Long before, they had repented and were only too glad to go. The poor
mother lived one day and night after the baby came. She laid the tiny
thing in her mother's arms and told them to call her Cora Belle. She
told them she gave them a pure little daughter in place of the sinful
one they had lost.
That was almost twelve years ago, and the Edmonsons have lived in the
new house all this time. The deed to the place was made out to Cora
Belle, and her grandfather is her guardian....
If you traveled due north from my home, after about nine hours' ride
you would come into an open space in the butte lands, and away between
two buttes you would see the glimmer of blue water. As you drew nearer
you would be able to see the fringe of willows around the lake, and
presently a low, red-roofed house with corrals and stables. You would
see long lines of "buck" fence, a flock of sheep near by, and cattle
scattered about feeding. This is Cora Belle's home. On the long, low
porch you would see two old folks rocking. The man is small, and has
rheumatism in his legs and feet so badly that he can barely hobble. The
old lady is large and fat, and is also afflicted with rheumatism, but
has it in her arms and shoulders. They are both cheerful and hopeful,
and you would get a cordial welcome....
When you saw Cora Belle you would see a stout, square-built little
figure with long flaxen braids, a pair of beautiful brown eyes and the
longest and whitest lashes you ever saw, a straight nose, a short upper
lip, a broad, full forehead,--the whole face, neither pretty nor ugly,
plentifully sown with the brownest freckles. She is very truly the head
of the family, doing all the housework and looking after the stock,
winter and summer, entirely by herself. Three years ago she took things
into her own hands, and since that time has managed altogether. Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy, however, tells her what to do.
The sheep, forty in number, are the result of her individual efforts.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy told her there was more money in raising lambs than
in raising chickens, so she quit the chickens as a business and went to
some of the big sheep-men and got permission to take the "dogie" lambs,
which they are glad to give away. She had plenty of cows, so she milked
cows and fed lambs all day long all last year. This year she has forty
head of nice sheep worth four dollars each, and she doesn't have to
feed them the year round as she would chickens, and the wolves are no
worse to kill sheep than they are to kill chickens. When shearing-time
came she went to a sheep-man and told him she would help cook for his
men one week if he would have her sheep sheared with his. She said her
work was worth three dollars, that is what one man would get a day
shearing, and he could easily shear her sheep in one day. That is how
she got her sheep sheared. The man had her wool hauled to town with
his, sold it for her, and it brought sixty dollars. She took her money
to Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. She wanted some supplies ordered before she went
home, because, as she gravely said, "the rheumatiz would get all the
money she had left when she got home,"--meaning that her grandparents
would spend what remained for medicine.
The poor old grandparents read all the time of wonderful cures that
different dopes accomplish, and they spend every nickel they can get
their hands on for nostrums. They try everything they read of, and have
to buy it by the case,--horrid patent stuff! They have rolls of
testimonials and believe every word, so they keep on trying and hoping.
When there is any money they each order whatever medicine they want to
try. If Mrs. Edmonson's doesn't seem to help her, Grandpa takes it and
she takes his,--that is their idea of economy. They would spend hours
telling you about their different remedies and would offer you spoonful
after spoonful of vile-looking liquid, and be mildly grieved when you
refused to take it. Grandma's hands are so bent and twisted that she
can't sew, so dear old Grandpa tries to do it.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy told me that she helped out when she could. Three
years ago she made them all a complete outfit, but the "rheumatiz" has
been getting all the spare money since then, so there has been nothing
to sew. A peddler sold them a piece of gingham which they made up for
Cora Belle. It was broad pink and white stripes, and they wanted some
style to "Cory's" clothes, so they cut a gored skirt. But they had no
pattern and made the gores by folding a width of the goods biasly and
cutting it that way. It was put together with no regard to matching the
stripes, and a bias seam came in the center behind, but they put no
stay in the seam and the result was the most outrageous affair
imaginable.
Well, we had a large room almost empty and Mr. Stewart liked the idea
of a party, so Mrs. Louderer, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, and myself planned
for the event. It was to be a sewing-bee, a few good neighbors invited,
and all to sew for Grandma.... So Mrs. O'Shaughnessy went to Grandma's
and got all the material she had to make up. I had saved some
sugar-bags and some flour-bags. I knew Cora Belle needed underwear, so
I made her some little petticoats of the larger bags and some drawers
of the smaller. I had a small piece of white lawn that I had no use
for, and of that I made a dear little sunbonnet with a narrow edging of
lace around, and also made a gingham bonnet for her. Two days before
the time, came Mrs. Louderer, laden with bundles, and Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy, also laden. We had all been thinking of Cora Belle. Mr.
Stewart had sent by mail for her a pair of sandals for everyday wear
and a nice pair of shoes, also some stockings. Mrs. Louderer brought
cloth for three dresses of heavy Dutch calico, and gingham for three
aprons. She made them herself and she sews so carefully. She had bought
patterns and the little dresses were stylishly made, as well as well
made. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy brought a piece of crossbar with a tiny
forget-me-not polka dot, and also had goods and embroidery for a suit
of underwear. My own poor efforts were already completed when the rest
came, so I was free to help them.
Late in the afternoon of the 29th a funny something showed up. Fancy a
squeaky, rickety old wagon without a vestige of paint. The tires had
come off and had been "set" at home; that is done by heating the tires
red-hot and having the rims of the wheels covered with several layers
of burlap, or other old rags, well wet; then the red-hot tire is put on
and water hurriedly poured on to shrink the iron and to keep the burlap
from blazing. Well, whoever had set Cora Belle's tires had forgotten to
cut away the surplus burlap, so all the ragtags were merrily waving in
the breeze.
Cora Belle's team would bring a smile to the soberest face alive. Sheba
is a tall, lanky old mare. Once she was bay in color, but the years
have added gray hair until now she is roan. Being so long-legged she
strides along at an amazing pace which her mate, Balaam, a little
donkey, finds it hard to keep up with. Balaam, like Sheba, is full of
years. Once his glossy brown coat was the pride of some Mexican's
heart, but time has added to his color also, and now he is blue. His
eyes are sunken and dim, his ears no longer stand up in true donkey
style, but droop dejectedly. He has to trot his best to keep up with
Sheba's slowest stride. About every three miles he balks, but little
Cora Belle doesn't call it balking, she says Balaam has stopped to
rest, and they sit and wait till he is ready to trot along again. That
is the kind of layout which drew up before our door that evening. Cora
Belle was driving and she wore her wonderful pink dress which hung
down in a peak behind, fully six inches longer than anywhere else. The
poor child had no shoes. The winter had tried the last pair to their
utmost endurance and the "rheumatiz" had long since got the last
dollar, so she came with her chubby little sunburned legs bare. Her
poor little scarred feet were clean, her toe-nails full of nicks almost
into the quick, broken against rocks when she had been herding her
sheep. In the back of the wagon, flat on the bottom, sat Grandma and
Grandpa, such bundles of coats and blankets I can't describe. After a
great deal of trouble we got them unloaded and into the house. Then
Mrs. Louderer entertained them while Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I prepared
supper and got a bath ready for Cora Belle. We had a T-bone steak,
mashed potatoes, hominy, hot biscuits and butter, and stewed prunes.
Their long ride had made them hungry and I know they enjoyed their
meal.
After supper Cora Belle and I washed the dishes while Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy laid out the little clothes. Cora Belle's clothes were to
be a surprise. The postmistress here also keeps a small store and has
ribbon, and when she heard of our plans from Mr. Stewart she sent up a
couple of pairs of hair-ribbon for Cora Belle. Soon Mrs. O'Shaughnessy
called us, and Cora Belle and I went into the bedroom where she was. I
wish you could have seen that child! Poor little neglected thing, she
began to cry. She said, "They ain't for me, I know they ain't. Why, it
ain't my birthday, it's Granny's." Nevertheless, she had her arms full
of them and was clutching them so tightly with her work-worn little
hands that we couldn't get them. She sobbed so deeply that Grandma
heard her and became alarmed. She hobbled to the door and pounded with
her poor twisted hands, calling all the while, "Cory, Cory Belle, what
ails you?" She got so excited that I opened the door, but Cora Belle
told her to go away. She said, "They ain't for you, Granny, and they
ain't for me either." ...
People here observe Decoration Day faithfully, and Cora Belle had
brought half a wagon-load of iris, which grows wild here. Next morning
we were all up early, but Cora Belle's flowers had wilted and she had
to gather more, but we all hurried and helped. She said as she was
going to see her mother she wanted to wear her prettiest dress, so Gale
and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy helped her to get ready. The cemetery is only
about two miles away, so we were all down quite early. We were obliged
to hurry because others were coming to help sew. Cora Belle went at
once to the graves where her parents lie side by side, and began
talking to her mother just as though she saw her. "You didn't know me,
did you, Mother, with my pretty new things? But I am your little girl,
Mamma. I am your little Cora Belle." After she had talked and had
turned every way like a proud little bird, she went to work. And, oh,
how fast she worked! Both graves were first completely covered with
pine boughs. It looked like sod, so closely were the little twigs laid.
Next she broke the stems off the iris and scattered the blossoms over,
and the effect was very beautiful. Then we hurried home and everybody
got busy. The men took Grandpa off to another part of the ranch where
they were fanning oats to plant, and kept him all day. That was good
for him because then he could be with the men all day and he so seldom
has a chance to be with men. Several ladies came and they all made
themselves at home and worked like beavers, and we all had a fine
time....
Sedalia was present and almost caused a riot. She says she likes
unusual words because they lend distinction to conversation. Well, they
do--sometimes. There was another lady present whose children are very
gifted musically, but who have the bad name of taking what they want
without asking. The mother can neither read nor write, and she is very
sensitive about the bad name her children have. While we were all busy
some one made a remark about how smart these children were. Sedalia
thought that a good time to get in a big word, so she said, "Yes, I
have always said Lula was a progeny." Mrs. Hall didn't know what she
meant and thought that she was casting reflections on her child's
honesty, so with her face scarlet and her eyes blazing she said,
"Sedalia Lane, I won't allow you nor nobody else to say my child is a
progeny. You can take that back or I will slap you peaked." Sedalia
took it back in a hurry, so I guess little Lula Hall is not a progeny.
Every one left about four except Gale, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, Mrs.
Louderer, and the Edmonsons. They had farthest to go, so they stayed
over night again. We worked until ten o'clock that night over Grandma's
clothes, but everything was thoroughly finished. Every button was on,
every thread-end knotted and clipped, and some tired workers lay down
to rest, as did a very happy child and a very thankful old lady.
Every one got away by ten o'clock the next morning. The last I saw of
little Cora Belle was when they had reached the top of a long slope and
Balaam had "stopped to rest." The breeze from the south was playfully
fluttering the rags on the wheels. Presently I heard a long "hee-haw,
hee-haw," and I knew Balaam had rested and had started.
I have been a very busy woman since I began this letter to you several
days ago. A dear little child has joined the angels. I dressed him and
helped to make his casket. There is no minister in this whole country
and I could not bear the little broken lily-bud to be just carted away
and buried, so I arranged the funeral and conducted the services. I
know I am unworthy and in no way fitted for such a mission, but I did
my poor best, and if no one else is comforted, I am. I know the message
of God's love and care has been told once, anyway, to people who have
learned to believe more strongly in hell than in heaven.
Dear friend, I do hope that this New Year will bring you and yours
fuller joys than you have ever known. If I had all the good gifts in my
hands you should certainly be blessed.
Your sincere friend,
ELINORE RUPERT STEWART.
XI
ZEBBIE'S STORY
_September 1, 1910._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
It was just a few days after the birthday party and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy
was with me again. We were down at the barn looking at some new pigs,
when we heard the big corral gates swing shut, so we hastened out to
see who it could be so late in the day.
It was Zebbie. He had come on the stage to Burnt Fork and the driver
had brought him on here.... There was so much to tell, and he whispered
he had something to tell me privately, but that he was too tired then;
so after supper I hustled him off to bed....
Next morning ... the men went off to their work and Zebbie and I were
left to tell secrets. When he was sure we were alone he took from his
trunk a long, flat box. Inside was the most wonderful shirt I have
ever seen; it looked like a cross between a nightshirt and a
shirt-waist. It was of homespun linen. The bosom was ruffled and
tucked, all done by hand,--such tiny stitches, such patience and skill.
Then he handed me an old daguerreotype. I unfastened the little golden
hook and inside was a face good to see and to remember. It was dim, yet
clear in outline, just as if she were looking out from the mellow
twilight of long ago. The sweet, elusive smile,--I couldn't tell where
it was, whether it was the mouth or the beautiful eyes that were
smiling. All that was visible of her dress was the Dutch collar, just
like what is being worn now. It was pinned with an ugly old brooch
which Zebbie said was a "breast-pin" he had given her. Under the glass
on the other side was a strand of faded hair and a slip of paper. The
writing on the paper was so faded it was scarcely readable, but it
said: "Pauline Gorley, age 22, 1860."
Next he showed me a note written by Pauline, simply worded, but it held
a world of meaning for Zebbie. It said, "I spun and wove this cloth at
Adeline's, enough for me a dress and you a shirt, which I made. It is
for the wedding, else to be buried in. Yours, Pauline." The shirt, the
picture, and the note had waited for him all these years in Mothie's
care. And now I will tell you the story.
Long, long ago some one did something to some one else and started a
feud. Unfortunately the Gorleys were on one side and the Parkers on the
other. That it all happened before either Zebbie or Pauline was born
made no difference. A Gorley must hate a Parker always, as also a
Parker must hate a Gorley. Pauline was the only girl, and she had a
regiment of big brothers who gloried in the warfare and wanted only the
slightest pretext to shoot a Parker. So they grew up, and Zebbie often
met Pauline at the quiltings and other gatherings at the homes of
non-partisans. He remembers her so perfectly and describes her so
plainly that I can picture her easily. She had brown eyes and hair. She
used to ride about on her sorrel palfrey with her "nigger" boy Cæsar on
behind to open and shut plantation gates. She wore a pink calico
sunbonnet, and Zebbie says "she was just like the pink hollyhocks that
grew by mother's window." Isn't that a sweet picture?
Her mother and father were both dead, and she and her brothers lived on
their plantation. Zebbie had never dared speak to her until one day he
had driven over with his mother and sisters to a dinner given on a
neighboring plantation. He was standing outside near the wall, when
some one dropped a spray of apple blossoms down upon him from an upper
window. He looked up and Pauline was leaning out smiling at him. After
that he made it a point to frequent places where he might expect her,
and things went so well that presently Cæsar was left at home lest he
should tell the brothers. She was a loyal little soul and would not
desert, although he urged her to, even promising to go away, "plumb
away, clean to Scott County if she would go." She told him that her
brothers would go even as far as that to kill him, so that they must
wait and hope. Finally Zebbie got tired of waiting, and one day he
boldly rode up to the Gorley home and formally asked for Pauline's
hand. The bullet he got for his presumption kept him from going to the
war with his father and brother when they marched away.
Some time later George Gorley was shot and killed from ambush, and
although Zebbie had not yet left his bed the Gorleys believed he did
it, and one night Pauline came through a heavy rainstorm, with only
Cæsar, to warn Zebbie and to beg him, for her sake, to get away as fast
as he could that night. She pleaded that she could not live if he were
killed and could never marry him if he killed her brothers, so she
persuaded him to go while they were all innocent.
Well, he did as she wished and they never saw each other again. He
never went home again until last Thanksgiving, and dear little Pauline
had been dead for years. She herself had taken her little gifts for
Zebbie to Mothie to keep for him. Some years later she died and was
buried in the dress she mentioned. It was woven at Adeline Carter's,
one of the bitterest enemies of the Gorleys, but the sacrifice of her
pride did her no good because she was long at rest before Zebbie knew.
He had been greatly grieved because no stone marked her grave, only a
tangle of rose-briers. So he bought a stone, and in the night before
Decoration Day he and two of Uncle Buck's grandsons went to the Gorley
burying-ground and raised it to the memory of sweet Pauline. Some of
the Gorleys still live there, so he came home at once, fearing if they
should find out who placed the stone above their sister they would take
vengeance on his poor, frail body.
After he had finished telling me his story, I felt just as I used to
when Grandmother opened the "big chist" to air her wedding clothes and
the dress each of her babies wore when baptized. It seemed almost like
smelling the lavender and rose-leaves, and it was with reverent fingers
that I folded the shirt, the work of love, yellow with age, and laid it
in the box....
Well, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy returned, and early one morning we started
with a wagon and a bulging mess-box for Zebbie's home. We were going a
new and longer route in order to take the wagon. Dandelions spread a
carpet of gold. Larkspur grew waist-high with its long spikes of blue.
The service-bushes and the wild cherries were a mass of white beauty.
Meadowlarks and robins and bluebirds twittered and sang from every
branch, it almost seemed. A sky of tenderest blue bent over us and
fleecy little clouds drifted lazily across.... Soon we came to the
pineries, where we traveled up deep gorges and cañons. The sun shot
arrows of gold through the pines down upon us and we gathered our arms
full of columbines. The little black squirrels barked and chattered
saucily as we passed along, and we were all children together. We
forgot all about feuds and partings, death and hard times. All we
remembered was that God is good and the world is wide and beautiful. We
plodded along all day. Next morning there was a blue haze that Zebbie
said meant there would be a high wind, so we hurried to reach his home
that evening.
The sun was hanging like a great red ball in the smoky haze when we
entered the long cañon in which is Zebbie's cabin. Already it was dusky
in the cañons below, but not a breath of air stirred. A more delighted
man than Zebbie I never saw when we finally drove up to his low,
comfortable cabin. Smoke was slowly rising from the chimney, and
Gavotte, the man in charge, rushed out and the hounds set up a joyful
barking. Gavotte is a Frenchman, and he was all smiles and
gesticulations as he said, "Welcome, welcome! To-day I am rejoice you
have come. Yesterday I am despair if you have come because I am scrub,
but to-day, behold, I am delight."
I have heard of clean people, but Gavotte is the cleanest man I ever
saw. The cabin floor was so white I hated to step upon it. The windows
shone, and at each there was a calico curtain, blue-and-white check,
unironed but newly washed. In one window was an old brown pitcher,
cracked and nicked, filled with thistles. I never thought them pretty
before, but the pearly pink and the silvery green were so pretty and
looked so clean that they had a new beauty. Above the fireplace was a
great black eagle which Gavotte had killed, the wings outspread and a
bunch of arrows in the claws. In one corner near the fire was a
washstand, and behind it hung the fishing-tackle. Above one door was a
gun-rack, on which lay the rifle and shotgun, and over the other door
was a pair of deer-antlers. In the center of the room stood the square
home-made table, every inch scrubbed. In the side room, which is the
bedroom, was a wide bunk made of pine plank that had also been
scrubbed, then filled with fresh, sweet pine boughs, and over them was
spread a piece of canvas that had once been a wagon sheet, but Gavotte
had washed it and boiled and pounded it until it was clean and sweet.
That served for a sheet.
Zebbie was beside himself with joy. The hounds sprang upon him and
expressed their joy unmistakably. He went at once to the corrals to see
the "critters," and every one of them was safely penned for the night.
"Old Sime," an old ram (goodness knows _how_ old!), promptly butted him
over, but he just beamed with pleasure. "Sime knows me, dinged if he
don't!" was his happy exclamation. We went into the cabin and left him
fondling the "critters."
Gavotte did himself proud getting supper. We had trout and the most
delicious biscuit. Each of us had a crisp, tender head of lettuce with
a spoonful of potato salad in the center. We had preserves made from
canned peaches, and the firmest yellow butter. Soon it was quite dark
and we had a tiny brass lamp which gave but a feeble light, but it was
quite cool so we had a blazing fire which made it light enough.