The Gaither boy grew to be very friendly with Joe Maxwell, and he
turned out to be a very pleasant companion. He was fifteen years old,
but looked younger, and although he had no book-learning, he was very
intelligent, having picked up a great deal of the wholesome knowledge
that Nature keeps in store for those who make her acquaintance. He could
read a little, and he could write his name, which he took great pride
in doing, using a stick for a pen and a bed of sand for a copy-book.
Walking along through the fields or woods, he would pause wherever
the rains had washed the sand together, and write his name in full in
letters that seemed to be wrestling with each other--“James K. Polk
Gaither.” As there was another James in his family, he was called
Jim-Polk Gaither.
His friendship was worth a great deal to Joe Maxwell, for there was
not a bird in the woods nor a tree that he did not know the name of and
something of its peculiarities, and he was familiar with every road and
bypath in all the country around. He knew where the wild strawberries
grew, and the chincapins and chestnuts, and where the muscadines, or,
as he called them, the “bullaces,” were ripest. The birds could not hide
their nests from him, nor the wild creatures escape him. He had a tame
buzzard that sometimes followed him about in his rambles. He set traps
for flying squirrels, and tamed them as soon as his hands touched them.
He handled snakes fearlessly, and his feats with them were astounding
to the town lad until Joe discovered that the serpents were not of the
poisonous species. In handling highland moccasins and spreading adders,
Jim-Polk confined his feats to seizing them by their tails as they ran
and snapping their heads off. Whenever he killed one in this way he
always hung it on a bush or tree in order, as he said, to bring rain.
When it failed to rain, his explanation was that as a snake never dies
until sundown, no matter how early in the morning it may be killed, it
had twisted and writhed until it fell from the limb or bush on which it
was hung.
Jim-Polk had many gifts and acquirements that interested Joe Maxwell.
Once when the two lads were walking through the woods they saw a pair
of hawks some distance away. Jim-Polk motioned to Joe to hide under
a hawthorn bush. Then, doubling his handkerchief before his mouth, he
began to make a curious noise--a series of smothered exclamations that
sounded like hoo!--hoo!--hoo-hoo! He was imitating the cry of the swamp
owl, which Joe Maxwell had never heard. The imitation must have been
perfect, for immediately there was a great commotion in the woods.
The smaller birds fluttered away and disappeared; but the two hawks,
re-enforced by a third, came flying toward the noise with their feathers
ruffled and screaming with indignation. They meant war. Jim-Polk
continued his muffled cries, until presently the boys heard a crow
cawing in the distance.
“Now you'll see fun,” said young Gaither. “Just keep right still.”
The crow was flying high in the air, and would have gone over but the
muffled cry of the owl--hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo!--caught its ear and it
paused in its flight, alighting in the top of a tall pine. Swinging
in this airy outlook, it sent forth its hoarse signals, and in a few
minutes the pine was black with its companions, all making a tremendous
outcry. Some of them dropped down into the tops of the scrub-oaks. They
could not find the owl, but they caught sight of the hawks, and sounded
their war-cry. Such cawing, screaming, fluttering, and fighting Joe
Maxwell had never seen before. The hawks escaped from the crows, but
they left many of their feathers on the battle-field. One of the hawks
did not wholly escape, for in his fright he flew out of the woods into
the open, and there he was pounced on by a kingbird, which Jim-Polk
called a bee martin. This little bird, not larger than his cousin,
the catbird, lit on the hawk's back and stayed there as long as they
remained in sight. The commotion set up by the crows had attracted the
attention of all the birds, except the smallest, and they flew about in
the trees, uttering notes of anger or alarm, all trying to find the owl.
The incident was very interesting to Joe Maxwell. He discovered that the
owl is the winged Ishmael of the woods, the most hated and most feared
of all the birds. A few days afterward he went with Harbert to see the
hogs fed, and he told the negro how all the birds seemed to hate the
owl.
“Lord! yes, sah!” said Harbert, who seemed to know all about the matter.
“Ain't you never is hear tell er de tale 'bout de owl an' de yuther
birds? Ole man Remus tole it ter me dis many a year ago, an' sence den I
bin hear talk about it mo' times dan what I got fingers an' toes.”
Of course, Joe wanted to hear--
THE STORY OF THE OWL.
“Well, suh,” said Harbert, “hit run sorter like dis: One time way back
yander, fo' ole man Remus wuz born'd, I speck, all de birds wuz in
cahoots; dem what fly in de air, an' dem what walk on de groun', an' dem
what swim on de water--all un um. Dey all live in one settlement, an'
whatsomever dey mought pick up endurin' er de day, dey'd fetch it ter
der place wharbouts dey live at, an' put it wid de rest what de yuther
ones bin a-ketchin' an' a-fetchin'.
“Dey kep' on dis away, twel, twant long fo' dey done save up a right
smart pile er fust one thing an' den anudder. De pile got so big dat dey
'gun ter git skeered dat some un ud come 'long whilst dey wus away an'
he'p derse'f. Bimeby some er de mo' 'spicious 'mong um up an' say dat
somebody bin stealin' fum de provision what dey savin' up ginst hard
times. Mr. Jaybird, he coyspon' wid Mr. Crow, an' Mr. Crow he coyspon'
wid Miss Chicken Hawk, and Miss Chicken Hawk she coyspon' wid Mr. Eagle,
which he was de big buckra er all de birds. An' den dey all coyspon' wid
one anudder, an' dey 'low dat dey bleeze ter lef' somebody dar fer ter
watch der winter wittles whiles dey er off a-huntin' up mo'. Dey jowered
an' jowered a long time, twel, bimeby, Mr. Eagle, he up an' say dat
de bes' dey kin do is to 'pint Mr. Owl fer ter keep watch. Mr. Owl he
sorter hoot at dis, but 'tain't do no good, kaze de yuthers, dey say dat
all Mr. Owl got ter do is ter sleep mo' endurin' er de night an' stay
'wake endurin' er de day.
“So, den,” Harbert went on, pausing as if trying to remember the thread
of the story, “dey 'pinted Mr. Owl fer ter keep watch, an' dey all flewd
off, some one way an' some anudder. Mr. Owl, he tuck his seat, he
did, whar he kin take in a right smart stretch er country wid his big
eyeball, an' he sot dar right peart. But bimeby he'gun ter git lonesome.
Dey want nobody ter talk ter, an' de sun shine so bright dat he bleeze
ter shet his eye, an' 'fo' he know what he doin' he wuz a settin' dar
noddin' same ez a nigger by a hick'ry fire. Every once in a while he'd
ketch hissef an' try ter keep 'wake, but, do what he would, he can't
keep his eye open, an' bimeby he snap his mouf like he mad an' den he
slapped his head under his wing an' dropped off ter sleep good fashion.
Kaze when a bird git his head under his wing hit's des de same ez gwine
ter bed an' pullin' de kiver 'roun' yo' years.
“Well, suh, dar he wuz, settin' up fast asleep. 'Long in de co'se er de
day, Mr. Crow an' Mr. Jaybird, dey struck up wid one annuder out in de
woods, an' dey sot down in a popular-tree fer to carry on a confab. Dey
done bin coy-spon' wid one anudder an' dey bofe bin pullin' up corn. Mr.
Crow'low ter Mr. Jaybird dat he ain't so mighty certain an' shore 'bout
Mr. Owl, kaze he mighty sleepy-headed. Wid dat, Mr. Jaybird, he up an'
say dat he got dat ve'y idee in his min'. Dey sot dar an' swop talk'bout
Mr. Owl, twel, atter while, dey'gree ter go back fer de settlement an'
see what Mr. Owl doin'.
“Well, suh, dey went dar, an' dar dey foun' 'im. Yasser! Mr. Owl sholy
wuz dar. He wuz settin' up on a lim' wid his head flung under his wing,
an' 'twuz all dey kin do fer ter wake 'im up. Dey hollered at 'im des
loud ez dey kin, an' bimeby he woke up an' tuck his head out from under
his wing an' look at um des ez solium ez a camp-meetin' preacher.
Dey 'buze 'im--dey quoiled--dey call 'im out'n his name--dey jowered
at 'im--but tain't do no good. He des sot dar, he did, an' look at um,
an' he ain't say nuthin' 'tall. Dis make Mr. Crow an' Mr. Jaybird mighty
mad, kaze when folks quoil an' can't git nobody for ter quoil back at
um, it make um wusser mad dan what dey wuz at fust. Dat night when de
yuther birds come home, Mr. Crow an' Mr. Jaybird, dey had a mighty tale
ter tell. Some b'lieved um an' some didn't b'lieve um. Miss Jenny Wren,
an' Mr. Jack Sparrow, an' Miss Cat Bird, dey b'lieved um, an' dey went
on so twel de yuther birds can't hear der own years, skacely. But de big
birds, dey sorter helt off, an' say dey gwine ter give Mr. Owl anudder
chance.
“Well, suh, dey give Mr. Owl two mo' trials, let alone one, an' eve'y
time dey lef 'im dar fer ter watch an' gyard, dey'd fin' 'm fast asleep.
An' dat ain't all; dey skivered dat somebody done bin slippin' in an'
totin' off der provisions.
[Illustration: 0099]
“Dat settle de hash fer Mr. Owl. De birds sot a day an' fotch Mr. Owl up
fer ter stan' trial, an' dey laid down de law dat fum dat time forrud
dat Mr. Owl shan't go wid de yuther birds, an' dat de nex' time dey
kotch 'im out de word wuz ter be give, an' dey wuz all ter fall foul
un 'im an' frail'm out. Den dey say dat when he sleep he got ter sleep
wid bofe eyes wide open, a'n dey lay it down dat he got ter keep watch
all night long, an' dat whensomever he hear any fuss he got ter holler
out:
“'Who--who--who pesterin' we all?'
“Dat de way de law stan's,” continued Har-bert, placing his basket of
corn on the top rail of the fence, “an dat de way it gwine ter stan'.
Down ter dis day, when Mr. Owl asleep, he sleep wid his eye wide open,
an' when de yuther birds ketch him out, dey light on to 'im like folks
puttin' out fire, an' when he ups an' hollers in de night-time, you kin
hear 'im say:
“'Who--who--who pesterin' we all?'”
With a laugh, in which Joe Maxwell heartily joined, Harbert turned
his attention to calling his hogs, and the way he did this was as
interesting to Joe as the story had been. He had a voice of wonderful
strength and power, as penetrating and as melodious as the notes of a
cornet. On a still day, when there was a little moisture in the air,
Harbert could make himself heard two miles. The range over which the
hogs roamed was at least a mile and a half from the pen. In calling them
the negro broke into a song. It was only the refrain that the distant
hogs could hear, but as it went echoing over the hills and valleys it
seemed to Joe to be the very essence of melody. The song was something
like this:
HOG-FEEDER S SONG.
Oh, rise up, my ladies, lissen unter me,
Gwoop! Gwoop! Gee-woop! Goo-whee!
I'm a-gwine dis night fer ter knock along er you.
Gwoop! Gwoop! Gee-woop! Goo-whoo!
Pig-goo! Pig-gee! Gee-o-whee!
Oh, de stars look bright des like dey gwineter fall,
En'way todes sundown you hear de killdee call:
Stee-wee! Killdee! Pig-goo! Pig-gee!
Pig! Pig! Pig-goo! Pig! Pig! Pig-gee!
De blue barrer squeal kaze he can't squeeze froo,
En he hump up he back, des like niggers do--
Oh, humpty-umpty blue! Pig-gee! Pig-goo!
Pig! Pig! Pig-gee! Pig! Pig! Pig-goo!
Oh, rise up, my ladies! Lissen unter me!
Gwoop! Gwoopee! Gee-woop! Goo-whee!
I'm a-gwine dis night a gallantin' out wid you!
Gwoop! Gwoopee! Gee-woop! Goo-hoo!
Pig-goo! Pig-gee! Gee-o-whee!
Ole sow got sense des ez sho's youer bo'n
'Kaze she tak'n hunch de baskit fer ter shatter out co'n--
Ma'am, you makes too free! Pig-goo! Pig-gee!
Pig! Pig! Pig-goo! Pig! Pig! Pig-gee!
W'en de pig git fat he better stay close,
'Kaze fat pig nice fer ter hide out en' roas'--
En he taste mighty good in de barbecue!
Oh, roas' pig, shoo! 'N-yum! dat barbecue!
Pig! Pig! Pig-gee! Pig! Pig! Pig-goo!
Oh, rise up, my ladies! Lissen unter me:
Gwoop! Gwoopee! Gee-woop! Goo-whee!
I'm a-gwine dis night fer ter knock aroun' wid you!
Gwoop! Gwoopee! Gee-woop! Goo-whoo!
Pig-goo! Pig-gee! Gee-o-whee!
“Marse Joe,” said Harbert, after he had counted the hogs to see that
none were missing, “I got sumpin' at my house fer you. I'm layin' off
fer ter fetch it dis ve'y night.”
“What is it?” asked Joe.
“Tain't much,” said Harbert. “Des some 'simmon beer an' some
ginger-cake.”
“I'm very much obliged to you,” said Joe.
“Oh, 'tain't me,” said Harbert, quickly. “I was puttin' up de
carriage-horses las' night when I hear somebody callin' me, an' I went
ter de fence, an' dar wuz a nigger'oman wid a jug in one han' an'
a bundle in de udder, an' she say dar wuz some 'simmon beer an' some
ginger-cakes, an' she up an' ax me would I be so compleasant fer to give
um ter Marse Joe Maxwell, an' I 'lowed dat I'd be so compleasant.”
“Who was the woman?” Joe asked.
“She some kin ter Mink,” answered Harbert, evasively.
“Well, what kin?” asked Joe.
“She ain't so mighty much kin, needer,” said Harbert. “She des his wife.
She 'low dat ef you got any washin' er darnin' dat you want done she be
glad ter do it, an' den I say, 'Shoo nigger 'oman! G'way fum here! What
you speck my wife here fer?'”
Here Harbert tried to look indignant, but failed. Presently he
continued: “Dat are 'simmon beer got sign in it.”
“What sign is that?” asked Joe.
“Well, suh, when 'simmonses is ripe hit's a shore sign dat 'possum ready
ter eat, an' tain't gwine ter be long 'fo' you hear me a-hollerin'
'roun' thoo de woods, mo' speshually if I kin git holt er dem dogs
what dat Gaither boy got. When it come ter 'possum an' coon dey er de
outdoin'est dogs you ever is lay yo' eyes on.”
“I can get the dogs any time,” said Joe.
“Well, suh,” said Harbert with enthusiasm, “atter to-night you can't git
um too soon.”