watched his every movement, and always with increasing awe and
respect. He went about among them freely, but not familiarly. He
was not of them, and they knew it. He was kind and considerate,
especially where the women and children were concerned, but always
reserved, always dignified, always serious. Yet he never lost his
temper, never frowned, and was never known to utter an angry word or
make a gesture of irritation. He had the remarkable gift of patience,
that seemed to be so highly developed in some animals. It was Uncle
Fountain who drew the parallel between the patience displayed by
Aaron and that of the animals, and added this, after turning the
matter over in his mind: "Mo' speshually de creeturs what kin see in
de dark."
On rare occasions Aaron would go into one of the cabins where the
negroes were enjoying themselves, and there would be a mighty
hustling around in that cabin until he had the most comfortable
chair, or stool, or bench, or tub turned bottom-side up. At such
times he would say, "Sing!" And then, after some display of shyness,
Randall or Turin would strike into a quaint plantation melody,
and carry it along; and as their voices died away the powerful
and thrilling tenor of Susy's Sam, and Jemimy's quavering soprano
would take up the refrain, all the singers joining in at the close.
No matter what melody was sung, or what words were employed, the
instinct and emotions of the negroes gave to their performance the
form and essence of true balladry,--the burden, the refrain, the
culmination, and the farewell; or, as the writers of pretty verse now
call it, the envoi.
Often on such occasions Aaron would enter the negro cabin bearing the
Little Master in his arms. And then the negroes were better pleased,
for the Little Master somehow seemed to stand between them and the
awesome being they knew as Aaron. At such times the arms of Big Sal
ached to hold Little Crotchet, the lad seemed to be so pale and
frail. Once she made bold to say to Aaron:--
"I kin hol' 'im some ef you tired."
"I won't be tired of that till I'm dead," responded Aaron.
"I know mighty well how dat is," responded Big Sal humbly. "I des
wanted ter hol' 'im. I _has_ helt him."
"She wants to hold you," said Aaron to the Little Master.
And the reply was, "Well, why not?"
Whereupon Big Sal took the lad in her arms, and when the rest began
to sing she swayed her strong body back and forth, and joined in the
song with a voice so low and soft and sweet that it seemed to be the
undertone of melody itself; and the effect of it was so soothing
that when the song was ended the Little Master was fast asleep and
smiling, and Big Sal leaned over him with such a yearning at her
heart that only a word or a look would have been necessary to set her
to weeping. Neither then nor ever afterwards did she know the reason
why or seek to discover it. Enough for her that it was so.
Something in her attitude told the rest of the negroes that the
Little Master was asleep, and so when they sang another song they
pitched their voices low,--so low that the melody seemed to come
drifting through the air and in at the door from far away. When
it was ended nothing would do but each negro must come forward on
tiptoe and take a look at the Little Master, who was still asleep and
smiling.
When Aaron rose to go Big Sal was somewhat embarrassed. She didn't
want the Little Master awakened, and yet she didn't know how he could
be transferred to Aaron's arms without arousing him. But the Son of
Ben Ali solved that problem. He nodded to Big Sal and motioned toward
the door, and she, carrying the Little Master in her strong arms,
went out into the dark. Aaron paused at the threshold, raised his
right hand above his head, and followed Big Sal. This gesture
he always made by way of salutation and farewell on the threshold of
every door he entered or went out of, whether the room was full of
people or empty. Whether it was the door of his master's house or of
Timoleon's stable, he paused and raised his right hand.
[Illustration: BIG SAL HOLDS THE LITTLE MASTER]
The negroes noted it, and, simple as it was, it served to deepen the
mystery in which Aaron seemed to be enveloped; and among themselves
they shook their heads and whispered that he must be a "cunjur" man.
But Aaron was not troubled by whisperings that never reached his
ears, nor by the strange imaginings of the negroes. He had other
things to think of--one thing in particular that seemed to him to be
most serious. He could see that Little Crotchet was gradually growing
weaker and weaker. It was some time before he discovered this. We
know that the trunks of trees slowly expand, but we do not see the
process going on.
Little Crotchet seemed to be growing weaker day by day, and yet the
process was so gradual that only the most careful observation could
detect it. The burning of the house was something of a shock to
him. He was not frightened by that event, and never for a moment
lost his self-possession; but the spectacle of the fierce red flames
mounting high in the air, their red tongues darting out and lapping
about in space, and then, having found nothing to feed on, curling
back and devouring the house, roaring and growling, and snapping and
hissing,--this spectacle was so unexpected and so impossible in that
place that the energy Little Crotchet lost in trying to fit the awful
affair to his experience never came back to him. He never lost the
feeling of numbness that came over him as he saw the house disappear
in smoke and flame.
But it was weeks--months--after that before Aaron made his discovery,
a discovery that could only be confirmed by the keenest and most
patient watchfulness. For Little Crotchet was never more cheerful.
And he was restless, too; always eager to be going. But Aaron soon
saw that if the lad went galloping about on the Gray Pony as often
as before, he did not go so far. Nor did he use his crutches so
freely,--the crutches on which he had displayed such marvelous
nimbleness.
And so from day to day Aaron saw that the Little Master was slowly
failing. The lad found the nights longer, and Aaron had great trouble
to drive away the red goblin, Pain. Thus the days slipped by, and
the weeks ran into months, and the months counted up a year lacking
a fortnight. This fortnight found the Little Master in bed both day
and night, still happy and cheerful, but weak and pale. Always at
night Aaron was sitting by the bed, and sometimes the lad would send
for Big Sal. He was so cheerful that he deceived everybody except the
doctor and Aaron as to his condition.
But one day the doctor came and sat by the Little Master's bedside
longer than usual. The lad was cheerful as ever, but the doctor knew.
As he was going away he gave some information to the father and
mother that caused them to turn pale. The mother, indeed, would have
rushed weeping to her son. Was it for this,--for this,--her darling
child had been born? The doctor stayed her. It was indeed for this
her darling child had been born. Would she hasten it? Why not let the
mystery come to him as a friend and comforter,--as the friend of
friends,--as a messenger from our dear Lord, the Prince of Peace and
Joy?
And so the poor mother dried her eyes as best she could and took her
place by the Little Master's bedside. The lad was cheerful and his
eyes were as bright as a bird's. Doctors do not know everything, the
mother thought, and, taking heart of hope, smiled as Little Crotchet
prattled away.
Nothing would do but he must have a look at the toys that used to
amuse him when he was a little bit of a boy; and in getting out the
old toys the mother found a shoe he had worn when he first began to
walk,--a little shoe out at the toe and worn at the heel.
This interested the lad more than all the toys. He held it in his
hand and measured it with his thumb. And was it truly true that he
had ever worn a shoe as small as that? The shoe reminded him of
something else he had been thinking of. He had dreamed that when he
got well he would need his crutches no more, and he wondered how it
would feel to walk with his feet on the ground.
And there was the old popgun, too, still smelling of chinaberries.
If Aaron only but knew it, that popgun had been a wonderful gun.
Yes, siree! the bird that didn't want to get hurt when that popgun
was in working order had to run mighty fast or fly mighty high. But,
heigh-ho! he was too old and too large for popguns now, and when he
got well, which would be pretty soon, he would have a sure-enough
gun, and then he would get a powder flask and a shot bag and mount
the Gray Pony and shoot--well, let's see what he would shoot: not the
gray squirrels, they were too pretty; not the shy partridges, they
might have nests or young ones somewhere; not the rabbits--they were
too funny with their pop eyes and big ears. Well, he could shoot at a
mark, and that's just what he would do.
And when night fell, the Little Master wanted to hear the negroes
sing. And he wanted mother and father and sister to hear them
too--not the loud songs, but the soft and sweet ones. But the negroes
wouldn't feel like singing at all if everybody was in the room with
them, and mother and father and sister could sit in the next room and
pretend they were not listening. And so it was arranged.
When the negroes arrived and were ushered into the room by Mammy
Lucy, they were so embarrassed and felt so much out of place they
hardly knew what to do, or say, or how to begin. Aaron was carrying
the Little Master in his arms, walking up and down, up and down,
and his long strides and supple knees gave a swinging motion to his
body that was infinitely soothing and restful to the Little Master.
Swinging back and forth, up and down, the Son of Ben Ali paid no
attention to the negroes, and they stood confused for a moment, but
only for a moment. Suddenly there came streaming into the room the
strain of a heart-breaking melody, rising and falling, falling and
rising, as the leaves of a weeping willow are blown by the wind;
drifting away and floating back, as the foam of the wave is swayed by
the sea.
Little Crotchet lay still in Aaron's arms for ever so long. Was he
listening? Who knows? He was almost within hearing of the songs of
the angels. Suddenly he raised his head in the pause of the song--
"Tell them all good-night. Tell mother"--
Aaron stopped his swinging walk and placed the Little Master on the
bed and stood beside it, his right hand raised above his head. It
might have been a benediction, it might have been a prayer. The
negroes interpreted it as a signal of dismissal. One by one they went
softly to the bedside and gazed on the Little Master. He might have
been asleep, for he was smiling. Each negro looked inquiringly at
Aaron, and to each he nodded, his right hand still lifted above his
head.
[Illustration: THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE MASTER]
Big Sal had waited till the last, and she was the only one that said
a word.
"He look des like he did when he drapt asleep in deze arms," she
cried, sobbing as though her heart would break, "an' I thank my God
fer dat much! But oh, man, what a pity! What a pity!"
And she went out of the house into the yard, and through the yard
into the lot, and through the lot to the negro cabins, crying, "_Oh,
what a pity! what a pity!_"
Not for the Little Master, for he was smiling at the glorious vision
of peace and rest that he saw when he said good-night. Not pity for
the lad, but for those he had left behind him, for all who loved
him; for all who had depended on his thoughtfulness; for all the
weary and sorrowful ones. _Oh, what a pity!_ Over and over again,
_what a pity!_ And the wind flowing softly about the world took up
the poor negro's wailing cry and sent it over the hill and beyond,
and the outlying messengers of the Swamp took it up--_What a pity!_
And the Willis-Whistlers piped low, and the mysteries, swaying and
slipping through the canes and tall grass, heard the whispered echo
and sighed, _Oh, what a pity!_
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
A number of words in this book had both hyphenated and non-hyphenated
variants; for those words the variant more frequently used was
retained. This book also contains dialect and vernacular conversation.
Obvious punctuation errors were fixed.
Other printing errors, which were not detected during the revision of
the printing process of the original book, have been corrected.
It was unclear if in the expression "simple as a-b ab", in page 67,
the second "ab" should be hyphenated. It was decided to keep the text
unchanged.
End of Project Gutenberg's Aaron in the Wildwoods, by Joel Chandler Harris