den, an’ bleeved eberything erbout de church an’ de doctrine I eber
heurd, smelt or dreamed, but I am older now, an’ I’ve cum to de pinted
konklushun dat when er man or er woman gets santerfercashun; one or two
things done happen to ’em: Either de flahs ob youth dun played out in de
bilers ob dar natral swashun—de ole Adam in ’em jes’ peg out from ole
aige—or else dey am layin’ low, Brer ’Possum, fur de slickes’ game dat
eber wus played. I’ve kinder notis’d we all nacherly gits better es we
gits older, ennyway, an’ when we gits so ole we can’t sin no mo’, we
mighty nigh good-fur-nuffin’. An’ dars whar de patr’arks ob ole had it
on to de res’ ob us,” said the old man knowingly. “Jes’ let de good
Marster let me lib heah erbout seben hundred years longer, an’ jes’
watch me sot back an’ view unconserned de fleetin’ vanerties ob dis
life.
“Brer Peter wus in deep prayer when I rid up to his cabin, an’ arter he
ris up from his knees he blessed on de top ob my observashun, gib me de
grip ob Ainshunt an’ Honorbul Order ob de Bow-legged Sons ob de Black
Cat, an’ ’lowed he’d lak ter tak off my sandals an’ wash my feet; but I
tole ’im I jes’ wash ’em ’bout er month befo’ an’ didn’t hab no time fur
foolishness; dat I cum to dis cabin fur konsolashun an’ den I jus’ got
offen dat muel an’ plowed a straight furrer ob facts down de row ob his
head: ‘Brer Peter,’ sez I, ‘de doctrine ob our church teach us it am not
good fur er man wid er dozen chilluns to lib erlone on one side ob er
plantashun, an’ er nice, seekin’ lookin’ widder ’oman wid ten mo’ to lib
erlone on de yudder side. In union dar am strength, in numbers dar am
prosperity, an’ in Duteromety dar am happiness. Brer Peter, I wants ter
marry Sister Calline,’ sez I. ‘She am yo’ widder an’ de widder ob de
church, but you know yourself she ain’t had no sho’ ’tall—jes’ ha’f a
marrid life an’ er house full ob chilluns—ten ob ’em, all needin’ sum
lubbin’ father’s gidin’ arm, wid er hickory attachment, whilst my twelve
or fifteen all need de spirtool ker ob er good muther ercompament. De
cotton pickin’ seezen am ’most on us, an’ if I kin jine our forces I’ll
hab er lead-pipe cinch on de cotton crap ob Tennessee to say nuthin’
’bout de fo’teenth ’mendment to de skule law fixin’ de pro ratter ob all
householders raisin’ twenty or mo’ widin de skule aige.
“I tell you, suh, Brer Peter tuck the thing mighty hard, mighty hard. He
didn’t wanter do dat thing ’tall. But arter he dun prayed ober it, he
cum out wid er new light in his eye, an’ he put his hand on my head an’
bless me an’ say, ‘Brer Washington, I’ve prayed ober it. It am de will
ob de Lord. Lite on dat muel an’ seek your konsolashun. Go in an’
receive de sanshun ob her reten-shun an’ de kompliment ob her adorin’.’
And he kinder wink his off eye an’ sed, ‘Go in an’ win, fur you am de
Samson ob lub fightin’ de Phillustines ob matrermony; but when you cum
to git konsolashun from er widder’—an’ dar he wink hes eye ergin—‘use de
same weepun dat Samson used an’ victory am yourn.’
“But when I got to de widder’s cabin an’ tole her—great Scott, suh! she
tuck it terribul hard. She didn’t wan’ marry ’tall. Leastwise she made
me b’leeve it. Hit’s jes’ es I tole you, suh; you hafter wrastle might
swift fur konsolashun when you goes to marry a widder.
“‘Brer Washington,’ she sez, ‘dis am so suddent, so suddent! Don’t you
think you’d be satisfied ef I’d continue in de sisterly relashuns ob de
church wid you?’
“‘Sister Calline,’ sez I, sorter detarmined lak, ‘I’ve had ten ebry day
sisters all my life en sum seben hundred Sunday ones. What I now wants
am one wife!’
“Oh, I tell you, suh, you gotter shoot mighty klose fur konsolashun when
you wants ter marry a widder!
“We kept it up for hours, she argyfyin’ an’ me argyfyin’, she prayin’
an’ me prayin’. I tell you, Boss, she wus er speedy filly, an’ she had
no noshun ob quittin’. We went round de fus’ quarter ob de last mile
nose and nose—argyment ergin argyment, prayer ergin prayer. I thout sho’
she had me distanced onct when she fotch out de scriptures on me an’
turned to de twenty-second chapter ob Exerdust an’ sed: ‘Brer
Washington, read fur yo’self: “Thou shalt not afflict any widder or
fatherless chile.”’ But I turned over to Timerthy, de fifth chapter an’
de third verse, an’ sez I, ‘Sister Calline, whut you read am Ole
Testament. It am anshunt histery. Heah am de New Testament, heah am de
new doctrine: “Honor widders dat am widders, indeed.”’ Oh, I tell you,
Boss,” laughed the old man, “I sho’ hung onto de sulky wheels ob her
contenshun wid de wings ob my orthorteries—you gotter hab sum speed lef’
fur de home stretch ef you wants ter beat er widder home!
“An’ so we went, ’round an’ ’round, wheel ergin wheel, an both drivin’
fur life, she quotin’ scriptures and argyfyin’ an’ me comin’ back wid
Numbers an’ Duterrumetics—an’ sumtimes things dat wus Reverlashuns to
her! At de half I got her tired, at de three-quarters she quit an’ jes’
befo’ she got to de wire she gib up wid er tired, tangled break, an’
sed:
“Brer Washington, it am de Lord’s will.”
“Oh, I tell you, suh, you got er use a mighty keen switch ob beseechment
in de race ef you wanter lead er widder down de home stretch!
“But goodness grashus!” he said, as if suddenly remembering something.
“I’d better be buildin’ dis pen or we won’t hab enny sawseges fur
Kristmus,” and he began to saw energetically.
“Hold on,” I said, “You never told me whether you married the widow or
not.”
He looked at me in undisguised astonishment—“Law, law, law,” he said,
“white folks got such curis ideas. In course I did—marrid her dat night
an’ tuck ’er home de naixt day; ain’t I bin tellin’ you whut er hard
time I had gettin’ konsolashun frum dat ar ’oman?”
He sawed vigorously away for awhile, but I could see he wished to tell
something else. Finally I said:
“Well, go on, I’m waiting.”
He turned around quickly, laid down his saw, laughed, and said: “How de
wurl did you know dar was ennything else? Bless my life, suh, but de
very look ob er white man am er search warrant to de nigger’s soul. Ef
you bleegter hab it, heah it am,” he said, as he looked slyly around: “I
hadn’t been married to dat ’oman but two years befo’ I had to run fur er
offis, too.
“What office?” I asked.
He grinned sheepishly.
“Patriark ob de Santerfercashun,” he said, “I beat Unk Peter fur dat
offis, an’ got eben wid ’im at his own game.
“Lemme tell you, chile,” he added, impressively, “two years ob
konsolashun frum er widder will make a dead man or a Patriark outen
’most ennybody,” and he resumed his sawing with a vigor.
[Illustration]
Concerning Littleness
_Let not the littleness of people disturb you. Remember that if you have
been made big enough to do big things in life, you have been made large
enough to overlook little things. So do not imagine you are great, so
long as by sifting yourself you find jealousy, hatred, malice or even
the spirit which frets, in your heart. These and Greatness sleep not in
the same soul._
JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.
[Illustration]
Stories of the Soil
The Little Things of Life, Happening All Over the World and Caught in
Ink for Trotwood’s Monthly.
He was a fine-looking old gentleman, well-dressed and had the air of a
well-to-do business man. A silver-white mustache set off his
cheery-looking, full, round face, and something in his eyes told me he
wasn’t at all struck on formality and would not mind talking to a
stranger, to pass away an hour or two in a sleeping-car. [Sidenote: An
Unfinished Race.] I noticed, too, that his left sleeve had no arm in it,
and then that he had on a G. A. R. button.
“That old fellow is all right,” I said to myself, “and I’ll bet he left
that arm down in Tennessee. There are a dozen good yarns tucked away
under that derby hat that have never yet seen the color of white paper,
and I am going to get one of them. I should say that he fought from
Shiloh to Chickamauga and from Chattanooga to Nashville, and made a good
one, too, or else he wouldn’t have left that arm in the enemy’s
country.” “He fought the war out,” I said, after I had studied his
countenance more closely and noticed the big bump of benignity that made
up his back head and ended in kind, mild countenance; “and after it was
over he let it stay over, forgot all its meanness, inhumanity and
cussedness generally, came on up here to Indiana and went into business,
attended strictly to it, and is now a well-to-do business man.”
Satisfied that my diagnosis was correct, I went over, and taking a seat
by him, began to slyly get in my net for the fish I knew was there.
“From Middle Tennessee, you say?” he said after awhile. “Well, I guess I
know every foot of it, nearly.” He laughed. “Under a little black locust
tree near Murfreesboro is what is left of this,” he said, as he touched
his empty coat sleeve. “I have often wanted to go back there and see
some of those pretty farms and good horses and bluegrass hills when I
didn’t have any guard duty to do and wasn’t looking for an enemy, but
friends.”
I cordially invited him to come, and mentioned how many of the veterans
come down every now and then to go over the battlefields of the South.
“Is that long, wooden, covered bridge still spanning Duck River at
Columbia?” he asked quickly, as if suddenly remembering all about it.
“That old bridge has got a history,” he continued. “I was with Buell
when we got orders that we were to unite our army with Grant’s somewhere
in the neighborhood of Pittsburg Landing, on the Tennessee. When we
reached Columbia the river was up and the bridge was partially
destroyed, and all the flooring burned. I was one of the engineers and
had to repair the bridge. Word had come that we were needed badly, and
we worked day and night. Then word came that we were needed worse, and
by hard dint I got the army over, and on we rushed for Pittsburg
Landing. We got there almost too late. Grant’s army was nearly ruined.
Johnston had driven it from Shiloh Church to the river bank, a distance
of five or six miles, and only our arrival that night, bringing in the
thirty or thirty-five thousand of Buell’s army, saved Grant. On what
small things do great destinies hang!” he mused. “A loss of a day at
Columbia would have changed the history of this country, and General
Grant, instead of having been President, would have been one more of our
unsuccessful generals.
“But the funniest experience I had in Tennessee was at a little place in
Marshall County, almost at the extreme edge of our army’s position. It
was after the battle of Shiloh, when the main army was at Nashville and
our outposts went as far south as Pulaski. Do you all still raise pacing
horses down there?”
I looked around to see if anybody was near enough to understand the
humor of such a question, but seeing none, and no sign of a joke on the
old gentleman’s face, I kept my face straight as I answered him that we
still raised a few.
“I was always fond of a good saddle horse,” he went on, “and many of the
boys in our company of cavalry were of the same way of thinking. In
fact, we had picked up a whole company of them down there, and I’m
afraid we did not take the trouble to issue any Government warrants for
them either,” he laughed. “So when we went into camp in this village of
Marshall County we had a company of as fine horses as any cavalry
company ever bestrode. Time went a little heavy on our hands, until one
day some of the boys got up a bet on the speed of their respective
horses, and a quarter race was run that evening at which the entire
company turned out. It was won by a little roan horse that could pace
nearly as fast as he could run, which was saying a good deal, for he
could run for a quarter of a mile about as fast as anything I ever saw
on four legs. Well, he won, and two days afterward beat two others, and
a week after that beat everything they could rake and scrape up against
him. All this was hugely interesting and immensely exciting, and as none
of us had ever heard anything of the presence of the rebel cavalry
leader and reckless raider, General Forrest, and never dreamed of the
danger we were in, I am sorry to say that we were more interested in
horse-racing just then than anything else. The owner of the horse called
the little roan pacer and runner “Mack,” in honor of General MacPherson,
who commanded some of us at Shiloh. Well, after Mack had beaten
everything running, it was announced in camp one day that Mack’s match
at pacing had been captured a few days before, and a big pacing race was
to come off that evening to decide it. I had never seen a pacing race
under saddle, and with all the others I went out to see it. You can
imagine what asses we were when we left everything in camp, even our
side arms, in care of a few sentinels and camp followers, and all of us
adjourned to an old field about a quarter of a mile to see the sport.
The track was a half-mile, laid off on a nice country road, the judges
standing at the end of the half mile and the start was at the beginning.
It is needless to say that every man in the company was at the end of
the track where the judges were. The horses were nearly equal favorites,
and we soon had to appoint a man to hold the bets. He had his hands
full, for every man in the company had something upon the race, and the
goose hung high—and we were the goose,” he laughed.
“There were to be three heats. An Indiana man rode Mack, and an Ohio man
rode the other horse. Down the lane they came on the first heat, and all
of us strained our necks to see who led. In forty yards of the wire, so
to speak, Mack lost his head, concluded he was born for running and not
for pacing, broke out and ran away from his man. The judges gave the
heat to the other horse. This made Mack’s friends mad, and after a good
deal of palavering the heat was declared off and everything started
over. In this heat Mack got down to business and beat the other horse by
the nose. But in the next heat the other horse turned the tables on Mack
and beat him a good length. I’ve seen a good many harness races in my
day since then,” continued the old soldier, “but I never saw one that
interested me as much as that. Everything was excitement, and the boys
were betting everything they had, from hardtacks to dollars. When they
turned up the road to come down for the third heat, we could easily see
them from where we were, as the beginning of the track was slightly
elevated. They turned ’round to come, when all at once I saw both horses
stop, their riders looking intently toward the camp, which was behind us
and could be seen by them from their slight elevation. In another
instant they started, but not our way. They gave one wild shout, bolted
the fence on the side of the road and lit out across the fields,
according to our notion, like two fools. Before we had time to imagine
what was up, we heard some shouts and shots in camp, some wild galloping
and yells our way, and we turned ’round only to rush into the arms of a
detachment, some five-hundred strong, of Forrest’s Cavalry. If there
ever were a cheap set, we were the boys. We made no bones of
surrendering, for we hadn’t a dog’s show and were glad to get off with
our clothes.
“‘What in h—— are you Yanks doin’ down here, anyway?’ asked their
leader, a big fellow with a Colonel’s gray uniform on. When the
situation was explained to him he laughed like a big schoolboy. ‘Where
is the stakeholder?’ he asked. When this gentleman was pointed out he
hollered out: ‘Fetch them stakes over here, sonny, and tell the judges
all bets are declared off on this race’! And the way the Johnnies
laughed racked us more than being captured.
“We soon learned the secret of the thing. Forrest had made one of his
characteristic raids around Nashville, captured and burned our stores at
Gallatin and Murfreesboro, and was sweeping on towards Bragg’s army at
Tullahoma. In his sweep he simply scooped us up while we were down in
the woods of Marshall County, running a pumpkin fair, a goose show and a
pacing meeting. But he was in a big hurry himself, for nearly all of
Buell’s cavalry were after him. He had no time to do anything but take
all we had, including our horses, the gate receipts and the book money
and parole us and push on. But he never got Mack and the other horse,
and to this day I have always wished that he had waited five minutes
longer. I’d give ten dollars now,” he added, “to know whether Mack or
the other horse would have won that last heat. But we never knew, for we
were soon forced to the front again; forgot all about our paroles, for
we never did think we were fairly captured, and I never saw Mack or his
rider again. I stayed the war out, but I never went to see any more
pacing races in the enemy’s country,” he laughed.
“Well, come down this fall and see some in the country of friends,” I
said. We shook hands and parted.
TROTWOOD.
* * * * *
The poem below goes the rounds of the press every year signed with the
name of Gen. Albert Pike. In fact, such is the general belief, and all
the books in which I have seen this poem printed fall into this error.
[Sidenote: The Old Canoe.] But though General Pike wrote some very
beautiful poems, he did not write this one. We have his own admission
made to Senator Carmack, the distinguished senior Senator from
Tennessee. Like many other good poems, it was, perhaps, the only one
some poet wrote, and, never thinking it would be immortal, or that it
had any special merit, failed to sign his name to it.
It is a little curious how this poem became identified with General
Pike. But we learn how it was from an old citizen of Columbia, Tenn.,
who knew General Pike when he was a young man and lived here. Pike
practiced law there when he first started out in life, but met with poor
success. Becoming despondent, he one night paid his hotel bill, went to
the river’s edge, got into an old canoe, and drifted down to
Williamsport, where he took the stage for Nashville. From there he went
West, where he became a successful lawyer and politician, and afterwards
wrote a volume of poetry. Those poems in which he allowed himself to be
natural, such as “Every Year” and others, are very beautiful. But in his
most pretentious poem he seems to imitate Keats and Shelley, and so lost
his own individuality.
After many years Pike came back to Columbia, a celebrated man. He was an
ardent Whig, and made a big speech in support of his principles. To
offset his influence some ardent Democrat composed a doggerel called
“The Old Canoe,” in which it was plainly intimated that Pike had left
here years before between two suns, and had not been too particular
about taking some one else’s canoe to get away in. This doggerel was
sung around the streets until General Pike and his friends were
exasperated beyond measure, ending in the sensitive poet’s leaving the
town. Of course, it was all a lie, and the old canoe was probably the
property of no man, but it seems that then, as now, nothing was too mean
for one political party to say of another. This beautiful poem, “The Old
Canoe,” coming out about that time, was attributed to General Pike, and
its authorship has never before, perhaps, been publicly corrected. It is
found in the schoolbooks, and in books on elocution, as being by General
Pike, but Senator Carmack is our authority that General Pike himself
told him he did not write it.
Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep,
And the waters below look dark and deep,
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride,
Leans gloomily over the murky tide,
Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank,
And the moss grows thick on the winding bank,
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,
There lies at its moorings the old canoe.
The useless paddles are idly dropped,
Like a seabird’s wings that the storm has lopped,
And crossed on the railing one o’er one
Like the folded hands when the work is done.
While busily back and forth between
The spider stretches his silvery sheen
And the solemn owl, with his dull “too-hoo”
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.
The stern half-sunk in the slimy wave
Rots slowly away in its living grave,
And the green moss creeps o’er its dull decay,
Hiding its moldering dust away.
Like the hand that plants o’er the tomb a flower
Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower;
While many a blossom of loveliest hue
Springs up o’er the stern of the old canoe.
The current-less waters are dead and still,
But the light wind plays with the boat at will;
And lazily in and out again
It floats the length of the rusty chain.
Like the weary march of the hands of time,
That meet and part at the noontide chime;
And the shore is kissed at each turning anew,
By the dripping bow of the old canoe.
Oh, many a time, with a careless hand,
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand,
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick,
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick,
And laughed as I leaned o’er the rocking side,
And looked below in the broken tide,
To see that the faces and boats were two,
That were mirrored back from the old canoe.
But now, as I lean o’er the crumbling side,
And look below in the sluggish tide,
The face that I see there is graver grown,
And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone,
And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings
Have grown familiar with sterner things.
But I love to think of the hours that sped
As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed,
Ere the blossoms waved, or the green grass grew
O’er the moldering stern of the old canoe.
* * * * *
The mule is such an ungainly animal that very few ladies are given over
to admiring him. As for me, I’d rather see an old mule coming my way
when I have the blues, than to see a long absent friend.
[Sidenote: A Mule and a Proposal.]
I know that is a broad assertion, but when you hear the why, I know you
will agree with me, and say as did a little negro, that “one end of him
was good.”
When a little girl, I lived with my people on a handsome farm three
miles distant to the church we attended.
Charley, my dear lord and master, lived only a mile from the church. You
see, Charley was the most bashful man around the neighborhood, and while
everyone knew ages before he proposed, that he loved me, it begun to
look as though he would never gather courage enough to say so.
Night after night he would call, and invariably told me “I was looking
kind of pretty,” and after a dreadful silence, he would break out
suddenly, “I’m kind o’ stuck on you,” giving me such a start that I
would nearly jump out of my chair.
Beyond that “I’m kind o’ stuck on you,” it seemed he would never get,
and at last, growing desperate, one night I determined to use a little
strategy and screw his courage to the sticking point. So when he came,
and discoursed a short time on the weather, the brightness of the moon,
our sick neighbors and such like, I knew my time was near, and awaited
nervously for the never-failing sentence, “I’m kind o’ stuck on you,”
when I expected to say, “Oh, Charles, this is so sudden. I only thought
you liked me as a friend.” This I felt sure would do the work.
At last, clearing his throat, Charles made ready. Looking lovingly at
me, he said, “May, I’m kind o’ stuck on you,” and before the blush had
fairly mantled my cheeks, aye, before I had a chance to utter a sound,
the mean thing went on, “Oh, May, I forgot to tell you, we have a new
colt.”
Never in my life did I feel more like strangling a man than I did that
night. I had to turn aside to hide my tears of disappointment, for you
must know that I really loved the dear fellow. He was not the least bit
bashful with men, or even in the presence of old women. But when it came
to girls, his conversation above speaks volumes.
One Sunday Charley had asked me if I would allow him to drive me home
from church the following Sabbath. I was only too willing to say yes,
hoping that something would happen to make him utter the much-desired
words. Oh, girls, you can better imagine my disappointment than I can
describe it, when late Saturday afternoon my mother’s maiden sister
arrived, bag and baggage. I did not need to be told that I should be
left at home next morning, as the carriage would not accommodate all.
I could not eat any supper and later brother Tom found me lying in my
favorite nook in the summer house, sobbing as though my heart would
break.
Little by little he coaxed me into telling him the reason for my grief,
and at last I told him of my promise to Charley.
He sat and thought for a long time, and then breaking out into a happy
laugh, he cried: “I have it, little Sis. When the others are gone, I’ll
saddle old Bob, and you can ride behind me until we get near the church,
when we can get down and tie Bob in the woods and walk the rest of the
way.”