THE HOWARDS.
At the close of the 18th, and the beginning of the 19th century, many
Catholics emigrated from Maryland to Kentucky. One of these was a farmer
named Zachary Howard. He sought a home where he and his family could
enjoy the comforts of their holy religion, and for this end consulted
Father Byrne, the resident pastor of Bardstown. Father Byrne had for
some time been in quest of a settler who had means sufficient to buy a
farm about nine miles east of Bardstown, and to erect a house which
could be used as a stopping place for the priest who attended to the
spiritual wants of the neighborhood. Such a one he found in Mr. Howard.
The good man was overjoyed at the honor to be conferred upon him. Yes,
what an honor! to have the Catholic families assemble beneath his humble
roof, and the holy sacrifice of the Mass offered in his own dwelling.
As soon as Mr. Howard had occupied his new home, he set to work to
improve it. For miles around, except a few scattered clearings, there
was one continuous, and in many places impervious forest. The wooded
lands bordering on the Beech Fork river, about half a mile from the
Howards, were as wild and unbroken as when the Indians fought and hunted
in the "Dark and Bloody Ground." The labor of hewing down the large oaks
and hickories, or of "clearing," as it was commonly called, was a
Herculean one. Mr. Howard, however, was equal to the task before him.
Although in his fifty-sixth year, he was as strong and active as a man
of thirty. After ten years of hard and patient labor, he was the owner
of a large and well stocked farm, with more than one hundred acres of
rich land.
Before removing to Kentucky Mr. Howard had freed his four slaves, but
they were so attached to him that they remained in his service and
continued to call him master. The first among them was "Uncle Pius" (the
old negroes were usually called Aunt or Uncle), a venerable and
superannuated negro with hair as white as cotton. He was no longer able
to endure steady work in the fields; however, he was useful in many
ways. The wooden hinges, and wooden latches, and wooden locks; the
strong oaken benches, and rustic chairs, with corn-shuck bottoms; the
hominy mortar, the linsey and carpet loom; the busy and indispensable
spinning-wheel, the miniature wind-mills, which shifted and buzzed
incessantly on the top of the corn-crib; the martin-box perched high
above the meat-house, inviting the winged travelers to stay and rest:
all these were made by the deft hand of Uncle Pius. It was he who tended
the kitchen-garden, trained the young tendrils along the new arbor, and
propped up the young pear-trees, when they were no longer able to
support the fruit which they bore.
The noisiest creature around the house, excepting the guinea-hens, was
"Aunt Margaret." Her talkativeness seemed to increase with age. In her
own opinion, she was the most important factor of the Howard household,
and she often wondered what people would do when she was dead. With all
her prating, and babbling, and chatting, Aunt Margaret, like Uncle Pius,
did what work she could. Hour after hour found her at the loom. She
handled the shuttles adroitly; and few, even among the younger
generation, could send them flying forwards and backwards as fast as
she.
The last negro worthy of mention was one who bore the distinguished name
of George Washington Alexander Hamilton Howard. Washington was in his
tenth year. He was a typical negro of the old stamp; as black as
charcoal, with a flat nose, large mouth, and thick lips. He did not,
however, put much value on personal beauty; and, provided the watermelon
crop did not fail, he was the happiest of mortals.
He was indebted to a ruse of Aunt Margaret for his historic and
sesquipedalian name. At his baptism she insisted on his being called
George Alexander. When the sacrament had been administered she clapped
her hands with joy and announced the rest of the name. No amount of
persuasion could make her change the monstrous appellation or drop a
single syllable. Whenever the boy was wanted she had ample time to call
out: "Gawge Wasenton Elexander Hamilton Howard! Come heah quick, chile."
Owen was the first to dishonor the historic title. Being something of a
wag, he gave him the sobriquet of "Wash." All with the exception of Aunt
Margaret approved of the amendment, and the great George Washington
Alexander Hamilton Howard was addressed by his monosyllabic name.
* * * * *
It was an early hour of the morning to which we referred in the last
chapter. Mr. Howard arose and taking a long tin horn, which hung from a
peg on the wall, blew it three times as a signal for all to arise. The
summons was answered by Uncle Pius, who thrust his head out of the half
opened door of the cabin where the negroes lived, and exclaimed: "We'se
a gittin' up, massar."
In a few minutes all assembled for morning prayers. These were always
said in common, according to the pious custom introduced by the early
missionary priests of Kentucky, and still practised in many Catholic
families.
When prayers were finished the day's work began. A fire was kindled in
the big stove of the kitchen, which was soon savory with fried mutton,
bacon, and cornbread. Out in the woodyard one of the negroes was busy
with his axe, cutting enough firewood for the rest of the day. No part
of the farm presented life so noisy and varied as the immediate vicinity
of the corn-crib, where thirty-seven fat and hungry hogs were grunting
and clamoring for their breakfast. As soon as Mr. Howard mounted to the
top of the crib and opened the door, there was a general scramble to get
just beneath it, although he always threw the corn fully twenty feet
away so as to scatter the hogs and be able to count them. Up from the
pond marched the whole family of ducks, led single file by the old black
drake. The geese were not slow in coming for their part of the corn,
marching in a solid phalanx, with the little yellow goslings in the
center, to protect them against the dog Frisk, who seemed to enjoy
charging the whole army and routing it by his own unaided efforts.
Then came the chickens, and the turkeys, and the guinea-hens, and the
calves, and the heifers; and there was a most harmonious chorus of
voices--the grunting, bleating, gobbling, quacking, lowing; all pleasing
sounds to the old farmer, who enjoyed the scene, and scattered the corn
profusely.
"Didn't see anything of Owen down the lane?" he inquired of the negro
workman who was driving the cows in from the clover field.
"No, massar! didn't see nuthin' of 'im down dar."
"I hope he didn't stay out in the woods all night. I thought that he had
stopped with Martin and would be home by this time, for he knows that we
need him to help us get the wheat in."
"Kindar col' out sure last night; and hadn't it rained the 'simmons
(persimmons) would got some frost on thar eye-brows."
"I shouldn't have let Owen go. But he was so anxious to look for those
wild turkeys that I thought it better to give him permission."
"If he stayed out last night he'll have frost in his bones sure," said
the negro.
"Well, we shall have to wait and see what has happened," replied the
farmer. "But look, Mose," he continued, pointing toward a thin column of
smoke rising above the tree tops. "I reckon old Bowen has had another
fire. I've been watching that smoke for some time; it is too much for
one chimney. The poor old fellow has had his corn-crib burned twice in
the last three years. I trust that he has not suffered the loss a third
time, for he takes it so hard. I thought he would die of grief the last
time his crib was burned."
"It do look jus' like a fire's been burnin' up dar, sure," said Mose.
"I don't understand how his corn-crib is set on fire, for he never lets
the men smoke around it."
"Smoke around de corn-crib," replied Mose, with a prolonged emphasis,
"why, bless de Lord, he don't let 'em smoke nowhar. He's de holdenest on
ole fellar to his money ebber I seed; he don't let dem niggars get
'nough to eat."
"How would you like to work for him?" inquired Mr. Howard.
"'Drudder die right heah on de spot," said Mose.
The breakfast horn blew and the two walked slowly toward the house. At
the yard gate they met Uncle Pius. He was always delighted when
consulted about matters of grave importance, and ventured his opinion on
any subject. He had been watching the smoke for some time, engaged in
deep speculation.
"Well, Uncle Pius," inquired Mr. Howard, "can you tell from the smoke
what has been burning over at Bowen's place?"
"Kindar b'l'eve I kin," replied the old negro. "I suspose it am de old
fellar's corn-crib, for de wood am green. You knows it ain't been up
long."
"Could you tell from the smoke how much corn was in the crib?" asked the
farmer.
"Jest what I'se been a ca'kalatin' on. Dar ain't much corn in dat crib,
'caze corn, it don't make no smoke like dat."
"How do you know?"
"I knows dis way, boss. Once when I'se a dryin' apples in de big stove,
an' was a thinkin' 'bout som'in' or uddar, I'se dumped a bushel ob corn
in de fire in place of de corn cobs. It made the funnies' sort ob smoke
you ebber seed. Dat ain't no corn smoke; dat's wood smoke ober dar at
ole Bowen's house."
"Now, we'll see if you are right," said the farmer. "If old Bowen has
lost his corn, he'll let every one know it before night."
"Dat he will! Dat he will, sure! Den you'll see I'se ca'kalated right."
Mr. Howard laughed, and went into the house to take his breakfast. He
was still anxious about Owen, fearing that some accident had befallen
him.
Behind him walked Uncle Pius, muttering to himself: "Dar ain't much
corn; dar ain't no corn in dat dar crib. Dar ain't,--ain't,--ain't."