_Saturday Night._
The little Salyers, while really fond of one another, have queer ways
sometimes of showing it. This afternoon Keats called up wearily from the
back yard, where for eight hours he had been carrying water and keeping
up fires for the wash-girls, to Hen in the doorway, "What time is it,
son?" to receive the affectionate reply, "Time all dogs was dead,--haint
you sick?"
To-night, sitting around our lamp, eating peppermint candy, the boys got
to talking about their mothers, living or dead,--Keats and Hen of course
about Nervesty, Taulbee, Killis and Hosea about their good mothers at
home, Geordie and Absalom about theirs who is married again and lives
in Virginia, and Philip, Joab, Iry and Jason about theirs who are dead.
Nucky alone did not talk,--it seems impossible for him to speak of his
mother.
Iry told many little incidents his remarkable memory enables him to
recall, though his mother died when he was only three. One is, standing
beside her while she fed him beans and sorghum from a spoon; another,
having a small paddle and helping her "battle" the clothes as she washed
them beside the branch; still another, being left by her in a pen made
of rails and a log high up on the mountainside where she was hoeing
corn, seeing a beautiful, shining, spotted thing come out on the log to
sun itself, and amusing himself poking his finger at the pretty creature
to make it lick out its tongue, rattle its tail, and "quile" itself up,
till suddenly something fell on the bright head, and his mother, with a
terrible scream, threw down her hoe and caught him to her bosom. These
and other scraps of recollection the "pure scholar" treasures so
tenderly it seems hard indeed that his mother should have taken the
"breast-complaint,--some calls it the galloping consumpt'," and died so
young, missing his love.
"You know," I said to him, "that being dead isn't really being dead, but
just gone out of sight. Your dear mother still lives and loves and
watches over you constantly, though you cannot see her."
"I allus heared dead folks was just h'ants, trying to layway and scare
folks," said Iry.
"Nothing of the kind," I assured him; "they can never be seen by these
eyes of ours, but they are near, quite near us always, to love and
protect us, especially mothers their orphan children."
There was a long silence. Then, with a sigh, little Iry exclaimed,
slowly, "Dag gone, I wisht somebody'd a-told me that before,--I wouldn't
a-been so lonesome!"
Nucky, who had not spoken a word during the conversation, got up and
hurried from the room. At bed-time, Hen slipped into my door to report,
"I tracked Trojan to the hayloft, and heared him a-laying up there
crying fit to kill for his maw."
Poor child,--the still waters run deep!
_Sunday Night._
Nucky asked for extra work during his playtime yesterday in order to
make some money, and for three hours spaded flower-beds, receiving a
dime in pay, and making a mysterious visit to the village after supper.
This morning when I was ready for church, he came into my room with a
yard of bright pink ribbon dangling from his hand. This he held out to
me, saying,
"You allus go about with them old black strings on, and haint got no
pretty fixings like t'other women,--I allow you're too poor to buy 'em.
I want you to have something pretty."
For seven years I have not had on a color,--I never supposed I could
wear one again. But I slowly unfastened the black ribbon from my collar,
and replaced it with the pink. Then I put my arms around Nucky, and
kissed him.
"I _was_ poor,--horribly poor, Nucky," I said, "before I got you and the
other boys. But I shall never feel poor again, after receiving such a
precious gift as this!"
Precious indeed it is, not only as representing untold sacrifice on his
part, but as showing that he really cares for me,--he is so reserved and
self-contained I did not dream he did.
One thing is certain,--I will try to deserve his sacrifice and
love,--to-morrow I will send away not only for bright ribbons, but for
cheerful dresses which shall please his eyes and those of the others. No
longer shall they see me in garments of heaviness.
_Tuesday._
This noon, Iry, who since our first talk about swearing, has been trying
without much success to stop it--sometimes he bites off the tail of a
swear-word, but generally the head and trunk escape him--ran into my
room with big eyes. "Geordie and me was a-quarling over a shinny-bat he
traded me out of, and I started to say a' awful cuss-word at him, and
then I ricollected what you said about my maw a-watching me all the
time, and I never said a thing to him but 'Dad burn your ole soul!'"
I congratulated the "pure scholar" on his great victory, and encouraged
him to press on.
_Wednesday, Bed-time._
To-day was Mother's birthday. While I was placing a bowl of asters
before her picture over my fireboard, Nucky came in, and I spoke to him
about her, telling him how her love and courage had sustained me through
deepest sorrow, and how terribly I miss her now. After a while he said,
in a low voice, "I miss my maw, too."
"Tell me about her," I said.
Then, little by little, and often with great difficulty, and with long
silences, he told me the story of his mother; how devoted she had been
to her children, and how eager that they, and especially he, should get
learning, teaching him what she could, getting a little district school
established on Trigger three years ago, and coming over herself to this
school last April to try and get him in here, being nag-flung on her way
home, and sustaining injuries which caused her to die a month later when
her last baby was born; how on her deathbed she had called her family
around her, and given them her love and blessing and advice, asking her
husband never to put a "step-maw" over her children, and leaving them
all in Blant's charge, confiding to his special care the day-old baby,
"your paw being too puny to set up with it of nights," and passing away
at last clinging to them and weeping bitter tears that she must leave
them. He also told how Blant had accepted his sacred trust; tenderly
and tirelessly minding the younger children, cooking and cleaning; when
not out tending the crop, clearing new-ground, logging and the like, and
how, above all, he has devoted himself to "the babe," patiently walking
the floor with it at night, warming its bottle, jolting it on his knee,
toasting its little feet before the fire, sleeping with it on his arm,
and "making it sugar-teats and soot-tea as good as a woman." This being
the same Blant who "never goes out without a gun," and has done such
notable slaughter in the hereditary "war" with the Cheevers!
I own to a large curiosity to behold this hero--more than ever since I
heard what Nucky told me to-day. I am glad that the visit to Trigger
comes the end of this week.