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[Illustration: "Mr. Tedford, Have You Any Huyler Boxes?"
Dixie School Girl (Page 36)]
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A DIXIE SCHOOL GIRL
By
GABRIELLE E. JACKSON
Made In U.S.A.
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
CHICAGO :: NEW YORK
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COPYRIGHT 1913
BY
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
Made in U. S. A.
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TO MY TWO DIXIE NEIGHBORS,
whose entertaining tales of their childhood escapades have helped
to make these stories, this first volume of the "Dixie Girl" is
most affectionately inscribed by their friend.
G. E. J.
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CHAPTER I
FULL SPEED FOR FOUR CORNERS
Four straight country roads running at right angles. You cannot see where
they begin because they have their beginning "over the hills and far
away," but you can see where they end at "Four Corners," the hub of that
universe, for there stand the general store, which is also the
postoffice, the "tavern," as it is called in that part of the world, the
church, the rectory, and perhaps a dozen private dwellings.
"Four Corners" is oddly mis-named, because there are no corners there at
all. It is a circle. Maybe it was originally four corners, but today it
is certainly a circle with a big open space in the center, and in the
very middle of that stands a flag staff upon which floats the stars and
stripes. The whole open space is covered with the softest green turf.
_Not_ a lawn, mind you, such as one may see in almost any immaculately
kept northern town, with artistic flower beds dotting it, and a carefully
trimmed border of foliage plants surrounding it. No, this circle has real
Virginia turf; the thick, rich, indestructible turf one finds in England,
which, as an old gardener told the writer, "we rolls and tills it for a
thousand years." Nature had been rolling and tilling this green plot of
ground for a good many thousand years.
The circle was encompassed by an iron rail fence to which the people from
the surrounding community hitched their saddle or carriage horses when
they came to the "Store" for their mail, or to make various purchases.
And there the beasties often stood for hours, rubbing noses and
exchanging the gossip of the paddocks, horse (or mule) fashion.
There were always several hitched there, and they were always gossiping
or dozing as they waited for their owners to start toward home, and they
represented all sorts and conditions of their kind just as those owners
represented all sorts and conditions of men. Some were young men, some
middle-aged, some old. Some were of the gentry of the surrounding
country, some the humbler white folk, some the negroes who had managed to
acquire small tracts of land which they farmed successfully or otherwise.
Among them, too, was the typical shiftless, "triflin' no-'count" darkey
who "jist sits 'round a-waitin'," though it would be hard for him to tell
what he was waiting for.
Nevertheless, the "Corners" is the center of the activities of that
community, though to make those who most frequently gather there,
comprehend the limitations of its activities they would have to be set
down in the midst of some big, hustling city.
Still, some who go to the Corners are very much alive to this fact, for
they have journeyed throughout the length and breadth of their own land
and many other lands beside. But they do not tell their less travelled
brothers much of the wonders which lie beyond the towering mountains,
which is just as well, perhaps. The stay-at-home might be less happy and
content were they to learn of the doings of the big world beyond the
barriers of their snug, peaceful valley, which seems to the wiser ones so
far away from the trials, struggles, and worries of the world beyond.
And, curiously enough, when those of wider knowledge return to the valley
they find again the peace and tranquility which they left there, and,
breathing a sigh of relief, settle back into its restful atmosphere, and
tranquil content, as one settles into a comfortable old chair.
The nearest "real, sure-enough town" to the Corners is Sprucy Branch and
that is fourteen miles from Luray, with its famous caverns. To reach
Sprucy Branch from Four Corners one must drive or ride "a right smart
distance," and then to reach Luray take a railway trip or drive the
fourteen miles. It is a beautiful part of this big world, and the valley
is a happy one. Moreover, it would be hard to find a more delightful,
little social world than its gentlefolk represent. Not the formal,
artificial, rigidly conventional social world of the big northern cities,
where few have time or inclination to be absolutely genuine, but the
rare, true social life of the well-bred southerner, to whom friendship
means much, kinship more, and family ties everything. Whose sons go forth
into the world to make their mark, and often their fortunes, too, yet
still retain the charm of their up-bringing, the traditions of their
families, and their intense love of "the home back yonder." Whose
daughters, though brought up, "raised," they often say, in the simplicity
of country life, and more often than not having very limited financial
resources, are in the truest sense of that beautiful old word, the
gentlewomen we picture, prepared to grace their homes, or the outer world
and reflect credit upon the land of their birth. And this is the
conviction of her northern sister, the first of nine generations to be
born beyond the borders of the old Bay State, so she can hardly be
accused of a biased opinion.
And this lovely September morning, when the air holds just the faintest
suggestion of autumn, when the leaves are beginning to hint of richer
tints than the soft greens which they have worn all summer, when the
native birds are hobnobbing and gossiping with their friends who are
journeying farther south, "All the news of the north to the sunny south
bringing," and the squirrels are chattering and scolding as they gather
their hoard of chinkapins and other fodder for the long winter at hand,
something is stirring. Yes, stirring vigorously, too, if one may judge by
the hullabaloo which suddenly arises far down the East Pike. The people
gathered upon the porch at the store prick up their ears to listen. There
are a dozen or more there upon one errand or another, for the store is
the commercial center of the district, and from it can be bought or
ordered every nameable thing under the sun. It is also the postoffice,
so, once, at least, each day there wends his or her way to it, every
human being who expects, hopes for, or by any chance may receive a
letter.
It was mail time. Hence the number of people gathered about to prick up
their ears as the racket down the road grew louder and louder each
second, and the thud of horses' hoofs, the shouts of boys' voices and a
girl's ringing laugh were borne to them.
"Yonder comes the Woodbine bunch, I'll bet a dollar, and they're sure
enough a-hittin' it up, too. Reckon that young one of the old Admiral's
is a-settin' the pace, too. She's a clipper, all right," commented a man
seated upon a tilted-back chair, his hat pushed far back upon his shock
head. He was guiltless of coat, and his jean trousers were hitched high
about his waist by a pair of wool suspenders.
Hardly had he ceased speaking when three horses came pounding into view,
the leader ridden by a girl about fifteen years of age. The animal was a
little mouse-colored beastie with white markings and eyes which gave a
pretty strong hint of a good bit of broncho disposition to which the
markings also pointed. He was lithe and agile as a cat and moved with
something of the sinuous gliding of that animal, rather than the bounding
motions of his eastern-bred mates. The two horses running neck and neck
behind him were evidently blooded animals, and all three were a-lather
from the pace set by their leader, all mud-bespattered to the point of
being wholly disreputable, for a shower the previous night had left many
a wide puddle in the road.
The girl leading rode as only a southern girl, accustomed to a saddle all
her life, can ride. The saddle was of the Mexican type, but the headstall
was the lightest possible, with a simple snaffle bit, even that seeming
almost superfluous for she guided her mount more by the motions of her
body than the bridle. She held the reins at arm's length in her left
hand, while with her right she waved above her head a soft felt hat, her
banner of defiance and derision of her pursuers. Swaying ever so slightly
in her saddle, she brought her wiry little mount up to the platform, and
slid from his back as snow slides from a hillside. The reins were tossed
over his head and the race was ended.
Running across the porch she nodded or bowed comprehensively to all
seated or standing upon it--the greeting accompanied by a sunny, happy
smile which revealed faultlessly pretty teeth.
As she disappeared within the store her friends came rushing up to the
platform, shouting after her as they drew up their horses:
"Here, come back! Hold on! That's no fair, even if you did beat. _We're_
going to decide the kind of candy. You'll do us out of our last cent if
we let you get it."
"Of course! Why not?" was called back, banteringly.
"Do you think I'm going to run Apache off his legs, risk breaking my neck
and then not have the say-so in the end? I reckon not. It's just _got_ to
be chocolates _this_ time. Cinnamon suckers are all right enough for a
little race, but this was a two-mile go-it-for-all-you're-worth one, and
besides, you'd better be nice to me, while you have the chance, because
you won't have me with you very much longer."
"Ah, cut that out. We know it well enough. You needn't rub it in," was
the chorus of answers.
"Shut up, Bev," added the taller of the two boys, a fair haired lad of
sixteen or seventeen. He was a handsome boy, with eyes of such a deep
blue that they seemed violet, wavy golden hair and a fine, clear skin,
though it was tanned many shades darker than nature intended it to be.
The nose was clean cut, and the mouth and chin indicated considerable
strength of character. He carried himself as though very sure of his
place in the world, and his intention to hold it. Nevertheless, the face
was a cheery, happy one.
The other boy was so like the girl that it was laughable. Exchange their
garments and it would have puzzled the cleverest person to tell
"t'other-from-which." To label them twins would have been superfluous.
Nature had attended to that little matter fifteen years earlier in their
lives, and even their old mammy used to say: "Now don' none of yo' other
chillern go ter projectin' wid dem babies whilst I's got my haid turn'd
'way, cause if yo' does dey's gwine fer to get mixed pintedly, an' den
I's gwine ter have ter spend a hull hour mebbe a-gettin' my mind settled
pon which is which again."
Moreover, the fifteen years of daily association had only served to
consummate what Dame Nature had so ably begun, for the girl and the boy
almost thought and felt in unison. In all those years they had hardly
been separated for a day. That is no further than a strict quarantine
beneath the same roof had separated them, and that had been entirely
Beverly's doings. At five she began the performance by contracting
whooping-cough; at seven she tried mumps; at nine turned a beautiful
lobster hue from measles, and at eleven capped the climax by scaring the
family nearly to death with scarlet fever, and thereby causing her
grandfather, Admiral Ashby, to exclaim:
"Lord bless my soul, Beverly, you are worse than the potato bugs; they
_do_ skip the fatal second year now and again, but you never let up."
Perhaps this criticism had called a halt in her performances in the line
of contagious diseases, for since the scarlet fever scare she had quit
frightening the family into spasms, and at fifteen was as charming,
healthy, and tantalizing a bit of girlhood as one could wish to see,
though about as much of a tomboy as one could find.