“That makes me think now--’f I have to meet the train an’ haul ’em up,
I kain’t plough to-morr’.”
“But, Sam, you don’t have to go till four o’clock.”
“Ay, but they’s a little work to do on my wagon ’fore I go down. I
kain’t take any resk with friends o’ yorn.”
I could always get interested in the way that Sam made use of _yer_,
_yore_, _yorn_, _you_, and _ye_. _Yorn_, with an inflection that
enlarged the _n_, was an avowal of separateness as severing as the
water that washed Pilate’s hands.
Having arranged for his morning sleep, he merged away, pausing on an
edge of moonlight to say: “Ain’t the whipper-wills awhirlin’ to-night?
Looks like they ain’t goin’ to sleep at all.”
“Whirling, Sam?”
“Ay, you know ever’ time they say whipper-will they whirl round on the
limb. Whirl thersevs right round.”
“What a foolish habit!”
“Well, the whipper-will ain’t a much smart bird.”
He flowed into the shadows and left me to ponder my newly acquired
bird-lore. It was the kind of information which Sam frequently
distributed, and with no remonstrance from me. He was too sure and
final; and withal too quieting to the intellect. One doesn’t demur to
the south wind, or try to put it right.
“I reckon I ain’t a much smart bird,” I said, thinking many times I
had stepped aside for the unstemmed passage of Sam’s incredibly liquid
voice.
The next day brought my friend, Lucie Harvey, and her husband, whom I
knew only through her raptures. They were happy additions to my tiny
camp, and at the end of their three days’ visit romantically voted to
make a bed in the barn and release my room, thus making an indefinite
stay possible. We were verbally completing the plan when Sam appeared.
“I knocked off ploughin’.” he said, “to take yer trunks down.”
“Oh, we’re not going,” said Lucie.
“When I brought ye up, ye ’lowed ye’d be ready to go back this evenin’
an’ I’ve come fer ye.”
“Why, we’ll let you know when we want to go.”
“I’ve come out o’ the plough to take ye.”
“Sorry, my man,” said the bridegroom, “but it’s your mistake. We’ll let
you know when we’re ready for you.”
“You goin’ to live in the barn?”
“There!” said Lucie, “he knew all about it!”
They turned away for the walk which Sam had momentarily delayed. I
heard Lucie say, “How did he know?” and I might have followed to tell
her that Sam always knew; but at that moment I was struck motionless by
hearing Ned Harvey drop the word “Imbecile!”
Sam, very likely, did not know its meaning, but the tone as it floated
back was unmistakable.
“I’m sorry you knocked off ploughing, Sam,” I said, my eyes slinking.
“Oh, I left Ben at it. Len said he could spare him.”
“That means Len is doing double work, so Ben can help you out.”
“He’p me out? They’s yore friends, not mine. I like Mis’ Harvey though.
She’s mighty nice.”
“Mr. Harvey, too.”
He looked toward Harvey, who was wearing a hunting-jacket very
handsomely.
“Well, as to that, he wears a fine huntin’-jacket, but I’ve seen folks
wearin’ good clo’s that had to hunt up the nest-eggs to fry if company
dropped by to dinner.”
A pensive shade came into his eyes as they continued to follow
the vanishing figure of Harvey. “I always thought I’d like a
huntin’-jacket,” he said; and as he walked away, something in his
bearing told me that he was imaginarily clothed as his heart desired.
There had been no resentment in his voice. Perhaps he had taken no
notice of that terrible word. And gradually I forgot that it had been
uttered.