In the center of one of the most picturesque valleys in the heart of Pennsylvania lies the village and at one end of its single street stands the store. On the broad porch of this homely and ancient edifice there is a long oak bench, rough, and hacked in countless places by the knives of many generations of loungers. From this bench, looking northward across an expanse of meadows, a view is had of a low, green ridge, dotted here and there with white farm buildings. Behind that rise the mountains, along whose sides on bright days play the fanciful shadows of the clouds. Close by the store is the rumbling mill, and beyond it runs the creek, spanned by a wooden bridge whose planking now and then resounds with the beat of horses’ hoofs, so that it adds its music to the roar of the mill-wheels and ring of the anvil in the blacksmith shop across the stream.
One July day the stage rattled over the bridge, past the mill and drew up at the store. The G. A. R. Man, the only passenger, climbed out of the lumbering vehicle, dragging after him a shapeless, battered carpet-bag. He limped up the steps in the wake of the driver, who was helping the Storekeeper with the mail-pouch, and when on the porch stopped and nodded a greeting to the men who were sitting on the bench kicking their heels together—the Patriarch, the School Teacher, the Miller, the Tinsmith and the Chronic Loafer. The loungers gazed solemnly at the new arrival; at his broad-brimmed, black slouch hat, which though drawn down over his left temple did not hide the end of a band of court-plaster; at his blue coat, two of its brass buttons missing; at his trousers, in which there were several rents that had been clumsily sewed together.
The silence was broken by the School Teacher, who remarked with a contemptuous curl of the nose, “So you’ve got home from Gettysburg, have you? From your appearance one would judge that you had come from a battle instead of a reunion.”
“Huh! A good un—a good un!”
All eyes were turned toward the end of the bench, where sat the Chronic Loafer. He was a tall, thin, loose-jointed man. Thick, untrimmed locks of tawny hair fell from beneath his ragged, straw hat, framing a face whose most prominent features were a pair of deep-set, dull blue eyes, two sharp, protruding cheek-bones and a week’s growth of red beard. His attire was simple in the extreme. It consisted of a blue striped, hickory shirt, at the neck-band of which glistened a large, white china button, which buttoned nothing, but served solely as an ornament, since no collar had ever embraced the thin, brown neck above it. A piece of heavy twine running over the left shoulder and down across the chest supported a pair of faded, brown overalls, which were adorned at the right knee by a large patch of white cotton. He was sitting in a heap. His head seemed to join his body somewhere in the region of his heart. His bare left foot rested on his right knee and his left knee was encircled by his long arms.
“A good un!” he cried again.
Then he suddenly uncoiled himself, throwing back his head until it struck the wall behind him, and swung his legs wildly to and fro.
“Well, what air you so tickled about now?” growled the G. A. R. Man.
“I was jest a-thinkin’ that you’d never come outen no battle lookin’ like that,” drawled the Loafer.
He nudged the Miller with his elbow and winked at the Teacher. Forthwith the three broke into loud fits of laughter.
The Patriarch pounded his hickory stick vigorously on the floor, pulled his heavy platinum rimmed spectacles down to the tip of his nose and over their tops gazed in stern disapproval.
“Boys, boys,” he said, “no joshing. It ain’t right to josh.”
“True—true,” said the Loafer. He had wrapped himself up again and was in repose. “My pap allus use to say, ‘A leetle joshin’ now an’ then is relished be the wisest men—that is, ef they hain’t the fellys what’s bein’ joshed.’”
The G. A. R. Man had been leaning uneasily against a pillar. On this amicable speech from his chief tormenter, the frown that had been playing over his face gave way to a broad grin, three white teeth glistening in the open space between his stubby mustache and beard.
“Yes,” he said, “I hev come home afore my ’scursion ticket expired.” He removed his hat and disclosed a great patch of plaster on his forehead. “Ye see Gettysburg was a sight hotter fer me yesterday than in ’63. But I’ve got to the eend o’ my story.”
“So that same old yarn you’ve ben tellin’ at every camp-fire sence the war is finished at last. That’s a blessin’!” cried the Miller.
“I never knowd you was in the war. I thot you jest drawed a pension,” interrupted the Loafer.
The veteran did not heed these jibes but fixed himself comfortably on the upturned end of his carpet-bag.
“Teacher, I’ve never seen you at any of our camp-fires,” he began. “Consekently the eend o’ my story won’t do you no good ’less you knows the first part. So I’ll tell you ’bout my experience at the battle o’ Gettysburg an’ then explain my second fight there. I was in the war bespite the insinooations o’ them ez was settin’ on that same bench in the day o’ the nation’s danger. I served as a corporal in the Two-hundred-and-ninety-fifth Pennsylwany Wolunteers an’ was honorable discharged in ’63.”
“Fer which discharge he gits his pension,” the Loafer ventured.
“That ain’t so. I cot malary an’ several other complaints in the Wilterness that henders me workin’ steady. It was no wonder, either, fer our retchment was allus fightin’. We was knowd ez the Bloody Pennsylwany retchment, fer we’d ben in every battle from Bull Run on, an’ hed had some wery desp’rate engagements. ’Henever they was any chargin’ to be done, we done it; ef they was a fylorn hope, we was on it; ef they was a breastwork to be tuk, we tuk it. You uns can imagine that be the eend o’ two years sech work, we was pretty bad cut up. ’Hen the army chased the rebels up inter this state we was with it, but afore the fight at Gettysburg it was concided that sence they wasn’t many of us, we’d better be put to guardin’ baggage wagons. That was a kind o’ work that didn’t take many men, but required fighters in caset the enemy give the boys in front a slip an’ sneaked een on our rear.”
The School Teacher coughed learnedly and raised a hand to indicate that he had something to say. Having secured the floor, he began: “When Darius the First invaded Europe he had so many women, children and baggage wagons in his train that——”
“See here,” cried the Patriarch, testily. “Dar’us was afore my time, I allow. We don’t care two snaps o’ a ram’s tail ’bout Dar’us. We wants to know ’bout them bloody Pennsylwanians.”
The pedagogue shook his head in condemnation of the ignorance of his companions, but allowed the G. A. R. Man to proceed.
“Durin’ the first day’s engagement our retchment, with a couple of others, an’ the trains, was ’bout three mile ahint Cemetary Hill, but on the next mornin’ we was ordered back twenty mile. It was hard to hev to drive off inter the country ’hen the boys was hevin’ it hot bangin’ away at the enemy, but them was orders, an’ a soldier allus obeys orders.
“The fightin’ begin airly that day. We got the wagons a-goin’ afore sun-up, but it wasn’t long tell we could hear the roar o’ the guns, an’ see the smoke risin’ in clouds an’ then settlin’ down over the country. We felt pretty blue, too, ez we went trampin’ along, fer the wounded an’ stragglers was faster ’an we. They’d come hobblin’ up with bad news, sayin’ how the boys was bein’ cut up along the Emmettsburg road, an’ how we’d better move faster, ez the army was losin’ an’ the rebels ’ud soon be een on us. Then they’d hobble away agin. Them wasn’t our only troubles, either. The mules was behavin’ mean an’ cuttin’ up capers, an’ the wagons was breakin’ down. Then we hed to be continual watchin’ fer them Confederate cavalry we was expectin’ was a-goin’ to pounce down on us.
“Evenin’ come, an’ we lay to fer the night. The fires was started, an’ the coffee set a-boilin’, an’ we had a chancet to rest a while. The wounded an’ the stragglers that jest filled the country kep’ comin’ in all the time, sometim’s alone, sometim’s in twos an’ threes, some with their arms tied up in all sorts o’ queer ways, or hobblin’ on sticks, or with their heads bandaged; about the miserablest lot o’ men I ever see. The noise of the fight stopped, an’ everything was quiet an’ peaceful like nawthin’ hed ben happenin’. The quiet an’ the dark an’ the fear we was goin’ to meet the enemy at any minute made it mighty onpleasant, an’ what with the stories them wounded fellys give us, we didn’t rest wery easy.
“I went out on the picket line at ten o’clock. Seemed I hedn’t ben there an hour tell I made out the dark figure of a man comin’ th’oo the fiel’s wery slow like. Me an’ the fellys with me watched sharp. Sudden the man stopped, hesitated like an’ sank down in a heap. Then he picked himself up an’ come staggerin’ on. He couldn’t ’a’ ben more’n fifty yards away ’hen he th’owed up his hands an’ pitched for’a’d on his face. Me an’ me buddy run out an’ carried him inter the fire. But it wasn’t no uset. He was dead.
“They was a bullet wound in his shoulder, an’ his clothes was soaked with blood that hed ben drippin’, drippin’ tell he fell the last time. I opened his coat, an’ in his pocket foun’ a letter, stamped, an’ directed apparent to his wife—that was all to tell who he was. So I went back to me post thinkin’ no more of it an’ never noticin’ that that man’s coat ’ud ’a’ fit two of him.
“Mornin’ come, an’ the firin’ begin over toward Gettysburg. We could see the smoke risin’ agin an’ hear the big guns bellerin’ tell the ground beneath our feet seemed to swing up an’ down. I tell you uns that was a grand scene. We was awful excited, fer we knowd the first two days hed gone agin us, an’ more an’ more stragglers an’ wounded come limpin’ back, all with bad news. I was gittin’ nervous, thinkin’ an’ thinkin’ over it, an’ wishin’ I was where the fun was. Then I concided mebbe I wasn’t so bad off, fer I might ’a’ been killed like the poor felly I seen the night before, an’ in thinkin’ o’ the man I remembered the letter an’ got it out. I didn’t ’tend to open it, but final I thot it wasn’t safe to go mailin’ letters ’thout knowin’ jest what was in ’em, so I read it.
“The letter was wrote on a piece o’ wrappin’ paper in an awful bad handwrite, but ’hen I got th’oo it I set plumb down an’ cried like a chil’. It was from John Parker to his wife Mary, livin’ somewhere out in western Pennsylwany. He begin be mentionin’ how we was on the eve of a big fight an’ how he ’tended to do his duty even ef it come to fallin’ at his post. It was hard, he sayd, but he knowd she’d ruther hev no husban’ than a coward. He was allus thinkin’ o’ her an’ the baby he’d never seen, but felt satisfaction in knowin’ they was well fixed. It was sorrerful, he continyerd, that she was like to be a widdy so young, an’ he wasn’t goin’ to be mean about it. He allus knowd, he sayd, how she’d hed a hankerin’ after young Silas Quincy ’fore she tuk him. Ef he fell, he thot she’d better merry Silas ’hen she’d recovered from the ’fects o’ his goin’. He ended up with a lot o’ last ‘good-bys’ an’ talk about duty to his country.
“Right then an’ there I set down an’ wrote that poor woman a few lines tellin’ how I’d foun’ the letter in her dead husban’s pocket. I was goin’ to quit at that, but I concided it ’ud be nice to add somethin’ consolin’, so I told how we’d foun’ him on the fiel’ o’ battle, face to the enemy, an’ how his last words was fer her an’ the baby. That day we won the fight, an’ the next I mailed Mrs. Parker her letter. It seemed about the plum blamedest, saddest thing I ever hed to do with.”
“I’ve allus ben cur’ous ’bout that widdy, too,” the Chronic Loafer remarked.
The Teacher cleared his throat and recited:
“Now night her course began, and over heaven
Inducing darkness grateful truce imposed,
And silence on the odious din of war;
Under her cloud——”
“No poetry jist yet, Teacher,” said the veteran. “Wait tell you hear the sekal o’ the story.”
“Yes, let’s hev somethin’ new,” growled the Miller.
Having silenced the pedagogue, the G. A. R. Man resumed his narrative.
“I never heard no more o’ Widdy Parker tell last night, an’ then it come most sudden. Our retchment hed a reunion on the fiel’ this year, you know, an’ on Monday I went back to Gettysburg fer the first time sence I was honorable discharged. The boys was all there, what’s left o’ ’em, an’ we jest hed a splendid time wisitin’ the monyments an’ talkin’ over the days back in ’63. There was my old tent-mate, Sam Thomas, on one leg, an’ Jim Luckenbach, who was near tuk be yaller janders afore Petersburg. There was the colonel, growed old an’ near blind, an’ our captain an’ a hundred odd others.
“Well, last night we was a lot of us a-settin’ in the hotel tellin’ stories. It come my turn an’ I told about the dead soldier’s letter. A big felly in a unyform hed ben leanin’ agin the bar watchin’ us. ’Hen I begin he pricked up his ears a leetle. Ez I got furder an’ furder he seemed to git more an’ more interested, I noticed. By an’ by I seen he was becomin’ red an’ oneasy, an’ final ’hen I’d finished he walks acrosst the room to where we was settin’ an’ stands there starin’ at me, never sayin’ nawthin’.
“A minute passed. I sais, sais I, ‘Well, comrade, what air you starin’ so fer?’
“Sais he, ‘That letter was fer Mary Parker?’
“‘True,’ sais I, surprised.
“‘Dead sure?’ sais he.
“‘Sure,’ sais I.
“Then he shakes his fist an’ yells, ‘I’ve ’tended most every reunion here sence the war hopin’ to meet the idjet that sent that letter to my wife an’ wrote that foolishness ’bout findin’ my dead body. After twenty-five years I’ve foun’ you!’
“He pulls off his coat. The boys all jumps up.
“I, half skeert to death, cries, ‘But you ain’t the dead man!’
“‘Dead,’ he yells. ‘Never ben near it. Nor did I ’tend to hev every blame fool in the army mailin’ my letters nuther. Because you finds a man with my coat on, that hain’t no reason he’s me. I was gittin’ to the rear with orders ez lively ez a cricket an’ th’owed off that coat jest because it was warm runnin’.’
“‘Hen I seen what I’d done I grabs his arm, I was so excited, an’ cries, ‘Did she merry Silas Quincy?’
“‘It wasn’t your fault she didn’t,’ he sais, deliberate like, rollin’ up his sleeves. ‘I got home two days after the letter an’ stopped the weddin’ party on their way to church.’”
The Chronic Loafer stretched his legs along the counter and rested his back comfortably against a pile of calicoes.
“I allus held,” he said, “that they hain’t no sech things ez a roarinborinallus. I know some sais they is ’lectric lights, but ’hen I seen that big un last night I sayd to my Missus, an’ I hol’ I’m right, I sayd that it was nawthin’ but the iron furnaces over the mo’ntain. Fer s’pose, ez the Teacher claims, they was lights at the North Pole—does you uns believe we could see ’em all that distance? Well now!”
He gazed impressively about the store. The Patriarch, the Miller and the G.A.R. Man were disposed to agree with him. The School Teacher was sarcastic.
“Where ignorance is bliss ’twere folly to be wise,” he said. He tilted back on two legs of his chair and adjusted his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, so that all eight of his long quivering fingers seemed to be pointing in scorn at the man on the counter.
The Loafer rolled slowly over on one side and eyed the pedagogue.
“Ben readin’ the almanick lately, hain’t ye?” he drawled.
“If you devoted less time to the almanac and more to physical geography,” retorted the Teacher, “you’d know that the Aurora Borealis hain’t a light made on terra firma but that it is a peculiar magnetic condition of the atmosphere. And the manner in which you pronounce it is exceedingly ludicrous. It’s not a roarinborinallus. It is spelled A-u-r-o-r-a B-o-r-e-a-l-i-s.”
The Loafer sat up, crossed his legs and embraced his knee, thus forming a natural fortification behind which he could collect his thoughts before hurling them at his glib and smiling foe. He gazed dully at his rival a moment; then said suddenly, “My pap was a cute man.”
“He hasn’t left any living monument to his good sense,” said the Teacher.
The Loafer looked at the Storekeeper, who was sitting beneath him on an empty egg-crate. “Do you mind how he use to say that Solerman meant ‘teacher’ ’hen he sayd ‘wine’; how Solerman meant, ‘Look not upon the teacher ’hen he is read,’ fer a leetle learnin’ leaveneth the whole lump an’ puffs him up so——”
The pedagogue’s chair came down on all four legs with a crash. His right thumb left the seclusion of his waistcoat, his right arm shot out straight, and a trembling forefinger pointed at the eyes that were just visible over the top of the white-patched knee.
“See here!” he shouted. “I’m ready for an argyment, but no callin’ names. This is no place for abuse.”
The Loafer resumed his reclining attitude and fixed his gaze on the dim recesses of the ceiling.
“I hain’t callin’ no one names,” he said slowly, “I was jest tellin’ what my pap use to say.”
“Tut-tut-tut, boys,” interrupted the Patriarch, thumping the floor with his stick. “Don’t git quarrelin’ over sech a leetle thing ez the meanin’ o’ a word. Mebbe ye’s both right.”
The Tinsmith had hitherto occupied a nail keg near the stove, unnoticed. Now he began to rub his hands together gleefully and to chuckle. The Teacher was convinced that his own discomfiture was the cause of the other’s mirth.
“Well, what are you so tickled about?” he snapped.
“Aurory Borealis. Perry Muthersbaugh spelled down Jawhn Jimson on that very word. Yes, he done it on that very word. My, but that there was a bee, Perfessor!”
“Now ’fore you git grindin’ away, sence you’ve got on spellin’,” said the Chronic Loafer, “I want to tell a good un——”
“Let him tell us about Perry Muthersbaugh,” said the Teacher in decisive tones. The title “professor” had had a softening effect, and he repaid the compliment by supporting the Tinsmith’s claim to the floor.
Compelled to silence, the Chronic Loafer closed his eyes as though oblivious to all about him, but a hand stole to his ear and formed a trumpet there to aid his hearing.
“Some folks is nat’ral spellers jest ez others is nat’ral musicians,” began the Tinsmith. “Agin, it’s jest ez hard to make a good speller be edication ez it is to make a good bass-horn player, fer a felly that hain’t the inborn idee o’ how many letters is needed to make a word’ll never spell no better than the man that hain’t the nat’ral sense o’ how much wind’s needed to make a note, ’ll play the bass-horn.”
“I cannot wholly agree with you,” the Teacher interrupted. “Give a child first words of one syllable, then two; drill him in words ending in t-i-o-n until——”
“We won’t discuss that, Perfessor. It don’t affect our case, fer Jawhn Jimson was a nat’ral speller. You never seen the like. Give him a word o’ six or seven syllables an’ he’d spell it out like it was on a blackboard right before him. ’Hen he was twenty he’d downed all the scholars in Happy Grove an’ won about six bees. Then he went to Pikestown Normal School, an’ ’hen he come back you never knowd the beat. He hed stedied Lating an’ algebray there, but I guesst he must also ’a’ spent considerable time a-brushin’ up his spellin’, fer they was only one felly ’bout these parts could keep with him any time at all. He was my frien’ Perry Muthersbaugh, who tot up to Kishikoquillas.
“You uns mind the winter we hed the big blizzard, ’hen the snow covered all the fences an’ was piled so high in the roads that we hed to drive th’oo the fiel’s. They was a heap sight goin’ on that year—church sosh’bles, singin’ school an’ spellin’ bees. Me an’ Perry Muthersbaugh was buddies, an’ not a week passed ’thout we went some’eres together. Fore I knowd it him an’ Jawhn Jimson was keepin’ company with Hannah Ciders. She was jest ez pretty ez a peach, plump an rosy, with the slickest nat’ral hair an’ teeth you uns ever seen. She was fond o’ edication, too, so ’hen them teachers was after her she couldn’t make up her min’. She favored both. Perry was good lookin’ an’ steady an’ no fool. He’d set all evenin’ along side o’ her an’ never say nawthin’ much, but she kind o’ thot him good company. It allus seemed to me that Jimson was a bit conceity an’ bigitive, but he was amusin’ an’ hed the advantage of a normal school edication. He kind o’ dazzled her. She didn’t know which of ’em to take, an’ figured on it tell well inter the winter. Her color begin to go an’ she was gittin’ thin. Perry an’ Jawhn was near wild with anxiousness an’ was continual quarrelin’. Then what d’ye s’pose they done?”
“It’ll take a long time fer ’em to do much the way you tells it,” the Chronic Loafer grumbled.
“She give out,” continued the Tinsmith, not heeding the interruption, “that she’d take the best edicated. That tickled Jawhn, an’ he blowed around to his frien’s how he was goin’ to send ’em invites to his weddin’. Perry jest grit his teeth an’ sayd nawthin’ ’cept that he was ready. Then he got out his spellin’ book an’ went to sawin’ wood jest ez hard an’ fast ez he could.”
“That there reminds me o’ my pap.” The Chronic Loafer was sitting up again.
“Well, if your pap was anything like his son,” said the Teacher, “I guess he could ’a’ sawed most of his wood with a spellin’ book.”
The author of this witticism laughed long and loud, having support in the Miller and the G.A. R. Man. The Patriarch put his hand under his chin and dexterously turned his long beard upward so that it hid his face. In the seclusion thus formed he had a quiet chuckle all to himself, for he was a politic old person and loath to offend.
“Boys, boys,” he said when the mirth was subsiding, “remember what the Scriptur’ sais——”
“Pap didn’t git it from the Scriptur’,” said the Loafer complacently. “He use to give it ez a text tho’, somethin’ like this, ‘He that goeth at the wood-pile too fast gen’rally breaketh his saw on the fust nail an’ freezeth all winter.’”
“Not ef he gits the right kind o’ firewood—the kind that hasn’t no nails,” said the Miller hotly.
“Huh!” exclaimed the Loafer, and he sprawled out upon the counter once more.
The Tinsmith took up the narrative again.
“It was agreed that the two teachers ’ud hev it out at the big spellin’ bee ’tween their schools the follyin’ week. The night set come. Sech a crowd ez gathered at the Happy Grove school house! They was sleighin’, an’ fer a quarter of a mile in front o’ the buildin’ they was nawthin’ but horses hitched to the fences. The room was decorated with greens an’ lighted with ile lamps fer the occasion, an’ was jest packed. All the seats was filled with girls. The men was lined three deep along the walls an’ banked up on top of one another at the back. On one side o’ the platform, settin’ on a long bench under the blackboard, was the sixteen best scholars o’ Happy Grove school led be Jawhn Jimson. He was smilin’ an’ conferdent, an’ gazed longin’ at Hannah Ciders, who was on one o’ the front seats an’ ’peared rather nervous.
“Perry Muthersbaugh come up to me ez I was standin’ be the stove warmin’ up, an’ I whispered him a few words of encouragement, tho’ I felt sorry fer him. He was a leetle excited but ’lowed it ’ud come out all right. Then he tuk his place on the other side o’ the platform with his sixteen scholars, an’ the proceedin’s begin.
“Teacher Long from Lemon township give out the words, while me an’ another felly kep’ tally. The first word was soupeny. Perry missed it. He spelled it s-u-p-e-n-a. It jest made me sick to hev to mark down one agin his side. Jimson tuk it, spelled it all right, an’ commenced to smile. Muthersbaugh looked solemn. The next felly on his side spelled supersedes correct, while the girl beside Jawhn missed superannuation. Happy Grove and Kishikoquillas was even.
“I tell you uns it was most excitin’ to see them trained spellers battlin’. They kep’ it up fer half an hour, an’ ’hen they quit Happy Grove hed two misses less than Kishikoquillas. Jimson was smilin’ triumphant. Perry didn’t do nawthin’ but set there quiet like.
“Then come the final test—the spellin’ down. After a recess o’ ten minutes the sides lined up agin, an’ ’henever one missed a word he hed to go sit in the aud’ence. They spelled an’ spelled tell they was no one left but Jawhn Jimson an’ Perry Muthersbaugh, standin’ glarin’ at each other an’ singin’ out letters. It was a grand sight. Hannah Ciders was pale an’ tremblin’, fer she knowd the valley of an idle word then. The aud’ence was most stretchin’ their necks outen joint they was so interested. Two lamps went out an’ no one fixed them. The air was blue with steam made be the snow meltin’ offen the fellys’ boots, the stove begin to smoke, an’ the room was suffocatin’, yit no one thot to put up a winder, the excitemen’ was so bad.
“Sech words ez penultimate, concatenation, pentateuch an’ silhouette come dead easy to them teachers. They kep’ glarin’ at each other an’ spellin’ like their life depended on it. Poor Long’s voice got weaker an’ weaker givin’ out words, an’ I was that nervous I could hairdly see. They spelled all the ations an’ entions, all the words endin’ in i-s-m, d-l-e an’ ness, tell it seemed they’d use up the book. Perry was gittin’ more excited. Jimson’s knees was tremblin’ visible.
“Then Rorybory Allus was give out. You could ’a’ heard a pin drop in that room. Jimson he begin slow, ez ef it was dead easy: ‘A-r-o-r-a, Aurora; b-o-r, Aurora Bor; e-a-l-i-s, Aurora Borealis.’
“A mumble went over the room. He seen he was wrong an’ yelled, ‘A-u, I mean!’
“‘Too late,’ sais Long. ‘Only one chancet at a time. The gentleman who gits it right first, wins.’
“Jawhn was white ez a sheet, an’ his face an’ han’s was twitchin’ ez he stood there glarin’ at Perry. Muthersbaugh looked at the floor like he was stedyin’. I seen Hannah Ciders lean for’a’d an’ grip the desk with her han’s. Then I knowd she’d made up her min’ which she favored.
“He begin, ‘A-u, au; r-o-r, ror, Auror; a, Aurora; B-o-r-e, bore, Aurora Bore; a-l, al, Aurora Boreal—’ Then he stopped, an’ looked up at the ceilin’, an’ stedied.
“I seen tears in Hannah Ciders’ eyes ez she leaned for’a’d, not breathin’. I seen Jimson grin, an’ knowd he remembered he’d left out the u an’ ’ud spell it jest ez quick ez he got a chancet. I believed Perry was goin’ to say a, that it was all up with him an’ that Hannah Ciders knowd too late who she favored.
“All o’ a sudden the door flew open an’ they was a cry: ‘Hoss thief! thieves! Some un’s run off with Teacher Jimson’s sleigh.’
“You uns never seen sech a panic. The weemen jumped up an’ yelled. The men all piled outen the door. Jawhn Jimson climbed th’oo the winder, an’ Teacher Long dropped his spellin’ book an’ followed. To my surprise Perry Muthersbaugh never moved. He jest stood there lookin’ at Hannah Ciders an’ smilin’ while she gazed back. I was gittin’ outen the winder among the last an’ turned to see ef Perry was ahint me—that’s how I noticed it. Fer three minutes them two stared at each other an’ I stared at them, not knowin’ what to make of it. Meantime the room was cleared. Outside we heard the sleigh-bells ringin’ ez the boys started off after the thieves; we heard Jawhn Jimson an’ Teacher Long callin’ to ’em to go in this an’ that direction; we heard the weemen complainin’ because so many’d hev to walk home.
“Jest then the rear winder, right back o’ where Perry was standin’, slid up an’ his young brother Sam stuck in his head. He looked ’round, an’ he seen the coast was clear. Then he whispered, ‘I give that ’larm in time,’ Perry, didn’t I? Teacher Jimson’s horse is hitched right here ahint the school-house, an’ you can take her home jest ez soon ez the last o’ these fools gits away.’
“Perry wheeled round an’ run at the youngster, ketchin’ him be the collar an’ draggin’ him inter the room.
“‘What you mean,’ sais he, shakin’ him like a rat. ‘What you mean be spoilin’ the bee?’
“Sam begin to yowl. ‘I seen ye was stuck,’ he sais, ‘an’ I thot I’d help ye out.’
“With that Perry th’owed his brother off into a corner o’ the room. Then he stood up straight an’ looked Hannah Ciders right in the eye.
“‘He thot I was stuck,’ he sayd, steppin’ off the platform an’ walkin’ up to the girl. ‘But I ain’t. The last syllable’s e-a-l-a-s!
“‘No,’ she answers quiet like. ‘It’s e-a-l-i-s—but that ain’t no difference.’”
The Patriarch flattened his nose against the grimy windowpane and peered out into the storm.
“Mighty souls!” he cried. “Jest look at it a-comin’ down! Hed I a-knowd we was goin’ to hev it like this, you’d ’a’ seen me a-leavin’ home—you’d ’a’ seen me a-leavin’ home.”
The old man thoughtfully stroked his beard. He felt that he had met but just retribution for coming to the store to loaf. When an hour before he had awakened from a doze in his arm-chair, picked up his stick and hobbled to the village, the sky was clear and blue; not a cloud was visible anywhere, and the sun was blazing down on the fields of yellow grain that he overlooked from the porch of his little house on the hill. But the storm had been gathering its force unseen behind the neighboring mountains, piling black cloud on black cloud. And then, like an army charging on a sleeping enemy, it swept forth from its hiding-place, amid the flash of lightning and the crash of thunder, and deluged the valley.
“My, oh, my!” muttered the old man. “It serves me right. I ought to ’a’ knowd better. ’Henever I runs down here fer a minute’s loaf, it rains; never a team comes ’long to give me a lift home, an’ I hes to paddle back in me leaky ole boots.”
He hobbled to his chair by the empty stove, about which were gathered the men of the village, despite the fact that no fire blazed within and the cold weather was far ahead.
“I hope the company ain’t displeasin’,” drawled the Chronic Loafer. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, refilled and lighted it, and sprawled out upon the counter.
“Not at all—at all. It’s the loafin’ I hate. I never could loaf jest right,” replied the Patriarch, glancing at the prostrate form.
The Loafer gave no answer save a faint “Huh!”
“Jest because a felly sets ’round the stove hain’t no sign he’s lazy, Grandpap,” said the Miller with warmth.
“Fur be it from me from sayin’ so, boys—fur be it,” said the old man. “But ez I was sayin’ a while ago, I don’t want to git inter no sech habits ez Absalom Bunkel.”
“Ab’slom Bunkel—Bunkel—Bunkel?” repeated the Tinsmith, punctuating his remark with puffs of tobacco smoke.
“Bunkel—Bunkel?” said the Storekeeper inquiringly, tapping the end of his nose with his pencil.
“Who’s Abs’lom Bunkel?” the Loafer cried.
“Absalom Bunkel was a man ez was nat’rally so lazy it was a credit to him every time he moved,” the Patriarch began. He fixed his stick firmly on the floor, piled his two fat hands on its big knob head, and leaned forward until his chin almost rested on his knuckles. “You uns knows the old lawg house that stands where the Big Run crosses the road over the mo’ntain. It’s all tumbled down now. They ain’t no daubin’ atween the lawgs; the chimbley’s fallen, the fence is gone, an’ the lot’s choked up with weeds. It’s a forlorn place to-day, but ’hen I was a lad it was jest about the slickest thing along the ridge yander. That’s where Absalom Bunkel lived, an’ his pap, an’ his pap’s pap lived afore him. Ezry Bunkel was a mean man, an’ he come nat’ral by his meanness, fer they never was one o’ the name who was knowed to buy anything he could borry or give away anything he could sell. So ’hen he died he left Absalom a neat little pile o’ about nine hundred dollars. An’ a fortunate thing it was fer the son, fer he’d ruther by fur set on the porch with the pangs o’hunger gnawin’ th’oo him, a-listenin’ to the birds an’ watchin’ the bees a-hummin’ over the sunflowers, than to ’a’ worked.
“Now Absalom was afore my time, an’ I never seen him myself, but I’ve heard tell of him from my pap, an’ what my pap sayd was allus true—true ez gawspel it was. He otter ’a’ knowd all about it, too, fer he was a pall-bearer at Ezry’s funeral. Absalom was thirty-five year old ’hen that happened. He didn’t go off spendin’ his fortune—not much. He jest set right down in a rockin’ chair on the front porch an’ let his sister Nancy look after the place. Nance done the farmin’; Nance made the garden; Nance milked the cow; Nance done the housework an’ come to the store. He done nawthin’—absolute nawthin’.
“He was never out o’ bed afore sun-up. Ef it was warm he’d set on the leetle porch all day lookin’ over the walley, watchin’ the folks goin’ by an’ the birds swoopin’ th’oo the fiel’s, an’ listenin’ to the dreamy hum o’ nature. Ef it was cold he’d loaf all day be the fireplace, bakin’ his shins. Sometim’s Nance ’ud go away fer a spell an’ fergit to leave him wood. Does he cut some fer himself like an ordinary man? Not him. He jest walks to the nearest possible fence-rail, kerrys it inter the house, puts one eend inter the fire an’ keeps pushin’ een ez it burns off. That’s the kind o’ a felly Absalom Bunkel was.
“Now it happened that ’hen he’d been livin’ this way tell his forty-fifth year ole Andy Crimmel tuk a placet about a miled beyant his. One nice afternoon ez Absalom set a-dozin’ on the porch, Andy’s dotter, Annie May, come trippin’ down the road on her way to the store, lookin’ pretty ez a pictur in her red sunbonnet, swingin’ a basket an’ singin’ a melancholy piece. Absalom woke with a start an’ rubbed his heavy eyes. He got sight of her pink cheeks afore she ducked under her bonnet, fer ’hen she seen him she sudden stopped her singin’ an’ walked by a-lookin’ over the walley. That one glance done Absalom Bunkel. He stayed awake tell she come back.
“That night he didn’t eat no supper.
“‘Nance,’ sais he to his sister, ‘how fur is it to Crimmel’s?’
“‘Nigh onter a miled,’ sais she.
“An’ he jest groaned, drawed his boots, tuk a candle an’ went up to bed.
“Twicet a week all that summer Annie May Crimmel come a-singin’ down the road. An’ Absalom, dozin’ on the porch, ’ud hear her voice tell she’d reach the edge o’ the woods. There she’d stop her song an’ go ploddin’ by, gazin’ over the walley like he wasn’t about or wasn’t wuth lookin’ at. Absalom kept gittin’ fatter an’ fatter from doin’ nawthin’, an’ it seemed to him like Annie May Crimmel was prettier every time she went to store. He was onrastless. He was onhappy. He knowd what was wrong, an’ he seen no cure, fer to him that girl walkin’ ’long the road not twenty rods from his house was like a bit o’ bread danglin’ jest beyant the reach o’ a starvin’ man.
“Perhaps you uns wonders why he didn’t go down an’ speak to her. That wasn’t Absalom’s way. He might ’a’ walked that fur to git warm. But to speak to a girl? Never.
“Oncet he called to her, but she paid no attention, an’ hung her head bashful like, an’ walked on the faster.
“‘Nance,’ sais he to his sister that night at supper, ‘I’ve kind o’ a notion fer Annie May Crimmel,’ he sais.
“‘Hev you?’ sais she, lookin’ surprised, tho’ of course she knowd it an’ fer weeks hed ben wonderin’ what ’ud become o’ her.
“‘An’ mebbe,’ sais he, ‘you wouldn’t mind steppin’ over there to-morrow an’ tellin’ her.’
“‘Umph,’ she sais, perkin’ up her nose. ‘You’ll see me a-gaddin’ round the walley settin’ up with the girls fer you!’
“He set thinkin’ a spell. Then he sais, trem’lous like, ‘Nance, how fur is it to Crimmel’s?’
“‘A miled to an inch,’ sais she.
“He jest groaned an’ went off to bed agin.
“They say that next day toward evenin’ Absalom was seen to rise from his chair; to hesitate; to set down; to get up agin an’ move toward the road. He got to the gate, pushed it half open, an’ leaned on it. Tell sunset he stood there, gazin’ wistful like toward Crimmel’s placet. Then Nance called him in fer supper.
“Winter drove the lazy felly inter the house. All day long he’d set be the windy watchin’ fer Annie May; an’ ez she passed he’d smile soft-like; ’hen she was gone he’d look solemn agin. An’ all the time he kep’ gittin’ fatter an’ fatter, an’ more an’ more onrastless.
“Winter broke an’ March went by. Apryl first was a fine warm day, so Absalom took his chair out on the porch an’ set there lookin’ down the ridge into the walley, where the men was a-plow-in’. All at oncet he heard a creakin’ o’ wheels an’ a rattle o’ gears that caused him to turn his eyes up the road. Outen the woods come a wagon piled high with furnitur’. It was a flittin’, the Crimmel’s flittin’, ez he knowd ’hen he seen Andy drivin’ an’ the Missus an’ Annie May ridin’ on the horses. Bunkel was stunned—clean stunned. The flittin’ went creakin’ past the house, him jest settin’ there starin’. He knowd what it meant to him. He knowd it was fer him jest the same ez the death of Annie May, but he couldn’t do nawthin’. The wagon swung ’round the bend an’ was out o’ sight.
“‘Hen Absalom seen the last o’ the red bonnet flashin’ in the sun, he th’owed his hands to his head like they was a pain there. Sudden he jumped from his chair an’ run toward the road yellin’, ‘Hey! hey! Annie May!’
“He tore th’oo the gate, down the hill, an’ ’round the turn. They was in sight agin.
“‘Annie May!’ he called, ‘Annie May!’
“The wagon stopped. The girl climbed offen the horse an’ run toward him, stretchin’ out her hands an’ cryin’, ‘Absalom, Absalom!’
“‘Hen he seen her comin’ he set right down in the road to wait fer her. Her arms fell to her side, an’ she stopped.
“‘Annie May,’ he called, ‘come here. I’ve somethin’ to tell yer.’
“She turned an’ walked with hangin’ head back to the wagon. She climbed on her horse, an’ a minute later the flittin’ disappeared in the hollow at the foot o’ the ridge.”
The Patriarch arose from his chair, walked slowly to the door and stood there looking out into the rain. The men about the stove gazed in astonished silence at his back.
The Miller spoke first. “Well, Grandpap?”
“Well?” said the old man, wheeling about.
“What happened?”
“Who sayd anything was a-goin’ to happen?” snapped the Patriarch.
“What become o’ Absalom?” asked the Storekeeper timidly.
“Oh, he died o’ over-exertin’,” said the Chronic Loafer, wearily, as he threw himself back on the counter.
The Patriarch gave no heed to this remark, but raising his right hand and emphasizing each word with a solemn wag of the forefinger, said, “Boys, I don’t know what happened. Pap never sayd. But now, ’henever I thinks o’ a lazy man, I picturs Absalom Bunkel, settin’ there in the road, his fat legs stretched out afore him, his fat arms proppin’ up that unwieldy body o’ hisn, his eyes an’ his ears a-strainin’ to see an’ hear th’oo the darkness that gathered ’round him what he might ’a’ seen an’ heard allus hed he only hed the ambition to ’a’ gone a few steps furder.”
“A man without a missus is like an engyne without a governor—he either goes too slow or too fast,” said the Chronic Loafer.
“Mighty souls!” cried the Miller. “What in the name o’ common sense put that idee into yer head?”
“It was planted there be accident, cultiwated be experience, an’ to-day it jest blossomed,” was the reply.
The Loafer had come in from a morning on the ridges hunting rabbits. His old muzzle loader leaned against the counter and his hound Tiger was sitting at his side, his head resting on the master’s knee and his solitary eye watching every movement of the thin, grizzled face, which was almost hidden by a blue cloth cap, with a low hanging visor, and ear-tabs. The Loafer removed the tabs and stuffed them into his pocket. Then he laid his hand on his dog’s head and stroked it.
The ticking of the clock, which had a place on a shelf between two jars of stick-candy, accentuated the long silence that followed. Tiger seemed to feel that the hush boded ill to his lord, and cocked one ear and uttered a low growl.
The Teacher pointed his forefinger at the Loafer and said, “I judge that you intended to imply that havin’ a governor you run regular. Some engines, you know, run regular but very slow.”
“An’ some runs wery fast,” was the retort. “An’ they buzzes pretty loud ’thout doin’ a tremendous amount o’ labor.”
“Now you’re gettin’ personal and——”
“Boys, boys!” The Patriarch was rapping for order. “Don’t git quarrelin’ over the question of engynes. Fer my part the plain ole waterwheel beats ’em holly.”
The Miller tilted over on his nail keg and tapped the Loafer on the elbow.
“Tell me,” he said. “Where did ye git that idee? It sounds almanacky.”
“That idee was ginirated this mornin’ ez me an’ Tige was roamin’ ’round Gum hill tryin’ to start a rabbit. They bein’ no rabbits, me an’ Tige set down an’ gunned for idees. It was peaceful an’ nice there on the ridge. The woods hed the reg’lar cheery November rattle, like a dried up, jolly ole man. The wind was a-shakin’ the dead leaves, an’ they was a-chipperin’ an’ chirpin’. The pignuts was jumpin’ from the limbs, sloshin’ th’oo the branches an’ tumblin’ ’round the ground. Overhead a couple of crows was a-floppin’ about an’ whoopin’ like a lot of boys on skates, fer the air was bitin’ like, an’ put life in ye.
“Ez I set there on a lawg I minded a felly I oncet heard up to liter’ry society, who read a piecet ’bout how the year was dyin’ fer autumn was at hand. I noticed Tige ez he was rollin’ ’round chasin’ pignuts, an’ I sais to meself, sais I: ‘Dyin’? Why, no. It’s only in its second chil’hood.’ An’ I looked down the hill into the gut an’ seen the smoke curlin’ up th’oo the trees in the ole Horner clearin’. That’s where I got the Missus. Then it was that that idee ’bout engynes an’ weemen blossomed.
“Before the first time I ever seen that clearin’ I kind o’ lived in jerks. Sometimes I’d run hard an’ fast, an’ ’ud make a heap o’ noise, an’ smash all the machinery. Then I’d hev to lay off a month or so to git patched up agin. My pap was a cute man. He seen right th’oo me an’ he knowd what was wrong. ‘What you need is a governor,’ sayd he. An’ I got one. Sence then I’ve ben runnin’ smooth an’ reg’lar an’ not wery fast. But I hain’t broke no machinery, an’ I’ve never stopped entirely.
“Now it went pretty hard with Pap after Mother died, fer he never did like housework an’ was continual beggin’ me to git merried. He was a-naggin’ an’ naggin’ all the time, petickler ’hen he was washin’ dishes. He’d p’int out certain girls in the walley that he thot ’ud hev me, an’ he’d argy that I otter step up like a leetle man an’ speak me mind to ’em. He even went so fur as to ’low he’d give me the whole placet ef unly I’d git some un to take the housework offen his hands. First it was Mary Potzer. She hed five hundred dollars an’ was a special good match, but her looks was agin her. She was Omish, an’ like most Omish folk was square built, ’cept fer bein’ rounded off a leetle on top. The ole man wouldn’t give me no peace tell I ast her. I didn’t dast do that, but I tol’ him I hed, an’ that she sayd she ’ud take me ef he kep’ on doin’ the cookin’. That kind o’ quieted him fer a spell, an’ some months passed afore he tuk up the subject agin. Next he got to backin’ Rosey Simpson. She was tolable good-lookin’ an’ lively, he sayd, an’ I ’lowed he was right, unly she was too lively fer me. I minded the time I seen her sail inter Bumbletree’s Durham bull ’hen he’d butted a petickler pet sheep o’ hers. She made the ole beast feel so humble that I concided she might do fer a defender but never fer a wife. Next it was Sue Kindler an’ then Sairy Somthin’-else, tell I was clean tired o’ the whole idee.
“One night ’hen he’d ben pesterin’ me most mighty bad I gits mad an’ sais, ‘See here, I ain’t courtin’ trouble. I’m comf’table an’ happy ez I am,’ I sais. ‘I’ve got you an’ Major—Major was the dog—so why do I want to go settin’ a trap ’hen I can’t be sure what I’m goin’ to catch?’
“‘My boy,’ Pap answered, ‘use the proper bait an’ you’ll git the right game.’
“Now Pap use to git off some good uns oncet in a while, but I wasn’t in fer givin’ him the credit. I scatted the whole plan. I didn’t know so much then ez I knows now. Still, sometim’s I ’low that ef it hedn’t ’a’ ben fer Major, I might o’ dissypinted the ole man anyhow. Major was a coon dog, an’ a mighty fine one, bein’ half setter, quarter houn’, an’ last quarter coach. Me an’ him was great buddies. Wherever we went he allus hed an’ eye out fer game. He knowd the seasons, too. Ef it was September he was watchin’ fer squirrels; October, fer patridges; November, rabbits; springtime, girls. It was in the spring ’hen I happened to hear Si Bumbletree speakin’ o’ a petickler fine lot o’ saplin’s fer walkin’ sticks that was growin’ on the chestnut flats at the foot o’ the mo’ntain jest above Andy Horner’s clearin’. So I sais to meself, I sais, it bein’ a fine warm day, I’ll jest mosey up there an’ git me one o’ them staffs. It was a good th’ee mile up the walley an’ over the ridge an’ acrosst the gut, but I found the placet all right an’ cut me a nice straight cane. I was comin’ home, peelin’ off the bark an’ not thinkin’ o’ anything in petickler, ’hen I hear Major givin’ a low growl. I looked up. We was passin’ Horner’s clearin’. There stood the dog, foreleg lifted, tail straight out, nose pintin’ th’oo the blackberry bushes ’long the fence.
“‘There is somethin’ pretty important,’ I sais to meself.
“An’ with that I walks up to the hedge an’ peeks over.
“Settin’ on the groun’, weedin’ the onion-patch, was the prettiest girl I ever laid eyes on. She looked up from een under her sunbonnet outen a pair o’ sparklin’ blue eyes, an’ showed two rosy cheeks with a perk leetle nose atween ’em. Major he hed ducked th’oo a hole in the fence an’ come out on the other side, an’ was standin’ solemn-like, lookin’ at her. All o’ a sudden he begin jumpin’ up an’ down, first on his front legs an’ then on his hint legs, archin’ his neck, waggin’ his tail, an’ showin’ his teeth like he was smilin’ all over.
“‘That’s a nice dog you hev,’ sais the girl, kind o’ musical. She had stopped her weedin’ an’ was settin’ up lookin’ at the houn’.
“‘Yes,’ sais I, ‘he is a tolable nice animal.’
“Then I thinks to meself, ‘Major seems to like her; I wonder how she’d suit Pap.’
“Soon ez that come into me mind I seen it was time I got out. I turned an’ walked down the road harder than I’d ever walked afore.
“That night I couldn’t eat no supper. I’d never felt that same way an’ it worrit me. I knowd no cause fer it, yit I kind o’ thot I didn’t keer whether I lived or died. It worrit Pap too. He ’lowed he’d hev to powwow me.
“‘How are ye goin’ to powwow me,’ sais I, ‘’hen ye don’t know what I’m sufferin’ from? What I’ve got ain’t nawthin’, yit I wish it was somethin’ jest to take me mind offen it.’
“That was ez near ez I could git to the disease. Pap leaned back in his cheer an’ laughed like he’d die. ’Hen he’d finished splittin’ his sides he come over to where I was settin’ be the fire.
“‘What you needs,’ sais he, ‘is to go out an’ look at the moon.’
“Before that I’d never thot o’ the moon ’cept ez a kind o’ lantern to hunt coons by. But ’hen I tuk his adwice, an’ lit me pipe, an’ went out an’ set on the pump trough, watchin’ the ole felly come climbin’ over the ridges, all yeller an’ smilin’ an’ friendly, I seen he hed a new uset. Whatever it was I’d ben sufferin’ from kind o’ passed away an’ left me ca’m an’ peaceful. Me brain seemed like a pool o’ wotter in a wood, all still-like, ’cept fer a few ripples o’ idees on the surface. How long I set there I don’t know. I might ’a’ ben there all night hed the ole man not called me een.
“The first thing I seen ez I went into the house, was Major crouchin’ be the fire watchin’ it wery intent. His supper lay beside him. Not a bone hed ben teched.
“‘Whatever it is,’ sais I, ‘it’s ketchin’.’
“They was nawthin’ doin’ ’round the house next day after breakfast, so I minded that Pap hedn’t a walkin’-stick. I concided I’d mosey up to the chestnut flats an’ cut me a staff fer the ole man. Major went along, an’ we got a petickler nice piece o’ kinnykinnick wood. On the road home we happened to pass be Horner’s clearin’. Ez we was opposite the house I heard some un a-choppin’ an’ seen the chips flyin’ up over the hedge. Feelin’ kind o’ thirsty I stopped een to git a drink o’ wotter. There she was a-splittin’ firewood. ’Hen I explained, she pinted out the spring an’ went on with her work. Ye might ’a’ s’posed we was unly two coon dogs hed dropped een fer a call, she was so cool. But I wasn’t fer goin’ tell I’d at least passed the time a day, so I fixed meself on a block o’ oak with Major beside me.
“‘What are ye doin’?’ I asts, be way o’ openin’ up.
“‘It doesn’t look like ez tho’ I was knittin’, does it?’ she sais kind o’ sharp.
“With that she drove the axe th’oo a stick o’ hickory ez big ’round ez my body. It was all I could git outen her. So me an’ Major jest set there watchin’ quiet-like. It was amazin’ the way she could chop wood—amazin’—an’ I enjoyed it most a mighty well. The axe ’ud swish th’oo the air over her head; down it ’ud come on the lawg, straight an’ true; out ’ud fly a th’ee-cornered chip ez neat ez ef it hed ben sawed. She never looked one way nor the other, nor paid no attention, but kep’ a-pilin’ up firewood tell they was enough to last a week. Then she stuck the axe in the choppin’ block and walked inter the house. Me an’ Major moved on.
“That night I couldn’t git no sleep. The ole trouble come on agin, an’ I went out an’ looked at the moon tell final I dozed off in the pump-trough. ’Hen I woke next mornin’ I knowd what was wrong. I knowd that what I hed was somethin’ I’d be better without, yit hed I to do it over agin I wouldn’t hev awoided it. I knowd I could cut all the saplin’s offen the chestnut flats an’ I wouldn’t git no ease. ’Hen I went over the ridge that day I didn’t try to fool meself cuttin’ staffs. No sir. I walked straight fer the clearin’. Ez I come near the house I whistled pretty loud to give warnin’. At the gate I looked een. No one was ’round. I thot to meself she was in the house, so I whistled louder. Major seemed to understand too, an’ begin barkin’ to beat all. But it hedn’t no effect. That kind o’ made me feel down like an’ me heart weighed wery heavy ez I set on the stoop to wait fer her. All o’ a sudden I hear a rat-tat-tat comin’ from the barn. There she was on the roof, a-nailin’ shingles. I walked down an’ looked up at her.
“‘Hello!’ I calls.
“‘Hello!’ sais she. With that she drove five shingle nails one after another, never payin’ no attention.
“‘What are ye doin’?’ I asts ez I fixed meself on a chicken-coop an’ lighted me pipe. It’s pretty hard talkin’ to a girl ’hen she’s mendin’ a barn roof, an’ ez I didn’t git no answer I stood up an’ yelled at the top o’ me woice, ‘What are ye doin’?’
“‘Well,’ sais she, ‘I s’pose it does look ez tho’ I’m playin’ the melodium, don’t it?’
“She wasn’t in a wery sociable turn o’ mind, but I’m one o’ those felly’s that oncet he gits his plow in the furrow don’t pull it out tell he has at least gone oncet ’round the field. So I jest set there smokin’ while she kep’ on workin’. By an’ by the dinner-bells over in the walley begin to ring, an’ she come down. She never sayd a word ’hen she reached the ground, but I wasn’t to be put back that ’ay. I steps up wery polite an’ gits her hammer an’ kerrys it inter the house fer her. Weemen allus likes them leetle attentions. She did any way, fer she smiled, an’ ’hen I ’lowed I must be goin’, she sayd good-by. An’ I went.
“That night ez I set on the pump-trough with Major beside me, watchin’ the moon ez it come climbin’ up over the ridges, I hear plain an’ distinct the rat-tat-tat o’ the hammer an’ the shingle nails. I leaned back agin the pump, closed me eyes an’ drank in the music. Soon I seen it all agin—the barnyard with the razor-back pig an’ the broken-horned cow browsin’ ’round; the barn, so ole an’ tumble-down that the hay was stickin’ out all over it like it growed on the boards; the roof, half a dozen pigeons cooin’ on one end, an’ her on the other tackin’ away. What a pictur it ’ud made fer a reg’lar hand-paintin’!
“After breakfast Pap lighted his pipe, leaned back in his cheer an’ asted me, ‘How’s that ailment o’ yours gittin’ now?’
“‘Ailment?’ sais I, cool ez ye please. ‘Why, I found it didn’t amount to nawthin’. It’s all gone.’
“Pap smoked a bit. He was blinkin’ like somethin’ amused him powerful.
“‘By the way,’ he sais, ‘I was up past Horner’s clearin’ yestidy an’ I seen that humly dotter o’ Andy’s a——’
“It was so quick an’ sudden, I forgot meself. Never afore hed I felt so peculiarly, so almighty mad.
“‘See here,’ I cries, jumpin’ up an’ liftin’ me cheer, ‘don’t you dast talk o’ Andy Horner’s dotter that ’ay,’ I sais. ‘Ef ye do——’
“I stopped, fer he’d leaned back, an’ was lookin’ at the ceilin’ an’ laughin’ an’ laughin’.
“‘I thot ye hedn’t no ailment,’ he sais.
“Be the twinkle in his eye I seen how he’d fooled me, an’ I set down feelin’ smaller than a bunty hen.
“‘Ye see,’ sais he, ‘I was comin’ th’oo the flats this mornin’ after I’d ben fishin’ trout up in the big run, an’ ez I passed Horner’s I noticed a most remarkable sight. There was Pet Horner a-nailin’ shingles on the barn roof while a strange man set on a chicken-coop smokin’. I sais to meself, I sais, ‘Ef that’s the way he gits a missus, I’ll do the housework tell me dyin’ day.’
“The ole man wasn’t laughin’ now. He was on a subject that was wery dear to him. His woice was husky with earnestness.
“‘Why don’t ye spruce up?’ he sais. ‘Can’t ye chop wood fer her, or churn fer her, or pick some stone offen the clearin’ fer her? Unly do somethin’ to show her ye ain’t the laziest man in the walley. Show her your right side.’
“‘Pap,’ sais I, ‘’hen my Missus takes me I wants her to know me jest ez I am, not as I otter be. Ef there’s any lettin’ on afore the weddin’ there’ll be no lettin’ up after it.’
“With that I gits up an’ walks outen the house, whistlin’ fer Major.
“Him an’ me went up to Horner’s together. We found her churnin’, an’ set down in the grass an’ watched. Ez I watched I got to thinkin’ over what the ole man hed sayd. I seen that perhaps he was right; that I’d git her quicker ef I worked harder. The pictur of gittin’ her quicker almost made me git up an’ do the churnin’. But I thot agin. Ef I churned now I’d hev to churn allus or else I’d be cheatin’ her. Ef she knowd she was takin’ a man who was agin the wery suggestion’ she’d never hev no cause to complain. So I jest lay there chewin’ a straw an’ lookin’.
“That’s the way I done me courtin’ day after day all that summer. It was slow. Mighty, but it was slow! Sometim’s I got discouraged an’ thot the eend was never comin’ an’ I’d better give up. Then she’d drop a word or a look or somethin’ that kind o’ kep’ me hangin’ on. It seemed like she was gittin’ used to me. We seldom sayd anything, fer she was a thinkin’ woman. Fer me, I remembered how Pap allus allowed it was less dangerous fer a man to put a boy in charge o’ his saw-mill than to let his heart run his tongue. So I set an’ sayd nawthin’, but looked a heap.
“It was October ’hen I concided I’d make a trial, fer even ef nawthin’ come of it no petickler harm ’ud be done. So I ast her. She jest th’owed back her head, folded her arms an’ looked at me.
“‘Well?’ I sais.
“She looked a leetle harder an’ a leetle sterner. Her eyes kind o’ snapped.
“‘Well?’ I sais agin.
“‘I hevn’t no petickler dislike,’ sais she, ‘but ye ain’t my idee of a man. A man should move sometim’s.’
“‘Pet,’ I sais, ‘I know I ain’t much on leetle things, but wait tell they’s big things to do. Then I’ll startle ye!’
“I turned an’ walked out o’ the gate an’ ’long the road toward home.
“She didn’t hev to wait long. That wery night ez I set on the porch, I seen a big snake o’ fire come pokin’ his head over the mo’ntain top to the north’ard of us. Fer a time he laid ’round in the huckleberry shelf there, rollin’ an’ floppin’ about the bushes, like he was takin’ in the walley an’ wonderin’ what was the easiest way down the side to the chestnut flats where they was big piles o’ leaves, laurel bushes dry ez chips, an’ hundreds o’ dead trees, all waitin’ to be devoured. Mighty fine the ole snake looked, an’ a heap o’ pleasure it give me watchin’ him.
“The thin line o’ fire begin to spread ez it adwanced, an’ soon the whole side o’ the mo’ntain was ablaze. It was jest a solid bed o’ red. Now an’ then the flames ’ud jump to the top o’ some ole pine, the tree ’ud beat wild like, to an’ fro, tryin’ to shake ’em off, an’ showers o’ sparks ’ud go whirlin’ away inter the sky.
“‘Mighty souls!’ I sais to meself. ‘It’s jest like a monstrous big band festival ’hen all the boys is out with torches an’ they hes a bonfire an’ fireworks an’ music.’
“Music? I hear agin the rat-tat-tat o’ the hammer an’ the shingle nails; an’ I thot o’ her.
“The fire hed reached the flats. It was movin’ right on the clearin’ where she was all alone, fer Andy was workin’ in the saw-mill in Windy Gap.
“You uns otter seen me an’ Major skippin’ up the lane then. They was no loafin’ about it. Never oncet did we stop tell we reached the ridge. There we left the road an’ cut th’oo the fiel’s. Soon we was over them an’ in the woods. We stumbled on an’ on, tumblin’ over lawgs an’ stones, an’ fallin’ inter bushes tell we reached the top o’ the hill an’ looked right down inter the gut.
“There we stopped, fer we was spelled like—me an’ Major—an’ jest stood an’ stared. The smoke filled the whole leetle walley. Th’oo it we could see the glare o’ the burnin’ chestnut flats. Big tongues o’ flame was shootin’ up an’ lickin’ ’round in the air. We could hear the snappin’ an’ crashin’ o’ the trees. We could hear the scream o’ the wild cats ez they was tearin’ fer the open country. A coon run right inter Major, an’ scampered away agin, snarlin’, but the hound never oncet lifted his eyes offen the gut. A loud snortin’ startled me, an’ a razor-backed pig come gallopin’ over the hill. Then they was a bellerin’ an’ a crashin’ o’ bushes, below us. The broken-horned cow run pantin’ up the ridge, an’ by us an’ on th’oo the woods. ’Hen me an Major seen her we jumped for’a’d together an’ tore down th’oo the blindin’ smoke to the clearin’.
“She was standin’ in the doorway, her head buried in her apron, cryin’ like her heart ’ud break. The minute I set eyes on her I forgot all about the fire an’ thot unly o’ her. I jest stood there awkward an’ looked at the girl, fer I was spelled agin, unly worse.
“‘Pet,’ I sais, after a bit, ‘what’s wrong?’
“‘Wrong,’ she cries th’oo her apron. ‘They’s all gone—the cow, the pig, the chickens—gone fer the walley. Soon the clearin’ ’ll go too.’
“With that she raised her hand an’ pinted th’oo the woods, over the flats to the solid wall o’ fire.
“Then I laughed. An’ I hed the right to laugh, fer ez I looked at them flames dartin’ among the trees it seemed like they was the best friends I ever had.
“‘It’s mean to cheat sech good fellers out o’ sech a nice clearin’,’ I sais to meself ez I run along the wood road puttin’ the torch to the dry leaves. ‘It’s mean, but I can’t spend the rest o’ me life settin’ on the pump-trough watchin’ the moon.’
“An’ cheat ’em I did. The leaves an’ the under-brush cot like powder, an’ the counter-fire went runnin’ over the flats towards the mo’ntain to tell the ole fire snakes that it wasn’t no uset to try to git to the clearin’ fer they was no path to it ’cept over ashes.
“We stood there in the wood-road watchin’ it—Pet on one side, then Major, then me. Fer a long time we sayd nawthin’, tell I couldn’t stand it no more.
“‘Pet,’ sais I, wery abrupt, ‘do you think now I’m so awful slow?’
“‘It ain’t them ez runs fastest allus goes the straightest an’ truest,’ she answers.
“It wasn’t wery much to say. Any girl might ’a’ done jest the same thing. But from the way she looked, I knowd I’d got my Missus.”
The Chronic Loafer sat upon the anvil. A leather apron was tied about his neck, and behind him stood the Blacksmith, nipping at his great shock of hair with a tiny pair of scissors. He was facing the Tinsmith and the Miller, who had climbed up on the carpenter bench, and by twisting his neck at the risk of his balance, he could see the tall, thin man standing by the mule which the helper was shoeing. The stranger had hair that reached to his shoulders, a clean-shaven upper lip, a long beard and a benign aspect that denoted him a Dunkard. He had been telling a few stories of the recent events in Raccoon Valley, whence he hailed.
“So it ain’t sech a slow-goin’, out-o’-the-way placet ez you unsez think—still,” he said.
The Blacksmith thoughtfully turned to address him.
“Well, stranger——”
“Ow—ow!” cried the Loafer. “Is you a barber or a butcher?”
“Sights!” exclaimed the worthy smith. “Now that was a jag I give ye, wasn’t it?”
He resumed his task with redoubled vigor. The Loafer closed his eyes and commenced to sputter.
“Mighty souls! Go easy. Are you tryin’ to choke me?”
“Sights!” said the other in apologetic tones, “I didn’t notice. Now I did come near chokin’ ye, didn’t I? I was interested in Raccoon Walley.”
Then he began to clip very slowly.
The Loafer opened one eye cautiously and fixed it on the stranger.
“What was that awful thing I heard ye tellin’ ’bout snakes, jest afore I was smothered under that last hay-load o’ hair?”
“Oh, hoop-snakes,” replied the Dunkard. He paused from his work of brushing the flies from the mule’s legs with a horse-tail. “We hev plenty o’ them ’round our placet. They don’t trouble no one tho’ tell ye bother them. Then they’re awful.”
He turned his attention to the beast’s hoofs and began sweeping them. A smile was lurking about the corners of his mouth.
“Did ye ever run agin any o’ these hoop——”
The Blacksmith’s query was cut short by a loud “Ouch!”
“See here,” said the Loafer with emphasis. “Either he’ll hev to quit tellin’ stories or I quit gittin’ me hair cut.” Then to the stranger, “Is hoop-snakes so wery pisonous?”
“Pisonous!” replied the Dunkard. “Well, I should say they was. One o’ the awfullest things I ever seen was jest the ozzer day ’hen I was workin’ in the fiel’. All o’ a suddent one o’ these wipers jumps outen the hay an’ strikes. I seen it jest in time to step aside. Its fangs struck the han’le o’ me fork.”
The stranger fell to brushing flies again.
“Well, what happened that——”
“There ye go,” the Loafer cried, ducking forward and almost tumbling from the anvil. “Keep your eye on my head an’ not on every Tom, Dick an’ Harry in the shop.” He readjusted himself on his perch and blew away a bunch of hair that had settled on his nose.
“What happened?” he inquired, fixing his least exposed eye on the man from Raccoon Valley.
“Quick ez a flash the han’le o’ my pitch-fork swole up tell it was thick ez my arm.”
The Dunkard had fixed his gaze intently on the forefeet of the mule and was beating them industriously with the horse-tail.
The smith wheeled about abruptly and gazed at the stranger.
“That was an awful thing to experience,” he said. But there was a ring of doubt in his voice.
The Loafer peered over his shoulder and ventured. “Yes. It was the worst jag yit. But I don’t mind. I’m gittin’ accustomed.”
The rattle of the pile of wheels upon which the G. A. R. Man was sitting announced that the veteran was getting restless and was preparing for action. For a long time he had been smoking in silence, listening to the strange tales of the strange man from Raccoon Valley. Now he spoke.
“If your story is true then that was an awful thing.” He seemed to be weighing each word. “Still, it wasn’t so awful ez a thing that happened to me durin’ the war.”
“There ye are agin,” cried the Loafer. “Can’t a man tell a story ’thout you tryin’ to go him one better? I don’t believe ye was in the war anyway.”
“Don’t I git a pension?” The veteran closed one eye and stuck out his lower jaw threateningly.
“That ain’t no sign,” ventured the Miller from the carpenter bench.
“Well, what fer a sign does you unsez want?” roared the G. A. R. Man. “Does you expect a felly to go th’oo life carryin’ a musket? Ef ye does——”
“See here,” said the Blacksmith, “youse fellys is gittin’ that mule all excited. Ef you’re goin’ to quarrel you’d better go outside where there’s lots o’ room fer ye to run away in.”
“Now—now—now!” said the Dunkard, wagging the horse-tail at the company. “Don’t git fightin’. Ef he knows anything awfuller then that hoop-snake wenture let him out with it.”
“I do,” said the veteran. “But I don’t perpose to hev it drug outen me fer you uns to hoot at.”
His tone was pacific, and his companions promised not to hoot.
“The awfullest thing I ever hed to do with,” he said, “was down in front o’ Richmon’ durin’ the war. Our retchment—the Bloody Pennsylwany—was posted kind o’ out like from the rest o’ the army. We lay there fer th’ee weeks doin’ nawthin’ but eatin’, sleepin’, drinkin’ an’ listenin’ to the roar o’ the guns over to the front. Still it wasn’t pleasant, fer we was allus expectin’ somethin’ to happen. It’s a heap sight better to hev somethin’ happenin’ then to be waitin’ fer it to come. But final it come.
“One mornin’ at daybreak the guard was bein’ changed, an’ down on one post they found the picket dead, but not a mark was they on him. It looked wery queer. We’d seen no enemy fer a week an’ yit here was a felly killed plumb on his post, within stone th’ow of our camp. It made the boys feel clammy like, I tell ye, an’ they wasn’t many a-hankerin’ to go on that beat at night. It was a lonely placet, anyway, right on the edge o’ a leetle clump o’ woods in a holler th’oo which run a creek, gurglin’ in a way that made ye creep from your heel-taps to your hat. But the post hed to be covered. Ez luck ’ud hev it, my tent-mate, Jim Miggins, ez nicet a man ez ever shouldered a musket, was stationed there. Next mornin’ the relief goes around, an’ Jim Miggins is lyin’ dead be the stream—not a mark on him nowhere. Still they was no sign o’ the enemy, an’ we’d a clean sweep o’ fiel’s five miles acrosst the country. Mebbe we wasn’t puzzled.”
“Why didn’t the general put a whole regiment in them woods an’ stop it?” asked the Loafer.
“That wasn’t tactics,” answered the veteran. “Ye may think you knows better how to run a war then our general, but ye don’t. It wasn’t tactics, an’ even ef it hed ben it wasn’t the way the Bloody Pennsylwany done things. One man takes the post next night ez usual, young Harry Hopple o’ my company, a lad with more grit then a horse that cribs. In the mornin’—Harry’s dead—no mark on him—no sign o’ the enemy nowhere. Don’t tell me that wasn’t awfuller then hoop-snakes. Why, every man knowd now that ef he drawed that post he was a goner. That was a recognized rule—he was a goner. ’Hen a felly gits it he sets down an’ packs up his duds; then he writes home to his ma or his girl, sais good-by to the boys an’ goes out. Mornin’ comes—he’s dead be the stream—not a mark on him—no enemy in sight. That was the way Andy Young, leetle Hiram Dole, Clayton Binks o’ my company, an’ a dozen others was tuk off.”
“I can’t see, nuther, why the general didn’t fill them woods with soldiers,” the Miller interrupted.
“Why! It wasn’t tactics; that’s why,” the G. A. R. Man replied brusquely. “The Bloody Pennsylwany didn’t do things that way. No, sir. The general he cal’lated that we couldn’t be in that placet more’n four weeks more, which would cost jest twenty-eight men. He sais it wasn’t square to order a man there, so he calls fer wolunteers. What does I do? I wolunteers. I goes to the general an’ sais I’m willin’ to try my luck first. An’ he sais, sais he, a-layin’ one hand on me shoulder, ‘Me man, ef we’d a few more like you, the war ’ud soon be ended. An’——’”
“Meanin’ the other side ’ud ’a’ licked,” the Loafer interposed.
The veteran paid no attention to this remark but continued: “He promised me a promotion ef I come out alive. That night I packs up me things, writes a letter to me wife, an’ sais good-by to the boys. Then I gits me gun, pours in th’ee inches o’ powder, puts in a wad; next, th’ee bullets an’ a wad; next a half dozen buckshot an’ a wad. An’ on top o’ it all, jest fer luck, I rammed a bit o’ tobacky. At twelve o’clock I relieved the man on post in the holler. Mebbe me heart didn’t beat. Mebbe it wasn’t awfuller then hoop-snakes. The wind was sighin’ mournful th’oo the leaves; a leetle slice o’ moon was peekin’ down th’oo the trees ’hen the clouds give it a chancet; an’ there gurglin’ along was the creek be which I expected I’d be found in the mornin’ layin’ dead, no mark on me nowhere.
“I’d made up me mind, tho’, that I was goin’ to come out of it whole ef I could. I wasn’t no fool to set down an’ be tuk off without raisin’ a rumpus about it. No, sir. I kept a sharp eye in every direction ez I walked to an’ fro, down the holler on one side, up on the other, back agin, an’ never stoppin’. It come one o’clock, an’ I give number eight an’ all’s well. I hear the report go ’long the posts; then everything was quiet. It come two o’clock an’ I give all’s well agin. Hardly was everything still ’hen I hear a rustlin’ noise, right out in the fiel’ beyant the creek, not twenty feet away, an’ yit me eyes had ben coverin’ that petickler spot fer an hour an’ not a hate hed I seen. But there it was, a standin’ hazy-like in the dark, the awfullest thing I ever laid eyes on.”
The veteran had arisen from the pile of wheels and was glaring at the company, “What does I do? Does I set down an’ be tuk off like the other fellys? No. I ups an’ fires an’ hits it right atween the eyes.”
He resumed his seat and began refilling his pipe. An expectant silence reigned in the shop. The Blacksmith waited until he saw the veteran light a match and fall to smoking.
“Go on,” he cried, making a threatening movement with his scissors.
“They ain’t no more to tell,” said the G. A. R. Man nonchalantly. “Wasn’t that awfuller then a dozen hoop-snakes?”
“Well, what was the thing ye shot?” asked the Loafer, slipping off the anvil and facing the pile of wheels.
The old soldier’s clay pipe fell from his hand and crashed into a hundred pieces on the floor. He opened wide his mouth in vain effort to speak, but the words failed to come.
“What was it?” shouted the Loafer.
“Well, I’ll swan ef I know,” replied the veteran meekly.
The village had awakened from its long winter of sleep. It had shaken off its lethargy and stepped forth into the light and sunshine to take up life in the free air until the months should speed around and the harsh winds and the snows drive it back again to a close kitchen and a stifling stove. The antiquated saw-mill down by the creek buzzed away with a vim that plainly told that the stream was swollen with the melted snows of the winter just passed. The big grist-mill bumped and thumped in deep melodious tones, as though it were making an effort to drown the rasping, discordant music of its small but noisy neighbor. From the field beyond the line of houses came the melancholy “haw, gee, haw, gee-up” of the man at the plow and the triumphant calls of the chickens, as they discovered each luscious worm in the newly-turned furrow. A few robins flitted among the still leafless branches of the trees, and down in the meadows beyond the bridge an occasional venturesome lark or snipe whistled merrily.
The double doors of the store were wide open. Had all the other signs of spring been missing, this fact alone would have indicated to the knowing that if the snows had not melted and the birds not come back, it was high time they did. Those doors never stood open until the Patriarch felt it in his bones that the winter was gone and he could with safety leave the side of the stove within and migrate to the long bench without, to bask in the sunshine. This morning the old man arose from his accustomed chair with a look of wonderment on his face. He swung one leg to and fro for a moment, then rapped on his knee gently with the heavy knob of his cane. He tapped his head mysteriously with his forefinger and gazed in silence out of the window, taking in the outward signs.
“Boys,” he said at length, “it’s time we was gittin’ out agin. Spring has come.”
With that he hobbled toward the door.
“Good, Gran’pap,” said the Chronic Loafer, rolling off the counter and following.
Then the Storekeeper opened both doors.
The old oak bench that had stood neglected through the long winter, exposed to wind and warping rain, gave a joyous creak as it felt again on its broad, knife-hacked back the weight of the Patriarch and his friends. It kicked up its one short, hickory leg with such vehemence as to cause the Storekeeper to throw out his hands, as though the world had dropped from under him and he was grasping at a cloud for support.
“Mighty souls!” he cried, when he had recovered his equilibrium and composure.
“My, oh, my!” murmured the old man, his face beaming with contentment as he sat basking in the sun. “Don’t the old bench feel good agin? Why, me an’ this oak board hes ben buddies fer nigh onter sixty years.”
The season seemed to have imposed new life into the Chronic Loafer as it had nature. He suddenly tossed off his coat, with one leap cleared the steps and began dancing up and down in the road.
“It jest makes a felly feel like wrastlin’, Gran’pap,” he shouted, waving his arms defiantly at the bench. “Come on.”
The Patriarch stroked his long beard and smiled amusedly at this unexpected exhibition of energy. The Miller’s nose curled contemptuously skyward, and he fell to beating the flour out of his coat to show his indifference to the challenge. The Tinsmith puffed more vigorously at his pipe, so that the great clouds of smoke that swept upward from the clay bowl, enveloped the Storekeeper and caused him to sneeze violently.
At this indisposition on the part of the four to take up the gauntlet he had thrown down, the Loafer became still more defiant.
“Hedgins!” he sneered. “You uns is all afraid, eh?”
“Nawthin’ to be afraid of,” snapped the Miller. “Simple because spring’s come, ez it’s ben comin’ ever since I can remember, I hain’t a-goin’ to waller ’round in a muddy road.”
The School Teacher laid his left hand upon his heart, and fixing a solemn gaze on the roof of the porch, recited: “In the spring the young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”
“There ye go agin,” cried the Loafer, “quotin’ that ole Fifth Reader o’ yourn.”
“That,” said the pedagogue, “is Tennyson.”
“I thot it was familar,” exclaimed the Storekeeper. A smile crept into his usually vacant face, and he slapped the Teacher on the knee. “You mean ole Seth Tennyson that runs the Shingletown creamery. He’s a cute un.”
The reply was a withering, pitying glance.
“It sounds a heap more like Seth’s brother Bill,” ventured the Miller.
“Don’t git argyin’ on that,” said the Loafer. “There’s nawthin’ particular new or good in it any way. The main pint is I bantered ye an’ you uns ’s all dead skeert.”
“Come, come,” said the Patriarch, beating his stick on the floor to call the boaster to order. “Ef I was five year younger I’d take your banter; I’d druv yer head inter the mud tell you’d be afraid of showin’ up at the store fer a year, fer fear some un’d shovel ye inter the road. That’s what I’d do. I hates blowin’, I do—I hates blowin’. Fur be it from me to blow, particular ez I was somethin’ of a wrastler ’hen I was a young un.”
“I bet I could ’a’ th’owed you in less time ’an it takes me to set down,” the Loafer said, as he seated himself on the steps and got out his pipe.
“Th’owed me, would you? Well, I’d ’a’ liked to hev seen you a-th’owin’ me.” He shook his stick at the braggart. “Why, don’t you know that ’hen I was young I was the best wrastler in the walley; didn’t you ever hear o’ the great wrastlin’ me and Simon Cruller done up to Swampy Holler school-house?”
“Did Noar act as empire?” asked the Loafer.
“What does you mean be talkin’ of Noar an’ sech like ’hen I’m tellin’ of wrastlin’? Tryin’ to change the subject I s’pose, eh?” cried the Patriarch, reddening with anger. “Don’t you know——”
“Tut-tut, Gran’pap,” said the Storekeeper, gently taking the raised cane in his hand and forcing it back into an upright position, one end resting on the floor, while on the other were piled the old man’s two fat hands. “Don’t mind him. Go on with your story.”
The Patriarch’s wrath passed as quickly as it had come. He speedily wandered back into his youth, and soon was so deep in the history of Simon Cruller, of Simon Cruller’s family and of Becky Stump as to be completely oblivious to his tormentor’s presence.
“Me an’ Sime Cruller was buddies,” he began at length. “That was tell we both kind o’ set our minds on gittin’ Becky Stump. You uns never seen her, eh? Well, mebbe you never seen her grave-stun. It stands be the alderberry bushes in the buryin’-groun’, an’ ef you hain’t seen it ye otter, fer then ye might git an idee what sort o’ a woman she was. Pretty? Why, she was a model, she was—a perfect model. Hair? You uns don’t often see sech hair nowadays ez Becky Stump hed—soft an’ black like. Eyes? Why, they sparkled jest like new buggy paint. An’ mighty souls, but she could plough! She wasn’t none of your modern girls ez is too proud to plough. Many a day I set over on the porch at our placet an’ looked down acrosst the walley an’ seen her a-steppin’ th’oo the fiel’, an’ I thot how I’d like to hev one han’le while she’d hev the other, an’ we’d go trampin’ along life’s furrow together.”
“Now Gran’pap, I ’low you’ve ben readin’——”
“Can’t you keep still a piece?” roared the Miller.
The Loafer returned to his pipe and silence.
“The whole thing come to a pint at a spellin’ bee up to Swampy Holler school,” continued the Patriarch, unmindful of the interruption. “Becky Stump was there an’ looked onusual pretty, fer it was cold outside an’ the win’ hed made her face all red on the drive over from home. Sime was there, too, togged out in store clothes, his hair all plastered down with bear ile, an’ with a fine silk tie aroun’ his collar that ’ud ’a’ ketched the girls real hard hed I not hed a prettier one.
“Ez luck ’ud hev it, me an’ Sime Cruller was on opposite sides. It wasn’t long afore I seen he was tryin’ to show off with his spellin’. It’s strange, but it’s a failin’ with men that ez soon ez they gits their minds set on a particular girl they wants to show off before her. Why most of ’em taller up their boots, put on their Sunday clothes an’ go walkin’ by their girl’s house twicet a day fer no reason at all but jest to be seen lookin’ togged up an’ han’som. Men allus seems to want the weemen to know they is better spellers, or better somethin’ else ’an some other feller. They ain’t no reason fer it. No common-sense woman is goin’ to merry no man simple because he can spell or wrastle better or husk more corn than anybody else. An’ yit men’ll insist on showin’ off in them wery things ’henever they gits a chancet.
“It didn’t take me five minutes to see that Sime Cruller was tryin’ to show off afore Becky Stump; was tryin’ to prove to her that he was a smarter lad than me. An’ it didn’t take me that long to concide I’d hev none of it. I seen him every time he spelled a hard un, look triumphant like at her, settin’ ez she was down be the stove; then he’d grin at me. I seen it all, an’ I spelled ez I never spelled afore, an’ a mighty fine speller I was, too, ’hen I was young. Mebbe I didn’t set all over Sime Cruller. Mebbe I didn’t spile his showin’ off. I don’t jest exactly remember what the word was, but it must ’a’ ben a long un with a heap of syllables, fer he missed it an’ set down lookin’ ez mad ez a bull ’hen he steps inter a bees’ nes’. Three others missed it, an’ it come to me. Why do you know them letters jest rolled off my tongue ez easy. You otter ’a’ seen the look Becky Stump give me an’ the look Sime give me. Huh!
“When intermission come, Sime he gits off in one corner an’ begins blowin’ to a lot of the boys. I heard him talkin’ loud ’bout me, so I steps over. He sayd it was all a mistake; that he could beat me at anything—spellin’, wrastlin’ or fishin’. He was showin’ off agin, fer he talked loud like Becky Stump could hear. I makes up me mind I wouldn’t stand his blowin’.
“‘See here, Sime Cruller!’ I sais, sais I, ‘you uns is nawthin’ but a blow-horn,’ I sais. ‘You claims you can wrastle. Why, I can th’ow you in less time than it takes to tell it, an’ if you steps outside I’ll prove me words.’
“That kinder took Sime Cruller down, fer wrastlin’ was his speciality an’ he’d th’owed every felly in the walley ’ceptin’ me, an’ him an’ me hed never clinched, fer I wasn’t considered much at a fight. But me dander was up an’ I wasn’t in fer lettin’ him show off.
“‘You th’ow me!’ he sais. Then he begin to laugh like he’d die at the wery idee.
“With that we went outside, follered by the rest of the boys. They was a quarter-moon overhead, an’ the girls put two candles in the school-house winders, so, with the snow, we could see pretty well.
“At it we went. Boys, you otter ’a’ ben there! You otter ’a’ seen it! That was wrastlin’! ’Hen Sime an’ me clinched I ketched him ’round the waist with my right arm an’ got a hold of the strap of his right boot with the forefinger of me left hand. He gits his left arm ’round my neck an’ down my back somehow, an’ with his right hand tears the buttons off me coat an’ grabs me in the armhole of me waistcoat. Over we goes, like two dogs, snarlin’, an’ snappin’, while the boys in a ring around us cheered, an’ the girls crowdin’ the school-house porch trembled an’ screamed with fright. We twisted, we turned, we rolled over an’ over tell we looked like livin’ snowballs. Sime got off the boot I’d a holt on, an’ give me a sudden turn that almost sent me on me back. But I was quick. Mighty souls, but I was quick! I ups with me foot an’ lands me heel right on his chist, an’ he went flyin’ ten feet inter a snow-bank, kerryin’ me coat-sleeve with him. He was lookin’ up at the moon ’hen I run up to him, an’ I’d hed him down, but he turned over, an’ they wasn’t nawthin’ fer me to do but to set on his back. I ’low I must ’a’ set there fer half an hour, restin’ an’ gittin’ me wind. Anyway, I was so long I almost forgot I was wrastlin’, fer he give me a sudden turn, an’ ’fore I knowd it he hed the waist holt an’ hed almost th’owed me.
“But I was quick. Mighty souls, but I was quick! I keeps me feet an’ gits one hand inter his waistcoat pocket an’ hung to him. ’Henever you wrastles, git your man be the boot strap or the pocket, an’ you has the best holt they is. Ef I hedn’t done that I might not ’a’ ben here to-day. But I done it, an’ fer a full hour me an’ Sime Cruller rolled ’round, even matched. Time an’ agin I got sight o’ Becky Stump standin’ on the porch, her hands gripped together, her face pale, her eyes almost poppin’ outen her head, she was watchin’ us so hard, an’ the wery sight of her urged me on to inhuman efforts. It seemed to hev the same ’fect on Sime. Me heart beat so hard it made me buttons rattle. Still I kep’ at it. Sime was so hot it was fer me jest like wrastlin’ with a stove, an’ still we kep’ at it. Then all of a sudden—it was two hours after we hed fust clinched—everything seemed to swim—I couldn’t feel no earth beneath—I only knowd I was still holdin’ onto Sime—then I knowd nawthin’.
“‘Hen I come to, I was layin’ be the school-house stove, an’ Becky Stump was leanin’ over me rubbin’ a snowball acrosst me forehead. The other folks was standin’ back like, fer they seemed to think that after sech an exhibition it was all settled an’ they didn’t want to disturb us.
“‘Becky,’ I whispers, ‘did I win?’
“‘You did,’ she sais. ‘You both fainted at oncet, but you fainted on top.’
“‘An’ now I s’pose you’ll hev me,’ I sais, fer it seemed like they was somethin’ in her eyes that kinder urged me on.
“She was quiet a piece; an’ then she leans down an’ answers, ‘Do you think I wants to merry a fien’?’”
The Patriarch ceased his narration and fell to stroking his beard and humming softly.
“Well?” cried the Loafer.
“Well?” retorted the old man.
“Did she ever merry?”
The Patriarch shook his head.
“Go look at the grave-stun,” he said, “an’ on it you’ll see wrote: ‘Here lies Becky Stump. Her peaceful soul’s at rest!’”
“Was you ever dissypinted in love?” inquired the Chronic Loafer of the Tramp.
A light summer shower had driven the traveller to the shelter of the store porch for a few hours, and he was stretched easily along the floor with his back resting against a pillar. In reply to the question he brought the butt of his heavy hickory stick down on the loose boards with such vigor as to raise a small cloud of dust from the cracks, and cried, “Wull, have I!”
“Come tell us about it, ole feller,” said the Tinsmith.
“Not muchy.”
“We ain’t surprised at your hevin’ ben dissypinted,” said the Loafer, “but it’s your persumption catches me. What’s her name?”
“I called her Emily Kate,” answered the Tramp, wiping one of his eyes with his sleeve. “She’ll allus be Emily Kate to me, though to other folks she ain’t nothin’.”
“A truly remarkable state of affairs,” said the Teacher. “I presume that the young woman must have been a mere chimera, a hallucination.”
“Mebbe she was; mebbe she wasn’t,” the traveller replied. “I never knowd her well enough to git acquainted with all her qualities. In fact I’ve allus kept Emily Kate pretty much to meself an’ have never said nothin’ ’bout her to nobody. But youse gentlemens asts so many questions, I s’pose yez might ez well know the hull thing. ’Bout three year ago I was workin’ th’oo this valley toward the Sussykehanner River, an’ one fine day—it was one o’ them days when you feels like settin’ down an’ jest doin’ nothin’—I come th’oo this very town an’ went up the main road ’bout two mile tell I reached Shale Hill. I never knowd why I done it—it must ’a’ ben fate—but I switched off onter the by-road there ’stead o’ stickin’ to the pike. I walked on ’bout a mile an’ didn’t meet no one or see no houses tell I come to a farm wit’ a peach orchard sout’ o’ the barn.
“They was a nice grassy place under an apple tree on the other side the road, an’ ez it was one o’ them warm, lazy, summer days I made up me min’ to rest, an’ lay down there. Ye kin laugh at folks who allus talks weather, but I tell ye it does a powerful sight wit’ a man. I know ef that had ’a’ ben a rainy day I’d never had that fairy-core, ez the French calls it, that hit me then an’ come near spoilin’ me life.
“I was layin’ there watchin’ the clouds overhead, an’ listenin’ to the plover whistlin’ out in the fiel’s, an’ to the tree-frawg bellerin’ up in the locus’, when all of a sudden I see a blue gleam in an apple tree in the orchard ’crosst the way. I watched it an’ pretty soon made out that it was a woman. She was settin’ there quiet an’ still, like she was readin’, an’ down below I see the top of a chicking coop an’ hear the ole hen cluckin’. I couldn’t see much fer the leaves an’ didn’t git sight o’ her face, but I made out the outlines o’ that blue caliker dress an’ jest kind o’ drank ’em in.
“It was the day done it all. ’Fore I knowd it I begin to imagine the face that must ’a’ fit that form. I pictured her like the girls that rides the mowin’ machines in the agricult’ral advertisemen’ chromos—yeller hair an’ all. I wanted to try an’ git sight o’ her face but didn’t dast, fer she’d ’a’ seen me an’ that ’ud a spoilt my chancet. So I lay there dreamin’ like, an’ ’fore I knowd it I could think o’ nothin’ but that girl in the tree, who I figured must ’a’ ben a heap better-lookin’ than a circus lady.
“It come sundown, an’ ez I had to hustle to git supper I dragged meself together an’ moved on. I went up the valley fer three days an’ got ’bout thirty mile nearer the river. But I didn’t have no peace. The hull time I was thinkin’ o’ nothin’ but the girl in the blue caliker dress. I never felt so queer before, an’ didn’t know jest what to do. Last I decided I’d hev to go back an’ hev another look at her, so I turned ’round an’ kivered me tracks.
“‘Bout one day later, in the afternoon, I reached the orchard. Hanged ef she wasn’t there an’ settin’ in a tree closer to the road! I didn’t dast go near her, fer I knows how ’fraid the weemen is of us men. But I slid inter me ole placet, an’ lay there watchin’ her blue dress wavin’ in the breeze. Then when I seen ez how she’d changed trees, I begin to think mebbe she’d seen me an’ moved up a tree nearer the road kinder so ez we’d be closer.”
The Tramp’s voice broke and he paused.
“Now quit yer blubberin’, Trampy,” cried the Loafer, “an’ git to the end o’ this here yarn.”
The vagrant rubbed his sleeve across his eyes and continued,
“Wull, ez I lay there watchin’ her so still an’ quiet, I begin to think. I wondered what her name must be, an’ ’lowed it orter be a pretty one. I kind o’ thought, bein’ ez I didn’t know it, I might give her one—the prettiest I could git up. I racked me brain an’ final’ sot on Emily Kate—that sounded high-toned. Then I begin to wonder who’d be so fort’nit ez ter git Emily, an’ cussed meself for bein’ sich a bum. I kind o’ thought I might reform, but last I ’lowed ef she’d take me without me havin’ to reform, it ’ud be a sight pleasanter all ’round. I see how she’d moved up a tree an’ kind o’ wondered ef she’d notice me. The more I thought on it, the worse I got. I begin to think mebbe ef I cleaned up I wouldn’t be so bad—in fact a heap better ’an lots o’ folks I knows. By the time it come sunset I had concided to resk it, an’ was thinkin’ o’ crawlin’ over the fence an’ interducin’ meself. But me heart failed me. I put it off tell the next day an’ slid over the fiel’s to a barn an’ spent the night.
“I didn’t eat no breakfas’. I couldn’t. When it come sun up I went down to the spring an’ washed up. Then I cut fer the orchard, tendin’ to wait tell she come. I didn’t expect she’d be there so airly sence she’d likely do up the breakfas’ dishes.
“I climbed the fence inter the road. Then what a sight I seen! I near yelled. A great big feller had his arm ’round her wais’. She was layin’ all limp like, wit’ her head pitched for’a’d so I couldn’t see it, an’ her feet was draggin’ th’oo the timothy, fer the man was pullin’ her ’long down the orchard. First I was fer runnin’ to her resky, but I thought mebbe I’d better wait tell I see what come of it.
“The big feller, he pulled her, all limp, down to the other side, an’ leaned her up agin a tree, an’ hit her a punch wit’ his fis’. The blue caliker sunbonnet drooped. Then he jumped the fence an’ started away over the meddy.
“Me heart was a-thumpin’ awful. I waited tell he was out o’ sight. Then I slipped down to where Emily Kate lay half dead agin the tree. I seen a chicking coop there an’ hear the ole hen cluckin’. I stepped up an’ raised the girl’s head. She had a straw face an’ was keepin’ hawks away from them chickings. My Emily Kate was a scare——”
The Tramp’s voice grew husky and he faltered.
“See here, you ole fool,” cried the Loafer, “it’s quit rainin’ this ten minutes an’ you’ve kep’ me from splittin’ to-morrer’s wood with yer bloomin’ story.”
The wanderer picked up his bandana and stick, arose and replied,
“Youse gentlemen ’sisted that I tell ye ’bout it. I tol’ ye. Now I must be movin’.”
A moment later he disappeared around the bend in the road just beyond the mill.
“I know that I travels slow,” said the Chronic Loafer, “but ’hen a felly travels fast, it keeps him so busy watchin’ the horses, he sees mighty leetle o’ the country an’ gits awful jolted besides. It’s a heap sight better to go slow, stoppin’ at a stream to fish trout, or in the woods to take a bang at a coon, or at the store fer a leetle discussion—it’s a heap sight easier.”
He was sitting at the end of the porch, his back against the pillar; one leg stretched along the floor, the bare foot resting on its heel and wiggling to and fro in unison with his words; the other leg hanging down and swinging backward and forward like a pendulum.
The Patriarch had the end of the bench nearest him. Next sat the Miller meditatively chewing his forefinger. Then there was the Tinsmith smoking thoughtfully, and beside him, a stranger. This last person was a young man. His jaunty golf cap, fresh pink shirt, spotless duck trousers and canvas shoes marked him as a barbarian. In fact he had swooped down from the mountains to the north but a few days before on a bicycle, taken board at the Shoemaker’s, fixed a short briar pipe between his teeth and seated himself on the bench. At first he had been coldly received. The Store was suspicious. It closed its mouth and waited until it could find out something of the character of the newcomer. He volunteered no explanation, but sat and smoked. The Store grew desperate. At length it could stand the suspense no longer and nudged the stranger and inquired if he might not be a detective? The stranger laughed, said no, and busied himself with the making of smoke rings. Three days passed. Then the Store allowed maybe he might not be a drummer? No, he was not a drummer. The mystery was deepening. There were two things he was not. Now the Store smoked and smoked, and watched the mountains many days, until it had drawn an inspiration therefrom. It winked at the young man and guessed he had run away from his wife. But the stranger answered that he had never married.
Knowing that he was not a detective, a drummer, or a fugitive from some domestic hearthstone, the Store felt that it had learned something of his history and could afford to melt just a little. So now it was talking before him.
As the Loafer finished speaking, the stranger drew forth a leather case, carefully tucked his pipe away in it and returned it to his pocket. Then he remarked calmly, “I cannot agree with you. What would the world be to-day if all men held such ideas as you?”
The Patriarch, the Miller and the Tinsmith pricked up their ears and gazed at the speaker. At last the truth would be out.
The Loafer saw his opportunity.
“What do you do fer a livin’?” he asked.
“I’m a college man,” was the bland reply.
Drawing his pendulum leg up on the porch, the Loafer clasped both knees in his arms. “Well,” he drawled, “I ’low ef you is a kawledge man, they ain’t nawthin’ young enough to be a kawledge boy, is they?”
The Patriarch dropped his cane, clasped his hands to his fat sides, leaned back so that his head rested against the wall, and gagged. The Tinsmith and the Storekeeper laughed so loud that the School Teacher tossed aside the county paper and came running to the door to inquire what the joke was.
“I’m blessed ef I know,” said the Miller, he being the only one of the party who had retained his powers of speech. He laid a hand on the student’s knee and asked, “Did you make a joke?”
But the young man had dived into his pocket and got out his pipe again, and was busy filling it and lighting it and smoking it, by this act asserting his manhood. He now joined good-naturedly in the laughter.
“How much does a kawledge man git a week?” asked the Loafer. “It must pay pretty well, jedgin’ from your clothes.”
“He gets nothing,” was the reply. “I am studying, preparing myself for my work in life.”
“My, oh, my!” murmured the Patriarch. “Preparin’—preparin’? Why, ’hen I was your age I was prepared long ago. I was in full, complete charge o’ me father’s saw-mill.”
The student was nettled, not at the reflection on his own intellectual attainments which this remark seemed to contain, but he felt that in this company he was the representative of modern ideas, of education and enlightenment. The Middle Ages were attacking the Nineteenth Century, and it was his duty to combat the forces of Ignorance. So he removed his briar from his mouth and sent a ring of smoke floating away on the listless air. He watched it intently as it passed out from the shelter of the porch into the great world, and grew broader and bigger and finally disappeared altogether. There was something very impressive in the young man’s act. His voice had fallen an octave when he turned to address the Patriarch.
“Had I chosen a saw-mill as my career, I think I too should have long since been prepared for it. But to fit oneself for work in the world as a lawyer, a doctor, a minister, requires preparation. It takes years of study.”
“How many?” asked the Loafer, turning around and eyeing the student over his knees.
“Well, I’ll be twenty-four when I get through studying and become a lawyer.”
“Then what’ll ye do?”
“I’ll work at my profession and make money.”
“How long’ll ye do that?”
“Why, I don’t know particularly—till I have a fair fortune, I suppose.”
“How old’ll ye be then?”
“Around sixty, I guess.”
“Then what’ll ye do?”
“What does every man do eventually? Die.”
“Then ye’ve spent all them years learnin’ to die, eh? Does a felly go off any easier ef his head is crammed full of algebray or physical g’ography? Mighty souls! Why my pap couldn’t ’a’ tol’ ye, ef ye dewided an apple in two halves an’ et one how many was left, yit ’hen his time come he jest emptied out his ole pipe, leaned back in his rocker, stretched his feet toward the fire an’ went.”
“Well, what are you tryin’ to prove anyway?” asked the Teacher, who had seated himself on an egg-crate. His furrowed brow, one closed eye and forefinger resting on his chin, showed that he was struggling hard to catch the thread of the discussion.
“I was jest sayin’ that the best life, the sensiblest life, was the slow easy-goin’ one, ’hen this young man conterdicted me,” said the Loafer.
His air was very condescending and it angered the student. The inquisition just ended had left him in a rather equivocal position, he could see by the way the Patriarch and the Tinsmith nodded their heads.
“You misunderstood me,” he said. “You have shown, I see, that from a purely selfish standpoint, ambition is senseless. In the end the man who works hard is no better off than the man who loafs. But remember there is another call—duty.”
“That’s the idee,” cried the Teacher. “The sense of duty moves the world to——”
“Hol’ on!” the Loafer exclaimed. “Hol’ on! Duty to who?”
“Why, duty to society,” the student, answered. “Every man is endowed with certain faculties, and it is his duty to use those faculties to the best of his ability for the advancement of himself and his fellow-man.”
“Certainly—certainly,” said the pedagogue. “It’s the old parable of the talents all over agin.”
“Yes, they is some argyment in that,” said the Loafer. “Yit they ain’t. Pap allus used to say that too many fellys was speckilatin’ in their talents, an’ ’hen their employer called an accountin’ they was only able to pass in a lot o’ counterfeit coin.”
“But suppose all men sat down and folded their hands and lived as you would have them. What would happen?” asked the college man.
“D’ye see yon pastur’ down there?” The Loafer pointed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the meadow below the bridge, where half a score of cattle were grazing.
The student nodded. The bony forefinger was pointed at him now.
“Well, now s’posin’ ye was a hog an’——”
“I object to such a supposition,” was the angry retort.
“Well then s’posin’, jest fer argyment—ye know ye can s’pose anything ’hen ye argy—s’posin’ ye was a cow. Yon fiel’ ’ll pastur’ ten head o’ cattle comf’table all summer, ’lowin’ they is easy-goin’ an’ without no ambition. Now you uns gits the high-flyin’ idee ye must dewelop your heaven-given faculties fer the benefit o’ your sufferin’ fellys. The main talent a cow has is that o’ eatin’; so ye dewelop it be grazin’ night an’ day. ’Hen the other cows is friskin’ up an’ down the meadow or splashin’ ’round the creek, you are nibblin’ off the choice grass an’ digestin’ all the turnip tops ye can reach th’oo the holes in the fence. Mebbe you’ll git to be a slicker animal, but fer the life o’ me, I can’t see how you’re benefitin’ the rest o’ the cattle.”
“See here,” interrupted the Miller, “you are the onsenselessest argyer I ever set eyes on. Ye starts but on edycation an’ lands up on cattle-raisin’.”
“No—no, you misunderstand him,” said the student. “His method of argument is all right, but it seems that the figure is bad. It doesn’t quite apply. Every man who leads an industrious, upright life, every man who in so doing prospers and raises himself, does an incalculable service to the community in which he lives. His example inspires others.”
“I jedge, then,” replied the Loafer, “that this here petickler cow we’ve ben speakin’ of, in eatin’ night an’ day an’ fattenin’ itself, is elewatin’ the rest o’ the cattle be its example. They’ll be encouraged to quit sloshin’ ’round the creek an’ friskin’ ’bout the pastur’ an’ ’ll be after grass night an’ day, an’ the grass’ll git skeercer an’ they’ll take to buttin’ one another, an’ your efforts at elewatin’ ’em ends in turnin’ a peaceful pastur’ inter a battle-fiel’.”
The student sent three rings of smoke whirling from his mouth in rapid succession, but he made no reply.
“Did ye ever hear o’ Zebulon Pole?” asked the Loafer.
“I never did. But what has he to do with this matter?”
“Zebulon Pole was a livin’ answer to it, he was. He used to have a shanty up in Buzzard Walley near me an’ Pap, an’ was young an’ full o’ all them noble idees. No—he wasn’t allus full of ’em. They hed ben a time ’hen he was easy-goin’ an’ happy, askin’ nawthin’ better o’ his Maker than a trout stream, a hook an’ a line, an’ a place to borry a shot-gun. All o’ a sudden he bloomed out full o’ ambition an’ high notions. He hed a call. He was wastin’ his life loafin’ ’long the creeks or settin’ day after day on a lawg, whistlin’ fer wild turkeys. The world needed Zebulon Pole, an’ he answered by comin’ out ez candidate fer superwisor. He was elected. From that day the citizens o’ our township hed no peace. They’d allus ben used to goin’ out on the roads in the spring, stickin’ their shovels in the groun’, leanin’ on ’em an’ gittin’ paid a dollar a day fer it. The new superwisor was ambitious, an’ the good ole system o’ makin’ roads seemed a thing o’ the past. So the boys put their heads together an’ concided that a man o’ Pole’s parts was too good fer his place an’ should hev a higher an’ nobler job. They made him a school-director, an’ leaned on their shovels oncet more an’ drawed a dollar a day fer it ez usual.
“Zebulon hed never gone beyant the Third Reader in school or th’oo fractions, an’ yit ’hen he become a school-director, he seen the hand o’ a higher power instead o’ the wotes o’ citizens who wasn’t agin improvin’ the roads, but was agin hevin’ it done ’hen they was workin’ out their road tax. He was called to the service o’ his felly-man. He was sacrificin’ his own happiness, givin’ up his fishin’ an’ huntin’ that he might dewote his life to helpin’ others. He hedn’t ben school-director a month tell he concided it was an honor, a great honor, yit the sphwere was too narrer fer a man o’ his talents. Zebulon Pole was learnin’. He’d found out they was better an’ higher things in this worl’ then a mountain stream full o’ trout, a soft bed o’ moss on the bank, a half cloudy day, a pipe an’ a hook an’ line. He’d found out they was nobler things, so he come out ez candidate fer county commissioner, ’lowin’ that after that he’d be Gov’nor, an’ then Presydent. But the woters remembered how they’d over-exerted themselves in his days ez superwisor; they minded how in his first week ez school-director, he’d changed the spellin’ book an’ cost ’em twenty-five cents a head fer every blessed child in the district. They jest snowed him under. He was plain Zeb Pole agin. He’d tasted the sweets o’ power an’ lost his appytite fer fishin’. His hopes o’ bein’ Presydent was gone. They was nawthin’ left fer him to look for’a’d to but dyin’.”
The student shook his head gravely.
“There is some argument in what you have been saying,” he said slowly. “I admit that. But you know your ideas are not new. You simply carry one back to the Stoics of Greece.”
The Loafer was puzzled. “What did you say they was?” he asked.
“The Stoics of Greece. You remind me of the Stoics of Greece.”
“Is that a complyment or a name?” The Loafer leaned sharply forward and thrust his long chin toward the speaker ominously.
“Why, a compliment,” was the reply. “The Stoics were a great school of philosophers. They taught simplicity in life. Diogenes was a Stoic.”
“Who?” asked the Patriarch, bending over and fixing his hand to his ear.
“Diogenes.”
“D’ogenes—D’ogenes,” said the old man. He paused; then added, “D’ogenes—yes, I’ve heard the name but I can’t exactly place him.”
“Well, you certainly never met him,” said the collegian. “He lived a couple of thousand years ago in Athens. His idea was to get as close as possible to nature, so he lived in a tub.”
“Didn’t they hev no suylums in them days?” asked the Loafer.
“Diogenes wasn’t crazy,” cried the student. “He was a great philosopher. They tell one story of how he went walking around Athens carrying a lantern in broad daylight. When asked what he was doing, he said he was looking for an honest man.”
“What was the lantern fer?” the Miller inquired.
“Why, he was looking for an honest man,” shouted the collegian.
“I s’pose it never struck him to go to the store fer one,” drawled the Loafer.
“You miss the point—the whole of you. Diogenes was a man who spurned the material things of this world. He tried to forget the body in the development of the mind and soul, so he lived in a tub, and——”
“See here, young felly,” interrupted the Loafer, “fer an argyer you beat the band. First off ye conterdicted me fer sayin’ a man should take his time. Now ye come ’round my way, only worse. I never sayd a man should keep house in a tub. Why, his missus ’ud never give him no peace. No, sir; don’t ye git no fool idees like that in your head.”
“But that is the truest philosophy——”
“I know. Zebulon Pole got that wery idee after he was defeated fer county commissioner. He moped ’round the walley fer a year an’ final one day come to me an’ sayd he was goin’ to dewote the rest o’ his life to religious medytation. ‘It’s less trouble to git to heaven then the White House,’ he sayd, ‘fer a good deed is easier to do then an opposin’ candidate.’ It happened that at this time they hed ben a woman preacher holdin’ bush-meetin’s in our walley an’ he was a reg’lar attendant. She pounded away at wanity. All was wanity, she sayd. They wasn’t nawthin’ in this world wuth livin’ fer. Fine houses, fine clothes, slick buggies, fast horses, low-cut waist-coats—all them things was extrys which was no more needed fer man’s sperritual comfort then napkins fer his bodily nourishment. It didn’t take long fer them idees to spread in our walley, an’ Pole was one o’ the first to catch ’em. I mind comin’ home from fishin’ one day, I seen him a-settin’ on a fence chewin’ a straw an’ watchin’ the clouds scootin’ ’long overhead.
“‘Ho, Zeb!’ I sais, shakin’ a nice string o’ trout under his nose. ‘Why ain’t ye out? They’s bitin’ good.’
“He looks at me outen the corner o’ his eye wery solemn.
“‘Fishin’?’ he sais.
“‘Yes, fishin’,’ I yells, kind o’ s’prised. ‘They’s bitin’ good.’
“‘All them things is wanity,’ sais he, straightenin’ up an’ pintin’ a finger o’ scorn at me. ‘Wanity o’ wanities. Let me warn ye, man. I’ve give up all them worldly pleasures. I’m set on higher things.’
“‘Six-rail fences,’ I answers, ‘all day long—chewin’ a straw—watchin’ clouds—wery elewatin’.’
“He give me a sad look.
“‘What are ye doin’ now?’ sais I, not intendin’ to be put down even ef he hed ben school director.
“‘I’m a lily,’ he sais. ‘I’m followin’ the words o’ that dear sister who has cast her lot among us. Henceforth I no longer considers the morrer. I toil not, nuther spin.’
“‘See here, Zeb,’ sais I. ‘You ain’t a bit my idee of a lily.’
“‘I don’t ast the approval o’ the world,’ sais he.
“‘An’ ye wouldn’t git it ef ye did,’ sais I. ‘But still I s’pose ye might do pretty well in this new ockypation ef it wasn’t fer one thing.’
“‘What’s that?’ he asts.
“‘Lilies don’t use tobacker,’ I answers.
“That kind o’ jolted him. His eyes opened wide, an’ I seen a few tears.
“‘I never thot o’ that,’ sais he.
“‘Oh, it’s unimportant,’ sais I. ‘You’ll make a fair lily. It’ll come hard fer ye first off, after your last suit of clothes is wore out. Let’s hope that happens in summer so ye’ll break in fer winter easier. You’ll git used to not eatin’,’ I sais. ‘Eatin’ is wanity. An’ ez fer tobacker—I never seen a lily smokin’. But still, Zeb, ’hen ye runs out o’ cut an’ dried, they is allus a placet ye can git a leetle ’hen ye takes a rest from bloomin’ in the fiels.’
“That wery night Zebulon ’cepted my inwite an’ come over to our placet an’ got a handful o’ cut an’ dried. He borryed a loaf o’ bread an’ a can’le beside. I didn’t begrudge it a bit. Nuther did Pap. But this lily business begin spreadin’, an’ all o’ Hen Jossel’s folks tuk to toilin’ not nuther spinin’, ’long o’ Herman Brewbocker’s family an’ Widdy Spade an’ half a dozen others. They was dependin’ on us fer flour, matches, tobacker an’ sech wanities, an’ it come a leetle hard. We stood it a month but things got goin’ from bad to worse. They wasn’t a day passed ’thout a lily or two droppin’ in at our placet an’ ’lowin’ mebbe we mightn’t like to loan a piece o’ ham, a tin o’ zulicks or a bit o’ oil. It worrit Pap terrible.
“One night I come home from store an’ found all the doors locked. The shutters was tight closed an’ they was no sign o’ life ’cept a leetle bit o’ smoke dancin’ up an’ down on the chimbley top. I give a loud knock. They was no answer. I knocked agin an’ yelled. The garret winder slid up an’ out come the bawrel o’ a gun, then Pap’s head.
“‘Hello!’ sais he. ‘Is you a friend or a lily o’ the walley?’
“‘Pap,’ I sais, ‘it’s your own lovin’ son,’ sais I. ‘Don’t leave me out here unprotected, the prey to the next lily that comes along lookin’ where-withal he shall borrer.’
“The ole man opened the door an’ let me in. Then he locked it agin an’ barred it. He picked up his musket wery solemn like an’ run the rammer down the bawrel to show it was loaded half way to the muzzle.
“‘They was ten lilies here, one after the other, to-day,’ he sais. ‘They’ve left us the bed, the dough tray, three chairs, a table, an’ a few odds an’ ends. ’Hen I seen the last foot o’ our sausage disappearin’ down the road under Widdy Spade’s arm I made a wow. The next lily that blooms about this clearin’ gits its blossoms blowed off.’
“It didn’t take long fer the news o’ Pap’s wow to fly from one eend of Buzzard Walley to the other. Zeb Pole got a job in the saw-mill. Hen Jossel went back to bark-peelin’ an’ cuttin’ ties. Widdy Spade planted her garden.”
“Well,” exclaimed the Miller, as the Loafer closed his account of the idiosyncracies of Zebulon Pole, “I can’t see any way why your pap was raisin’ sech fool things ez lilies. They’s only good to look at.”
“I understand that all right,” said the student. “What I want to know is, what have you demonstrated by all this talk?”
“I ain’t demonstratened nawthin’,” replied the Loafer. “You conterdicted me because I sayd a man should travel slow an’ take things easy in this world, an’ I proved that them ez travels fast is fools, gainin’ nawthin’ in the eend fer themselves or other folks. Then ye switches right ’round an’ adwises livin’ in a tub. I showed ye what that led to.”
“Then are we all to commit suicide?”
“No. Travel comf’table th’oo this world. Travel slow but allus keep movin’. Ye can see the country ez ye go, stoppin’ now an’ then to fish trout, or take a bang at a coon, or at the store to discuss a leetle. Don’t live too fast—don’t live too slow—live mejum.”
From the thick limbs of the maples came the discordant chatter of the cricket, the katydid and the tree-frog; from the creek beyond the mill the hoarse bellow of the bull-frog; from the darkening sky the shrill call of the night-hawk; and out of the woods across the flats the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill and the hoot of the owl. It was the evening chorus, but the loungers on the store porch did not hear it, for to them it was a part of the night’s stillness. But when, wafted across the meadows from the hills beyond, the notes of a horn sounded faint and clear, the Chronic Loafer, who for a long time had been smoking his pipe in silence, cried, “What’s that?”
“Slatter up the Dingdang,” said the Storekeeper. He was sitting on the steps.
“No, it ain’t; it’s Nellie Grey,” said the School Teacher in a voice that brooked no contradiction. Then in a deep bass he began singing,
“Oh, me little Nellie Grey, they have taken her away,
An’ I’ll never see me darlin’ any more,
I’m a-settin’ be the river with——”
“You’re a-settin’ on my porch,” cried the Storekeeper, for he was nettled at having had his knowledge of music questioned. “Sam Butter can’t blow that tune, an’ he has ben out every night a-practisin’ ‘Slatter up the Dingdang!’”
The music on the hill ceased, leaving no tangible ground on which the debate could be continued. The Chronic Loafer had too long been the butt of the pedagogue’s cutting sarcasm to miss this opportunity of scoring him.
“Ef that ain’t a good un,” he roared. “Why, you uns doesn’t know nawthin’ ’bout tunes, Teacher. Jim Clock he was een last night an’ hear Sam a-blowin’ that wery piece. He sayd it was ‘Slatter up the Dingdang,’ an’ I conjure that Jim knows, fer he is ’bout the best bass-horn player they is.”
The Storekeeper feared that this support from the Loafer might somewhat prejudice his own case in the minds of the others, so he ventured, “Not the best they is.”
“Well, the best they is in Pennsylwany,” said the Loafer.
“There are some ignoramuses don’t know nothin’,” exclaimed the Teacher. It was dark, but by the light of the lantern that hung in the window the men could see that he was gazing meaningly at his adversary. “But I know some that knows less than nothin’. The best horn-blower they is! Why, where’s your Rubensteins, your Paddyrewskies, your Pattis?”
He stopped, for he saw that the mention of these names had had the desired effect on his audience, as there was a wise wagging of heads.
But the Loafer was irrepressible. “Why,” he retorted, “Patti ain’t a horn-player. He’s a singer. I was readin’ a piece in the paper ’bout him jest last week. An’ ez fer ole Rube Stein, he never played nawthin’ but checkers.”
“Well, can’t a man both sing an’ play the horn?” the Teacher snapped.
“Perfessor, I agree with ye, I agree with ye entirely.” The Tinsmith had been silent hitherto, on the end of the bench. Now he leaned into view, resting an elbow on his knee and supporting his head with his hand. “Jim Clock don’t know no more ’bout blowin’ a bass-horn then my ole friend, Borax Bumbletree. Borax he knowd jest that leetle he was fired outen the Kishikoquillas In’epen’en’ Ban’. He come of a musical fam’ly, too. His mother an’ pap use to play the prettiest kind o’ duets on the melodium an’ ’cordine. His sister Amandy Lucy an’ his brother Hiram could sing like nightingales an’ b’longed to the choir at Happy Grove Church. It seems like Borax was left out in the distributin’ o’ music in that fam’ly, an’ consequent it went hard with him. ’Henever strangers was at the house it was allus, ‘Mr. Bumbletree, do play the melodium,’ or, ‘Now, Amanda Lucy, sing one o’ your beautiful pieces,’ an’ all that. Poor Borax, he jest set an’ moped.
“Final he ’lowed he’d give the fam’ly a s’prise an’ learn the bass-horn, cal’latin’ to make up be hard hustlin’ what he’d missed be natur’—the knowledge of the dif’rence ’tween a sharp an’ a flat, a note an’ a bar, a treble an’ a soprany, an’ all them things. He begin be j’inin’ the In’pen’en’ Ban’. Fer six weeks he practised hard, an’ at last he did git to playin’ a couple o’ pieces. But the other fellys in the ban’ was continual’ complainin’ that Borax didn’t keep no kind o’ time; an’ not only that, but he drownded ’em all out, fer he could make a heap o’ noise. They sayd they wouldn’t play with him no more tell he learned to blow time. Borax was clean discouraged, but he didn’t give up. He practised six weeks more an’ tried it with the ban’ boys agin. They sayd now that he didn’t know pitch an’ ruined their pieces a-bellerin’ way down in A ’hen they was blowin’ up in high C. He was pretty well cut up, but ’lowed he’d quit.
“I think he meant what he sayd an’ ’ud ’a’ kep’ his promise ef it hedn’t ’a’ ben that a woman interfered with his good intentions. She was Pet Parsley—Widdy Parsley, who lived with her mother back in Buzzard Walley. Borax hed a shine fer her afore she merried, an’ after she become a widdy he was wus ’an ever. One night at a ban’ festival, ’hen she was standin’ sellin’ at the ice-crim counter, he was a-jollyin’ her. Now he noticed that young Bill Hooker, who’d tuk his place in the ban’, was makin’ eyes at her over the top o’ his bass-horn while he was playin’. That near drove Bumbletree mad, fer him an’ Bill hed ben runnin’ neck an’ neck, an’ he knowd they was approachin’ the string.
“‘Don’t Mr. Hooker play gran’?’ sais Pet kind o’ timid like.
“‘Well, I don’t know,’ answers Borax, ‘I’ve heerd better.’
“‘Oh, hev ye,’ sais she, kind o’ perkin’ up her nose. ’I ’low you’re jealous. Can you play at all?’
“‘Well, can I?’ sais Borax. ‘Why, I can blow all ’round him.’
“‘I’d like to hear you,’ sais Pet. ‘Won’t you come an’ blow fer me sometim’?’
“‘I will,’ he answers, wery determined.
“He went home that night bound to git time an’ pitch together. He started to practise ’round the house but his fam’ly objected. The missus ’lowed she could never play the ’cordine with sech a bellerin’ goin’ on. Amandy Lucy went so fur ez to say it ’ud ruin her voice. But that didn’t stop Borax. He sayd he’d practise ’way from the house. Every night after the feedin’ was done he use to take his horn, his music marks an’ a lantern, an’ go out on the hill ahint the barn. There, settin’ on a lawg, with the lantern hangin’ on a saplin’, he’d blow away. Many a night that summer ez I set over at our placet on the next ridge, I’d hear Borax a boom-boom-boomin’ to git the time. The big tones ’ud go echoin’ way over in the mo’ntain. Oncet in a while he’d hit it good, an’ I tell you uns it sounded pretty to hear them notes a-rollin’ deep acrosst the gut, a-sighin’ th’oo the trees an’ a-dyin’ way off in the woods.
“Then he tuk up pitch. He blowed pitch fer a week an’ then tried pitch an’ time together. I thot he was doin’ pretty well. Still them ban’ boys wasn’t satisfied. They sayd he didn’t go up an’ down right, an’ that they couldn’t hev him a-blowin’ ’way at pitch an’ time an’ never makin’ no new notes. He ’lowed to me that they was a heap to learn ’bout blowin’ a bass-horn, but he was goin’ to git it ef it ’ud only be of uset in the next worl’.
“At nights I could see his light a-twinklin’ in the woods acrosst the gut an’ hear him tryin’ to blow time an’ pitch an’ ups an’ downs all at oncet. He’d git his wind fixed to blow A, an’ out ’ud come a C; or he’d try fer a D an’ land an E. He ’lowed to me oncet that sometim’ he thot mebbe it was willed that he was never to git a tune. But he kep’ at it.
“Now Bill Hooker hed ben to Horrisburg that summer an’ got him a brown cady hat. That was a new kind o’ headgear ’round Kishikoquillas an’ it cot on wonderful well. All the boys ’lowed they’d git ’em, but tell they had a chancet o’ buyin’ one they got to depend on Bill fer the loan o’ hisn ’hen they was goin’ out shinin’. So Hooker wasn’t s’prised one night ’hen Borax Bumbletree drove up to his placet an’ ’lowed mebbe Hooker mightn’t like to loan him his cady, ez he was goin’ callin’. Bill allus was obligin’ an’ thot no harm ’hen he watched Borax a-drivin’ away with his cady settin’ way up on top o’ his head. Bumbletree hitched his buckboard to a saplin’ on the edge o’ Pet Parsley’s clearin’. Then he got his horn out from in under the seat, fixed himself on a stump ’bout fifty feet from the house, put up his music marks so the moonlight shone on ’em, an’ begin to play. He started the serynade with ‘Soft th’oo the Eventide,’ that bein’ sentymental an’ his most famil’ar piece. He put his whole heart into the work an’ was soon blowin’ time an’ pitch an’ ups an’ downs all at oncet. The lamp that hed ben settin’ in the windy went out—that was all to show he’d ben heard. He blowed ‘Pull fer the Shore, Sailor.’ No sign o’ life in the house. He blowed ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ Still no sign. He then begin all over agin with ‘Soft th’oo the Eventide.’ Be this time the whole chicken-house hed j’ined in, an’ the cows was takin’ a hand too. He was desp’rit, dissypinted fearful an’ all used up. So he went home.
“You take a reg’lar thief. He knows they’s only one eend to thievin’—jail. An’ he’ll keep on stealin’ tell he gits there. Take a reg’lar murderer. He knows they’s only one eend to murder—the galluses; yit he’ll continyer murderin’ tell he gits there. So it is with a reg’lar man. He knows they’s only one result o’ bein’ in lawv—to be merried or git the mitten. An’ yit he’ll keep right on tell he gits one or the other. So it was with Borax Bumbletree. He hed no reason to think he’d git anything but the mitten, yit he went right up to Pet Parsley’s next night to take his punishment. He tol’ me that day that he guesst his serynade hed spoiled all the chancet he ever had, but he wanted it over.
“So he was kind o’ sheepish an’ hang-dog ’hen he’d sayd good evenin’ to the widdy an’ set down melancholy like, on the wood-box. They was quiet a piecet.
“Then he sayd, ‘I hear ye hed some music up here last night.’
“He was jest fishin’.
“‘Did I!’ sais she, flarin’ up. ‘Well, I guesst I did. An’ the chickens was so stirred up they kep’ on all night an’ not a wink o’ sleep did we git in this house. I never heerd sech bass-horn blowin’.’
“Borax jest hung his head an’ shuffled his feet.
“The widdy spoke up agin. ‘Does you ever see Bill Hooker?’
“‘Oncet in a long while,’ Borax answers.
“‘Well, you tell him,’ she sais, ‘that next time he comes up here to serynade me to send notice so I can git over the other side the mo’ntain.’
“Borax Bumbletree gasped an’ almost fell offen the wood-box.
“‘How’d you know it was Bill Hooker?’ he asts quick.
“‘Well, didn’t I see that new fandangled hat o’ hisn—that cady I’ve heerd so much about. Why, I’d ’a’ knowd him a mile.’
“Now Borax wasn’t ez slow on everything ez he was on music. He was right smart, he was. He seen the way the wind blowed.
“Gittin’ offen the wood-box he went over to the settee alongside o’ her.
“‘Pet,’ he sais, ‘I allus told you Bill Hooker couldn’t blow the bass-horn.’
“‘I otter ’a’ knowd you could blow a heap sight better,’ she sais quiet like, but meanin’ business.
“‘That I can,’ sais he. ‘An’ after we’re merried—not tell after, mind ye—I’ll blow sech music fer ye ez ye never dreamed of.’”
“My sights, but he was innercent!” the Loafer cried.
“What do you know ’bout it?” snapped the Tinsmith.
“Why, him thinkin’ she’d give him a chancet to blow.”
The Chronic Loafer held in his hand a single sheet of a Philadelphia paper nine days old. The other pages had long since left the store in service as wrappings. This treasure he had rescued from such ignominious use and now was poring over it letter by letter. The center of the page was within three inches of the end of his nose. His brow was furrowed and his lips moved. At intervals he lifted his right hand and with the forefinger beat time to his reading. He was comfortably fixed on an egg-crate close by the stove. The paper hid him from the view of his companions. They could not see the earnest workings of his features but they could hear a steady, sonorous mumble and were curious. They knew better than to interrupt him in his arduous task, however, and awaited with commendable patience the time when he should choose to come forth from his seclusion and tell them all about it.
They had not long to wait. Suddenly he jerked his head forward three times, viciously butting the paper, simultaneously emitting a burring sound not unlike that of an angry bull when he tears up the sod with his horns. The curtain fell to show him calm again but with a puzzled expression on his countenance.
“Teacher,” he said, “what does h-a-b-e-a-s spell?”
“Hab-by-ace,” replied the pedagogue promptly. He threw out his chest and fixed his thumbs in their favorite resting-place, the arm-holes of his waistcoat. His attitude was that of a man who was full to the neck with general information and only needed uncorking.
“Habbyace,” said the Loafer. “Habbyace—habbyace—that’s a new un on me.”
“Doubtless it is,” the other retorted, “if you have never studied Latin. It means have.”
“Have—have,” muttered the Loafer, more puzzled than ever. “Then what’s c-o-r-p-u-s spell?”
“Corpuse,” replied the pedagogue, “being the Latin for body.”
“Then I’m stumped.” The Loafer crumpled up his paper in one hand and shook the other at the assembled company. “Them ceety lawyers certainly beat the band.”
“What’s all the trouble now?” inquired the Tinsmith.
The Loafer unfolded the sheet again and smoothed it out on his knees. Then he leaned over it and eyed it intently.
“I was jest readin’ a piece about a man called Jawhn O’Brien,” he said slowly. “He was ’rested fer killin’ his wife an’ two young uns. It sais the evydence is dead agin him an’ he is sure to hang. He has hired J. Montgomery Cole to defend him. The first thing the lawyer does is to go inter court an’ ast fer a habbyace corpuse. Mighty souls! The idee! How’s that to defend a man—jest to ast fer his dead body.”
The Patriarch shook his head solemnly. “Terrible—terrible,” he said. “Sech men ought never git diplomys.”
“Yit, Gran’pap,” suggested the Tinsmith, “don’t ye think after all it’s best they is some sech lawyers? Why, ef it wasn’t fer the dumb lawyers they’d never be no murderers brought to jestice.”
“True—true,” said the old man. “Now it used to be that ’hen a man committed murder he was tried, an’ ef the evydence was agin him, he was hung. Nowadays a felly commits murder an’ a year is spent hevin’ him indickted. After he’s indickted a year is ockypied with these habbyace corpuse proceedin’s. They settles who gits the body in caset he’s hung an’ then they finds what they calls a ‘flaw in the indicktment.’ They indickts him agin. Next comes the question of a ‘change in vendue.’ It takes a year to argy that pint an’ after it the trial begins. Ef he’s found innercent it means he’s ben livin’ th’ee years doin’ nawthin’ at the county’s expense. Ef he’s found guilty his lawyer takes what they calls an ‘exception,’ meanin’ he objects to him bein’ hung. It takes a year to——”
“But, Gran’pap,” interrupted the Loafer, “ye must remember that the principle o’ the law is that because a man commits murder is no sign he’s guilty.”
“I know—I know,” the Patriarch said. “Ye can’t catch me on law. I thot o’ stedyin’ it oncet. But ez I was sayin’—where was it I left off?”
“What’s a ‘change o’ vendue,’ Gran’pap?” inquired the Miller.
The old man glared at the speaker.
“That wasn’t the pint where I left off,” he snapped.
“Yes, but what is it, Gran’pap?” the Tinsmith asked.
But the Patriarch had forgotten all about the defects of the law. He had leaned forward, resting his hands on his cane and his head on his hands, and was studying the floor intently.
“Buttonporgie stood six feet two in his stockin’s,” he said half aloud, after a long silence. “That there was the way to do ’em. Now ef Si Berrybush hed ben livin’ to-day, he’d be fussin’ with indicktments an’ changes of vendues an’ all them things an’——”
“Who air you talkin’ to now?” exclaimed the Loafer.
The old man looked up. “Oh!” he said. “I forgot. Sure, I forgot. Ye never heard o’ Tom Buttonporgie did ye, or Si Berrybush?”
None of the company had heard of the pair, so the Patriarch consented to enlighten them.
“I got the main pints o’ the story from Tom himself,” he began. “He used to tell it ’hen he stayed at my pap’s place ’hen I was a bit of a boy. He allus told it the same way, too, which was evydence of it bein’ true. I wish all you uns could ’a’ heard him. Mighty, but it was a treat! Why, he was never in our house two minutes till us children was runnin’ ’round him callin’ to him to tell us how he done Si Berrybush. But he’d never give us a word till he’d opened his pedler’s pack an’ sold somethin’ to Ma an’ the girls. Next it was his supper an’ a pipe. Then I’d climb on his one knee an’ my sister Solly on the other. Ed an’ May ’ud git on the wood-box an’ Pap an’ Ma on the settee. It took th’ee pipes to wind Tom up. Then he’d go beautiful. The words ’ud role out like music an’ you’d fergit the kitchen an’ the folks around. You’d be out in the woods with him, steppin’ along with him hour after hour ez he was carryin’ Si Berrybush to freedom. You’d see the things ez he saw, an’ you’d feel the things ez he felt. Now ye was low down an’ discouraged. Everything was dark ez ye stumbled on an’ on, achin’ in every limb, expectin’ each minute ’ud be your last. Now ye was hopin’. They was a chance fer ye yit. The light broke. The load was gone. Si Berrybush was gone, an’ ye was back in the ole kitchen agin, with Pap an’ Ma sound asleep on the settee.
“Ez I was sayin’, Tom Buttonporgie stood six feet two in his stockin’s an’ was a most powerful man, fer walkin’ day after day, luggin’ a great pack on his back, hed give him the muscles of an ox. He used to come to this walley oncet every summer so he knowd well o’ Si Berrybush, who was the desperatest man ever seen in these parts. Si’s ockypation was robbin’. He made his headquarters in the mo’ntain acrosst the river. His hand was agin everybody an’ everybody knowd it, yit he never was catched. Oncet a pedler was found dead in the bushes with a bullet hole in his head an’ his pack turned inside out. They sayd Berrybush did it, so he went down to the Sheriff’s an’ give himself up. They was no evydence an’ he walked home agin. A couple o’ times things like that happened an’ yit they was never an ioty o’ proof. He’d ’a’ died a nat’ral death, I guess, ef he hedn’t forgot himself one night in the willage an’ shot Joe Hyde. They was too many fellys handy who hed grudges agin him to let him git away, an’ they clapped him in jail, tried him an’ sentenced him to be hung.
“Now, about this time, Tom Buttonporgie come over the mo’ntain inter the walley. Late in the afternoon he reached Ben Clock’s place near Eden, an’ ez they knowd him well they ast him to spend the night. After supper the family hed a game o’ cards an’ about nine o’clock Tom tuk up his pack an’ started fer the barn where he was to sleep, fer the house was full. Clock lighted the way with a lantern an’ saw him comfortable fixed. The pack was stowed away in a corner o’ the barn-floor, while the pedler was settled nice ez ye please on a horse-blanket in the hay-mow.
“Tom Buttonporgie slept sound an’ hard. Everything in this world was pleasant fer him. Things was goin’ his way. It’s strange that it should be so, boys, but yit it is true that sleep comes easiest an’ quickest to them ez hes nawthin’ but good things to forget in it. So from the time he laid his head down on the hay till a kick awoke him, Tom knowd nawthin’. He opened his eyes with a jerk an’ set up an’ rubbed ’em. The airly mornin’ light was jest creepin’ inter the barn, but he could make out only a small, dark figure a few feet away.
“‘Good morning, Mr. Clock,’ sais he wery pleasant, tho’ he was a leetle put out at the rough way he’d ben woke.
“‘Good mornin’, Tom,’ sais the figure wery cheerful. ‘You’ve mistook me, fer my name is Berrybush.’
“‘Hen the pedler hear that he made a grab fer his pistol. He’d laid it in the hay close to him, but now it was gone. He started to rise but he felt a steel bawrel pressed agin his head. Buttonporgie was big an’ full o’ grit, but he knowd that ye can’t argy with lead. So he set down.
“‘Well,’ sais he, ‘I guess you’ve got me, Mr. Berrybush.’
“‘I think I hev,’ the murderer answers, ‘an’ I’ve got ye good,’ he sais. ‘I intend to keep ye, too, fer I’m right fresh out o’ jail an’ soon the whole country’ll be lookin’ fer me. Excuse the familiarity,’ he goes on polite like, ‘but we’ll be Tom an’ Si fer some hours to come, fer you’re to carry me outen these parts in your pack.’
“That idee made Buttonporgie gasp. He tried to git up but bumped agin the pistol.
“Si Berrybush laughed an’ went on in that pleasant way o’ his: ‘I notice the plan ain’t takin’ well with ye, Tom, but you’ll see how nice it works. While you slept,’ he sais, ‘I fixed the pack. The goods is all stowed away here in the hay an’ I find I fit the leather box to a T. I git in it; you put it on your back an’ go th’ee mile an hour. Nawthin’s easier.’
“Then he laughed like he’d die.
“Be this time they was quite some light in the barn an’ the pedler was able to see who he hed to deal with. The first sight was encouragin’, fer he was but a bit of a man, not more than five feet th’ee. He’d a wery small body set on crooked spindle legs. His face was pleasant enough, fer they was nawthin’ in his leetle, black eyes an’ heavy, red beard to mark him ez a desperaydo. The only real onlikely thing about him was the pedler’s pistol.
“Tom kind o’ cheers up now an’ sais, sais he, ‘Si, you’ve mistook the whole thing. Don’t ye see I’ll turn ye over to the first men we meet?’
“At that Si th’owed back his head an’ laughed.
“‘Will ye?’ he sais. ‘Well I guess ye would, only this pistol’ll be stickin’ th’oo a hole in the back o’ the pack. Ef you go to carry out sech an idee two bullets’ll end the both of us, an’ that’s a sight better than hangin’. So come on,’ he sais. ‘We must be movin’.’
“Tom wasn’t in fer undertakin’ sech a job without objectin’.
“‘See here, Si!’ he sais. ‘I appeals to you ez a gentleman,’ he sais. ‘I’ve allus heard you was a gentleman in spite o’ your faults—I appeal to you to tell me what good it would do you to kill yourself an’ me too. You hain’t no particular spite agin me,’ Tom goes on, ‘an’ I hain’t no particular spite agin you. I’m willin’ fer you to stay in this barn an’ me git out, or fer you to git out an’ me stay, both of us keepin’ quiet.’
“Si’s eyes kind o’ twinkled an’ he pulled his beard like he was thinkin’ wery hard.
“‘Shake me, Tom!’ he sais at last, ‘ef I don’t like a man o’ your sperrit. Ef I wasn’t in sech a bad hole I’d be tempted to accept your offer. But onfortunate fer both of us,’ he sais, ‘this whole walley will be overrun with searchin’ parties in a few hours. They’ve got a chancet to hang Si Berrybush an’ they ain’t goin’ to lose it ef they can help it.’
“Buttonporgie was a nice man an’ a smart man at his business, but they was some things that it was a leetle hard to git into his head.
“‘See here!’ he sais, not satisfied. ‘I can’t see what good it ’ud do you to shoot me ef I was to call one o’ them searchin’ parties to take a look in my pack. You’d hev to hang anyway. Why couldn’t ye jest shoot yourself?’
“‘You’re wastin’ walable time,’ Si answers. ‘I’ll kill myself sooner than be catched. Ez long ez you know that you’ll be killed ef I am catched, you won’t bother callin’ folks to see what you are carryin’. An’, Tom,’ he went on, ‘I might jest ez well tell you now that ’hen we git well out o’ harm’s way, I’m goin’ to shoot ye anyhow. I don’t want to leave no one ’round to blab.’
“Si Berrybush smiled the innercentest smile you uns ever see, an’ the pedler chewed a straw a spell.
“Then he looks up an’ sais, ‘You must take me for a dummy?’
“‘Why?’ Si asts.
“‘Do you think I’ll lug you thirty or forty mile jest so you can shoot me?’ answers Buttonporgie. ‘I might ez well call it up now!’ he sais.
“Si cocked his pistol careless-like an’ pinted it at the other man’s head ez tho’ it was his finger an’ he was jest makin’ a good argyment on religion.
“‘You are a dummy,’ he sais, laughin’. ‘Now don’t you s’pose that ez long ez you think there’s hope, a chancet o’ your comin’ out alive, you’ll carry me. Of course ye will,’ he sais. ‘Not till there’s not an ioty of a possibility o’ your doin’ me, will you let me finish you.’”
“Mighty souls, but that Si was an argyer, now wasn’t he!” the Miller interrupted.
“He’d ’a’ looked like small potatys ’long side o’ my Missus. I mind the time ’hen jest fer fun I——”
The Patriarch tapped the Loafer gently on the knee with his cane.
“My dear man,” he said gently, “never interrupt a good story. It ain’t polite. There is some peculiarly minded folks ez is never happy ’less they is doin’ all the talkin’. Now where did I leave off?”
“Where there was hope—some hope,” the Miller answered.
“Hope—oh, yes—hope,” the old man continued. “Mighty! Why I’ve knowd a sensible hen to set four weeks on a chiny egg, jest in hope that she might be mistaken. Si Berrybush knowd human natur’ well, fer it didn’t need but a wiggle or two o’ the pistol to bring Buttonporgie to takin’ his view o’ the sensibleness o’ hopin’. The pedler looked kind o’ sheepish an’ ’lowed he guesst Si was right. Si sayd he guesst he was, an’ climbed into the pack, an’ most mighty snug he fit it. Then Buttonporgie knelt down, put his arms th’oo the straps an’ lifted the load high on his back. Si closed down the flap. A second later Tom felt the muzzle o’ the pistol pressin’ him gentle like atween the shoulders.
“‘Now we’re off,’ sais Si, ‘over the mo’ntains th’oo Windy Gap. Step light, ole hoss,’ he sais, ‘fer the gun’s cocked an’ too much joltin’ll send it off.’”
“Mighty souls!” interrupted the Loafer. “An’ how fur did he hev to carry him, Gran’pap? A mile?”
“A mile!” exclaimed the Patriarch. “Pshaw! Does you uns think a mile ’ud ’a’ put Si Berrybush outen the way o’ the sheriff’s posse. Why, the whole county was alive that mornin’. It was hardly sun-up ’hen Tom Buttonporgie stepped outen Clock’s barn an’ went ploddin’ up the big road with his pack, yit at the eend o’ the first mile he met th’ee men on horseback, an’ they pulled up an’ told him all about Berrybush an’ warned him to keep out a sharp eye. Tom felt the pistol bawrel kind o’ nosin’ ’round his shoulders, so he laughed wery pleasant an’ ’lowed it was all right; he was obliged fer the warnin’ but there was no help fer Si Berrybush ef he ever come within the length o’ his arm. On he went agin. Ez the last o’ the horses’ hoofs died away down the road he hear a gentle chucklin’ coming from his pack.
“‘Wery good,’ sais Si, ‘most a mighty good.’
“The pedler was a religious man yit he swore. At that he could feel his pack palpitatin’, fer his load was laughin’ an’ laughin’ to beat all. Tom swore some more, but he kept up his walkin’.
“Si ’lowed it wasn’t nice fer Tom to carry on so.
“‘It makes me feel bad,’ he sayd, talkin’ th’oo a slit in the top o’ the pack. ‘It makes me feel bad, Tom, to hear you behavin’ like that. I don’t mind killin’ a good man, fer I knows he’ll git his reward in the next world. But shootin’ a felly after he’s used sech language hurts me,’ he sayd.
“With that he rubbed the nose o’ the pistol between Tom’s shoulder-blades. The pedler jest bubbled.
“‘Keep on hopin’, Tom,’ he heard the woice at his back. ‘Mebbe somethin’ll happen ’twixt now an’ to-morrow mornin’ that’ll let you free o’ your pack!’
“The sun come out hot, an’ the road was dusty. The load was heavy an’ they was a good many long hills. Time an’ agin Tom ’ud slow down. ‘Git up, ole hoss,’ he’d hear come from behind him. Then they’d be that pistol jabbin’ him. He’d make a face an’ pick up his gait. Time an’ agin he met parties ez was out huntin’ the murderer. Sometim’s he’d hurry by them; others he stopped an’ talked to, askin’ all about Si Berrybush an’ his escape, thankin’ ’em fer their adwice an’ ’lowin’ over an’ over agin he’d give his last cent jest to have the leetle man in his grasp.
“Be noon he’d covered nine mile an’ reached the foot o’ the mo’ntain.
“‘Now see here, Si,’ he sais, sais he, ‘you ain’t goin’ to kill your horse be overwork, are ye? S’posn I drop down in the road!’
“‘Nobody’s sorrier than I am fer your trouble, Tom,’ come the answer. ‘It’s really pitiful. But I’ll risk your givin’ out—I’ll risk it.’
“Then there was the pistol agin.
“At the last house in the walley Tom stopped an’ got a loaf o’ bread be special permission. The woman wanted to hev a look at his pack, but he sayd no; what he had in it wasn’t worth lookin’ at. He was carryin’ low-down, mean, mis’able stock that wasn’t fit to show to no lady. Besides—the pistol was jabbin’ him—he hed to hurry on to git over the mo’ntain be sunset. An’ on he went.
“Si begin laughin’ so hard it set the pack joltin’ up an’ down on Tom’s back an’ almost upset him.
“‘That was a mean undercut you give me, Thomas,’ sais the murderer. ‘A gentleman should never abuse a gentleman behind his back!’ he sais. ‘Now s’posn you pass that bread in here.’
“‘But I got it fer meself,’ Tom wentures.
“‘Did ye?’ answers Berrybush, pressin’ on the butt of the gun jest a leetle. ‘Well, s’posn ye pass it in anyway an’ dewote the rest o’ the afternoon to hopin’. Mebbe you’ll git it after all.’
“Tom passed it.
“The road was steep an’ the way was rough in the mo’ntain. Strong ez he was an’ light ez was the murderer, the work begin to go heavy with him. But the pistol was allus at his back proddin’ him on. Oncet he stepped inter a chuckhole an pitched for’a’d, his hands jest savin’ him from strikin’ his face to the ground. He thot that all was up with him, fer the pack was jerked up on his head, wrenchin’ his shoulders most dreadful. He closed his eyes expectin’ to hear the crack o’ the gun an’ then go plungin’ on agin fer ever an’ ever.
“Nawthin’ happened. He climbed to his feet kind o’ dissypinted, fer instead o’ his journey bein’ ended he hed to go limpin’ ahead. Si was a-cursin’ him dreadful. Tom walked like an ellyphant, he sayd, an’ was joltin’ his bones all out o’ j’int. Next time he stumbled the gun ’ud be cocked dead sure.
“The sun was settin’ ’hen they reached the edge o’ the woods on yon side the mo’ntain. The murderer pushed up the lid o’ the pack an’ looked out over Tom’s shoulder. He pinted acrosst the walley twenty mile to where they could see the hills agin. There, he sayd, he’d be th’oo with his mule.
“Th’oo with him! Tom knowd what that meant. He knowd now Si Berrybush ’ud keep his word; that he’d never git out o’ that pack an’ leave a man alive an’ runnin’ round to tell where he could be found. He was almost willin’ to call the game up right there an’ lay down his load an’ his life together, but still there was hope. It was precious leetle, to be sure, but still some. Ez Si sayd, they was no tellin’ what might happen agin they got to the end o’ that twenty mile.
“Berrybush pulled in his head an’ let the flap down over it. ‘Git up’, he sais, ‘git up, ole Tom.’ An’ with that he give him a prod.
“On Buttonporgie went, down the slope inter the walley, each step takin’ him nearer an’ nearer the hills. The sun set an’ the darkness come to add to his troubles. The lights went out in the houses ’long the way an’ they wasn’t no sound to cheer him up, not a sound but the steady breathin’ in his pack an’ the rattle o’ the gravel under his own shufflin’ feet. It was awful travellin’ that way, straight on an’ on to the hills where he was to die, feelin’ allus on his back the weight o’ the man who was to kill him.
“Final he couldn’t stand the silence no more. ‘Si,’ he cried, ‘Si, won’t ye talk to me!’
“They wasn’t no answer. He only heard a heavy breathin’ in the pack.
“The moon come up an’ lighted the road an’ the dogs begin to bay at it. That might ’a’ cheered him up some had he ’a’ heard ’em, but he didn’t hear nawthin’ now. Tom Buttonporgie was dazed like. He kept on a-walkin’ an’ a-walkin’, but the straps no longer cut his shoulders an’ he forgot the load on his back. The road with the moonlight pourin’ over it seemed like a broad white pavement crosst the walley, smooz ez marble. They was no chuckholes now to stumble in, no thank-ye-ma’ams to jump over, no ruts to twist his ankles. It was all smooz—smooz ez marble it was. On he went, faster an’ faster. He wanted to git to the eend o’ the white road now an’ lay down his pack an’ sleep. He was walkin’ mechanical.
“All o’ a sudden a queer sound woke him from his doze an’ he stopped short. It all come back agin. He was in the road an’ the road was rough, an’ the straps was cuttin’ dreadful, an’ his legs felt like they was givin’ way under him. The pack was on his back an’ awful heavy too. He reached up his hand an’ felt it. But a queer sound was comin’ from it—most a mighty queer. Tom didn’t dast breathe. He stood still listenin’. Then it come louder—a soft purrin’, gentle ez a cat’s. An’ the peddler laughed. Natur’ hed tackled Si Berrybush an’ walloped him. He was snorin’.
“There was an oneasy movement in the pack. Tom’s heart fell. He stepped on wery cautious. Now agin come the sound, louder an’ louder.
“The road took a sudden turn ’round a thick clump o’ woods an’ crossed a stream on a rickety timber bridge. There Buttonporgie stopped. An’ ez he leaned agin the rail an’ looked down into the water there below him, gleamin’ along in the moonlight, everything kind o’ passed away from his mind. He only knowd that he was wery hot, an’ the pool looked so cool an’ inwitin’. He only knowd that he was wery tired, an’ the pool looked so soft an’ nice, ez ef it was jest intended for limbs achin’ like ez his. He’d miles yit to go afore he reached the hills. Si was sleepin’. Si wouldn’t mind. Si wouldn’t know. They’d be movin’ agin afore Si woke up. So he climbed over the rail an’ stepped off. The wotter closed over his head an’ he went down an’ down, the great weight on his back draggin’ him. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He was jest goin’ to lay there in the cool stream an’ look up at the stars an’ rest. His feet struck the bottom an’ he tore his arms free o’ the straps that held the awful weight to him. In a second he was on the surface an’ swimmin’, fer he was wide awake.
“He used to say that ez he stood there on the bank lookin’ at that quiet pool it seemed ez tho’ it was all a dream; that he’d never met the murderer an’ carried him thirty mile on his back, or felt the prod of his pistol every time his steps lagged. But ef it was a dream, he thot, then what was that he seen that rose to the surface an’ went bobbin’ away on the current? It was Si Berrybush’s ole cloth cap.”