The giant elm stood in the centre of the squire's fair green meadows,
and was known to all the country round about as the “Bean ellum.” The
other trees had seemingly retired to a respectful distance, as if they
were not worthy of closer intimacy; and so it stood alone, king of the
meadow, monarch of the village.
It shot from the ground for a space, straight, strong, and superb,
and then bust into nine splendid branches, each a tree in itself, all
growing symmetrically from the parent trunk, and casting a grateful
shadow under which all the inhabitants of the tiny village might have
gathered.
It was not alone its size, its beauty, its symmetry, its density of
foliage, that made it the glory of the neighborhood, but the low grown
of its branches and the extra-ordinary breadth of its shade. Passers-by
from the adjacent towns were wont to hitch their teams by the wayside,
crawl through the stump fence and walk across the fields, for a nearer
view of its magnificence. One man, indeed, was known to drive by the
tree every day during the summer, and lift his hat to it, respectfully,
each time he passed; but he was a poet and his intellect was not greatly
esteemed in the village.
The elm was almost as beautiful in one season as in another. In the
spring it rose from moist fields and mellow ploughed ground, its tiny
brown leaf buds bursting with pride at the thought of the loveliness
coiled up inside. In summer it stood in the midst of a waving garden of
buttercups and whiteweed, a towering mass of verdant leafage, a shelter
from the sun and a refuge from the storm; a cool, splendid, hospitable
dome, under which the weary farmer might fling himself, and gaze upward
as into the heights and depths of an emerald heaven. As for the birds,
they made it a fashionable summer resort, the most commodious and
attractive in the whole country; with no limit to the accommodations
for those of a gregarious turn of mind, liking the advantages of select
society combined with country air. In the autumn it held its own; for
when the other elms changed their green to duller tints, the nooning
tree put on a gown of yellow, and stood out against the far background
of sombre pine woods a brilliant mass of gold and brown. In winter, when
there was no longer dun of upturned sod, nor waving daisy gardens, nor
ruddy autumn grasses, it rose above the dazzling snow crust, lifting
its bare, shapely branches in sober elegance and dignity, and seeming to
say, “Do not pity me; I have been, and, please God, I shall be!”
Whenever the weather was sufficiently mild, it was used as a “nooning”
tree by all the men at work in the surrounding fields; but it was in
haying time that it became the favorite lunching and “bangeing” place
for Squire Bean's hands and those of Miss Vilda Cummins, who owned the
adjoining farm. The men congregated under the spreading branches
at twelve o' the clock, and spent the noon hour there, eating and
“swapping” stories, as they were doing to-day.
Each had a tin pail, and each consumed a quantity of “flour food” that
kept the housewives busy at the cook stove from morning till night. A
glance at Pitt Packard's luncheon, for instance, might suffice as
an illustration, for, as Jabe Slocum said, “Pitt took after both his
parents; one et a good deal, 'n' the other a good while.” His pail
contained four doughnuts, a quarter section of pie, six buttermilk
biscuits, six ginger cookies, a baked cup custard, and a quart of cold
coffee. This quantity was a trifle unusual, but every man in the group
was lined throughout with pie, cemented with buttermilk bread, and
riveted with doughnuts.
Jabe Slocum and Brad Gibson lay extended slouchingly, their cowhide
boots turned up to the sky; Dave Milliken, Steve Webster, and the others
leaned back against the tree-trunk, smoking clay pipes, or hugging their
knees and chewing blades of grass reflectively.
One man sat apart from the rest, gloomily puffing rings of smoke into
the air. After a while he lay down in the grass with his head buried
in his hat, sleeping to all appearances, while the others talked and
laughed; for he had no stories, though he put in an absent-minded word
or two when he was directly addressed. This was the man from Tennessee,
Matt Henderson, dubbed “Dixie” for short. He was a giant fellow,--a
“great gormin' critter,” Samantha Ann Milliken called him; but if he
had held up his head and straightened his broad shoulders, he would have
been thought a man of splendid presence.
He seemed a being from another sphere instead of from another section
of the country. It was not alone the olive tint of the skin, the mass
of wavy dark hair tossed back from a high forehead, the sombre eyes,
and the sad mouth,--a mouth that had never grown into laughing curves
through telling Yankee jokes,--it was not these that gave him what the
boys called a “kind of a downcasted look.” The man from Tennessee had
something more than a melancholy temperament; he had, or physiognomy was
a lie, a sorrow tugging at his heart.
“I'm goin' to doze a spell,” drawled Jabe Slocum, pulling his straw hat
over his eyes. “I've got to renew my strength like the eagle's, 'f I'm
goin' to walk to the circus this afternoon. Wake me up, boys, when you
think I'd ought to sling that scythe some more, for if I hev it on my
mind I can't git a wink o' sleep.”
This was apparently a witticism; at any rate, it elicited roars of
laughter.
“It's one of Jabe's useless days; he takes 'em from his great-aunt
Lyddy,” said David Milliken.
“You jest dry up, Dave. Ef it took me as long to git to workin' as it
did you to git a wife, I bate this hay wouldn't git mowed down to crack
o' doom. Gorry! ain't this a tree! I tell you, the sun 'n' the airth,
the dew 'n' the showers, 'n' the Lord God o' creation jest took holt 'n'
worked together on this tree, 'n' no mistake!”
“You're right, Jabe.” (This from Steve Webster, who was absently cutting
a _D_ in the bark. He was always cutting _D_'s these days.) “This ellum
can't be beat in the State o' Maine, nor no other state. My brother that
lives in California says that the big redwoods, big as they air, don't
throw no sech shade, nor ain't so han'some, 'specially in the fall o'
the year, as our State o' Maine trees; 'assiduous trees,' he called
'em.”
“_Assidyus_ trees? Why don't you talk United States while you're about
it, 'n' not fire yer long-range words round here? _Assidyus!_ What does
it mean, anyhow?”
“Can't prove it by me. That's what he called 'em, 'n' I never forgot
it.”
“Assidyus--assidyus--it don't sound as if it meant nothing', to me.”
“Assiduous means 'busy,'” said the man from Tennessee, who had suddenly
waked from a brown study, and dropped off into another as soon as he had
given the definition.
“Busy, does it? Wall, I guess we ain't no better off now 'n we ever was.
One tree's 'bout 's busy as another, as fur 's I can see.”
“Wall, there is kind of a meanin' in it to me, but it'sturrible far
fetched,” remarked Jabe Slocum, rather sleepily. “You see, our ellums
and maples 'n' all them trees spends part o' the year in buddin' 'n'
gittin' out their leaves 'n' hangin' em all over the branches; 'n' then,
no sooner air they full grown than they hev to begin colorin' of 'em red
or yeller or brown, 'n' then shakin' 'em off; 'n' this is all extry, you
might say, to their every-day chores o' growin' 'n' cirkerlatin' sap,
'n' spreadin' 'n' thickenin' 'n' shovin' out limbs, 'n' one thing 'n'
'nother; 'n' it stan's to reason that the first 'n' hemlocks 'n' them
California redwoods, that keeps their clo'es on right through the year,
can't be so busy as them that keeps a-dressin' 'n' ondressin' all the
time.”
“I guess you're 'bout right,” allowed Steve, “but I shouldn't never 'a'
thought of it in the world. What yer takin' out o' that bottle, Jabe? I
thought you was a temperance man.”
“I guess he 's like the feller over to Shandagee schoolhouse, that said
he was in favor o' the law, but agin its enforcement!” laughed Pitt
Packard.
“I ain't breakin' no law; this is yarb bitters,” Jabe answered, with a
pull at the bottle.
“It's to cirkerlate his blood,” said Ob Tarbox; “he's too dog-goned lazy
to cirkerlate it himself.”
“I'm takin' it fer what ails me,” said Jabe oracularly; “the heart
knoweth its own bitterness, 'n' it 's a wise child that knows its own
complaints 'thout goin' to a doctor.”
“Ain't yer scared fer fear it'll start yer growth, Laigs?” asked little
Brad Gibson, looking at Jabe's tremendous length of limb and foot. “Say,
how do yer git them feet o' yourn uphill? Do yer start one ahead, 'n'
side-track the other?”
The tree rang with the laughter evoked by this sally, but the man from
Tennessee never smiled.
Jabe Slocum's imperturbable good humor was not shaken in the very least
by these personal remarks. “If I thought 't was a good growin' medicine,
I'd recommend it to your folks, Brad,” he replied cheerfully. “Your
mother says you boys air all so short that when you're diggin' potatoes,
yer can't see her shake the dinner rag 'thout gittin' up 'n' standing
on the potato hills! If I was a sinikitin feller like you, I wouldn't
hector folks that had made out to grow some.”
“Speakin' o' growin',” said Steve Webster, “who do you guess I seen in
Boston, when I was workin' there? That tall Swatkins girl from the
Duck Pond, the one that married Dan Robinson. It was one Sunday, in the
Catholic meetin'-house. I'd allers wanted to go to a Catholic meetin',
an' I declare it's about the solemnest one there is. I mistrusted I was
goin' to everlastin'ly giggle, but I tell yer I was the awedest cutter
yer ever see. But anyway, the Swatkins girl--or Mis' Robinson, she is
now--was there as large as life in the next pew to me, jabberin' Latin,
pawin' beads, gettin' up 'n' kneelin' down, 'n' crossin' herself north,
south, east, 'n' west, with the best of 'em. Poor Dan! 'Grinnin' Dan,'
we used to call him. Well, he don't grin nowadays. He never was good for
much, but he 's hed more 'n his comeuppance!”
“Why, what 's the matter with him? Can't he git work in Boston?”
“Matter? Why, his wife, that I see makin' believe be so dreadful pious
in the Catholic meetin', she 's carried on wuss 'n the Old Driver for
two years, 'n' now she 's up 'n' left him,--gone with a han'somer man.”
Down on Steve Webster's hand came Jabe Slocum's immense paw with a grasp
that made him cringe.
“What the”--began Steve, when the man from Tennessee took up his scythe
and slouched away from the group by the tree.
“Didn't yer know no better 'n that, yer thunderin' fool? Can't yer see a
hole in a grindstun 'thout it's hung on yer nose?”
“What hev I done?” asked Steve, as if dumfounded.
“Done? Where 've yer ben, that yer don't know Dixie's wife 's left him?”
“Where 've I ben? Hain't I ben workin' in Boston fer a year; 'n' since
I come home last week, hain't I ben tendin' sick folks, so 't I
couldn't git outside the dooryard? I never seen the man in my life till
yesterday, in the field, 'n' I thought he was one o' them dark-skinned
Frenchies from Guildford that hed come up here fer hayin'.”
“Mebbe I spoke too sharp,” said Jabe apologetically; “but we 've ben
scared to talk wives, or even women folks, fer a month o' Sundays, fer
fear Dixie 'd up 'n' tumble on his scythe, or do somethin' crazy. You
see it's this way (I'd ruther talk than work; 'n' we ain't workin' by
time to-day, anyway, on account of the circus comin'): 'Bout a year 'n'
a half ago, this tall, han'some feller turned up here in Pleasant River.
He inhailed from down South somewheres, but he didn't like his work
there, 'n' drifted to New York, 'n' then to Boston; 'n' then he
remembered his mother was a State o' Maine woman, 'n' he come here to
see how he liked. We didn't take no stock in him at first,--we never
hed one o' that nigger-tradin' secedin' lot in amongst us,--but he was
pleasant spoken 'n' a square, all-round feller, 'n' didn't git off any
secesh nonsense, 'n' it ended in our likin' him first-rate. Wall, he got
work in the cannin' fact'ry over on the Butterfield road, 'n' then he
fell in with the Maddoxes. You 've hearn tell of 'em; they're relation
to Pitt here.”
“I wouldn't own 'em if I met 'em on Judgement Bench!” exclaimed Pitt
Packard hotly. “My stepfather's second wife married Mis' Maddox's first
husband after he got divorced from her, 'n' that's all there is to it;
they ain't no bloody-kin o' mine, 'n' I don't call 'em relation.”
“Wall, Pitt's relations or not, they're all wuss 'n the Old Driver,
as yer said 'bout Dan Robinson's wife. Dixie went to board there. Mis
Maddox was all out o' husbands jest then,--she 'd jest disposed of her
fourth, somehow or 'nother; she always hed a plenty 'n' to spare, though
there's lots o' likely women folks round here that never hed one chance,
let alone four. Her daughter Fidelity was a chip o' the old block. Her
father hed named her Fidelity after his mother, when she wa'n't nothin'
but a two-days-old baby, 'n' he didn't know how she was goin' to turn
out; if he 'd 'a' waited two months, I believe I could 'a' told him.
_In_fidelity would 'a' ben a mighty sight more 'propriate; but either
of 'em is too long fer a name, so they got to callin' her Fiddy. Wall,
Fiddy didn't waste no time; she was nigh onto eighteen years old when
Dixie went there to board, 'n' she begun huneyfuglin' him's soon as ever
she set eyes on him. Folks warned him, but 't wa'n't no use; he was kind
o' bewitched with her from the first. She wa'n't so han'some, neither.
Blamed 'f I know how they do it; let 'em alone, 'f yer know when yer
're well off, 's my motter. She was red-headed, but her hair become her
somehow when she curled 'n' frizzed it over a karosene lamp, 'n' then
wound it round 'n' round her head like ropes o' carnelian. She hedn't
any particular kind of a nose nor mouth nor eyes, but gorry! when she
looked at yer, yer felt kind as if yer was turnin' to putty inside.”
“I know what yer mean,” said Steve interestedly.
“She hed a figger jest like them fashion-paper pictures you 've seen,
an' the very day any new styles come to Boston Fiddy Maddox would hev
'em before sundown; the biggest bustles 'n' the highest hats 'n' the
tightest skirts 'n' the longest tails to 'em; she'd git 'em somehow,
anyhow! Dixie wa'n't out o' money when he come here, an' a spell
afterwards there was more 'n a thousand dollars fell to him from his
father's folks down South. Well, Fiddy made that fly, I tell you! Dixie
bought a top buggy 'n' a sorrel hoss, 'n' they was on the road most o'
the time when he wa'n't to work; 'n' when he was, she 'd go with Lem
Simmons, 'n' Dixie none the wiser. Mis Maddox was lookin' up a new
husband jest then, so 't she didn't interfere”--
“She was the same kind o' goods, anyhow,” interpolated Ob Tarbox.
“Yes, she was one of them women folks that air so light-minded you can't
anchor 'em down with a sewin'-machine, nor a dishpan, nor a husband 'n'
young ones, nor no namable kind of a thing; the least wind blows 'em
here 'n' blows 'em there, like dandelion puffs. As time went on, the
widder got herself a beau now 'n' then; but as fast as she hooked 'em,
Fiddy up 'n' took 'em away from her. You see she 'd gethered in most of
her husbands afore Fiddy was old enough to hev her finger in the pie;
but she cut her eye-teeth early, Fiddy did, 'n' there wa'n't no kind of
a feller come to set up with the widder but she 'd everlastin'ly grab
him, if she hed any use fer him, 'n' then there 'd be Hail Columby, I
tell yer. But Dixie, he was 's blind 's a bat 'n' deef 's a post. He
could n't see nothin' but Fiddy, 'n' he couldn't see her very plain.”
“He hed warnin's enough,” put in Pitt Packard, though Jabe Slocum never
needed any assistance in spinning a yarn.
“Warnin's! I should think he hed. The Seventh Day Baptist minister went
so fur as to preach at him. 'The Apostle Paul gin heed,' was the text.
'Why did he gin heed?' says he. 'Because he heerd. If he hadn't 'a'
heerd, he couldn't 'a' gin heed, 'n' 't wouldn't 'a' done him no good
to 'a' heerd 'thout he gin heed!' Wall, it helped consid'ble many in
the congregation, 'specially them that was in the habit of hearin' 'n'
heedin', but it rolled right off Dixie like water off a duck's back. He
'n' Fiddy was seen over to the ballin' alley to Wareham next day, 'n'
they didn't come back for a week.”
“'He gin her his hand,
And he made her his own,'”
sang little Brad Gibson.
“He hed gin her his hand, but no minister nor trial-jestice nor
eighteen-carat ring nor stificate could 'a' made Fiddy Maddox anybody's
own 'ceptin' the devil's, an' he wouldn't 'a' married her; she'd 'a'
ben too near kin. We'd never 'spicioned she 'd git 's fur 's marryin'
anybody, 'n' she only married Dixie 'cause he told her he 'd take her to
the Wareham House to dinner, 'n' to the County Fair afterwards; if any
other feller hed offered to take her to supper, 'n' the theatre on top
o' that, she 'd 'a' married him instid.”
“How 'd the old woman take it?” asked Steve.
“She disowned her daughter _punctilio:_ in the first place, fer runnin'
away 'stid o' hevin' a church weddin'; 'n' second place, fer marryin' a
pauper (that was what she called him; 'n' it was true, for they 'd spent
every cent he hed); 'n' third place, fer alienatin' the 'fections of a
travelin' baker-man she hed her eye on fer herself. He was a kind of a
flour-food peddler, that used to drive a cart round by Hard Scrabble,
Moderation, 'n' Scratch Corner way. Mis' Maddox used to buy all her
baked victuals of him, 'specially after she found out he was a widower
beginnin' to take notice. His cart used to stand at her door so long
everybody on the rout would complain o' stale bread. But bime bye Fiddy
begun to set at her winder when he druv up, 'n' bime bye she pinned a
blue ribbon in her collar. When she done that, Mis' Maddox alles hed to
take a back seat. The boys used to call it a danger signal. It kind o'
drawed yer 'tention to p'ints 'bout her chin 'n' mouth 'n' neck, 'n' one
thing 'n' 'nother, in a way that was cal'lated to snarl up the thoughts
o' perfessors o' religion 'n' turn 'em earthways. There was a spell
I hed to say, '_Remember_ _Rhapseny!_ _Remember_ _Rhapseny!_' over to
myself whenever Fiddy put on her blue ribbons. Wall, as I say, Fiddy set
at the winder, the baker-man seen the blue ribbons, 'n' Mis' Maddox's
cake was dough. She put on a red ribbon; but land! her neck looked 's if
somebody 'd gone over it with a harrer! Then she stomped round 'n' slat
the dish-rag, but 't wa'n't no use. 'Gracious, mother,' says Fiddy, 'I
don't do nothin' but set at the winder. The sun shines for all.' 'You're
right it does,' says Mis' Maddox, ''n' that's jest what I complain of.
I'd like to get a change to shine on something myself.'
“But the baker-man kep' on comin', though when he got to the Maddoxes'
doorsteps he couldn't make change for a quarter nor tell pie from bread;
an' sure 's you're born, the very day Fiddy went away to be married to
Dixie, that mornin' she drawed that everlastin' numhead of a flour-food
peddler out into the orchard, 'n' cut off a lock o' her hair, 'n' tied
it up with a piece o' her blue ribbon, 'n' give it to him; an' old Mis'
Bascom says, when he went past her house he was gazin' at it 'n' kissin'
of it, 'n' his horse meanderin' on one side the road 'n' the other, 'n'
the door o' the cart open 'n' slammin' to 'n' fro, 'n' ginger cookies
spillin' out all over the lot. He come back to the Maddoxes next
morning' ['t wa'n't his day, but his hoss couldn't pull one way when
Fiddy's ribbon was pullin' t'other); an' when he found out she 'd gone
with Dixie, he cussed 'n' stomped 'n' took on like a loontic; an' when
Mis' Maddox hinted she was ready to heal the wownds Fiddy 'd inflicted,
he stomped 'n' cussed wuss 'n' ever, 'n' the neighbors say he called her
a hombly old trollop, an' fired the bread loaves all over the dooryard,
he was so crazy at bein' cheated.
“Wall, to go back to Dixie--I'll be comin' right along, boys.” (This to
Brad Gibson, who was taking his farewell drink of ginger tea preparatory
to beginning work.)
“I pity you, Steve!” exclaimed Brad, between deep swallows. “If you 'd
known when you was well off, you 'd 'a' stayed in Boston. If Jabe hed a
story started, he 'd talk three days after he was dead.”
“Go 'long; leave me be! Wall, as I was sayin', Dixie brought Fiddy home
['Dell,' he called her), an' they 'peared bride 'n' groom at meetin'
next Sunday. The last hundred dollars he hed in the world hed gone into
the weddin' tower 'n' on to Fiddy's back. He hed a new suit, 'n' he
looked like a major. You ain't got no idea what he was, 'cause his eyes
is dull now, 'n' he 's bowed all over, 'n' ain't shaved nor combed,
hardly; but they was the han'somest couple that ever walked up the broad
aisle. She hed on a green silk dress, an' a lace cape that was like a
skeeter nettin' over her neck an' showed her bare skin through, an' a
hat like an apple orchard in full bloom, hummin'-bird an' all. Dixie
kerried himself as proud as Lucifer. He didn't look at the minister 'n'
he didn't look at the congregation; his great eyes was glued on Fiddy,
as if he couldn't hardly keep from eatin' of her up. An' she behaved
consid'able well for a few months, as long 's the novelty lasted an' the
silk dresses was new. Before Christmas, though, she began to peter out
'n' git slack-twisted. She allers hated housework as bad as a pig would
a penwiper, an' Dixie hed to git his own breakfast afore he went to
work, or go off on an empty stomach. Many 's the time he 's got her
meals for her 'n' took 'em to her on a waiter. Them secesh fellers'll
wait on women folks long as they can stan' up.
“Then bime bye the baby come along; but that made things wuss 'stid o'
better. She didn't pay no more 'tention to it than if it hed belonged
to the town. She 'd go off to dances, an' leave Dixie to home tendin'
cradle; but that wa'n't no hardship to him for he was 'bout as much
wropped up in the child as he was in Fiddy. Wall, sir, 'bout a month ago
she up 'n' disappeared off the face o' the airth 'thout sayin' a word or
leavin' a letter. She took her clo'es, but she never thought o' takin'
the baby; one baby more or less didn't make no odds to her s' long 's
she hed that skeeter-nettin' cape. Dixie sarched fer her high an' low
fer a fortnight, but after that he give it up as a bad job. He found out
enough, I guess, to keep him pretty busy thinkin' what he 'd do next.
But day before yesterday the same circus that plays here this afternoon
was playin' to Wareham. A lot of us went over on the evenin' train, an'
we coaxed Dixie into goin', so 's to take his mind off his trouble. But
land! he didn't see nothin'. He 'd walk right up the lions 'n' tigers
in the menagerie as if they was cats 'n' chickens, an' all the time the
clown was singin' he looked like a dumb animile that 's hed a bullet put
in him. There was lots o' side shows, mermaids 'n' six-legged calves
'n' spotted girls, 'n' one thing 'n' 'nother, an' there was one o' them
whirligig machines with a mess o' rocking'-hosses goin' round 'n' round,
'n' an organ in the middle playin' like sixty. I wish we 'd 'a' kept
clear o' the thing, but as bad luck would hev it, we stopped to look,
an' there on top o' two high-steppin' white wooden hosses, set Mis'
Fiddy an' that dod-gasted light-complected baker-man! If ever she was
suited to a dot, it was jest then 'n' there. She could 'a' gone prancin'
round that there ring forever 'n' forever, with the whoopin' 'n'
hollerin' 'n' whizzin' 'n' whirlin' soundin' in her ears, 'n' the music
playin' like mad, 'n' she with nothin' to do but stick on 'n' let some
feller foot the bills. Somebody must 'a' ben thinkin' o' Fiddy Maddox
when the invented them whirl-a-go-rounds. She was laughin' 'n' carryin'
on like the old Scratch; her apple-blossom hat dome off, 'n' the
baker-man put it on, 'n' took consid'able time over it, 'n' pulled her
ear 'n' pinched her cheek when he got through; an' that was jest the
blamed minute we ketched sight of 'em. I pulled Dixie off, but I was
too late. He give a groan I shall remember to my dyin' day, 'n' then
he plunged out o' the crowd 'n' through the gate like a streak o'
lightnin'. We follered, but land! we couldn't find him, an' true as I
set here, I never expected to see him alive agin. But I did; I forgot
all about one thing, you see, 'n' that was the baby. If it wa'n't no
attraction to its mother, I guess he cal'lated it needed a father all
the more. Anyhow, he turned up in the field yesterday mornin', ready for
work, but lookin' as if he 'd hed his heart cut out 'n' a piece o' lead
put in the place of it.”
“I don't seem as if she 'd 'a' ben brazen enough to come back so near
him,” said Steve.
“Wall, I don't s'pose she hed any idea o' Dixie's bein' at a circus over
Wareham jest then; an' ten to one she didn't care if the whole town seen
her. She wanted to get rid of him, 'n' she didn't mind how she did it.
Dixie ain't one of the shootin' kinds, an' anyhow, Fiddy Maddox wa'n't
one to look ahead; whatever she wanted to do, that she done, from the
time she was knee high to a grasshopper. I've seen her set down by a
peck basket of apples, 'n' take a couple o' bites out o' one, 'n' then
heave it fur 's she could heave it 'n' start in on another, 'n' then
another; 'n' 't wa'n't a good apple year, neither. She'd everlastin'ly
spile 'bout a dozen of 'em 'n' smaller 'bout two mouthfuls. Doxy Morton,
now, would eat an apple clean down to the core, 'n' then count the seeds
'n' put 'em on the window-sill to dry, 'n' get up 'n' put the core
in the stove, 'n' wipe her hands on the roller towel, 'n' take up her
sewin' agin; 'n' if you 've got to be cuttin' 'nitials in tree bark an'
writin' of 'em in the grass with a stick like you 've ben doin' for the
last half-hour, you 're blamed lucky to be doin' _D_'s not _F_'s, like
Dixie there!”
*****
It was three o'clock in the afternoon. The men had dropped work and
gone to the circus. The hay was pronounced to be in a condition where
it could be left without much danger; but, for that matter, no man would
have stayed in the field to attend to another man's hay when there was a
circus in the neighborhood.
Dixie was mowing on alone, listening as in a dream to that subtle
something in the swish of the scythe that makes one seek to know the
song it is singing to the grasses.
“Hush, ah, hush, the scythes are saying,
Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying,
Hush, they sing to the clover deep;
Hush,--'t is the lullaby Time is singing,--
Hush, and heed not, for all things pass.
Hush, ah, hush! and the scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass.”
And now, spent with fatigue and watching and care and grief,--heart
sick, mind sick, body sick, sick with past suspense and present
certainty and future dread,--he sat under the cool shade of the nooning
tree, and buried his face in his hands. He was glad to be left alone
with his miseries,--glad that the other men, friendly as he felt them
to be, had gone to the circus, where he would not see or hear them for
hours to come.
How clearly he could conjure up the scene that they were enjoying with
such keen relish! Only two days before, he had walked among the same
tents, staring at horses and gay trappings and painted Amazons as one
who noted nothing; yet the agony of the thing he now saw at last lit up
all the rest as with a lightning flash, and burned the scene forever
on his brain and heart. It was at Wareham, too,--Wareham, where she had
promised to be his wife, where she had married him only a year before.
How well he remembered the night! They left the parsonage; they had
ten miles to drive in the moonlight before reaching their
stopping-place,--ten miles of such joy as only a man could know, he
thought, who had had the warm fruit of life hanging within full vision,
but just out of reach,--just above his longing lips; and then, in an
unlooked-for, gracious moment, his! He could swear she had loved him
that night, if never again.
But this picture passed away, and he saw that maddening circle with the
caracoling steeds. He head the discordant music, the monotonous creak of
the machinery, the strident laughter of the excited riders. As first the
thing was a blur, a kaleidoscope of whirling colors, into which there
presently crept form and order. ... A boy who had cried to get on, and
was now crying to get off. ... Old Rube Hobson and his young wife; Rube
looking white and scared, partly by the whizzing motion, and partly
by the prospect of paying out ten cents for the doubtful pleasure. ...
Pretty Hetty Dunnell with that young fellow from Portland; she too timid
to mount one of the mettle-some chargers, and snuggling close to him in
one of the circling seats. The, good Got!--Dell! sitting on a prancing
white horse, with the man he knew, the man he feared, riding beside her;
a man who kept holding on her hat with fingers that trembled,--the very
hat she “'peared bride in” a man who brushed a grasshopper from her
shoulder with an air of ownership, and, when she slapped his hand
coquettishly, even dared to pinch her pink cheek,--his wife's
cheek,--before that crowd of on-lookers! Merry-go-round, indeed! The
horrible thing was well named; and life was just like it,--a whirl of
happiness and misery, in which the music cannot play loud enough to
drown the creak of the machinery, in which one soul cries out in pain,
another in terror, and the rest laugh; but the prancing steeds gallop
on, gallop on, and once mounted, there is no getting off, unless...
There were some things it was not possible for a mean to bear! The
river! The river! He could hear it rippling over the sunny sands,
swirling among the logs, dashing and roaring under the bridge, rushing
to the sea's embrace. Could it tell whither it was hurrying? NO; but it
was escaping from its present bonds; it would never have to pass over
these same jagged rocks again. “On, on to the unknown!” called the
river. “I come! I come!” he roused himself to respond, when a faint,
faint, helpless voice broke in upon the mad clatter in his brain,
cleaving his torn heart in twain; not a real voice,--the half-forgotten
memory of one; a tender wail that had added fresh misery to his night's
vigil,--the baby!
But the feeble pipe was borne down by the swirl of the water as it
dashed between the rocky banks, still calling to him. If he could only
close his ears to it! But it still called--called still--the river! And
still the child's voice pierced the rush of sound with its pitiful
flute note, until the two resolved themselves into contesting strains,
answering each other antiphonally. The river--the baby--the river--the
baby; and in and through, and betwixt and between, there spun the
whirling merry-go-round, with its curveting wooden horses, its
discordant organ, and its creaking machinery.
But gradually the child's voice gained in strength, and as he heard it
more plainly the other sounds grew fainter, till at last, thank God!
they were hushed. The din, the whirlwind, and the tempest in his brain
were lulled into silence, as under a “Peace, be still!” and, worn out
with the contest, the man from Tennessee fell asleep under the grateful
shade of the nooning tree. So deep was the slumber that settled over
exhausted body and troubled spirit that the gathering clouds, the sudden
darkness, the distant muttering of thunder, the frightened twitter of
the birds, passed unnoticed. A heavy drop of rain pierced the thick
foliage and fell on his face, but the storm within had been too fierce
for him to heed the storm without. He slept on.
*****
Almost every man, woman, and child in the vicinity of Pleasant River
was on the way to the circus,--Boomer's Grand Six-in-One Universal
Consolidated Show; Brilliant Constellations of Fixed Stars shining in
the same Vast Firmament; Glittering Galaxies of World-Famous Equestrian
Artists; the biggest elephants, the funniest clowns, the pluckiest
riders, the stubbornest mules, the most amazing acrobats, the tallest
man and the shortest man, the thinnest woman and the thickest woman,
on the habitable globe; and no connection with any other show on earth,
especially Sypher's Two-in-One Show now devastating the same State.
If the advertisements setting forth these attractions were couched in
language somewhat rosier than the facts would warrant, there were few
persons calm enough to perceive it, when once the glamour of the village
parade and the smell of the menagerie had intoxicated the senses.
The circus had been the sole topic of conversation for a fortnight. Jot
Bascom could always be relied on for the latest and most authentic news
of its triumphant progress from one town to another. Jot was a sort of
town crier; and whenever the approach of a caravan was announced, he
would go over on the Liberty road to find out just where it was and what
were its immediate plans, for the thrilling pleasure of calling at every
one of the neighbors' on his way home, and delivering his budget of
news. He was an attendant at every funeral, and as far as possible at
every wedding, in the village; at every flag-raising and husking, and
town and county fair. When more pressing duties did not hinder, he
endeavored to meet the two daily trains that passed through Milliken's
Mills, a mile or two from Pleasant River. He accompanied the sheriff on
all journeys entailing serving of papers and other embarrassing duties
common to the law. On one occasion, when the two lawyers of the village
held an investigation before Trial Justice Simeon Porter, they waited
an hour because Jot Bascom did not come. They knew that something was
amiss, but it was only on reflection that they remembered that Jot was
not indispensable. He went with all paupers to the Poor Farm, and never
missed a town meeting. He knew all the conditions attending any swapping
of horses that occurred within a radius of twenty miles,--the terms of
the trade and the amount paid to boot. He knew who owed the fish-man and
who owed the meat-man, and who could not get trusted by either of them.
In fact, so far as the divine attributes of omniscience and omnipresence
could be vested in a faulty human creature, they were present in Jot
Bascom. That he was quite unable to attend conscientiously to home
duties, when overborne by press of public service, was true. When
Diadema Bascom wanted kindling split, wood brought in, the cows milked,
or the pigs fed, she commonly found her spouse serving humanity in bulk.
All the details of the approach of the Grand Six-in-One Show had,
therefore, been heralded to those work-sodden and unambitious persons
who tied themselves to their own wood-piles or haying-fields.