OLD GREY TELLS PIONEER TALES.
Many events similar to the one related in the last chapter spread
the Morgan’s fame throughout the Valley, and when Evans finished his
clearing Justin Morgan once more took possession of the horse, for
his health was sufficiently restored to take up school-teaching again.
The change from hard farm-work was very agreeable to True, and they
cantered from place to place right gaily, albeit the horse missed
the sweet singing of Master Morgan, who coughed now incessantly, and
often had to dismount and rest in the shade of an oak on the roadside.
He was scarce forty years old, but seemed much more on account of his
grievous malady.
Regularly they went to Royalton, some ten miles to the southward,
and True grazed about until school let out. Through the window he
sometimes saw the gentle, delicate face of the teacher at his desk,
his Continental coat slightly open at the throat, showing a bit of
fresh white linen, his queue, in the fashion of the day, tied with a
stiff bow of black ribband.
He was a master of whom any horse might have been proud.
One day, while waiting for his owner, True wandered into the woods
to escape the flies and dust of the highway, and there he met his
friend, Old Grey, who told him how the Indians had burned Royalton in
1780; and among the anecdotes relating to this time there was one
which amused the young horse no little.
It ran as follows:
For some unaccountable reason the Indians had failed to burn the hut
of one Jones, who had a wife known far and wide as a scold and a
shrew. To get a day’s rest from her abuse, poor Jones oft-times had
to go hunting or trapping, and when he saw an especially bad tantrum
coming he would snatch his gun from the mantel-shelf and, calling his
dog, rush forth into the forest, a storm of reviling in his wake.
Sometimes he remained away for days.
Nobody ever remembered having seen Jones smile.
One day, his wife’s temper and tongue being worse than usual, he
found it expedient to go hunting, and stayed away over night. There
are times when a silent dog is sweet company and the peaceful forest
a haven of refuge.
On the second afternoon, thinking it might be safe to return, Jones
approached his home cautiously. Stranger sounds than usual greeted
his listening ear.
He paused, alert and intent, silencing his intelligent dog with a
gesture. Creeping stealthily forward under the shadow of the trees,
he beheld a small band of Indians in the act of breaking open his
hut-door. He waited tensely, to see them drag his wife out and scalp
her.
Instead, from inside came her familiar voice raised in vituperation
and upbraiding. Jones could scarcely believe his ears, and for the
first time since his marriage he grinned.
“This time those red imps have met their match,” he murmured to his
dog with an audible chuckle.
Hardly had he spoken when out came half a dozen Indians dragging the
shrew between them. Not for one moment, however, did she cease her
abuse, terrified though she surely must have been.
Jones, standing at the edge of the forest, watched--fearfully at
first, then with curious interest. Finally he sat down on the ground
and gave way to uncontrollable mirth.
The Indians had paused on the river bank in consultation.
Suddenly, without warning apparently, two of them gathered the scold
in their arms and sprang into the chill water. The others stood on
the bank and whooped mad encouragement, fiendishly, as only Indians
can.
Mistress Jones’ green homespun petticoat filled quickly with air and
swelled around her like an enormous squash, out of which her scarlet
face glowed furiously.
The savages on the bank yelled and danced. Those in the water ducked
their victim up and down, howling with glee, cracking her over the
head as she rose.
“And there be some who say an Indian can’t see a joke,” spluttered
Jones, under his breath, holding his sides. The dog looked at his
master with suspicion--he thought the man was choking.
But Jones soon saw that the savages merely meant to discipline his
wife and give her a bath. An interruption from him might disturb
these laudable intentions, so he remained quietly in the background.
When they had finished to their entire satisfaction they lifted the
woman out of the river and flung her, gasping and shivering, among
the tree-roots on the bank. She looked like a huge wet log. Yelling,
they swam the river and disappeared in the dense woods beyond.
Trembling, Jones drew near--his mirth turned to seemly gravity; but
he found a very subdued person. Cautiously Mistress Jones opened her
eyes, one at a time, first peering carefully between the lids to see
if the approaching footsteps were those of her tormenters returning.
When she saw her husband she groaned feebly.
“Have they gone?” she whispered.
“Yes,” replied Jones, with becoming seriousness.
Mistress Jones rose heavily, and squeezed the water from her skirts,
shaking, humble and sobered.
“It served me right, husband dear,” she wailed at last. “I have ever
been what those savages called me, ‘a dirty blouze of a thing,’ but
from now on I am a changed woman and will be a better wife to you.
The Indians said they would teach me a lesson--and they have!”