DEER HUNTING.
It was a glorious morning. Of course we had to get up before the sun
thought of such a thing. Indeed, there was a crazy, old, lop-sided,
dissipated-looking, gibbous moon still hanging on to life when we came
piling out of the warm, lighted house and climbed into the two vehicles
waiting for us. Father and Mr. Tucker were to go in Father's buggy, and
the girls and I were very snug, three on the seat of the runabout, with
the lunch and coffee pot bouncing around in the back, and the Tuckers'
guns carefully stowed under the seat.
Jo Winn joined us at Milton, the New York cousin in the buggy with him.
We were curious to see the cousin, whom Father had reported as being
"quite likely." Jo was as good as gold and perfectly intelligent with a
keen sense of humor, but he was as silent as the tomb. His sister Sally
was the greatest chatterbox in the world, I am sure. She simply never
stopped talking except on those occasions when she was doing her best to
"shuffle off this mortal coil," and then she seemed to be not able to
stop talking long enough to die thoroughly. Just when the grave was
yawning for her (or maybe because of her) she would think of something
she simply had to talk about and come back to life.
The Winns were F. F. V.'s, in that they were among the first families in
Virginia, if not of Virginia. They were not aristocrats, certainly. They
came of good pioneer stock who were tillers of the soil in the
seventeenth century and still were in the twentieth. They had lived on
the same tract of land for two centuries and a half, and in America that
should stand for aristocracy, but somehow with the Winns it never had.
They had no desire to be considered great folk and so they never were.
The war between the states had left them as it had found them, in fairly
prosperous circumstances. Never having owned slaves, the emancipation of
the negroes did not affect them one way or the other. Having always
done their own sowing and reaping, they could still do it. The family
had never been much on marrying, and now there were none left but the
hypochondriacal old maid Sally and her younger brother Jo.
I had given the twins a history of the Winns as we spun over to Milton.
Pegasus was in fine feather, which seems a strange thing to say of a
horse, but of one whose name suggests wings, perhaps it is appropriate.
"I fancy Jo is so silent because Sally talks so much," suggested Dum.
"Maybe it is the other way and Sally talks so much to make up for Jo's
silence," I said; "but I hope the cousin from New York will strike a
happy medium."
"A 'cousin from New York' always sounds so exciting and just as like as
not he'll come from Hoboken. Dr. Allison says he is about twenty-five,
so I reckon he'll not notice us kids, anyhow. It won't break our hearts,
that's sure," and Dee tossed her blue-black head in disdain of all
males.
Jo and the cousin were waiting for us at the crossroads. The cousin was
a good-looking young man with blue eyes and light hair, very picturesque
in a brand new hunting suit, leggins and all.
"They won't stay new long," I whispered to the girls, "with Jo's hounds
flopping all over them."
Jo was forced to open his mouth and speak, as it was up to him to
introduce the cousin, but he did it in as few words as possible.
"Mr. Kent--Miss Allison." And then an appealing glance at me gave me to
understand that the matter was in my hands, so I took up the social
burden and introduced Jo and Mr. Kent to the Tuckers. Mr. Reginald
Kent,--that was the picturesque name that went with the picturesque
corduroy suit,--proved himself to be a young man of resources. He had no
idea of taking the long drive to the spot of the possible deer alone
with the silent Jo, the hounds wallowing all over his new clothes.
"See here," he exclaimed, "I think one of us fellows ought to get in
with the young ladies. They might need some protection on the trip." Jo
looked very much amused at my needing protection and the twins certainly
looked buxom enough to take care of themselves without the help of Mr.
Reginald Kent.
"Well, sort yourselves in a hurry," called Father. "The colt won't stand
another minute and I don't want to get too far ahead of the rest of
you."
"Let me get in with Mr. Winn," begged Dee. "I'm crazy to ride with the
dogs." Jo's dogs were the only ones going, although the pack at Bracken
plead piteously to be allowed to join the party. It seemed best not to
take too many, and Jo's dogs were so well trained that the men had
decided on them.
Mr. Reginald Kent squeezed his new corduroys between Dum and me, and Dee
jumped into the buggy with the grinning Jo. Dee declared later that Jo
talked as much as most men and was a very agreeable person; but I fancy
the real truth of the matter was that Dee chattered away at her usual
rate, and that Jo was such an eloquent listener Dee never did discover
that she was doing all the talking. Certainly they found a topic of
interest to both of them in the dogs, and as talking about the dogs
meant patting the dogs, the dogs naturally were pleased.
Our cavalier proved to be very cheerful and very complimentary. He was
evidently much pleased to escape the silent Jo. We liked him in spite of
his fulsome compliments, and when we gave him to understand that
flattery was not the way to curry favor with us, he became more natural
and we had a very amusing time with him. It turned out that he did not
live in Hoboken as Dee had predicted, but in the heart of New York City.
He was employed by an advertising firm, not only as a writer of
advertisements, but also as illustrator.
"Of course there is no pleasant way of making a living," he said, "but I
long to get out of this commercial art and into regular illustrating."
"But I adore ads," exclaimed Dum. "Dee and Zebedee and I always read
every word of them and Zebedee says you can find more pure fiction in
them than in the magazine proper--or improper."
"Well, after this I shall do my work more enthusiastically and more
conscientiously, knowing there is a chance of its coming under such
eyes," and Mr. Kent's glance of admiration into Dum's hazel eyes gave
her to understand he was speaking of those particular eyes and not Dee's
and Zebedee's. I rather expected to see Dum give him a back-hander, but
instead she blushed in rather a pleased way, just as any young girl
should on receiving such a compliment from a handsome young man from New
York.
The roads in our county are much improved, thanks to the automobilists
who have worked such reforms throughout the whole country. On that
morning they were hard and dry, even dusty, and we went spinning along
through the frosty air, Father ahead with the colt behaving as though it
were a hurry call and every moment counted. I was next in line and Peg
was giving me all I could do to hold her in. She seemed to want to let
us all see that an upstartish colt could trot no faster than she could.
I was rather glad that Mr. Reginald Kent had taken a fancy to hazel eyes
instead of gray, as I needed my gray eyes to pick a smooth road for
Peg. Jo Winn and Dee were just far enough behind us to keep out of our
dust, and occasionally we could hear Dee's ringing laugh and an unusual
guffaw from the silent Jo.
"You see now why we couldn't come in your automobile, as Mr. Tucker
wanted," I said to Dum, as Father wheeled the colt sharply to the left
into a forest of pines where scrub oaks and chinquepins almost concealed
a very poor excuse for a road.
"Come on, Daughter," Father called back to me; "we'll keep close
together through the woods, as there is no dust."
I really believe that the road through that pine forest is the very
worst road in Virginia, and that is saying a good deal, as my beloved
state has only recently awakened to the fact that it reflects on her
standing to be noted as having the worst roads in the Union. That
particular road had great granite bowlders; ruts that threatened to
swallow us; gnarled tree roots that stretched across the path as though
they meant to trip us up; and sometimes even a fallen trunk over which
we would have to bounce, testing the springs of our vehicles to their
utmost endurance.
"Well, I reckon little Henry Ford" (that is what the Tuckers called
their car), "would have been ditched long before this," gasped Dum, as
one wheel took a bowlder and the other a deep rut.
"Miss Allison, I haven't asked you to let me assist you in driving, just
because I know you can do it so much better than I can," said Mr. Kent.
"I'd have turned over there as sure as I'm born."
"Well, I came mighty near doing it," I laughed. "If Dum's hat had not
been on the side and tilted toward the bowlder, we would have landed in
the ditch, I know. We had just about an ounce's weight in our favor."
"I guess it's a good thing I part my hair in the middle in these
hairbreadth escapes. Just think, suppose it had been parted on the left
side and had counterbalanced Miss Dum's hat tipped toward the right!
Over we would have gone."
Just then a Molly Cotton-tail jumped up out of the bracken and the dogs
set up a fearful howling. It was all Jo Winn and Dee could do to hold
them in their places. Mr. Tucker and Dum looked longingly at their guns
but the colt would not stand for shooting going on so close to him, and,
besides, when people go out for deer they do not want to begin on
rabbits. So little Miss Molly got off for that time at least.
I was glad. There is something in my make-up that recoils from killing
anything. To be sure, I am fond of a rabbit's hind leg, about as good
eating as one can find, but when I am picking on one of those hind legs
I have to close my mind carefully to the fact that that same hind leg
has helped to carry some Bre'r Rabbit through many a briar patch. If the
image comes to me of a perky little white tail scurrying through the
bushes with the eager dogs in pursuit, I simply have to give up eating
the delectable morsel and Mammy Susan has to broil me some bacon.
"Hi, there, Uncle Peter," called Father to an old negro man approaching
on a mule, a great sack of corn balanced on his pommel, "don't tell me
you are not at home when we are coming to see you."
"Well, Docallison, I done tech bottom in de meal bag dis very mawnin',
an' I was jes' a takin' some cawn to de mill; but efn de quality folks
is a comin' ter see me, I kin sho make out wif de scrapin's till anudder
day."
"We are going to try our luck with the deer, Uncle Peter, and I thought
we would leave our teams at your cabin and get you to bring our
provisions over to Falling Water in your wheelbarrow."
"'Visions, you say? Well, efn you's goin' ter have 'visions, dey ain't
no us'n my goin' ter de mill fer days ter come. 'Visions from Bracken
means dat Mammy Susan done had her say-so, and dat ole nigger 'oman is
sho a amplified perfider. They'll be 'nuf leavins ter feed de multitude
on Mount Aryrat." And Uncle Peter turned his willing mule's head around
and led the way to his cabin.
Click! Click! went Mr. Kent's pocket camera. "Exactly the type I am
looking for! Now, Miss Dum, when you look through the advertisements
several months from now, be sure to notice a certain molasses that is to
be put on the market. Uncle Peter will be there taking his corn to the
mill so he can have a 'pone to sop in de 'lasses.' Oh, look at the
cabin! Isn't it charming?"
It was indeed a typical log cabin. It was old, very old, but Uncle Peter
kept it in good repair, patching the mortar in the chinks from time to
time and propping up the great stone chimney that stood at about the
angle of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. On the door and walls were tacked
many coon skins. That is the method employed for curing the skins, and
Uncle Peter made quite a little money selling coon skins. He had only a
small clearing around his cabin but a good cornfield down in the creek
bottom.
"'Light, 'light," said Uncle Peter, "Rosana will be that proud ter
'ceive you. She been throwing rocks all mornin' at that ole Shanghai
rooster who would crow fer comp'ny. Co'se Rosana didn't know de comp'ny
was a goin' ter be white folks. She done' low it would be some er dem
low-down niggers tother side er de swamp what is always a-comin' empty
and gwine away full."
Aunt Rosana squeezed herself sideways through the cabin door. She was a
mountain of flesh, with about as much shape as a football. Indeed, she
looked very like the potato babies Mammy Susan used to make me: a big
potato for the body; a little potato for a head, stuck on with a match;
feet and arms of peanuts; and a face scratched on with a kitchen fork.
Her voice sounded like hot mashed potato as she bade us welcome.
"Well, efn I won't hab ter gib dat ole Shanghai rooster a extry handful
er wheat! Here I been a-was'in' time all mornin' tryin' ter make him
shet up his 'nostigatin' fer comp'ny, not thinkin' he was a-crowin' fer
quality. I mought a-knowed he wouldn't er crowed so loud an' clear fer
nuthin' but niggers, an' swamp niggers, at dat," and a laugh shook her
huge body, reminding me of the "bowl full of jelly."
We were glad to stretch ourselves after the long drive, and Aunt Rosana
took us into her cabin while the men of the party attended to
unhitching the horses. The cabin was spotless, although the one room it
boasted was kitchen, parlor and bedroom in one. A great fireplace almost
the entire length of one side of the room was really the kitchen. Aunt
Rosana scorned iron stoves and still did her cooking with pot-hooks and
Dutch ovens. Even now, hanging from one hook, was a singing black iron
kettle and from another a covered pot from which issued an aroma that
told me that Uncle Peter was going to have cabbage for dinner. Homemade
rag rugs covered the floor almost entirely, but wherever a spot of oak
flooring showed, it was gleaming white with much scrubbing.
A great four-poster had the place of honor opposite the fireplace. It
was a bed fit for the slumbers of kings and princes. Many families in
Virginia will exhibit just such beds and proudly tell you that in those
beds Lafayette and Washington had slept. I don't know how Uncle Peter
and Aunt Rosana happened to have it, but I know that the beautiful old
bed had never harbored a more worthy couple. The patchwork quilt, with
its intricate rising-sun pattern, was Aunt Rosana's handiwork. The
walls were decorated with brilliant chromos, calendars dating back into
the 'seventies and on up to date.
The twins were charmed with the place and their interest was most
flattering to Aunt Rosana. She showed them all her treasures, even her
photograph album.
"And who are all of these people?" asked Dum, who was politely looking
at every photograph.
"Lor', chile, I dunno. Peter bought dat ere album at a sale ober in de
nex' county. Ev'ybody in de book is white, an' dey looks like quality
ter me; but dese days yer can't tell. Some er de quality is lookin'
moughty stringy an' de oberseer class is pickin' up so dey is kinder
mergin' inter great folks."
"What's this up your chimney?" queried Dee, peering up the great flue.
"Oh, dat's whar I smokes my meat. They's some shoulders up dar; an' some
sides er baking wif a streak er fat an' a streak er lean as pretty as
any you kin buy in de city. An' them's my little chany valuebowles what
I been collecking of sence I was a baby," said Aunt Rosana to Dum, who
was examining a great array of little china ornaments on top of a large
old highboy.
There were little china girls kissing little china boys; little baskets
with turtle doves on the handles; pink puppies and green cats, some of
them meant for match safes and some of them purely ornamental; little
cups and saucers of every shape and hue; little pitchers with big ears
and some with no ears at all. I have never been in a cabin of
self-respecting colored people where there was not a chest of drawers or
a table filled with similar treasures. I know Aunt Rosana thought as
much of her "chany valuebowles" as Father did of his books, and her
sensations when Dum almost dropped a little shell-covered box was just
what Father's would have been if he had seen a careless reader turn down
a page in one of his beloved books, or bend back the covers of one of
his first editions.
"Do look at this," begged Dum of Mr. Kent, who had just entered the
cabin. She held up in her hand a china cow of a decidedly lavender hue
with horns and hoofs of gilt, and quoted:
"'I never saw a purple cow;
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.'"
"'Ah, yes, I wrote the "Purple Cow"--
I'm sorry now I wrote it!
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'll kill you if you quote it!'"
laughed Mr. Kent, taking the fearful and wonderful animal in his hands
and examining it with great interest. "Isn't this place delightful? If I
had only brought my sketching things instead of my gun, I'd stay here
and paint. I'm going to ask Aunt Rosana to let me take some time
exposures of the interior of her cabin. Just look at that bed and that
fireplace! Thank goodness, I've got my camera with a perfectly new film
good for twelve exposures."
"Well, Gawd be praised dat ole Shanghai gib me warnin' of comp'ny comin'
an' I done stirred my stumps an' straightened up some, efn my room's
goin' ter git its Dager'type took," and Aunt Rosana's flesh quivered
with delight.