AT THE POST OFFICE.
Beneath the blooming boughs overhanging the mountain road the old
carryall was slowly pulled along by a horse into whose joints had crept
the dreamy laziness of early summer. Lou, bound about with flowering
vines, captive May-queen in purple chains, sat on the rear seat with
Tom; and she was shy in this close touch with the mysterious world from
afar off; and her timidity made him timid, this youth whose earliest
recollection was the booming of cannon, as he played upon a cavalryman's
blanket, waiting for his father to return from the charge. Motherless,
the pet of the battalion, his playthings the accoutrements of war, his
"stick horse," a sabre, his confidential companion a brass field piece.
Old soldiers, devoted to their colonel, carried him about on their
shoulders, and handsome women made him vain and bold with their kisses;
but in the presence of this mountain girl he was subdued. Jim and Mrs.
Mayfield sat together--that is, he sat out on the end of a board, as
far away from her as he could get, and once when the wheel ran over a
stone he fell off.
"Oh," she cried, "you must be hurt."
He got up, with his jack-o'-lantern smile, dusted himself and said:
"I--I would fall for you any time, ma'm."
"But," she laughed, "I didn't want you to fall."
"Didn't you? Well, I beg yo' pardon, I thought you did."
Kintchin, who sat in front, ducked his head and chuckled.
"Oh, de folks up yere is de 'commerdatinist you eber seed. Da'll stand
up fur you ur fall down fur you ur do anythin' you pleases. Sorry I come
off an' furgot suthin'. Allus de way--man furgits whut he needs de
mos.'"
"Did you forget something, Kintchin?" Mrs. Mayfield inquired.
"Yas'm, come off an' furgot twenty-fi' cents dat I wanted to fetch wid
me. I owes er quarter ter er crap-shootin' nigger ober dar, an' when I
kain't pay him he gwine retch his han' up atter my wool. I doan want no
big nigger retchin' atter me, caze I ain't right well dis mawin'. Co'se
ef I wuz well I wouldn' mine it so much, but ez it is, it bodders me
might'ly. You neber had no trouble wid er crap-shootin' nigger, ef you
had you'd be mo' consarned. Anybody gwine gib me er quarter."
"I'll give you a testament," said Jim, looking back and smiling at Tom.
"Testament! Ointment you better say," replied Kintchin. "Testament ain't
gwine be no mo' fo'ce wid dem niggers den de Lawd's pra'r would wid er
wild haug. Huh, I'se er dreadin' eber step o' de way ober dar."
"Here's a quarter," said Mrs. Mayfield, handing him a piece of silver.
"Thankee, ma'm. Oh, you's whut da calls er missiunary, an' I gwine he'p
ole black mammy pray fur you."
"Oh, how beautiful--nature sleeps and dreams of paradise," mused the
romantic woman and the preacher clasped his hands.
"Down off there is where the foxes live," said Lou. "One night I went
with pa to run them, and we galloped all round here, and when we got
home, just about day, my clothes were torn nearly all to pieces; but it
was such fun; and when old Bob got close to the fox and bellowed, it
seemed like he was beatin' his paw on my heart. And away off yander, the
hill-side opened and music poured out, and father reached over and put
his hand on my head and we listened."
"It is music," said Jim, "but the horn blowed by old Satan may be made
outen silver."
"But, Mr. Reverend," Mrs. Mayfield spoke up, "you surely don't object to
the enjoyment of a harmless adventure."
"No, ma'm. The Lord wants us to enjoy ourselves, but we should not jump
on the hoss of pleasure and gallop too fur away from the gospel of
truth."
Kintchin ducked his woolly head. "Keep on foolin' roun' an' dis yere
white man call up mourners," he declared. "De gospel it all right, bof
in de dark an' de light o' de moon; but you keep on foolin' wid it an'
follerin' it an' you gwine lose yo' min'. I knows whut I talkin' erbout.
You got ter come ter de 'clusion dat de Lawd knows best an' not pry too
fur inter his erfairs. De Book say suthin' 'bout eat all you want an'
take er drink once in er while fur ter-morrer you ain't gwine be yere."
"Does the Book say anything about shooting craps?" Tom inquired.
"Now, Mr. Tom, whut put dat inter yo' head? Book doan come out p'intedly
an' say you shan't."
"They cast lots for His garments," the preacher spoke, and Kintchin
replied:
"Oh, w'en you fling de Book down on me too hard, I jest hatter squirm,
dat's all. Ef I had ernudder quarter I could open up er 'skussion dat--"
"You'll not get it," said Jim.
"Dat ends it. Oh, I likes preachers--likes ter yere 'em talk, but I
ain't nebber got no money outen one yit. Da all time talk erbout gib
whut you got ter de po' an' foller on, an' da follers all right; but I
ain't seen 'em gibbin' nuthin'."
"They give to the spirit, Kintchin," remarked Mrs. Mayfield.
"Yas'm. But sometimes I'd leetle ruther da give ter de pocket.
Howsomedever, I mustn't go too fur wid dis man. He's er preacher, but
he er Starbuck an' he w'ar me out ef I push him too fur."
"Now, Kintchin," said the preacher, "you know you couldn't provoke me
into strikin' you. Don't you?"
"Yas, suh, I feels it; still I's er little skeered o' you. An' whut you
gwine gimme caze I skeered? Ain't it wuth er quarter ter be skeered like
I is? Huh?"
"Here," replied Jim, giving him a piece of money. "It's worth a quarter
to see Satan play his pranks."
A turn in the road, and there was a river, narrow, deep and as blue as
the sky. Wild spice bushes, shedding a sweet perfume, grew upon the
steep banks, and far below they saw a black bass leap to gulp a mouthful
of the sun. The hills stretched away, purple, blue, green; and through
the air shot a red bird, lightening from a cloud of flowers. A gaudy,
wild dragon, zouave-arrayed, stood guard over a violet nodding beside a
rock, and the milk-maidish white clover trembled in fear of the
lust-looking strawberry. Bold upon a high rock, with a fish in his claw,
sat a defiant eagle, and straight down the river flew a sand-hill
crane, like a fragment of gray mist.
They met a young fellow, carrying a tea-cup in his hand, with hair that
looked like hackled flax and with a grin that invited the confidence of
all mankind. It was Mose Blake, known to neighborhood fame as the
stutterer. He halted and attempted to say something, but Kintchin drove
on, muttering that he had no time for words that a fellow chewed all to
pieces. The boy tried to shout his defiance, but "you are a--a--a
f--f--f--," was all he could utter and even this was forestalled by
Kintchin, who called back at him: "Oh, we knows all erbout dat."
The road dipped down, turned, and they drove upon a ferry-boat, a mere
platform of rude plank and propelled by two gaunt men. On the other
shore they drove along still keeping close to the river. A country boy
hailed them, but without heeding him Kintchin remarked: "Dat's Laz
Spencer, an' he takin' dat meal bag home somewhar ter borry suthin'
else. Ef he wuz ter go ter heben an' foun' dat he couldn't borry some
angel's harp, he wouldn't stay dar. I 'spize ter see er pusson all de
time wantin' suthin'."
"You don't borrow, do you?" Tom asked, and he answered:
"Who, me? No, suh. I earns all I gits--ef not befo', afterwards. Jest ez
sho ez er pusson gibs me suthin' I gwine earn it."
Turning off from the river and entering upon a piece of level ground,
they came to the post-office, an old log house with gable end toward the
road. In an inclosure a number of tow-headed boys were trying to ride a
calf. In the road a child, not more than able to toddle, was throwing
stones at a blowing old goose.
Kintchin tied his horse to a "swinging limb," and the ladies were
assisted to the ground. Tom conducted them into the post-office, a store
wherein the merchant had for sale snuff, red calico, brown jeans, plug
tobacco, cast iron plow points, nails and cove oysters. The post-master
came forward dragging after him two splint-bottom chairs.
"Set down," he said. "Never seed you befo', but I'm glad to see you
now."
Tom inquired if there were anything in the office for Mrs. Mary Mayfield
or himself, calling his name; and the post-master looked at him closely
and asked: "Any kin to old Zeb Elliot that used to sell mink skins?"
"No, I have no relatives in this part of the country."
"Wall, old Zeb was a good deal of a man."
"That may be, but he was no relation of mine."
"Had long red whiskers and his hair stood up straight--seed him climb a
tree one night and shake a coon out as slick as a whistle. Had a dog
named Tige--feller pizened him. Where you frum?"
"Nashville. I wish you'd look--"
"Yes, that's what I'm goin' to do. And ain't this Jasper Starbuck's
daughter? I thought so," he added when Lou nodded at him. "I've knowed
Jasper a long time, but folks don't git round a visitin' now like they
uster. Never seed yo' father drunk in my life--swear it's a fact; never
did. I'll bet he kin whup a ground-hog as big as he is. And I'll sw'ar,
ain't this little Jimmie Starbuck?"
"My name is Jim and I am a Starbuck," the preacher answered.
"Thought I know'd you. Ah, hah, and they tell me you air preachin' the
gospel now. Which one o' the gospels air you preachin', Luke or John?
Wall, no diffunce, either of 'em is good enough, I reckon. I never tried
to preach."
"I wish you'd try to look over your stock of mail matter," said Tom.
"I'll do that, too. What was the other name. Mayfield? Well, that's a
familiar name to me. My grandmother was a Mayfield--no, Mayhew. Putty
nigh the same anyhow. You air expectin' a letter, I reckon."
"Yes, if you please."
"From yo' husband? No, you ain't married, of co'se. And I want to tell
you that you may have any letter in this shop, don't make no odds who
it's writ to. I'm allus glad to have folks come. I set here day after
day, by myself a good deal of the time, and I like comp'ny, too; uster
be a mighty hand to go round, but sorter give it up atter I got busy.
Now, let me see whar I put them letters." He scratched his head. "I had
'em yistidy, I'm certain of that." He went behind his counter, shook a
barrel, looked into it--looked into a cracker box, into a crock jar, and
brought out a handful of letters. "Oh, I know'd they was here somewhar,"
he said. "Elliott, Mayfield," he repeated, looking at the letters.
"Here's one for Endiott--'bout as near as I can come to you, young
feller. Will that do?"
"Of course not," Tom answered. "It isn't for me."
"Near enough, ain't it. Oughtn't to blame a man when he's doin' the best
he can. I can't hit at you at all, Mrs. Mayfield. Ain't nuthin' here
that sounds like you."
"Really," she said, "this is a remarkable post-office."
"One of the best, ma'm," replied the post-master. "Come in, Squire," he
called as a man, leading a hound, appeared at the door.
"I want a pint," said the Squire.
"All right--let me look at yo' dog." He examined the hound's teeth,
punched him in the side to catch his tone, pronounced his yelp of good
note, and gave the Squire a pint of liquor.
"About as peculiar case of barter as I ever saw," said Tom when the
Squire withdrew with his purchase.
"Yas, mout seem so, but a good artickle of hound is a currency at this
sto'."
"I heard that I might find peculiar people in this part of the country,"
said Mrs. Mayfield, "and I have not been disappointed."
The store-keeper smiled upon her, playing with the hound's ears. "Oh, we
never disapp'int folks," he replied. "But we ain't peculiar. Higher up
the mountains you might find folks that are right queer in their ways.
Up thar they ain't got no money at all 'cept coon skins. Well, do you
want to buy anythin'?"
"No," said Mrs. Mayfield, "not to-day."
"Got some right good snuff here if you want it."
"I don't use snuff."
"You don't? An' come round talkin' 'bout peculiar folks, too? Little
one," he said to Lou, "tell yo' daddy I may drap over to see him as soon
as my present rush is over. Trade is suthin' that don't wait fur no
man, Mrs. Mayflower."
"Auntie, you'll have to buy something after that," said Tom. "I don't
see how you can get away from it."
"Then I will show you. I wish you would tell Kintchin that we are ready
to go."