_Sunday Night._
Friday noon the little Salyers, Jason (whom I did not dare leave behind)
and I were all ready to start. Nucky, who has the stable job, had just
brought Mandy around in the road and helped me into the saddle, and was
handing me a switch, when suddenly I saw his fingers stiffen, his eyes
widen, his face pale. Looking around for the cause, I saw two youngish
men riding past in the road. Apparently they did not see him; but he
eyed them with concentrated hatred. I hardly needed his low-spoken
words, "Todd and Dalt," to tell me who they were.
"I got to go home quick as I can get there," he said, when they had
passed out of hearing.
"You shall do nothing of the kind," I declared; "you heard Blant's
commands on the subject. He is perfectly able to take care of himself,
and does not want you. I, too, command you to stay here."
"But he _haint_ able to take care of hisself now he's got the babe on
his hands," Nucky insisted; "he can't noway keep lookout: of course they
have come back to kill him if they can. I couldn't rest here a minute."
"Nevertheless, I command you to stay," I said sternly, as I took my
departure.
But for my anxiety about him, and about this new threatening of "war" on
Trigger, my visit to the little Salyers' home would have been a perfect
thing. The day was glorious as we went, the mountains one blaze of reds,
yellows and greens. All the way, the "two homesicks" were urging Mandy
on with voice or hickory or both; while, entranced with the beauty, I
earnestly wished that she might be permitted to go her natural gait.
After following Perilous four miles, we turned up Nancy's Perilous, and
went along it nearly an hour before we reached a small log house, almost
hidden in apple trees, and Mrs. Salyer, with the four little children
and Ponto trailing before and after, came out to welcome us. Although
tears of joy stood in her eyes, she did not hug or kiss or "make over"
her boys,--such displays of feeling being permissible only in or over
babies. Little Sammy availed himself of his privilege to the fullest
extent, gurgling, laughing and shouting at sight of his brothers, while
Ponto, in equal exemption from the bonds of etiquette, nearly knocked
them down in his joy. The two pretty little girls of five and three,
being exhorted to "shake hands with the woman, Susanna and Neely," did
so most politely; and Hiram, the seven-year-old, tore his gaze from
Jason (they were engaged in a mutual size-up) long enough to go through
the same ceremony.
The boys made at once for the apple trees, and I was invited in. Mrs.
Salyer was just finishing her day's stint of weaving, and sat in the
loom and threw the swift shuttle while we conversed. Seeing her for the
first time without the black sunbonnet, I realized where the boys get
their extreme beauty.
I asked her, of course, about family history, and learned that her
ancestors, too, came out from Old Virginia more than a century ago, and
had been men of education and parts. "The later generations," she said,
"haint had the ghost of a chance, shut away here without no l'arning,
and so hard put to it to keep bread in their mouths that half of 'em
never hears what's happening yan side the mountain. It don't look like
it's right for young ones to grow up this way, without no show at all. I
am determined mine shall get one."
She also talked a good deal about Mr. Salyer, who she says was "as
pretty a man as the wind ever blowed on," and one of the "workingest" in
this section. Evidently she feels his loss very deeply; but she faces
life with prodigious courage, shouldering his burdens in addition to her
own, and thinking nothing of plowing, grubbing, clearing, and like heavy
work, which she does cheerfully rather than keep her boys out of school.
Her faith is touching. "God has give me this fine mess of young ones,"
she says; "now I look to Him for strength to feed and raise them."
Several times our conversation was interrupted by shy statements from
the little girls that Hiram and Jason were fighting all over the yard;
but no bloodshed being as yet reported, little attention was paid.
When the time came for active preparations for supper, I was taken out
by the boys to "see things." First, the nags, Mandy and the "flea-bit"
Charlie, were watered in the branch, and fed; then the steers must be
brought down and "nubbined." They were grazing far up in a hollow, but
at a word Ponto was off, and soon brought them down, starting again on a
quest of his own. Then the boys put yokes on them and drove them around
the steep stable-lot for my pleasure. Keats said he and Hen had to tie
their tails together while breaking them, to keep them from turning the
yokes; but now they go along quietly, as well conducted steers should,
and evidently with perfect understanding of the strange talk of their
young masters, which was Greek to me. I could comprehend the "Gee,
Buck!",--"Git along there, Brandy!"; but the oft-repeated "Oo-cum-weh,
woo-oo!", and "Now-wa-_chat_-tum!" were indeed puzzling. Then Ole Suke,
the pied cow, hearing the excitement, came up, or rather, down, of her
own accord, followed by Reddy the heifer, whose little spotted calf
welcomed her loudly across the rails. Nothing would do but Keats must
milk Reddy then and there, to demonstrate the remarkable deficiency of
the "blind teat" before-mentioned.
Just as he had proved this to everybody's satisfaction, yelps from Ponto
could be heard approaching, and in another moment a large, raw-boned
black sow stepped sedately out of the woods on the other side of the
branch, and stood meditating. An instant later, she was surrounded by a
company of half-grown shoats, which squealed and scurried before Ponto's
onslaughts. But evidently Julia herself lived in a serene atmosphere,
and took orders from no one. After scrutinizing all of us, and assuring
herself that the boys really were Keats and Hen, she grunted deeply and
came forward. Not until she got out of the tall weeds, and into the
branch, was the joyful discovery made that nine little new pigs followed
her closely and shamefacedly. They could not be two days old,--of course
they had come purposely to celebrate the boys' visit home,--no one
could doubt that! Great was the delight that followed, great the pride
expressed in Julia and all her performances. And what a good bait of
corn Julia and the shoats got, while the babies helped themselves to
their dinner, all but the poor little runt, who was crowded entirely out
of reach of his until Hen spanked two of the others and made a place for
him!
[Illustration: "Not until she got out of the tall weeds, and into the
branch, was the joyful discovery made that nine little new pigs followed
her closely and shamefacedly."]
After making the acquaintance and hearing the family history of various
chickens, turkeys, guineas and geese, I was taken up the hollow to the
famous pawpaw patch, scene of innumerable 'possum hunts. Here even Ponto
showed lively memories of past victories, while Keats, Hen and Hiram all
talked at once, describing combats, and pointing out the very trees and
logs. Some details of natural history I was able to gather from the
confusion, such as: possums allus sull-up when they are kotch; boar
possums does a heap of fighting, and it's a sight to hear their noses
crack when they are at it, and the best sport ever seed is to ketch two
and sic 'em ag'in each other; sow-possums do not fight, and the young
uns curl their tails round their maw's and ride on her back when she
travels; and, finally, possums are a master-race for wiles, and it is
the mark of a man to be able to outwit them.
But darkness was beginning to fall, and when the gourd-horn blew for
supper, nobody tarried on the way down. Oh, what beans, what "'taters,"
what "roasting-years," what corn-bread, and above all, what a noble
vinegar-pie! Nervesty's reputation was fully sustained,--dangerously so,
I feared, as I watched the boys gorge.
Then, while Mrs. Salyer and Keats went out to milk after supper, Hen and
Susanna and Neely and I washed up the dishes; and while we were at it,
Hiram and Jason were pulled apart, Jason with a gouged eye and a bitten
arm, Hiram with a bloody nose and a raked shin. Then, Mrs. Salyer and
Keats returning, and everybody being very sleepy indeed, we all went to
bed in "t'other house," the little girls and I in one bed, Mrs. Salyer,
Sammy and Keats in a second, and Hiram, Hen and Jason in the third (Hen
in the middle). We had some general conversation after retiring, and it
was all very happy and sociable. And of course Ponto slept in the room,
too, and when, faithful guardian, he was not running to the door to
growl at imaginary intruders, he was thumping his tail on the floor, or
turning round and round before the fire to settle himself to his
satisfaction.
Saturday morning, Keats, Hen and even I tried to beg off from the
funeral occasion; but of course it was useless; and there was a busy
time getting ready to start. A little past noon, I, on Mandy, with
Susanna behind me, and Mrs. Salyer on Charlie, with Sammy before and
Neely behind, reached the top of Bee Tree Gap, and looked down into the
valley on the far side, the boys racing ahead of us. On a hill-shoulder
below, grave-houses were visible, and people and nags were moving about.
Still farther down the valley, Mrs. Salyer showed me Emmeline's lonely
little home. Emmeline, she said, had died a year and three months
before, during the typhoid that took off Mr. Salyer, leaving a virtuous
and pious memory, seven small children, and a deeply-stricken "widow."
Before we reached the burying-ground, the services began with a
long-drawn funeral song, that came up to us in snatches. Very mournful
and beautiful the tune was, embodying the very spirit of loneliness,
sorrow and resignation. As we drew nearer, Mrs. Salyer joined in the
refrain, and I caught some of the words,
I'm a long time travelling here below,
A long time travelling away from my home.
A long time travelling here below
To lay this body down!
"A long time travelling" indeed it seems to those of us bereft as she
is, and as I am. The inexpressible sweep, dignity and pathos of the song
will haunt me as long as I live.
We joined the crowd among the grave-houses. In front of the newest of
these, saplings had been laid across logs to make seats; and the people
who could not be accommodated here sat on the ground or walked quietly
about. Even the numerous babies were quiet, as if knowing that a funeral
occasion demanded it.
The immediate family sat on the front sapling, facing the preachers, who
occupied a plank against the grave-house. Mrs. Salyer pointed out
Emmeline's bereaved "widow" to me. He sat with drooping head and utterly
dejected attitude, while the row of children with him wept. Just at his
side was a wholesome-faced young woman, surely too old to be Emmeline's
daughter, holding on one arm a child about a year-and-a-half old, and in
the other a very pink new baby.
"Who is that?" I inquired.
Mrs. Salyer whispered back, "That's his new woman, Mary,--of course he
was bound to get him one right off, with all them young ones. She treats
them mighty good, too. The new one's hers,--it come eight days ago, just
in time for the funeral occasion."
When the first preacher started to speak, and Emmeline's virtues began
to be aired, I saw with interest and surprise that Mary wept as
sincerely and heartily as anybody, her tears dropping down impartially
upon the nursing baby and the older one. Once, when her husband seemed
quite overcome, she laid a pitying hand on his shoulder; at other times,
with a corner of her apron she tenderly wiped the eyes and noses of all
the children within reach. And when, later, the preacher referred
solemnly and unblinkingly to the fact that Emmeline's offsprings had now
fell into the hands of a step-maw, and it behooved her to remember that
she must one day give account to the God of widows and orphans, she
bowed her head very humbly, and seemed to be at once overwhelmed and
uplifted by the thought of her responsibility. Her face was really
wonderful and beautiful, and in it I saw far more hope for the happiness
of Emmeline's offsprings than in that of the "widow." In both wives he
appears to have received more than his deserts.
The whole scene--the lonely mountain-shoulder, the weather-beaten
grave-houses, the isolated little home below, the reds and yellows of
the forest fading after a night of heavy frost, the ancient spectacle of
human bereavement and sorrow with nothing to relieve it save the look on
Mary's face--went to my heart till the tears came.
At four o'clock, having heard five preachers and several funeral songs,
we took our departure. The occasion was to last all day Sunday, too. I,
however, besought Mrs. Salyer to let the boys have one day at home, and
at last gained her consent; and when we were once more in bed, and
conversation had languished, and Ponto was thumping the floor with his
tail again, Keats raised his head from the pillow to murmur, sleepily,
but rapturously "Gee-oh,--a whole 'nother day at home to-morrow!"
On our arrival at the school to-night after dark, I heard that Nucky had
left Friday in spite of my commands, and had not yet returned.