_Sunday Evening._
When we were ready to start for church this morning, I was surprised to
see Nucky halt before me, and eye me frowningly from head to foot. "What
makes you allus wear ole ugly clothes?" he inquired. "Haint you got no
pretty ones, like t'other women?"
I looked down at my black crepe de chine,--of course I have worn deep
mourning since I lost Mother, and for six years before I had not had on
a color. "You don't like it?" I asked.
"I'd as soon look at a coal-bank, or a buzzard," he replied.
It suddenly struck me that the dear ones I have loved and lost would be
of much the same opinion. "Wait a minute, boys," I said. I flew back
and pulled from my trunk a white dress and some black ribbons laid away
a year ago. When I emerged, there was a chorus of pleased "gee-ohs" and
a decided accession of friendliness, the boys trying who could be first
in helping me over the frightful mudholes between the school and the
village. I see my duty clear now,--white dresses instead of black.
_Thursday._
Considering the antecedents of Nucky and Killis, I was not surprised
when they informed me this morning they would make beds no longer, but
would leave unless given men's work all the time. My reply, "But making
beds _is_ men's work," was met by incredulous whistles.
"Now, boys," I said, "how about soldiers,--do you call them men?"
"By grab, them's the only men _is_ men,--I'd ruther be dead as not to be
one," said Nucky.
"Gee, fighting's the best job there is," agreed Killis.
"Well, soldiers make their beds every single day," I said; "I have a
cousin right now at West Point, learning to be a soldier, and when he
gets out he will command a whole company, and he makes his bed every
morning, and couldn't be a soldier if he didn't."
The two stood, dazed and pondering, for some minutes; then Nucky quietly
flung an end of the sheet across to Killis, with the words, "There, son,
take-a-holt of that kiver, and le's lay it straight!"
To my great relief, I heard Keats singing a more cheerful song at his
work to-day:
Wisht I was a little turkle-dove,
Setting on a limb so high.
I'd take my darling on my knee
And bid this world goodbye!
and at dinner, by actual count, he ate nine corn-dodgers, three helpings
of string-beans, four sweet-potatoes and I know not how much sorghum.
He still sits with me in the evenings, and I feel now that I have always
known Nervesty and the four small children at home, especially Sammy the
baby, not to mention Charlie, the "flea-bit" nag, Ole Suke, the "pied"
cow, with her twin sons the steers Buck and Brandy, and her daughter
Reddy the heifer (now the proud possessor of a little "pied" calf and a
"blind" teat), also the big black sow, Julia, who, true to mountain
traditions, never has less than nine in her family, and above all the
wonderful dog, Ponto, who appears to be all that a dog can, and more.
And not infrequently during these talks Keats is called out to help
fight some antagonist of Hen's (though there is often civil war between
the brothers, they always combine against outside aggression); and at
other times Hen will pause breathless on his swift way through house or
yard to corroborate some statement of Keats's with, "Gee, woman, that
'ere's a dandy of a dog! He can do anything but climb a tree, and he
gits half-way up them. He rounds up the shoats and drives up Ole Suke
and the steers gooder than I can; and possums! groundhogs! polecats! dad
burn my looks if he haint the beatenest ever you seed!"
_Friday._
I have tried all along to respect Jason's feelings, and give him jobs
which would injure neither his pride nor his person. But yesterday while
we were spading up a patch for turnip-and-mustard-greens, I forgot and
sent him off to the school-yard to pick up trash. An hour later, I heard
from a passer-by that he had been seen a mile up Perilous. "Don't you
recollect him a-saying he would leave if you give him little-boy jobs?"
Geordie reminded me.
"Saddle the nag and hurry after him," I implored Taulbee. Sometime
later, he overtook the proud child on his way to Spraddle Creek, and
brought him back under protest.
The boys say they see no good reason why they should say "yes ma'am" and
"no ma'am." When I told them it was for the sake of politeness, Philip
replied, "Polite's a lick-spittle,--I don't aim to be polite,--I don't
_have_ to,--I'm able to get what I want without it!"
This last is only too true. "For they shall take who have the power, and
they shall keep who can," is the creed of all, but more especially of
Philip. This noon, when Iry's father had sent him from Rakeshin a fine,
yellow, mellow apple, and the "pure scholar" was eating it as frugally
and lingeringly as possible, Philip, came along, snatched it, bit off
three-fourths, and coolly handed back the fragment to Iry, who, howling
dismally, still had no redress.
"To think you could do such a base thing!" I exclaimed,--"Rob a little
boy who cannot defend himself. You ought to be everlastingly ashamed!"
"I was behind the door when shame passed by," replied the robber,
flippantly.
"You were indeed," I agreed; "I would not believe that a boy named
Philip Sidney could be guilty of such a thing." Then I told him the
story of the great Sir Philip, mortally wounded, fevered and athirst,
handing the cup of water to the dying soldier beside him, with the
words, "Your need is greater than mine."
He pondered a moment, then remarked, "No man'd be such a fool,--I bet
it's just a slander they made up on him!"