included Elder Justice and two young preachers from Big Turkey Track, with
Brother Tarbush, one of the new exhorters) had returned from the
afternoon's meeting in the grove. Supper had been eaten and cleared away.
The babies had been put to sleep; the two women and the five men--all
strong and striking types of the Southern mountaineer--were gathered for
the evening reading and prayer. Elder Justice, now nearly eighty years old,
a beautiful and venerable person, had opened the big Bible, and after
turning the leaves a moment, raised his grave, rugged face and read:
“'Therefore will I divide him a portion with the great, and he shall divide
the spoil with the strong; because he hath poured out his soul unto
death.'”
He paused, and on the intense stillness which followed the ceasing of his
voice--the silence of evening in the deep mountains--there broke a long,
shrill, agonized scream.
As every one of the little circle leaped to his feet, Aunt Cornelia's eyes
sought her husband's face, and his hers. After that grinding, terrible cry,
the stillness of the night was unstirred. Pap Overholt sprang to the
hearth--where even in the midsummer months a log smoulders throughout the
day, to be brightened into a cheery blaze mornings and evenings,--seized a
brand, one or two of the others following his example, and ran through the
doorway, across the little chip-yard, making for the low-browed log barn
and the grain-room beside it.
None who witnessed that scene ever forgot it. Each one told it afterward in
his own way, declaring that not while he lived could the remembrance of it
pass from his mind. Pap Overholt's tall figure leaped crouching through the
low doorway, and next instant lifted the blazing brand high above his head;
the others followed, doing the same. There by the grain-bin, with ashy
countenance and shaking limbs, the sweat of anguish upon his forehead, his
eyes roving dumbly around the circle of faces revealed by the flickering
light of the brands--there with the dreadful wolf-trap (locked by its chain
to a stanchion) hanging to his right arm, its fangs bitten through and
through the flesh, stood Sammy.
Pap Overholt's mind refused at first to understand. He had known (with that
sort of moral assurance which makes a thing as real to us as the evidence
of the senses themselves) that it was Buck Fuson who had been stealing his
grain. He had set his trap to catch Buck Fuson; not instantly could the
mere sight of his eyes convince him that the trapped thief was the petted,
adored, perverse son, who had refused his father's bounty when it had
seemed the little wife and babies must starve. When he did realize, the cry
that burst from his heart brought tears to all the eyes looking upon him.
Down went the tall, broad figure, down into the dust of the grain-room
floor. And there Pap Overholt grovelled on his knees, his white head almost
at the thief's feet, crying, crying that old cry of David's: “Oh, Sammy, my
son! My son, Sammy! An' I wouldn't 'a' touched a hair o' his head. My God!
have mercy on my soul, that would 'a' fed him my heart's blood--an' he
wouldn't take bite nor sup from my hand. Oh, Sammy! what did you want to do
this to yo' po' old pappy fer?”
Elder Justice, quick and efficient at eighty years, had sprung to the lad's
right arm, two of the younger men close after. Aunt Cornelia held her piece
of blazing light-wood for them while they cut away the sleeve and made
ready to bear apart the powerful jaws of the trap. The little Huldy had
said never a word. Her small, white face was strained; but it did not bear
the marks of shock and of horror that were written on every other
countenance there. When they had grasped jaws and lever, and Elder
Justice's kind voice murmured, “Mind now, Sammy. Hold firm, son; we air
a-gwine to pull 'em back. Brace yo'se'f,” the boy's haggard eyes sought his
mother's face.
“Le' me take it, Aunt Cornely,” whispered Huldy, loosing the light-wood
from the elder woman's hand and leaving her free. And the next moment
Sammy's left hand was clasped tight in his mother's; he turned his face
round to her broad breast and hid it there; and there he sobbed and shook
as the savage jaws came slowly back.
* * * * *
That strange hour worked a complete revolution in the lives of the little
family in the cabin on The Bench and those in the big, hospitable Pap
Overholt home. Sammy had “met up with” punishment at last; he had
encountered discipline; and the change it wrought upon him was almost
beyond belief. The spell which this winning, wayward, perverse creature had
laid upon Pap Overholt's too affectionate, too indulgent nature was
dissolved in that terrible hour. He was no more to the father now than a
troublesome boy who had been most trying and not very satisfactory. The
ability to wring the hearts of those who wished to benefit him had passed
from Sammy; but it is only fair to say that the wish to do so seemed to be
no longer his. While his arm was still in a sling, before he had yet raised
his shamed eyes to meet the eyes of those about him, Pap Overholt
cheerfully put old Ned and Jerry to the big ox-wagon and bodily removed the
little household from The Bench to the home which had been so long yearning
for them.
Now, at last, he was Pap Overholt indeed. The little Huldy, whose burden of
gratitude for two had seemed to Aunt Cornelia so grievous a one, was a
daughter after any man's heart, and her brood of smiling children were a
wagon-load which Pap John hauled with joy and pride to and from the
settlement, to the circus--ay, every circus that ever showed its head
within a day's drive of Little Turkey Track,--to meetin', to grove
quarterlies, in response to every call of neighborliness, or of mere
amusement.
In the Piny Woods
BY MRS. B. F. MAYHEW
A sparsely settled bit of country in the piny woods of North Carolina. A
house rather larger than its neighbors, though only a “story and a jump” of
four rooms, two upper and two lower, and quite a commodius shed on the back
containing two rooms and a small entry; and when Jeems Henry Tyler
increased his rooms as his family grew, his neighbors “allowed” that “arter
er while he'd make er hotel out'n it.” Several out-houses stood at
convenient distances from the house. A rough board paling enclosed the
yard. A clearing of twenty-five or more acres lay around three sides of the
house, and well-to-do Industry and Thrift plainly went hand in hand about
the place.
A Saturday in early autumn was drawing near its close, and the family had
finished supper, though it was not yet dark. Like all country folk of their
station in life, they ate in the kitchen, a building separate from the
house. There were “Grandmother Tyler,” a sweet-faced old woman, with
silvery hair smoothed away under a red silk kerchief folded cornerwise and
tied under her chin; and her son, “Father Tyler,” with his fifty-odd years
showing themselves in his grizzled hair and beard; and “Mother Tyler,” a
brisk stout woman, with great strength of character in her strong features,
black eyes, and straight black hair. Her neighbors declared that she was
the “main stake” in the “Tyler fence.”
The children were “Mandy Calline,” the eldest, and her mother's special
pride, built on the same model with her mother; Joseph Zachariah, a
long-legged youth; Ann Elisabeth, a lanky girl; Susan Jane, and Jeems
Henry, or “Little Jim,” to distinguish him from his father; and last, but
by no means least in the household, came the baby. When she was born Mrs.
Tyler declared that as all the rest were named for different members of
both families, she should give this wee blossom a fancy name, and she had
the desire of her heart, and the baby rejoiced in the name of Elthania
Mydora, docked off into “Thancy” for short.
They had risen from the table, and Father Tyler had hastened to his
mother's side as the old lady moved slowly away, and taking her arm, guided
her carefully to the house, for the eyes in the placid old face, looking
apparently straight before her, were stone-blind.
“Come, now, gals,” said Mother Tyler, briskly, with the baby in her arms,
“make er hurry 'n' do up th' dishes. Come, Ann Elisabeth, go ter scrapin'
up, 'n', Mandy Calline, pour up th' dish-water.”
“Ya'as, yer'd better make er hurry,” squeaked “Little Jim,” from his perch
in the window, “fer Mandy Calline's spectin' her beau ter-night.”
“Ye'd best shet up yer clatter, Jim, lest ye know what yer talkin' erbout,”
retorted Mandy Calline, with a pout, making a dash at him with the
dish-cloth.
“Yer right, Jim,” drawled Joseph Zachariah, lounging in the doorway. “I
heerd Zeke White tell 'er he was er-comin' ter-night.”
“Mar--” began Mandy Calline, looking at her mother appealingly.
“Shet up, you boys,” came in answer. “Zachariah, ha' ye parted th' cows 'n'
calves?”
“No, 'm.”
“Then be erbout it straight erway. Jim--you Jeems Henry!”
“Ya'as, 'm,” from outside the window.
“Go 'n' shet up the hen-'ouse, 'n' see ef th' black hen 'n' chickens ha'
gone ter roost in there. She'll keep stayin' out o' nights till th' fox 'll
grab 'er. Now, chillen, make 'er hurry 'n' git thee in here. Come, Thaney
gal, we'll go in th' house 'n' find pappy 'n' gra'mammy. Susan Jane, come
fetch th' baby's ole quilt 'n' spread it down on th' floor fer 'er”; and
Mother Tyler repaired to the house with the baby in her arms.
“Why, mother, ye in here by yerself? I tho't Jeems Henry was with yer.”
“Ya'as, Malviny, he was tell er minit ergo, 'n' he stepped out to th' lot,”
replied the old lady, in tones so like the expression of her face, mildly
calm, that it was a pleasure to hear her speak.
“Ha! ye got thet baby wi' ye?”
“Ya'as, 'm.”
“I wish ye'd put her on my lap. Gra'mammy 'ain't had 'er none ter-day.”
“Ya'as, 'm, in er minit. Run, Susan Jane, 'n' fetch er cloth ter wipe 'er
face 'n' han's; they're that stuck up wi' merlasses, ter say nothin' o'
dirt. Therey, therey, now! Mammy's gal don't want ter hev 'er face washed?
Hu! tu! tu! Thaney mustn't cry so. Where's Jeff? Here, Jeff--here, Jeff!
Ole bugger-man, come down the chimbly 'n' ketch this bad gal. You'd better
hush. I tell yer he's er-comin'. Here, Susan Jane, take th' cloth. There,
gra'mammy; there's jest es sweet er little gal es ye'd find in er dog's
age.” And the old lady at once cuddled the little one in her arms, swinging
back and forth in her home-made rocker, and crooning an old-time baby song.
“Here, Susan Jane, han' me my knittin' from th' table, 'n' go 'n' tell Jim
ter pitch in some pine knots 'n' make er light in here, 'n' be quick erbout
it”; and Mother Tyler settled herself in another home-made rocker and began
to knit rapidly.
This was the night-work of the female portion of the family, and numerous
stockings of various colors and in various stages of progress were stuck
about the walls of the room, which boasted neither ceiling nor lath and
plaster, making convenient receptacles between the posts and
weather-boarding for knitting-work, turkey-tail fans, bunches of herbs for
drying, etc.
A pine-knot fire was soon kindled on the hearth, and threw its flickering
shadows on the room and its occupants as the dusk gathered in.
Mandy Calline and Elisabeth, running a race from the kitchen, burst into
the back door, halting in a good-natured tussle in the entry.
“Stop that racket, you gals,” called out the mother; and as they came in
with suppressed bustle, panting with smothered laughter, she asked,
briskly, “Have ye shet up everything 'n' locked th' kitchen door?”
“Ya'as, 'm,” replied Mandy Calline; “'n' here's th' key on th'
mantel-shelf.” She then disappeared up the stairs which came down into the
sitting-room behind the back door.
“Come, Ann Elisabeth, git yer knittin'. Git your'n too, Susan Jane.”
“Yer'll ha' ter set th' heel fer me, mar,” said Susan Jane, hoping
privately that she would be too busy to do so.
“Fetch it here,” from the mother, dashed the hope incontinently.
“I think we're goin' ter ha' some fallin' weather in er day er two; sky
looks ruther hazy, 'n' I heerd er rain-crow ter-day, 'n' ther's er circle
roun' th' moon,” observed Father Tyler as he entered, and hanging his hat
on a convenient nail in a post, seated himself in the corner opposite his
mother.
“Ha' ye got th' fodder all in?” queried his wife, with much interest.
“Ya'as; finished ter-day; that's all safe; but er rain 'ould interfere
mightily wi' pickin' out cotton up in th' swamp, 'n' it's openin, mighty
fast; shouldn't be s'prised ef some er that swamp don't fetch er bale ter
th' acre, 'n' we'll have er right purty lot o' cotton, even atter th'
rent's paid out”; and Father Tyler, with much complacency, lighted his pipe
with a coal from the hearth.
“Th' gals 'll soon ha' this erround th' house all picked out; they got
purty nigh over it ter-day, 'n' ther'll likely be one more scatterin'
pickin',” said Mother Tyler.
Here a starched rustling on the stairs betokened the descent of Mandy
Calline. Pushing back the door, she stepped down with all the dignity which
she deemed suitable to don with her present attire.
A new calico dress of a blue ground, with a bright yellow vine rambling up
its lengths, adorned her round, plump figure; her glossy black hair was
plaited, and surmounted with a huge red bow, the ends of which fluttered
out bravely; as she stepped slowly into the room, busying herself pulling a
basting out of her sleeve.
“Well, Mandy Calline,” began her mother, “ef I do say it myself, yer frock
fits jest as nice as can be. Looks like ye had been melted 'n' run into it.
Nice langth, too,” eying her critically from head to foot.
“Ya'as, 'm; 'n' it's comf'ble, too; ain't too tight ner nothin',” giving
her shoulders a little twitch, and moving her arms a bit.
“I guess th' boys 'll ha' ter look sharp ef that gal sets 'er cap at any on
'em,” put in Father Tyler, gazing proudly at his first-born, whereupon a
toss of her head set the ribbon ends fluttering as she moved with great
dignity across the room to the fireplace.
“Come, let me feel, dearie,” said the old lady, softly, turning her
sightless eyes toward the girl, hearing her movements in her direction.
“Ya'as, gra'mammy,” and stepping nearer, she knelt at her grandmother's
feet, and leaning forward, rested her hands lightly on her shoulders.
The old wrinkled hands groped their way to the girl's face, thence
downward, over her arms, her waist, to the skirt of her dress.
“It feels nice, dearie, 'n' I know it looks nice.”
“I'm glad ye like it, gra'mammy,” said the girl, gently.
“Air ye spectin' comp'ny, dearie, that ye're all dressed up so nice? 'Pears
like ye wouldn't put on yer new frock lest ye wer'.”
Noting the girl's hesitation, the old lady said, softly, “Whisper 'n' tell
gra'-mammy who's er-comin'”; and Mandy Calline, with an additional shade to
the red in her cheeks, leaned forward and shyly whispered a name in her
grandmother's ear.
A satisfactory smile broke like sunshine over the kind old face, and she
murmured: “He's come o' good fambly, dearie. I knowed 'em all years ago.
Smart, stiddy, hard-workin', kind, well-ter-do people. I've been thinkin'
he's been er-comin' here purty stiddy, 'n' I knowed in my min' he warn't
er-comin' ter see Zachariah.”
Bestowing a kiss on one aged cheek and a gentle pat on the other, Mandy
Calline arose to her feet, and lighting a splinter at the fire, opened the
door in the partition separating the two rooms and entered the “parlor.”
This room was the pride of the family, as none of the neighbors could
afford one set apart specially for company.
It was the only room in the house lathed and plastered. Mother Tyler, who
was truly an ambitious woman, had, however, declared in the pride of her
heart that this one at least should be properly finished.
Mandy Calline, with her blazing splinter, lighted the lamp, quite a gay
affair, with a gaudily painted shade, and bits of red flannel with
scalloped edges floating about in the bowl.
The floor was covered with a neatly woven rag carpet of divers gay colors.
Before the hearth, which displayed a coat of red ochre, lay a home-made rug
of startling pattern. The fireplace was filled with cedar boughs and
sweet-smelling myrtle. Two “boughten” rocking-chairs of painted wood
confronted each other primly from opposite ends of the rug. Half a dozen
straight-back chairs, also “boughten,” were disposed stiffly against the
walls. A large folding-leaf dining-table of real mahogany, an heirloom in
the family, occupied the space between two windows, and held a few
scattered books.
The windows were covered with paper curtains of a pale blue tint. In the
centre of each a festive couple, a youth and damsel, of apparently Bohemian
type, with clasped hands held high, disported themselves in a frantic
dance. These pictures were considered by the entire neighborhood as resting
triumphantly on the top round of the ladder of art.
Both parlor and sitting-room opened on a narrow piazza on the front of the
house, Father Tyler not caring to waste space in a hall or passage.
Mandy Calline had flicked a bit of imaginary dust from the polished surface
of the table, had set a bit straighter, if that were possible, one or two
of the chairs, and turned up the lamp a trifle higher, when “Little Jim”
opened the door leading out on the piazza, and in tones of suppressed
excitement half whispered, “He's er-comin', Mandy Calline; Zeke's
er-comin'; he's nigh 'bout ter th' gate.”
“Go 'long, Jim, 'n' shet up; ye allers knows more'n the law allows,” said
his sister; but she glanced quickly and shyly out of the door.
Mr. Ezekiel White was just entering the gate. He was undoubtedly gotten up
at vast expense for the occasion. A suit of store clothes of a startling
plaid adorned his lanky figure, and a pair of new shoes cramped his feet in
the most approved style. A new felt hat rested lightly on his well-oiled
hair. But the crowning glory was a flaming red necktie which flowed in
blazing magnificence over his shirt front.
Jeff, the yard dog, barked in neighborly fashion, as though yelping a
greeting to a frequent visitor whom he recognized as a favored one.
“Susan Jane,” said the father, “step ter th' door 'n' see who Jeff's
er-barkin' at.”
Eagerly the girl dropped her knitting and hastened to reconnoitre, curious
herself.
“It's Zeke White,” she replied, returning to her work.
“I knowed Mandy Calline was spectin' him,” muttered Ann Elisabeth, under
her breath.
Father Tyler arose and sauntered to the door, calling out: “You Jeff, ef ye
don't stop that barkin'--Come here this minit, sir! Good-evenin', Zekle;
come in.”
“Good-evenin”, Mr. Tyler. “Is Zachariah ter home?”
“I dun'no'. Malviny, is Zachariah erroun' anywher's 'at ye know of?”
“I dun'no'; I hain't seed 'im sence supper.”
“I know,” piped up “Little Jim.” “He said es he was er-goin' ter Bill
Jackson's. But, Zeke,” he added, in a hurried aside, catching hold of the
visitor's coat in his eagerness, “Mandy Calline's ter home, 'n' she's fixed
up ter kill!”
At this juncture Mandy Calline herself appeared in the doorway, striving to
look calmly indifferent at everything in general and nothing in particular;
but the expression in her bright black eyes was shifty, and the color in
her cheeks vied with that of the bow on her hair; and by this time Zekle's
entire anatomy exposed to view shared the tint of his brilliant necktie.
“Good-evenin', Zekle,” said the girl, bravely assuming a calm superiority
to all embarrassment and confusion. “Will ye come in th' parlor, er had ye
ruther set out on th' piazza?”
Zekle was wise; he knew that “Little Jim” dare not intrude on the sacred
precincts of the parlor, and he answered, “I'd jest es live set in th'
parlor, of it's all th' same ter you.”
“Ya'as, I'd jest es live,” she replied, and led the way into the room; he
followed, and sat down in rather constrained fashion on the chair nearest
the door, deposited his hat on the floor beside him, took from his pocket
and unfolded with a flirt an immense bandanna handkerchief, highly redolent
of cheap cologne, and proceeded to mop his face with it.
“It's ruther warm,” he observed.
“Ya'as,” she replied, from a rocking-chair in the corner facing him. Here
there was a long pause, and presently she added, “Pappy said es how he
tho't it mought rain in er day er two.”
The family in the sitting-room had settled down, the door being closed
between that room and the parlor.
“There, mother, gi' Thaney ter me,” said Mother Tyler. “I know ye're tired
holdin' of her, fer she ain't no light weight,” and she lifted the little
one away.
“Heigho, Thaney, air ye erwake yit?” questioned the father.
“Erwake! Ya'as, 'n' likely ter be,” said the mother. “Thaney's one o' th'
setters-up, she is.”
“Give 'er ter me, Malviny. Don't pappy's gal want er ride on pappy's foot?
See 'ere, now! Whoopee!” and placing the plump little body astride his
foot, the leg of which crossed the other, and clasping the baby hands in
his, he tossed her up and down till she crowed and laughed in a perfect
abandon of baby glee. A smiling audience looked on in joyous sympathy with
the baby's pleasure, the old gra'mammy murmuring softly, “It's like feelin'
the sunshine ter hear her laugh!”
“There, pappy,” said Mother Tyler, anxiously, “that'll do; ye're goin' ter
git 'er so wide-erwake there'll be no doin' er thing with 'er. Come, now,
Thaney, let mammy put ye down here on yer quilt. Come, come, I _know_ ye've
forgot that ole bugger-man that stays up th' chimbly 'n' ketches bad gals!
There, now, that's mammy's nice gal. Git 'er playthings fer 'er, Susan
Jane. Jim, don't ye go ter sleep there in that door. Ha' ye washed yer
feet?”
“No, 'm,” came drowsily from the doorway.
“Why upon th' yeth do ye wait every blessed night ter be told ter wash yer
feet? Go straight 'n' wash 'em, 'n' then go ter bed. Come, gals, knit ter
th' middle 'n' put up yer knittin'; it's time for all little folks ter go
ter sleep 'n' look for ter-morrer. 'Pears like Thaney's goin' ter look fer
it with eyes wide open.”
“Malviny, ye'll have ter toe up my knittin' fer me, Monday; I've got it
down ter th' narrerin', 'n' I can't do no more,” came softly from
gra'mammy's corner.
“Ya'as, mother, I will; I could ha' toed it up this evenin' es well es not,
tho' ef I had, ye'd ha' started ernuther, 'n' ye'd need ter rest; ye're
allers knittin'.”
“Ya'as, but, darter, it's all I kin do; 'n' I'm so thankful I kin feel ter
knit, fer th' hardest work is ter set wi' folded han's doin' nothin'.”
“Well, mother, it's but sildom that I ever knowed yer ter set with folded
han's,” remarked her son, with proud tenderness.
“Maybe, Jeems Henry; but I never tuck no consait ter myself fer workin',
because I jest nachally loved it. Yer pappy use ter say I was er born
worker, 'n' how he did use ter praise me fer bein' smart! 'n' that was sich
er help! Somehow I've minded me of 'im all day ter-day--of th' time when he
logged Whitcombe's mill down on Fallin' Crick. 'Twas--lemme see! Jeems
Henry, ye're how ole?”
“Fifty-two my las' birthday.”