good ez he do now. He wuz dat full er life, suh, dat he bleeze ter go
downsta'rs, en down he went. Well, suh, he wuz mighty lucky dat day.
Kaze ef he'd a run up wid Mistiss en Miss Lady by hese'f, dee'd er done
sumpn' ner fer ter make 'im feel bad. Dee cert'n'y would, suh. But dee
wuz walkin' 'roun' in de yard, en he come out on de peazzer whar Marster
wuz sunnin' hese'f and singin'. I wouldn' b'lieve it, suh, ef I ain' see
it wid my two eyes; but Marster got up out'n he cheer, en straighten
hese'f, en shuck han's wid Mars Fess, en look like he know all 'bout it.
Dee sot dar, suh, en talk en laugh, en laugh en talk, tell bimeby I 'gun
ter git skeerd on de accounts er bofe un um. Dee talk 'bout de war, en
dee talk 'bout de Yankees, en dee talk politics right straight 'long des
like Marster done 'fo' he bin strucken wid de polzy. En he talk sense,
suh. He cert'n'y did. Bimeby Mistiss en Miss Lady come back fum dee
walk, en dee look like dee gwine drap w'en dee see w'at gwine on. Dem
two mens wuz so busy takin', suh, dat dee ain' see de wimmen folks, en
dee des keep right on wid dee argafyin'. Mistiss en Miss Lady, dee ain'
know w'at ter make er all dis, en dee stan' dar lookin' fus' at Marster
en den at one er n'er. Bimeby dee went up de steps en start to go by,
but Marster he riz up en stop um. Yes, suh. He riz right up en stop um,
en right den en dar, suh, he make um interjuced ter one an'er. He stan'
up, en he say: 'Mr. Trunion, dis my wife; Mr. Trunion, dis my daughter.'
"Well, suh, I wuz stannin' back in de big hall, en we'n I see Marster
gwine on dat away my knees come mighty nigh failin' me, suh. Dis de fus'
time w'at he reckermember anybody name, an de fus' time he do like he
useter, sence he bin sick wid de polzy. Mistiss en Miss Lady, dee come
'long in atter w'ile, en dee look like dee skeerd. Well, suh, I des
far'ly preach at um. Yes, suh; I did dat. I say: 'You see dat? You see
how Marster doin'? Ef de han' er de Lord ain' in dat, den de han' ain'
bin in nuttin' on de top side er dis yeth.' I say: 'You see how you bin
cuttin' up 'roun' dat sick w'ite man wid yo' biggity capers, en yit de
Lord retch down en make Marster soun' en well time de yuther w'ite man
tetch 'im. Well, suh, dey wuz dat worked up dat dey sot down en cried.
Yes, suh; dey did dat. Dey cried. En I ain' tellin' you no lie, suh, I
stood dar en cried wid um. Let 'lone dat, I des far'ly boohooed. Yes,
suh; dat's me. Wen I git ter cryin' sho' nuff, I bleeze ter boohoo.
"Fum dat on, Marster do like hese'f, en talk like hese'f. It look like
he bin sleep long time, suh, en de sleep done 'im good. All he sense
come back; en you know, suh, de Tomlinsons, w'en dey at deese'f, got
much sense ez dee want en some fer give way. Mistiss and Miss Lady, dee
wuz mighty proud 'bout Marster, suh, but dee ain' fergit dat de yuther
man wuz Yankee, en dee hol' deese'f monst'ous stiff. He notice dat
hese'f, en he want ter go 'way, but Marster, he 'fuse ter lissen at 'im
right pine-plank, suh. He say de dead Tomlinsons would in-about turn
over in dee graves ef dee know he sont a cripple man 'way from he
'ouse. Den he want ter pay he board, but Marster ain' lissen ter dat, en
needer is Mistiss; en dis mighty funny, too, kaze right dat minnit dee
wa'n't a half er dollar er good money in de whole fambly, ceppin' some
silver w'at I work fer, en w'at I hide in er chink er my chimbly. No,
suh. Dee want er half er dollar in de whole fambly, suh. En yit dee
won't take de greenbacks w'at dat man offer um.
"By dat time, suh, de war wuz done done, en dee wuz tough times. Dee
cert'n'y wuz, suh. De railroads wuz all broke up, en eve'ything look
like it gwine helter-skelter right straight ter de Ole Boy. Ded wa'n't
no law, suh, en dey wa'n't no nuttin'; en ef it hadn't er bin fer me en
my ole man, I speck de Tomlinsons, proud ez dee wuz, would er bin
mightily pincht fer fin' bread en meat. But dee ain' never want fer it
yit, suh, kaze w'en me en my ole man git whar we can't move no furder,
Marse Fess Trunion, he tuck holt er de place en he fetcht it right side
up terreckerly. He say ter me dat he gwine pay he board dat away, suh,
but he ain' say it whar de Tomlinsons kin year 'im, kaze den dee'd
a-bin a fuss, suh. But he kotch holt, en me, en him, en my ole man, we
des he't eve'ything hot. Mo' speshually Marse Fess Trunion, suh. You
ain' know 'im, suh, but dat ar w'ite man, he got mo' ways ter work, en
mo' short cuts ter de ways, suh, dan any w'ite man w'at I ever see, en I
done see lots un um. It got so, suh, dat me en my ole man ain' have ter
draw no mo' rashuns fum de F'eedman Bureau; but dee wuz one spell, suh,
w'en wuss rashuns dan dem wuz on de Tomlinson table.
"Well, suh, dat w'ite man, he work en he scuffle; he hire niggers, and
he turn um off; he plan, en he projick; en 'tain' so mighty long, suh,
'fo' he got eve'ything gwine straight. How he done it, I'll never tell
you, suh; but do it he did. He put he own money in dar, suh, kaze dee
wuz two times dat I knows un w'en he git money out'n de pos'-office, en
I see 'im pay it out ter de niggers, suh. En all dat time he look like
he de happies' w'ite man on top er de groun', suh. Yes, suh. En w'en he
at de 'ouse Marster stuck right by 'im, en ef he bin he own son he
couldn't pay him mo' 'tention. Dee wuz times, suh, w'en it seem like ter
me dat Marse Fess Trunion wuz a-cuttin' he eye at Miss Lady, en den I
'low ter myse'f: 'Shoo, man, you mighty nice en all dat, but you Yankee,
en you nee'nter be a-drappin' yo' wing 'roun' Miss Lady, kaze she too
high-strung fer dat.'
"It look like he see it de same way I do, suh, kaze atter he git
eve'ything straight he say he gwine home. Marster look like he feel
mighty bad, but Mistiss en Miss Lady, dee ain't say nuttin' 'tall. Den,
atter w'ile, suh, Marse Fess Trunion fix up, en off he put. Yes, suh. He
went off whar he come fum, en I speck he folks wuz mighty glad ter see
'im atter so long, kaze ef dee ever wuz a plum nice man it wuz dat man.
He want no great big man, suh, en he ain' make much fuss, yit he lef a
mighty big hole at de Tomlinson Place, w'en he pulled out fum dar. Yes,
suh; he did dat. It look like it lonesome all over de plan'ation.
Marster, he 'gun ter git droopy, but eve'y time de dinner bell ring he
go ter de foot er de sta'rs en call out: 'Come on. Trunion!' Yes, suh.
He holler dat out eve'y day, en den, w'iles he be talkin', he'd stop en
look roun' en say: 'Whar Trunion?' It ain' make no difference who he
talkin' wid, suh, he'd des stop right still en ax: 'Whar Trunion?' Den
de niggers, dee got slack, en eve'ything 'gun ter go een'-ways. One day
I run up on Miss Lady settin' down cryin', en I ax her w'at de name er
goodness de matter, en she say nuff de matter. Den I say she better go
ask her pappy whar Trunion, en den she git red in de face, en 'low I
better go 'ten' ter my business; en den I tell her dat ef somebody ain'
tell us whar Trunion is, en dat mighty quick, dee won't be no business
on dat place fer 'ten' ter. Yes, suh. I tol' her dat right p'intedly,
suh.
"Well, suh, one day Marse Fess Trunion come a-drivin' up in a shiny
double buggy, en he look like he des step right out'n a ban'-box; en ef
ever I wuz glad ter see anybody, I wuz glad ter see dat man. Marster wuz
glad; en dis time, suh, Miss Lady wuz glad, en she show it right plain;
but Mistiss, she still sniff de a'r en hol' her head high. T'wa'n't
long, suh, 'fo' we all knowd dat Marse Fess wuz gwine marry Miss Lady.
I ain' know how dee fix it, kaze Mistiss never is come right out en say
she agreeable 'bout it, but Miss Lady wuz a Bledsoe too, en a Tomlinson
ter boot, en I ain' never see nobody w'at impatient nuff fer ter stan'
out 'g'inst dat gal. It ain' all happen, suh, quick ez I tell it, but it
happen; en but fer dat, I dunno w'at in de name er goodness would er
'come er dis place."
A few hours later, as I sat with Trunion on the veranda of his house, he
verified Aunt Fountain's story, but not until after he was convinced
that I was familiar with the history of the family. There was much in
that history he could afford to be proud of, modern though he was. A man
who believes in the results of blood in cattle is not likely to ignore
the possibility of similar results in human beings; and I think he
regarded the matter in some such practical light. He was a man, it
seemed, who was disposed to look lightly on trouble, once it was over
with; and I found he was not so much impressed with his struggle against
the positive scorn and contempt of Mrs. Tomlinson--a struggle that was
infinitely more important and protracted than Aunt Fountain had
described it to be--as he was with his conflict with Bermuda grass. He
told me laughingly of some of his troubles with his hot-headed neighbors
in the early days after the war, but nothing of this sort seemed to be
as important as his difficulties with Bermuda grass. Here the practical
and progressive man showed himself; for I have a very vivid recollection
of the desperate attempts of the farmers of that region to uproot and
destroy this particular variety.
As for Trunion, he conquered it by cultivating it for the benefit of
himself and his neighbors; and I suspect that this is the way he
conquered his other opponents. It was a great victory over the grass, at
any rate. I walked with him over the place, and the picture of it all is
still framed in my mind--the wonderful hedges of Cherokee roses, and the
fragrant and fertile stretches of green Bermuda through which beautiful
fawn-colored cattle were leisurely making their way. He had a theory
that this was the only grass in the world fit for the dainty Jersey cow
to eat.
There were comforts and conveniences on the Tomlinson Place not dreamed
of in the old days, and I think there was substantial happiness there
too. Trunion himself was a wholesome man, a man full of honest
affection, hearty laughter, and hard work--a breezy, companionable,
energetic man. There was something boyish, unaffected, and winsome in
his manners; and I can easily understand why Judge Addison Tomlinson, in
his old age, insisted on astonishing his family and his guests by
exclaiming: "Where's Trunion?" Certainly he was a man to think about and
inquire after.
I have rarely seen a lovelier woman than his wife, and I think her
happiness helped to make her so. She had inherited a certain degree of
cold stateliness from her ancestors; but her experience after the war,
and Trunion's unaffected ways, had acted as powerful correctives, and
there was nothing in the shape of indifference or haughtiness to mar her
singular beauty.
As for Mrs. Tomlinson--the habit is still strong in me to call her
Harriet Bledsoe--I think that in her secret soul she had an
ineradicable contempt for Trunion's extraordinary business energy. I
think his "push and vim," as the phrase goes, shocked her sense of
propriety to a far greater extent than she would have been willing to
admit. But she had little time to think of these matters; for she had
taken possession of her grandson, Master Addison Tomlinson Trunion, and
was absorbed in his wild and boisterous ways, as grandmothers will be.
This boy, a brave and manly little fellow, had Trunion's temper, but he
had inherited the Tomlinson air. It became him well, too, and I think
Trunion was proud of it.
"I am glad," said I, in parting, "that I have seen Aunt Fountain's
Prisoner."
"Ah!" said he, looking at his wife, who smiled and blushed, "that was
during the war. Since then I have been a Prisoner of Peace."
I do not know what industrial theories Trunion has impressed on his
neighborhood by this time; but he gave me a practical illustration of
the fact that one may be a Yankee and a Southerner too, simply by being
a large-hearted, whole-souled American.
TROUBLE ON LOST MOUNTAIN
THERE is no doubt that when Miss Babe Hightower stepped out on the
porch, just after sunrise one fine morning in the spring of 1876, she
had the opportunity of enjoying a scene as beautiful as any that nature
offers to the human eye. She was poised, so to speak, on the shoulder of
Lost Mountain, a spot made cheerful and hospitable by her father's
industry, and by her own inspiring presence. The scene, indeed, was
almost portentous in its beauty. Away above her the summit of the
mountain was bathed in sunlight, while in the valley below the shadows
of dawn were still hovering--a slow-moving sea of transparent gray,
touched here and there with silvery reflections of light. Across the
face of the mountain that lifted itself to the skies, a belated cloud
trailed its wet skirts, revealing, as it fled westward, a panorama of
exquisite loveliness. The fresh, tender foliage of the young pines,
massed here and there against the mountain side, moved and swayed in the
morning breeze until it seemed to be a part of the atmosphere, a
pale-green mist that would presently mount into the upper air and melt
away. On a dead pine a quarter of a mile away, a turkey-buzzard sat with
wings outspread to catch the warmth of the sun; while far above him,
poised in the illimitable blue, serene, almost motionless, as though
swung in the centre of space, his mate overlooked the world. The wild
honeysuckles clambered from bush to bush, and from tree to tree,
mingling their faint, sweet perfume with the delicious odors that seemed
to rise from the valley, and float down from the mountain to meet in a
little whirlpool of fragrance in the porch where Miss Babe Hightower
stood. The flowers and the trees could speak for themselves; the
slightest breeze gave them motion: but the majesty of the mountain was
voiceless; its beauty was forever motionless. Its silence seemed more
suggestive than the lapse of time, more profound than a prophet's vision
of eternity, more mysterious than any problem of the human mind.
It is fair to say, however, that Miss Babe Hightower did not survey the
panorama that lay spread out below her, around her, and above her, with
any peculiar emotions. She was not without sentiment, for she was a
young girl just budding into womanhood, but all the scenery that the
mountain or the valley could show was as familiar to her as the
fox-hounds that lay curled up in the fence-corners, or the fowls that
crowed and clucked and cackled in the yard. She had discovered, indeed,
that the individuality of the mountain was impressive, for she was
always lonely and melancholy when away from it; but she viewed it, not
as a picturesque affair to wonder at, but as a companion with whom she
might hold communion. The mountain was something more than a mountain to
her. Hundreds of times, when a little child, she had told it her small
troubles, and it had seemed to her that the spirit of comfort dwelt
somewhere near the precipitous summit. As she grew older the mountain
played a less important part in her imagination, but she continued to
regard it with a feeling of fellowship which she never troubled herself
to explain or define.
Nevertheless, she did not step out on the porch to worship at the shrine
of the mountain, or to enjoy the marvelous picture that nature presented
to the eye. She went out in obedience to the shrilly uttered command of
her mother:
"Run, Babe, run! That plegged old cat's a-tryin' to drink out'n the
water-bucket. Fling a cheer at 'er! Sick the dogs on 'er."
The cat, understanding the situation, promptly disappeared when it saw
Babe, and the latter had nothing to do but make such demonstrations as
are natural to youth, if not to beauty. She seized one of the many
curious crystal formations which she had picked up on the mountain, and
employed for various purposes of ornamentation, and sent it flying after
the cat. She threw with great strength and accuracy, but the cat was
gone. The crystal went zooning into the fence-corner where one of the
hounds lay; and this sensitive creature, taking it for granted that he
had been made the special object of attack, set up a series of loud
yells by way of protest. This aroused the rest of the dogs, and in a
moment that particular part of the mountain was in an uproar. Just at
that instant a stalwart man came around the corner of the house. He was
bareheaded, and wore neither coat nor vest. He was tall and well made,
though rather too massive to be supple. His beard, which was full and
flowing, was plentifully streaked with gray. His appearance would have
been strikingly ferocious but for his eyes, which showed a nature at
once simple and humorous--and certainly the strongly molded, square-set
jaws, and the firm lips needed some such pleasant corrective.
"Great Jerusalem, Babe!" cried this mild-eyed giant. "What could 'a'
possessed you to be a-chunkin' ole Blue that away? Ag'in bullaces is
ripe you'll git your heart sot on 'possum, an' whar' is the 'possum
comin' from ef ole Blue's laid up? Blame my hide ef you ain't a-cuttin'
up some mighty quare capers fer a young gal."
"Why, Pap!" exclaimed Babe, as soon as she could control her laughter,
"that rock didn't tetch ole Blue. He's sech a make-believe, I'm a great
mind to hit him a clip jest to show you how he can go on."
"Now, don't do that, honey," said her father. "Ef you want to chunk
anybody, chunk me. I kin holler lots purtier'n ole Blue. An' ef you
don't want to chunk me, chunk your mammy fer ole acquaintance' sake.
She's big an' fat."
"Oh, Lordy!" exclaimed Mrs. Hightower from the inside of the house.
"Don't set her atter me, Abe--don't, fer mercy's sake. Get her in the
notion, an' she'll be a-yerkin' me aroun' thereckly like I wuz a
rag-baby. I'm a-gittin' too ole fer ter be romped aroun' by a great big
double-j'inted gal like Babe. Projick wi' 'er yourself, but make 'er let
me alone."
Abe turned and went around the house again, leaving his daughter
standing on the porch, her cheeks glowing, and her black eyes sparkling
with laughter. Babe loitered on the porch a moment, looking into the
valley. The gray mists had lifted themselves into the upper air, and the
atmosphere was so clear that the road leading to the mountain could be
followed by the eye, save where it ran under the masses of foliage; and
it seemed to be a most devious and versatile road, turning back on
itself at one moment only to plunge boldly forward the next. Nor was it
lacking in color. On the levels it was of dazzling whiteness, shining
like a pool of water; but at points where it made a visible descent it
was alternately red and gray. Something or other on this variegated road
attracted Miss Babe's attention, for she shaded her eyes with her hand,
and leaned forward. Presently she cried out:
"Pap!--oh, pap! there's a man a-ridin' up Peevy's Ridge."
This information was repeated by Babe's mother; and in a few moments the
porch, which was none too commodious, though it was very substantial,
was occupied by the entire Hightower family, which included Grandsir
Hightower, a white-haired old man, whose serenity seemed to be borrowed
from another world. Mrs. Hightower herself was a stout, motherly-looking
woman, whose whole appearance betokened contentment, if not happiness.
Abe shaded his eyes with his broad hand, and looked toward Peevy's
Ridge.
"I reckon maybe it's Tuck Peevy hisse'f," Mrs. Hightower remarked.
"That's who I 'lowed hit wiz," said Grandsir Hightower, in the tone of
one who had previously made up his mind.
"Well, I reckon I ought to know Tuck Peevy," exclaimed Babe.
"That's so," said Grandsir Hightower. "Babe oughter know Tuck. She
oughter know him certain an' shore; bekaze he's bin a-floppin' in an'
out er this house ever' Sunday fer mighty nigh two year'. Some sez he
likes Babe, an' some sez he likes Susan's fried chicken. Now, in my day
and time--"
"He's in the dreen now," said Babe, interrupting her loquacious
grandparent, who threatened to make some embarrassing remark. "He's
a-ridin' a gray."
"He's a mighty early bird," said Abe, "less'n he's a-headin' fer the
furder side. Maybe he's a revenue man," he continued. "They say they're
a-gwine to heat the hills mighty hot from this on."
"You hain't got nothing gwine on down on the branch, is you, Abe?"
inquired Grandsir Hightower, with pardonable solicitude.
"Well," said Abe evasively, "I hain't kindled no fires yit, but you
better b'lieve I'm a-gwine to keep my beer from sp'ilin'. The way I do
my countin', one tub of beer is natchally wuth two revenue chaps."
By this time the horseman who had attracted Babe's attention came into
view again. Abe studied him a moment, and remarked:
"That hoss steps right along, an' the chap a-straddle of him is got on
store-clo'es. Fetch me my rifle, Babe. I'll meet that feller half-way
an' make some inquirements about his famerly, an' maybe I'll fetch a
squir'l back."
With this Abe called to his dogs, and started off.
"Better keep your eye open, Pap," cried Sis. "Maybe it's the sheriff."
Abe paused a moment, and then pretended to be hunting a stone with which
to demolish his daughter, whereupon Babe ran laughing into the house.
The allusion to the sheriff was a stock joke in the Hightower household,
though none of them made such free use of it as Babe, who was something
more than a privileged character, so far as her father was concerned. On
one occasion shortly after the war, Abe had gone to the little county
town on business, and had been vexed into laying rough hands on one of
the prominent citizens who was a trifle under the influence of liquor. A
warrant was issued, and Dave McLendon, the sheriff of the county, a
stumpy little man, whose boldness and prudence made him the terror of
criminals, was sent to serve it. Abe, who was on the lookout for some
such visitation, saw him coming, and prepared himself. He stood in the
doorway, with his rifle flung carelessly across his left arm.
"Hold on thar, Dave!" he cried, as the latter came up. The sheriff,
knowing his man, halted.
"I hate to fling away my manners, Dave," he went on, "but folks is
gittin' to be mighty funny these days. A man's obleeged to s'arch his
best frien's 'fore he kin find out the'r which aways. Dave, what sort
of a dockyment is you got ag'in' me?"
"I got a warrant, Abe," said the sheriff, pleasantly.
"Well, Dave, hit won't fetch me," said Abe.
"Oh, yes!" said the sheriff. "Yes, it will, Abe. I bin a-usin' these
kind er warrants a mighty long time, an' they fetches a feller every
whack."
"Now, I'll tell you what, Dave," said Abe, patting his rifle, "I got a
dockyment here that'll fetch you a blame sight quicker'n your
dockyment'll fetch me; an' I tell you right now, plain an' flat, I
hain't a-gwine to be drug aroun' an' slapped in jail."
The sheriff leaned carelessly against the rail fence in the attitude of
a man who is willing to argue an interesting question.
"Well, I tell you how I feel about it, Abe," said the sheriff, speaking
very slowly. "You kin shoot me, but you can't shoot the law. Bang away
at me, an' thar's another warrant atter you. This yer one what I'm
already got don't amount to shucks, so you better fling on your coat
saddle your horse, an' go right along wi' me thes es neighborly ez you
please."
"Dave," said Abe, "if you come in at that gate you er a goner."
"Well, Abe," the sheriff replied, "I 'lowed you'd kick; I know what
human natur' on these hills is, an' so I thes axed some er the boys to
come along. They er right down thar in the holler. They ain't got no mo'
idea what I come fer'n the man in the moon; yit they'd make a mighty
peart posse. Tooby shore, a great big man like you ain't afeard fer ter
face a little bit er law."
Abe Hightower hesitated a moment, and then went into the house. In a few
minutes he issued forth and went out to the gate where the sheriff was.
The faces of the two men were a study. Neither betrayed any emotion nor
alluded to the warrant. The sheriff asked after the "crap"; and Abe told
him it was "middlin' peart," and asked him to go into the house and make
himself at home until the horse could be saddled. After a while the two
rode away. Once during the ride Abe said:
"I'm mighty glad it wa'n't that feller what run ag'in' you last fall,
Dave."
"Why?" asked the sheriff.
"Bekaze I'd 'a' plugged him, certain an' shore," said Abe.
"Well," said the sheriff, laughing, "I wuz a-wishin' mighty hard thes
about that time that the t'other feller had got 'lected."
The warrant amounted to nothing, and Abe was soon at home with his
family; but it suited his high-spirited daughter to twit him
occasionally because of his tame surrender to the sheriff, and it suited
Dave to treat the matter good-humoredly.
Abe Hightower took his way down the mountain; and about two miles from
his house, as the road ran, he met the stranger who had attracted Babe's
attention. He was a handsome young fellow, and he was riding a handsome
horse--a gray, that was evidently used to sleeping in a stable where
there was plenty of feed in the trough.
The rider also had a well-fed appearance. He sat his horse somewhat
jauntily, and there was a jocund expression in his features very
pleasing to behold. He drew rein as he saw Abe, and gave a military
salute in a careless, offhand way that was in strict keeping with his
appearance.
"Good morning, sir," he said.
"Howdy?" said Abe.
"Fine day this."
"Well, what little I've saw of it is purty tollerbul."
The young fellow laughed, and his laughter was worth hearing. It had the
ring of youth in it.
"Do you chance to know a Mr. Hightower?" he asked, throwing a leg over
the pommel of the saddle.
"Do he live anywheres aroun' in these parts?" Abe inquired.
"So I'm told."
"Well, the reason I ast," said Abe, leaning his rifle against a tree,
"is bekaze they mought be more'n one Hightower runnin' loose."