occasion, and it was an idyllic scene around the little country church
as the congregation gathered under the trees. Stalwart men, matronly
women, and youth and maiden clad in fresh apparel that matched the garb
of Nature. They had worshipped God in prayer and song within church
walls, and now they were to enjoy the gifts of God under the arch of his
blue sky and in the green aisles of his first temple. The old earth had
yielded a bountiful tribute to man's toil, and on the damask cloths
spread over the sward lay the fruits and grains of last year's harvest,
changed by woman's skill into the viands that are the symbols of
Southern hospitality, as salt is the symbol of the Arab's.
The minister stood, and turning his face heavenward, said grace, his
words blending with the soft twitter of birds and the murmur of wind in
the young leaves. Then arose a crescendo of voices, the bass of the men,
the treble of the women, and the shrill chatter of children, glad with
the gladness of May, but softened and subdued because it was Sunday. And
now and then the Sawyer twins lifted up their voices and wept, not
because there was any cause for weeping, but because weeping was as yet
their only means of communication with the strange new world into which
they had lately come. The Master who proclaimed that the Sabbath was
made for man, and who walked through the cornfield on that holy day,
might have been an honored guest at such a feast.
When John returned with the laden tray, Mary was holding a little levee,
and her sparkling eyes and happy smile told of rested nerves and brain
refreshed. "For so He giveth to His beloved while they are sleeping."
The minister had come up to shake hands with her and tell her that he
had missed her face from the congregation. Sidney had brought his bride
over and introduced her, and Mary was getting a near view of the violet
dress. Her spirits mounted as she ate the delicious food Aunt Tabby had
selected for her. She was surprised to find that she could look at the
stripes in Ellen McElrath's shirt waist without wanting to cry, and when
the meal was over she insisted on helping to clear off the tables.
"My goodness!" said Aunt Tabby McElrath, as she placed in her basket the
remains of her bread, ham, chicken, pickles, cake, pie, and jelly. "It
looks to me like there'd been another miracle of the loaves and fishes,
for I'm surely takin' home more'n I brought here. What a pity there
ain't some poor family around here that we could give all this good food
to."
"I don't know as we'd be called a poor family," said Sally McElrath,
"but if you've got more than you know what to do with, just hand it over
to me. It'll save me from cookin' supper to-night."
"Yes, Aunt Tabby," said Dan, "don't be afraid to offer us some of the
leavin's. Jest cut me a slab o' that jelly-cake and one or two slices o'
your good bread. I ain't forgot the supper I had last May Meetin'
Sunday. Sally had a sick headache and couldn't cook a thing, and all I
could find in the basket was a pickle and a hard boiled egg."
There was a general laugh, in which Sally joined heartily. Aunt Tabby
made generous contributions from her basket to Sally's, Dan watching the
operation with hungry eyes, and then she looked around for a convenient
tree trunk against which she might rest her ample back and bear a part
in the general conversation.
In rural communities the church is the great social center. After the
period of worship, though the hours are God's own, it is not deemed a
profanation of the day to spend a little time in friendly intercourse,
and only the unregenerate youth of the congregation consider it a
hardship to listen to a second sermon in the afternoon.
"Now look yonder, will you?" exclaimed an elderly matron; "them young
folks are fixin' to go off ridin' instead of stayin' to second service.
You, Percival! You, Matty! Don't you stir a step from here, Preachin's
goin' to begin again before you can get back."
Matty's right foot was on the step. Her right hand grasped the top of
the buggy, and her left was firmly held by a handsome youth whose
energies were divided between helping her into his "rig" and managing
his horse.
"You, Matty!" The second warning came in strong tones and with a
threatening accent.
Matty turned with a bird-like motion of the head. She darted a glance
and a smile over her shoulder; the glance was for her mother, the smile
for the young man. The latter had failed twice in Greek and Latin, but
he understood the language of the eye and lip, and the delicate pressure
of the girl's fingers on his. He, too, threw a glance and a smile
backward, and the next instant the two were spinning down the road in
the direction of the Iron Bridge.
There was a burst of good-natured laughter from the fathers. They
remembered the days of their youth and rather wished themselves in the
young man's place. "Pretty well done," chuckled Uncle Mose Bascom. "I've
always said that when it comes to holdin' a spirited horse and at the
same time helpin' a pretty girl into a buggy, a man ought to have four
hands, but Percival did the thing mighty well with jest two."
The young girls who lacked Matty's daring looked down the road with envy
in their eyes. How much better that ride in the wooded road to the
bridge than another dull sermon in that hot church! But the mothers of
the virtuous damsels smiled complacently, thanking God that their
daughters were not as other women's, and Ma Harris "walled" her eyes and
sighed piously.
"In my day," she said, "children honored their parents and obeyed 'em."
"No, they didn't," retorted Matty's mother, her face crimson with shame
and vexation. "Children never honored their parents in your day nor in
Moses's day, either. If they had, there wouldn't be but nine
commandments. Didn't your mother run off and marry, and haven't I heard
you say that that youngest boy o' yours was bringin' your gray hairs in
sorrow to the grave? Matty's headstrong, I know, but she ain't a bit
worse than other girls."
"That's so," said Sally McElrath, whose own girlhood gave her a fellow
feeling for the absent Matty. "I say, let the young folks alone. We all
were young once. For my part, I wish I was in Matty's place. Here, Dan,
can't you take me ridin' like you used to do before we got married?"
"I can take you ridin' all right, Sally," agreed Dan placidly. "Yonder's
the same old buggy and the same old horse and the same old road, but the
ridin' would be mighty different from the ridin' we had before we got
married. Before we started, we'd have to canvass this crowd and find
somebody to take care of the children, and after we started, we'd both
be wonderin' if Sarah wasn't drowned in the creek, and if Daniel hadn't
been kicked by somebody's horse, and I don't believe there'd be much
pleasure in such a ride."
"I reckon you're right," said Sally, laughing with the rest. "And that's
why I say let young people alone; they're seein' their best days. Dan
courted for me six months, and if I had to live my life over again, I'd
make it six years."
Sally was one of those daring spirits who do not hesitate to say what
others scarce venture to think.
"Maybe I wouldn't 'a' held out," observed Dan. "Courtin's mighty wearin'
work, and I ain't a Jacob by any manner o' means."
"Well, if you hadn't held out," said Sally recklessly, "somebody else
would 'a' taken it up where you left off. Oh! you women needn't say a
word. If you want to pretend you like dish-washin' and cookin' and
mendin' better than courtin', you're welcome to do it. But if I was just
young again, I wouldn't get married till I was too old to be courted,
for courtin' time's the only time a woman sees any peace and happiness.
You, Daniel! You, Sally! Get up out of that dusty road."
"Mary," said John Crawford, in a low voice, "you get your things
together, and we'll follow Matty's example."
Mary hesitated. Conscience said, "Stay to preaching"; but the laughing
and talk had grown wearisome to her, and the strange feeling in her head
had returned. So before the hour for the second service came, they stole
quietly away, their rockaway wheels cutting the trail left by the erring
young people who had gone before them.
The way to the bridge was a shady avenue, the trees in that rich
alluvial soil growing to extraordinary height and grandeur, and in the
comfortable homes and well-tilled farms there was a cheerful presentment
of the legendary "Man with the Hoe." Only one melancholy spot by the
roadside marred the traveler's pleasure. It was a country graveyard,
walled around with stone, surmounted with an iron railing to protect it
from the desecrating tread of beast or man. Nearly a century ago the
hand of some woman had planted on one of the graves a spray of myrtle
and a lily of the valley, and Nature had laid her leveling touch on
each grassy mound and changed the place outwardly to a garden of
flowers. But neither spring's white glory of lilies and azure of myrtle,
the rich foliage of summer, the crimson splendor of autumn, nor winter's
deepest snow could hide from the passer-by the secret of the place.
Young lovers like Matty and Percival might go by with laughter and
smiles unchecked; not yet for them the thought of death. But John
touched the horse to a quicker pace and looked to the other side of the
road where sunny fields of grain spoke of life more abundantly, and Mary
drew closer to John's side, saying in her heart: "I wish there was no
death in this world."
In the middle of the bridge they paused for a moment to look up and down
the shining river, and John recalled the tale, still told by the oldest
inhabitants, of the spring of '65, when the river rose forty-five feet
in nine hours and washed the bridge away. Beyond the bridge the road
turned to the right, following the stream in a friendly way, and
terminating at a fording place opposite a large sand bar known as "The
Island." A giant sycamore in the middle cast a welcome shadow in the
brilliant sunshine, and a fringe of willows encircled it. Under these,
near the water's edge, lay heaps of mussel shells,--white, pink, yellow,
and purple,--the gift of the river to the land, and a reminder of the
April freshet. The carriage wheels grated on the sand-bar, and as they
caught sight of the treasures the children gave a cry of delight, for no
shells from a tropic ocean are more beautiful in color than the common
mussel shells of Kentucky rivers, and not infrequently a pearl is found
within the tinted casket.
"Now, gather all the shells you want," said John, "while your mother and
me sit down here and rest in the shade."
Again he made a bed of the cushions from the carriage, and closing her
eyes Mary fell into blissful half-consciousness. The minister had read
David's psalm of rejoicing at the morning service, and one line of it,
"He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul," floated
through her brain like a slumber song, with an obbligato of rippling
water and the faint whispering of willows. Once she drifted to the very
shores of sleep, to be gently called back by the laughter of the
children; and when they turned homeward in the late afternoon, she felt
strong for the next day's burden, only she hoped that no one would come
to use the chart, until she had time to finish the spring cleaning. She
wanted to get back into the old peaceful routine of work, in which each
day had its duties and every duty brought with it time and strength for
its performance.
Monday morning passed without any interruption, and by half-past twelve
o'clock the work belonging to the day was done and dinner was over. But
just as she began washing the dishes, there was a noise of wheels on the
'pike. Mary gave a start and almost dropped the dish she was holding.
"Oh, John!" she exclaimed, "see who it is." John stepped out on the back
porch and looked up the road. "It looks like Sally and Dan McElrath and
the two children," he said, coming back into the kitchen.
Mary compressed her lips to keep back a sigh of dismay. "Yes," she said
quietly, "Sally told me yesterday she would be over some time this week
to cut out a tea jacket by my chart, but I didn't expect her this soon.
I was just thinking I'd go up-stairs and take a nap as soon as I got
through with the dishes. But it's all right. You put a stick of wood in
the stove, John, to keep my dish-water hot, and I'll go out and ask
Sally in."
John was looking at her very earnestly.
"Honey," he said, "your hair looks as if you hadn't combed it to-day.
You run up-stairs and fix yourself, and I'll see to Sally and Dan."
And while Mary darted up the back stairs, John hurried softly into the
parlor. He could hear Sally's high, clear voice, and the wagon was
almost at the gate. It was a bold emprise on which he was bent, and the
time was short. On the top shelf of the old cherry secretary that had
belonged to Mary's grandfather lay the chart. Looking fearfully around,
he seized it, tiptoed to the kitchen, opened the stove door, and dropped
the hateful thing on a bed of glowing hickory coals. Then he put in a
stick of wood, according to Mary's behest, and the next moment he was at
the front door, placing chairs on the porch and calling out a welcome to
the alighting guests.
"Come right in, Dan. Glad to see you both. Mary's been looking for you.
Sit down here on the porch where it's cool. Here, Lucy Ellen, here's
Sarah and Daniel come to play with you."
"What on earth did John mean by saying my hair needed combing?"
soliloquized Mary up-stairs, as she looked in the glass at the shining
braids of her hair; "I fixed it just before dinner, and it's as smooth
and nice as it can be." She hurried down to see that her guests lacked
no attention demanded by hospitality. John was likely to be forgetful
about such matters.
"I was just saying, Mary," Sally called out as soon as she caught sight
of her hostess, "that Dan was on his way to town, and I'm going to stay
here with the children till he comes back. But I want to lay the chart
on my goods right away, for I'm afraid I've got a scant pattern for that
tea jacket, and if I have, I can give Dan a sample of the goods, and he
can bring me an extra yard from town. And if you'll bring the chart out,
I'll lay off my goods right here and now, so Dan won't lose any time on
my account."
"Oh! never mind about me," said Dan, with the air and accent of one who
has suffered long and given up hope. "I've been losin' time on your
account for the last fifteen years, and this trip ain't goin' to be an
exception."
Every one laughed, for Sally's weakness was known of all men. Aunt Tabby
McElrath once said that if the road from Dan's place to town was ten
miles long, and there was a house every quarter of a mile, Sally would
make just forty visits going and coming.
"Get the chart, John," said Mary, "and it won't take us two minutes to
find out whether there's enough goods. It's on the top shelf of the old
secretary in the parlor."
John went obediently. "Where did you say that chart was?" he called
back.
"On the old secretary. I saw it there just before dinner," answered
Mary.
"I saw it there, too," responded John, "but it ain't there now."
Mary hastened to the parlor. "Why no, it isn't here," she exclaimed in
dismay. "Who could have taken it?"
"Ask the children," suggested Sally from the porch, where she sat
cheerfully rocking and fanning herself. "Whenever there's anything
missing at our house, some of the children can tell who's mislaid it."
But Lucy Ellen and little John with one voice made haste to defend
themselves against the visitor's accusation. By this time Dan had come
into the parlor, and the three stood looking at each other in silent
perplexity.
Dan was openly worried over the delay, Mary was sympathetically
distressed, and John's face expressed nothing but the deepest concern
over the situation.
"Maybe it's up-stairs," he said. "Suppose you and Sally run up there and
search while Dan and myself'll search down here. That'll save time."
"What sort of a lookin' thing is that chart?" asked Dan, as he got down
on his knees and made a dive under the sofa.
"Well, I'd recognize it if I saw it," said John, "but, come to think of
it, I don't know as I could tell anybody exactly how it looks. It's
something done up in a roll and tied with red tape."
"Done up in a roll and tied with red tape," repeated Dan, meditatively,
opening closet doors and peering into corners, while he tried to keep in
his mind an image of the lost chart as described by his fellow searcher.
"Is this it?"
"Well, now that's something like it," said John. "I'll ask Mary. Here,
Mary, is this it?"
Mary leaned over the railing with hopeful expectancy in her glance.
"Why, John, that's my gossamer case with the gossamer in it. I thought
you knew my chart better than that. Tell the children to look, too.
They'd know it if they saw it."
"I'm lookin' as hard as I can," piped Lucy Ellen from the closet under
the stairs, while little John seized a long stick, ran to the henhouse,
poked the setting hens off their eggs, and searched diligently in every
nest for Mother's lost chart.
"Don't stand on ceremony, Dan. Open every door you come to," commanded
John, as he rummaged in the sideboard and tumbled the piles of snowy
damask. Thus encouraged, Dan walked into the pantry and gazed helplessly
at the jars of preserves and jelly on the top shelf. He lifted the top
from Mary's buttermilk jar. No chart there.
"Done up in a roll and tied with red tape," he muttered, opening a tin
box and disclosing a loaf of bread and a plate of tea-cakes.
"Here, John," he exclaimed, "this prowlin' around in other people's
houses don't suit me at all. Makes me feel like a thief and a robber.
I'll go out and see to my horses, and you keep on lookin'."
And John continued to look, as the shepherd looked for the lost sheep,
as the woman looked for the piece of silver. Now and then he uttered an
ejaculation of wonder and regret, and raised his voice to inquire of
Mary if the lost had been found.
Mary's search up-stairs was greatly hindered by Sally's digressions.
Some minds move in straight lines, others in curves, but Sally's mental
processes were all in the nature of tangents.
"You look in the closet, Sally," said Mary, "and I'll go through the
bureau drawers."
But the novelty of being up-stairs in Mary's house made Sally forget the
cause of her being there.
"Gracious! Mary, how do you keep your room so nice? This is what I call
a young girl's room. I used to be able to have things clean and pretty
before I was married, but Daniel and Sarah make the whole house look
like a hurrah's nest. And there's your great-grandmother's counterpane
on the bed, white as the driven snow, too. I wonder how many generations
that's going to wear. My, what a pretty view you've got from this
window. Ain't that Pilot Knob over yonder, just beyond that clump of
cedars? Yes, that must be old Pilot. I've heard my grandfather tell many
a time how his father camped at the foot of the knob, and sat up all
night to keep the bears and wolves away."
Mary was opening doors and drawers in a hasty but conscientious search.
"You'd better help me look for the chart, Sally," she said gently. "Two
pairs of eyes are better than one, and you know Dan's in a hurry." But
Sally did not move. Her eyes were fixed on the purple haze that hung
over old Pilot, and her mind was lost in memories of her grandfather's
legends.
"Dan's always in a hurry," she remarked placidly. "I tell him he gets
mighty little pleasure out of life, rushin' through it the way he does.
That white spot over on that tallest knob must be the stone quarry. If
it was a clear day, I believe you could see the big rocks. And here
comes a locomotive. How pretty the white smoke looks streamin' back and
settlin' in the valleys."
"We might as well go down," said Mary. "There's no use looking in the
spare room; that hasn't been opened for a week."
"Sally!" cried Dan, putting his head in at the front door and giving a
backward glance at his restless horse, "if that note I've got in the
bank is protested, you and your jacket'll be to blame. It's after two
o'clock, and I can't wait any longer."
"All right," said Sally, "me and the children will go to town with
you."
"Where are the children?" asked Mary.
"My gracious! have we lost the chart and the children, too?" laughed
Sally. "No, there they are, 'way down by the duck pond. Sarah! Daniel!
Come right here! We're goin' to town."
"Hurry up!" shouted their father, "or I'll leave you here."
The prospect of a trip to town and the fear of being left behind doubled
the children's speed and brought them breathless and excited to the
front gate. Dan tossed them into the wagon, as if each had been a sack
of meal, and Sally clambered in without assistance.
"As soon as I find the chart, Sally, I'll send it over to you by the
first person that passes," said Mary. The loss of the chart seemed a
breach of hospitality, a discourtesy to her guest, and she wanted to
make amends.
"That wouldn't be a bit of use," said Sally, "for I can't tell head nor
tail of the thing unless you show me. I'll drop in again in a day or so
and do my cuttin' and fittin' here."
"Yes," said John heartily, "that'll be the best way. If Mary was to send
you the chart, the person she sent it by might lose it, and that'd be a
pity, as it's the only one in the neighborhood. You come over and bring
the children with you and spend the day, and you and Mary can have a
good time sewin' and talkin'."
"That's what I'll do. Look for me day after to-morrow or the day after
that. I reckon the chart'll certainly turn up by that time."
"I'm sure it will," said John, "for I'm goin' to spend all my spare time
lookin' for it."
Dan clucked to the horse and shook the reins over its back.
"Well, good-by," cried Sally blithely, "I'll be certain to--"
But the rest of her words were drowned in the rattle of wheels and
clatter of hoofs, for Dan was laying on the whip in a desperate resolve
to get to town before the bank closed.
Mary stood silent with a hurt look on her face. How could John ask Sally
to spend the day when he knew how tired she was? It was all she could do
to keep the tears back.
"It's my opinion," said John, "that we'll never see that chart again. I
believe it's gone like grandfather Ervin's beaver hat."
Mary knew the story of the beaver hat. It was a family legend of the
supernatural that John was fond of telling. But she had little faith
that her chart had gone the way of grandfather Ervin's hat, and she went
back to the kitchen, wondering how John could have been so thoughtless,
and dreading the day after to-morrow that would bring Sally and those
troublesome children. John followed her, and opening the stove door, he
gently stirred the ashes within, thus effacing the last trace of the
chart; then he took his way to the barn, where he sank down on a pile of
fodder and laughed till the tears ran down his face.
"Edwin Booth couldn't 'a' done it better," he gasped. "I reckon I'll
have to quit farmin' and go on the stage. Didn't know I was such a born
actor. It was actin' a lie, too, but it's put a stop to Mary's troubles,
and I don't feel like repentin' yet. I reckon you might call it a lie of
'necessity and mercy', like the work that's allowed on the Sabbath day."
And at that precise moment Sally was saying to Dan:
"Did you ever see a man so put out over anything as John Crawford was
over not findin' that chart? If he'd lost his watch or his purse, he
couldn't have put himself to more pains to find it. There never was a
more accommodatin' neighbor than Mary, and John's just like her. You
don't often see a couple as well matched. Generally, if one's
accommodatin' and neighborly, the other's stingy and mean. But Mary
wasn't a bit more anxious to find that chart for me than John was."
That night after supper John seated himself on the front porch. The warm
spring air was sweet with the perfume of May bloom, and from every pond
there was a chorus of joy over the passing of winter. He heard the
voices of his children and his wife talking together as Mary washed the
dishes, Lucy Ellen wiped them, and little John placed them on the table.
Home, wife, children, and the spring of the year! The heart of the man
was glad and he smiled at the thought of the deed he had done that
afternoon.
"John," said Mary, coming out on the porch with the dish towel over her
arm, "hadn't you better be looking for that chart? You know you promised
Sally, and I don't want her to be disappointed again."
The light from one of the front windows shone full on John's face, and
something about his eyes and mouth gave Mary a sudden revelation.
"John," she said severely, "do you know where that chart is?"