had helped to rob the hills of a flower that should belong to +them utterly. + +A woman sharing my seat had been giving me the news. I did not hear +much of it, but finally caught the words “An’ Evvie got married.” + +I jumped unmannerly, as if I would snatch the child to dry land. Then I +made my conscience comfortable. + +“Cleve will take good care of her,” I said. + +“’Tain’t Cleve,” replied the woman. “It’s that young feller from Mossy +Creek--Judd Mason.” + + +II + +I had heard of him: a mountain buck; very big, very good-looking. He +never worked except to make a little corn that he could turn into +whiskey. As soon as I saw Evvie I asked her how she had happened to +marry Judd. + +“I was goin’ to the post-office,” she said, “with a letter to Mis’ +Waters, tellin’ her to send the money an’ I’d come right on, when I met +Judd an’ he walked along the road with me an’ begged me not to send +the letter. He said I’d find it hard out there with strange folks who +wouldn’t keer nothin’ fer me, an’ I’d better let him look after me +right. I was kinder afraid to go so fur from home, an’ Judd--he talked +good.” + +“Where was Cleve?” I asked. + +“He was over in Asheville workin’. He was goin’ to meet me an’ put +me on the Knoxville train. He lost his job, goin’ to the train fer a +week. I wrote to tell him I wasn’t comin’, but Judd lost the letter an’ +forgot to tell me about it. Cleve got another job though. Anybody’ll +give Cleve work.” + +“And Judd has been as good as his talk, I suppose?” + +Evvie swung her head to one side as if she forbade it to droop. + +“It’ll be all right soon as we git to ourse’vs. We’re livin’ with +poppie an’ mommie now, an’ they’s so many young-uns at home Judd gits +pouty sometimes. I kain’t fix good things to eat where they’s so many, +an’ Judd’ll leave the table when he don’t like what’s on it.” + +Notwithstanding Evvie’s hopes, it was nearly a year before they got to +“therse’vs.” Her parents, with a home already overflowing with small, +unprofitable humanity, would have sheltered the young pair and their +expected baby indefinitely and without a murmur, preferring to break +their already bowed backs than breach the highland custom of welcome +for all; but Judd was growing restless for his old occupation, and +Evvie wanted her baby to be born in her own home. + +So she said; but I knew that she was frightened, and would have chosen +to stay with her mother if she could have given up the hopes she had +built on getting Judd to herself. + +Mrs. Kane, with her heart breaking over Evvie, took what relief she +could from the exodus. + +“I could stand Judd,” she told me, “ef it wasn’t fer his poutin’. The +Merlins don’t pout. We git mad and blow off, and that’s all of it. +Judd’ll hang on an’ pout till my bones git sore. I was gittin’ so edgy +it’s jest as well they’re gone.” + +I went once to see Evvie after she had moved. There was a trail down +the western side of the ridge on which I lived that would bring me to +Judd’s cabin at the end of four miles; and there was a wagon-road down +the eastern side which would take me eleven miles around the foot of +the ridge. I chose the trail and went down alone. + +On the ridge top the sun had seemed to be of eternal brightness; but +I descended strangely into an unlit world. The intervale below me was +much narrower than the usual valley where a settlement lies; and it +was almost cut in halves by a huge spur that, at its foot, was bounded +on either side by a stream of water. The two streams, Nighthawk Branch +and Mossy Creek, united at the toe of the spur. I took the trail up +Mossy Creek, as I had been told to do, and walked along in sound of the +water, but getting no glimpse of it through the smothering laurel. It +was the first time that water running behind green leaves had left me +untouched by a mysterious joy; the first time that I had ever thought +of the laurel as sombre. Its dark radiance seemed like a challenge +from Nature ready to spring and regain an inimical kingdom. I was half +in sympathy with the Highlander who regarded it merely as a thing to +fight or let contemptuously alone. My old admiration for the Greeks +came rushing back. What a redoubtable imagination it was that, in the +credulous youth and fear-time of the world, could draw all terror from +the forest and people it with creatures of play and light! + +The trail led me into a cove, away from the quavering incantation of +the water, but the laurel went darkly with me, heavily mingled with +kalmia that choked the trees and wrenched at their life with its +curling arms. + +“The shack’s on northy land,” Mrs. Kane had said to me, “an’ the +la’r’l is so blustery it ’ud tangle a wild hog.” + +I knew why the original settler had chosen such a spot, in spite of his +aversion to “thicketty patches.” In the stifling coves it would take a +most resolute official to find a hidden “still.” This made the place +equally desirable in the eyes of the latest tenant, Judd. I had known +Evvie only on sunny hilltops, and I wondered what “living under the +mountain,” as the natives put it, had done to her spirit. I recalled +Mrs. Kane’s remark after a first visit to Evvie. “Seemed like I had to +keep wipin’ at the shadders all the time I’s there.” Evvie must be very +tired, I thought, of wiping at the shadows. + +The trees rose more freely and I came to a clearing. On a hill opposite +me, which faced the east, was a cornfield, two or three acres in +size. This, thanks to a low gap in the near-by ridge, received a few +hours of morning sunlight. In the hollow below stood the shack where +Evvie lived. I found her in bed with one of Judd’s sisters in sullen +attendance. + +“She’s in bed ’bout ever’ other day,” the sister said, “an’ Judd’s +always havin’ to come over the branch fer one of us to wait on her.” + +“I can git up to-morr’ sure,” said Evvie, but the faint remark only +sent her attendant’s nose a little higher. + +Evvie was strange to see. Her eyes, dark and burning, clung devouringly +to a face that had already lost all flesh. + +“Where is Judd?” I asked. + +The sister was silent, but Evvie flushed and said he had gone to try to +kill her a squirrel. “I ain’t eat nothin’ all day,” she said. “I been +thinkin’ ’bout the devil tryin’ to ketch Amos Britton one night last +week.” + +I thought her delirious, but her companion gloatingly explained that +the devil had indeed made an effort to capture Amos alive. + +“It’s ’cause he killed Wes Baxter in a fight a year ago, an’ ain’t +never said he was sorry. He went huntin’ with Jim Webster Thursday +night, an’ something took after ’em, they couldn’t tell what. Jim got +away an’ run home, but Amos got behind a tree to shoot it, an’ it +knocked his gun down an’ run him round an’ round the tree fer hours. +Then all at onct daylight was comin’ in, an’ the thing wa’n’t there. +Amos says it run on two feet, near as he could make out, an’ kep’ +flappin’ a tail. He’s so skeered he ain’t been out of his house sence +he got home.” + +“Do you reckon it ’uz the devil, Mis’ Dolly?” asked Evvie, as if sanity +hung on my answer. + +“Not at all, Evvie. The man was drunk probably.” + +“No, he wa’n’t drunk,” interposed the sister. “It run him round an’ +round the tree, an’ he could feel its breath on his neck, hot as fire.” + +I moved toward the water-bucket, and courtesy demanded that she should +go to the spring for fresh water. With her disappearance the room lost +its spirit of combat. With swimming head and drowning struggle--how far +were we from the Greeks and the bright gods of the woods?--I did what I +could to reassure Evvie. + +“I ain’t afeard when Judd’s here,” she said. “Judd ain’t afeard of +anything. He’ll stay at home more when the baby’s here. Don’t men +always think a lot o’ their babies, Mis’ Dolly?” + +I lied vigorously, and Evvie was smiling when the sister-in-law +returned. And she was smiling when I left, for I had promised that her +mother would come next day to stay for a week. + +I reached home about dark, saddled a mule and rode to the Kane farm. +From there I went to see Jane Drake. Yes, Jane would take care of the +Kane household--but “not more’n till Saturday ’count o’ meetin’ at +Stecoa”--and let Mrs. Kane go to Evvie. + +This done, I returned to nursing my canteloupe patch on the ridge, +which that one year was a delicious success. But even under the spell +of so rare a triumph, life was hardly tolerable on my peaks, with +Evvie awaiting her fate in the shadows below. So I ordered the small +telescope that I had wanted for a decade. Though treated later with +superior scorn by my astronomer friends, it did serve as a transport +to regions where nothing mattered. And when I resumed earthly +relationships Evvie’s boy was two weeks old. + +In the more remote hollows of the mountains birth goes the indifferent +way of nature: gliding as the seasons for the most part, but too often +ruthless, confounding as storm. Evvie, so fragile and so young, barely +lived. I went once more to the shack, going down the mountain with +Mrs. Kane and little Tommie, taking old Bill, the mule, to help us +climb back. Mrs. Mason, senior, met us at the door. When the customary +greetings were over--greetings that never, under any circumstances, +are hurried in the mountains--the mother-in-law put in her very just +complaint. + +“Law, I’m glad ye got here! I kain’t spen’ my time waitin’ on a girl +’at won’t try to set up, an’ her baby two weeks old. Won’t eat nothin’ +nuther, makes no difference what I fix. I baked her some light bread, +an’ put ’lasses on it, an’ some butter I brought from home, an’ she +won’t tech it. She’ll not git well till she tries to, an’ I kain’t wait +round fer her to make up her mind. All my own work’s to do, an’ I got +to be at it. You know how it is, Mis’ Kane. You kain’t stay here all +the time no more’n I can.” + +As on my first visit, I asked “Where is Judd?” and I received the same +information. “He’s gone out to kill a squirrel.” + +Evvie, who was lying with her eyes shut, said with startling vigor: +“He’s been gone since yisterday.” + +Judd’s mother looked toward the bed, and her eyes snapped. “You kain’t +expect a man to lay round home ferever waitin’ fer a woman to git up. +I’ve had ten young-uns an’ I never stayed in bed more’n nine days +with ary one of ’em. In two weeks I was out in the crap, if it was +crap-time, doin’ my part.” + +There was a big crack in the cabin near Evvie’s bed. Her eyes sought +the opening in a manner that told me she often found mental escape that +way. It was obvious that her last hope was crushed. The baby had come, +but had wrought no miracle. She knew, and all present there knew, that +Judd was out on a bootlegging adventure; but it was not to be admitted +in look or speech. + +Evvie gazed through the crack, seeing nothing but the face of a hill +that seemed about to fall on to the cabin. She stared as if her eyes +would tunnel through it, and a delirious flare came over her face. + +“Take that hill away, mommie,” she said, in a fret. + +Mrs. Kane surprised me. “I kain’t take hit away, Evvie--but I can take +you over hit,” she said, making aspirates in her clear determination. + +“Can you set up on ol’ Bill? Tommie’ll ride behind you an’ hold you on. +I’ll tote the baby, Mis’ Dolly’ll lead Bill, an’ we’ll get you home.” + +Evvie hardly knew there was a baby, but she caught at the word +home--“Oh, mommie, I can set up!” + +“Set up an’ ride a mule!” cried Mrs. Mason. “An’ me here niggerin’ fer +ye, an’ ye makin’ out ye couldn’t move!” + +I made no protest; for I recalled an incident of the days before +Evvie’s marriage. She was ill, and her mother had sent hurriedly for +me. I went, accompanied by a friend from the region of grand opera and +fever-thermometers, who happened to be in the highlands. She applied +her thermometer and found that Evvie’s fever was running high. We +fumbled about with improvised ministrations until Evvie asked for a +“flitter.” Mrs. Kane was mainly worried because the child had eaten +nothing since the day before, and when I saw her face light up at +Evvie’s request, I hastily withdrew with my friend. + +“Why did you leave?” she asked. “The child may be killed. Her mother +may be ignorant enough to give her that fritter, or whatever she calls +it.” + +“Yes, she is going to get the flitter, and that is why I left. I had to +take your disruptive civilized mind off the current. I want Evvie to +live.” + +The next day my friend returned to the patient, expecting, I am sure, +to find a house in mourning. Evvie was sitting on the porch stringing +beans. Mrs. Kane’s face was luminous. + +“Evvie got better right away,” she explained, “soon as she et them +three flitters I give her.” + +Remembering that result, and seeing the glaze of resolution on her +mother’s face, I meekly became a party to the process of getting Evvie +out of the hollow. We formed under Mrs. Kane’s direction: I first, +leading the mule, and Evvie in the saddle, leaning back on Tommie’s +shoulder, quite safe with his strong little arms about her waist. Mrs. +Kane followed, carrying the baby. And so Evvie came home. + + +III + +Evvie did not lie in bed long after returning to her mother’s house. +She sat in shadowy corners, unseeing, uncaring. Milk sometimes would be +swallowed when brought to her; but eating required impossible effort. + +“She don’t hardly know me,” said her mother. “Sometimes I’m ’most +afeard of her. She might turn an’ claw me with them hands like chicken +feet. She’s jest yeller skin an’ bones, like a quare little old woman.” + +Judd did not come near her, and we heard of no inquiries on his part. +But Cleve came out from Asheville and walked under my apple-trees. + +“I can’t fight Judd,” he said. “He’s a heavyweight and I’m not. And I +won’t gun him. But I know where his blockade still is.” + +“Oh, Cleve, would you tell?” + +“No, but it’s hard not to. He’d go to jail, an’ she could get her +divorce.” + +“And he would be out again in six months, to go gunning for _you_. He +wouldn’t have your scruples. Besides, Cleve, if Evvie were free, you +couldn’t take on a burden like that.” + +“Burden! Mis’ Dolly, I’d be willin’ to carry Evvie with one arm and do +my work with the other. You don’t know how a man feels when there ain’t +but one woman fer him an’ another man’s got her--a man ’at wouldn’t +pull her out o’ the fire! But I’m goin’ back to Asheville, an’ I won’t +try to see her. Here’s my pocketbook. I want you to lend her father +some money, and pay yerse’f out o’ this.” + +He dropped the pocketbook and went, with his face oddly reddened after +being so white. Evvie’s doctor from Carson was paid; the parcel-post +brought oranges, lettuce, and such to the Kanes’ scant winter table. +Gradually Evvie began to eat the food that interested her because it +was unusual. Her eyes grew gentler and her glance rested intelligently +on people and things. She would smile as her father told some pitiful +joke, trying to ignore the fact that his daughter wasn’t “jest right.” + +The growing baby exhibited Merlin traits which made him a favorite. +One day Evvie’s wandering eyes fell upon him as he lay in my lap. Her +glance stopped and became uneasy. + +“Is that mommie’s baby?” she said. + +“No, he’s your very own, Evvie, and as fine as they are made. Look! He +has your big eyes, and just see how heavy! Let him lie on your lap a +minute and you’ll find out.” + +I started to lift him to her, but her look turned to swift terror and +she shrank away. It was the beginning of health, however. A day or two +afterward she asked me how long it would be before she died, and I knew +she had begun to think about living. + +“That depends on yourself, Evvie.” + +“Could I live if I wanted to?” she asked, with incredulous hope. + +“You could be well in two months.” + +“After ever’thing?” + +“Every single thing.” + +“Mommie don’t want me home with a baby.” + +“Your mother wouldn’t give up Bennie if Judd came with ten sheriffs to +take him.” + +“Could Judd take him?” she asked, with vehemence that was full of +promise. + +“You left Judd, you know, and the law might let the father have the +child.” + +“When he was so mean to me?” + +“Oh! You think he was mean?” + +“He’d leave me in that holler by myse’f an’ stay out all night huntin’.” + +“The law might think a wife ought to have the courage to put up with +that.” + +“He knocked me inter the briars when I tried to foller him.” + +“M-m-m! How long was that,” said I, touching the baby, “before your +young man got here?” + +“’Bout a month. I told him I’s afeard to stay in the shack, an’ he said +I wanted to foller him ’cause I thought he was goin’ to Lizzie Bowles.” + +It was joy to me to see her eyes flood burningly with temper. + +“That’s where he _was_ goin’, too! He used to talk to her ’fore we’s +married, an’ she’d jest come back from the cotton-mills in South C’lina +with two silk dresses. They’d got up a big dance an’ I knowed Judd was +agoin’. An’ he knocked me inter the briars by the trail round the corn +patch.” + +“The law might consider that,” I said. “Don’t worry about losing your +baby. But first make sure that you want him.” + +“I b’lieve I could hold him a bit now if you’ll set him here.” + +I laid the baby in her lap and slipped out to tell Mrs. Kane. In six +weeks Evvie was helping her mother with the housework. Spring came, +and I bribed her to work in the garden by supplying the preposterously +growing Bennie with clothes. By June she was again intrenched in her +loveliness; not quite so plump, but round enough, and with her old +wild-rose color. By and by she was duly divorced. Judd, in South +Carolina, made no protest. Evvie’s perilous excursion seemed over, with +no obvious reminder save the incredible baby. + +She wore the fashionable knee dress, and with her hair in unfashionable +braids down her back seemed to be the child-sister of the youngster +that scrambled about her. + +“Your little brother will soon be big enough to go to school with you,” +said the new County Commissioner on his rounds, hoping to be pleasant. + +Evvie stood mute and fiery red. “Don’t tell him the baby’s mine, +mommie,” she whispered later to her mother. It must have seemed strange +to her--that bubbling other existence around her feet--and a little +embarrassment was, I thought, quite proper. + +With autumn and corn-gathering Judd returned. It was a good season in +the woods for the blockaders, and Judd had probably made arrangements +in the “South” for profitable sales. He announced that he was buying +calves for the winter and wanted to lay in a supply of feed for them. I +never heard of his purchasing any calves, but he went about getting a +little corn here and there at the cheap harvest price. Perhaps some one +told him that his boy was a lad to be proud of, for he came one day to +see him. I had walked over to the Kanes with Cleve, and we were about +to take our leave. Evvie shook hands with Judd quite prettily. + +“Golly, Evvie, you’ve come back hard!” he said. “Let’s set on the +porch.” + +He had forgotten his son, but Evvie brought him out, and Judd had +difficulty in maintaining indifference. He looked about and saw Cleve. + +“Hello, Cleve I This chap kinder takes my eye.” + +“I reckon,” said Cleve, “he ain’t so fine as Lizzie Bowles’s boy.” + +“That kid ain’t none o’ mine,” said Judd, too quickly. + +“Lizzie’ll give you a chance to swear to that, anyhow.” + +“What yer warmin’ chair-bottoms round here fer, Cleve Saunders?” + +“He’s here,” said Evvie, her cheeks pink-spotted, “’cause he’s the best +friend the baby’s got.” + +“I’m the kid’s father, don’t you fergit, an’ I’ve got some rights. +That divorce judge didn’t put no paper ’twixt me an’ the kid.” + +“You can see him whenever you want to,” said Evvie, “so long as you +don’t make trouble fer anybody that’s been as good to us as Cleve.” + +Their eyes met and battled--no doubt reminiscently--and Judd +capitulated. “All right,” he said. + +From that time Evvie was sorely troubled by his visits. “I wouldn’t +mind his comin’,” she said, “if he didn’t keep aggervatin’ me to live +with him.” + +“Why don’t you take Cleve, Evvie, and end the bother?” + +“I don’t want to marry,” she said, with a shudder that was a broadside +of confession. I was cheered. At least she would never be reconquered +by Judd. + +But the situation was pressing to a change; and finally it came. Judd +was captured by Federal deputies. I went to Sam for particulars. + +“They took him red-handed, stirrin’ the mash,” said Sam. “He fit like a +bear, an’ kicked the officer in the mouth. It’ll mean the Pen, shore, +an’ Evvie’ll be shet of him fer a while.” + +“Won’t somebody bond him out?” + +“His own folks don’t think ’nough of him fer that. I hearn his own +father say he wa’n’t wuth a June bug with a catbird after it. Nobody’s +goin’ to risk losin’ a farm fer that thing.” + +I went home reassured. If Cleve would only pick up and woo furiously, +instead of wistfully accepting mere smiles from Evvie, he could win, I +felt, long before Judd’s reappearance. + +The sight of Evvie hurrying toward me gave me no uneasiness. She was +lugging the baby, in too much haste to let him toddle. + +“Mis’ Dolly,” she began, “Judd’s the baby’s poppie, an’ he’s took. +Nobody’ll go on his bond, an’ ever’body’s talkin’ hard against him, an’ +him Bennie’s poppie. I been thinkin’ of that trouble ’way back, an’ it +wasn’t all his fault.” + +“You fell into the briars, I suppose?” + +“No, but I was aggervatin’ him. I hated Lizzie Bowles an’ her silk +dresses, an’ when he swore an’ told me to go back, I picked up a rock +an’ if he hadn’t jumped I’d a broke his head with it. I was ashamed to +tell you then. I was wild mad, an’ he _ought_ to ’a’ throwed me inter +the briars. I wasn’t any he’p to him in the field, an’ when I got sick +I wasn’t any he’p in the house, like his mother said. I didn’t do my +part at all.” + +“You did all you could, Evvie,” I said, with no effect on the tide +pouring from her heart. + +“An’ way back, when we’s livin’ with mommie, I was aggervatin’. At +first when he’d pout an’ wouldn’t come to the table, I’d slip out with +something fer him to eat, an’ beg till he’d take it, but once when we +had company an’ he’d made me ashamed ’cause he went to the barn an’ +wouldn’t come to breakfast, I got me a bundle o’ blade-fodder an’ took +it to him. I told him if he wanted to live with the steers he could eat +with ’em too. I was shore mean. An’, Mis’ Dolly, I want you to go to +Carson jail an’ see Judd, an’ tell him when he comes back from the Pen +I’ll be ready an’ we’ll begin all over. He’ll know I’ll keep my word.” + +It was useless to remind her of pain that she could not recall; but I +spoke of her father and mother. Would she break their hearts again? + +“But look at Bennie!” she cried. “He’s gettin’ more like his father +ever’ day. If I’m hard on Judd now, how can I look at my baby? +Ever’body’s against him. You’re hard as the others. Won’t you go, Mis’ +Dolly?” + +“No, I won’t. You don’t know what you are doing.” + +“Then I’ll have to git somebody else to go.” + +Her message went to Judd by some busybody, and I wired to Asheville +for Cleve. When he arrived on the next train I was at the station. “The +thing to do, Cleve,” I said, “is to bail him out and let him come home.” + +Cleve, knowing so well the Evvie that eluded him, saw the point at +once. He also saw that neither he nor I should figure as bondsman. + +“It’ll be hard work,” he said, “but I’ll find somebody.” + +And over the country he went, picking out men whom he knew to be secret +abetters of Judd, and working on their fear of his turning informer. +The amount of bail was made up, and Judd was free. Evvie thought that +he would come directly to her, but first he went to Mossy Creek to see +“the boys.” They got up a dance, and it would have seemed ungrateful +of Judd not to remain for it. When he reached Evvie his face was still +slightly swollen from drink and revelry, but his spirits were riding +high. Friends had gathered at the Kanes’ for the evening, and Judd +began to recount his triumphs in jail. + +“They made me president o’ their club soon’s I got there, an’ kicked +the other feller out. We had some reg’lations, you bet! Ever’ feller +that come into jail had to pay fifty cents fer terbacker; if he didn’t +we flogged him. They wouldn’t let us have whiskey, an’ that was tough, +you bet! We’d have court, an’ try the fellers, an’ it was a purty +good life if we’d had more to eat. They’s all sorry to see me go, an’ +I promised to smuggle in some hot stuff to ’em if there was any way. +Mebbe I can work it with a mulatter girl ’at cooks fer ’em--right +purty--color of a hick’ry leaf ’fore frost--she’ll he’p me, you bet! +I’ll try it to-morr’ when me an’ Evvie go to Carson to hitch up. Some +quare, ain’t it, marryin’ yer own wife? An’ what about yer kid goin’ on +two at yer weddin’?” + +Choking and helpless, I slipped away from the sound of his voice. Sam, +walking home by my road, began to talk. + +“Reckon you noticed Evvie in that corner while Judd was talkin’. Ef +you’d a cut off her head at the neck it wouldn’t ’a’ bled a drap.” + +I could not answer, and hurried on, finding Cleve on my doorstep. I +took him into the house, my tears of rage and failure dropping; but +when the full light of the lamp fell upon his face I thought no more of +my own misery. + +“There’s twelve hours yet, Cleve,” I said. “Evvie is not an utter +fool.” + +But he wouldn’t speak. For over an hour he sat by my fire, a humped +reproach. I exhausted every consolation, even to telling him that she +wasn’t worth it. Then he lifted his eyes, full of such mourning scorn +that I became as silent as himself. There was a tap at the door, slight +enough to be Evvie’s. I asked Cleve to go up-stairs, saying that I +would call him if he was wanted. When he was gone I opened the door and +heard Evvie’s voice. + +“They’s so many at our house to-night. Ever’ bed’s full. I thought I’d +come here to sleep. You don’t keer, do you?” + +“I’m glad to see you, Evvie. Come, warm a little, and jump into bed. +You’ve been running.” + +“Yes, I was afraid--but--I had to come.” + +Her little body was quivering. I sat her down, but did not dare to +give a sign of sympathy that might plunge her into hysteria. I took +up a book and sat reading until she became very still. We were in the +kitchen, which was large and possessed a big, ugly fireplace. At the +right of the fireplace, in the corner, ran a short flight of stairs, +and under the stairs was a closet with an opening for a half-door. This +opening was simply curtained. + +I had held my book for ten minutes or more, when we heard sounds of +talk and laughter from the road. I recognized Judd’s voice, and a loud +knock followed. Instantly Evvie rose, stooped, and, darting like a bee, +vanished behind the little curtain of the closet. There was hardly +room for her among the pans and old ovens, but she scuttled her way, +and there was silence. Then I opened the outer door and saw Judd with +several companions. + +“Me an’ the boys are lookin’ fer Evvie. We started to have a reel +at bedtime an’ found she’d gone. I ’lowed right away she’d skipped +over here, bein’ she’s crazy ’bout you. Reckon I skeered her a little +talkin’ so much ’bout them jail fellers; but I’ll make it all right. +I’m goin’ to be square with Evvie this time.” + +He began to peek around me. + +“Why--ain’t she here? She gone to bed?” + +“No, Judd. Did you stop at Len’s?” + +“We hollered, an’ she wasn’t there.” + +“You’d better go on to Sam’s then,” I urged, following, or rather +leading him away. “Take the short trail by the hemlocks.” + +When they were certainly gone I went in. Cleve and Evvie were sitting +by the fire. Her arms were around his neck and she was crying +steadily. Cleve’s arms were determinedly in the right place. The next +day they took the early train for Carson, and by noon were safely +married. + +Yesterday Evvie’s mother said to me: “You ought to go over to +Asheville, Mis’ Dolly, jest to see how Evvie keeps that little house +primped up. They’s water in it, hot an’ cold, an’ ever’thing, like I +always wanted her to have. I reckon she’s ’bout fergot that shack in +the holler.” + +I tell myself that it is as well with Evvie as life permits it to be +with the most of us; but she is now only eighteen, chiselled in beauty +and colored with youth; and I try not to wonder what would happen if +she should ever fall in love. + + + + +VI + +MY WILD-HOG CLAIM: A DUBIOUS ASSET + + +I + +It was mostly during my first two years on the farm that things +happened. Unfamiliarity sharpened events into adventure. Later the +unusual gradually flattened into matter of course. For this reason I +am glad that I looked over my wild-hog claim during the first year of +possession, a time when I fed on explorer’s elixir, and knew not plain +bread and meat. + +I can still see Sam, a clear-cut figure, swinging from an overhead +bough which he had grasped just in time to save himself from the +plunging, foam-scattering boar that in another second would have had +his life. But the beginning of the day was calm enough. For some time +I had heard talk of my claim as a fund-producing property which, if +looked after as it should be, would enable me to buy out the County +Bank as soon as I chose. My predecessor had imported a few Berkshires +and Poland Chinas to mix with the wild breed, and the result, Len +assured me, was “the best mixtry in the mountains.” Quality had been +improved without unfitting the hogs for hardy life on the ridges. +Acorns were abundant; sprouting chestnuts could be uprooted until late +in the spring. By taking the hogs in midwinter, before the mast began +to grow scant, one could find them fairly fat, and two or three weeks +in the pen, with plenty of corn to crunch, would make the meat sweet +and marketable. Whenever things looked expensively blue on the farm +there was always some one to remind me cheerfully of my wild hogs that +could be “fotched in an’ cashed quick as nothin’.” + +We were having some bright, windless days in January, and Len said to +me wistfully: “Ain’t this the hog-huntin’ time, though?” + +I was getting close to the wall as to ways and means, so I answered: +“Very well, Len. Tell Sam about it and get ready for a round-up +to-morrow.” + +He was delighted. “I jest been achin’ to git into the woods,” he said. +“There’ll be a lot o’ young-uns to mark. ’Course you know what yer mark +is, Mis’ Dolly?” I didn’t, and he apologized for my ignorance in a +matter so vital. “A woman kain’t be expected to know ever’thing ’bout +the hog business. Yer mark is an undercrap in the right year an’ two +main smart slits in the top o’ the left. Ag Snead’s got a mark nearly +like yorn, only they’s a slit in the right an’ a crap too. It’s a top +slit, an’ ever’ hog that’s got the top o’ his year torn off ol’ Ag +drives in fer his’n. An’ they’s mainly yorn, Mis’ Dolly.” + +“But how do they get their ears torn off?” + +“Dogs. We have to ketch ’em with a dog, an’ he gits ’em by the year. +Sometimes a blame hog’ll leave part of his year with the dog an’ go on. +I’ve hearn ol’ Ag’ll sic his dogs onto yore mark, hopin’ to tear a year +off an’ claim the hog, an’ I wouldn’t put it past him.” + +“That’s rascality, Len, and Mr. Snead is a deacon.” + +“Law, when a man goes hog-huntin’ he puts his ’ligion in the cupboard, +so it won’t git hurt while he’s out.” + +“Those hogs are mine. I’m going to have a talk with neighbor Snead.” + +Len was startled. “Lord-a-mercy! This here’s a country where you kain’t +call a man a hog-thief an’ git home by sundown.” + +“I won’t call him a thief.” + +“No, I reckon you’ll jest inquire ef he’s got any o’ yore hogs in his +pen.” + +Noting that I duly crumpled, he became protective as usual. + +“You see, Mis’ Dolly, they ain’t any way to ’proach a man on sech a +subject, less’n yer carryin’ a good gun.” + +“We’ll meet at Sam’s,” he told me, “round about ’fore good daylight. +There’ll be pap an’ my Ben, an’ we’ll take Burl ’cause he’s got a big +dog.” + +Burl was a cousin of Coretta’s, staying at Sam’s and trying, with +fluctuating success, to court Len’s oldest girl. “A good hog-hunt,” +said Len, “will show ef he’s any account, him an’ that dog o’ hisn.” + +I managed to reach Sam’s the next morning while the smoky lamp was +still burning on the kitchen table. As I approached I heard voices, +zestful and happy, but when I appeared in the door there was surprise, +then a troubled silence. + +“You needn’t been afeard I wouldn’t git ’em off early,” said Coretta. +“I been up sence three o’clock, an’ Len an’ Ben come at four. We’d done +breakfast, an’ was jest chowin’ till light broke.” + +“I’m not hurrying you. I was only afraid that I wouldn’t be in time +myself.” + +“You’re not going?” all questioned at once, and plunged into talk of +the cliffs that I would tumble over, the thickets I couldn’t crawl +through, and the “straight-ups” I couldn’t climb. I did not doubt +their concern for me, but felt that more was behind their opposition +than desire for my safety. In some subterranean way they knew that +crafty hints had reached me of their having now and then spirited +hogs to neighborly markets, forgetting to share the proceeds with the +owner; they knew too, by the same invisible channels, that the tainting +insinuations had been indignantly discouraged; yet they suspected +me of wanting to keep on their track. After getting up at an heroic +hour to prove my full comradeship, it was depressing to run against +suspicion, as cold in my confident face as the frosty air of the dawn. +But I innocently urged that I was bound for the hunt, that our lives +were of equal value, and I would share all risks. After some minutes of +talk--genuine even as it veiled the core of discussion--the springs of +good humor began to flow, doubt was put to cover, and we were on the +road. + +Serena was with us. She had come with Len to the meet, and I had heard +him insisting on her accompanying me. “You won’t have to go fur,” he +said. “She’ll turn back ’fore we git to Broke Yoke Gap.” + +Granpap also was of the party. “He kain’t run,” said Len, “but he’ll +he’p us more’n you’d think. He caught a big feller last year all by +hisse’f, ’cept what little ol’ Bub could do.” + +“All right, granpap,” I said, feeling gay and generous as the sun began +to warm our mountain, “you can have all you catch to-day. I won’t take +any toll from you.” + +There was no answer--no thanks. Everybody looked straight into the +woods, ostensibly concerned with nothing but sighting a hog; and I knew +thereby that my words had been taken seriously. + + +II + +“We ought to git Red Granny to-day,” said Sam, examining the ground +where the smoking leaves had been stirred. “Here’s her consarned ol’ +broke-toed track. An’ here’s a lot o’ littler tracks. She’s been in an’ +tolled out some more o’ our shotes. I bet if we hurried up we’d come +right on her.” + +“Let’s hurry then,” I urged; for I knew about the old sow called Red +Granny, that for three years had proved uncapturable. She kept her +inaccessible house on the side of a rough mountain, making her way to +it through a great pile of rock by a passage yet undiscovered. Though +a good breeder, filling the woods with sandy-haired pigs, she also +seemed able to teach them the secret of escape. Bub, who was an old +dog, could hardly be made to run a red pig unless it was on his own +side of the mountain. + +“’Tain’t no use to trail Red Granny,” said Len. “Ol’ Bub leads the +dogs, an’ he won’t run thataway. I put him on her trail onct an’ he was +out all night. When he come in next day he was too ’shamed to look at +me.” + +“Well, let’s get somewhere,” I said, feeling the cold in spite of the +sun. Then I found I had made a mistake. The first part of hog-hunting +is deliberation. There was a long discussion as to the most fruitful +direction. + +Finally little Ross, who had followed Serena, said, “Let’s go to the +sow’s oak,” and to my amazement everybody agreed. “I bet that spotted +sow is there with some little pigs, an’ poppie promised me one,” said +Ross. + +The sow’s oak was a giant tree with a large hollow at the butt, big +enough to furnish good shelter for a litter. For years it had been a +favorite bedding-place. To find it we had to descend into a cove where +there was a clear spring. All stopped for water, though everybody had +taken a drink just before leaving Sam’s. The Highlander can go without +a meal or two with no inconvenience, but he drinks water in season and +out of season. After leaving the spring we passed around the curving +side of a hill and came in sight of the tree. + +“Sst!” said Sam. “I see her. She’s in there, an’ she’s got pigs. Don’t +crowd her now. Keep the dogs back. We don’t want her to git tore, an’ +her a-sucklin’ pigs. Y’all stand out here in a circle like, so she +kain’t git through if she runs, and I’ll ease up behind the tree. When +ye see me bounce ’round to the front to grab her leg, ever’body an’ the +dogs bear right in.” + +He made a wide circuit and came up behind the tree, but before he +reached it Burl’s dog, Bugle, who was new at the game, gave a yelp and +the sow sprang out. About a dozen tiny pigs, black-spotted and with +delicate pink noses, followed her. All three of the dogs rushed forward +and yapped in her face. She bristled to fight, then turned and dashed +in the opposite direction, flashing by Sam and leaving him to look +foolish, with a knotted rope in his hands. The dogs flew after the sow +and the men followed the dogs. Little Ross began to scramble after the +terrified, squealing pigs. + +“Go after the one with the black spot on its year,” said Serena. “It’s +the purtiest.” Ross tumbled after the one she pointed out and secured +it. Serena took it into her apron. By that time not a pig was to be +seen or heard. They were all under the leaves, behind logs, anywhere +they could secrete their quivering bodies. In the distance we could +hear the cry of the dogs and shouts of the men. Then the yelping +ceased, and we heard the wild squeals of the captive. When we reached +the spot the men were looking down on the struggling sow. She was tied +by one hind leg, and the other end of the rope was made fast to a young +tree. + +“She’ll keep all right,” said granpap, examining the knots critically. +“Reckon anybody’ll find her here ’fore we git back? The woods air full +o’ hunters.” + +“Hunters and stealers,” said Len indignantly. “But we kain’t he’p it. +We got to go on.” + +“She’ll drive in easy,” said Serena. “It’s that sow you brought in last +year, an’ I gentled her with slop fer a month.” She put the little pig +down by his mother, who became very still as he lifted a nudging nose +to her. I wanted to return and find the other pigs, but was swiftly +talked down. + +“They’ll find the sow ef she’ll squeal loud enough,” said Sam. “They +won’t run fur anyhow, an’ we’ll look ’em out as we go home.” + +The men had discovered some signs which they were sure would lead to a +fine bunch of shotes. “An’ shotes pay,” they said. “Anybody’ll buy a +shote.” + +The “signs” took us by a very rough way through a damp hollow. Serena +declared it was so “blustery” she couldn’t stand it, and persuaded +me to turn up the slope and walk along the ridge, leaving the men to +push their way below. “They always scour that holler,” she said, “but +they’ve never brought a pig out of it.” In half an hour the men came up +defeated. Some pigs had been found, but they proved to be in Ag Snead’s +mark. + +“I’ll tell ye what let’s do,” said Len. “We’ll go to Raven Den side to +find that big b’ar hog that’s tuskin’ our gentles ever’ time they go to +the woods.” + +“B’ar hog” was euphemistic usage, in my presence, for boar. It was +humorously incorrect, being similar in sound to the abbreviation for +barrow. + +“I’m afraid o’ that feller,” said young Ben. “I seen him onct. He suits +me where he is.” + +“Let’s go fer him,” said Burl. “That sounds like a hunt.” + +“I’m ready,” said Sam. “That feller’s too mean to let live. I’ve had to +sew up two shotes this week that come in all cut up.” + +We were moving slowly along the ridge, and little Ross, who had been +running ahead, came flying back to say that he had found a hog sound +asleep. We rushed forward and came upon a fine sow lying dead. Len +pointed to a bullet-hole in her forehead. + +“Is it ours?” I asked, for my mind was set on revenue and this was a +dismal beginning. So far we had to our credit only a half-tame sow +that would probably have come in of her own accord when food grew +scarce--and this. Len flicked the exposed ear of the sow. “You see +the undercrap,” he said. Then he pulled the other ear from under her +head. “An’ there’s the two slits. It’s a ten-dollar bill you got layin’ +there.” + +“Ay,” said Sam, “she’s worth ten dollars more yisterday than to-day.” + +“Yisterday!” said Len. “She’s shot early this mornin’. She ain’t froze +yit, an’ last night would ’a’ froze fire. Whoever shot her is in the +woods now, an’ he better not come shammuckin’ where I can see him. I’d +have my say.” + +“You ain’t goin’ to talk into a gun, Len,” said Serena. “Wha’d you +promise me about this hog business?” + +“Shucks, Reenie, I ain’t broke no promise yit.” + +“Y’ain’t goin’ to nuther. Ol’ Ag’s got more bullets. Reckon I’m goin’ +to chance comin’ on you layin’ in the woods like this here sow?” + +“Why,” I asked, at last getting in my burning question, “did they shoot +the poor thing and leave her here?” + +“Oh, she looked slick an’ fine a hundred yards off, but when they shot +her an’ come up close they seen she was goin’ to litter an’ wasn’t fit +fer meat.” + +“What about a stomach that can eat a hog right off the mast?” said Sam. +“Ag Snead ain’t more’n ha’f human anyway.” + +“’Twa’n’t Ag,” said granpap. “It ’ud take two men to git this hog in +home, an’ ol’ Ag is secrety. He wouldn’t want a partner in this kind o’ +work. It’s the Copp boys more’n likely.” + +“There’s ol’ Aggervation now,” called Ben. We looked ahead and saw a +man approaching. It was Agnashus Snead. A boy, big-limbed and nearly +grown, walked beside him. + +“That’s his nephew, Ted Shoals,” said Len. “’Course they done it! Now +watch Ag, the ol’ devil! You’d think he was jest from prayer-meetin’.” + +“Howdy, folks,” Snead called to us. He was about seventy, with cool, +pink cheeks, and white hair that still kept a youthful ripple. His eyes +were golden brown and young as a boy’s. I found myself introduced, and +shook hands with him almost eagerly. Oh, no, he couldn’t have done it! + +“Any luck?” he asked, and Len pointed to the dead hog. The old man was +properly shocked. “They’s some rotten folks in this kentry,” he said, +“ef a man knowed where to find ’em.” + +“Right, there is,” said Len, “an’ I b’lieve I’d know ’em ef I seen +’em.” His black eyes looked kindlingly into the brown eyes of Snead. +Serena pushed in. “_Your_ luck’s all right, Uncle Ag. The boys jest now +found a bunch o’ yore shotes down in that holler.” + +“Reckon they didn’t have no years tore off?” he asked, repaying Len’s +thrust. But no fight was precipitated because he accompanied his +question with the frankest of smiles. Serena had often told me that you +could say anything in the mountains if you took care to say it laughing. + +“No,” put in Sam, with a grin equally disarming, “but if I’s as mean as +_some_ folks I’d whacked off their years ragged-like, an’ druv ’em in +home.” The laugh went round. Both parties had spoken their minds. Old +Ag bent over and touched the bullet-hole. + +“Them Copp boys air in the woods to-day.” + +We knew what he meant, but if the Copp boys should ever get him +cornered not one of us could swear that he had accused them. + +“Their gun makes the same kind of a hole yorn does, I reckon,” said +Len, with a steady look at Snead’s rifle. + +This was going too far. Snead rose up and looked about. He would be two +against five, with maybe a woman to claw him from the back. A tolerant +smile spread over his face. “It shore does,” he said. “I’ll tell you +what, boys. I kain’t take my shotes in with jest Ted here to he’p me. +S’pose I hunt with you to-day, an’ you he’p me to-morr’.” + +Asking a favor was more disarming than laughter. This was a neighborly +appeal, and Len was first, last, and always, a good neighbor. In +two minutes we were all on our way to the haunt of the big b’ar +hog, leaving the embryo feud, for a time at least, to smother under +amenities. + + +III + +Serena had slyly given me several opportunities to turn back with her. +At last she openly rebelled. “Ef yer goin’ down in them rocks,” she +said, “I’m goin’ to make a fire on the ridge an’ set here till ye git +back, if ye ever do git back.” + +“Stay if you want to,” Len told her, “an’ keep Ross to he’p ye pick up +brush. Ef we roust that b’ar there’d best be nobody round that kain’t +hop quick.” + +The entire party gave me a look which was a plain request that I keep +Serena company. I was half angered. “Come on,” I said, taking the lead +along the ridge. “I hope you’ll enjoy yourself, Serena.” + +They stood dubiously, then came on with a shout. + +“Yer like my first wife,” said Snead, striding alongside of me. +“Nothin’ could head her. You’ve heard ’bout the man that had had +three wives an’ when he prayed he would say: ‘God bless Patch, an’ +Piece-patch, but dern ol’ Tear-all.’ Now I say it back’ards. My first +un wuz Tear-all, an’ I’d ruther have her back than any of ’em. There +wuzn’t any government them days. Ever’ feller had his own still ef he +wanted one, an’ tended to his own business. Governments hadn’t come +inter fashion. I’d say to my wife, ‘Serry, I’d like to cut up fer a +week an’ lay drunk,’ an’ she’d say: ‘Go it, Ag, I’ll ’tend to the +crap.’ An’ when I got through I’d let her have her turn ef she wanted +it, and she generally did. When she wuz dyin’ she says ‘Ag, you’ve been +square. You’ve come as you wanted an’ gone as you wanted, an’ so’ve +I, bless Jesus.’ ‘Yes, Serry,’ I says, ‘you’ve never been tied to the +meat-skillet or wash-pot.’ She laffed then an’ says: ‘I reckon you +knowed that string would ’a’ broke anyhow, Ag.’ When she wuz dead I wuz +fool enough to think my luck wouldn’t turn, an’ I married agin in about +six weeks. Lord, Lord, she cleaned an’ she cooked an’ she mended till I +begged her to let up an’ go huntin’ with me. I wuz so lonesome I purty +near cried, an’ all she done wuz to git down on her marr’s an’ pray fer +my soul. ‘O Lord,’ she says, ‘I’ll take keer o’ his pore neglected body +ef you’ll jest save his soul.’ Well, I set in then an’ made her glad to +git out. I set down an’ cussed her steady fer two days. She was ready +to go the first day, but said she couldn’t till she got ever’thing +done. She left my clothes all fixed an’ the house like pie, an’ enough +cooked to keep me fer a week, an’ me cussin’ her in a solid streak. She +had the grit, but it wuz turned the wrong way fer me. It gives me the +all-gonest, lonesome feeling now to think of how she worked an’ worked, +an’ all I wanted wuz company. ’Twa’n’t long till she married Ham Copp +an’ I reckon he suited her, fer they’re livin’ together yit. It’s her +two boys what’s been so near that dead sow back yander, no matter what +Len Merlin’s got in his head about it. You kain’t blame the boys, they +been brought up so religious. I think a heap of religion, but you got +to keep it in bounds er it’s like fire an’ water; it’ll eat ye up. The +Copp boys don’t want to be et up, an’ when they gets out they make +t’other way, toward the devil. I’m a deacon, an’ pay my dues, but +nobody can say I treat my religion too familiar.” + +Sam called us to halt, and we paused in a body to look searchingly +down over the cliffs where boulders struggled brokenly and trees and +saplings scrambled for distorted life. + +“He’s down there, boys. I’ll take Bub an’ Bugle, an’ pap to carry the +rope, an’ when we find where he is, y’all stretch ’round above us, an’ +I’ll go in an’ sic up the dogs. Len, you hold Buck. He’s my dog, an’ I +ain’t savin’ him, but bein’ a fox-dog he’s better fer the run, of it +comes to runnin’. They’s the masterest ivy thicket ’bout a quarter +furder, an’ ef we roust him out he’s liable to make fer it.” + +We began the descent, and as I stumbled laboriously downward I thought +of Serena sitting by her fire, no doubt singing one of the many ballads +which she had learned from her grandmother, and which had probably +been sung by a score of generations before her without ever losing its +essence in print. I stifled a lyrical regret and clung resolutely to my +commercial mood. About thirty yards from the top we scattered and took +our stations as Sam directed. + +“Ef he breaks out, beat the bushes an’ make a noise like the whole +Cher’kee nation full of corn-juice.” + +Sam then went farther down, and was beginning to peer cautiously about +for the boar when Len cried out: “Hold on! There he is! At the top!” + +We looked up and saw the boar above us, monstrously outlined at the top +of the ridge. He was huge and black, and my startled eyes magnified him +to a fearsome thing. I found out later that he was not of inordinate +size. He was poking a nose that seemed several feet long over the verge +of a sheer cliff. There were simultaneous howls from the three dogs. +The boar’s bristles rose like black Lombardy poplars; and as he flung +himself around, his tusks, whiter than the whitest cloud, seemed to +circle the heavens. He shot along the ridge, Buck plunging after him. + +“Foller him, fellers,” shouted Sam. “I’ll take Bub an’ Bugle an’ make +fer the thicket. That’s where he’s goin’.” + +Len, Burl, Ted, and Ben began to leap up the mountainside and were soon +racing along the ridge trail. I could be of no use in heading off the +boar, and after one staggered look upward at the almost vertical slope +I decided to follow Sam and granpap. Snead was of the same mind, and +we struggled along, swinging from bushes and scrambling over boulders +until we arrived at the ivy thicket, which was not ivy at all, but +a mass of twisted kalmia from which several great chestnut trees +rose in triumph. From somewhere in the tangled interior I could hear +Sam’s voice constantly repeating a formula, “Sic ’im, Bub! Sic, sic, +sic!”--not loud but in a steady tone, half pleading, half commanding. + +Snead crawled into the thicket, and in about ten minutes was back again. + +“Sam’s standin’ to his waist in a sink-hole,” he said, “an’ skeered +white-eyed. But he ain’t in no danger, the ivy’s so thick round the +sink-hole. Bub nor Bugle won’t take holt o’ that thing. They prance +all round him, much as the ivy’ll let ’em, an’ keep out o’ the way o’ +his tusks, an’ that’s all. We got to have a dog that’ll take holt. Sam +says fer me to send Ben down the mountain Pizen Branch way an’ git Jake +Sutton’s ol’ dog, Drum. Drum’ll bring him out ef anything will.” + +“There’s Buck.” + +“Shucks, ef Bub won’t take holt we needn’t wait on Buck.” + +“What’s granpap doing?” + +“Nothin’ but squattin’ in the bottom o’ that sink-hole wishin’ he’s in +prayer-meetin’.” + +Snead made his way up to the circle of silent watchers, and Ben was +soon flying down the mountain Pizen Branch way. In ten minutes he +would be at the foot, but he would have to return slowly by a winding +trail, and it would be nearly an hour before Drum could be one of us. +In the meantime Sam, with the two dogs, endeavored to keep the boar +entertained. Suddenly there was a shriek. A dark body was thrown into +the air and fell on top of a thick bunch of “ivy.” “The blood jest +sprinkled,” said Sam afterward. + +“He’s killed my dog,” shouted Burl from the hillside. But Bugle had +received only a skin wound and, scrambling down, crept with viscerated +courage to his master. Sam kept on incessantly with the formula, “Sic +’im, Bub! Sic, sic, sic!” and finally called to Len: “Send Buck in here +’less ye want me to git tore up. Bub’s winded.” + +From somewhere up the hill Len unloosed Buck, who rushed for the +thicket. His entrance was Wagnerian, with a sound that reached the +spheres. I had crept forward until I could get black glimpses of the +boar as he whirled about, charging at the agile Bub and missing him +by a hair’s breadth. With the entrance of Buck he decided to run, and +dashed along the “tunnel” that in happier days he had worn to his +hiding-place. The dogs tumbled over each other and were slower in +getting out. Sam appeared and shouted to the watchers above: “Tear +along up there! Ef he gits round the mountain we might as well go home.” + +I was at granpap’s heels and going fine, when he fell. He wasn’t +seriously hurt, but sat on a rock rubbing his ankle, and I was +astounded at the imprecations which he dropped on that “b’ar devil.” It +meant more to him than being out of the race. Life had beaten him and +gone on, and he knew it. “Reckon they’ll say I done it a-purpose,” he +said forlornly. + +“Oh, no, they won’t. Sam himself couldn’t have jumped that rock.” + +“I’ll set here till the pain gits meller.” + +We waited, and the tumult died away and with it my hope of witnessing +the capture. After a little we heard a sort of scrambling in the bushes. + +“That’s Ag,” said granpap. “He’d git out o’ the run ef he had to break +his neck fer it.” + +A moment passed and Snead joined us, slightly limping. + +“I was jumpin’ a blame rock, an’ it tumbled me off,” he said. “What’s +the matter with the ol’ man?” + +“Not a durn thing,” said granpap. “I jest ’lowed I’d drap out.” + +To show his scorn of subterfuge, he got up and took a few firm steps, +then sat down, white with pain but grinning with triumph. + +“I’d give my coat an’ shirt to go with the boys,” said Snead. “Ef I +hadn’t struck on that sore knee I could ’a’ kept up all right.” + +“Reckon I couldn’t,” said granpap. “When I got old I knowed it. Time +ain’t slipped nothin’ on me.” + +“Well, I ain’t give in yit,” Snead asserted, his yellow-brown eyes +shimmering. “These woods’ll be my back yard as long as I’m topside o’ +earth, an’ when I’m under it I’ll rattle the dirt ef I can.” + +“I’d do a lot myself,” said granpap, “ef I could do it with my tongue.” + +Snead’s retort was lost in the returning tumult. The racers were +coming back with a rush that made us think of scurrying to refuge. Sam +afterward related what had happened. + +“When I got out of the thicket,” he said, “I started over the rocks +like a jumpin’ spider. Thet ol’ devil went straight like he was goin’ +round the mountain, but the dogs kept bearin’ down on his upper side +an’ brought him up under a cliff that he hadn’t counted on meetin’. +He had to turn on ’em then, but they wouldn’t rush in an’ he wouldn’t +rush out. The foam was flyin’ an’ Buck was all bloody. Them tusks had +scraped some sense into him, an’ he was standin’ off, yappin’ an’ +yowin’. Little ol’ Bub was jumpin’ up an’ down an’ wantin’ like fire +to go in, but he knowed better. ‘All we can do,’ I says to Len when +the boys come up, ‘is to hold the feller here till Ben comes with ol’ +Drum.’ An’ about that time the b’ar decided to come out an’ give them +dogs a skeer. You run me in here, he thinks, an’ by golly I’ll run ye +out. An’ he lit fer ’em. You never seen dogs so skeert. An’ that’s why +we all come back. ’Cause that thing wanted to. He jest rid the saplin’s +after them dogs. It was the masterest sight, him goin’ over ever’thing +like he had wings in his insides.” + +He was “riding the saplings” when we saw him, but we had no time for +leisurely observation. We were in the most open strip of the brush and +this was the highway for the chase. The dogs seemed divided between +fear and shame. They rushed forward with their tongues out, but every +few rods would fling their heads back as if to turn on their pursuer; +then at sight of him they would give an apparently dying screech and +flee forward again. + +“Scroonch up to that poplar,” called Snead, “an’ they’ll pass us.” +The poplar was an immense one, five feet through at the butt, and was +only three or four yards from us; but we had barely time to cross the +distance and crowd against the tree before the wild runners flew by. +I felt that the earth must be moving; that the whole mountain was a +penumbration of that black, vaulting body; the air ought to bleed, torn +by those merciless tusks. + +They passed out of sight, to our left; and very soon, on our right, we +saw Sam. His shoes were ripped open, and his overalls, in strips from +his knees down, revealed legs and ankles scratched and bloody. In his +hard-set face I scarcely recognized the softly placating features of +Sam. As he passed us he was muttering something about old Drum. “Ef ol’ +Drum’ll ever git here!” A few minutes later Len and Ted came up. + +“Where’s Burl?” asked granpap. + +“Back yander, tendin’ that no-’count dog o’ hisn.” + +They hurried on, and Len called over his shoulder: “Come on, pap, with +yer rope. I hear Ben an’ ol’ Drum. We’ll git him now.” + +We listened, and a long, deep, fresh-sounding bay echoed through the +woods. Granpap grabbed his rope, dropping his lameness and twenty +years of his age. “Smoke yer heels, boys,” he said; and like boys we +followed. “He’s bayed agin,” said granpap, as we neared a discord of +indescribable sounds. Soon we saw the boar, on top of a lichen-covered +boulder, sitting on his haunches, his eyes, like two little black +stars, pouring vitriol that ought to have made the forest crumple. +The rock itself, with its green, black, and creamy spots and veinlike +roots climbing over it, seemed a part of the creature’s body, making a +monster as superior to attack as granite, as formidable as if Nature +had condensed her forces into his resisting form. The yapping dogs at +the base of the rock, and the men with their ceaseless “sic, sic,” were +as negligible as squeaking gnats. + +Sam was the only one with any apparent dignity. He had yielded to +fatigue, and lay motionless on the ground, probably forty feet from me +and an equal distance from the group about the rock. + +A long musical sound came from old Drum. It was not loud, but of a sure +timbre that made the woods quiver. The boar threw up his head and his +sides thumped. From my safe distance I fancied a trembling among all +the little ruffled scales of the lichens. Suddenly Ben’s young voice +called out from somewhere above the rock “Go it, Drum, sic ’im, sic +’im!” and Drum’s huge yellow body vaulted from the slope to the upper +edge of the boulder. At that instant the boar shot into the air, curved +downward, and struck the ground near the men, scattering them to cover. +He rolled for a second, like a knotted ball, then found his four feet +properly under him and made straight for Sam. + +For a second I felt blinded by a swirling black cloud, then stood +clear-sighted in a small but painfully vivid human world. Nature with +her everlasting forces retreated and consciousness was trivially +reabsorbed in the by-product, humanity. I could even see Coretta, a +pale widow, in the country store with a basket of eggs, insisting on +an exchange of black percale; and myself distractedly guiding the +destinies of her fatherless young. + +But Sam was quicker than the boar. With one motion he leaped three feet +from the ground, and with arms abnormally long seized the limb of a +tree that stretched above him, drawing his body up accordion-fashion +and hanging there like a half-opened jackknife. The boar dashed under +him and on toward me. I resigned life resentfully. My passion for union +with earth was spent. There was nothing but ignominy in being trampled +into the ground and muddily tusked. + +Drum saved me. I saw him at the boar’s side trying to reach his ear. +The boar whirled in defense, and Len cried: “Run, God A’mighty, run!” +I supposed he meant me, but I couldn’t move. I had to see whether Drum +got that ear or not. My arm was grabbed and I was viciously shaken. +“Ain’t you got a bit o’ sense?” That didn’t seem to matter, but when I +had been pulled to safety I managed to say: “Thank you, Len, I guess +I’ll--faint.” Which I did, but it was not a desperate lapse. I was up +in a few minutes, watching the game between Drum and the boar, and +commenting on it in a meekly diminished voice. + +It was worth seeing. Drum clearly understood his difficulty. He was to +get his teeth into the boar’s ear and keep his own body safely guarded +from the tossing tusks. They shuttled back and forth, for every time +that Drum was near getting a hold the boar would whirl in an effort to +drive his tusk into the dog, and this would cause a face-about for both +of them. I did not see how the game of wits and muscle could end except +by the exhaustion of one or the other; and the boar was doubtless using +his last strength. It seemed shockingly unfair for Drum to come so +fresh to the contest. + +“Be right still; be right still,” Len would say, though nobody needed +the adjuration, all being tense and motionless. “Drum’s gittin’ him +winded. He’ll land in a minute. Be right still.” + +I understood what he meant by “landing” when Drum finally sailed upward +and dropped down on the boar’s back just behind his ears. + +“He’s got him!” shouted Sam. “Git yer sticks, ever’body. I’ll grab his +leg. Y’all be ready to come in, er he’ll tear me up ef Drum’s holt +breaks.” + +But this time Drum held on, and the boar spun round and round +helplessly. It seemed death to approach him, but Sam got behind a rock, +lay down, and reached out a long arm, ready to grab a flying hind leg +if it should come near. + +“Len, you an’ pap git the noose over his nose. Where’s that Burl? Let +him an’ Ben hold my legs.” But Burl called from a prudent distance: “He +ain’t winded yit. You’d all better keep out.” + +“Dern yer white skin,” said Sam, “git back to yer dry-goods box in +Asheville. Ben, you an’ Ted ketch holt o’ my legs.” They obeyed, +bracing their feet against the rock, getting ready, it appeared, to +pull Sam in two. Len, holding a big club, took the dangerous position +of granpap’s guard in his attempts to noose the boar. Snead was to tie +another rope about the leg if Sam succeeded in grabbing it. + +There was a ragged, throaty shout. Sam had him. Snead, too reckless, +rushed in on the wrong side and had to rush out again. + +“Tie him, kain’t you?” puffed Sam. “I ain’t no snake, I kain’t live in +two pieces!” Snead made another rush and got the rope securely tied. +This freed Sam, who made a grab for the other hapless hind leg of the +boar, and the two were then made fast together. The animal, crazed by +the outrage, tossed his tusks in a last desperation, and Drum’s hold +broke. The dog was thrown ten feet, just as granpap, by a miraculous +move, got the noose around the boar’s nose above his tusks. + +“Pap’s done it!” cried Len. And “Pap’s got him!” echoed Sam. “Me fer +granpap!” shouted Ben. “Smart fer ol’ bones,” said Snead; and “Hurrah, +granpap!” said I, to be with the tide. + +“I couldn’t ’a’ beat it,” said Burl, and Len turned on him. “Ef you +want to marry my girl, you’ll have to carry a better gun’n I do.” + +“You got to pay fer my dog,” said Burl, backing off. + +“When hell cools butter,” said Len. “Shet yer mouth ef you can do it +with them tight breeches on.” Then his angry spurt was over. “You goin’ +to he’p carry this thing in home?” + +Burl came trippingly forward and looked at the boar. Forefeet and back +were tied, and a long pole thrust under them. Safely trussed, but the +tusks looked alive. “I’ll he’p at his hind feet,” said Burl, and +laughter rolled over him. + +“You walk ahead to keep the bears an’ Injuns off us,” said Len. “Ben, +you an’ Sam git aholt the hind end o’ that pole. Me an’ Ted’ll take the +front.” + +They took off their jackets and, doubling them up, placed them between +their shoulders and the pole. + +“Won’t it hurt him?” I asked, as they swung their load. + +“Hurt that feller? I jest wish we could,” said Sam. + +I remembered that the creature was revenue and hardened my heart. We +ought to get twenty-five dollars, at least, for him, half of which +would be mine, the other half going to Sam and Len. + +As it was easier to keep around the side of the hill with their heavy +load, and come into the trail lower down, I said that I would go up to +the ridge and get Serena. I should be glad to be out of sight of the +pathetic monster swinging in torture from the pole. + +I got up the hill, and at some distance caught sight of Serena’s fire. +She was placidly singing, in utter detachment from little Ross, who +was “playing horse” up and down the ridge. The song was her favorite +ballad about the cruelty of sundering true lovers. She liked to repeat +it; and though she usually began singing in a robust major key, with +each repetition her tone would become more plaintive. She was now at +her happiest, in an unbearably wailing minor. The girl, persecuted by +obdurate parents, had wandered from home + + “And rambled the green growing meadows around, + Until she came to a clear broad river, + And under a green shade-tree sat down. + + She then took o--u--t a silver dagger-r, + And percht it thr--ough her lily-white breast, + And these words uttered as she staggered, + ‘True love, true l--o--ve, I’m goin’ to rest.’” + +And her lover, being at that very moment on that clear, broad river, +and passing that very tree, + + “He ran, he r--a--n, he ran unto her,” + +and picking up the same silver dagger, he “percht it through his +weeping heart,” and Serena sang to the world: + + “Let this be a gr--ea--t and awful warning, + To all who ke--e--p true lovers apart; + To all who ke--e--p true lovers apart.” + +“Serena,” said I gently, “wouldn’t you just as soon say ‘pierced’ as +‘percht’?” + +“That wouldn’t be doin’ right by granmommie. She always sung it +thataway, an’ she was a hundred and three when she died, an’ died in +her cheer. She knowed what she’s about to the last minute. She sung it +‘percht,’ an’ I wouldn’t change it noways. My, but you look like you’d +been bee-huntin’ in a locus’ patch!” + +“I’ve had a good time, Serena.” + +“So’ve I,” she said, getting up. “An’ I didn’t resk my life fer it +nuther.” + +We were to meet the men at the place where the spotted sow lay tied. +Serena and I arrived first by a few minutes, as the men travelled +slowly with their burden, and stopped frequently to “change the bone.” +We found the sow quiet and sullen. There was only the one pig with her. + +“We must find the other pigs,” I said to the men, when they came up +blowing and put their load down. + +“We kain’t do that. It’s turnin’ colder, an’ it’ll be night now ’fore +we git in home with this chap.” + +“But they’re so little! They’ll starve!” + +“Oh, half of ’em’ll scratch through alive. Let’s go fer water, boys.” + +Everybody but myself went round the side of the hill to the spring. I +stayed to ponder on the extravagant method of bringing in wild hogs. +The thought of those ten or more little black-and-pink creatures +shivering in the woods until starvation released them was more than I +could passively bear. I looked at the rope, and found it tied in what +to me was an unalterable knot. But I could cut it by laying it against +a rock and rubbing it with the sharp edge of another rock. I found the +stones I wanted and set to work, making the rope as ragged as possible. +When the stringy ends dropped no one would have suspected that the +rope had been cut. The sow rushed off with her little pig following, +and they were soon out of sight. Then I found that I too was longing +for water, and hurried to the spring. I knew I should find the others +lingering, each wanting to get in one more comment on the inexhaustible +subject of the capture. + +“We’d better git back,” said Len at last. “Pap, you can drive the sow +in. Thanks to gracious, we don’t have to carry _her_.” + +It was an angry and bewildered group that paused at the spot where the +sow had been tied. + +“Dern her sides, wha’d she mean by layin’ here all day an’ breakin’ the +rope at the last minute?” said Sam. “It wuz a good rope too. There +wuzn’t a weak spot in it.” + +“I reckon it _wuz_ a good rope,” complained Len. “That young-un got +holt o’ my plough-lines. I wouldn’t ’a’ give ’em fer that ol’ sow.” + +“Ain’t it a cussin’ shame now Mis’ Dolly won’t git nothin’? Ha’f that +sow would ’a’ been hern. ’Course the b’ar is pap’s. It wuz pap ’at got +in the throw that tied him.” + +It was a moment before I got the full meaning of Sam’s words, and when +I did my astounded silence seemed to create a slight embarrassment. + +“Pap’ll give her a part,” said Len, “ef she wants to take it. Mebbe she +didn’t ’zackly mean what she told him ’bout havin’ what he could ketch. +It’ll disappint pap, but we ain’t goin’ to have no hard feelin’ ’bout +an ol’ b’ar hog.” + +“I’m shore glad,” said Sam, “that she saw pap ketch him, an’s got her +own eyes fer it. I wouldn’t take a throwed-away dish-rag off’n her +underhand. Ez fer her not meanin’ what she said, her word’s as good +in the woods as ’tis in the meetin’-house. Ever’body’ll tell ye that. +’Tain’t jest me a-talkin’.” + +My inward tumult subsided. There was no profit in rebellion when +the elements were against me. I looked at granpap, silent and apart, +chewing his bit of dogwood. + +“What about it, granpap?” + +“What y’all say’s good enough fer me.” + +No help there, so I yielded with a gaiety that left them slightly +puzzled, not understanding the lubricant value of a good laugh at +oneself. + +“The victory is yours, granpap. Let’s get him home.” + +There was a buzz of spirited talk, all to show granpap that he was to +be congratulated. When we started again Snead proposed going by Abe +Siler’s. + +“He’ll buy that feller right off the pole, an’ we’ll save time by +drappin’ him there. Abe’s wantin’ to git a hog to pen right now, an’ +he’ll give you six dollars fer that b’ar.” + +“Six dollars!” I exclaimed. “Three weeks with all the corn he wants, +and he’ll weigh out forty dollars’ worth of meat!” + +“It ’ud make a big hole in my pile o’ corn,” said granpap. + +“You gittin’ it wrong, Mis’ Dolly,” said Snead. “B’ar meat as old as +that feller is stringy an’ tough, an’ don’t make no grease to talk +about. Ain’t hardly anybody’ll buy it. Ol’ Abe ain’t pertickler ef he +gits it cheap. He’ll take the green meat to Carson an’ sell it. Six +dollars is top money fer him.” + +“Yer talkin’ right, Ag,” said granpap. “Let’s go by Abe’s.” + +We went by Abe’s, and granpap pocketed five dollars for the hog, the +buyer considering six a “masterous price.” + +Everybody seemed happy going home, except for a few regrets over the +sow that got away, and a wail from little Ross for his lost pig. +Everybody except myself. I was reflecting heavily in terms of profit +and loss. All of my farm-help had given a day’s work; they would give +another to-morrow, helping Snead. Four men two days meant a loss to me +of eight days’ labor. Coretta would surely shame me into contributing +toward new shoes and overalls for Sam. I must also count my disturbing +escape from starting a feud; must even consider future entanglements on +that score. Nor should I forget the emotional waste due to seeing every +member of the party narrowly and frequently elude death from pitching +head over heels into a rock-bed. And to its hopeless depths I must +consider the probability of becoming indentured to the family of some +ghost who had sacrificed his fleshly part in bringing out “my” hogs; +that is, if I persisted in exploiting my claim. + +Snead dropped back and put an end to my list of contingencies. His +voice was intimately lowered and I caught Sam’s eye following him +furtively. + +“I hate to see a woman git the worst of it when she’s tryin’ to be +fair,” he began. “You’ve got a fine hog-claim, an’ you ought to be +gittin’ something out of it. How many hogs hev the boys brought in fer +ye this year?” + +“This is the first time we’ve been after them.” + +“’Course, though, the boys hev been out more’n onct amarkin’ shotes?” + +“I don’t know about that.” + +“Well, I do, fer I’ve seen ’em.” He called to Sam. “Sam, how many +shotes did ye git marked that day I seed ye out fer ’em?” + +Sam did not flinch under the attack. “We marked a fine lot,” he said. +“I don’t jest remember how many. I been meanin’ to tell ye ’bout that, +Mis’ Dolly, ’cause you’ll be wantin’ to ’low us something fer the +markin’. It’s shore hard work. That wuz when you’s gone to Hiwassee, +an’ I fergot to tell ye when you come home. I knowed you’d make it all +right.” + +“What’s it worth to mark hogs, Sam?” + +“It’s _worth_ more’n ketchin’ ’em, ’cause we’ve got to ketch ’em an’ +mark ’em, an’ turn ’em loose. But we’re goin’ to make it easier on you +than that.” + +I exonerate Sam from any intention of charging me for “turning them +loose.” He was merely embellishing his defense. But by a brief +calculation I saw that if I gave half the value of the hogs for +catching and bringing them in, and the other half, or a little less, +for marking the young, I would have to pursue my profit with a +microscope. + +Snead again took up his confidential tone. “I ain’t a man fer makin’ +trouble, an’ there ain’t anybody in a hundred miles o’ me can swear I +ever accused him o’ sellin’ other folks’ hogs; but I wish you’d a gone +by Ham Copp’s next day an’ seed what he had in his pen. I ain’t sayin’ +what, an’ I never will say what, in court er out, but I ’low you’d know +yer own mark.” + +Sam and Len had hastily entered upon a subdued conference of their own, +and just then Sam called to Snead. + +“Wha’d you say, Uncle Ag, ef we don’t he’p ye to-morr’, an’ call it +square about them shotes you ain’t paid fer yit?” + +He was staggered, taken in the open, but rallied jauntily. + +“All right, boys; jest as you say.” + +Sam turned to me. “We didn’t tell ye ’bout them shotes Uncle Ag got, +’cause he was in sech a hole ’bout payin’ fer ’em, an’ nacherly we +didn’t want to worry ye till we got it fixed. Now he gits our part o’ +the shotes fer he’ppin’ us to-day, an’ we’re willin’ to take _yore_ +part fer the markin’ you owes us, an’ wait on Uncle Ag fer it, seein’ +we made sech a slow trade fer ye.” + +By then I was in a position to foretell just the amount of revenue that +in all time to come I was going to derive from my claim. + +“We don’t want to take any downright money from ye, Mis’ Dolly,” +explained Sam. “You’ve never been hard on us, an’ we kain’t afford to +be hard on _you_. An’ by fixin’ it the way I said, ever’body’ll be +satisfied, an’ you won’t be out nothin’ but a few shotes.” + +“And a few shotes, Sam, don’t matter when I’ve got the woods full of +them.” + +“That’s what I wuz goin’ to say.” + +“A man with the woods full of hogs is in a pretty good fix, isn’t he?” + +“Jest about fat rich, Mis’ Dolly.” + +“Then you and Len are rich. The hog-claim is yours.” + +They thought it a joke at first, and I labored to convince them; then +they insisted on my keeping half of it. + +“No, boys,” I persisted generously. “That would mix up our +calculations. As it is, you’ll know what you’ve got, and I’ll know what +I’ve got.” + +“You’re right about that,” said Sam. + +“I want to say, too, that this deal works backward. If there’s anybody +owing for hogs, the debt is yours, and you needn’t ever bother me about +it.” + +“An’ if any meddlin’ ol’ loafer comes tellin’ ye ’bout seein’ hogs +here, there, an’ yander, in other folks’ pens, from time back,” said +Sam, with the dignity of righteousness, “it won’t be wuth a blue bean +to him.” + +“I’ll send him to you and Len. It will be your affair, not mine.” + +At that, Len came over to me. His face was serious but glowing. “I +knowed you’s white,” he said, “but I didn’t know jest how white you +wuz. Abe Siler’s beggin’ me underhand to leave you an’ work on his +place. Next time he asts me, I’m goin’ to bust my knuckles on them two +big front teeth o’ hisn.” + +Len, who was noted as a “clean-crop-man,” was the most coveted tenant +within three townships. I had bought his loyalty cheap. + +Sam, of coarser but shrewder mind, spared me any disconcerting +gratitude. Before their early bedtime I was to hear his comment to +Coretta, who was shedding grateful tears. + +“Aw, shet up, K’rettie. I reckon she’s got sense enough to know that +the woods full o’ hogs ain’t wuth much to a woman.” + + + + +VII + +SERENA TAKES A BOARDER + + +I + +“But where do they sleep?” my “foreign” friends would ask, with the +impertinence of civilization, whenever they returned from a call at the +shack where Len and Serena, after nightfall, compressed their spreading +family into two rooms and a loft. + +With a light answer I would callously shunt investigation. “Oh, Serena +tucks them away!” + +Rectitude, founded on bathtubs, with privacy at one’s mere discretion, +had lost its power over me during the years in which I had hoped for a +season sufficiently free from disaster to enable me to add two morally +indispensable rooms to Len’s cabin; nevertheless the desire hung like a +vague compulsion in the back of my mind, unaffected by the indifference +of Serena, who, oblivious to restriction, remained the smiling magnet +of her swarm. + +I did go so far as to give Len the lumber from an old house which I had +torn down with the luxurious intent of lining my own cabin from the +material. I found that it contained enough sound chestnut to provide +an ample kitchen for his house, and we spent a happy evening making +the plans. There was to be a big fireplace, built by Uncle Ben Copp, +an authority on chimney structure, and plenty of “shevs,” about which +Len was enthusiastic, though Serena, innocent of industrial vision, +liquidly inquired: “Whatever’ll I put on ’em?” + +Len was to build the kitchen. He was untrained, but not inapt, and +rarely finished a job without a proud touch of invention that gave him +as much pleasure as the pay he received. But, as the only member of his +family possessing the slightest energetic fire, “ever’ turn was hisn,” +and he was always two or three years in the rear of his more ambitious +intentions. The lumber made a promising stack in the back yard, and +occasionally during the season that followed, Len would say to me: +“Reckon my work’ll ever let up so’s I can git at that kitchen?” + +The pile gradually receded, very noticeably after a few days of +rainy weather, and by the end of the second year it had withdrawn to +invisibility. No one ever spoke of the kitchen again, and I would +have been the last to mention it; but when the winter winds found the +crevices in my cabin and, with the gaiety of discoverers, attacked +my spine, I thought longingly of my lumber that had disappeared in +Serena’s cook-stove; and one day I had the pleasure of hearing Si +Goforth ask, as he passed through Len’s yard, whatever they’d put their +stack o’ chestnut into? Getting no answer from a hurt and silent group, +he added slyly: “A lumber pile nigh the house is as bad as a rail +fence; it sucks itssef.” + +I never had the hardihood to probe into the sleeping arrangements of +Serena’s household; but I could see the two beds in the room where +they kept a fire, sat and talked, picked the banjo and received +their company. I knew there were beds in the loft for the boys, and +that granpap placed his own there when he chose to live with Len +and exchange, for a time, Coretta’s fidgety ambition for the cheery +fatalism of Serena. There was no bed in the room where they cooked +and ate, but this was for lack of space only. The necessarily long +table, benches, and chairs devoured any vacancy left by the cook-stove, +cupboard, and water-shelf. From chance remarks I gathered that if +visitors were men-folks they ascended to the loft; if women, Len went +above, leaving the guests below with Serena and the girls. There were +“ticks” which could be placed on the floor when the beds overflowed, +as they did quite frequently. Just where they were put was something +to wonder over, but I kept the whole matter in a sort of kindly murk, +waiting the day when I should be able to act with deference due to an +articulate conscience. + +Because of Serena’s apathy toward gardening, canning, drying, and +preserving, and her persistent habit of letting the children “run along +and milk,” the family diet through the greater part of the year was +without surprise or adventure. Corn bread, coffee, fried meat, ’taters, +and ’lasses satisfied hunger, with no concessions to either infancy +or age. Let me not forget pickled beans. That dish was a mainstay for +babe and man. But notwithstanding the depressing fare, there was always +company at Len’s. Constant good humor and unflagging welcome made for +an open house. “Stay with us,” Len would say, and add the mountain +jargon, which in this case was almost literally true: “We can give you +plenty o’ spring water, pickled beans, an’ satisfaction.” + +Sometimes I tried a carefully padded remonstrance, such as: “Don’t you +think it is too hard on Serena to have so much company?” + +“Reenie don’t bother hersef. They take what comes.” + +“With so many children, Len, you’ll kill yourself soon enough without +providing for others.” + +“You kain’t call what I give ’em providin’. I tell Reenie to hand ’em +out some salt an’ let ’em pick ’round the yard.” And with his laughter +filling the air, he would rush off to whichever of his many jobs was +driving him the hardest. + +My approaches to Serena were alike futile. I have good reason to +remember the last one, which took place on my front porch one Sunday +morning. + +“We’re bound to take keer o’ the Madison folks when they come out,” she +said, in response to a tentative protest from me. “The Merlins used to +live back there, an’ so did all o’ my folks.” + +“But Len isn’t the only Merlin around here.” + +“He’s the one they think the most of anyhow,” she returned proudly. + +“They’re not all from Madison. What about the people from over the +ridge?” + +“As to them, Mis’ Dolly, you know as well as I do that we’re up +here half-way ’twixt all o’ Nighthawk settlement an’ the stores an’ +post-office down at Beebread. When them folks git on top o’ the +mountain, goin’ er comin’, they’ve got to set an’ rest. Ef it’s +dinner-time, of course I lay ’em a plate, an’ ef it’s leanin’ toward +night you wouldn’t want me not to ast ’em to stay. A barn cat would be +civiller than that an’ let ’em sleep in the hay.” + +“There are other houses on the ridge, Serena.” + +“Yes, here’s yorn right here, but you’re livin’ by yersef an’ company +makes trouble. I’ve got sech a big fam’ly I don’t notice it when a few +more drap in. Lots o’ times,” she continued, in an attempt to save +my feelings and underrate her own popularity, “they say to me let’s +go round to yore house, an’ I know you’re busy, so I tell ’em we’ll +go after we set a bit. Then I wait till it’s too late to come over. +’Tain’t because they don’t like you, an’ don’t you git to thinkin’ it.” + +I had understood that Serena always interpreted me favorably to the +community, but I had not realized until that moment how much I owed to +her sense of proprietorship in me and my affairs. More eager than ever +to reciprocate, I pursued the argument. + +“You haven’t explained Sunday. Very likely you’ll have to cook dinner +for half a dozen people to-day, besides your own family.” + +“I’m sort o’ expectin’ it. Some young folks told Lonie and Ben they’s +comin’ up to-day. You’re always sayin’ let the childern have a good +time, an’ I reckon you wouldn’t want me to shet off Sunday. There +wouldn’t be much left fer ’em.” + +She knew I would find this unanswerable, and thus encouraged entered on +doubtful ground. + +“Har’et Drake said maybe she’d come too, with her man an’ the +young-uns. She said they’d take dinner with you er me, one er t’other.” + +“With me?” + +“Har’et thinks a heap o’ you, but maybe she’ll stay at my house. I +knowed her out in Madison.” + +My eyes sought their familiar refuge, the horizon, and even as my +glance swept the hill it fell upon Mrs. Drake, her man, and the five +children in undeviating approach. Serena’s eyes followed mine. + +“Looks like they’re comin’ here,” she said. “They’ll git a better +dinner anyway. I ain’t got what I ought to hev fer anybody that’ll +climb all the way up here jest a-neighborin’.” + +I gave the guests a welcome which I hope did not reveal a daunted +heart. There was still a chance that they would go with Serena, and +my day of sun and solitude be restored to me. The Madison influence +might prevail. Unexpectedly I found myself blessing that contemned +affiliation. + +When Serena rose to go she proved to be the preferred hostess. Mr. +Drake had brought a banana muskmelon from home, which he left with me +in gentle propitiation for his desertion; and as the family accompanied +Serena around the curving road I may have had a slight feeling of +humiliation but no sense of injury. I knew that as an entertainer I +could not compete with Len and Serena. They were reservoirs of mountain +song and story, and their lingual flow never permitted a conversational +vacuum. No wonder that I was passed by. + +Serena undulated from my sight, but left illumination behind her. In a +whirl of emotion I went to my smoke-house and took down from my store +as much as I could carry in a generous basket, and, taking a back +trail, brought the stuff to Serena’s kitchen door while her guests were +“chowing” with Len on the front porch. + +“The gardens haven’t come in yet,” I apologized, when Serena appeared +at the door, “and I was afraid your canned stuff had given out.” + +It was always out by Christmas, and this was April. + +“Yes,” said Serena, “it’s jest about gone. An’, I declare, I was out o’ +sugar an’ lard too! I’ll shore pay you back.” + +“Never mind that. The Drakes don’t get up here often. I want you to set +them a good dinner.” + +“I told Len,” she said, with a touch of triumph, “that he’d got it all +wrong ’bout you not wantin’ us to have so much company. I told him +you’s as free-hearted as ef you’s born in the mountains.” + +With humbled step I turned into the trail home, and never again offered +any admonitions against excessive hospitality. + +Through the spring and summer I continued to make apologetic +contributions to Serena’s table, glad in this way to lessen any debt +of festivity that I owed the community. A more trustful spirit seemed +to reign on the mountain, and there was a happy impetus toward no one +cared what. All might have gone well for a much longer period if, +toward the end of the summer, I had not become too deeply concerned +over the emaciated appearance of little Ross, and the fact that Len, +long overburdened, showed signs of failing health, apparently evident +to none but me. An encounter with Serena brought my feelings to the +surface. She came in one day to tell me of an incident that had amused +her “past common.” + +But here I should explain that Serena insisted on “raising” ducks every +year. I had striven in vain to induce her to transfer her love from the +unprofitable duck to the remunerative hen. Ducks amused her, and at +first I shared her pleasure when she took me to see a brood that had +just “broke through.” A nestful of chickens is tame in comparison with +ducklings that seduce the eye with their deeper, ineffable downiness +and their constant vibratory motions that seem to annex the air to +their twinkling contour. As they grow older the entertainment deepens. +The rôle of parent, for good reasons, is enacted always by a hen, and +she will soon learn to wander unconcernedly on the bank while her +charges are diving and paddling in the water, but it is another matter +when, a little after sundown, she attempts to hover ducklings that are +determined to straggle about until after dark. The desperate mother +wears herself out clucking, squawking, and spluttering as she tries +to prevail upon the rebels to change their nature and go to sleep. +Sometimes they impishly gather under her and are quiet for a moment, +then as soon as the hen is in a merciful doze, out they come. The +morning also has its drama, for the ducklings are awake and ready to +run about before daylight, while the hen is still longing for sleep. +Throughout the day she will droop from weariness and distractedly +revive to pursue her duty unthanked and derided. + +As time passed, Serena’s ducklings remained out later, and finally +would stroll home, drabbled and noisy, around nine o’clock. In the +early morning one might see the hen roaming disconsolately without +an offspring to cheer her, all of her brood being far in the woods +searching the little streams and wet banks for the food ancestrally +beloved. Their number lessened as wild creatures devoured them. Even +dogs considered them rightfully their own, if found far from the +barnyard, and by the end of the summer Serena would be as duckless +as at its beginning, but she had had many a pleasant, shady jaunt in +search of them “outdoin’est things.” + +“I’ll try again,” she would say. “Duck-feathers make sech good +pillers.” But she never got a feather. + +On the day I have mentioned, she rippled in and said: “You know I set +that gray hen on duck-eggs again.” + +“So late in the year? Of course you’ll lose them.” + +“I’d lose ’em anyway,” she said, surrendering fundamental ground for +temporary defense. “An’ I want to tell you ’bout that hen. You know +what an awful time that first set give her this summer. They wuz the +head-longest bunch I’ve ever had, an’ they kept her about crazy. I +wouldn’t hev set her again ef there’d been another hen ready. I felt +sorry fer the pore thing. To-day it wuz time fer her to come off an’ +I went to the nest to see about her. I didn’t hear no yeepin’ an’ I +stood around fer a good spell. All at onct there come a ‘yeep’ like a +slit--you know how different a duck’s ‘yeep’ is from a chicken’s--an’ +when that hen heard it she jumped off the nest an’ flew fer a smart +stretch a-squawkin’ like she wuz skeered crazy, an’ run up the hill out +o’ sight, an’ I ain’t seen her sence she took off. ‘Yeep,’ an’ she’s +gone! She’d been showed, that gray hen had.” + +“Serena,” I said, determined upon judgment, and refusing to smile more +than once, “it is time for you to quit fooling with ducks. There are so +many things you could be doing.” + +“What things?” + +“Your spring needs cleaning out. It is full of rotting leaves.” + +“Yes, I’ve been wishin’ Len could git time fer that.” + +“Why don’t you do it yourself?” + +“It ’ud ruin a spring fer a woman to clean it out.” + +“It was a very lazy woman who started that superstition, Serena. I +clean my spring all the time.” + +“Yes, an’ it ain’t what it used to be. I’ve been noticin’ that. It’s +druggy.” + +“Because the fine roots of that big maple have reached it. I’ll have +Len take that tree out as soon as he gets time.” + +“Looks like he gets busier ’n busier.” + +“Of course, when the children are getting bigger and bigger and are not +doing their share of the work. Len is killing himself trying to bring +in enough for ten.” + +“The boys don’t take after their poppie. An’ if they did, it wouldn’t +keep him from workin’ as hard as he could anyhow. I do all I can fer +him.” + +“You could give him better food.” + +“Ain’t beans good?” + +“Didn’t you notice yesterday that Len left the table without eating a +single bean? He was hot and tired--and _pickled_ beans! He drank a lot +of coffee and ate two bites of yellow bread. Then he went to the field +to work until night.” + +“I ain’t ever heard him complain.” + +“You never will. He’ll die believing you are the only woman on earth.” + +“He ain’t goin’ to die.” + +“No. You are going to quit living out of a lard can, a coffee bucket, +and a pickle barrel.” + +She was crying a little. “I ain’t got cans fer puttin’ up stuff,” she +said. + +“I’ll look out for the cans, Serena. You know you can work. I’ve seen +you.” + +“But I kain’t keep it up.” + +She knew her weakness. Work one day and rest six was her version of the +great example. + +“Lonie will help you, and the boys. Len will plough and harrow all the +good land you want for gardens and patches. We’ll put in a fall garden +too, and have all kinds of green things through the winter--spinach, +lettuce, collards, turnip-tops, celery--besides the keepers, parsnips, +carrots, salsify, sweet potatoes put up in sand--_and_ beans!” + +I rushed on, with plans undigested but dazzling, and her few tears +dried in shining twinkles. “I’ll try,” she said, “if you’ll keep right +after me.” I smiled too, and she started home. + +“I wonder where that gray hen is by now,” she turned to say. “Ef you’d +seen her when that duck-diddly yeeped, you’d be laffin’ yet.” + + +II + +Serena tried. Her lifelong acceptance of things as they happened had +kept her unaware of the complexities of an occupation made up of a +jumble of industries, as farm life must ever be until the ferment +of organization begins to heave effectively in the mind of the last +individual, the man on the land. But she was favored by nature with a +good brain, and began to be pleased when she found that it would work. + +A neighbor made a dress for Lonie and the product was so hopeless a +bungle that Serena, perforce, had to attempt remaking it. With no help +from me except the initial urge, a trifle imperious, perhaps, she got +at it, and the result was so charming that I asked in surprise why she +had taken it to Mrs. Hite. + +“I didn’t feel like foolin’ with it.” + +“But you see you did have to fool with it. And you had to wash for Mrs. +Hite in exchange for the sewing.” + +“Washin’s easy if I’m feelin’ good. It kinder bothers my head cuttin’ +an’ sewin’. But Lonie is takin’ on so about that dress, I reckon I’ll +have to mess with her clo’s from now on.” + +“No, teach her to make them herself.” + +“Lord-a-mercy, she’ll have to pick it up like I did. Don’t you git to +pushin’ me, Mis’ Dolly, an’ maybe I’ll make it through like you want me +to.” + +She had the same success with the boys’ shirts. They had been +accustomed to one sleazy shirt for Sundays and rags for work-days. +Now, released from the commercially constant grays and drab blues of +the cheaper ready-mades, they could, for the same money, buy material +for two and have the thrill of selecting from an assortment of specks +and stripes and colors of their heart. One Sunday when Len and Serena +halted by my doorstep on their way to “preachin’ over the ridge,” I +noticed that Len was uplifted by a modest lavender stripe. “I’ve been +wearin’ them ol’ dingy shirts to meetin’ fer twenty years, an’, Lord, +I’m sick of ’em,” he said, with a proud eye on Serena, the worker of +miracles. + +No more time was spent in following an ever-dwindling flock of ducks. +Serena and I, with the help of Ned, patched the cover of an old +building, treated it with mite-proof whitewash, and with planks and +clean straw made nests irresistible to any hen worthy of her keep. For +the diddlies, we carried strips from an old sawmill and made coops +which we could set about in sunny places. And Len sowed an acre of rye +for green winter picking; also a “skiver of wheat” which was to be all +Serena’s, as a basis for “feed,” but I suspected that the hens would +anticipate that harvest--and they did. + +In the spring, over at Len’s, a bountiful garden was in the ground +early. It had been my onerous but measurably happy custom, if my +intermittent journeying permitted, to cultivate a garden for my own +needs, the surplus going, as kisses do, by favor, which meant that +Serena had her share. But now--could I not buy of _her_? I had derived +from my gardens a savory pleasure, superior and cryptic, but with +ever-growing rebellion I realized that my method was the method of the +spendthrift instead of the canny reckoner. + +Take, if it please you, the most responsive of plants, lettuce. +Consider its history from its origin in a seed catalogue (carefully +conned instead of that haunting, unopened book of essays) to its final +surrender on your dining-table, gold-white in its depths, and crackling +crisp from an earthen jar set in your clear, cold spring. Think, +if the nuances of appetite permit, of the digging, the fertilizing, +and the pulverizing of the soil, the preparation of new beds for +transplanting, the transplanting itself at the time most propitious for +the product, however inopportune for you, the guarding against heat, +against cold, against drouth, against beating rain, the covering, the +uncovering, and the rising early at last to uproot it with the night +cool in its heart; all demanding a thousand thoughts and movements +before its æsthetic finality can complete your dinner scheme and +perish, it may be, under a tooth indifferently devouring mere lettuce. +And so with those tender, early limas. So too, and a little more, with +that dish of creamed something. And if your nucleus is broiled chicken, +as it must often be, the alternative being some form of hog--chicken +brought up from the egg under your proprietary eye; if your periphery +include blueberries that did not fall of themselves from the ridge on +the peak to ennoble your meal; and if the cream is the velvety sequence +of a wet and weedy climb to the top of the pasture in pursuit of a +thankless cow, pampered from your own corn-crib, that merely lifts +her head and watches your stumbling, bedrabbled arrival to the last +inch; the thought of being able to “buy from Serena” will be a warm +and driving glow in your heart. For such an end I, prudent at last, +was willing to forego any mystic succulence to be secured from the +participation of this my hand in the birth and growth of my edibles. + +The injustice of letting the burden fall to Serena did not trouble me. +She had a family to save, I had none. With her it was duty; with me it +was an interruption of duty. But if my reasoning _was_ fallacious, if +my aim was besmirched with selfishness, if my intended liberality as to +prices was only the bare gesture of reciprocity, I was ready to say, so +be it. I was under the spell of that most alluring of hopes, the hope +of combining the simplicities of nature, the abandon of the wilderness, +the austere ecstasy of solitude, with the flowing market of the city +voluptuary. + +And so there was a bountiful garden at Len’s. It required tact +amounting to technic to get all of the family help necessary in its +preparation, and when finally it shot up with its promise of abundance, +I felt that I had perspiringly insinuated it into and out of the +ground. However, there it was, and the summer passed, leaving us +affluent with the plunder we had wrung from it. + +But happiness had fled the mountain. Slowly, reluctantly, in my contact +with the family, I became aware of the desertion--even felt it in my +own denuded days. Formerly I had accepted Serena’s occasional help, +knowing so well that I was not withdrawing her from imperative tasks +at home. Now that was changed, and with a vengeance that demanded more +than a reversal of favors. My time was never my own, calculated and +indubitable. Daily it became more difficult to comfort myself with +thoughts of “next year” when Serena’s reformation would be thorough +and her work so adjusted that she at least would have time to run over +to my cabin and remove the ashes from my big fireplace. I could never +take out those relentlessly accumulating ashes without a protest to the +stony gods; while Serena had often declared that she enjoyed doing it. +“It makes the place look so clean and purty,” she would say, and go +at the work with the heart of an artist. My thoughts began to linger +tenderly on the days that were gone, days adorned with a dilatory, +unprovident, laughter-loving Serena, who could always find time to take +out my ashes. + +I recalled that she had had a special gift of service for each of +us, and began to see in that the secret of her power. Ben cared +for nothing so much as to have his one pair of trousers pressed for +Sunday morning, when overalls were cast aside and he arrayed himself +for courtship. Serena, unfailingly in the old days, had made this her +Saturday-night job. Len could strain contentedly through the longest +day of work if Serena would sit down after supper to hear his tale of +it, and his plan for to-morrow; and it was her habit to take her seat +by his side as soon as he had left the table and cut off his “chaw” of +tobacco. If the children washed the dishes, very well. If they didn’t, +or wouldn’t, cleaning up was deferred until morning, without protest +or friction. Lonie loved music, and Serena not only traded her pet pig +for a banjo, she never interrupted her daughter’s strumming, giving it +an importance above any urgency of the moment, such as bringing water +when the kettle was sizzling dry, rescuing a line of clothes from an +advancing shower, or pulling a toddler from the bank of the stream +that ran through the yard. Such minor duties Serena unhesitatingly +assumed if Lonie happened to be lolling on the bed, her eyes on the +ceiling, and her banjo on her stomach, while she drew out the chords to +accompany such highland classics as + + “Richard courted Mandy, + And he come to court me. + Boy, on your pallet + There’s no room for three.” + +For her own pleasure, Serena demanded a neat appearance. Others +might sling their rags and wear caked overalls, but a trim garb was +her unquestioned privilege. Of late it seemed to me that the imp of +untidiness had more than one finger upon her. That certainly meant +unhappiness for herself. Then what did it indicate for the others? +Their special right, too, was ignored, along with my fireplace. + +But what began to give me real anxiety was the change in Serena’s +expression and bearing. She was showing a network of fine wrinkles on +her forehead, and beginning to walk with a slight, straining stoop, +akin to Len’s--a stoop that had begun to reproach me in my dreams. + +I was pondering all this one morning when I heard the chirp of Aunt +Janey Stiles. “Why’n’t you go to preachin’ to-day? You’ve got a +meetin’-house face on ye.” + +“Oh, Aunt Janey! Did you stay on the mountain last night?” + +“Yes, I wuz so tired when I pulled up from Beebread yisterday that +I stopped at Reenie’s an’ slept there. I ain’t goin’ to do it agin +though.” + +“What’s the matter, Aunt Janey?” + +“The devil, I reckon. When I woke up this mornin’ I thinks fer a +minute I’m at Dan Goforth’s, where the roarin’s as steady as the wind +in Peach Tree Gap. I couldn’t b’lieve I’s at Reenie’s. They all slept +late, ’cause it’s Sunday, an’ Ben got up an’ built a fire. Then he +kept tryin’ to git his mother up, ’cause she hadn’t pressed his pants +the night before, an’ he wuz aimin’ to go to meetin’ on Nighthawk. He +kept stompin’ around, and jerkin’ the cheers about, and then he begun +to swear. Right then Len bounces out o’ bed. Maybe he wuz sleepy er +something, an’ didn’t understand it, but anyway he jumps up when Ben +begins swearin’, an’ takes up a cheer an’ runs him out o’ the house +with it, an’ him ’thout shoes on an’ hit frosty.” + +“Len didn’t do that!” + +“I ain’t _astin’_ you to believe it.” + +“But he’s foolish about Ben.” + +“He’s a sight bigger fool about Reenie though, an’ I reckon maybe he +thought Ben wuz cussin’ at her.” + +“Aunt Janey, this is terrible!” + +“I thought I’d drap by an’ tell ye. I felt like you ought to know +there’s something spilin’ the peaceablest family in the settlement, and +you’d better find out what it is.” + +Aunt Janey went off, leaving me to unhappy reflections. Toward night +I had a visit from Len. Of old it had been his habit to call out some +witty greeting as he approached, but now his appearance was pathos +unrelieved. He took a chair and began to talk of far-off matters, but I +refused to be led around Robin Hood’s barn, and hurried him, slightly +bewildered, to the object of his visit. + +“We wuz gittin’ along all right,” he said, “till Reenie began to want +’tater patches in the moon.” + +“You are getting along all right now, Len. Isn’t that old store debt +nearly paid, that you used to say kept you awake nights?” + +“Ay, that’s quit brogin’ round my bed, but I don’t mean things like +that. I mean they ain’t any satisfaction in livin’. It’s been nigh +three weeks sence Reenie set down by me an’ kept still long enough +fer me to tie the first word to the next one. She’s cleanin’ up, +er churnin’, er gittin’ the childern’s clo’s fixed fer school, er +clearin’ something er other out o’ the way so she can put in a full +day to-morr’, she says, like next day wouldn’t have any hours at all. +She don’t hardly take time to nuss little Ross, an’ him lookin’ like he +ain’t goin’ to be here another year.” + +“You’re looking better yourself, Len. You weigh more, don’t you?” + +“Oh, I know we’ve got more to eat an’ to put on, but I’d ruther wear +a feller an’ a wench, an’ set down to corn bread an’ coffee, an’ see +some satisfaction. Lonie slips out with her banjo an’ goes to Bob +Ellis’s, an’ that boy o’ Bob’s ain’t fit company fer my girl. It’ll +come to something bad shore. An’ Ben is cuttin’ up like he’s goin’ to +marry that no-’count girl o’ Jem Ray’s. It’ll be a sorry day fer Reenie +ef he brings that thing in. Reenie’s worried to the bone, an’ coughs +haf the night so she kain’t sleep. I don’t want her to be like Dan +Goforth’s wife, a-strainin’ up hill and down, pickin’ strawberries, an’ +blackberries, an’ buckberries, an’ dryin’ fruit, an’ cannin’ peaches, +an’ runnin’ after chickens, an’ if ever she sets down a minute he says: +‘Nancy, looks like ye’d take better keer o’ that something er other, +an’ me workin’ so hard to keep the fam’ly off the county,’ an’ she +ups an’ goes at it agin. Her pore little hands, you could see to read +through ’em, an’ she’s so scant you could put her in a matchbox mighty +nigh, an’ hit full. I don’t want Reenie to git thataway. When I married +her I didn’t count on gittin’ much help. I knowed she wuz like her +father, Uncle Lish Bates, out in Madison. He wuzn’t a workin’ man by +natur. Six hundred acres o’ land wuz what he owned, an’ when one o’ his +fields got wore out he would pick out the richest piece on the place, +where the big timber growed, an’ cut a dead-ring around the oaks an’ +chestnuts an’ poplars, an’ next year when they’s dead he’d chop out a +hole in ’em an’ set fire in the hole, an’ it ’ud never go out till the +tree wuz burnt up, less’n it rained, so he didn’t have clearin’ to do, +only pilin’ brush. In the winter he’d go out an’ git him a big bunch o’ +wood an’ bring it in an’ stack it up in the corner, high as he could. +Then he’d make a big fire an’ set an’ tell the masterest tales so long +as they wuz anybody to drap in an’ listen, an’ when they wuzn’t he’d +jest set an’ sing. He couldn’t read a book-word, but he knowed ever’ +song from Noher down. Nothin’ ever made him mad, an’ he wuz so clever +round his house that folks said ef the devil wuz to come along, Uncle +Lish would set him a bite an’ sing him a song, then tell him the way +to the next place. I thought I wuz gittin’ something like that when I +married Reenie. I knowed I could work hard enough fer both of us, an’ +ef I wanted to do it I wuz my own fool an’ nobody else’s. But here’s +Reenie goin’ against her own sef, seems like, an’ so different I’m +about to fergit where I live. I want you to go an’ talk to her, Mis’ +Dolly. That’s what I’ve come fer. She’ll listen to what you say.” + +“Hadn’t you better talk to her yourself, Len?” I asked, feeling +appropriately uncomfortable. + +“She might snap me up. She’s never done that in her life, an’ ef she +did, I’d never fergit it. I ain’t goin’ to resk it. If I kain’t live +peaceable with my own wife, we’ll bust the quilt right now an’ quit.” + +He knew, of course, the part I had played in the change that afflicted +Serena, but in his eyes, pleading so humbly for her restoration, there +was no reproachful sign. I made him no promise further than agreeing +to talk with her next day, but that was enough to send him home in a +hopeful mood. Something had to be done, but it was not yet my intention +to advise Serena to abandon her industrious course. A way of adjustment +must be found. Contentment ought, and surely would, follow thrift. + +It was nearly sundown the next day before I could feel ready for the +promised talk. I found Serena sitting in her kitchen, flapping a straw +hat to cool her reddened forehead, though we were well into autumn. A +bucket of wild gooseberries was on the floor by her chair. She had just +come from Three Pine Ridge, she explained. The gooseberries were very +thick up there. + +“Didn’t you get tired, Serena, with such a climb?” + +“Tired wuzn’t nothin’. I reckon the ground hurt fer fifteen feet around +me. An’, Mis’ Dolly, I’ve quit.” + +There was a brief silence between us, then she entered upon her defense. + +“’Tain’t no use fer you to say you’ll hep me any more’n you do now, +’cause you kain’t. Len said last night it looked like you wuz gittin’ +sort o’ keen an’ sharp-natered, an’ I told him it was on account o’ +you runnin’ over here so much, an’ me no time to go to yore house an’ +hep ye out in a pinch. He said he’d a lot ruther I wouldn’t do so much +at home an’ hep you a little, ef that wuz what it took to keep you +easy. But it looks like from the time I begin in the mornin’ to git the +childern off to school----” + +“And how well they are doing, Serena! The teacher has been telling me. +They look so happy in their new clothes, and Lissie and Tom are getting +fat too.” + +She took no notice of my trivial interpolation. + +“An’ find all their caps an’ ’boggins an’ fix their dinner to carry, +an’ something always to be mended ’fore they can start, and the cows +waitin’ to be milked, an’ you tellin’ me to milk ’em on the stroke o’ +the clock, the same time ever’ day----” + +“And you’ve been having plenty of milk and butter. That’s a triumph, +Serena, in a big family like yours.” + +“An’ ever’ dish an’ pot to be washed, an’ the house to redd up, all +before I can _begin_ a day’s work, an’ Lonie a-sulkin’ ’cause I want +her to take holt o’ the sewin’ while I’m puttin’ up stuff, an’ Ben, +he used to think there wuzn’t nobody but me--” Here her voice shook +slightly and she tacked about rebelliously. “But I ain’t keerin’ what +they all think, I’m goin’ by my _own_ feelin’s. An’ I’ve quit. I come +to it up there in the late roas’in’-year patch. I went by there as I +come from the ridge with this big bucket o’ gooseberries, which was +heavy enough without a pile o’ roas’in’ years in my apern, but you said +I must git another big mess ’fore the frost struck ’em heavy, an’ that +field was plum full o’ pack-saddlers. One stung me ever’ time I laid +my hand on a roas’in’ year. Hit hurts worse’n a hornet fer a minute, +an’ it’s harder on a body’s temper than a hornet is. Hit makes you feel +bad all over an’ inside too. An’ this mornin’ I put on them sandals you +give me to easy my feet, an’ by four o’clock they had me broke off at +the ankles. I reckon my feet take a different kind o’ easin’ from yorn. +An’ here’s these gooseberries got to be legged ’fore I can git supper, +so’s I can cook ’em while I’m bakin’ bread, an’ save stove-wood. Ben is +rearin’ an’ pitchin’ all the time now ’bout me usin’ so much wood, an’ +leavin’ me to git it mysef haf the time. I’m so tired I know I ain’t +goin’ to sleep none to-night.” Then, with a desolation in her voice +that made my eyes suddenly hot, she added: “My sleep is all I git.” + +I was stricken silent, and she began again. “They’re goin’ to bury +Uncle Nathe Ponder to-morr’, an’----” + +“Oh, Serena, is Mr. Ponder dead?” + +“He died a Saturday. The Freemasons are comin’ out from Carson to +bury him proper, an’ here I am tied up with fixin’ things to eat next +winter! I ain’t had a chance to look inter the door at Uncle Nathe’s, +an’ him been sick three months.” + +“He was a good man, by all accounts.” + +“Yes, I wonder why the Lord didn’t take shif’less ol’ Med Pace ’stead +of a good man like Uncle Nathe, but I reckon He don’t want _all_ the +culls. ’Course Uncle Nathe had his way ’bout most things, but he was +shore a good man. Never was a widder that couldn’t go to his mill an’ +git a bushel o’ meal when she didn’t know where else to go. They got +to callin’ the bottom o’ the meal-sack ‘Uncle Nathe,’ round in Silver +Valley where he lived. When the meal was out they’d say: ‘We’re gittin’ +down to Uncle Nathe.’ The Freemasons ought to give him a proper funeral +ef they’d give it to anybody. Len says Arn Weaver wants to take a load +o’ folks in his car, ef it don’t rain. Ef it rains he kain’t git over +Red Hog Gap. I’ve never stept inter a car, an’ it would put heart inter +me to git to go. I didn’t even see the baptizin’ on Nighthawk when +they’s fifteen hit the water. An’ there’s Sis Long’s baby I ain’t ever +looked at. It’s the first one she’s had in three year an’ they’re all +so proud they’re buttin’ stumps about it. Hit don’t seem right to lay +sech store by eatin’. Ef we ain’t got time fer dyin’ an’ bein’ born, +what _hev_ we got time fer?” + +“Serena, how big is that car of Arnold Weaver’s?” + +“It’ll hold seven scrouged in the seats, an’ you can pack in as many +young-uns as you want to.” + +“I don’t suppose you could get the children ready to go to the funeral +to-morrow.” + +“No, I’d have to wash their clo’s all around, an’ do some mendin’. I +couldn’t git ’em ready if I stayed up all night.” + +“When Len comes in I want you to tell him to get word to Arn that we’ll +go in his car to-morrow. We’ll leave Ben with the children and take +Lonie with us.” + +“You kain’t git Len to stop fodder-pullin’. He never done that in his +life. Him an’ Sam ain’t brothers when it comes to takin’ fodder.” + +“He’ll stop, Serena.” + +Her eyes were like great jewels. “Them gooseberries’ll sour ’fore I git +back.” But, as if afraid that I would take second thought, she appended +hastily: “I don’t think much o’ gooseberries anyway. They’ll look about +as good to me a-spilin’ as a-keepin’.” + + +III + +We went to the funeral, and Serena and I remained in Silver Valley for +a day and night, the guests of Aunt Lizy Haynes. When we returned it +was the old Serena who came home. The factitious disguise of the past +twelve months had dropped utterly away. She assumed my acquiescence, +and received it. Her utmost effort had been given, and my way had +proved a failure. Therefore her own was better, and she returned to +it with conscientious abandon. Her silence, in regard to her long, +faithful struggle, grew, I think, out of her gentle pity for my +defeat. Possibly she loved me more, but that was the crowning seal of +my descent, marking the fall of authority. With time and tact and no +mistakes I might again give oracular advice, but for the present my +“mouth was growed up.” + +Serena’s floor was not scrubbed, but my fireplace was neat once more, +and my house shone with her occasional presence. Ben returned to +week-day rags, but his Sunday trousers were always ready. Lonie lolled +at home and picked the banjo, lazy indeed, but a vestal in no danger of +perjure. Len found “satisfaction,” with Serena’s chair touching his in +the firelight. He would grow thin again on coffee and untasted beans, +but his smile would endure. Little Ross was happy with his mother’s +arms waiting at any time. Of all the children he was the one that +showed no improvement during Serena’s period of reformation. He might +die of malnutrition, but tragedy--is it not the commonplace of life? +And happiness the rare fortune? I questioned Serena for the hundredth +time about the boy’s diet. Oh, yes, he was eating eggs right along. But +this time I was not satisfied with a meagre affirmative. + +“How many does he eat?” + +“I don’t keep no count. He goes to the nest when he hears a hen cackle. +You told me the fresher they was the better they was, an’ I told him he +could have ’em soon as they’s laid. He brings ’em in, gits him a spoon +o’ grease, an’ cleans the ashes off the fire-shovel an’ cooks ’em on it +right then.” + +“But he can’t get them soft that way.” + +“Oh, he kain’t eat ’em soft like you showed me how to fix ’em, jelly +all through. They make him sick thataway. I thought it wuz better +fer him to eat a hard egg than no egg at all. He cooks ’em till they +couldn’t be no harder ’thout burnin’ up. An’ he takes enough of ’em. +I kain’t look around, seems like, ’thout seein’ him cookin’ one. He’s +drinkin’ milk, too, only he ain’t had none sence yisterday ’cause we’ve +been out o’ coffee, barrin’ the grounds I boiled over fer Len.” + +“What has coffee to do with it?” + +“He kain’t take milk less’n it’s about haf coffee. He learned to drink +coffee when he was a baby, an’ he won’t take milk at all ef I don’t +mix it up good with coffee. Then he’ll drink a lot of it. Yes, he takes +plenty milk an’ eggs, but I kain’t see its heppin’ him a bit. He rolls +about all night, an’ talks in his sleep, an’ gits up a-frettin’ till we +kain’t stand him. I have to take him on my lap an’ nuss him like a baby +’fore he’ll quiet down. Len’s always sayin’, ‘Reenie, fer the Lord’s +sake, take the pore little feller,’ an’ as soon as he gits on my lap he +thinks he’s all right. An’ him ten year old. Ef the big uns git to be +babies again I don’t know what I’m goin’ to do. I kain’t git on with my +work a-settin’ backside to it all the time.” + +But no one could smile in Serena’s heavenly way and at the same time be +sincerely pining to get on with her work. + +During her frictionally industrious year, the stream of company had +somewhat lessened, but within a month after her return to the old +smiling status it had resumed its normal flow. As time passed, the +family larder was heavily, though genially, touched. The children’s +winter store of “balanced rations” melted away in hospitable warmth, +the cows dribbled their milk uncertainly, and if butter appeared on +the breakfast-table, the small saucer was much augmented by a big bowl +of gravy made of half-cooked flour and grease, which at least was +“filling”; and so long as the holiday atmosphere prevailed, every one, +family and visitors alike, was superbly indifferent to dietary monotony. + +I did not resume my encouraging contributions, and probably this was +taken as a hint of disapproval, which caused a slight tension between +our houses. One day near dark, when I found that Serena had to provide +for nine sleepers besides her own ten, I offered to take three of the +small children home with me, and met a dignified refusal. She “wouldn’t +think o’ troublin’ me noway.” I went home, my conscience narcotized, +and feeling a sort of admiration for Serena’s resourcefulness. But +about bedtime she appeared, a little crestfallen, and said: “I reckon +I’ll have to let the young-uns come over this onct. Uncle Med Pace +drapped in jest now with two o’ his boys, an’ I ain’t got another tick +I can put down. Ef it wuzn’t sech a cold night I could make out with a +pallet, but we need all the kivers on the beds.” + +I told her I should be glad to have the children, perhaps overdoing +my heartiness because of her evident compunction. When she left, to +send them over, she observed the highland punctilio of asking me +to accompany her and spend the night. This with no sense of the +ludicrous. It was immemorial custom, from which any deviation, under +any circumstances, would have seemed boorish. + +The next time I was called upon to receive the overflow from her cabin +there was less reluctance in her manner, and the third time it was done +with such ease of spirit that I said testily: “Serena, why don’t you +take boarders and get a little pay for your trouble?” + +About a week afterward I passed Len’s on my way to Beebread. The house +was a hundred yards distant from the main road, with only two gigantic +apple-trees intervening. An old man, assisted by Serena, was removing +plunder from a strange wagon before the door, but I knew better than +to stop and investigate a happening so unusual. If I waited, I should +eventually hear all about it; if I inquired, I should hear only the +least that could be told me. Not to appear prematurely curious, I kept +away from Len’s cabin for two or three days. Then I sauntered over. As +I approached I heard screams so eerie, so full of anguish, that I ran +staggeringly to the house and fell against the shut door. The windows +had sheets pinned over them, and the door was carefully fastened with +an inside bar. Years passed, it seemed, before Serena came to the door +and made an aperture large enough to admit of her passage onto the +porch. + +“It ain’t nobody but pore little Viny,” she said. “Do you want to come +in and see her?” + +“Can I help you?” I asked faintly. + +“No, there kain’t anybody do fer her but me. She told me before she +took her spell what to do. I’ve got to git back to her now, but me an’ +Len’ll be over to see you after supper.” + +I walked feebly homeward, and waited. Serena and Len came a little +late. She explained this by saying: “I have to be sort o’ behind with +my supper ever’ other day now. Viny don’t git over her spell till it’s +turned five o’clock. You know we’ve been tellin’ you for a long time +about Uncle Mace Morgan’s girl, Viny.” + +So they had, I dimly recalled. + +“She’s been wantin’ to come an’ live with us ever sence her mother died +a year ago, an’ Uncle Mace brought her up the mountain Wednesday, with +her bed an’ things.” + +No longer dimly, but in a flash of apprehensive light, I recalled +the story of Viny Morgan. She was a cousin of Serena’s. When a child +of thirteen, she had been the victim of a disease that had left her +with a withered leg. The youngest of her family, and of an endearing +disposition, she had tripped about happily on crutches until she was +twenty-one. At that age she was stricken by a malady that produced +acute crises of pain. As the years passed the pain increased and the +crises came in regular periods every other day. For hours she would +struggle in a crazed, semiconscious way, and only her mother could +“manage” her at these times. After the mother’s death, the father +did what he could for his daughter, while he kept looking about +distractedly for some one to relieve him. Serena had the courage and +the kindness, but deferred her consent, I think because she and Len in +some vague way forefelt my protest. + +“You know, Mis’ Dolly,” said Serena, “after you told me I ought to take +boarders an’ git pay fer keepin’ folks, I thought ef there was anybody +in the world I ought to take it was pore little Viny. She’s goin’ to +give me five dollars a week, an’ she ain’t a bit of trouble only ever’ +other day when she has her spell. Hit comes on around one o’clock an’ +stays till about five, jest four hours is all it is, an’ I don’t have +to do anything but set by her an’ rub her, an’ keep her from bitin’ me +when the pain gits so bad she’s out an’ out crazy.” + +“Serena, are you telling me that you can sit by her and hear her scream +like that for four hours?” + +“Her mother done it fer twenty year, an’ it wuz harder fer her than fer +me. Somebody’s got to take keer of her, an’ Uncle Mace is mighty nigh +dead over it. He kain’t hold out like a woman. Five dollars a week’ll +hep us a lot. You can git them cloaks you wanted fer the childern, now +I’ve got a way to pay you. Ef I can earn it adoin’ what the Lord tells +us is our duty, I’m glad o’ the chaince. ’Fore you make up your mind +about it, Mis’ Dolly, I want you to come an’ see Viny. Come when she’s +feelin’ good, so you can get acquainted. The young-uns are plum foolish +about her, an’ I kain’t keep ’em off her bed.” + +“Where _is_ her bed, Serena?” + +“It’s in the corner by the fireplace. It scrouges us a little, but Len +fixed a bench at the foot o’ the bed, an’ the childern set on that +an’ keep warm. There wuzn’t room fer Viny’s bed ’twixt mine and the +girls’. Viny is shore sociable an’s been wonderin’ when you’ll come +to see her. She can crochet the purtiest, an’ gits money fer it, but +Uncle Mace don’t know it. Her mother left her a hundred dollars, all +in five-dollar gold pieces, that she’d saved up aslippin’ eggs to the +store, an’ sellin’ off chickens quiet, an’ makin’ rugs fer them summer +folks at Carson. She told Viny to git more ef she could, an’ go to the +hospital with it. Uncle Mace never would hear to her goin’, an’ that’s +why Viny won’t tell him about the money. He says she’ll never come +back alive, an’ he’s agin the hospital awful. He b’lieves the devil +gits inter pore innercent Viny to punish him fer some meanness he done +onct, an’ he says God will drive it out in His own time. I told him it +looked like God would ’a’ put it in him ’stead o’ Viny, an’ he said it +hurt him worse fer Viny to have it, an’ he had to work, bein’ a man. +‘You’re too old to work now,’ I told him, ‘an’ maybe if you prayed +hard, the Lord would put it inter you an’ let Viny off fer a while,’ +but he said it wuz best to let God work it out in his own way. Viny, +though, she kinder wants to try the hospital, an’ that’s why she won’t +tell him about the money. You’ll take to the pore little thing soon as +you look at her, Mis’ Dolly. Len said the day Uncle Mace brought her up +the mountain that we ought to go an’ see you first, but I told him I’d +lived by you long enough to know what you’d say ’thout askin’.” + +Her eyes were bright with appeal. Len was straining anxiously over her +shoulder. What could I do but beat down my anti-Samaritan intellect and +surrender them to their own undoing? I don’t remember what I said, but +when they left me, and I held the lamp to light them across the little +bridge in the yard, I saw that they were walking hand in hand, as they +liked to do when sharing a supreme pleasure. + + +IV + +I went to see Viny. + +They had helped her from her bed to the fireside, and she talked, +softly eager, while her slim hands were busy with a needle and Serena’s +quilt-scraps. Without a knowledge of her age, I should have taken her +for a frail girl in her twenties. She had the profound gentleness and +mystic smile of one recently released from intolerable pain. They were +all proud of her. Lonie took her advice as to the pattern of a new +dress. Ned brought her an enormous apple whose keeping qualities he +had been testing. Len came to the house for a drink when he could more +easily have gone to the spring, because he had thought of something +that would make Viny laugh. + +Her illness was not mentioned until some one spoke of her mother’s long +devotion. Then her warm, hazel eyes were lit with idolatry. + +“At first,” she said, “my attacks come hit or miss, and it was awfully +hard for mother to plan her work. She had everything to do at home, +and no help except father. They were all married off but me. I prayed +fer my spells to come reg’lar, and after a while they did. Then mother +could lay out her work, and get on all right.” + +Her disease was terribly real, there was no doubt of that; but +I wondered if, through concern for her mother, she had actually +psychologized her crises into periodicity. + +When I left the house Serena accompanied me a few steps. Len joined us, +eager to know what I thought of Viny, and it was easy to say all that +they were longing to hear. + +“I knowed you’d like her,” said Serena. “She offered me one of her +five-dollar gold pieces to-day, an’ I was ashamed to look at it, +knowin’ all about her savin’ up fer the hospital. I made her put it +back in that little bag she carries her money in. She don’t eat but +onct a day. Then it’s only a little butter an’ a ’tater. I couldn’t +think o’ chargin’ her fer a ’tater. Sometimes she’ll taste an egg, but +she brought three hens, an’ I git more o’ the eggs than she does. She +brought her own bed an’ kivers, so I kain’t charge her fer sleepin’. +She lays there, not botherin’ anybody, an’ ever’ other day when she’s +not out of her mind, she heps me piece quilts, an’ I kain’t tell you +the things she’s patched.” + +“Perhaps you ought to pay _her_, Serena,” I said, but the irony did not +penetrate. + +“She wouldn’t let me do that. She says it’s only right fer her to hep +me. No, she wouldn’t take pay fer piecin’ an’ patchin’.” + +I was about to ask Serena why she couldn’t let Viny pay her for the +service she received, but happily for me, I was forestalled by Len. + +“Anybody,” he said, “that would take pay from Viny fer the leetle mite +she eats would be so stingy they’d screak. An’ Reenie kain’t charge +fer waitin’ on her. Ef there’s anything plain in the Bible it’s how we +ought to take keer o’ the sick.” + +“About them cloaks, Mis’ Dolly, you got fer Ray an’ Lissie,” Serena +remembered to say, “I’ve studied out how I can pay you back by makin’ +a fire an’ milkin’ fer you when the weather’s bad. I reckon that would +suit you same as money.” + +“Oh, a lot better, Serena!” + +“I thought you’d like that,” she said, with a countenance as joyful as +if the debt were already paid. + +As the weeks passed I found there was only one objection to Viny as +a member of the household. Her “bad day” interfered with company, +particularly if it fell on Saturday or Sunday. During her attacks, +light and sound were like blows, and before entering on her torture +she would implore Serena to keep the room darkened and silent. This +meant that family and guests had to crowd around the little kitchen +stove, impossibly subdued, until Viny “come out of it.” At those times +I avoided the house and its immediate region. Never in my life had I +watched the calendar so closely, fearing that I might make a mistake +and hear those screams again. But once I ventured over on a “bad day,” +waiting until five o’clock, when Viny would be “getting through.” +I listened and heard only a low moaning. Serena let me in. Viny’s +pretty head was weaving agonizedly, and in her broken moans I could +distinguish an anguished appeal for help. “She’s bearable easy now,” +said Serena, returning to the task of rubbing her patient’s head and +arms and back. + +I went to the bed and looked at Viny. Of her eyes, only the whites +could be seen. It was hard to believe that within an hour they would be +soft, dark, intelligent. The sight was too ghastly, and I retreated to +the porch. After a few moments Serena came out. + +“She’s still now,” she said. “She’ll lay there quiet fer haf an hour, +then she’ll be all right, only awful weak.” + +I looked closely at Serena. It was clear that she was failing. “You +can’t hold up at this,” I said, grasping at the commonplace. + +“I could ef folks would change off with me onct in a while. I could +hold up fine. But what you reckon that ol’ Ann Hite said when I sent +her word I’d wash fer her ef she’d come an’ stay with Viny jest once? +She said it ’ud take a year’s washin’ to pay fer that.” + +“Serena,” I said, firmly defensive, “you needn’t look about for people +as good as you are. They don’t exist.” + +“I tried to slip out from Viny the last time, an’ let Lonie stay with +her, but it wuzn’t more’n two er three minutes ’fore Lonie come runnin’ +out cryin’, an’ showed me her wrist bleedin’ where Viny bit her. Viny +cried awful about it when she come to, but Lonie won’t try it any more, +so I’ll jest keep at it. I ain’t got to come over an’ hep you any ’bout +milkin’ an’ makin’ fires, but you see how it is, an’ I reckon you don’t +blame me. I’m studyin’ out how I’ll pay you some time.” + +“Don’t speak of it again, Serena,” I replied, thankful to have escaped +the degradation of lying in bed and letting her come around the curve +in the freezing weather to milk for me. + +A month, perhaps, went by, and the influenza began to climb the +mountain. As it drew nearer, I thought of Len’s household, with two +invalids already in the crowded cabin, and the prospect took my breath. +One morning about daylight I heard Len’s voice calling me, and hurried +down the stairs to hear the worst. + +“Reenie wuz took last night. Looks like she’s goin’ to git bad off. An’ +I’ve come to ast you whatever’ll I do about Viny?” + +“Is this her bad day, Len?” + +“No, that thing don’t tech her till to-morr’.” + +I knew what he was expecting me to say, but I launched a surprise that +astounded him. + +“Then hitch up as quickly as you can, put her things in the wagon, and +take her back to her father.” + +His lips made two or three quivering attempts at speech. “I thought +maybe you’d----” + +“No, Len. I can’t take care of Viny. I _won’t_ take care of Viny. And +the only thing you can do about it is to take her back to her father.” + +“I reckon I’ll have to,” he said, in dazed dejection. + +“How long will it take you to get off?” + +He glanced at the first rays of the sun, then said: “Two hours’ll do.” + +“Then in two hours I will be over to say good-by to Viny and take care +of Serena until you get back.” + +He went, his long, stooped back plainly telling me that I had been +weighed in the balance and struck the beam of heaven. + +For about two weeks I was kept in close attendance on Serena and the +children. Just as they were getting up, it came my turn to go down. +Neighbors, far and near, were ready with kind help, but it was not +until Serena walked in, a little pale yet from her own convalescence, +and looked down at me with her blue eyes almost hazel dark with +feeling, that the temperature of the pillow under my head dropped to a +hopeful point. The bland movements of her hands seemed to be fulfilling +an old desire. Behind her was the generation of Uncle Lish, who could +sit and sing till the fire was out; and hovering with her presence was +the never-defined equation that rescues from loneliness the edge of the +grave. It did not trouble me to know that on my recovery I was going to +be as foolish about Serena as Len and her children. + +After I could sit in my chair, it was as good as hearing gentle music +just to see her on the other side of the fire, her hands in her lap, +with the placidity of eternity doing nothing at all. One day she spoke +of Viny. + +“I reckon you was right about Viny. I didn’t know how scrouged we wuz +till I got to stayin’ over here with you. Seems like they’s more’n as +many agin of us now, an’ when we all try to git around the fire, some +of us kain’t see the blaze, let alone feel it. When they’s company the +childern have to set back so fur they’re too cold to git their lessons.” + +It was then that the vague trouble about those two unbuilt rooms +crystallized in my mind with unbearable clearness. By some economical +turn or twist, I would get them put up. + +“Serena,” I said, “I’m going to have enough lumber hauled up the +mountain to make two more rooms at your house, and I’ll have Cleve +Saunders build them if Len can’t get the time.” + +“Oh,” she cried joyously, “me an’ Len wuz sayin’ last night how fine +that would be! I reckon he’d better not go after pore little Viny till +you git ’em done.” + + + + +VIII + +A PROPER FUNERAL + + +I + +We were on our way to see Uncle Nathe Ponder buried. Serena was as +happy as she could be with decency, considering our solemn destination. +She had not been away from home for several months, and her joyous +reaction could be suppressed only intermittently. But, at any time, her +laughter was pleasantly low of key, as if she were softly trying it out +before subjecting you to the full flow that never came. + +And Serena was infectious. I had set out with my mind meditatively +intrenched on the going down of men into the grave; the passing of +man himself, of earth, of suns, of systems, with no full-grown hope +of any immortal salvage; but Serena, pulsingly aware in a significant +world, soon restored me to stature as a member of a community bent on +giving due honor to one whose days among them had been spent with the +vividness that amounts to virtue among a people who look to life for +their drama instead of the stage and the morning papers. + +We had left home early because of Len’s prediction that we should have +to walk after reaching Red Hog Gap, the entrance to Silver Valley. “But +we’ll be in two miles o’ the graveyard then,” he said, “an’ can pick +it up in no time.” Uncle Nathe’s farm lay in Silver Valley township +only four miles, by crow’s wing, northwest of mine, but the descent +over cliffs and crags was hazardous, and we had set off in exactly +the opposite direction, walking the two miles down to Beebread, where +Arnold Weaver was waiting on the new highway with his car--the first +automobile to become a local pride in our part of the mountains. We +soon sailed over the few miles of highway and reached Scatter, the +next railroad-station below Beebread, where we turned into the narrow +mountain road leading to Uncle Nathe’s country. Here we began to come +upon people who were walking to the funeral, and it was here that our +car, through Len’s cordiality, became so firmly packed. He extended +invitations until the seats, the floor, and the running-boards would +hold no more. “You’re payin’ fer the whole car,” he said, “an’ might as +well git yer money’s worth.” + +We were bouncing heavily along over the rutty road when ahead of us we +saw a young man whose brisk step was certainly not of the highlands. +There were various unsuccessful conjectures as to his identity, +and suddenly Len called out: “Hey, Arn, stop yer shooter! It’s Ann +Lindsay’s boy!” + +“He’d have to set ’tween yer big toe an’ the long un,” said Arn. “I +ain’t goin’ to stop no more.” + +“But he’s come all the way from C’lumby to be at Uncle Nathe’s buryin’.” + +“He didn’t walk only from Scatter.” + +“I’ll jump out an’ let him set in my place.” + +“You ain’t got any place. You’re settin’ on the tip aidge o’ nothin’.” + +But Arn stopped the car. “Here, Bake,” said Len, “I’m gittin’ out, an’ +you hop in. Reckon you know me?” + +“Len Merlin!” cried the stranger. “You caught that fox yet?” + +“No, he’s waitin’ fer ye.” + +“Can’t get him this trip. Got to hurry back. Go on, Arn, with your +baggage. I’m walking to rest myself. Been on the train since last +night. I’ll see you all over the hill.” + +His refusal of the “seat” was positive, and we moved on, but not +far. We were climbing the hill leading to Red Hog Gap, and Lea’s +prediction came true. The car refused to take the last lap over the +hill, though we gave it an opportunity to do its best, by dropping out +and scattering as readily as overripe plums from a suddenly shaken +bough. With good cheer we began our walk to the graveyard. When nearly +there we were overtaken by Bake Lindsay, and Len picked up their broken +conversation. + +“What yer hurryin’ to git back fer? You ain’t been in sence when?” + +“Not since I was married,” said Lindsay, “and that’s five years. I +started soon as I heard about Uncle Nathe.” + +“Is he really a nephew of Mr. Ponder?” I asked of the woman walking +nearest to me, for with the whole country calling him “uncle,” the +blood-kin were left without distinction. + +“No, he ain’t no nephew,” she said, in a tone that I had learned to +recognize as a shut trail in Unakasia. The story was not for me, an +outsider. Even Len and Serena had turned a gently impassive front to my +very reasonable interest in Uncle Nathe’s family history. But Serena +now stepped up and said intimately: “Jest wait, Mis’ Dolly. We’ll go +to dinner with Aunt Lizy Haynes. Uncle Nathe’s half-brother, Ranz, is +stayin’ there, an’ he’s shore to let loose after the buryin’. When +Uncle Ranz lets loose it’s something else, I’m tryin’ to tell ye. They +won’t be any more questions to ast when he gits through.” Then she +moved over to Bake. “It’s fine, yore comin’ in, Bake,” she said. + +“Of course I wanted to be at the funeral, but,” he explained honestly, +“I’ve come mainly to get mother.” + +“She goin’ back with you?” cried half a dozen voices. + +“She’s promised to. I’ve been trying to get her to come out to me and +Jenny ever since we’ve been married.” Then his voice seemed to struggle +a little. “Before we tied up, Jenny gave me her word that she’d be good +to mother, and I know she’ll keep it.” + +“You got any young-uns?” asked Len, and Bake said he had a little boy. +They had named him Nathan. + +“That tickled Uncle Nathe, I reckon,” said the woman who had answered +me the moment before. Then she hastened to cover her indiscretion. +“’Course y’all have been on his place a long time, an’ he’s been mighty +good to ye.” + +“He’s been good to ever’body,” said another. + +“I reckon he has,” said Bake, and we entered the graveyard. + +It was to be a Masonic funeral. Uncle Nathe’s popularity would have +drawn a large attendance, but the presence of the Fraternity made the +occasion an event in Silver Valley’s history. Nathan Ponder had been +the only Freemason in his township, a member of the distant lodge in +Carson, and for years he had not been in active attendance there, +but he had left a request to be buried by the brethren, and they had +gallantly responded. + +“That’s Elmer Jenkins,” whispered Serena of a man who was prominent in +the ceremony. “He’s a lawyer, come up from South C’liny ’bout a year +ago, ’count of his wife’s health, an’ settled in Carson.” + +“Looks like,” said another voice, “that they could ’a’ got along ’thout +a furriner to tell ’em what to do.” + +“He’s high up in the lodge,” said Uncle Ranz Ponder, the half-brother +of Uncle Nathe, “an’ he seems mighty frien’ly.” + +The old and impressive service was solemnly conducted to the end, and +there was a general breaking-up, amid a conflict of invitations for +everybody to go home with everybody else for dinner. + +“We’ll go with Aunt Lizy,” said Serena. “They’s a lot been astin’ me, +but they ain’t none of ’em pulled the buttons off my clo’s tryin’ to +take me with ’em, an’ I know we’ll be full welcome at Aunt Lizy’s. +Uncle Ranz, he’s her cousin, he’ll be there, like I said.” + +So Mrs. Haynes’s invitation was accepted. Serena and I were to stay +until the next day, but Len and the daughter, Lonie, were to return +that evening to look after the children, the cows, and the chickens. + +The brethren who had come out from Carson returned to town, with the +exception of Lawyer Jenkins, who, probably, was thinking of profitable +affiliations with the remote but fertile valley. I observed him reading +the headstones around the new-made grave, and it seemed to me that he +was afflicted with a growing concern. He turned, with a question, to +the man nearest him, who happened to be Len. + +“Am I to understand that our good brother was married four times?” + +“You shore air,” said Len. “There lays four of as good wives as a man +ever had. Them tombstones don’t tell no lies. They’s all ’fore my time, +savin’ Aunt Lindy, his last ’un, but I’ve hearn enough to know what +they wuz.” + +“But four? Isn’t it a little unusual?” + +“Well, maybe it is, but Uncle Nathe wuzn’t no hand to set at home by +hissef.” + +At that moment, to Len’s apparent relief, Aunt Lizy came up, and we +found that Mr. Jenkins also had accepted her invitation. He walked with +her husband, Uncle Dan’l Haynes, and I gathered from drifting fragments +of their conversation that Mr. Jenkins was still on the trail of Uncle +Nathe’s connubial history. + +At the dinner-table he pleased all of the guests by introducing the +topic from which they were politely holding back. “I have been learning +from our kind host,” he said, eying with favor his selected piece of +fried chicken, “what this loss means to the community.” + +“Yes,” some one responded, “it knocks all of us, losin’ Nathe does.” + +“There is some property too, I believe. I trust there is harmony among +the heirs.” + +“They’re all behavin’ fine,” said Aunt Lizy, with some heartiness. + +“Our brother was married several times, I understand. Did--er--all of +his wives leave issue?” + +“Young-uns? No, Aunt Lindy never had any, ner Lu Siler, but Callie had +a little feller that died--Rufe, they called him. An’ Ponnie, his fust +wife, left four, all livin’ yit. They git along together fust-rate.” + +“I wonder what Ponnie would ’a’ said,” reflected Uncle Dan’l, “ef +somebody had told her Nathe wouldn’t be buried alongside o’ her.” + +“Well,” said Uncle Ranz, “I’d ruther not hear what Ponnie would ’a’ +said.” + +“I say it ought to ’a’ been Lindy he wuz laid by,” asserted Aunt Lizy. +“She lived with him the longest an’ worked the hardest.” + +“She didn’t think a grain more o’ him than Lu Siler did,” returned +Uncle Dan’l. + +“Our brother expressed no preference?” inquired Mr. Jenkins. + +“You mean which un did he want to lay ’longside of? No, he wuzn’t a man +to put one wife ’fore another. He left that to us.” + +“Very thoughtful, I take it,” said the lawyer. “A strong character +certainly. I am sorry I never knew him.” And he mused a little on the +bed-rock qualities of the old mountaineer. + +“We meant,” explained Uncle Dan’l, “to lay Nathe by his fust wife, +Ponnie, but when we dug down there we struck a rock that would ’a’ +had to be blasted out, an’ we’s afeard it would shake up the graves. +We couldn’t lay him t’other side o’ her, ’cause her two childern wuz +there, an’ then come Lindy, his last wife, so we decided to dig jest +beyant Lindy. But about four feet down we come to water that turned +ever’thing inter mud--it wuz that spring, I reckon, that sinks inter +the ground above the graveyard--an’ we had to go to the upper row where +Callie an’ little Rufe an’ Lu wuz layin’. We couldn’t put him by Lu, +’cause she wuz in the aidge o’ the Ponder lot, right next to Randy +Hayes in Bill Hayes’s lot, an’ it jest had to be Callie er nothin’.” + +Comments followed, various and spirited, with citations of other +instances, historic and contemporary, and the dinner was over. Mr. +Jenkins regretted that he must leave us. He was urged to stay, in the +politest highland manner, but when the door had closed behind the +respected “furriner,” the immediate relaxation in the air showed that +the hour of restraint had been heroically prolonged. + +“Harmony!” exclaimed Aunt Lizy. “An’ there’s Angie Sue claimin’ +ever’thing her daddy had. There won’t be a scrap left when they all git +through fightin’.” + +The general glance slanted toward me, and I began to think that I ought +to have disappeared with Mr. Jenkins, though the fact that I was under +Serena’s native wing had done much to vouch for me. + +“I don’t reckon Bake Lindsay’ll mix up in anything,” said Pole Andrews, +with an eye carefully diverted. “I seen he wuz at the buryin’.” + +“Wonder what he’s back here fer?” said another, equally disinterested. + +“He’s come to git his mother,” Serena easily announced. + +“Ann!” came from several voices. + +“That’s what he said. You heard him, Mis’ Dolly.” + +She turned to me with careless confidence, and I responded with an +uncritical smile that embraced the company. + +“Oh, yes! He has come in for his mother. She is going to live with him +and Jenny.” + +I knew everything then! There was a stir of abandon, and an eager voice +asked: “You don’t think that Bake can tech any o’ the property, do you?” + +“’Course he kain’t,” said Aunt Lizy, before I could recover from the +direct appeal. “Anybody knows that.” + +“You are right, Mrs. Haynes,” said I, now clothed in authority. “He is +not entitled to a single thing. Though, of course, I’ve never heard the +whole story. I’ve been wishing some of you would tell me everything +just as it happened.” + +“Ranz there’ll tell ye,” said Aunt Lizy. “He thinks his tongue’s got a +mortgage on ever’thing abody could say about Nathe Ponder.” + +“Ef I’ve got sech a mortgage, Lizy, you’re always scrappin’ to git yer +name on it.” Then he turned to me. “If I tell it, I’ll have to start at +the fust of it. I never could hit the middle an’ go on.” + +“All right, Uncle Ranz,” said one of the younger men. “That’s what we +want. I reckon this is the last time we’ll all corcus over Uncle Nathe.” + +“Y’all keep Lizy from pesterin’ me then, an’ turn that feist out, some +o’ ye.” + + +II + +“Nathe took me to live with him an’ Ponnie,” began Uncle Ranz, “when +they’s fust married. I wuz about ten years old then, an’ I’ve got to +say it fer Nathe, he wuz as good to me as a daddy. He wuz thirty years +old when his fust trouble come up, an’ he’d been married turnin’ onto +ten years. Him an’ Ponnie had four childern a livin’ an’ two dead.” + +“You wuz there, Uncle Ranz,” put in a guest, “the very day o’ the +trouble, wuzn’t you?” + +“I wuz right there, but ef I’m goin’ to talk it will have to be on +my own time an’ not yorn.” There was a chastened silence, then he +continued amiably: “Ponnie had been spittin’ fire fer two er three +days, an’ the childern wuz dodgin’ her. I wuz grown up by that time, +an’ could look out fer myself. Nathe an’ Ponnie had been plum crazy +about each other when they got married, but they had black eyes +pineblank alike, an’ I’ve noticed that don’t work out as well as when +you marry a different color. Nathe’s hair wuz curly, though, an’ +Ponnie’s wuz straight an’ long. It wuz powerful thick, too, an’ she +could twist it an’ wrap it round her head big as a dish-pan mighty +nigh. I’ve _hearn_ she had a drap o’ Cher’kee in her----” + +“That wuzn’t so, Ranz,” Aunt Lizy interjected. “Me an’ Ponnie wuz the +same age, an’ run together from the time we’s out of our cradles, an’ +ef there’d been any Indian in her I’d ’a’ knowed it.” + +“You’d ’a’ had to know her gran’mother, I reckon. Anyways I’m jest +tellin’ what I hearn. There wuz a woman up on Sawmill Creek that folks +said wuzn’t much good. She had hair as yaller as honey, an’ as sprangly +as a stump full o’ gran’daddies. It begun to seep around that Nathe wuz +slippin’ over there, an’ Ponnie got holt o’ the talk. After that, Nathe +dassent stay away from home all night, she’d git so ruffled up. He +come to me one day an’ ast me ef I couldn’t ride over inter Tennessee +an’ look at some mules he wanted to buy to trade on. I thought he ought +to go hissef, ’cause he knowed a mule from the tip o’ his nose to the +kick in his heels, so I says: ‘Nathe, you kain’t afford to let Ponnie +ruin yer business. Air ye a man, er air ye not?’ That’s what I said, +an’ I reckon I ought to ’a’ kept my mouth shut, seein’ how it turned +out, an’ gone on inter Tennessee. Nathe walked off an’ saddled up, +an’ told Ponnie he’d be gone four er five days. She’d come out to the +gate, an’ when he told her that, I saw her kindle up, an’ she turned +square around an’ went inter the kitchen. After Nathe rid off I went +in too, an’ I saw Ponnie wuz workin’ hard an’ tryin’ to git easy. We +talked about what a good man Nathe wuz, an’ what he wuz doin’ fer his +fam’ly, an’ how the neighbors thought sech a sight o’ him, an’ what he +wuz goin’ to make agittin’ mules out o’ Tennessee an’ tradin’ on ’em, +an’ she quieted off an’ seemed all right till Nathe got back from his +trip. When he come in she wuz mighty glad to see him. He told her he’d +done well, an’ she’d be stringin’ di’monds in that black hair some day, +an’ they ’most had a little courtin’ spell. But Julie Mack come in the +next day to help Ponnie put up fruit an’ bile off apple butter, an’ +Julie’s mother lived up on Sawmill Creek not fur from that woman.” + +“Ol’ Sis Mack could split a truth an’ make two lies out of it!” said +Aunt Lizy, and Uncle Ranz loftily accepted the interpolation. + +“That’s what I told Ponnie when she come out to the orchard where I wuz +shakin’ down apples. She said that Julie’s mother had seen Nathe ridin’ +down Sawmill Creek road, an’ I told her what I thought of ol’ Sis +Mack’s tongue. ‘He may ’a’ jest rid by innercent,’ I says. ‘Innercent!’ +says Ponnie. ‘It wuzn’t yisterday she seen him, it wuz the day before.’” + +“‘Well, ef it’s so,’ I told her, ‘it ain’t so bad as buryin’ Nathe.’ +I reckon that’s another time I spoke wrong, fer she said she didn’t +know about that, an’ went off a-studyin’. But she come in an’ got +supper, tryin’ to smile peart, an’ Nathe didn’t know nuthin’ wuz +wrong. Next mornin’ she got to studyin’ agin, an’ come round to me +about ten o’clock. ‘Ranzie,’ she says, ‘I’m goin’ to kill Nathe,’ an’ +I says: ‘You need him too bad, Ponnie, to hep raise yer childern.’ +‘I kain’t raise ’em at all,’ she says, ’ef he keeps me bothered this +a-way. Nathe’s my man, an’ I ain’t goin’ to have him runnin’ here an’ +yander.’ I went to Nathe then, an’ told him that Ponnie knowed about +him an’ he’d better get it fixed up with her. He said nobody could lie +hard enough to git anything fixed up with Ponnie, an’ I said: ‘What ef +she took a notion to kill ye, Nathe?’ He laffed big at that, an’ said: +‘Ranz, you don’t know Ponnie like I do. She’d keep me here jest fer her +temper to bite on.’ ‘She ain’t so awful high-tempered,’ I says. ‘She +works hard, an’s raisin’ yer four childern. She’d never say a hot word, +leastways to you, ef it wuzn’t fer the way folks say you run around. +Ef it’s so, I’d try to quit it till she gits to where she don’t think +enough o’ you fer it to bother her.’ + +“‘Lord, they ain’t no hope o’ that,’ he said. ‘But don’t you worry +’bout her killin’ me.’ An’ he went off to hep some men we had workin’ +in the fodder. I kep’ busy in the orchard, an’ ’long a little ’fore +twelve I wuz goin’ inter the yard with a tow-sack full o’ winesaps +on my back when I seen Ponnie comin’ from the smoke-house with the +big butcher-knife in her hand, an’ seen Nathe a-crossin’ over to the +spring. They come up close together, an’ she put out her hand an’ took +holt o’ Nathe’s hair right above his forehead. He had powerful curly +hair then, like I told ye, an’ black as sut. She turned his head right +back, an’ says: ‘Nathe, I’m goin’ to cut yer throat.’ That sack dropped +off my back, but I wuz so cold I couldn’t move. Nathe looked right at +her an’ laffed. ‘Go ahead, Ponnie,’ he says. ‘I reckon that’s what you +ought to do.’ She let go then an’ made like she wuz playin’ with him, +but she says, ‘Some o’ these days I’ll mean it,’ an’ went inter the +kitchen. In about haf an hour she come to the door an’ called ever’body +to dinner. We’s all in the yard, washed up by that time, an’ we went +in. Ponnie had made apple pies that mornin’, an’ had chicken an’ +dumplin’s, ’cause that wuz what Nathe liked, an’ she’d set the table +out nice, an’ put on a white table-cloth, which we didn’t have only fer +company an’ Sundays. She hepped ever’body, an’ picked out the drumstick +fer little Rosie, an’ made the boys, Herb an’ Sam, stop scrappin’. Then +she says: ‘Hep yersevs, I’m goin’ inter the big room fer a minute.’ +We went on eatin’, an’ Nathe called out she’d better hurry up, the +dumplin’s wuz goin’ fast, an’ right then we heard a shot. When we got +in, there she wuz lyin’ on the floor stone dead, an’ Nathe’s ol’ rifle +there to tell it. Nathe fell down on the floor an’ kept sayin’, ‘You +don’t mean it, Ponnie, you know you don’t mean it,’ over an’ over till +I’s about crazy. He’d rub her black hair like he wuz techin’ a baby, +an’ swear that he’d put his eyes out ’fore he’d look at another woman +agin. ‘You know you hear me, Ponnie,’ he’d say, ‘you know you do.’” + +Uncle Ranz paused feelingly, and when another voice took up the +narrative, the help was tolerantly welcomed. + +“Yes,” said Uncle Dan’l, “I’ve hearn Ben Goforth tell it. He wuz one o’ +the men workin’ there that day, an’ they pulled Nathe away from Ponnie +an’ inter the yard, till the women could lay her out. Soon as she wuz +dressed fer her coffin he went back an’ laid on the floor till they +carried her off.” + +“He got over it, though,” said Serena, who could never linger in gloom. + +“Purty slow, purty slow, but when he did put it by--well, sir, he _put +it by_.” + +“Slow it wuz,” said Aunt Lizy. “I remember, as well as Ranz, er anybody +here, ’bout that next winter an’ spring. Nathe kept lookin’ like he +didn’t keer whether he wuz in this world er the next, an’ he wouldn’t +put in no crap. Ranzie here had the whole farm on his hands, an’ I’ll +say it fer Ranz that ef it hadn’t been fer him them little young-uns +would ’a’ gone hungry that year, er lived off the neighbors. The +deacons fin’ly went to Nathe an’ ast him ef he thought he wuz heppin’ +Ponnie any by neglectin’ her childern, an’ said he ort to git somebody +who would take keer of ’em. They told him to marry some good woman +that ’ud look after them like Ponnie wanted. An’ after they’d pestered +him a while, he says: ‘All right, I’ll marry, but I don’t want a woman +that’s crazy about me, an’ I don’t want to git crazy about _her_.’ He +told ’em to find somebody that would be good to the young-uns an’ he’d +be satisfied. The deacons went all around then, an’ got their wives to +go, an’ they talked to all the single women as fur up as Sawmill Creek +an’ as fur down as Nighthawk, but they’s all skeered to marry Nathe, +an’ no wonder when he kept stuggin’ round the country lookin’ like the +hind wheels o’ destruction. They thought there must be something awful +quare about him er Ponnie wouldn’t ashot hersef. There wuz jest one +widder----” + +“Ay, Mary Kempit,” said a voice, as Aunt Lizy paused, a little short of +breath. “She had five young-uns.” + +“That’s her,” said Aunt Lizy, coming back with some haste, before Uncle +Ranz could weld his broken narrative. “She said she’d try it, fer Nathe +had a fine farm, an’ Bune Waller said the same. Bune wuz an old maid +with one leg crippled up ’count of a snake-bite when she wuz little. +The old folks thought Bune would suit better’n the widder, not havin’ +any young-uns to mix up with Nathe’s, so they went to him an’ told +him that Bune wuz the best they could do. I’ve always wished I could +’a’ been there when they told him. Uncle Joe Withers, he wuz senior +deacon then, he said Nathe cut his galluses an’ went straight up. When +he come down an’ got his breath, he says to ’em, ‘Who’s counted the +finest-lookin’ single woman in Silver Valley?’ an’ they ’lowed Callie +Brown wuz the takin’est one, sence she’d come back from South C’liny, +where she’d been workin’. But she wuzn’t keen to marry, not a mountain +man anyway, fer she wouldn’t look at Mince Peters, who wuz runnin’ a +payin’ sawmill, an’ the best ketch ’twixt Cherokee an’ Hiwassee. Nathe +ast ’em would she be good to the childern, an’ they ’lowed she would, +she looked like she’d jump out o’ the way of a worm ruther’n step on +it, but he couldn’t git her, they said, not ef he’s as rich as cream +in a cracklin’ gourd. She didn’t have no call fer holdin’ off though, +Uncle Joe told him, fer she hadn’t saved a brownie workin’ in the +mills, put it all on her back, he reckoned, an’ she didn’t have no +home, her folks all bein’ dead. ‘But ef you go to see her,’ he says, +‘you’ll ride back jest like you come. She’s livin’ at my house, an’ I +know Callie.’ Nathe never paid no more ’tention to what they said, an’ +fixed hissef up fer courtin’.” + +“Fixed hissef up!” Uncle Ranz bore in, returning with vigor to his own. +“I reckon! I wuz right there, an’ the way he shaved an’ slicked an’ +combed an’ dressed would take me all day to tell ye. We wuz exactly the +same size, me an’ Nathe, an’ he walked in on me an’ says: ‘Ranz, you +let me have that new suit o’ yorn, an’ I’ll give you that white sow +an’ them three shotes you been a-wantin’. I’ve got to have it right +now,’ he says. He’d let his clo’s run down till a skeercrow wouldn’t +’a’ swopped with him ’thout a smart chance o’ boot. But when he wuz all +growed inter my suit, an’ rid off on a big bay mare he had, thinks I +yer my own half-brother, but it ’ud take some travellin’ to find yer +mate fer looks. He went over to Joe Withers’, where Callie wuz stayin’, +an’ in two weeks they’s married. When he wanted to, Nathe had a way o’ +talkin’ that folks said would put heart in a holler log, an’ I reckon +Callie wuz all heart, the way it turned out. As fer holdin’ hersef +high, I never seen none o’ that after she come to live with Nathe. She +made him a good wife, an’ got to likin’ him powerful, but he never +seemed to take to Callie. ’Twuzn’t thinkin’ about Ponnie, though, that +kept him from likin’ her, fer when he did drap his troubles he drapped +’em hard. It pestered me awful the way he went on fer a while, huntin’ +up ever’ woman he could hear of that wuzn’t much good. I said to him +onct that Callie seemed to be doin’ _her_ part, an’ he said: ‘Ef you +don’t think I’m adoin’ mine, Ranz, jest keep a-thinkin’ it.’ An’ I +dassent say any more, fer Nathe in them days wuz wearin’ his temper +outside his shirt, an’ you had to tech him keerful er go round. When +Callie wuz fust married she didn’t know much about housework an’ takin’ +keer o’ farm stuff, but she went at it steady, an’ in less’n a year she +wuz runnin’ ever’thing like it ort to be, an’ nobody would ’a’ knowed +the childern wuzn’t hern ef she hadn’t been too young to be their +mommie.” + +“Ay,” said Aunt Lizy, “they went under her skirts like they belonged. +Nathe lost a lot of his luck when he buried Callie Brown.” + +“How long did she live?” I asked, and Uncle Ranz seemed to approve of +the sympathetic query, which perhaps reminded him that he had a new and +perfectly safe pair of ears for an old tale. + +“She lived four years full, an’ inter five, from the time she married +Nathe till we put her in the graveyard in the row above Ponnie an’ +her two. We wuz lookin’ fer Callie’s baby, little Rufe, to die, an’ +Nathe ’lowed they could lay there together. That soft look Callie had +turned out to be weak lungs, an’ the cotton-mills hadn’t hepped ’em +any. The hard work at Nathe’s pulled her down to a shadder. I own it, +I got to thinkin’ a heap of Callie. Looked like she wuz tryin’ her +best an’ never botherin’ Nathe, er lettin’ on she wuz any more to him +than a hired woman. When I seen it wuz killin’ her, I wuz druv to say +something. I’d tried Nathe, an’ that didn’t hep any, so I went to +Callie an’ told her straight out that she could git a divorce from +Nathe any day she wanted it, fer the whole country knowed how he wuz +runnin’ on, an’ the deacons had been to him about it. I said she +wouldn’t have to go fur, nuther, to git somebody to take keer of her +right. She wouldn’t have to go blood-naked ner eat acorns, not by a +thousan’ mile, while I wuz drawin’ a workin’-man’s breath. When I said +that, Callie turned her back on me an’ begun to cry. I waited to see +what she wuz goin’ to say, fer a woman’s cryin’ might mean one thing +an’ it might mean another. When she turned round she says: ‘Ranzie, +I’ll fergive ye ef ye’ll go to church reg’lar.’ An’ I went to meetin’ +from then on, till Callie died, though it wuzn’t easy to set still an’ +listen to ol’ Silas Mack a-whinin’ from the time he got up to preach +till he set down two hours afterwards. Barrin’ that, I ain’t ever been +sorry I let Callie know she could git away ef she wanted to. I told +Nathe about it after she wuz dead, an’ he said he wouldn’t hold it agin +me, seein’ he never hurt hissef makin’ it easy fer Callie, an’ he told +me to stay right on with him an’ hep look after the farm. I thought ef +he didn’t want to make a fuss, I wouldn’t, an’ I staid right on till +he married Lu Siler. He wuzn’t slow about pickin’ up Lu. She hadn’t +been a widder more’n three er four months, an’ chainces wuz thick with +her, ’cause she had a house an’ lot in Carson, an’ a fine piece o’ +land on Little Horse Branch. When Nathe got ready he walked right in +an’ took her. She wuz a little older’n him, an’ short on looks, but +there never wuz a better woman than Lu, leavin’ out Callie, an’ she wuz +awful proud o’ Nathe. She wuz the one who got him inter this Freemason +business, bein’ Eastern Star hersef, an’ a lot o’ her folks an’ friends +belongin’. Nathe took to it fine, an’ went as high as he could as fast +as they’d take him, an’ always held a big hand afterwards in whatever +they had goin’ on, till late years when most o’ the old members had +drapped out er wuz buried, an’ he seemed to sort o’ fergit about it. +He went around with Lu, an’ treated her respectful, like he ort, with +her deedin’ him ever’thing she had an’ cuttin’ out her own folks. He +sold the house an’ lot in Carson an’ built the big house on the farm +the first year he was married to Lu. He said he wanted her to have +ever’thing as nice as she had it in Carson when she wuz livin’ with Jim +Siler. It wuz in them years that Nathe sort o’ stept up in life.” + +Uncle Ranz was forced to take breath, though he knew that Aunt Lizy +would be in at the breach. + +“Nathe never got bigetty though,” she said. “It wuz about that time +that he got to lookin’ round an’ heppin’ folks in hard luck. He wuz +always ready with the loan of a cow fer a widder, er a plough-critter +fer new-married couples, er a sack o’ meal, an’ sometimes a bit o’ +money that he wuzn’t too pertickler about gittin’ back. I’ve said many +a time that Silver Valley owed a lot to Lu Siler fer makin’ a changed +man out o’ Nathe.” + +“You want to start that old argyment, Lizy, an’ you can have it. I say, +an’ I’ll always say, it wuz Ann that changed Nathe, an’ not Lu Siler.” + +“Ann!” The contempt of the elect was in Aunt Lizy’s voice. She reached +into her pocket for her snuff. Only snuff could reconcile her to the +existence of Ann. Uncle Ranz turned to his more passive hearers. + +“There ain’t any man, er woman nuther, in this country,” he said, “who +knows more about that than I do. It begun ’long in the last year o’ +Callie’s lifetime, an’ I reckon I wuz purty keen on what wuz happenin’ +round Callie. Nathe had a little ol’ mill on one end o’ his farm, fer +grindin’ corn fer hissef an’ his neighbors. It’s there yit, only it’s +been built all over. An’ he had a little ol’ log house settin’ close to +the mill, where he kept a fam’ly to ’tend to the grindin’ an’ hep on +the farm. He ’lowed the man could work on the farm, an’ his wife could +tend to the mill, in a pinch anyways. Well, Curt Lindsay, he come over +from round Cowee an’ ast fer the place. He said he wuz married, an’ +his wife’s mother wuz livin’ with ’em, an’ she could handy ’tend to +the mill. His wife wuzn’t much stout, an’ he didn’t count on gittin’ +anything out of her but a little housekeepin’, an’ maybe hoein’ in +the patches. An’ Nathe told him to come on. Curt wuz a big feller an’ +looked like he’d make a good hand. I told Nathe so mysef, an’ there’s +one more time I’d ’a’ done better ef I’d kept my mouth shet. Well, +they come on, an’ the mother looked like all she knowed wuz hard work +an’ more of it. But Ann, Curt’s wife, she looked like a hummin’-bird +round a rosey-bush. The mother, that ’uz Mis’ Baker, told me Ann had +never been much strong an’ her daddy, up till he died a little ’fore +that, had never let anything be put on her too hard. Ann wuz willin’ +enough, but they had to put it on her light, er she’d git down sick. +Curt didn’t keer one way er another so the work got done. Ann had +married him when she wuz fourteen, an’ she wuzn’t more’n up’rds o’ +fifteen when she come to live on Nathe’s place. Nathe wuz a little +above thirty-five, an’ had seen his troubles, but they hadn’t put the +years on him. When he wuz smoothed up, folks said ef his good looks wuz +divided around, they’d make ever’body in the settlement look passable, +even countin’ Sary Copp, who had a caved-in nose an’ scrofula o’ the +jaw. But Nathe wuz fur from bein’ as good as he wuz good-lookin’. I +reckon he wuz the furdest from the Amen row right then that he ever wuz +in his life. He’d put a mortgage on his farm to git spendin’ money, an’ +he wuz runnin’ round spendin’ it. ‘Ranz,’ he says to me, ‘I don’t keer +much about women, but what’s a feller to do with hissef?’ + +“An’ then Ann moved in. ‘Let’s go over,’ Nathe says to me one day, ‘an’ +see ef Curt’s got settled. Maybe he’ll need some hep about something.’ +‘All right,’ says I, an’ we went. Looked like there wuzn’t nobody at +home when we come up. Nathe walked up big an’ pounded on the door till +I wished there wuzn’t anybody in there to hear him. Then Ann opened the +door. Nathe hadn’t ever seen her ’fore that, an’ when she looked up, a +bit skeered, an’ her eyes as blue as a prize ribbon at a fair, Nathe +fell back inter the yard like she’d pinted a gun at him. I ask her how +her folks wuz, seein’ Nathe wuzn’t goin’ to talk, an’ she said they’s +well, an’ her mother wuz in the house, wouldn’t we come in, an’ Curt +wuz gone to Carson to git some things they needed fer housekeepin’. + +“‘What things?’ says Nathe, gittin’ over his lock-jaw, an’ when she +told him, he says: ‘Tell yer mother to come over to the house an’ my +wife’ll give her anything you’re needin’.’ Then he went off. I follered +him, an’ he walked along like a wooden man till we got nigh home, then +he says: ‘Ranz, I reckon I’d better look after things round here a +little closer’n I been adoin’.’ An’ from that minute Nathe wuz changed, +an’ he hadn’t ever set eyes on Lu Siler. Callie wuz still alive, an’ +she seemed awfully hepped up about Nathe. She talked to me of how +he wuz takin’ holt like he raley owned the place, an’ it wouldn’t be +long till he’d lift the mortgage, an’ maybe send Angie Sue to Carson +to school. But Callie wuz too worn out by that time fer any change to +do her downright good, an’ she died in the spring, like I wuz tellin’ +ye. Then Nathe married Lu. I ain’t sayin’ my own half-brother married +a woman fer what she had, but I do say that he’d got to be sort o’ +cravin’. Where he’d spent a dollar before, free as water, looked like +he wuz tryin’ to save three. He wuz runnin’ the farm close, an’ raisin’ +ever’thing we et purty nigh, but coffee an’ sugar, an’ wuz watchin’ +his tradin’ right sharp, though when Lu got there he built her a nice +house, like I said, with her own money, an’ he went around the country +with her whenever she wanted him to, an’ didn’t mind spendin’ on his +lodge a bit ’er heppin’ folks like Lizy wuz tellin’ ye. I quit livin’ +at Nathe’s an’ went over inter Tennessee. Callie wuz on my mind, more’n +when she’d been livin’, seemed like, an’ on top o’ that I wuz afeard +Nathe an’ Lu were goin’ to have fallin’ weather. I thought ef he wuz +in fer a mess I’d seen enough o’ his troubles. But he kept writin’ fer +me to come back, an’ when I’d been gone about two year I come home. +I found ever’thing runnin’ like sugar-water in sap-time. Nathe never +went round the mill, er where Ann wuz, so fur as anybody knowed. When +something had to be ’tended to over there, he’d git Lu to go. + +“‘Lu,’ he says one night at supper, ‘looks like we ortn’t to live here +in this big house with ever’thing comfortable, an’ water piped from +the mountain yander, an’ the fam’ly that works fer us puttin’ up with +that smoky little hut over at the mill. When yore folks wuz out from +Carson the other day I wuz ashamed to tell ’em that shack wuz on our +farm. What you think about takin’ what I make tradin’ this year an’ fix +’em up a place they can keep clean an’ make look like something? Mis’ +Baker’s always ready to come over here an’ give you a hand at anything, +an’ we ort to make it easier at home fer a hard-workin’ woman like she +is.’ + +“‘I’d hate to fix up a place fer that rowdy, Curt Lindsay,’ said Lu. +‘He stays drunk half o’ his time now.’ + +“‘You fix it, Lu, an’ I’ll drive him off er make him do better. The +women-folks there are human, same as us, even ef Curt ain’t.’ + +“‘Yes,’ says Lu, ‘I git awfully sorry fer that pore little Ann. I +don’t know what keeps her spirits up. She’s always singin’ when I go +over there, er diggin’ in the yard round her flowers, an’ they say Curt +beats her, too.’ + +“Nathe jumped up then, like he’d swallered a crumb too quick, an’ went +out to the water-bucket. When he come back he wuz a little hoarse from +chokin’, an’ he says: ‘You do what I told you, Lu. You know more about +houses than I do. Fix it up so we won’t be ashamed of it anyway, an’ I +can git a better man to live there ef I have to drive Curt off.’ + +“Lu ast me to hep her, an’ we got Mose Kimpit to boss the job, him that +married Angie Sue afterwards, an’ I hired some men, an’ in no time Ann +wuz livin’ in a little house that looked like a pickcher, but Curt wuz +drinkin’ harder than ever. + +“‘You’ll have to get rid o’ him, Nathe,’ said Lu, an’ he said: ‘Well, +let’s go over there an’ see about it.’ ‘Come on, Ranz,’ he said; ‘Curt +might jump onto me an’ I might want some hep.’ Nathe wuzn’t afeard o’ +nuthin’ this side o’ Jordan, an’ I laffed an’ went on with ’em. When we +all got in a hunderd yards o’ the house we heard somebody screamin’, +an’ Nathe got white as a dead man. ‘It’s Ann,’ says Lu; ‘he’s a-beatin’ +her,’ an’ she begun to cry. Nathe says to me: ‘You stay here with Lu. +I’ll fix him,’ an’ set off runnin’ like he’d gone mad. He didn’t open +the door, jest kicked it in like it wuz glass. There wuzn’t any more +screamin’, an’ when he come out he says: ‘Go in there, Ranz, an’ hep +patch that feller up. I’ve give him two hours to git up an’ crawl off. +He knows what the law does fer a man that lays his hand on a woman in +the fix Ann’s in, an’ he’ll go. He don’t want to spend the next ten +years in the pen.’ + +“Well, Curt went off, an’ Mis’ Baker wrote fer a son she had over on +Cowee to come an’ take his place on the farm, an’ they all lived there +in the little house quiet as could be. The whole country wuz braggin’ +on the way Nathe had settled with Curt, though some said he ort to have +tuk him up an’ let him go to the pen. Anybody that ’ud beat a little +thing like Ann ort to git the worst the law could lay on him. + +“In about three months Ann’s baby wuz born, an’ Lu acted like she +thought it wuz hern, the way she took keer of it, an’ wuz over there +half the time. She begged Nathe to go with her to see it, but he +wouldn’t. That wuz woman’s business, he said. Things went on quiet-like +fer two or three years, maybe four. Angie Sue got through school an’ +married Mose Kempit. She didn’t do much fer hersef, considerin’ the +chaince they give her. She had Ponnie’s temper, too, but Ponnie had a +big heart along with her temper, an’ Angie Sue never had no more heart +than a hornet’s got. Little Rosie wuz a-growin’ up, an’ the boys, Herb +an’ Sam, wuz nearly men. They wuz quiet boys, not wuth much one way er +t’other. Ann’s brother got married, an’ Nathe fixed him a house not +fur from the other one, an’ Ann an’ her mother lived by thersevs. Mis’ +Baker, she ’tended to the mill. The boy wuz named Baker, fer Ann’s +father, an’ folks called him little Bake Lindsay. + +“Well, we’s livin’ along, an’ ever’body comfortable, when one day in +the fall when the woods wuz a-turnin’, Lu says to me: ‘Ranz, s’pose we +take Rosie an’ the boys an’ go hunt chestnuts to-day? I ain’t been in +the woods this year.’ That suited me, an’ we all went over to the big +hill about a quarter of a mile to the back of Ann’s house. Nathe wuzn’t +along. He’d got a letter the day before tellin’ him to come to Carson +about a trade, an’ he’d set off walkin’ that mornin’, not lettin’ the +boys drive him to Scatter to hit the train. It wuz too much trouble, +he said, an’ he liked to walk. He wuz in fine health then, his skin +clear pink, an’ not a gray hair in his head. Lu wuz feelin’ a little +lonesome, I reckon, after he set off, an’ that’s what made her hit +on goin’ fer chestnuts. We had a good time, an’ picked up a lot, but +we didn’t go up the big hill any furder than the oak spring. Me an’ +Lu an’ Rosie set down by the spring to rest a bit, an’ the boys said +they’d shammuck along home an’ carry the chestnuts. We had about two +flour-pokes full. While we’s settin’ there, me an’ Lu an’ Rosie, we +heard somebody laffin’ way up at the top o’ the hill. ‘There’s somebody +else out to-day,’ said Lu. ‘Let’s wait an’ see who it is.’ We knowed +from the way the voices sounded that whoever wuz up there had started +down. I sort o’ felt like I knowed the man’s voice, the way he wuz +laffin’, an’ I set there with my eye-teeth a-gittin’ loose, till right +out o’ the woods about fifty yards above us come Nathe an’ Ann. They +come on down, not seein’ us till they wuz right on us, but we saw them +all right. An’ I’ll say to ever’body here, an’ Lizy too, that they +may have been as mean as the old boy, but they looked like they’d got +to Heaven an’ took up. Nathe’s face wuz like halleloo, an’ Ann wuz +flutterin’ ’s ef she wuz made out o’ wings. She saw us ’fore Nathe did, +’cause he wuzn’t seein’ nothin’ but Ann, an’ she give a little scream +an’ set right down on the ground. Nathe looked around then, right at +Lu. They stood there lookin’ at each other, an’ Nathe couldn’t move his +eyes fer a minute. Ef there’d been a hole anywheres handy I reckon he’d +’a’ drapped into it, but he didn’t have any hidin’-place, an’ Lu--Lord +bless her!--maybe she wuz sorry fer him, she said, ‘Let’s go home, +Rosie,’ an’ turned off an’ we come home.” + +“Ay,” said Uncle Dan’l, “Lu wuz a good woman. I wuz thinkin’ when that +Jenkins wuz here an’ we wuz talkin’ about who ought to lay ’long o’ +Nathe, that Lu had paid fer the place, even if she didn’t git it.” + +“Maybe so, but I am glad it wuz Callie got it, an’ I hope she knows +it,” said Uncle Ranz, a bit snappishly. “I wuz sorry fer Lu, though. +Nathe come in about midnight an’ went to bed in the room next to the +one where him an’ Lu always stayed. But he didn’t sleep none, an’ about +three o’clock he come an’ woke me up an’ ast me what Lu wuz meanin’ +to do. I told him she hadn’t said yit, he’d find out to-morr’. But +next day she couldn’t speak fer a cold she’d caught settin’ by that +spring. She wrote on a piece o’ paper that she’d git a divorce an’ +they’d divide the property fair. Nathe got down by the bed an’ begged +her not to do that. He said there wuzn’t anybody to blame but him, an’ +it ’ud kill Ann to be disgraced, which wuz what he ortn’t ’a’ said to +Lu, but Nathe wuz so tore up I reckon he couldn’t think o’ pickin’ his +way. An’ Lu wrote, ‘Is Baker yore boy?’ an’ Nathe said he wuz. I s’pose +he thought lyin’ wouldn’t hep him any with Lu lookin’ right through +him. I could see the big tears rollin’ down Lu’s face, an’ she wrote: +‘I’m goin’ soon as I git up.’ But she didn’t go, an’ there wuzn’t any +divorce, fer her cold turned inter double pneumony. In three days she +wuz dead, an’ we laid her up there in Callie’s row next to little Rufe. + +“It wuzn’t long till talk wuz floatin’ round ’bout Nathe an’ Ann, +though I don’t b’lieve he went nigh her, an’ I reckon Rosie started the +talk. Nobody but me had heard Nathe say that Bake wuz hisn, but Rosie +told Angie Sue what she’d seen that day by the spring. An’ they thought +it wuz fine to act smart about it.” + +“The gals thought a heap o’ Lu,” said Aunt Lizy, irrepressible as +justice. “I don’t blame ’em fer takin’ her part.” + +“I ain’t blamin’ ’em,” said Uncle Ranz. “I’m sayin’ they wuz mighty +hard on Ann. Angie Sue said she wuz goin’ to tell her father he had +to turn Ann off the place. I never heard her tell him, but I seen +her go into the room where he wuz. When she come out she looked like +she wuz fallin’ to pieces, an’ milk couldn’t be whiter. As fur as I +know that wuz the only time she ever named Ann to her daddy. Nathe +wuzn’t bothered about Angie Sue, but he walked mighty keerful on Ann’s +account. He kept goin’ to church right along, an’ travelled over to +Carson faithful to his lodge meetin’s, an’ acted a little more’n fair +in his tradin’, an’ kept his name right up. He wuz gittin’ to be wuth +something too. I reckon his farm, an’ stock, an’ what he had in the +Carson bank, would ’a’ come to more’n anybody else in Silver Valley +could ’a’ spelt. So the deacons let him alone, as they ort, with no +more proof than what me an’ Rosie saw, an’ him behavin’ right an’ +payin’ the preacher reg’lar, besides givin’ him a suit o’ clothes an’ a +fine pair o’ shoes at Christmas. + +“Folks sort o’ made it easy fer Ann too, fer ever’body thought a sight +of her.” Here Aunt Lizy gave the narrator a glance that drove him to an +emendation. “Barrin’ a few o’ the women that wuz so good they didn’t +have no use fer the New Testament. Most o’ the folks would go to the +mill, like they’d been doin’, an’ act frien’ly, an’ make a heap over +little Bake. Ever’body knowed that Ann had had an awful time with Curt, +an’ Nathe wuz twenty years older’n her an’ could talk water up-hill. +Nobody could prove nothin’ anyway, ’cause walkin’ in the woods one time +wuzn’t no proof, not what the law could handle anyhow. + +“Lu had been dead runnin’ onto a year, an’ the talk had died clean out, +when Nathe told me to go to Mis’ Baker an’ tell her to take Ann to +Carson an’ git a paper from the judge sayin’ she wuzn’t Curt’s wife. +It wuz the law in them days that if a man an’ his wife didn’t live +together fer three year they wuz nachally divorced ’thout goin’ inter +court. I b’lieve they’ve changed it to five year now, but it wuz three +then, an’ Curt had been gone four year an’ up’ards. I found Ann all +in a trimmle an’ cryin’ hersef to death. She showed me a letter she’d +got from Curt sayin’ he wuz comin’ back to settle with Nathe--that +he’d heard whose boy Bake wuz, an’ he reckoned Nathe wouldn’t be so +spry about havin’ him arrested ef he come back. She said she wouldn’t +marry Nathe, fer Curt would be shore to slip in an’ kill him. That’s +what Curt said he would do in the letter, an’ she didn’t have no more +sense than to believe it. I went home an’ told Nathe, an’ he swore like +no human bein’ ort to, an’ went straight off to Ann’s. When he come +back, I knowed from his looks as fur as I could see him that his tongue +hadn’t hepped him fer onct. + +“‘I told her,’ he said, ‘I’d marry her, an’ take keer o’ her the rest +o’ her life, like no woman wuz ever tuk keer of in Silver Valley, an’ +ef Angie Sue come home she’d have to begin smilin’ at the gate er she’d +never git inter the house, an’ Ann told me to find me a good woman an’ +let her alone!’ + +“‘She’s afeard Curt’ll come back an’ kill ye, Nathe,’ I told him. + +“‘Yes,’ he says, ‘Curt’s comin’ to kill me! That’s why he sent in his +brag. So’s I could have my trigger ready.’ + +“‘Shucks,’ I said, ‘he’s a big coward; he’ll never come.’ + +“‘’Course he won’t,’ says Nathe, ‘but that don’t hep me ef I kain’t +make Ann believe it. Git me a good woman, she says, an’ let her alone! +It ’ud serve her almighty right ef I did.’ + +“‘You won’t do that, Nathe,’ I says, an’ he said: ‘No, I’ll hang around +Aim fer the rest o’ my life, waitin’ fer a chance to lick her shoes!’ + +“‘That won’t be much to do,’ I told him. ‘Her shoes ain’t bigger than +a thimble.’ ‘No, they ain’t,’ he says, an’ took the all-over trimmles. +‘I’m clean crazy, Ranz,’ he says. + +“He mulled around fer maybe a month, kickin’ at his luck, an’ tryin’ +to break pore little Ann, an’ the very day Mis’ Baker told me that Ann +couldn’t hold out agin him much longer, he tied up with Nan Tittiewad.” + +Uncle Ranz paused once more, and Aunt Lizy, always at the gap, and now +evidently big with information, darted in. + +“Her name wuzn’t Tittiewad. I knowed her folks that year me an’ Dan +lived out in Jackson County. Her name wuz Benson, an’ her fam’ly wuz +sort o’ bigetty. She married Jim Sluter the fust time. Jim’s father +wuz called Taterwad ’cause he stole a wad o’ ’taters onct, not more’n +a good mess, an’ wuz carryin’ ’em home when he wuz ketched with ’em. +His name wuz Ham Sluter, but folks called him Ham Taterwad after that, +an’ from him it went to his whole fam’ly. When Jim married Nan Benson, +they called him Jim Taterwad after his father, an’ Nan would git so +mad about it they told her they’d change it to Tittiewad ef that ’ud +suit her better, an’ the madder she got the tighter that name stuck to +her. Jim an’ her didn’t git along. They fit up an’ down the road, till +fin’ly Jim left her, an’ nobody ever knowed what become of him. He got +clear away from Nan. But they kept callin’ her Nan Tittiewad, the same +as ever, ’cause it fitted her, I reckon, an’ it follered her wherever +she went. I could ’a’ told Nathe all about her, but he wuzn’t sayin’ +much to folks around home right then. He met Nan one day in Carson, +an’ went round to the boardin’-house where she put up. They talked +all night, an’ the next mornin’ they went to the court-house an’ got +married.” + +Aunt Lizy was breathless from the hurried discharge of her burden, and +Uncle Ranz came in leisurely. + +“I never knowed nothin’,” he said, “till I seen ’em drive up an’ Nathe +hepped Nan out o’ the buggy. She wuz tall, an’ had a fair sight o’ +flesh on her, but you couldn’t call her fat. She had red hair, but +nobody wuz ’lowed to say it wuz red. She said it wuz orbun, but that +didn’t change its color a bit. Her skin wuz white as a white egg-shell, +an’ her eyes sky blue, not dark blue like Ann’s, an’ her lips as red +as shumake heads. She wuz the fust woman Nathe had laid his hand on +in nigh to a year, an’ I reckon, considerin’ what his nater wuz, it +jest made him swim off. Nan sailed inter Lu’s house, an’ in less’n +half an hour she’d been in ever’ corner of it. Her lip wuz curlin’ +considerable, but when Nathe come in she ’peared to be satisfied. I +b’lieve she wuz raley took up with Nathe at first, an’ he went about +with his head lookin’ over all of us, heppin’ do ever’thing she wanted, +pullin’ the furniture here an’ yander, an’ takin’ the pick o’ the +parlor set to the room where they slept, an’ all sech crazy work. But +when they’d been married about three weeks, an’ Nathe begun to think o’ +settlin’ down to work like he ort, she said at breakfast one mornin’ +that seein’ they’d done without a honeymoon, s’pose they tuk a trip +to Californy er Flurridy. She’d always wanted to go to them places, +she said. Nathe ’lowed he didn’t have enough money in the bank fer the +trip, an’ didn’t have time to go ef the cash wuz layin’ handy. She +got mad then, an’ said: ‘Well, I ain’t got time to wash yer dishes +an’ sweep yer house an’ cook yer meals, nuther.’ Nathe told her he +thought Rosie had been doin’ most of the work, but ef it wuz too much +fer her, he’d let Angie Sue come home a while. She’d been wantin’ +to come, ’cause she’s havin’ trouble with Mose Kempit, the man she +married the fust time. An’ Nan said: ‘Oh, Lord, don’t bring any more +peek-eyes in here! I’m smotherin’ to death now!’ Then she got up an’ +walked down toward the creek, but she come back fer dinner, an’ from +that time on it looked like the devil wuz runnin’ the house from top to +bottom. Nathe fin’ly said he’d give her the money to go to Californy +on ef she’d stay when she got there, but she told him she wuzn’t that +easy, he wuz goin’ to do more than that fer her. She said she’d have +to be paid good fer comin’ to sech a hole an’ livin’ with an ol’ +squeeze-pocket that had killed three wives an’ kept another woman too. +I reckon she’d picked something out o’ the neighbors, an’ Rosie had +told her about Ann, fer she wuz powerful thick with Nan the fust week +she wuz in the house.” + +Uncle Dan’l was growing restless. “I say, Ranz,” he put in, “I never +b’lieved Nan wuz near as bad as she made hersef out. She wuz tryin’ to +git Nathe to drive her off, so she could sue him fer support an’ live +where she wanted to.” + +“’Course she wuz,” assented Uncle Ranz. “I found that out right away, +an’ me an’ Nathe talked it over. ‘You want to be keerful, Nathe,’ I +told him, ‘an’ keep yer hands off her an’ not give her any claim agin +ye. She’ll wear hersef out ’fore long.’ ‘You reckon she will?’ Nathe +ast me, an’ I told him I wuz shore she would ef he kept still no +matter what she done. That seemed to hep him, an’ he set his teeth an’ +tried to stand it. He didn’t dare go to see Ann, fer that wuz what his +wife wuz watchin’ fer. He knowed she’d find him out, day er night, +an’ he walked straight as a shingle. The whole neighborhood thought +Nathe wuz actin’ fine, an’ anybody would ’a’ been sorry for him the +day that Nan called Ann’s name an’ put something else to it as plain +as the Bible speaks it. Nathe set still, like he’d never move till +jedgment-day, an’ her tongue hurtin’ him worse than rippin’ fire. I +b’lieve Nan felt kinder discouraged after that, thinkin’ she’d never +git him riled enough to beat her er drive her off. + +“It wuz awful the way she made a destroyment of things in the house. +One day she wuz settin’ in the big room with Nathe, an’ she tuk a +little penknife she had an’ begun to cut the threads out of a cushion +that Lu had worked all over with little birds an’ leaves. ‘Don’t do +that,’ said Nathe. ‘Lu made that hersef.’ An’ Nan says, ‘It’s mine +now!’ an’ throwed it inter the fire. Nathe jumped up to grab it off the +blazin’ logs, an’ Nan got right afore him. He’d ’a’ shoved her down, I +reckon, if Cricket Sawyer hadn’t been there an’ held him back. Crick +knew what Nan wuz after, the same as the rest of us, an’ she got so +mad at him she never spoke to him afterwards, though they set at the +same table three times a day. + +“She found out where Nathe kept the aperns an’ trimmin’s an’ things he +wore at his lodge meetin’s. He thought more o’ them cooterments than +anything he had. Nan got the key to the drawer, an’ when he come in one +day she wuz all rigged out in ’em. ‘Don’t I look purty, Nathe?’ she +says, walkin’ up an’ down ’fore him. An’ he wuz afraid to say a word, +fer he knowed what she’d done to that cushion. ‘You won’t be wantin’ +’em any more,’ she says, ‘’cause yer lodge’ll turn ye out soon as I +tell ’em what you’ve got over yander at the mill.’ Then she walked out +an’ down the road with them things on, an’ Nathe never seen a stitch o’ +the riggin’ afterwards. I fixed it up that she tied a rock to ’em an’ +throwed ’em inter the creek. + +“We’d had about seven er eight months o’ Nan when Nathe begun to look +thin an’ show he wuz losin’ out. I b’lieve he got to thinkin’ that Nan +wouldn’t mind heppin’ him off inter the next world ef she could do it +sly. He kept Crick Sawyer hired, but I couldn’t find out what fer, he +wuz so lazy an’ slept half of ever’ day. I got to teasin’ him about +drawin’ pay fer gittin’ his breath, an’ he fired up an’ told me that +Nathe had hired him to watch Nan at night, he’d got so skeered o’ what +she might do when he wuz asleep. I felt ashamed o’ Nathe fer that, an’ +I never let him know I’d found out what Crick’s job wuz. But I says: +‘Crick, ef Ponnie er Callie er Lu left here owin’ Nathe a hard time, +Nan has shore paid it fer ’em.’ + +“She never done a thing to hep round the house, but she wuz always on +time fer her meals. She’d take the head o’ the table, too, like she +wuz the queen bee, though she hadn’t warmed kiver with Nathe sence the +fust month she wuz there. She’d talk an’ laff an’ make fun o’ Crick, +an’ wouldn’t let a soul pour the coffee but her. One day when she’d +poured a cup fer Nathe, it sparkled up quare, an’ he throwed it inter +the fireplace. It wuz that day that he went off to Carson an’ come +back with a cousin of ourn, Lem Thatcher, who’d went out West an’ done +well, an’ come back to see his kinfolks. He wuz a widower, an’ a little +younger’n Nathe, an’ tolerable fair-lookin’ too. When Nan found out he +had some money she put on her best dressin’ an’ smiled like a pickcher. +When she wuz all flossied up an’ shiny, a man would have to look at her +sort o’ easy out o’ one eye, till he found out her ways didn’t match +up. We’s all past the place where Nan’s looks counted fer anything, +but Lem wuzn’t, an’ when she’d plumb her eyes at him he’d wriggle an’ +turn red. Nathe seen his chaince then, an’ told Lem he had to go inter +Tennessee fer a few days, but fer him to make hissef at home an’ not +think o’ leavin’ till he got back. He staid about a week, an’ when +he come home Lem an’ Nan had been gone three days. I reckon they’s +half-way to Californy by that time. She left a note tellin’ Nathe the +sooner he got his divorce the better it would suit her an’ Lem, an’ he +could keep the few dollars in his old sock, she said. She didn’t have +no use fer ’em, an’ his boy, Baker, might need ’em. She had the note +tacked up outside the front door. I wuzn’t at home the mornin’ they +left, but Crick told me she made Lem tack the note up, an’ her laffin’ +till you could hear her to the pasture gate. + +“Nathe got a divorce soon as he could, but it wuz a year er two ’fore +anybody could speak to him about Nan ’thout him takin’ out his big +handkercher an’ wipin’ his for’ed, he’d got inter sech a habit of it +while she wuz around. As fer his house, it shore needed a good woman in +it, Nan had been sech a tear-down.” + +“He got a good woman when Aunt Lindy Webb went there,” said Serena, +anticipating Aunt Lizy, and making it known that the story had reached +a stage familiar to her generation. + +“Ay, Nan had sort o’ shattered him,” said Uncle Dan’l, “and he made up +his mind he wouldn’t make no mistake the next time.” + +I wanted to hear about Ann. A depression was upon me, as if she had +died. Then I remembered that she was going to South Carolina with Bake. +But it was a relief when Uncle Ranz uttered her name again. + +“Of course Nathe went to see Ann first, but she stuck to what she’d +said before, an’ Nathe didn’t take it so hard this time. He could see +fer hissef that Ann couldn’t run his place, an’ he wuz shore needin’ +somebody that could. Rosie had got married, but her an’ Angie Sue +kept comin’ home to stir up trouble with anybody that wuz hired on +the place, an’ Nathe wuz beginnin’ to show his gray hairs. Ann had +been sick fer a long spell. She tuk down dreckly after he married Nan, +an’ when Nathe seen her fer the fust time in nearly a year, he give +right in an’ told her she could have her own way about ever’thing an’ +he’d stand by her jest the same. She begun to pick up purty soon, +and in a little while wuz as peart as ever. I don’t reckon it made +any difference ’tween ’em when he married Lindy Webb. Lindy had been +married before----” + +“Twice,” said another voice, younger than Aunt Lizy’s. + +“That’s so, twice,” said Uncle Ranz, “an’ she had shown clear as gospel +what a good woman she wuz. Nathe ast about her from fust to last ’fore +he ever went to see her. He wuzn’t takin’ any chainces. Lindy’s fust +man would run away ’bout ever’ other year, an’ she would make the crap +an’ take keer of it, an’ have his plate at the table ready fer him +ever’ meal she set down to, in case he drapped in. Ef she had a little +money saved up, he took holt of it right away. Onct she saved seventeen +dollars makin’ syrup, runnin’ the cane-mill night an’ day, an’ he took +ever’ dollar soon as he come in. He went off at last an’ staid so +long that Jim Webb wanted to marry Lindy, so he went round ’mong the +neighbors an’ called a meetin’. They voted she could marry Jim, but she +couldn’t take up with any furriner that might come along an’ want her +farm. She married Jim then, an’ he would ’a’ made her a good husband ef +he hadn’t hurt his leg tryin’ to break a yoke o’ steers hissef, ’stead +o’ lettin’ Lindy do it like she wuz used to. It didn’t heal up, an’ +Lindy had to wait on him hand an’ foot fer ten years, an’ make the +livin’ fer both of ’em. Jim wuz quarrellin’ all the time, an’ Lindy +said he wuz fractious ’cause he wuz so disappinted in not bein’ able +to hep her like he’d set out to do. He died about the time her farm +wuz run through with, ’count o’ him wantin’ ever’thing, an’ livin’ on +almanac medicine, but she had nice things in her house an’ she brought +’em all to Nathe’s. It wuzn’t long till she had Nathe’s place lookin’ +as well as it did in Lu’s time, an’ she had more in the cellar to eat +an’ drink than Lu ever had. There wuzn’t nuthin’ Lindy didn’t know how +to do er to make. She wuzn’t burnin’ jealous nuther, an’ told me hersef +she wuzn’t goin’ to keep Nathe miser’ble by tryin’ to change his nater. +She’d leave that to the Lord, she said.” + +“That wuz the only thing,” said Aunt Lizy, “that I held agin Lindy. She +wuz too easy about Ann.” + +“Well, Ann never bothered her. She never set her foot in the big house, +an’ she told Nathe she’d never cross the doorstep after that day she +met Rosie in the road, an’ Rosie mewed up her mouth an’ drawed back her +skirts. Nathe come to see that Ann wuz right. Lindy had a strong hand +on the girls, an’ kep’ his house so he could set in it peaceable, which +wuz more’n Ann could ’a’ done. He told Ann she could always do as she +pleased about ever’thing except one. He said Bake would have to go away +to school. He put it that the other childern might treat him like he +wuzn’t as good as they wuz, an’ Ann give in. But I had an idy he seen +she wuz gittin’ all wrapped up in Bake. Nathe couldn’t stand bein’ left +out like that. Anyway he sent Bake off, an’ he growed up a fine feller, +comin’ back fer his vacations, an’ to hunt ’possums Christmas, an’ +ever’body likin’ him same as ef he’s raised right here. + +“About a month after Nathe married Lindy, somebody writ Ann from +Birmingham that Curt had died down there, an’ Nathe sent me to Alabam’ +to make sure it wuz so, an’ I found out it wuz. I thought Nathe would +be terr’bly cut up when I told him, ’cause ef he’d waited a little, +Ann might ’a’ married him with Curt out o’ the way. But he ’lowed it +wouldn’t ’a’ made any difference, he couldn’t let Ann come inter the +big house where the girls would keep her miser’ble even ef she’d been +willin’ to try it, an’ it wuz too late fer him to go away from Silver +Valley an’ begin all over. I could see he wuz gittin’ satisfied with +things as they wuz.” + +“Why wouldn’t he be satisfied?” said Aunt Lizy, “with pore Lindy doin’ +ever’thing fer him while he rid aroun’, an’ went over to Ann’s whenever +he took a notion! An’ folks never stopped him from bein’ deacon.” + +“What proof did they have agin him, I’d like fer ye to tell me,” said +Uncle Ranz. “They couldn’t do nothin’ without proof. It wuz his own +mill, an’ ef he wanted to set around there fer a while, onct or twict +a week, he had a right to. Nobody but me knowed what he’d said about +Bake, an’ I never told it till to-day.” + +“To-day!” exclaimed Aunt lazy. “I’ve heard it a hunderd times ef I have +onct!” + +“Well, I may have told _you_ a time er two, Lizy, but I never went +round the settlement a-tellin’ it. I reckon folks thought ef Lindy +didn’t want to act up about Ann, _they_ didn’t have no call to make +trouble. Lindy had her hands full anyhow, there wuz always so many +runnin’ in an’ out o’ the big house. The boys got married, too, an’ +some o’ the childern wuz comin’ an’ goin’ all the time. It wuz quiet +over at Ann’s, an’ she wuz a lot easier in her mind after Curt died. +She growed stronger, an’ begun to ’tend to the mill hersef. When her +mother died, she kept right on tendin’ it. An’ she wouldn’t take nobody +to live with her. Her brother’s fam’ly wuz so close she didn’t need +nobody, she said. Folks would come to the mill, an’ talk pleasant, an’ +hep with the liftin’, an’ Nathe couldn’t make her give it up.” + +But Aunt Lizy must add a bitter touch. “It’s a pity,” she said, “that +he didn’t try to make Lindy give up some o’ _her_ hard work; she’d ’a’ +lived longer.” + +“I know she worked hard,” said Uncle Ranz, “an’ the gals wuz +aggervatin’, but she seemed satisfied, an’ Nathe never interfered with +her about nothin’.” + +“I reckon,” said Uncle Dan’l, “them twenty-odd years he lived with +Lindy wuz about the best o’ Nathe’s life. An’ she never opened her +mouth about Ann.” + +“You’re fergittin’ what she said when she wuz dyin’. Lindy wuz proud +o’ her nice things--all the quilts she’d pieced, an’ counterpins an’ +kiverlids she’d wove, an’ rugs, an’ table-kivers, an’ curtains. When +she wuz dyin’ she ast Nathe not to let Ann come in over ’em soon as +she wuz dead cold. Nathe promised her he wouldn’t. ‘Ef I bring a woman +in here, Lindy,’ he said, ‘she’ll have to be as smart as you’ve been.’ +That pleased Lindy better’n anything he could ’a’ told her. Nathe kept +his word too, an’ married a fine widder from out around Waynesville. +She wuz up in years, but healthy, an’ could turn her hand to anything. +Nathe wuz proud o’ the Widder Stiles when he brought her in.” + +“I knowed her boy, Zeb, out in Jackson County,” said Uncle Dan’l. “He +wuz a smart feller, an’ went off an’ made two kinds of a doctor of +hissef, a rubbin’ doctor an’ the other kind. I seen Doc Stiles when he +went through here last summer.” + +“His mother could ’a’ come inter Silver Valley without puttin’ on airs, +though,” Aunt Lizy informed us, in a tone savoring of keen reminiscence. + +“She had different notions from Lindy, an’ that’s what Nathe wuzn’t +expectin’,” continued Uncle Ranz. “She never ast no questions, an’ +nobody told her nothin’, but she looked around fer hersef, an’ it +didn’t take her long to make up her mind about Ann. When they’d been +married about six weeks, she told Nathe she believed she’d go fer a +visit to see how her folks wuz gittin’ on. Nathe said all right, only +he’d ruther she wouldn’t stay long an’ it harvest-time. He hitched up, +an’ took her to Scatter, an’ she got on the train an’ never come back. +Nathe went over to Waynesville after her, but he had to come home by +hissef. Seemed like he wuz tuk down about it, an’ never got back his +spirit. ’Twasn’t long till he couldn’t ride over to Ann’s, an’ after +that he went off fast. Angie Sue left her second husband, an’ come +to live with her daddy, an’ Herb’s wife wuz dead an’ him an’ all the +childern wuz there, an’ pore ol’ Nathe had to die ’thout anybody in the +house to make things run easy an’ peaceable. + +“Angie Sue is claimin’ ever’thing her daddy had fer takin’ keer o’ +him, but ef it hadn’t been fer the things Ann cooked up an’ slipped +over to him by me an’ the neighbors, he wouldn’t ’a’ teched a bite fer +three weeks ’fore he died. Angie Sue quit takin’ her stuff in to him, +’cause all he’d say wuz: ‘Git out o’ here with that pizen.’ The day he +wuz dyin’ he sent me to tell Ann that Bake would take keer o’ her. She +knowed that, but he wanted to be sendin’ some word. She wuz settin’ by +the winder holdin’ something in her hand when I come inter the yard. I +went to the winder, an’ she paled off a little an’ ast ef he wuz gone. +When I told her what he wanted me to, she says: ‘You give him this. +He’ll know what it is.’ I looked, an’ it wuz a big ol’ shiny chestnut, +so light I knowed they wuzn’t nuthin’ in it but dust. ‘I picked it up,’ +she says, ‘that day about a minute ’fore Lu saw us.’ I took it, but +Nathe wuz dead when I got back home.” + + +III + +At Scatter the next morning Serena and I waited for the up-train +to Beebread. A little mother and her big son were waiting for the +down-train going east. Serena went over to the mother, who was Ann +Lindsay, and they chatted softly. I kept aside, not precipitating an +introduction. Was she not a nugatory survival, who, by all laws of +fitness, ought to have been on the hill ’longside the others? But the +“others” would have removed their dusty skirts; and Bake had said that +Jenny would be good to her. That expectation was apparent, I thought, +in her quiet assurance. And suddenly, unreasonably, I felt that her +departure was a desertion. + +I recalled the futile Angie Sue, the innocuous Herb and Sam, the +negligible Rosie, and thought of Nathe with all his vital insistence +buried so “proper” in an untended grave. Then I looked at big Bake, +whose resolute posterity would shoulder through, undoubtedly, to the +end of a needy world. Here, for the breath-time of earth, at least, +Uncle Nathe might hold oblivion in check. + +The whistle of the east-bound train blew, a mile away. I had overheard +enough to know that Bake and his mother would leave the train at +Carson and motor over the new highway, out and down to their lowland +home--that highway, monstrously magical, so rapidly obliterating the +Unakasia of my intimate care and delight. Within a few years, the ways +and customs of Atlantis would not be more dim in time. + +While the whistle of the train was still keen in the air, Elmer Jenkins +walked on to the platform. He spied Baker Lindsay, and went to him at +once. + +“I saw you at the funeral yesterday,” he said. + +“I saw you too,” said Bake, his smile implying that no one could have +missed the master of ceremonies. Mr. Jenkins was pleased, and his +glance of response included the pretty, white-haired woman at Bake’s +side. When he was introduced, the lawyer would have offered his hand, +but Ann, unfledged in new air, was too timid to note the gesture. + +“I suppose you were out yesterday, Mrs. Lindsay,” he said, and she +dropped a soft negative. + +“Too bad you missed the ceremony! It was unusual in a district so +remotely rural. I was glad to be instrumental in getting a good +turn-out from the Carson lodge, though Mr. Ponder had not been +in attendance for some years. These fine old mountaineers are +passing--passing. It was a very interesting funeral. Very.” + +“I reckon it was,” said Ann, as Bake, gently dominant, lifted her to +the train. + + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: + + + Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. + + Perceived typographical errors have been corrected. + + Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. + + Archaic or variant spelling has been retained. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75567 *** |