greatly desired to gain from his minister sanction for the financial
operation he had proposed. But this the solemn 'Bijah did not appear
prepared to give. As the two men stood together by the roadside they
saw, riding toward them, Mr. Morris himself.
"Now, den," exclaimed Grandison, "heah comes Mahs'r Morris, and I's
gwine ter put dis question to hisse'f. He oughter know how ter 'cide
bout it, if anybody does."
"You ain't truly gwine ter put dat question to him, is ye?" asked
'Bijah, quickly.
"No, sah," replied the other. "I's gwine to put the case on a dif'rent
show-pint. But 'twill be the same thing as de udder."
Mr. Morris was a genial-natured man, who took a good deal of interest in
his negro neighbors, and was fond of listening to their peculiar humor.
Therefore, when he saw that Grandison wished to speak to him he readily
pulled up his horse.
"Mahs'r Morris," said Grandison, removing his hat, "Brudder 'Bijah an'
me has been argyin on de subjick ob truf. An' jes' as you was comin' up
I was gwine ter tell him a par'ble 'bout sticken ter truf. An' if you's
got time, Mahs'r Morris, I'd be pow'ful glad ter tell you de par'ble,
an' let you 'cide 'tween us."
"Very well," said Mr. Morris, "go on with your parable."
"Dis yere par'ble," said Grandison, "has got a justifyin' meanin' in it,
an' it's 'bout a bar an' a' possum. De 'possum he was a-gwine out early
in de mawnin' ter git a little corn fur his breakfus'--"
"Very wrong in the opossum," said Mr. Morris, "for I am sure he hadn't
planted any corn."
"Well, den, sah," said Grandison, "p'raps 'twas akerns; but, anyway,
afore he was out ob de woods he see a big, ole bar a-comin' straight
'long to him. De 'possum he ain't got no time ter climb a tree an' git
out on de leetlest end ob a long limb, an' so he lay hese'f flat down on
de groun' an' make b'lieve he's dead. When de ole bar came up he sot
down an' look at de 'possum. Fus' he turn his head on one side an' den
he turn his head on de udder, but he look at de 'possum all de time.
D'reckly he gits done lookin' an' he says:
"'Look-a-heah, 'possum, is you dead or is you libin'? If you's dead I
won't eat you, fur I neber eats dead critters, but if you's libin' den
I eats you for my breakfus', fur I is bilin' hungry, not havin' had
nuffin sence sun-up but a little smack dat I took afore gwine out inter
de damp air ob de mawnin'. Now, den, 'possum, speak out and tell me is
you 'libe or is you dead?'
"Dat are question frew de 'possum inter a pow'ful sweat. If he told de
truf an' said he was alibe he knowed well 'nuf dat de bar would gobble
him up quicker'n if he'd been a hot ash cake an' a bowl of buttermilk;
but if he said he was dead so's de bar wouldn't eat him, de bar, like
'nuf, would know he lied, an' would eat him all de same. So he turn de
matter ober an' ober in his min', an' he wrastled with his 'victions,
but he couldn't come ter no 'clusion. 'Now don't you tink,' said de bar,
'dat I's got time to sit here de whole mawnin' waitin' fer you ter make
up your mind whether you's dead or not. If you don't 'cide pretty quick,
I'll put a big rock a-top o' you, an' stop fer you answer when I come
back in de ebenin'.' Now dis gib de 'possum a pow'ful skeer, an' 'twas
cl'ar to his min' dat he mus' 'cide de question straight off. If he tole
de truf, and said he was alibe, he'd be eat up shuh; but if he said he
was dead, de bar mought b'lieve him. 'Twarn't very likely dat he would,
but dar was dat one leetle chance, an' he done took it. 'I is dead,'
says he. 'You's a long time makin' up your min' 'bout it,' says de bar.
'How long you been dead?' 'Sence day 'fore yestidday,' says the 'possum.
'All right!' says de bar, 'when dey've on'y been dead two or free days,
an' kin talk, I eats 'em all de same.' An' he eat him up."
"And now, Grandison," said Mr. Morris, "where is the moral of that
parable?"
"De moral is dis," said Grandison; "stick ter de truf. If de 'possum had
tole de truf, an' said he was alibe, de bar couldn't eat him no more'n
he did eat him; no bar could do dat. An' I axes you, Mahs'r Morris, don'
dat par'ble show dat eb'rybody oughter stick ter de truf, no matter what
happens."
"Well, I don't think your moral is very clear," said Mr. Morris, "for it
would have been about as bad for the 'possum one way as the other. But,
after all, it would have been better for the little beast to tell the
truth and die with a clear conscience."
"Dat's so!" cried Brother 'Bijah, speaking in his ministerial capacity,
"de great thing in dis worl' is ter die wid a clear conscience."
"But you can't do dat," said Grandison, "if you let dis thing an' dat
thing come in ter hinder ye. Now dat's jes' wot we's been disputin'
'bout, Mahs'r Morris. I 'clared dat we oughter stick ter de truf widout
lookin' to de right or de lef'; but Brudder 'Bijah, his min' wasn't
quite made up on de subjick. Now, wot you say, Mahs'r Morris?"
"I say stick to the truth, of course," said Mr. Morris, gathering up his
reins. "And, by the way, Grandison, do you expect to make that payment
on your place which is due next week?"
"Yaas, sah, sartin shuh," said Grandison. "I done tole you I'd do it,
Mahs'r Morris, an' I 'tends ter stick ter de truf."
"Now, den," said Grandison, in a tone of triumph, when Mr. Morris had
ridden away, "you see I's right in my 'clusions, and Mahs'r Morris
'grees with me."
"Dunno," said Brother 'Bijah, shaking his head, "dis is a mighty
dubersome question. You kep' dem apples clar out o' sight, Brudder
Gran'son; clar out o' sight."
It was about a week after this, quite early in the morning, that
Grandison was slowly driving into town with a horse and a wagon which he
had borrowed from a neighbor. In the wagon were three barrels of fine
apples. Suddenly, at a turn in the road, he was greatly surprised to
meet Mr. Morris, riding homeward.
"What have you in those barrels, Grandison?" inquired his landlord.
"Dey's apples, sah," was the reply, "dat I's got de job ob haulin' ter
town, sah."
Mr. Morris rode up to the wagon and removed the piece of old canvas that
was thrown over the tops of the barrels; there was no need of asking any
questions. No one but himself, for many miles around, had
"Belle-flowers" and "Jeannettes" like these.
"How much do you lack, Grandison," he said, "of making up the money you
owe me to-morrow?"
"Six dollars, sah," said Grandison.
"Six dollars--three barrels--very good," said Mr. Morris. "I see you are
determined to stick to the truth, Grandison, and keep your engagement.
But I will trouble you to turn that wagon round and haul those apples to
my house. And, if you still want to buy the place, you can come on
Monday morning and work out the balance you have to make up on the first
instalment; and, after this, you can make all your payments in work. A
day's labor is fair and plain, but your ways of sticking to the truth
are very crooked."
It was not long after this that Grandison was ploughing in one of Mr.
Morris' fields, when Brother 'Bijah came along and sat upon the fence.
"Brudder Gran'son," said he, when the ploughman had reached the end of
the furrow and was preparing to turn, "jes' you let your hoss res' a
minnit till I tells you a par'ble."
"Wot par'ble?" said Grandison, in a tone of unconcern, but stopping his
horse, all the same.
"Why, dis one!" said 'Bijah. "Dar was an ole mule an' he b'longed to a
cullud man named Harris who used to carry de mail from de Coht House ter
Cary's Cross-roads. De ole mule was a pow'ful triflin' critter an' he
got lazier an' lazier, an' 'fore long he got so dreffle slow dat it tuk
him more'n one day ter go from de Coht House ter de crossroads, an' he
allus come in de day ahfter mail-day, when de people was done gone home.
So de cullud man, Harris, he says:
"'You is too ole fur ter carry de mail, you triflin' mule, an' I hain't
got no udder use fur you.'
"So he put him in a gully-field, whar dar was nuffin but bar' groun' an'
hog weed. Now, dar was nuffin in dis worl' dat triflin' mule hated so
much as hog weed, an' he says to hese'f: 'I's boun' ter do somefin'
better'n dis fur a libin. I reckin I'll go skeer dat ole Harris, an'
make him gib me a feed o' corn.' So he jump ober de fence, fur he was
spry 'nuf when he had a min' ter, an' he steals an ole bar skin dat he'd
seen hangin' up in de store po'ch, an' he pretty nigh kivered himse'f
all up wid it. Den he go down to de pos' offis, whar de mail had jes'
come in. When dis triflin' ole mule seed de cullud man, Harris, sittin'
on de bottom step ob de po'ch, he begin to kick up his heels an' make
all de noise he could wid he mouf. 'Wot's dat?' cried de cullud man,
Harris. 'I's a big grizzly bar,' said de mule, ''scaped from de 'nagerie
when 'twas fordin' Scott's Creek.' 'When did you git out?' said de
cullud man, Harris. 'I bus' from de cage at half pas' free o'clock dis
ebenin'.' 'An' is you reely a grizzly bar?' 'Dat's de truf,' said de
triflin' mule, 'an' I's pow'ful hungry, an' if you don' go git me a feed
o' corn I'll swaller you down whole.' An' he begun to roar as like a
grizzly bar as he knew how. 'Dat all de truf, you tellin' me?' de cullud
man, Harris, ask. 'Dat's all true as I's libin',' says de triflin' mule.
'All right, den,' says de cullud man, Harris, 'if you kin come from de
ford on Scott's Creek in a hour an' a half, you kin carry de mail jes'
as well as any udder mule, an' I's gwine ter buy a big cart whip, an'
make you do it. So take off dat bar skin, an' come 'long wid me.' So you
see Brudder Gran'son," continued 'Bijah, "dar's dif'rent kinds ob truf,
an' you's got ter be mighty 'ticklar wot kind you sticks ter."
"Git up," said Grandison to his drowsy horse, as he started him on
another furrow.
PLAIN FISHING.
"Well, sir," said old Peter, as he came out on the porch with his pipe,
"so you came here to go fishin'?"
Peter Gruse was the owner of the farm-house where I had arrived that
day, just before supper-time. He was a short, strong-built old man, with
a pair of pretty daughters, and little gold rings in his ears. Two
things distinguished him from the farmers in the country round about:
one was the rings in his ears, and the other was the large and
comfortable house in which he kept his pretty daughters. The other
farmers in that region had fine large barns for their cattle and horses,
but very poor houses for their daughters. Old Peter's ear-rings were
indirectly connected with his house. He had not always lived among those
mountains. He had been on the sea, where his ears were decorated, and he
had travelled a good deal on land, where he had ornamented his mind with
many ideas which were not in general use in the part of his State in
which he was born. His house stood a little back from the high road,
and if a traveller wished to be entertained, Peter was generally willing
to take him in, provided he had left his wife and family at home. The
old man himself had no objection to wives and children, but his two
pretty daughters had.
These young women had waited on their father and myself at supper-time,
one continually bringing hot griddle cakes, and the other giving me
every opportunity to test the relative merits of the seven different
kinds of preserved fruit which, in little glass plates, covered the
otherwise unoccupied spaces on the tablecloth. The latter, when she
found that there was no further possible way of serving us, presumed to
sit down at the corner of the table and begin her supper. But in spite
of this apparent humility, which was only a custom of the country, there
was that in the general air of the pretty daughters which left no doubt
in the mind of the intelligent observer that they stood at the wheel in
that house. There was a son of fourteen, who sat at table with us, but
he did not appear to count as a member of the family.
"Yes," I answered, "I understood that there was good fishing hereabout,
and, at any rate, I should like to spend a few days among these hills
and mountains."
"Well," said Peter, "there's trout in some of our streams, though not
as many as there used to be, and there's hills a plenty, and mountains
too, if you choose to walk fur enough. They're a good deal furder off
than they look. What did you bring with you to fish with?"
"Nothing at all," I answered. "I was told in the town that you were a
great fisherman, and that you could let me have all the tackle I would
need."
"Upon my word," said old Peter, resting his pipe-hand on his knee and
looking steadfastly at me, "you're the queerest fisherman I've see'd
yet. Nigh every year, some two or three of 'em stop here in the fishin'
season, and there was never a man who didn't bring his jinted pole, and
his reels, and his lines, and his hooks, and his dry-goods flies, and
his whiskey-flask with a long strap to it. Now, if you want all these
things, I haven't got 'em."
"Whatever you use yourself will suit me," I answered.
"All right, then," said he. "I'll do the best I can for you in the
mornin'. But it's plain enough to me that you're not a game fisherman,
or you wouldn't come here without your tools."
To this remark I made answer to the effect that, though I was very fond
of fishing, my pleasure in it did not depend upon the possession of all
the appliances of professional sport.
"Perhaps you think," said the old man, "from the way I spoke, that I
don't believe them fellers with the jinted poles can ketch fish, but
that ain't so. That old story about the little boy with the pin-hook who
ketched all the fish, while the gentleman with the modern improvements,
who stood alongside of him, kep' throwin' out his beautiful flies and
never got nothin', is a pure lie. The fancy chaps, who must have
ev'rythin' jist so, gen'rally gits fish. But for all that, I don't like
their way of fishin', and I take no stock in it myself. I've been
fishin', on and off, ever since I was a little boy, and I've caught nigh
every kind there is, from the big jew-fish and cavalyoes down South, to
the trout and minnies round about here. But when I ketch a fish, the
first thing I do is to try to git him on the hook, and the next thing is
to git him out of the water jist as soon as I kin. I don't put in no
time worryin' him. There's only two animals in the world that likes to
worry smaller creeturs a good while afore they kill 'em; one is the cat,
and the other is what they call the game fisherman. This kind of a
feller never goes after no fish that don't mind being ketched. He goes
fur them kinds that loves their home in the water and hates most to
leave it, and he makes it jist as hard fur 'em as he kin. What the game
fisher likes is the smallest kind of a hook, the thinnest line, and a
fish that it takes a good while to weaken. The longer the weak'nin'
business kin be spun out, the more the sport. The idee is to let the
fish think there's a chance fur him to git away. That's jist like the
cat with her mouse. She lets the little creetur hop off, but the minnit
he gits fur enough away, she jumps on him and jabs him with her claws,
and then, if there's any game left in him, she lets him try again. Of
course the game fisher could have a strong line and a stout pole and git
his fish in a good sight quicker, if he wanted to, but that wouldn't be
sport. He couldn't give him the butt and spin him out, and reel him in,
and let him jump and run till his pluck is clean worn out. Now, I likes
to git my fish ashore with all the pluck in 'em. It makes 'em taste
better. And as fur fun, I'll be bound I've had jist as much of that, and
more, too, than most of these fellers who are so dreadful anxious to
have everythin' jist right, and think they can't go fishin' till they've
spent enough money to buy a suit of Sunday clothes. As a gen'ral rule
they're a solemn lot, and work pretty hard at their fun. When I work I
want to be paid fur it, and when I go in fur fun I want to take it easy
and cheerful. Now I wouldn't say so much agen these fellers," said old
Peter, as he arose and put his empty pipe on a little shelf under the
porch-roof, "if it wasn't for one thing, and that is, that they think
that their kind of fishin' is the only kind worth considerin'. The way
they look down upon plain Christian fishin' is enough to rile a
hitchin'-post. I don't want to say nothin' agen no man's way of
attendin' to his own affairs, whether it's kitchen-gardenin', or whether
it's fishin', if he says nothin' agen my way; but when he looks down on
me, and grins at me, I want to haul myself up, and grin at him, if I
kin. And in this case, I kin. I s'pose the house-cat and the cat-fisher
(by which I don't mean the man who fishes for cat-fish) was both made as
they is, and they can't help it; but that don't give 'em no right to put
on airs before other bein's, who gits their meat with a square kill.
Good-night. And sence I've talked so much about it, I've a mind to go
fishin' with you to-morrow myself."
The next morning found old Peter of the same mind, and after breakfast
he proceeded to fit me out for a day of what he called "plain Christian
trout-fishin'." He gave me a reed rod, about nine feet long, light,
strong, and nicely balanced. The tackle he produced was not of the fancy
order, but his lines were of fine strong linen, and his hooks were of
good shape, clean and sharp, and snooded to the lines with a neatness
that indicated the hand of a man who had been where he learned to wear
little gold rings in his ears.
"Here are some of these feather insects," he said, "which you kin take
along if you like." And he handed me a paper containing a few artificial
flies. "They're pretty nat'ral," he said, "and the hooks is good. A man
who came here fishin' gave 'em to me, but I shan't want 'em to-day. At
this time of year grasshoppers is the best bait in the kind of place
where we're goin' to fish. The stream, after it comes down from the
mountain, runs through half a mile of medder land before it strikes into
the woods agen. A grasshopper is a little creetur that's got as much
conceit as if his jinted legs was fish-poles, and he thinks he kin jump
over this narrer run of water whenever he pleases; but he don't always
do it, and then if he doesn't git snapped up by the trout that lie along
the banks in the medder, he is floated along into the woods, where
there's always fish enough to come to the second table."
Having got me ready, Peter took his own particular pole, which he
assured me he had used for eleven years, and hooking on his left arm a
good-sized basket, which his elder pretty daughter had packed with cold
meat, bread, butter, and preserves, we started forth for a three-mile
walk to the fishing-ground. The day was a favorable one for our purpose,
the sky being sometimes over-clouded, which was good for fishing, and
also for walking on a highroad; and sometimes bright, which was good for
effects of mountain-scenery. Not far from the spot where old Peter
proposed to begin our sport, a small frame-house stood by the roadside,
and here the old man halted and entered the open door without knocking
or giving so much as a premonitory stamp. I followed, imitating my
companion in leaving my pole outside, which appeared to be the only
ceremony that the etiquette of those parts required of visitors. In the
room we entered, a small man in his shirt-sleeves sat mending a
basket-handle. He nodded to Peter, and Peter nodded to him.
"We've come up a-fishin'," said the old man. "Kin your boys give us some
grasshoppers?"
"I don't know that they've got any ready ketched," said he, "for I
reckon I used what they had this mornin'. But they kin git you some.
Here, Dan, you and Sile go and ketch Mr. Gruse and this young man some
grasshoppers. Take that mustard-box, and see that you git it full."
Peter and I now took seats, and the conversation began about a black
cow which Peter had to sell, and which the other was willing to buy if
the old man would trade for sheep, which animals, however, the
basket-mender did not appear just at that time to have in his
possession. As I was not very much interested in this subject, I walked
to the back-door and watched two small boys in scanty shirts and
trousers, and ragged straw hats, who were darting about in the grass
catching grasshoppers, of which insects, judging by the frequent pounces
of the boys, there seemed a plentiful supply.
"Got it full?" said their father, when the boys came in.
"Crammed," said Dan.
Old Peter took the little can, pressed the top firmly on, put it in his
coat-tail pocket, and rose to go. "You'd better think about that cow,
Barney," said he. He said nothing to the boys about the box of bait; but
I could not let them catch grasshoppers for us for nothing, and I took a
dime from my pocket, and gave it to Dan. Dan grinned, and Sile looked
sheepishly happy, and at the sight of the piece of silver an expression
of interest came over the face of the father. "Wait a minute," said he,
and he went into a little room that seemed to be a kitchen. Returning,
he brought with him a small string of trout. "Do you want to buy some
fish?" he said. "These is nice fresh ones. I ketched 'em this mornin'."
To offer to sell fish to a man who is just about to go out to catch them
for himself might, in most cases, be considered an insult, but it was
quite evident that nothing of the kind was intended by Barney. He
probably thought that if I bought grasshoppers, I might buy fish. "You
kin have 'em for a quarter," he said.
It was derogatory to my pride to buy fish at such a moment, but the man
looked very poor, and there was a shade of anxiety on his face which
touched me. Old Peter stood by without saying a word. "It might be
well," I said, turning to him, "to buy these fish, for we may not catch
enough for supper."
"Such things do happen," said the old man.
"Well," said I, "if we have these we shall feel safe in any case." And I
took the fish and gave the man a quarter. It was not, perhaps, a
professional act, but the trout were well worth the money, and I felt
that I was doing a deed of charity.
Old Peter and I now took our rods, and crossed the road into an enclosed
field, and thence into a wide stretch of grass land, bounded by hills
in front of us and to the right, while a thick forest lay to the left.
We had walked but a short distance, when Peter said: "I'll go down into
the woods, and try my luck there, and you'd better go along up stream,
about a quarter of a mile, to where it's rocky. P'raps you ain't used to
fishin' in the woods, and you might git your line cotched. You'll find
the trout'll bite in the rough water."
"Where is the stream?" I asked.
"This is it," he said, pointing to a little brook, which was scarcely
too wide for me to step across, "and there's fish right here, but
they're hard to ketch, fur they git plenty of good livin' and are mighty
sassy about their eatin'. But you kin ketch 'em up there."
Old Peter now went down toward the woods, while I walked up the little
stream. I had seen trout-brooks before, but never one so diminutive as
this. However, when I came nearer to the point where the stream issued
from between two of the foot-hills of the mountains, which lifted their
forest-covered heights in the distance, I found it wider and shallower,
breaking over its rocky bottom in sparkling little cascades.
Fishing in such a jolly little stream, surrounded by this mountain
scenery, and with the privileges of the beautiful situation all to
myself, would have been a joy to me if I had had never a bite. But no
such ill-luck befell me. Peter had given me the can of grasshoppers
after putting half of them into his own bait-box, and these I used with
much success. It was grasshopper season, and the trout were evidently on
the lookout for them. I fished in the ripples under the little
waterfalls; and every now and then I drew out a lively trout. Most of
these were of moderate size, and some of them might have been called
small. The large ones probably fancied the forest shades, where old
Peter went. But all I caught were fit for the table, and I was very well
satisfied with the result of my sport.
About noon I began to feel hungry, and thought it time to look up the
old man, who had the lunch-basket. I walked down the bank of the brook,
and some time before I reached the woods I came to a place where it
expanded to a width of about ten feet. The water here was very clear,
and the motion quiet, so that I could easily see to the bottom, which
did not appear to be more than a foot below the surface. Gazing into
this transparent water, as I walked, I saw a large trout glide across
the stream, and disappear under the grassy bank which overhung the
opposite side. I instantly stopped. This was a much larger fish than
any I had caught, and I determined to try for him.