LITTLE HOMESPUN
By Ruth Ogden
(Mrs. Charles W. Ide)
Author Of “A Loyal Little Red-Coat”
“A Little Queen Of Hearts”
“His Little Royal Highness”
“Courage” etc.
With Numerous Original Illustrations By Mabel Humphrey
New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company
1897
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ONE MOMENT PLEASE.
In a way, this book, “Little Homespun,” is a story quite by itself. In
another way it is a sequel to “Courage,” although you can “catch
its thread” without having read a line of “Courage.” Now some grown
people, and I presume some children, do not care for sequels at all, but
I happen to know that the children who are good enough to read and care
for my stories are fond of sequels. Those who have taken the trouble
to write me, in little letters that are worth their weight in gold
many times over, almost invariably ask for another book about the same
people. Sometimes they tell me just what to put into the new story
and what name to give it. So here lies my excuse if one is needed for
writing “Little Homespun.” Besides, I could hardly help it, for there
seemed to be quite a little yet to tell about Courage and Sylvia, and
some new little friends of theirs. And one thing more--everything
in this story that has to do with real people or actual events is
absolutely true; a little book, named “Historic Arlington,” giving most
of the information needed. Even old black Joe has his counterpart in
Wesley Morris, one of the slaves of Mr. Custis, born on the estate, and
employed for many years following the war as a workman about the grounds
at Arlington.
“RUTH OGDEN.”
Oakdene
Sept. 1, 1897.
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{001}
LITTLE HOMESPUN
CHAPTER I.--TWO OLD CRONIES
JUNE morning, clear and cool as October, and everything far and near
fairly revelling in the early summer sunshine. The Potomac, blue as the
sky above it, sparkling and dancing, the new young leaves on the oak
trees shimmering and shining with the marvellous green of springtime,
and the dear old Virginia homestead, overhanging the river, never
looking {002}more homelike and attractive in all its quiet life. The
reason for this did not lie all in the sunshine either. Just outside
the door, on the wide gallery, a darling old lady sat knitting, for as
_darling_ means “dearly beloved,” no other word could so truly describe
her. Everybody worshipped her and regarded her--as well they might--with
unspeakable devotion; for darling old ladies, as you very well know, do
not grow on every bush--quite to the contrary--a great many old ladies
(bless their tired old hearts!) grow fretful and nervous and fussy, and
are hard to please, not to say cranky. But who would blame them for
this for a minute? Just as likely as not you and I will be cranky enough
ourselves, when we have borne the burden of fourscore years, and are
pretty well worn out in mind and spirit and body. But here was an old
lady who was not worn out. Her hair was white with “the incomparable
whiteness of aged hair,” and there were the indelible marks of age on
the sweet, earnest face, but this dear old lady was “sunny.” She had had
her own full share of sorrows and worries, and she had taken them all
very much to heart--as people must whose hearts are big enough to
take things to at all--and as tender as hearts really ought to be. But
somehow or other, she had learned the {003}secret of not being overcome
by the worries and the sorrows, and so, sitting there knitting that
peerless June morning, she and the sunshine together seemed to glorify
everything about them.
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Presently a little specimen appeared in the doorway; a handsome little
fellow too, though he did not have any curls, as most children do who
find their way into story books, but his hair was golden, and, though
cut quite short, as he insisted upon having it, had a little trick of
straying down on his forehead in quite irresistible fashion.
“Well, what are we going to do to-day?” said his grandmother, gazing
at him as fondly as only fond grandmothers can. In response the little
fellow merely pointed to two straps of gold braid upon his shoulders,
and looked as though, really “grand_na_na” should have known better than
to ask.
“Oh! beg pardon, Brevet, I was so intent upon my knitting I had not
noticed,” and she succeeded in foiling a smile that would at least
have proved annoying; for, as every one about the place knew, the gold
shoulder-straps, worn in imitation of a captain’s uniform in the army,
meant but one thing, and that was that Captain Joe was coming down to
carry Brevet-Captain up to Arlington for the day. Indeed at {004}that
moment a cheery “How’dy, Brevet!” rang out on the still morning air,
and at the same moment a donkey and a two-wheeled cart driven by an old
negro came to a stand at the gate.
“How’dy, Captain, I’m ready for you. Been expecting you ev’ry minute
since breakfast. Good-bye, Gran_na_na, take good care of yourself,” and
a pair of chubby arms gave grandmamma just about as much of a hug as the
old lady could bear up under.
“Good-mornin’, Miss Lindy,” said Captain Joe, stepping up to the gate
and touching his cap deferentially. “I ’spose the little un tol’ you
I’d like him up to Arlington fur de day if you could spare him.”
“No, Joe,” answered Mrs. Ellis, smiling, “Brevet does not think that
necessary now-a-days. He simply dons the blue reefer with the
shoulder-straps, and that means he has his orders for the day from his
captain, and grandmammas are not expected to ask questions.” Brevet
stood by, his hands upon his hips in most independent fashion, as much
as to say, “That describes the case exactly.”
“Well, I reckon he don’ mean no harm, Miss Lindy,” said Joe, a little
anxiously. “He’s dat much in earnest ’bout everythin’, dat he’s a
Brevet-Cap’n sure ’nuff when he gets his straps on.” {005}"Oh, that’s
all right, Joe,”’ answered Mrs. Ellis, “but we’ll just send for you, if
the day comes when we need to court-martial him for insubordination.”
Brevet did not at all understand this last remark, and so, touching his
little blue cap in true soldier-fashion, turned on his heel and marched
down to the donkey-cart as though in command of an army.
“Brevet,” said Joe seriously, as they jogged away from the gate, “You
mus’ be ver’ careful ’bout bein’ spectful like to yo’ Grand_na_na,
case if you don’ dere’s no tellin’ but any day yo’ Cap’n ’ll take away
yo’ straps an’ den you’d jus’ be plain Marse Howard again I reckon.”
“Joe,” said Brevet solemnly, his voice trembling a little, “I could not
bear it if you took away my straps,” and he laid a little brown hand
protectingly upon one shoulder.
“Well, den you have a care, Honey, ‘bout Miss Lindy, an’ de nex’
time Joe invites you down to Arlington fur de day, you des ask yo’
Grand_na_na’s permission. Yo’re my Brevet-Cap’n sure ’nuff, but you’re
yo’ Grand_na_na’s little pickaninny eb’ry day in de week, and don’ you
forget it.”
“I’ll remember, Captain,” with most soldierlike submission, and then for
awhile they drove along in silence. {006}Happy thoughts of anticipation,
however, soon chased the troubled look from Brevet’s little face, for
there was nothing at all could compare with these occasional days spent
with Joe at Arlington. It was owing to them that he had gained
his dearly-loved title of Brevet and the blue soldier-cap and the
shoulder-straps. Joe had been a member of a coloured regiment and had
fought all through the war, and when at last he had come back and had
settled down in his old cabin at Arlington, he was dubbed Captain, in
recognition of his gallant services, by all the coloured folk of the
neighbourhood. And Joe was by no means unworthy of the honour, for save
for the fact that his regiment had been officered by white men, he might
easily have risen to the command of a company. Time and time again in
the face of the greatest danger he had been notoriously fearless, and
had never in a single instance shown the white feather, which is more
than can be said for many of his black comrades. And so from that time
on it had been Captain Joe, and when some thirty years later little
Howard Ellis came to make his home with his grandmother, and soon
afterward came to know Joe, and to spend many a long summer day in his
delightful company, what more natural than that the little fellow, with
his {007}great passion for everything military, should first aspire
to some of the outward insignia, and then, having attained cap and
shoulder-straps by favour of his grandmother, should later be dowered
with the title of “Brevet-Captain,” by favour of Captain Joe himself?
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“You see it’s des de name fur you, Honey,” Joe had explained, “case
it’ll save any con-fus’n’ of us togedder, an’ at de same time it’s a
very complimentin’ title. It means es how you have it des as a sort of
honour, widout havin’ any of de ’sponsibilities of an out-an’-outer
cap’n like me.”
From that day forward it was “Brevet-Captain,” very tenaciously insisted
upon by Howard himself, but gradually allowed to be abbreviated to
“Brevet” within the home circle. And so Captain Joe and Brevet, having
long ago arrived at the most satisfactory mutual understanding, sat side
by side in the donkey-cart, without feeling the slightest obligation to
say a word.
The road from the Ellis homestead up to Arlington lies through the
woods, and has all the charm of a road that has been left to follow its
own way--and a sweet, wild way at that. There were no fences, either new
or old, for none were needed. On each side a forest of oak, interspersed
with an occasional maple or {008}chestnut, stretched miles away, with
seldom a glimpse of a clearing, while immediately bordering the road
grew the veriest tangle of a natural hedge-row, abloom with some sort of
sweet wild-flower from May to October. The original cut through the wood
had been happily a wide one, and so sunshine and shower even, after all
these years, still had abundant chance to slant this way and that across
the road and coax every growing thing to perfection. Wood-violets, white
and yellow and purple, peered out from under the taller growths of fern
in the early springtime. June brought the sweet wild rose, unfolding
bud after bud well into the summer, and the white berry-blossoms of the
briars. With August came the berries themselves, ripening ungathered in
riotous profusion, and following close upon them advance heralds of the
goldenrod and the asters. It was in very truth a beautiful, dear old
road, and it formed a beautiful setting for the little donkey-drawn cart
slowly making its way along it. A pretty contrast, too, that of the old
negro, still alert and sturdy notwithstanding his threescore years and
ten, with the little golden-haired boy beside him. Together they seemed
the embodiment of happy, confiding childhood and trustful, serene old
age. {009}On came the little cart, each of its occupants apparently
intent upon his own thoughts, until at last Brevet commenced humming
a sweet little refrain; very softly and slowly at first, as though not
quite sure of his ground, then more distinctly as he felt himself master
of the situation. Finally the refrain took to itself words; words that
have since grown commonplace, but which had all the charm of novelty for
Joe, and he listened with absorbed delight as Brevet sang cutely,--
“I’se a little Alabama Coon
And I hasn’t been born very long,
I ‘member seein’ a great big roun’ moon
I ’member hearin’ one sweet song;
When dey tote me down to de cotton-field,
Dar I roll and I tumble in de sun,
While my daddy pick de cotton mammy watch
me grow,
And dis am de song she sung:”
Brevet paused for the briefest part of a second to see how Joe was
taking it.
“Go on, Honey, go on,” urged Joe.
“An’ dis am de song she sung:” repeated Brevet.
“Go to sleep my little pickaninny,
Br’er Fox’ll catch if yo’ don t;
Slumber on de bosom of yo’ ole Mammy Jinny
Mammy’s gwine to swatch yo’ if yo’ won’t.
Sh--Lu-la, lu-la lu-la lu-la lu!
Underneaf de silver Southern moon,
Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, Mammy’s little baby,
Mammy’s little Alabama Coon.”
{010}"Again, Honey, again,” in a voice of actual command, so reluctant
was Joe to have his keen enjoyment for one moment interrupted, and
Brevet obeyed, keeping the air perfectly and singing with all his heart,
too, as though himself a veritable little pickaninny, dwelling upon the
many happy memories of babyhood in a cotton-field.
“I clar to yo’, Honey,” said Joe, his voice trembling with delight, “I
can just see dat little baby. Seems ter me I neber done hear anythin’ so
pretty, anythin’ dat fit each other like dat song an’ words. Whar eber
did yo’ Tarn it, Honey?”
“Uncle Harry taught it to me, Joe.”
“Are der any more verses, Honey?”
“There’s one more, Joe, but Uncle Harry says it’s so ordinary it doesn’t
belong with the first verse at all.”
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“Well now, dat’s a pity,” said Joe, very regretfully, “but yo’ Uncle
Harry he do beat all for gettin’ hol’ of sweet, catchin’ music an’ I kin
des tell yo’, Honey, you done mus’ sing dat song to yo’ ole Cap’n eb’ry
time we fin’ ourselves togedder fur half a shake of a lamb’s {011}tail.
Gib us yo’ han’ on it, Honey, dat you will.”
Brevet put his brown hand in Joe’s black one, his own face beaming with
the pleasure he had given, and so the two boon companions jogged on,
until, high on a hill before them, the pillars of a fine old house came
into view, and a few moments later the donkey-cart drew up at a little
cabin, just in the rear of the fine old house, a cabin that had been
Joe’s home ever since he was as little a fellow as Brevet there beside
him.
“I’ll look around while you put Jennie up,” explained Brevet, as soon as
Joe had lifted him from the cart, and putting his hands in his pockets
he walked up to the big house, straight through the hall, whose doors
stood wide open, and out on to the porch in front. Brevet simply loved
“to look around,” from that porch, and I do not think he ever stood
there without his resolve to be a soldier some day surging up in a
strong, new tide within him. Some of the rest of us, who are quite too
old ever to think of being soldiers, and whose petticoats must at any
age have stood in the way, know exactly how Brevet felt. You know, too,
if you have ever been to Arlington, and, having been born and bred
in these United States of ours, are the true little {012}American you
really ought to be. But in case you never _have_ been to Arlington, and
do not at all know why it should make you feel that you would like to
be a soldier, then let me tell you before you have read another single
line, that Arlington is the great National Cemetery, lying a few miles
out from Washington, and where more than fifteen thousand soldiers lie
buried. From the moment you enter the beautiful grounds, you see the low
mounds stretching away on every side of you, and when you drive up in
front of Arlington House itself, there is brave General Sheridan’s tomb
right in front of you, so you cannot forget for a moment what a host of
noble heroes they were, who fought in our great civil war thirty years
ago, and how grand a thing it is lo be willing to lay down one’s life
if need be, for the honour of one’s country. But perhaps you wonder that
there should be a fine old house in a cemetery, and that Brevet should
so love to go there, thinking a cemetery for your part rather sad and
depressing, and wonder too why Joe should have chosen such a place for
his home; all of which wonders it would take too much time to explain in
this chapter, a chapter that was only meant to introduce you to Brevet
and the Captain, so good-bye for just now to Arlington.
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