[Illustration: MR. COON INSISTED ON GADDING ABOUT. (Page 46)]
Aaron in the Wildwoods
BY
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
AUTHOR OF "UNCLE REMUS," ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED BY OLIVER HERFORD_
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1897
COPYRIGHT, 1897
BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS AND HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS.
PAGE
PRELUDE 1
I. THE LITTLE MASTER 23
II. THE SECRETS OF THE SWAMP 38
III. WHAT CHUNKY RILEY SAW AND HEARD 56
IV. BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND DAWN 74
V. THE HUNT BEGINS 92
VI. THE HUNT ENDS 111
VII. AARON SEES THE SIGNAL 129
VIII. THE HAPPENINGS OF A NIGHT 148
IX. THE UPSETTING OF MR. GOSSETT 166
X. CHUNKY RILEY SEES A QUEER SIGHT 185
XI. THE PROBLEM THAT TIMOLEON PRESENTED 202
XII. WHAT THE PATROLLERS SAW AND HEARD 219
XIII. THE APPARITION THE FOX HUNTERS SAW 237
XIV. THE LITTLE MASTER SAYS GOOD NIGHT 253
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
MR. COON INSISTED ON GADDING ABOUT _Frontispiece_.
IT WAS A SWAMP 8
THAT'S RANDALL'S SONG 32
MR. RED FOX MEETS MR. GRAY FOX 40
A-STRADDLE OF THE GRUNTER'S BACK 48
THE HORSES WERE RIGHT AT HIS HEELS 72
THE GOBLIN PAIN 76
THE SPRING OF COOL REFRESHING WATER 80
BRINDLE AND AARON 104
IN THE SWAMP 124
RAMBLER'S FIGHT WITH THE MOCCASIN 132
HE STOOD AS STILL AS A STATUE 144
IT WAS THE WHITE-HAIRED MASTER 160
THEY TORE HIM ALL TO FLINDERS 172
THE EXCITED HORSE PLUNGED ALONG 180
HE EDGED AWAY AS FAR AS HE COULD 188
AARON AND LITTLE CROTCHET 212
BEHIND A TREE STOOD GEORGE GOSSETT 216
THE BLACK STALLION 224
IT WAS FINE FOR MR. FOX 238
THE PHANTOM HORSEMAN 242
AARON AND TIMOLEON 250
BIG SAL HOLDS THE LITTLE MASTER 262
THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE MASTER 268
AARON IN THE WILDWOODS.
PRELUDE.
I.
Once upon a time there lived on a large plantation in Middle Georgia
a boy who was known as Little Crotchet. It was a very queer name, to
be sure, but it seemed to fit the lad to a T. When he was a wee bit
of a chap he fell seriously ill, and when, many weeks afterwards, the
doctors said the worst was over, it was found that he had lost the
use of his legs, and that he would never be able to run about and
play as other children do. When he was told about this he laughed,
and said he had known all along that he would never be able to run
about on his feet again; but he had plans of his own, and he told his
father that he wanted a pair of crutches made.
"But you can't use them, my son," said his father.
"Anyhow, I can try," insisted the lad.
The doctors were told of his desire, and these wise men put their
heads together.
"It is a crotchet," they declared, "but it will be no harm for him to
try."
"It is a little crotchet," said his mother, "and he shall have the
crutches."
Thus it came about that the lad got both his name and his crutches,
for his father insisted on calling him Little Crotchet after that,
and he also insisted on sending all the way to Philadelphia for the
crutches. They seemed to be a long time in coming, for in those days
they had to be brought to Charleston in a sailing vessel, and then
sent by way of Augusta in a stage-coach; but when they came they were
very welcome, for Little Crotchet had been inquiring for them every
day in the week, and Sunday too. And yet when they came, strange to
say, he seemed to have lost his interest in them. His mother brought
them in joyously, but there was not even a glad smile on the lad's
face. He looked at them gravely, weighed them in his hands, laid them
across the foot of the bed, and then turned his head on his pillow,
as if he wanted to go to sleep. His mother was surprised, and not
a little hurt, as mothers will be when they do not understand their
children; but she respected his wishes, darkened the room, kissed her
boy, and closed the door gently.
When everything was still, Little Crotchet sat up in bed, seized
his crutches, and proceeded to try them. He did this every day for
a week, and at the end of that time surprised everybody in the
house, and on the place as well, by marching out on his crutches,
and going from room to room without so much as touching his feet to
the floor. It seemed to be a most wonderful feat to perform, and
so it was; but Providence, in depriving the lad of the use of his
legs, had correspondingly strengthened the muscles of his chest and
arms, so that within a month he could use his crutches almost as
nimbly and quite as safely as other boys use their feet. He could go
upstairs and downstairs and walk about the place with as much ease,
apparently, as those not afflicted, and it was not strange that the
negroes regarded the performance with wonder akin to awe, declaring
among themselves that their young master was upheld and supported by
"de sperits."
And indeed it was a queer sight to see the frail lad going boldly
about on crutches, his feet not touching the ground. The sight seemed
to make the pet name of Little Crotchet more appropriate than ever.
So his name stuck to him, even after he got his Gray Pony, and became
a familiar figure in town and in country, as he went galloping about,
his crutches strapped to the saddle, and dangling as gayly as the
sword of some fine general. Thus it came to pass that no one was
surprised when Little Crotchet went cantering along, his Gray Pony
snorting fiercely, and seeming never to tire. Early or late, whenever
the neighbors heard the short, sharp snort of the Gray Pony and the
rattling of the crutches, they would turn to one another and say,
"Little Crotchet!" and that would be explanation enough. There seemed
to be some sort of understanding between him and his Gray Pony.
Anybody could ride the Gray Pony in the pasture or in the grove
around the house, but when it came to going out by the big gate, that
was another matter. He could neither be led nor driven beyond that
boundary by any one except Little Crotchet. It was the same when
it came to crossing water. The Gray Pony would not cross over the
smallest running brook for any one but Little Crotchet; but with the
lad on his back he would plunge into the deepest stream, and, if need
be, swim across it. All this deepened and confirmed in the minds of
the negroes the idea that Little Crotchet was upheld and protected by
"de sperits." They had heard him talking to the Gray Pony, and they
had heard the Gray Pony whinny in reply. They had seen the Gray Pony
with their little master on his back go gladly out at the big gate
and rush with a snort through the plantation creek,--a bold and at
times a dangerous stream. Seeing these things, and knowing the temper
of the pony, they had no trouble in coming to the conclusion that
something supernatural was behind it all.
II.
Thus it happened that Little Crotchet and his Gray Pony were pretty
well known through all the country-side, for it seemed that he was
never tired of riding, and that the pony was never tired of going.
What was the rider's errand? Nobody knew. Why should he go skimming
along the red road at day dawn? And why should he come whirling back
at dusk,--a red cloud of dust rising beneath the Gray Pony's feet?
Nobody could tell.
This was almost as much of a puzzle to some of the whites as it
was to the negroes; but this mystery, if it could be called such,
was soon eclipsed by a phenomenon that worried some of the wisest
dwellers in that region. This phenomenon, apparently very simple,
began to manifest itself in early fall, and continued all through
that season and during the winter and on through the spring, until
warm weather set in. It was in the shape of a thin column of blue
smoke that could be seen on any clear morning or late afternoon
rising from the centre of Spivey's Canebrake. This place was called
a canebrake because a thick, almost impenetrable, growth of canes
fringed the edge of a mile-wide basin lying between the bluffs of the
Oconee River and the uplands beyond. Instead of being a canebrake
it was a vast swamp, the site of cool but apparently stagnant ponds
and of treacherous quagmires, in which cows, and even horses, had
been known to disappear and perish. The cowitch grew there, and the
yellow plumes of the poison-oak vine glittered like small torches.
There, too, the thunder-wood tree exuded its poisonous milk, and long
serpent-like vines wound themselves around and through the trees, and
helped to shut out the sunlight. It was a swamp, and a very dismal
one. The night birds gathered there to sleep during the day, and all
sorts of creatures that shunned the sunlight or hated man found a
refuge there. If the negroes had made paths through its recesses to
enable them to avoid the patrol, nobody knew it but themselves.
Why, then, should a thin but steady stream of blue smoke be
constantly rising upwards from the centre of Spivey's Canebrake? It
was a mystery to those who first discovered it, and it soon grew to
be a neighborhood mystery. During the summer the smoke could not be
seen, but in the fall and winter its small thin volume went curling
upward continually. Little Crotchet often watched it from the brow of
Turner's Hill, the highest part of the uplands. Early in the morning
or late in the afternoon the vapor would rise from the Oconee; but
the vapor was white and heavy, and was blown about by the wind,
while the smoke in the swamp was blue and thin, and rose straight in
the air above the tops of the trees in spite of the wayward winds.
Once when Little Crotchet was sitting on his pony watching the blue
smoke rise from the swamp he saw two of the neighbor farmers coming
along the highway. They stopped and shook hands with the lad, and
then turned to watch the thin stream of blue smoke. The morning was
clear and still, and the smoke rose straight in the air, until it
seemed to mingle with the upper blue. The two farmers were father
and son,--Jonathan Gadsby and his son Ben. They were both very well
acquainted with Little Crotchet,--as, indeed, everybody in the county
was,--and he was so bright and queer that they stood somewhat in awe
of him.
"I reckin if I had a pony that wasn't afeard of nothin' I'd go right
straight and find out where that fire is, and what it is," remarked
Ben Gadsby.
This stirred his father's ire apparently. "Why, Benjamin! Why, what
on the face of the earth do you mean? Ride into that swamp! Why, you
must have lost what little sense you had when you was born! I
remember, jest as well as if it was day before yesterday, when Uncle
Jimmy Cosby's red steer got in that swamp, and we couldn't git him
out. Git him out, did I say? We couldn't even git nigh him. We could
hear him beller, but we never got where we could see ha'r nor hide
of him. If I was thirty year younger I'd take my foot in my hand and
wade in there and see where the smoke comes from."
[Illustration: IT WAS A SWAMP]
Little Crotchet laughed. "If I had two good legs," said he, "I'd soon
see what the trouble is."
This awoke Ben Gadsby's ambition. "I believe I'll go in there and see
where the fire is."
"Fire!" exclaimed old Mr. Gadsby, with some irritation. "Who said
anything about fire? What living and moving creetur could build a
fire in that thicket? I'd like mighty well to lay my eyes on him."
"Well," said Ben Gadsby, "where you see smoke there's obliged to be
fire. I've heard you say that yourself."
"Me?" exclaimed Mr. Jonathan Gadsby, with a show of alarm in the
midst of his indignation. "Did I say that? Well, it was when I
wasn't so much as thinking that my two eyes were my own. What about
foxfire? Suppose that some quagmire or other in that there swamp has
gone and got up a ruction on its own hook? Smoke without fire? Why,
I've seed it many a time. And maybe that smoke comes from an eruption
in the ground. What then? Who's going to know where the fire is?"
Little Crotchet laughed, but Ben Gadsby put on a very bold front.
"Well," said he, "I can find bee-trees, and I'll find where that fire
is."
"Well, sir," remarked Mr. Jonathan Gadsby, looking at his son with
an air of pride, "find out where the smoke comes from, and we'll not
expect you to see the fire."
"I wish I could go with you," said Little Crotchet.
"I don't need any company," replied Ben Gadsby. "I've done made up my
mind, and I a-going to show the folks around here that where there's
so much smoke there's obliged to be some fire."
The young man, knowing that he had some warm work before him, pulled
off his coat, and tied the sleeves over his shoulder, sash fashion.
Then he waved his hand to his father and to Little Crotchet, and went
rapidly down the hill. He had undertaken the adventure in a spirit of
bravado. He knew that a number of the neighbors had tried to solve
the mystery of the smoke in the swamp and had failed. He thought,
too, that he would fail; and yet he was urged on by the belief that
if he should happen to succeed, all the boys and all the girls in the
neighborhood would regard him as a wonderful young man. He had the
same ambition that animated the knight of old, but on a smaller scale.
III.
Now it chanced that Little Crotchet himself was on his way to the
smoke in the swamp. He had been watching it, and wondering whether he
should go to it by the path he knew, or whether he should go by the
road that Aaron, the runaway, had told him of. Ben Gadsby interfered
with his plans somewhat; for quite by accident, young Gadsby as he
went down the hill struck into the path that Little Crotchet knew.
There was a chance to gallop along the brow of the hill, turn to the
left, plunge through a shallow lagoon, and strike into the path ahead
of Gadsby, and this chance Little Crotchet took. He waved his hand to
Mr. Jonathan Gadsby, gave the Gray Pony the rein, and went galloping
through the underbrush, his crutches rattling, and the rings of the
bridle-bit jingling. To Mr. Jonathan Gadsby it seemed that the lad
was riding recklessly, and he groaned and shook his head as he turned
and went on his way.
But Little Crotchet rode on. Turning sharply to the left as soon
as he got out of sight, he went plunging through the lagoon, and
was soon going along the blind path a quarter of a mile ahead of
Ben Gadsby. This is why young Gadsby was so much disturbed that he
lost his way. He was bold enough when he started out, but by the
time he had descended the hill and struck into what he thought was
a cattle-path his courage began to fail him. The tall canes seemed
to bend above him in a threatening manner. The silence oppressed
him. Everything was so still that the echo of his own movements as
he brushed along the narrow path seemed to develop into ominous
whispers, as if all the goblins he had ever heard of had congregated
in front of him to bar his way.
The silence, with its strange echoes, was bad enough, but when he
heard the snorting of Little Crotchet's Gray Pony as it plunged
through the lagoon, the rattle of the crutches and the jingling of
the bridle-bit, he fell into a panic. What great beast could it be
that went helter-skelter through this dark and silent swamp, swimming
through the water and tearing through the quagmires? And yet, when
Ben Gadsby would have turned back, the rank undergrowth and the
trailing vines had quite obscured the track. The fear that impelled
him to retrace his steps was equally powerful in impelling him to go
forward. And this seemed the easiest plan. He felt that it would be
just as safe to go on, having once made the venture, as to turn back.
He had a presentiment that he would never find his way out anyhow,
and the panic he was in nerved him to the point of desperation.
So on he went, not always trying to follow the path, but plunging
forward aimlessly. In half an hour he was calmer, and pretty soon he
found the ground firm under his feet. His instincts as a bee-hunter
came back to him. He had started in from the east side, and he paused
to take his bearings. But it was hard to see the sun, and in the
recesses of the swamp the mosses grew on all sides of the trees. And
yet there was a difference, which Ben Gadsby did not fail to discover
and take account of. They grew thicker and larger on the north side,
and remembering this, he went forward with more confidence.
He found that the middle of the swamp was comparatively dry. Huge
poplar-trees stood ranged about, the largest he had ever seen. In the
midst of a group of trees he found one that was hollow, and in this
hollow he found the smouldering embers of a fire. But for the strange
silence that surrounded him he would have given a whoop of triumph;
but he restrained himself. Bee-hunter that he was, he took his coat
from his shoulders and tied it around a small slim sapling standing
near the big poplar where he had found the fire. It was his way when
he found a bee-tree. It was a sort of guide. In returning he would
take the general direction, and then hunt about until he found his
coat; and it was much easier to find a tree tagged with a coat than
it was to find one not similarly marked.
Thus, instead of whooping triumphantly, Ben Gadsby simply tied his
coat about the nearest sapling, nodding his head significantly as he
did so. He had unearthed the secret and unraveled the mystery, and
now he would go and call in such of the neighbors as were near at
hand and show them what a simple thing the great mystery was. He knew
that he had found the hiding-place of Aaron, the runaway. So he fixed
his "landmark," and started out of the swamp with a lighter heart
than he had when he came in.
To make sure of his latitude and longitude, he turned in his tracks
when he had gone a little distance and looked for the tree on which
he had tied his coat. But it was not to be seen. He re-traced his
steps, trying to find his coat. Looking about him cautiously, he
saw the garment after a while, but it was in an entirely different
direction from what he supposed it would be. It was tied to a
sapling, and the sapling was near a big poplar. To satisfy himself,
he returned to make a closer examination. Sure enough, there was the
coat, but the poplar close by was not a hollow poplar, nor was it
as large as the tree in which Ben Gadsby had found the smouldering
embers of a fire.
He sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and scratched his head, and
discussed the matter in his mind the best he could. Finally he
concluded that it would be a very easy matter, after he found his
coat again, to find the hollow poplar. So he started home again. But
he had not gone far when he turned around to take another view of his
coat.
It had disappeared. Ben Gadsby looked carefully around, and then a
feeling of terror crept over his whole body--a feeling that nearly
paralyzed his limbs. He tried to overcome this feeling, and did so
to a certain degree. He plucked up sufficient courage to return and
try to find his coat; but the task was indeed bewildering. He thought
he had never seen so many large poplars with small slim saplings
standing near them, and then he began to wander around almost
aimlessly.
IV.
Suddenly he heard a scream that almost paralyzed him--a scream
that was followed by the sound of a struggle going on in the thick
undergrowth close at hand. He could see the muddy water splash above
the bushes, and he could hear fierce growlings and gruntings. Before
he could make up his mind what to do, a gigantic mulatto, with torn
clothes and staring eyes, rushed out of the swamp and came rushing
by, closely pursued by a big white boar with open mouth and fierce
cries. The white boar was right at the mulatto's heels, and his
yellow tusks gleamed viciously as he ran with open mouth. Pursuer and
pursued disappeared in the bushes with a splash and a crash, and then
all was as still as before. In fact, the silence seemed profounder
for this uncanny and appalling disturbance. It was so unnatural that
half a minute after it happened Ben Gadsby was not certain whether it
had occurred at all. He was a pretty bold youth, having been used to
the woods and fields all his life, but he had now beheld a spectacle
so out of the ordinary, and of so startling a character, that he made
haste to get out of the swamp as fast as his legs, weakened by fear,
would carry him.
More than once, as he made his way out of the swamp, he paused to
listen; and it seemed that each time he paused an owl, or some other
bird of noiseless wing, made a sudden swoop at his head. Beyond the
exclamation he made when this happened the silence was unbroken.
This experience was unusual enough to hasten his steps, even if he
had had no other motive for haste.
When nearly out of the swamp, he came upon a large poplar, by the
side of which a small slim sapling was growing. Tied around this
sapling was his coat, which he thought he had left in the middle of
the swamp. The sight almost took his breath away.
He examined the coat carefully, and found that the sleeves were tied
around the tree just as he had tied them. He felt in the pockets.
Everything was just as he had left it. He examined the poplar; it was
hollow, and in the hollow was a pile of ashes.
"Well!" exclaimed Ben Gadsby. "I'm the biggest fool that ever walked
the earth. If I ain't been asleep and dreamed all this, I'm crazy;
and if I've been asleep, I'm a fool."
His experience had been so queer and so confusing that he promised
himself he'd never tell it where any of the older people could hear
it, for he knew that they would not only treat his tale with scorn
and contempt, but would make him the butt of ridicule among the
younger folks. "I know exactly what they'd say," he remarked to
himself. "They'd declare that a skeer'd hog run across my path, and
that I was skeer'der than the hog."
So Ben Gadsby took his coat from the sapling, and went trudging along
his way toward the big road. When he reached that point he turned and
looked toward the swamp. Much to his surprise, the stream of blue
smoke was still flowing upward. He rubbed his eyes and looked again,
but there was the smoke. His surprise was still greater when he saw
Little Crotchet and the Gray Pony come ambling up the hill in the
path he had just come over.
"What did you find?" asked Little Crotchet, as he reined in the Gray
Pony.
"Nothing--nothing at all," replied Ben Gadsby, determined not to
commit himself.
"Nothing?" cried Little Crotchet. "Well, you ought to have been with
me! Why, I saw sights! The birds flew in my face, and when I got in
the middle of the swamp a big white hog came rushing out, and if this
Gray Pony hadn't been the nimblest of his kind, you'd never have seen
me any more."
"Is that so?" asked Ben Gadsby, in a dazed way. "Well, I declare!
'Twas all quiet with me. I just went in and come out again, and
that's all there is to it."
"I wish I'd been with you," said Little Crotchet, with a curious
laugh. "Good-by!"
With that he wheeled the Gray Pony and rode off home. Ben Gadsby
watched Little Crotchet out of sight, and then, with a gesture of
despair, surprise, or indignation, flung his coat on the ground,
crying, "Well, by jing!"
V.
That night there was so much laughter in the top story of the
Abercrombie house that the Colonel himself came to the foot of the
stairs and called out to know what the matter was.
"It's nobody but me," replied Little Crotchet. "I was just laughing."
Colonel Abercrombie paused, as if waiting for some further
explanation, but hearing none, said, "Good-night, my son, and God
bless you!"
"Good-night, father dear," exclaimed the lad, flinging a kiss at the
shadow his father's candle flung on the wall. Then he turned again
into his own room, where Aaron the Arab (son of Ben Ali) sat leaning
against the wall, as silent and as impassive as a block of tawny
marble.
Little Crotchet lay back in his bed, and the two were silent for a
time. Finally Aaron said:--
"The White Grunter carried his play too far. He nipped a piece from
my leg."
"I never saw anything like it," remarked little Crotchet. "I thought
the White Pig was angry. You did that to frighten Ben Gadsby."
"Yes, Little Master," responded Aaron, "and I'm thinking the young
man will never hunt for the smoke in the swamp any more."
Little Crotchet laughed again, as he remembered how Ben Gadsby looked
as Aaron and the White Pig went careening across the dry place in
the swamp. There was a silence again, and then Aaron said he must be
going.
"And when are you going home to your master?" Little Crotchet asked.
"Never!" replied Aaron the runaway, with emphasis. "Never! He is no
master of mine. He is a bad man."
Then he undressed Little Crotchet, tucked the cover about him,--for
the nights were growing chill,--whispered good-night, and slipped
from the window, letting down the sash gently as he went out. If any
one had been watching, he would have seen the tall Arab steal along
the roof until he came to the limb of an oak that touched the eaves.
Along this he went nimbly, glided down the trunk to the ground, and
disappeared in the darkness.
I.
THE LITTLE MASTER.
If you imagine that the book called "The Story of Aaron (so-named),
the Son of Ben Ali" tells all the adventures of the Arab while he
was a fugitive in the wildwoods, you are very much mistaken. If
you will go back to that book you will see that Timoleon the black
stallion, Grunter the white pig, Gristle the gray pony, and Rambler
the track dog, told only what they were asked to tell. And they were
not anxious to tell even that. They would much rather have been left
alone. What they did tell they told without any flourishes whatever,
for they wanted to get through and be done with it. Story-telling was
not in their line, and they knew it very well; so they said what they
had to say and that was the end of it so far as they were concerned:
setting a worthy example to men and women, and to children, too.
It is natural, therefore, that a man such as Aaron was, full
of courage and valuable to the man who had bought him from the
speculator, should have many adventures that the animals knew nothing
of, or, if they knew, had no occasion to relate. In the book you will
find that Buster John and Sweetest Susan asked only about such things
as they heard of incidentally. But some of the most interesting
things were never mentioned by Aaron at all; consequently the
children never asked about them.
Little Crotchet, it will be remembered, who knew more about the
matter than anybody except Aaron, was dead, and so there was nobody
to give the children any hint or cue as to the questions they were
to ask. You will say they had Aaron close at hand. That is true,
but Aaron was busy, and besides that he was not fond of talking,
especially about himself.
And yet, the most of the adventures Aaron had in the wildwoods were
no secret. They were well known to the people in the neighborhood,
and for miles around. In fact, they were made the subject of a great
deal of talk in Little Crotchet's day, and many men (and women
too) who were old enough to be wise shook their heads over some of
the events and declared that they had never heard of anything more
mysterious. And it so happened that this idea of mystery deepened and
grew until it made a very romantic figure of Aaron, and was a great
help to him, not only when he was a fugitive in the wildwoods, but
afterwards when he "settled down," as the saying is, and turned his
attention to looking after affairs on the Abercrombie plantation.
All this happened before Buster John and Sweetest Susan were born,
while their mother was a girl in her teens. When Little Crotchet was
alive things on the Abercrombie plantation were very different from
what they were before or afterward. It is true the lad was a cripple
and had to go on crutches, except when he was riding Gristle, the
Gray Pony. But he was very active and nimble, and very restless, too,
for he was here, there, and everywhere. More than that, he was always
in a good humor, always cheerful, and most of the time laughing
at his own thoughts or at something he had heard. For it was well
understood on that plantation, and, indeed, wherever little Crotchet
was familiarly known, that, as he was something of an invalid, and
such a little bit of a fellow to boot, nothing unpleasant was to come
to his ears. If he found out about trouble anywhere he was to find it
out for himself, and without help from anybody else.
But although little Crotchet was small and crippled, he had a very
wise head on his shoulders. One of the first things he found out was
that everybody was in a conspiracy to prevent unpleasant things from
coming to his ears, and the idea that he was to be humbugged in this
way made him laugh, it was so funny. He said to himself that if he
could have troubles while everybody was trying to help him along and
make life pleasant for him, surely other people who had nobody to
look out for them must have much larger troubles. And he found it to
be true, although he never said much about it.
The truth is that while people thought they were humbugging little
Crotchet, he was humbugging everybody except a few who knew what
a shrewd little chap he was. These few had found out that little
Crotchet knew a great deal more about the troubles that visit the
unfortunate in this world than anybody knew about his troubles--and
he had many.
It was very peculiar. He would go galloping about the plantation on
the Gray Pony, and no matter where he stopped there was always a
negro ready to let down the bars or the fence. How could this be?
Why, it was the simplest matter in the world. It made no difference
where the field hands were working, nor what they were doing, they
were always watching for their Little Master, as they called him.
They were sure to know when he was coming--sure to see him; and no
matter how high the fence was, down it would come whenever the Gray
Pony was brought to a standstill.
It was a sight to see the hoe hands or the plow hands when their
Little Master went riding among them. It was hats off and "howdy,
honey," with all, and that was something the White-Haired Master
never saw unless he was riding with Little Crotchet, which sometimes
happened. Once the White-Haired Master said to Little Crotchet, "They
all love you because you are good, my son." But Little Crotchet was
quick to reply:--
"Oh, no, father; it isn't that. It's because I am fond of them!"
Now, wasn't he wise for his age? He had stumbled upon the great
secret that makes all the happiness there is in this world. The
negroes loved him because he was fond of them. He used to sit on the
Gray Pony and watch the hands hoeing and plowing; and although they
did their best when he was around, he never failed to find out the
tired ones and send them on little errands that would rest them. To
one it was "Get me a keen switch." To another, "See if you can find
me any flowers."
One of the worst negroes on the plantation was Big Sal, a mulatto
woman. She had a tongue and a temper that nothing could conquer. Once
Little Crotchet, sitting on the Gray Pony, saw her hoeing away with
a rag tied around her forehead under her head handkerchief. So he
called her out of the gang, and she came with no very good grace, and
only then because some of the other negroes shamed her into it. No
doubt Little Crotchet heard her disputing with them, but he paid no
attention to it. When Big Sal came up, he simply said:--
"Help me off the horse. I have a headache sometimes, and I feel it
coming on now. I want you to sit here and rub my head for me if you
are not too tired."
"What wid?" cried big Sal. "My han's too dirty."
"You get the headache out, and I'll get the dirt off," said Little
Crotchet, laughing.
Big Sal laughed too, cleaned her hands the best she could, and
rubbed the youngster's head for him, while the Gray Pony nibbled the
crabgrass growing near. But presently, when Little Crotchet opened
his eyes, he found that Big Sal was crying. She was making no fuss
about it, but as she sat with the child's head in her lap the tears
were streaming down her face like water.
"What are you crying about?" Little Crotchet asked.
"God A'mighty knows, honey. I'm des a-cryin', an' ef de angels fum
heav'm wuz ter come down an' ax me, I couldn't tell um no mo' dan
dat."
This was true enough. The lonely heart had been touched without
knowing why. But Little Crotchet knew.
"I reckon it's because you had the headache," he said.
"I speck so," answered Big Sal. "It looked like my head'd bust when
you hollered at me, but de pain all done gone now."
"I'm glad," replied Little Crotchet. "I hope my head will quit aching
presently. Sometimes it aches all night long."
"Well, suh!" exclaimed Big Sal. It was all she could say.
Finally, when she had lifted Little Crotchet to his saddle (which was
easy enough to do, he was so small and frail) and returned, Uncle
Turin, foreman of the hoe hands, remarked:--
"You'll be feelin' mighty biggity now, I speck."
"Who? Me?" cried Big Sal. "God knows, I feel so little an' mean I
could t'ar my ha'r out by de han'ful."
Uncle Turin, simple and kindly old soul, never knew then nor later
what Big Sal meant, but ever afterwards, whenever the woman had one
of her tantrums, she went straight to her Little Master, and if she
sometimes came away from him crying it was not his fault. If she was
crying it was because she was comforted, and it all seemed so simple
and natural to her that she never failed to express a deep desire to
tear her hair out if anybody asked her where she had been or where
she was going.
It was not such an easy matter to reach the plow hands. The fields
were wide and the furrows were long on that plantation, and some of
the mules were nimbler than the others, and some of the hands were
quicker. So that it rarely happened that they all came down the
furrows abreast. But what difference did that make? Let them come one
by one, or two by two, or twenty abreast, it was all the same when
the Little Master was in sight. It was hats off and "howdy," with
"Gee, Beck!" and "Haw, Rhody!" and "Whar you been, Little Marster,
dat we ain't seed you sence day 'fo' yistiddy?" And so until they had
all saluted the child on the Gray Pony.
And why did Susy's Sam hang back and want to turn his mule around
before he had finished the furrow? It was easy to see. Susy's Sam,
though he was the most expert plowman in the gang, had only one good
hand, the other being a mere stump, and he disliked to be singled out
from the rest on that account. But it was useless for him to hang
back. Little Crotchet always called for Susy's Sam. Sometimes Sam
would say that his mule was frisky and wouldn't stand. But the word
would come, "Well, drive the mule out in the bushes," and then Susy's
Sam would have a long resting spell that did him good, and there
would be nobody to complain. And so it was with the rest. Whoever was
sick or tired was sure to catch the Little Master's eye. How did he
know? Well, don't ask too many questions about that. You might ask
how the Gray Pony knew the poison vines and grasses. It was a case of
just knowing, without knowing where the knowledge came from.
But it was not only the plow hands and the hoe hands that Little
Crotchet knew about. At the close of summer there were the cotton
pickers and the reapers to be looked after. In fact, this was Little
Crotchet's busiest time, for many of the negro children were set
to picking cotton, and the lad felt called on to look after these
more carefully than he looked after the grown hands. Many a time he
had half a dozen holding the Gray Pony at once. This made the older
negroes shake their heads, and say that the Little Master was
spoiling the children, but you may be sure that they thought none the
less of him on that account.
[Illustration: THAT'S RANDALL'S SONG]
And then there were the reapers, the men who cut the oats and the
wheat, and the binders that followed after. At the head of the
reapers was Randall, tall, black, and powerful. It was fun to see
the blade of his cradle flashing in the sun, and hear it swing with
a swish through the golden grain. He led the reapers always by many
yards, but when he was making the pace too hot for them he had a way
of stopping to sharpen his scythe and starting up a song which spread
from mouth to mouth until it could be heard for miles. Aaron, hiding
in the wildwoods, could hear it, and at such times he would turn to
one of his companions--the White Pig, or Rambler, or that gay joker,
the Fox Squirrel--and say: "That's Randall's song. He sees the Little
Master coming."
The White Pig would grunt, and Rambler would say he'd rather hear a
horn; but the Red Squirrel would chatter like mad and declare that he
lost one of his ears by sitting on a limb of the live oak and singing
when he saw a man coming.
But the reapers knew nothing about the experience of the Fox
Squirrel, and so they went on singing whenever Randall gave the word.
And Little Crotchet was glad to hear them, for he used to sit on the
Gray Pony and listen, sometimes feeling happy, and at other times
feeling lonely indeed. It may have been the quaint melody that gave
him a lonely feeling, or it may have been his sympathy for those who
suffer the pains of disease or the pangs of trouble. The negroes used
to watch him as they sang and worked, and say in the pauses of their
song:--
"Little marster mighty funny!"
That was the word,--"funny,"--and yet it had a deeper meaning
for the negroes than the white people ever gave it. Funny!--when
the lad leaned his pale cheek on the frail hand, and allowed his
thoughts (were they thoughts or fleeting aspirations or momentary
longings?) to follow the swift, sweet echoes of the song. For the
echoes had a thousand nimble feet, and with these they fled away,
away,--away beyond the river and its bordering hills; for the echoes
had twangling wings, like those of a turtle-dove, and on these they
lifted themselves heavenward, and floated above the world, and above
the toil and trouble and sorrow and pain that dwell therein.
Funny!--when the voice of some singer, sweeter and more powerful
than the rest, rose suddenly from the pauses of the song, and gave
words, as it seemed, to all the suffering that the Little Master had
ever known. Aye! so funny that at such times Little Crotchet would
suddenly wave his hand to the singing reapers, and turn the Gray
Pony's head toward the river. Was he following the rolling echoes? He
could never hope to overtake them.
Once when this happened Uncle Fountain stopped singing to say:--
"I wish I wuz a runaway nigger!"
"No, you don't!" exclaimed Randall.
"Yes, I does," Uncle Fountain insisted.
"How come?"
"Kaze den I'd have little Marster runnin' atter me ev'y chance he
got."
"Go 'way, nigger man! You'd have Jim Simmons's nigger dogs atter you,
an' den what'd you do?"
"Dat ar Aaron had um atter 'im, an' what'd he do?"
"De Lord, He knows,--I don't! But don't you git de consate in yo'
min' dat you kin do what Aaron done done, kaze you'll fool yo'se'f,
sho!"
"What Aaron done done?" Fountain was persistent.
"He done fool dem ar nigger dogs; dat what he done done."
"Den how come I can't fool dem ar dogs?"
"How come? Well, you des try um one time, mo' speshully dat ar
col'-nose dog, which he name Soun'."
"Well, I ain't bleege ter try it when de white folks treat me right,"
remarked Uncle Fountain, after thinking the matter over.
"Dat what make I say what I does," asserted Randall. "When you know
'zactly what you got, an' when you got mighty nigh what you want,
dat's de time ter lay low an' say nothin'. Hit's some trouble ter git
de corn off'n de cob, but spozen dey want no corn on de cob, what
den?"
"Honey, ain't it de trufe?" exclaimed Uncle Fountain.
Thus the negroes talked. They knew a great deal more about Aaron
than the white people did, but even the negroes didn't know as much
as the Little Master, and for a very good reason. They had no time to
find out things, except at night, and at night--well, you may believe
it or not, just as you please, but at night the door of the Swamp was
closed and locked--locked hard and fast. The owls, the night hawks,
the whippoorwills, and the chuck-will's widows could fly over. Yes,
and the Willis Whistlers could creep through or crawl under when they
returned home from their wild serenades. But everything else--even
that red joker, the Fox Squirrel--must have a key. Aaron had one, and
the White Grunter, and Rambler, and all the four-footed creatures
that walk on horn sandals or in velvet slippers each had a key. The
Little Master might have had one for the asking, but always when
night came he was glad to lie on his sofa and read, or, better still,
go to bed and sleep, so that he never had the need of a key to open
the door of the Swamp after it was closed and locked at night.
II.
THE SECRETS OF THE SWAMP.
However hard and fast the door of the Swamp may be locked at night,
however tightly it may be shut, it opens quickly enough to whomsoever
carries the key. There is no creaking of its vast and heavy hinges;
there is not the faintest flutter of a leaf, nor the softest whisper
of a blade of grass. That is the bargain the bearer of the key must
make:--
_That which sleeps, disturb not its slumber.
That which moves, let it swiftly pass._
Else the Swamp will never reveal itself. The sound of one alien
footfall is enough. It is the signal for each secret to hide itself,
and for all the mysteries to vanish into mystery. The Swamp calls
them all in, covers them as with a mantle, and puts on its every-day
disguise,--the disguise that the eyes of few mortals have ever
penetrated. But those who stand by the bargain that all key-bearers
must make--whether they go on two legs or on four, whether they fly
or crawl or creep or swim--find the Swamp more friendly. There is no
disguise anywhere. The secrets come swarming forth from all possible
or impossible places; and the mysteries, led by their torch-bearer
Jack-o'-the-Lantern, glide through the tall canes and move about
among the tall trees.
The unfathomable blackness of night never sets foot here. It is an
alien and is shut out. And this is one of the mysteries. If, when the
door of the Swamp is opened to a key-bearer the black night seems
to have crept in, wait a moment,--have patience. It is a delusion.
Underneath this leafy covering, in the midst of this dense growth of
vines and saw-grass and reeds and canes, there is always a wonderful
hint of dawn--a shadowy, shimmering hint, elusive and indescribable,
but yet sufficient to give dim shape to that which is near at hand.
Not far away the frightened squeak of some small bird breaks
sharply on the ear of the Swamp. This is no alien note, and
Jack-o'-the-Lantern dances up and down, and all the mysteries whisper
in concert:--
"We wish you well, Mr. Fox. Don't choke yourself with the feathers.
Good-night, Mr. Fox, good-night!"
Two minute globules of incandescent light come into sight and
disappear, and the mysteries whisper:--
"Too late, Mr. Mink, too late! Better luck next time. Good-night!"
A rippling sound is heard in the lagoon as the Leander of the Swamp
slips into the water. Jack-o'-the-Lantern flits to the level shore of
the pool, and the mysteries come sweeping after, sighing:--
"Farewell, Mr. Muskrat! Good luck and good-night!"
Surely there is an alien sound on the knoll yonder,--snapping,
growling, and fighting. Have stray dogs crept under the door? Oh,
no! The Swamp smiles, and all the mysteries go trooping thither to
see the fun. It is a wonderful frolic! Mr. Red Fox has met Mr. Gray
Fox face to face. Something tells Mr. Red Fox "Here's your father's
enemy." Something whispers to Mr. Gray, "Here's your mother's
murderer." And so they fall to, screaming and gnawing and panting
and snarling. Mr. Gray Fox is the strongest, but his heart is the
weakest. Without warning he turns tail and flies, with Mr. Red Fox
after him, and with all the mysteries keeping them company. They run
until they are past the boundary line,--the place where the trumpet
flower tried to marry the black-jack tree,--and then, of course, the
Swamp has no further concern with them. And the mysteries and their
torch-bearers come trooping home.
[Illustration: MR. RED FOX MEETS MR. GRAY FOX]
It is fun when Mr. Red Fox and Mr. Gray Fox meet on the knoll, but
the Swamp will never have such a frolic as it had one night when a
strange bird came flying in over the door. It is known that the birds
that sleep while the Swamp is awake have been taught to hide their
heads under their wings. It is not intended that they should see what
is going on. Even the Buzzard, that sleeps in the loblolly pine, and
the wild turkey, that sleeps in the live oak, conform to this custom.
They are only on the edge of the Swamp, but they feel that it would
be rude not to put their heads under their wings while the Swamp is
awake. But this strange bird--of a family of night birds not hitherto
known to that region--was amazed when he beheld the spectacle.
"Oho!" he cried; "what queer country is this, where all the birds are
headless? If I'm to live here in peace, I must do as the brethren do."
So he went off in search of advice. As he went along he saw the
Bull-Frog near the lagoon.
"Queerer still," exclaimed the stranger. "Here is a bird that has no
head, and he can sing."
This satisfied him, and he went farther until he saw Mr. Wildcat
trying to catch little Mr. Flying-Squirrel.
"Good-evening, sir," said the stranger. "I see that the birds in this
country have no heads."
Mr. Wildcat smiled and bowed and licked his mouth.
"I presume, sir, that I ought to get rid of my head if I am to stay
here, and I have nowhere else to go. How am I to do it?"
"Easy enough," responded Mr. Wildcat, smiling and bowing and licking
his mouth. "Birds that are so unfortunate as to have heads frequently
come to me for relief. May I examine your neck to see what can be
done?"
The strange bird fully intended to say, "Why, certainly, sir!" He
had the words all made up, but his head was off before he could
speak. Being a large bird, he fluttered and shook his wings and
jumped about a good deal. As the noise was not alien, the Swamp and
all its mysteries came forth to investigate, and oh, what a frolic
there was when Mr. Wildcat related the facts! The torch-bearers
danced up and down with glee, and the mysteries waltzed to the quick
piping of the Willis-Whistlers.
Although the Swamp was not a day older when Aaron, the Son of Ben
Ali, became a key-bearer, the frolic over the headless bird was far
back of Aaron's time. Older! The Swamp was even younger, for it was
not a Swamp until old age had overtaken it--until centuries had made
it fresh and green and strong. The Indians had camped round about,
had tried to run its mysteries down, and had failed. Then came a band
of wandering Spaniards, with ragged clothes, and tarnished helmets,
and rusty shields, and neighing horses--the first the Swamp had ever
seen. The Spaniards floundered in at one side--where the trumpet vine
tried to marry the black-jack tree--and floundered out on the other
side more bedraggled than ever. This was a great victory for the
Swamp, and about that time it came to know and understand itself.
For centuries it had been "organizing," and when it pulled De Soto's
company of Spaniards in at one side and flung them out at the other,
considerably the worse for wear, it felt that the "organization" was
complete. And so it was and had been for years and years, and so it
remained thereafter--a quiet place when the sun was above the trees,
but wonderfully alert and alive when night had fallen.