in a sense, but from another point of view it is really a stupendous
problem! One old mountaineer said to me last summer, 'Them schools is
the courtin'est places in the world.' I begin to think he was right,
and it is not always the superficial flirting and love-making which is
a part of your coeducational schools,--a thing simply trivial and
naughty,--but often tragic passion instead, quite in harmony with the
title of Dryden's play, 'All for Love, or the World Well Lost'!
"Really, these children of the woods hear the call to mate as
naturally as the birds in the trees, and knowing nothing of Fifth
Avenue brown stone fronts or cozy cottages at Newport, they want to
leave school, gather twigs and build their nests at once. And
sometimes one feels as guilty in breaking up such prospective nests as
when molesting a pair of birds!
"Am I getting to be something of a sentimentalist? Well, I assure you
I am not going to let it grow upon me. I bear sternly in mind that,
like the first pair of human beings in the Garden of Eden, they have
really eaten of the tree of knowledge and know some things which they
ought not to know,--having some secrets from the rest of mankind which
are not at all good for them,--while the things they need to know for
higher, better living are so numerous, that I ruthlessly break the
tenderest hearts, and insist on study and discipline; for nothing but
education, mental, moral and spiritual, will ever bring the greatest
people in the world, the people of the Kentucky mountains, into their
just inheritance! You see how completely identified I am again when I
indulge in Kentucky brag,--which is not so different after all from
the brag of other sections, and I promise not to let this grow upon me
either, for work and not brag is before me, as you know. I want you to
see, however, that I continue to feel the mountaineer is worth working
for.
"But to return to the love-making. Tragedy and comedy are in evidence
enough to lure me into the field of romance, but the practical
hindrances to daily school work are too absorbing for great indulgence
of my pen. Ardent swains pay open court to their sweethearts,
promenading halls and grounds together and even pressing suit in the
class room! While frequently the crowning difficulty in the whole
matter is the pleased approval of parents! Early marriage, you know,
is most common in the mountains, girls of twelve and thirteen often
taking up the duties of wives and the great desire of parents for
their daughters is usually to get them early married off.
"But,--I suspect this is all familiar to you," he reminded himself,
"and still I must tell it to you,--and let you laugh over a recent
experience I have had with a pair of lovers.
"You may be sure that I have lectured most earnestly and scientifically
upon the evils of tobacco and liquor for the young, and also have set
forth as tactfully and convincingly as I know how the fact that a
school is not the place for lover-like attentions, beseeching them to
give themselves wholly to the business of acquiring knowledge while
they are here, with all the eloquence of which I am capable. But, in
spite of this, as I was leaving my recitation room at the close of
school a few days ago I noticed a girl, Alice Tomby, lingering with Joe
Mott, one of her admirers, and stepping outside I found another admirer
of hers standing beneath a near-by tree, with clenched fist and
blazing eyes.
"I knew that a typical mountain tragedy was quite possible and
stopping casually a moment to look at my watch, I turned and went back
to find the girl and her beau in a most lover-like attitude.
"I threw my shoulders out to their broadest, and walked with all the
dignity I could summon to my desk where I stood before them a moment
in silence. Their sheepish faces were a study for the cartoonist, and
I wanted to laugh more than I can tell you, but I finally said
gravely:
"'Miss Tomby and Mr. Mott' (the use of the last name with Mr. or Miss,
which is unusual in the mountains, is always most impressive), 'you
are guilty of breaking a rule of the school. You must remain and write
twenty times each the sentence I shall put upon the board.'
"Then an old song came suddenly into my mind and I wrote without
quiver of lash or hint of smile the silly lines:
"'Frog went courting, he did ride,
Sword and pistol by his side.'
"'That!' said the fellow, looking startled, while the girl hung her
head.
"'Yes, that,' I replied in perfect seriousness. And the two wrote the
lines under my most calm, most dignified eye till they were thoroughly
disgusted with themselves and one another. When at last they went out,
the girl tossed her head and ignored both her crestfallen and her
jealous lover. With books under her arm she went alone straightway to
the boarding hall.
"The story of the discomfited lovers is spreading in the school, and
the quotation of 'Frog went courting, he did ride,' hilariously given
is quenching the ardour of many an amorous swain. Possibly a little
wholesome humour may after all be more helpful than stern enforcement
of rules, and you know if there is one thing more than another we
mountain folks lack, it is a sense of humour! So, even on general
principles, it will do no harm to cultivate it.
"However, with all this cruel separation of tender hearts perhaps I am
in a fair way to become a cynical old bachelor instead of a
sentimentalist."
He was determined to write cheerfully, for he knew that she constantly
grieved over the alienation between Mr. Polk and himself, so his
letters usually held bright accounts of his work, though sometimes he
let her have a glimpse of the struggle which went on in his heart.
He wrote once after a contest with himself over natural desire for
more congenial surroundings:
"Little mother, when things seem too sordid and commonplace and barren
for endurance, as I confess they have a way of doing at times, I do
crave a look into your dear face. But as I am too far away to see you
clearly, I remember how you came down here and worked with dauntless
courage and good cheer, and I take heart again. Then several things
recently have contributed to make me ashamed of faint-heartedness, and
I really think I am going to develop some stronger fibre.
"The pathos of the mountain desire for 'larnin" has come to me
overwhelmingly lately. A woman came on foot forty miles over the
mountains last week bringing her daughter and seven others of
neighbours and friends to the school only to find there was no room
for them. But so great was the mother's distress and so appealing her
sacrifice and hardship in making the trip that one of our lady
teachers took the daughter into her own room rather than see the
mother disappointed. A few days later two boys came in having driven a
pair of lean goats over thirty miles hitched to a rude cart, which
held all the earthly possessions they could muster, the old father and
mother walking behind,--all hoping to buy entrance to the school for
the boys. They, too, were disappointed, for we are full to overflowing
this year. Then to cap the argument for stout-heartedness on my part,
I went for a stroll yesterday afternoon and came across a boy who is
making one of the bravest fights for an education that I ever saw. I
found him putting his shoulder to great boulders on the mountainside,
rolling them down and then setting himself to break them in pieces for
use in paving our little town,--for you must know that under the
influence of the school it is beginning to strive for general
improvement. The boy, whose father is a worthless fellow, works at
rock-breaking till he earns enough to go to school a while; then, when
the money is gone, he returns to work again with a pathetic patience
which has stirred me deeply.
"So, mother mine, when I long for a sight of your face,--and an
old-time hand-clasp from Mr. Polk, as I assure you I too often do, or
when I crave the feast of books and the quiet student atmosphere of a
city library, I am simply going to think on these things in the
future."
The second summer in the mountains came on and was a repetition of the
first. The school was getting more pupils than could be accommodated,
it was true, but Steve felt that contact with the thought of education
would help to further the general cause. Then, journeying about
through the wilderness was also a means of gathering fresh material
for his nature and hunting stories for boys.
There was a distinct drawing towards the Follets in his subconscious
mind, the real objective of which he would scarcely admit to himself.
He put from him suggestive pictures of curls and pinafores which
memory and flitting dreams still flashed before him at times. He meant
to go there some day for he wanted to express his gratitude for all
the kindness of the past, but the time had not yet come. He must not
for the present be diverted in the least from the purpose which was
occupying him. He must repay Mr. Polk,--that was the thought which
dominated him, and to that end he was frugally gathering all the money
he could. As he had carried the fox skin through the wilderness when a
boy, so now he carried the thought of that debt in his mind, and no
robber in the form of pleasant indulgence should prevent him from
meeting his obligation.
The second session passed, and he had learned how to handle his
difficulties with better success, while his method of teaching was
more definitely marked out and he found more leisure for the use of
his pen. Fresh, bright stories with the breath of the mountains in
them began to find ready sale, and occasionally as his pen dipped a
bit into romance it brought more than ordinary returns. Upon the tide
of this success came a strong temptation: Why not go to a distinctly
literary atmosphere and make a business of literature? He felt an
inward assurance of making good and a longing for the work which was
almost overpowering. Money for the debt must continue to accumulate
very slowly when so much time must be given to the daily business of
teaching, for which he was very poorly paid, and he could not know
freedom until that debt was paid. In literary work, too, he could
combine the cause of mountain need with his daily task with equal
effectiveness in both directions, for could he not portray with great
pathos the mental, spiritual and material poverty of his people? And
he stifled for the moment something within him which cried, "Others
might do that, but never one of our own!" Beside all this it was
probable, as Mr. Polk had said, that money was more sorely needed for
schools than personal service and he believed by giving himself to
literary work he could earn it. He had never been perfectly sure that
giving his life to teaching and personal work among his people was the
best method of helping them, so he need not feel chagrined by any
inconsistency.
So great was the temptation which came to him at this crisis that he
determined when the session closed to go for a visit to Mirandy's
family and from there to the Follets, with the thought that he would
not like to leave the mountains without seeing them, and it would
doubtless be best to go east for his literary career. In this
satisfactory justification of the latter visit he allowed himself the
freedom of pleasant reminiscence about the spot where life first began
to really unfold for him.
"Little Nancy," he said to himself, "why she must be nineteen now,
clothed in long frocks and maidenly dignity, I suspect,--but I
certainly hope she still wears the little white pinafores." And his
eyes grew misty with a tenderness which he would have classified as
brotherly, had it occurred to him to question himself. Then he smiled
suddenly and said, "Yes, I must go and see about those pinafores
before I leave the mountains."
He made the visit to Hollow Hut first, and in the ease of a saddle
seat he reached the old familiar wood by a much more direct trail than
he had followed when a boy. He halted his pony at last by the great
boulder where Tige lay buried. The tragedy of his grief on that
long-ago morning when he had touched the stiffened body of his old
friend came back to him with such vividness that, in spite of "Time's
long caressing hand," he could not "smile beholding it." He hitched
his horse close by with a sense of the old dog's nearness and
protection, for he meant to camp on that spot during his stay as he
used to do when a boy. Then he went on foot down the mountainside to
his old home in the hollow, little dreaming, as he passed along its
rocky fastness, that a "still" was hidden there.
It was just dusk of an early June day, and cool shadows dropped their
soft curtains about the old log house as he walked towards the door
unannounced. He stopped a moment at the grave of his father and
mother, and then followed noiselessly the little worn path to the
cabin. As he drew near, he saw the fitful light of blazing pine-knots
on the hearth and caught the sound of boisterous laughter. Reaching
the door he stood a moment in the shadow of the outer darkness, before
stepping into the light. Then,--what he saw transfixed him! White to
the lips he watched a moment.
A group of men, Mirandy's husband among them, surrounded a little
fellow about six years old, who, having been made reeling drunk, was
trying to walk a crack in the floor. The little victim swayed and
tottered and struggled under the hilarious urging of his spectators.
[Illustration: "Hit's Champ fer his pappy"]
Steve's first mad impulse was to snatch up the wronged child, and, if
necessary, face the half-drunken men in battle. But this would be
worse than useless his second sober thought told him, for there stood
Mirandy looking carelessly on from the kitchen door behind. The child
was doubtless hers, and the father was taking part in the revolting
deed! What could he do? He knew they would brook no interference.
With hard-won self-control he stepped upon the threshold, courteously
lifted his hat and bade them "Good-evening."
Instantly the men turned and pistols clicked, for they thought him a
revenue officer; but Mirandy, looking into his still boyish face which
had caught the light, while his unfamiliar figure was in shadow,
exclaimed:
"Don't shoot! Hit's Steve, my little buddie Steve!" And she stepped
across the room to him in a way which showed she was capable of being
stirred into action sometimes.
The men looked uncertain, but Mirandy's husband, peering into Steve's
face a moment, said:
"Yes, that's right, hit's Steve Langly, though I'd nuver knowed ye in
the world," and the other men dropped back.
The child in the centre of the room looked about with dull eyes, then
dropped to the floor in a pitiful little drunken heap.
With his heart wrung to the point of agony, Steve stepped forward and
stooping down lifted it tenderly to his breast. In the old home that
little boy represented himself, as he used to be. When he could speak
he said in a voice which trembled upon the silence:
"This is my little nephew, is it not?"
And Mirandy cried out sharply to her husband, without answering the
question:
"Ye shan't nuver do that no more," and the men slunk out one by one,
ashamed, rebuked, sobered, though they could not have told why.
Steve turned as they left and sat down, still holding the child to his
breast. Then gently releasing his hold with one hand he tenderly
pushed back the damp hair from the little swollen face, while Mirandy
stood by, the tears dropping down her cheeks,--a thing most unusual
for a mountain woman. And she said again passionately, "Champ shan't
nuver make him drunk agin."
"What is his name?" asked Steve at last.
"Hit's Champ fer his pappy. The bigges' one--he's outdoors
some'eres,--he's named Steve," she said in mollifying tone. "He was
borned the nex' winter atter you was here, an' you'd been sech a
likely lookin' boy I thought I'd name him fer ye."
"That was good ev you, Randy," said Steve dropping tenderly into the
old form of speech. "I'll be glad ter see my namesake. Air the two all
ye hev?"
"No, thar's the baby on the bed; she's a little gal," Mirandy replied
dully. "Then there's two on 'em that died, when they was babies. We
women allus gits chillun enough," she said, in a whining voice
peculiar to the older women of the mountains which she had already
acquired.
Steve remained a month and it was the most trying time of his life.
When he learned of the "still," which he did very promptly, despair
for Mirandy, her husband and the children filled his heart. Champ
Brady was always under the influence of his "moonshine," and Steve
knew it was perfectly useless to try to dissuade him from making or
using it. Mirandy had his own distaste for it, but she had been
accustomed to the thought of its free use all her life, and how could
he make her listless mind comprehend its danger for her children? Not
trusting her emotion and passionate protest the day he came, he talked
with her earnestly many times and made her promise to do all she could
to keep the children from it.
He took the two little boys, Steve and Champ, with their dog, every
day up to the old haunt by Tige's rock, where he camped every night.
He had brought picture books with him, illustrated alphabets and
one-syllable stories with the thought of possible need for them. And
the brown eyes of the two little fellows, so like his own in the old
days, as he well knew, in their blankness and wonder, gave eager
response to new things. He called the spot "our school," and the two
little pupils soon learned their letters, while in a month's time
little Steve was reading simple stories telling that "The dog is on
the mat," and "The cat is on the rug" with great exhilaration, and
spelling out laboriously more complex things.
But Champ Brady was restless under the visit. He told Mirandy
frequently that he had no use for a fellow who hadn't enough stuff in
him to drink good liquor when it was put before him; and Steve,
knowing well his state of mind without hearing any expression of it,
went sadly away from the cabin at Hollow Hut for the third time.
After a last earnest talk with Mirandy, he took the little boys to the
old spot where they had kept school and he had camped for the month
and put into the hands of Steve the second a German silver watch which
he had also brought with the thought of a boy in the old home again as
a possibility.
"This little shining ticker will tell you each day that you are going
to make big, strong men who know things one of these days. You will
listen to it always, will you not?" he said, and each in turn, as he
was held up in the tender arms, promised earnestly with queer aching
in their little throats. Then Steve set them down and rode away,
looking back again and again with a waving hand at the two sober
little figures as long as they were in sight.
"Oh, God of the wilderness," he cried, when at last he saw them no
more, "Thou didst come and comfort me when I wandered here alone; oh,
now give me assurance that Thou wilt watch over these two of my own
blood and bring them into the light."
The prayer went up in despair akin to that of his boyhood's desolation
and again, after a time, a sense of comfort and peace flooded his
soul, while, in its full tide, a fresh resolve was fixed upon him:
"I will give my life to the work. Not money alone, please God, if I
should make it, but my daily breath and life and vigour shall go for
the uplift of my people of the mountains!"
And he smiled to think that literature should ever have appealed to
him, for a sense of linking himself to the Almighty God to whom he had
prayed had come to him in the holy stillness of the wilderness, making
anything else seem trivial beyond compare.
He did not go to the Follets as he had intended, but made his way
slowly back to the school, stopping at cabins here and there as in
previous summers, chatting with the people, getting into their life
and giving them visions as no alien could have done.
On this trip he passed a great coal mine and here he spent a couple of
weeks watching the work with great interest. He carefully examined the
various strata of the excavation and studied the practical working of
the mine with keen intent, his college course having given him ample
preparation for its intelligent comprehension.
Suddenly a bright thought struck him.
"Look here," he said to himself, "why not locate a mine here in the
mountains, as Mr. Polk used to talk of my doing, buy the land for a
few hundred dollars, as I am sure I can in some localities, and then
make it over to Mr. Polk? He will know how to handle it, and if it is
valuable will certainly make it pay. With another year's work I can
have the money, and by that means I can cancel that debt with one fell
stroke, perhaps," he went on jubilantly,--and if it proved to do so
many times over, he would only be the more rejoiced, he thought.
XII
LOVE'S AWAKENING
Full of this happy inspiration Steve went back to his work, determined
to gather during the year a sum sufficient to make his purchase, so as
to be ready for the next vacation when he would be free to go
prospecting. Under the stimulus of this good hope he worked with great
absorption, only allowing himself the recreation of a weekly letter to
Mrs. Polk, which he never failed to send, continuing to put into it
all the interesting and amusing things which came into his work,--and
they did come in spite of the seriousness of his life.
Oftentimes in brooding thought he went back to the little Steve who
was duplicating his own early life in the old home. He had considered
mountain educational work hitherto in the large; he began now to think
of it from the nucleus of the home. How he would like to see the old
spot of his boyhood redeemed by an ideal home life! And the thought
touched many latent springs of his manly nature, calling forth dim,
sweet visions of domestic love and beauty.
But he hushed nature's appeal peremptorily, he thrust back the
visions with the firm decision that he had no leisure for dreams, and
continued his many-sided work through another winter with accustomed
constancy. It was in the early spring of that year when an unexpected
telegram came to him from Mrs. Polk. It read:
"Meet Nita and myself at L---- to-morrow, 7 A. M. train".
How the brief message thrilled him! He had plodded so long alone. He
sprang up from his place at the breakfast table where the message had
been handed him, his eyes shining and his step buoyant. Securing leave
of absence from school duties for a couple of days, he went at once to
hire a team which would take him forty miles over the mountains to the
railroad station.
Forty miles! With a good team and a buoyant spirit they seemed little
more than so many city blocks. To look into the face and talk once
more with the "little mother" would renew his enthusiasm for his work.
She must have known that he was growing dull and spiritless with the
lingering winter days,--she had such a wonderful way of divining
things. His eyes grew misty with tender recollection of her.
And Nita,--beautiful Nita Trowbridge,--when she should step out in the
early morning light, it would be like flashing his glorious mountain
sunrise upon some artist's masterpiece! And he was hungry for the
beauty and grace and charm of the city which she embodied. Yes, it was
true, there was no denying it! And fast and faster sped the retreating
miles under his joyful expectations till the journey was ended, a
night's refreshing sleep had passed and he stood at last at the little
station, restlessly pacing up and down the platform, with eye and ear
strained to detect the first hint of the incoming train.
Next he was rushing into the rear sleeper!
"Little mother!"
"Steve!" were the greetings as he took Mrs. Polk in his arms while the
eyes of both brimmed with tears. Then turning quickly to Nita, he
greeted her with less demonstration but with equal warmth.
Catching up their hand-bags he hurried them out, for through trains
show scant respect for mountain stations, and leading the way to his
waiting vehicle he helped Mrs. Polk in with easy confidence, then
turned to Nita. What was it about her that made him instantly
conscious that the spring wagonette was very plain, the newness long
gone and that the horses, with abundant manes and tails, lacked
trimness and style? He started to apologize for his turnout, then
quickly set his lips. If he must begin apologizing here, where would
it end?
"This is just a mild forerunner of the heights before you," he said
laughingly, as he carefully helped her mount the high step before
which she had stood uncertainly.