IN WHICH PHIL, WITH HIS FORTUNE AS A FARMER, BIDS FAREWELL TO FIELD AND
FOREST.
"This place is wuth money, boy," said Kit Cruncher, when I had told him
what I intended to do.
"The more it is worth, the better it will be for you, Kit," I replied.
"I'm willin' to pay for the place and the improvements. I've made well
on it this year--more'n ever I could trappin'. Then, you see, the
settlements is workin' up this way, and another year I shall hev 'em
all round me."
"All right; hope you'll make your fortune, Kit."
"But I want to buy you out."
"I don't think I have any rights here which I can sell. You are welcome
to everything that belongs to me. But I will leave the whole matter to
Mr. Gracewood. I know he will do what is fair."
"Just as you say, Phil. This life jest suits me, now I'm gittin' old,
and don't want to tramp through the woods no more. It's a good
sitooation for me, and I shall be lucky to get it at any fair price. I
shan't want it long, and when I've done with it, yon kin hev it agin,
for I hain't no relations to fight over what I leave behind me."
"How long have you lived in the woods, Kit?" I asked; for, though I had
known him from my childhood, I had no knowledge of his antecedents.
"Nigh on to thirty years, boy."
"Where did you come from?"
"I was born and raised down in Kaintuck. My father died when I was
young, and I took to the river for a livin'. I worked a choppin', a
flat boatin', and firin' on a steamboat. I was down in Loosiana one
time, on a plantation, when the owner's cub--and he war wus nor any
bar's cub I ever see--tied up a black woman who had been sick, because
she didn't do all her stent. He wanted me to lick her. I told him I
wouldn't do it, no how. This made him mad, and he struck me. I knocked
him down with my fist quicker'n you could wink. He got up, and kim at
me with a knife. I hit him with a heavy stick on the head. He dropped,
and didn't move no more."
"Did yon kill him?" I asked, deeply interested in the narrative.
"I dunno; I don't reckon I did. But I feared I hed; but whether I hed
or not, it would have been all the same with me. It mought have cost me
my life if they'd cotched me, and I left. I travelled across the
country till I came to the Ark'saw River, and thar I went to work agin
firin' on a steamer. When I got money enough I bought my rifle, and
traps, and went into the woods. I hev tramped all over the pararies,
and in the end I fotched up here."
"Have you always lived alone?"
"Allus; I hedn't no 'fection for them pesky half breeds, nor them
French Kanucks nuther. They are thick enough all along the river, and I
allus kep away from 'em. I reckon I got more bufler hides nor any on
'em; but the critters is druv off now. I sold a good many skins of all
sorts, and as I never drunk no liquor, I've got the money now. I
fotched it down with me t'other day."
"Shall you ever return to Kentucky?"
"I don't reckon I shall; but I mought."
"What became of your mother?"
"She died long afore I kim off. Now, boy, I kin live jest as I want to
here, and I'll buy your farm."
"We will talk with Mr. Gracewood about it. I will do whatever he says
is right."
My fortunes as a farmer were certainly very satisfactory, and I had no
reason to complain. I was to leave my Field and Forest with about
fifteen hundred dollars in my pocket; and I could not but ask myself
whether I was not going from a certainty to an uncertainty. Farming, in
connection with the wood business, had paid well. But then I wanted to
see something of the great world, of which I had heard so much. I had a
decided taste for some mechanical calling, and I was sure that I could
make my way in life if I had fair play. Yet, if my prospects had been
far less favorable, I could not have endured the separation from the
Gracewoods.
Leaving Kit in the Castle, thinking over his future operations, I went
to the house of Mr. Gracewood, in order to consult him in regard to the
disposal of the farm. I found him with his pipe in his mouth, playing
on the grand piano, and lost in the inspiration of the "Gloria." I
could not interrupt him, and I waited till he had finished, which,
however, was not till his pipe was exhausted.
"Phil, I must take this piano with me; but we have not force enough to
put it in the box."
"I think we have, sir," I replied. "If you say it must go, it shall be
at the landing when the steamer comes down."
"Two men and a boy cannot put it into the box, to say nothing of
loading it upon the wagon."
"I think we can, sir, if we have time enough; for, as you taught me,
what is gained in power is lost in time. I will take the job, sir."
"You are very confident, Phil Farringford," added Mr. Gracewood, with a
smile.
"I got up the plan by which we brought it over here from the island."
"But you had a dozen men to lift it up and put it in the box."
"As we haven't a dozen now, we can do it with two men and a boy, if we
have time. The next boat will not come down for a week. But I wanted to
see you about another matter. Kit wants to buy the farm of me, and I
don't think I own it. We left the decision to you."
"Legally, you have no rights here."
"That is what I said."
"If Matt Rockwood has any heirs, they can obtain whatever legal rights
he had in the premises."
"Matt owns the quarter section, as an actual settler. I found the paper
signed by a land agent."
"Then his heirs, if he has any, can claim it, as well as all his
property."
"Then you think I have no right to the money found in Matt's chest?"
"So long as no heirs appear, I think you have a moral right to keep
it."
"Then Kit can have the place."
"I do not think it would be right for you to sell it. You cannot give
him a legal title to it. But it is right for him to pay you for your
share of the produce now on the place."
This seemed to me to be a fair and just decision, and I repeated it to
Kit, who was, of course, entirely satisfied. It was agreed that he
should pay me one hundred dollars for my share, and the business was
completed. Mr. Gracewood presented him, as a free gift, the house and
all it contained, except the piano, books, and other articles which
were strictly personal. The barge was included in the gift, and Kit
suddenly became a rich man, in his own estimation.
In a box, which Mr. Gracewood gave me, I packed up all the articles I
intended to take with me, including the child's suit and some of Matt's
papers. My money, except a reasonable sum for expenses, I placed in the
hands of Mr. Gracewood, who gave me a note for the amount. I meant to
take my rifle with me, as a memorial of my life in the woods. As Kit
took care of the horses and pigs now, I had a great deal of time for
idle dreaming. I went to all the familiar localities in the vicinity
with Ella. While I was sad at the thought of leaving the haunts of my
childhood, I was excited by the prospect of seeing new and strange
sights. A new life seemed to be opening upon me, and the indefinite
wonders of the civilized world flitted wildly through my mind.
"Well, Phil Farringford, if we are going to move the piano, it is about
time to begin," said Mr. Gracewood, one morning.
"I am all ready, sir."
"I do not yet see how it is to be done; but I will leave the job to
you."
"We shall be obliged to take down a part of the house--one end and a
portion of the floor."
"That can very easily be done."
I sawed four cotton-wood sticks so that they would just reach from the
ground to the timbers of the attic floor. We placed them in position to
support the frame above, which was to bear the weight of the piano
during the process of loading it upon the wagon. I then placed a couple
of hewn sticks across the attic floor, after removing the boards. Two
stout ropes were then passed around the piano and over these sticks,
drawn tight. The piano-case was protected from chafing by a couple of
blankets.
Kit and I then went into the attic, and with a lot of wedges I had
made, proceeded to raise the two hewn timbers, over which the rope
passed. We drove the wedges between the sticks and the timbers of the
frame. As fast as we gained an inch, we put a board under, upon which
we drove another series of wedges. The process was slow but it was
sure, and in time the piano below hung suspended clear of the floor.
"That's all very good, so far, Phil Farringford," laughed Mr. Gracewood.
"Is it clear of the floor, sir?" I asked.
"Yes, all clear."
"Then we will take off the legs."
When this task was accomplished, we took up the floor and joists under
the instrument, and removed the sill on the end of the house. Of course
we had to take out the studs below the plate; but the posts I had put
in were amply sufficient to support the frame. We levelled down the
banking so as to form a smooth road to the ground beneath the piano. I
then carefully measured the distance from the bottom of the piano to
the earth. It was four feet and one inch, while the body of the wagon,
which I intended to back under the instrument, was only two feet and a
half high. We laid down some logs crosswise, upon which we placed a
track of boards for the wheels of the wagon. The vehicle was then
backed beneath the piano, with the box upon the platform. The oil-cloth
was placed in the case, so that we could cover the instrument after it
had been deposited in the box.
Kit and I had hewn four timbers of the length of the wagon, on opposite
sides, like a railroad sleeper. Raising the vehicle with levers, we
placed these sticks under the wheels. As we lifted up the wagon, the
box was elevated so as to enclose the instrument. The timbers under the
wheels were each about six inches thick, and when we had them in
position, the bottom of the piano was not an inch from the bottom of
the case. We then drove our wedges between the two timbers, on each of
which rested two of the wheels, securely blocked. The wagon rose till
the ropes which supported the piano were slackened, and we untied and
removed them. The instrument rested on heavy pads in the bottom of the
box, so that we had no trouble in pulling out the ropes. Covering the
piano with the oil-cloth, we screwed on the lid of the case. By this
time it was dark, though we had begun early in the morning.
The next day we made an inclined plane of cotton-wood sticks, upon
which to run the wagon down upon level ground. This we did by hand, and
then we were ready to hitch on the horses. We did not intend to haul it
down to the landing till we heard the whistle of the steamer, for the
boat would wait a whole day for half a ton of freight on her down trip.
But it was three days more before we heard any whistle.
After we had restored the house to its former condition, Ella and I
wandered in the woods and along the banks of the river, waiting
impatiently for the expected signal. I had dressed myself in my best
clothes, discarding forever my hunting-frock and skin cap. I thought I
was a pretty good-looking fellow, and Ella said as much as this to me.
At last we heard the whistle, and Kit and I hastened to hitch on the
horses. We placed all the baggage on the wagon with the piano-case, and
for the last time I drove old Firefly and Cracker down to the landing.
A dozen men lifted the piano from the wagon, and placed it on the deck
of the steamer. The trunks and other baggage were carried on board;
and, after the deck hands had taken in twenty cords of wood, the
whistle sounded again.
"Good by, Kit," said I, as I grasped his rough hand. "May God bless and
keep you. I hope I shall see you again."
"It mought be, and it mought not; leastwise I don't reckon you will, if
you don't come here. But good by, boy. I hope everything will allus go
well with you; and if you kin, just kim up here and see me. Good by,
boy."
Kit displayed more emotion than I had ever seen him exhibit before, and
I found it difficult to suppress a rising tear. Mr. Gracewood and his
family shook hands with him, and left their best wishes for his future
prosperity and happiness.
"Good by, Mr. Greasewood. You are a good man, and you will allus be
happy. Don't forget old Kit."
"I never shall," protested Mr. Gracewood, as the old hunter stepped on
shore; and that was the sentiment in all our hearts.
The bell rang, the boat started, and we waved our adieus to the old man
on shore, who stood gazing solemnly and sadly at us. The wheels of the
steamer were turning, and as I gazed upon the familiar shore, I
realized that I was departing, perhaps forever, from my FIELD AND
FOREST.