We listened awhile then but heard no sound in the thicket, although Fred
was growling ominously, his hair on end. As for myself I never had a
more fearful hour than that we suffered before the light of morning
came.
I made no outcry, but clung to my old companion, trembling. He did not
stir for a few minutes, and then we crept cautiously into the small
hemlocks on one side of the opening.
'Keep still,' he whispered, 'don't move er speak.'
Presently we heard a move in the brush and then quick as a flash Uncle
Eb lifted his rifle and fired in the direction of it Before the loud
echo had gone off in the woods we heard something break through the
brush at a run.
''S a man,' said Uncle Eb, as he listened. 'He ain't a losin' no time
nuther.'
We sat listening as the sound grew fainter, and when it ceased entirely
Uncle Eb said he must have got to the road. After a little the light
of the morning began sifting down through the tree-tops and was greeted
with innumerable songs.
'He done noble,' said Uncle Eb, patting the old dog as he rose to poke
the fire. 'Putty good chap I call 'im! He can hev half o' my dinner any
time he wants it.'
'Who do you suppose it was?' I enquired.
'Robbers, I guess,' he answered, 'an' they'll be layin' fer us when
we go out, mebbe; but, if they are, Fred'll find 'em an' I've got Ol'
Trusty here 'n' I guess thet'll take care uv us.'
His rifle was always flattered with that name of Ol' Trusty when it had
done him a good turn.
Soon as the light had come clear he went out in the near woods with dog
and rifle and beat around in the brush. He returned shortly and said he
had seen where they came and went.
'I'd a killed em deader 'n a door nail,' said he, laying down the old
rifle, 'if they'd a come any nearer.'
Then we brought water from the river and had our breakfast. Fred went on
ahead of us, when we started for the road, scurrying through the brush
on both sides of the trail, as if he knew what was expected of him. He
flushed a number of partridges and Uncle Eb killed one of them on our
way to the road. We resumed our journey without any further adventure.
It was so smooth and level under foot that Uncle Eb let me get in the
wagon after Fred was hitched to it The old dog went along soberly and
without much effort, save when we came to hills or sandy places, when
I always got out and ran on behind. Uncle Eb showed me how to brake the
wheels with a long stick going downhill. I remember how it hit the dog's
heels at the first down grade, and how he ran to keep out of the way
of it We were going like mad in half a minute, Uncle Eb coming after us
calling to the dog. Fred only looked over his shoulder, with a wild eye,
at the rattling wagon and ran the harder. He leaped aside at the bottom
and then we went all in a heap. Fortunately no harm was done.
'I declare!' said Uncle Eb as he came up to us, puffing like a spent
horse, and picked me up unhurt and began to untangle the harness of old
Fred, 'I guess he must a thought the devil was after him.'
The dog growled a little for a moment and bit at the harness, but
coaxing reassured him and he went along all right again on the level. At
a small settlement the children came out and ran along beside my wagon,
laughing and asking me questions. Some of them tried to pet the dog, but
old Fred kept to his labour at the heels of Uncle Eb and looked neither
to right nor left. We stopped under a tree by the side of a narrow brook
for our dinner, and one incident of that meal I think of always when
I think of Uncle Eb. It shows the manner of man he was and with what
understanding and sympathy he regarded every living thing. In rinsing
his teapot he accidentally poured a bit of water on a big bumble-bee.
The poor creature struggled to lift hill, and then another downpour
caught him and still another until his wings fell drenched. Then his
breast began heaving violently, his legs stiffened behind him and he
sank, head downward, in the grass. Uncle Eb saw the death throes of the
bee and knelt down and lifted the dead body by one of its wings.
'Jes' look at his velvet coat,' he said, 'an' his wings all wet n'
stiff. They'll never carry him another journey. It's too bad a man has
t' kill every step he takes.'
The bee's tail was moving faintly and Uncle Eb laid him out in the warm
sunlight and fanned him awhile with his hat, trying to bring back the
breath of life.
'Guilty!' he said, presently, coming back with a sober face. 'Thet's a
dead bee. No tellin' how many was dependent on him er what plans he bed.
Must a gi'n him a lot o' pleasure t' fly round in the sunlight, workin'
every fair day. 'S all over now.'
He had a gloomy face for an hour after that and many a time, in the days
that followed, I heard him speak of the murdered bee.
We lay resting awhile after dinner and watching a big city of ants.
Uncle Eb told me how they tilled the soil of the mound every year and
sowed their own kind of grain--a small white seed like rice--and reaped
their harvest in the late summer, storing the crop in their dry cellars
under ground. He told me also the story of the ant lion--a big beetle
that lives in the jungles of the grain and the grass--of which I
remember only an outline, more or less imperfect.
Here it is in my own rewording of his tale: On a bright day one of the
little black folks went off on a long road in a great field of barley.
He was going to another city of his own people to bring helpers for the
harvest. He came shortly to a sandy place where the barley was thin and
the hot sunlight lay near to the ground. In a little valley close by
the road of the ants he saw a deep pit, in the sand, with steep sides
sloping to a point in the middle and as big around as a biscuit. Now
the ants are a curious people and go looking for things that are new and
wonderful as they walk abroad, so they have much to tell worth hearing
after a journey. The little traveller was young and had no fear, so he
left the road and went down to the pit and peeped over the side of it.
'What in the world is the meaning of this queer place?' he asked himself
as he ran around the rim. In a moment he had stepped over and the soft
sand began to cave and slide beneath him. Quick as a flash the big
lion-beetle rose up in the centre of the pit and began to reach for
him. Then his legs flew in the caving sand and the young ant struck
his blades in it to hold the little he could gain. Upward he struggled,
leaping and floundering in the dust. He had got near the rim and had
stopped, clinging to get his breath, when the lion began flinging the
sand at him with his long feelers. It rose in a cloud and fell on the
back of the ant and pulled at him as it swept down. He could feel the
mighty cleavers of the lion striking near his hind legs and pulling the
sand from under them. He must go down in a moment and he knew what that
meant. He had heard the old men of the tribe tell often--how they hold
one helpless and slash him into a dozen pieces. He was letting go, in
despair, when he felt a hand on his neck. Looking up he saw one of his
own people reaching over the rim, and in a jiffy they had shut their
fangs together. He moved little by little as the other tagged at him,
and in a moment was out of the trap and could feel the honest earth
under him. When they had got home and told their adventure, some were
for going to slay the beetle.
'There is never a pit in the path o' duty,' said the wise old chief of
the little black folks. 'See that you keep in the straight road.'
'If our brother had not left the straight road,' said one who stood
near, 'he that was in danger would have gone down into the pit.'
'It matters much,' he answered, 'whether it was kindness or curiosity
that led him out of the road. But he that follows a fool hath much need
of wisdom, for if he save the fool do ye not see that he hath encouraged
folly?'
Of course I had then no proper understanding of the chiefs counsel, nor
do I pretend even to remember it from that first telling, but the tale
was told frequently in the course of my long acquaintance with Uncle Eb.
The diary of my good old friend lies before me as I write, the leaves
turned yellow and the entries dim. I remember how stern he grew of an
evening when he took out this sacred little record of our wanderings and
began to write in it with his stub of a pencil. He wrote slowly and read
and reread each entry with great care as I held the torch for him. 'Be
still, boy--be still,' he would say when some pressing interrogatory
passed my lips, and then he would bend to his work while the point of
his pencil bored further into my patience. Beginning here I shall quote
a few entries from the diary as they cover, with sufficient detail, an
uneventful period of our journey.
AUGUST 20 Killed a partridge today. Biled it in the teapot for dinner.
Went good. 14 mild.
AUGUST 21 Seen a deer this morning. Fred fit ag'in. Come near spilin'
the wagon. Hed to stop and fix the ex. 10 mild.
AUGUST 22 Clumb a tree this morning after wild grapes. Come near
falling. Gin me a little crick in the back. Willie hes got a stun bruze.
12 mild.
AUGUST 23 Went in swinmun. Ketched a few fish before breakfus'. Got
provisions an' two case knives an' one fork, also one tin pie-plate.
Used same to fry fish for dinner. 14 mild.
AUGUST 24 Got some spirits for Willie to rub on my back. Boots wearing
out. Terrible hot. Lay in the shade in the heat of the day. Gypsies come
an' camped by us tonight. 10 mild.
I remember well the coming of those gypsies. We were fishing in sight of
the road and our fire was crackling on the smooth cropped shore. The big
wagons of the gypsies--there were four of them as red and beautiful as
those of a circus caravan--halted about sundown while the men came over
a moment to scan the field. Presently they went back and turned their
wagons into the siding and began to unhitch. Then a lot of barefooted
children, and women under gay shawls, overran the field gathering wood
and making ready for night. Meanwhile swarthy drivers took the horses to
water and tethered them with long ropes so they could crop the grass of
the roadside.
One tall, bony man, with a face almost as black as that of an Indian,
brought a big iron pot and set it up near the water. A big stew of beef
bone, leeks and potatoes began to cook shortly, and I remember it had
such a goodly smell I was minded to ask them for a taste of it. A little
city of strange people had surrounded us of a sudden. Uncle Eb thought
of going on, but the night was coming fast and there would be no moon
and we were footsore and hungry. Women and children came over to our
fire, after supper, and made more of me than I liked. I remember taking
refuge between the knees of Uncle Eb, and Fred sat close in front of
us growling fiercely when they came too near. They stood about, looking
down at us and whispered together, and one young miss of the tribe came
up and tried to kiss me in spite of Fred's warnings: She had flashing
black eyes and hair as dark as the night, that fell in a curling mass
upon her shoulders; but, somehow, I had a mighty fear of her and fought
with desperation to keep my face from the touch of her red lips. Uncle
Eb laughed and held Fred by the collar, and I began to cry out in
terror, presently, when, to my great relief, she let go and ran away to
her own people. They all went away to their wagons, save one young man,
who was tall with light hair and a fair skin, and who looked like none
of the other gypsies.
'Take care of yourself,' he whispered, as soon as the rest had gone.
'These are bad people. You'd better be off.'
The young man left us and Uncle Eb began to pack up at once. They were
going to bed in their wagons when we came away. I stood in the basket
and Fred drew the wagon that had in it only a few bundles. A mile or
more further on we came to a lonely, deserted cabin close to the road.
It had began to thunder in the distance and the wind was blowing damp.
'Guess nobody lives here,' said Uncle Eb as he turned in at the sagging
gate and began to cross the little patch of weeds and hollyhocks behind
it 'Door's half down, but I guess it'll de better'n no house. Goin' t'
rain sartin.'
I was nodding a little about then, I remember; but I was wide awake when
he took me out of the basket The old house stood on a high hill, and
we could see the stars of heaven through the ruined door and one of the
back windows. Uncle Eb lifted the leaning door a little and shoved it
aside. We heard then a quick stir in the old house--a loud and ghostly
rattle it seems now as I think of it--like that made by linen shaking on
the line. Uncle Eb took a step backward as if it had startled him.
'Guess it's nuthin' to be 'fraid of;' he said, feeling in the pet of his
coat He had struck a match in a moment. By its flickering light I could
see only a bit of rubbish on the floor.
'Full o' white owls,' said he, stepping inside, where the rustling was
now continuous. 'They'll do us no harm.'
I could see them now flying about under the low ceiling. Uncle Eb
gathered an armful of grass and clover, in the near field, and spread it
in a corner well away from the ruined door and windows. Covered with our
blanket it made a fairly comfortable bed. Soon as we had lain down,
the rain began to rattle on the shaky roof and flashes of lightning lit
every corner of the old room.
I have had, ever, a curious love of storms, and, from the time when
memory began its record in my brain, it has delighted me to hear at
night the roar of thunder and see the swift play of the lightning. I
lay between Uncle Eb and the old dog, who both went asleep shortly.
Less wearied I presume than either of them, for I had done none of the
carrying, and had slept along time that day in the shade of a tree, I
was awake an hour or more after they were snoring. Every flash lit the
old room like the full glare of the noonday sun. I remember it showed me
an old cradle, piled full of rubbish, a rusty scythe hung in the rotting
sash of a window, a few lengths of stove-pipe and a plough in one
corner, and three staring white owls that sat on a beam above the
doorway. The rain roared on the old roof shortly, and came dripping down
through the bare boards above us. A big drop struck in my face and I
moved a little. Then I saw what made me hold my breath a moment and
cover my head with the shawl. A flash of lightning revealed a tall,
ragged man looking in at the doorway. I lay close to Uncle Eb imagining
much evil of that vision but made no outcry.
Snugged in between my two companions I felt reasonably secure and soon
fell asleep. The sun, streaming in at the open door, roused me in the
morning. At the beginning of each day of our journey I woke to find
Uncle Eb cooking at the fire. He was lying beside me, this morning, his
eyes open.
'Fraid I'm hard sick,' he said as I kissed him.
'What's the matter?' I enquired.
He struggled to a sitting posture, groaning so it went to my heart.
'Rheumatiz,' he answered presently.
He got to his feet, little by little, and every move he made gave him
great pain. With one hand on his cane and the other on my shoulder he
made his way slowly to the broken gate. Even now I can see clearly the
fair prospect of that high place--a valley reaching to distant hills and
a river winding through it, glimmering in the sunlight; a long wooded
ledge breaking into naked, grassy slopes on one side of the valley and
on the other a deep forest rolling to the far horizon; between them big
patches of yellow grain and white buckwheat and green pasture land and
greener meadows and the straight road, with white houses on either side
of it, glorious in a double fringe of golden rod and purple aster and
yellow John's-wort and the deep blue of the Jacob's ladder.
'Looks a good deal like the promised land,' said Uncle Eb. 'Hain't got
much further t' go.'
He sat on the rotting threshold while I pulled some of the weeds in
front of the doorstep and brought kindlings out of the house and built a
fire. While we were eating I told Uncle Eb of the man that I had seen in
the night.
'Guess you was dreamin',' he said, and, while I stood firm for the
reality of that I had seen, it held our thought only for a brief moment.
My companion was unable to walk that day so we lay by, in the shelter of
the old house, eating as little of our scanty store as we could do
with. I went to a spring near by for water and picked a good mess of
blackberries that I hid away until supper time, so as to surprise Uncle
Eb. A longer day than that we spent in the old house, after our coming,
I have never known. I made the room a bit tidier and gathered more grass
for bedding. Uncle Eb felt better as the day grew warm. I had a busy
time of it that morning bathing his back in the spirits and rubbing
until my small arms ached. I have heard him tell often how vigorously
I worked that day and how I would say: 'I'll take care o' you, Uncle
Eb--won't I, Uncle Eb?' as my little hands flew with redoubled energy on
his bare skin. That finished we lay down sleeping until the sun was low,
when I made ready the supper that took the last of everything we had to
eat. Uncle Eb was more like himself that evening and, sitting up in the
corner, as the darkness came, told me the story of Squirreltown and Frog
Ferry, which came to be so great a standby in those days that, even now,
I can recall much of the language in which he told it.
'Once,' he said, 'there was a boy thet hed two grey squirrels in a cage.
They kep' thinkin' o' the time they used t' scamper in the tree-tops an'
make nests an' eat all the nuts they wanted an' play I spy in the thick
leaves. An they grew poor an' looked kind o' ragged an' sickly an'
downhearted. When he brought 'em outdoors they used t' look up in the
trees an' run in the wire wheel as if they thought they could get there
sometime if they kep' goin'. As the boy grew older he see it was cruel
to keep 'em shet in a cage, but he'd hed em a long time an' couldn't
bear t' give 'em up.
'One day he was out in the woods a little back o' the clearin'. All t'
once he heard a swift holler. 'Twas nearby an' echoed so he couldn't
tell which way it come from. He run fer home but the critter ketched 'im
before he got out o' the woods an' took 'im into a cave, an' give 'im t'
the little swifts t' play with. The boy cried terrible. The swifts they
laughed an' nudged each other.
'“O ain't he cute!” says one. “He's a beauty!” says another. “Cur'us how
he can git along without any fur,” says the mother swift, as she run er
nose over 'is bare foot. He thought of 'is folks waitin' fer him an' he
begged em t' let 'im go. Then they come an' smelt 'im over.
'“Yer sech a cunnin' critter,” says the mother swift, “we couldn't spare
ye.”
'“Want to see my mother,” says the boy sobbing.
'“Couldn't afford t' let ye go--yer so cute,” says the swift. “Bring the
poor critter a bone an' a bit o' snake meat.”
'The boy couldn't eat. They fixed a bed fer him, but 'twant clean. The
feel uv it made his back ache an' the smell uv it made him sick to his
stomach.
'“When the swifts hed comp'ny they 'd bring 'em overt' look at him there
'n his dark corner.” “S a boy,” said the mother swift pokin' him with a
long stick “Wouldn't ye like t' see 'im run?” Then she punched him until
he got up an' run 'round the cave fer his life. Happened one day et a
very benevolent swift come int' the cave.
'“'S a pity t' keep the boy here,” said he; “he looks bad.”
'“But he makes fun fer the children,” said the swift.
'“Fun that makes misery is only fit fer a fool,” said the visitor.
'They let him go thet day. Soon as he got hum he thought o' the
squirrels an' was tickled t' find 'em alive. He tak 'em off to an
island, in the middle of a big lake, thet very day, an' set the cage on
the shore n' opened it He thought he would come back sometime an' see
how they was ginin' along. The cage was made of light wire an' hed a
tin bottom fastened to a big piece o' plank. At fust they was 'fraid t'
leave it an' peeked out o' the door an' scratched their heads's if they
thought it a resky business. After awhile one stepped out careful an'
then the other followed. They tried t' climb a tree, but their nails was
wore off an' they kep' fallin' back. Then they went off 'n the brush t'
find some nuts. There was only pines an' poppies an' white birch an' a
few berry bushes on the island. They went t' the water's edge on every
side, but there was nuthin there a squirrel ud give a flirt uv his
tail fer. 'Twas near dark when they come back t' the cage hungry as tew
bears. They found a few crumbs o' bread in the cup an' divided 'em even.
Then they went t' bed 'n their ol' nest.
'It hed been rainin' a week in the mount'ins. Thet night the lake rose
a foot er more an' 'fore mornin' the cage begun t' rock a teenty bit as
the water lifted the plank. They slep' all the better fer thet an' they
dreamed they was up in a tree at the end uv a big bough. The cage begun
t' sway sideways and then it let go o' the shore an' spun 'round once er
twice an' sailed out 'n the deep water. There was a light breeze blowin'
offshore an' purty soon it was pitchin' like a ship in the sea. But the
two squirrels was very tired an' never woke up 'til sunrise. They got a
terrible scare when they see the water 'round 'em an' felt the motion
o' the ship. Both on 'em ran into the wire wheel an' that bore down the
stern o' the ship so the under wires touched the water. They made it
spin like a buzz saw an' got their clothes all wet. The ship went faster
when they worked the wheel, an' bime bye they got tired an' come out
on the main deck. The water washed over it a little so they clim up the
roof thet was a kin' uv a hurricane deck. It made the ship sway an' rock
fearful but they hung on 'midships, an' clung t' the handle that stuck
up like a top mast. Their big tails was spread over their shoulders,
an' the wind rose an' the ship went faster 'n faster. They could see the
main shore where the big woods come down t' the water 'n' all the while
it kep' a comin' nearer 'n' nearer. But they was so hungry didn't seem
possible they could live to git there.
'Ye know squirrels are a savin' people. In the day o' plenty they think
o' the day o' poverty an' lay by fer it. All at once one uv 'em thought
uv a few kernels o' corn, he hed pushed through a little crack in the
tin floor one day a long time ago. It happened there was quite a hole
under the crack an' each uv 'em bad stored some kernels unbeknown t'
the other. So they hed a good supper 'n' some left fer a bite 'n the
mornin'. 'Fore daylight the ship made her pott 'n' lay to, 'side liv a
log in a little cove. The bullfrogs jumped on her main deck an' begun
t' holler soon as she hove to: “all ashore! all ashore! all ashore!” The
two squirrels woke up but lay quiet 'til the sun rose. Then they come
out on the log 'et looked like a long dock an' run ashore 'n' foun' some
o' their own folks in the bush. An' when they bed tol' their story the
ol' father o' the tribe got up 'n a tree an' hollered himself hoarse
preachin' 'bout how 't paid t' be savin'.
'“An' we should learn t' save our wisdom es well es our nuts,” said a
sassy brother; “fer each needs his own wisdom fer his own affairs.”
'An the little ship went back 'n' forth 'cross the cove as the win'
blew. The squirrels hed many a fine ride in her an' the frogs were the
ferrymen. An' all 'long thet shore 'twas known es Frog Ferry 'mong the
squirrel folks.'
It was very dark when he finished the tale an' as we lay gaping a few
minutes after my last query about those funny people of the lake margin
I could hear nothing but the chirping of the crickets. I was feeling
a bit sleepy when I heard the boards creak above our heads. Uncle Eli
raised himself and lay braced upon his elbow listening. In a few moments
we heard a sound as of someone coming softly down the ladder at the
other end of the room. It was so dark I could see nothing.
'Who's there?' Uncle Eb demanded.
'Don't p'int thet gun at me,' somebody whispered. 'This is my home and I
warn ye t' leave it er I'll do ye harm.'