_CARL AND HIS FRIENDS._
Carl Minnevich was the son of a German, who, in company with a brother,
had come to America a few years before, and settled in Tennessee. There
the Minneviches purchased a farm, and were beginning to prosper in their
new home, when Carl's father suddenly died. The boy had lost his mother
on the voyage to America. He was now an orphan, destined to experience
all the humiliation, dependence, and wrong, which ever an orphan knew.
Immediately the sole proprietorship of the farm, which had been bought
by both, was assumed by the surviving brother. This man had a selfish,
ill-tempered wife, and a family of great boys. Minnevich himself was
naturally a good, honest man; but Frau Minnevich wanted the entire
property for her own children, hated Carl because he was in the way, and
treated him with cruelty. His big cousins followed their mother's
example, and bullied him. How to obtain protection or redress he knew
not. He was a stranger, speaking a strange tongue, in the land of his
father's adoption. Ah, how often then did he think of the happy
fatherland, before that luckless voyage was undertaken, when he still
had his mother, and his friends, and all his little playfellows, whom he
could never see more!
So matters went on for a year or two, until the boy's grievances grew
intolerable, and he one day took it into his head to please Frau
Minnevich for once in his life, if never again. In the night time he
made up a little bundle of his clothes, threw it out of the window, got
out himself after it, climbed down upon the roof of the shed, jumped to
the ground, and trudged away in the early morning starlight, a wanderer.
It has been necessary to touch upon this point in Carl's history, in
order to explain why it was he ever afterwards felt such deep gratitude
towards those who befriended him in the hour of his need.
For many days and nights he wandered among the hills of Tennessee,
looking in vain for work, and begging his bread. Sometimes he almost
wished himself a slave-boy, for then he would have had a home at least,
if only a wretched cabin, and friends, if only negroes,--those
oppressed, beaten, bought-and-sold, yet patient and cheerful people,
whose lot seemed, after all, so much happier than his own. Carl had a
large, warm heart, and he longed with infinite longing for somebody to
love him and treat him kindly.
At last, as he was sitting one cold evening by the road-side, weary,
hungry, despondent, not knowing where he was to find his supper, and
seeing nothing else for him to do but to lie down under some bush, there
to shiver and starve till morning, a voice of unwonted kindness accosted
him.
"My poor boy, you seem to be in trouble; can I help you?"
Poor Carl burst into tears. It was the voice of Penn Hapgood; and in its
tones were sympathy, comfort, hope. Penn took him by the arm, and lifted
him up, and carried his bundle for him, talking to him all the time so
like a gentle and loving brother, that Carl said in the depths of his
soul that he would some day repay him, if he lived; and he prayed God
secretly that he might live, and be able some day to repay him for those
sweet and gracious words.
Penn never quitted him until he had found him a home; neither after that
did he forget him. He took him into his school, gave him his tuition,
and befriended him in a hundred little ways beside.
And now the time had arrived when Penn himself stood in need of friends.
The evening came, and Carl was missing from his new home.
"Whar's dat ar boy took hisself to, I'd like to know!" scolded old Toby.
"I'll clar away de table, and he'll lose his supper, if he stays anoder
minute! Debil take me, if I don't!"
He had made the same threat a dozen times, and still he kept Carl's
potatoes hot for him, and the table waiting. For the old negro, though
he loved dearly to show his importance by making a good deal of bluster
about his work, had really one of the kindest hearts in the world, and
was as devoted to the boy he scolded as any indulgent old grandmother.
"The 'debil' will take you, sure enough, I'm afraid, Toby, if you appeal
to him so often," said a mildly reproving voice.
It was Mr. Villars, the old worn-out clergyman; a man of seventy
winters, pale, white-haired, blind, feeble of body, yet strong and
serene of soul. He came softly, groping his way into the kitchen, in
order to put his feet to Toby's fire.
"Laws, massa," said old Toby, grinning, "debil knows I ain't in 'arnest!
he knows better'n to take me at my word, for I speaks his name widout no
kind o' respec', allus, I does. Hyar's yer ol' easy char fur ye, Mass'
Villars. Now you jes' make yerself comf'table." And he cleared a place
on the stove-hearth for the old man's feet.
"Thank you, Toby." With his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, his
hands folded thoughtfully before his breast, and his beautiful old face
smiling the kindness which his blind eyes could not _look_, Mr. Villars
sat by the fire. "Where is Carl to-night, Toby?"
"Dat ar's de question; dat's de pint, massa. Mos' I can say is, he ain't
whar he ought to be, a eatin' ob his supper. Chocolate's all a bilin'
away to nuffin! ketch dis chile tryin' to keep tings hot for his supper
anoder time!" And Toby added, in a whisper expressive of great
astonishment at himself, "What I eber took dat ar boy to keep fur's one
ob de mysteries!"
For Toby, though only a servant (indeed, he had formerly been a slave in
the family), had had his own way so long in every thing that concerned
the management of the household, that he had come to believe himself the
proprietor, not only of the house and land, and poultry and pigs, but of
the family itself. He owned "ol' Mass Villars," and an exceedingly
precious piece of property he considered him, especially since he had
become blind. He was likewise (in his own exalted imagination) sole
inheritor and guardian-in-chief of "Miss Jinny," Mr. Villars's youngest
daughter, child of his old age, of whom Mrs. Villars said, on her
death-bed, "Take always good care of my darling, dear Toby!"--an
injunction which the negro regarded as a sort of last will and testament
bequeathing the girl to him beyond mortal question.
There was, in fact, but one member of the household he did not
exclusively claim. This was the married daughter, Salina, whose life had
been embittered by a truant husband,--no other, in fact, than the erring
son of the worthy Mrs. Sprowl. The day when the infatuated girl made a
marriage so much beneath the family dignity, Toby, in great grief and
indignation, gave her up. "I washes my hands ob her! she ain't no more a
chile ob mine!" said the old servant, passionately weeping, as if the
washing of his hands was to be literal, and no other fluid would serve
his dark purpose but tears. And when, after Sprowl's desertion of her,
she returned, humiliated and disgraced, to her father's house,--that is
to say, Toby's house,--Toby had compassion on her, and took her in, but
never set up any claim to her again.
"Where is Carl? Hasn't Carl come yet?" asked a sweet but very anxious
voice. And Virginia, the youngest daughter, stood in the kitchen door.
"He hain't come yet, Miss Jinny; dat ar a fact!" said Toby. "'Pears like
somefin's hap'en'd to dat ar boy. I neber knowed him stay out so, when
dar's any eatin' gwine on,--for he's a master hand for his supper, dat
boy ar! Laws, I hain't forgot how he laid in de vittles de fust night
Massa Penn fetched him hyar! He was right hungry, he was, and he took
holt powerful! 'I neber can keep dat ar boy in de world,' says I; 'he'll
eat me clar out o' house an' home!' says I. But, arter all, it done my
ol' heart good to see him put in, ebery ting 'peared to taste so d'effle
good to him!" And Toby chuckled at the reminiscence.
"My daughter," said Mr. Villars, softly.
She was already standing behind his chair, and her trembling little
hands were smoothing his brow, and her earnest face was looking pale and
abstracted over him. He could not see her face, but he knew by her touch
that the tender act was done some how mechanically to-night, and that
she was thinking of other things. She started as he spoke, and, bending
over him, kissed his white forehead.
"I suspect," he went on, "that you know more of Carl than we do. Has he
gone on some errand of yours?"
"I will tell you, father!" It seemed as if her feelings had been long
repressed, and it was a relief for her to speak at last. "Carl came to
me, and said there was some mischief intended towards Penn. This was
long before dark. And he asked permission to go and see what it was. I
said, 'Go, but come right back, if there is no danger.' He went, and I
have not seen him since."
"Is this so? Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Because, father, I did not wish to make you anxious. But now, if you
will let Toby go----"
"I'll go myself!" said the old man, starting up. "My staff, Toby! When I
was out, I heard voices in the direction of the school-house,--I felt
then a presentiment that something was happening to Penn. I can control
the mob,--I can save him, if it is not too late." He grasped the staff
Toby put into his hand.
"O, father!" said the agitated girl; "are you able?"
"Able, child? You shall see how strong I am when our friend is in
danger."
"Let me go, then, and guide you!" she exclaimed, glad he was so
resolved, yet unwilling to trust him out of her sight.
"No, daughter. Toby will be eyes for me. Yet I scarcely need even him. I
can find my way as well as he can in the dark."
The negro opened the door, and was leading out the blind old minister,
when the light from within fell upon a singular object approaching the
house. It started back again, like some guilty thing; but Toby had seen
it. Toby uttered a shriek.
"De debil! de debil hisself, massa!" and he pulled the old man back
hurriedly into the house.
"The devil, Toby? What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Villars.
"O, laws, bress ye, massa, ye hain't got no eyes, and ye can't see!"
said Toby, shutting the door in his fright, and rolling his eyes wildly.
"It's de bery debil! he's come for dis niggah dis time, sartin'. Cos I,
cos I 'pealed to him, as you said, massa! cos I's got de habit ob
speakin' his name widout no kind o' respec'!"
And he stood bracing himself, with his back against the door, as if
determined that not even that powerful individual himself should get in.
"You poor old simpleton!" said Mr. Villars, "there is no fiend except in
your own imagination. Open the door!"
"No, no, massa! He's dar! he's dar! He'll cotch old Toby, shore!" And
the terrified black held the latch and pushed with all his might.
"What did he see, Virginia?"
"I don't know, father! There was certainly somebody, or something,--I
could not distinguish what."
"It's what I tell ye!" gibbered Toby. "I seed de great coarse har on his
speckled legs, and de wings on his back, and a right smart bag in his
hand to put dis niggah in!"
"It might have been Carl," said Virginia.
"No, no! Carl don't hab sech legs as dem ar! Carl don't hab sech great
big large ears as dem ar! O good Lord! good Lord!" the negro's voice
sank to a terrified whisper, "he's a-knockin' for me now!"
"It's a very gentle rap for the devil," said Mr. Villars, who could not
but be amused, notwithstanding the strange interruption of his purpose,
and Toby's vexatious obstinacy in holding the door. "It's some stranger;
let him in!"
"No, no, no!" gasped the negro. "I won't say nuffin, and you tell him I
ain't to home! Say I'se clar'd out, lef', gone you do'no' whar!"
"Toby!" was called from without.
"Dat's his voice! dat ar's his voice!" said Toby. And in his desperate
pushing, he pushed his feet from under him, and fell at full length
along the floor.
"It's the voice of Penn Hapgood!" exclaimed the old minister. "Arise,
quick, Toby, and open!"
Toby rubbed his head and looked bewildered.
"Are ye sartin ob dat, massa? Bress me, I breeve you're right, for
oncet! It _ar_ Mass' Penn's voice, shore enough!"
He opened the door, but started back again with another shriek,
convinced for an instant that it was, after all, the devil, who had
artfully borrowed Penn's voice to deceive him.
But no! It was Penn himself, his hat and clothes in his hand, smeared
with black tar and covered with feathers from head to foot; not even his
features spared, nor yet his hair; on his cheeks great clumps of gray
goose plumes, suggestive of diabolical ears, and with no other covering
but this to shield him from the night wind, save the emptied bed-tick,
which he had drawn over his shoulders, and which Toby had mistaken for
Satanic wings.