In the autumn I returned to my Southern home with a heart full of joyous
memories. As I recall that visit North I am filled with wonder at the
richness and variety of the experiences that cluster about it. It
seems to have been the beginning of everything. The treasures of a
new, beautiful world were laid at my feet, and I took in pleasure and
information at every turn. I lived myself into all things. I was never
still a moment; my life was as full of motion as those little insects
that crowd a whole existence into one brief day. I met many people who
talked with me by spelling into my hand, and thought in joyous sympathy
leaped up to meet thought, and behold, a miracle had been wrought! The
barren places between my mind and the minds of others blossomed like the
rose.
I spent the autumn months with my family at our summer cottage, on a
mountain about fourteen miles from Tuscumbia. It was called Fern Quarry,
because near it there was a limestone quarry, long since abandoned.
Three frolicsome little streams ran through it from springs in the rocks
above, leaping here and tumbling there in laughing cascades wherever the
rocks tried to bar their way. The opening was filled with ferns which
completely covered the beds of limestone and in places hid the streams.
The rest of the mountain was thickly wooded. Here were great oaks and
splendid evergreens with trunks like mossy pillars, from the branches of
which hung garlands of ivy and mistletoe, and persimmon trees, the
odour of which pervaded every nook and corner of the wood--an illusive,
fragrant something that made the heart glad. In places the wild
muscadine and scuppernong vines stretched from tree to tree, making
arbours which were always full of butterflies and buzzing insects. It
was delightful to lose ourselves in the green hollows of that tangled
wood in the late afternoon, and to smell the cool, delicious odours that
came up from the earth at the close of day.
Our cottage was a sort of rough camp, beautifully situated on the top of
the mountain among oaks and pines. The small rooms were arranged on each
side of a long open hall. Round the house was a wide piazza, where the
mountain winds blew, sweet with all wood-scents. We lived on the piazza
most of the time--there we worked, ate and played. At the back door
there was a great butternut tree, round which the steps had been built,
and in front the trees stood so close that I could touch them and feel
the wind shake their branches, or the leaves twirl downward in the
autumn blast.
Many visitors came to Fern Quarry. In the evening, by the campfire, the
men played cards and whiled away the hours in talk and sport. They told
stories of their wonderful feats with fowl, fish and quadruped--how
many wild ducks and turkeys they had shot, what "savage trout" they had
caught, and how they had bagged the craftiest foxes, outwitted the most
clever 'possums and overtaken the fleetest deer, until I thought that
surely the lion, the tiger, the bear and the rest of the wild tribe
would not be able to stand before these wily hunters. "To-morrow to the
chase!" was their good-night shout as the circle of merry friends broke
up for the night. The men slept in the hall outside our door, and I
could feel the deep breathing of the dogs and the hunters as they lay on
their improvised beds.
At dawn I was awakened by the smell of coffee, the rattling of guns,
and the heavy footsteps of the men as they strode about, promising
themselves the greatest luck of the season. I could also feel the
stamping of the horses, which they had ridden out from town and hitched
under the trees, where they stood all night, neighing loudly, impatient
to be off. At last the men mounted, and, as they say in the old songs,
away went the steeds with bridles ringing and whips cracking and hounds
racing ahead, and away went the champion hunters "with hark and whoop
and wild halloo!"
Later in the morning we made preparations for a barbecue. A fire was
kindled at the bottom of a deep hole in the ground, big sticks were laid
crosswise at the top, and meat was hung from them and turned on spits.
Around the fire squatted negroes, driving away the flies with long
branches. The savoury odour of the meat made me hungry long before the
tables were set.
When the bustle and excitement of preparation was at its height, the
hunting party made its appearance, struggling in by twos and threes, the
men hot and weary, the horses covered with foam, and the jaded hounds
panting and dejected--and not a single kill! Every man declared that he
had seen at least one deer, and that the animal had come very close;
but however hotly the dogs might pursue the game, however well the
guns might be aimed, at the snap of the trigger there was not a deer
in sight. They had been as fortunate as the little boy who said he came
very near seeing a rabbit--he saw his tracks. The party soon forgot its
disappointment, however, and we sat down, not to venison, but to a tamer
feast of veal and roast pig.
One summer I had my pony at Fern Quarry. I called him Black Beauty, as I
had just read the book, and he resembled his namesake in every way, from
his glossy black coat to the white star on his forehead. I spent many of
my happiest hours on his back. Occasionally, when it was quite safe,
my teacher would let go the leading-rein, and the pony sauntered on or
stopped at his sweet will to eat grass or nibble the leaves of the trees
that grew beside the narrow trail.
On mornings when I did not care for the ride, my teacher and I would
start after breakfast for a ramble in the woods, and allow ourselves
to get lost amid the trees and vines, with no road to follow except
the paths made by cows and horses. Frequently we came upon impassable
thickets which forced us to take a round about way. We always returned
to the cottage with armfuls of laurel, goldenrod, ferns and gorgeous
swamp-flowers such as grow only in the South.
Sometimes I would go with Mildred and my little cousins to gather
persimmons. I did not eat them; but I loved their fragrance and enjoyed
hunting for them in the leaves and grass. We also went nutting, and I
helped them open the chestnut burrs and break the shells of hickory-nuts
and walnuts--the big, sweet walnuts!
At the foot of the mountain there was a railroad, and the children
watched the trains whiz by. Sometimes a terrific whistle brought us to
the steps, and Mildred told me in great excitement that a cow or a
horse had strayed on the track. About a mile distant there was a trestle
spanning a deep gorge. It was very difficult to walk over, the ties were
wide apart and so narrow that one felt as if one were walking on knives.
I had never crossed it until one day Mildred, Miss Sullivan and I were
lost in the woods, and wandered for hours without finding a path.
Suddenly Mildred pointed with her little hand and exclaimed, "There's
the trestle!" We would have taken any way rather than this; but it was
late and growing dark, and the trestle was a short cut home. I had to
feel for the rails with my toe; but I was not afraid, and got on
very well, until all at once there came a faint "puff, puff" from the
distance.
"I see the train!" cried Mildred, and in another minute it would have
been upon us had we not climbed down on the crossbraces while it rushed
over our heads. I felt the hot breath from the engine on my face, and
the smoke and ashes almost choked us. As the train rumbled by, the
trestle shook and swayed until I thought we should be dashed to the
chasm below. With the utmost difficulty we regained the track. Long
after dark we reached home and found the cottage empty; the family were
all out hunting for us.