From early babyhood Judith had shown signs of an energy that craved
constant outlet. From the time that she began to creep about on an
old quilt spread on the kitchen floor, she was never still except
when asleep. She soon passed the boundaries of the quilt, then of the
kitchen, and began bruising her temples by pitching head first from the
rather high doorstep. After two or three accidents of this sort, she
mastered the art of crawling down the steps backward, and could soon do
it with surprising agility. She did not creep on her knees, but went
on all fours like a little bear, her small haunches high in the air.
Soon, with this method of locomotion, she was going all over the yard
and even following her father out into the cow lot, sticking close to
his heels like a small dog. After she learned to walk the farm could
no longer contain her, and she was many times brought back home by
neighbors who happened upon her as she strayed away along the roadside.
As she grew older, she showed a strong interest in all living things
about the farm. She followed after her mother when she went to feed the
chickens, slop the pigs, and milk the cows. She watched her father hook
up the mules; and when he plowed trotted along behind him in the furrow
for hours together. She was great friends with Minnie, the big Maltese
cat, and gave an excited welcome to each of her frequent litters of
kittens. Perhaps more than any other animal on the farm she loved
old Bounce, the dog, a good-natured and intelligent mongrel, mostly
shepherd, brindle of color and growing with age increasingly lazy of
habit. She was jubilant when a hen that had stolen her nest would
come proudly out from under the barn or behind the pigpen clucking to
a dozen or so fluffy little yellow-legged chickens, all spotless and
dainty. Once she came upon a turkey's nest in a weed-shaded corner of
the rail fence and, stooping with breathless excitement, saw that the
little turkeys had just that day come out of the shell. They peeped at
her from under the old turkey hen, not with the bright, saucy looks
of little chickens, but with shy, wild, frightened eyes, like timid
little birds. Even better than the turkeys and chickens, Judith liked
the little geese. They were so big and fluffy when they came out of the
shell, and such a beautiful, soft green; and they waddled and bobbed
their heads so quaintly, as they moved in a little, compact band over
the bluegrass that they loved to eat. They were prettier still when
they sailed, like a fleet of little boats at anchor, in some quiet
corner of the creek, the sun flecking their green bodies with pale gold
as it blinked at them through the boughs of the overhanging willow tree.
She was absorbed in all the small life that fluttered and darted and
hopped and crawled about the farm. The robins and finches that sang and
built their nests in the big hickory tree by the gate; the butterflies,
white, yellow, and parti-colored, that fluttered among the weeds and
grasses; the big dragonflies with gauzy wings iridescently green and
purple in the sunlight, that darted back and forth over the brook:
these little creatures, with their sweet voices, their gay colors and
shy, elusive ways, entered into Judith's life and became a part of it.
The grass and the bare ground, too, were alive for Judith, alive with
the life of beetles, crickets, ants, and innumerable other worms and
insects. The toads that hopped about in the evening were her friends;
and when she happened upon a snake she did not scream and run as Lizzie
May would have done, but stood leaning forward on tiptoe admiring its
colors, the wonder and beauty of its pattern and the sinuous grace of
its movement until it wiggled out of sight in the grass.
She loved fish, too: the long, slinky pickerel that live where the
pond is full of reeds and water lilies, the whiskered catfish and the
beautiful perch, banded with light and dark green, as though they had
taken their colors from the sun-flecked banks along which they lived.
Better than these big pond fish, because they were smaller and nearer
and so more intimately hers, she liked the little "minnies" that lived
in her own creek. From time to time she had been lucky enough to
secure a minnow, which she would bring home triumphantly in a salmon
can. She would set the can down on the doorstep, fill it up with fresh
water from the cistern and sprinkle the water lavishly with bread
crumbs for the minnow's refreshment. Then she would sit with the can in
her lap and lovingly watch the little dark, sinuous body slipping about
beneath the bread crumbs.
The next morning she would find the little fish that only yesterday had
been so dark and graceful and lively, lying inert and white-bellied
among the sodden bread crumbs at the top of the water.
Then the pitiless grip of self-accusing horror and remorse would
tighten on Judith. It made her leaden-hearted to think that she had
been the cause of the death of this happy little creature that had
seemed to love its life so well. Anguished in spirit, she would make
frantic efforts to revive the minnow by supplying him with fresh water
and bread crumbs and restoring him to his living position in the
water, valiantly opposing her eager endeavors and warm pity against
the iron inexorableness of death. But all in vain! The fresh water and
bread crumbs always failed to interest him; and as soon as the anxious
fingers that held him back upward were removed, he would turn up his
little white, pink-veined belly to the fresh morning sunshine that
would never gladden him again. Sadly Judith would own her defeat at
last and, sick at heart with a sorrow too deep and real for childish
tears, she would bury her hapless victim in a tiny, flower-lined grave,
resolved that she would never again be so cruel as to catch a minnow.
But in a few days, with the easy forgetfulness of childhood, she would
slip away to the creek, salmon can in hand; and the old rapture and the
old agony would sway her too eager soul all over again.
It seemed to Judith at such times, as she would sit on the doorstep
staring dismally into vacancy, that not only in relation to minnows,
but to everything else in life, she was foredoomed to failure--failure
disastrous not only to herself but still more so to the objects that
she tried to befriend and benefit. Mud turtles brought from the swampy
land near the creek and kept in a soap box in the yard always died.
Butterflies imprisoned in an old, rusty bird cage, though watched and
tended ever so carefully, always died. Grasshoppers that she tried to
domesticate by keeping them in a pasteboard box with holes punched in
it, even though tempted with raisins filched from her mother's pantry
and called by the most endearing of pet names, always died. Beautiful,
fuzzy, amber-colored caterpillars, treated in like manner, always died.
The little girl, sitting meditatively chin on hand, wondered vaguely
why all her efforts should be followed by such a curse of blight and
disaster. One day she heard, coming nearer and nearer, the sound of
sharp, shrill voices and harsh, staccato laughs which she recognized at
once as those of boys. Peering through the tall weeds, she saw coming
along the road the two Blackford boys, Jerry and Andy, who lived about
half a mile farther along. They had with them a small, forlorn, white
kitten, which, after the manner of boys, they were amusing themselves
by torturing. Just as Judith looked, Andy gave its tail a sharp tweak;
and the miserable little thing whined piteously and looked about in a
feeble, watery-eyed fashion, for a way of escape. Then Jerry caught up
the little creature by its limp tail and whirled it around and around
in the air, shouting inarticulately, like the young savage that he was.
When Judith saw the hapless plight of the kitten, a spirit of
uncontrollable horror and rage born of horror entered into her. The
mother feeling, an instinct which rarely showed itself in her, would
not let her see this little animal tortured. Her face blazed scarlet,
her eyes flashed with a wild glitter, her long arms and legs grew
strong and tense. She dropped her basket, leapt the picket fence and
rushed upon the boys like an avenging Fury, her knife in her hand.
"You let that cat alone! Give it up to me! How dare you hurt a poor
little helpless cat? By gollies I'll cut you! I'll kill you! Oh! Oh!
Oh! Oh!"
The "Oh's" that Lady Macbeth uttered as she walked in her sleep were
not more full of tragic horror than were Judith's as she brandished
her knife to right and left in a frenzy of tumultuous emotions. Her
long black pigtails, tied at the ends with bits of red grocer's twine,
bobbed wildly in the air. Barefooted and bareheaded and wearing a
faded and torn blue calico dress, she was yet in spirit a very queen
of tragedy as she lunged with her kitchen knife and called down
imprecations upon the heads of Jerry and Andy.
Her fury daunted the boys. They had had differences of opinion with
Judith before and they knew how she-devilish she could be when angry.
They had had experience of her biting, scratching, kicking, and
hair-pulling as well as of the hard blows of her strong little clenched
fists. While dodging one of the lunges of the knife, Jerry let go of
the cat; and Judith instantly snatched it up and stood at bay, the
knife poised in one hand, the cat in the other.
"Naow then, one of you jes dass come near here an' I'll run this knife
right in yer guts! See if I don't!"
Jerry and Andy showed some sense of the value of discretion. They made
no step forward, but stood where they were and bandied compliments.
"You wait till we git ye comin' home from school, ye little slut!"
threatened Andy.
"Guess I'll wait a spell, too," retorted Judith, sticking out a
viperish red tongue. "I'm not a-skairt of you ner ten more like ye. I
can lick any kid in yer family; an' my father can lick yer father, too."
"Oh, can he so?" mocked Jerry. "Mebbe he'd better come over an' try!"
"He don't need to. He wouldn't dirt his hands to touch yer greasy ole
dad. But he could if he had a mind to."
"I know sumpin 'bout you! Ah ha, I know sumpin 'bout you!" caroled
Jerry derisively.
Judith had begun to lose interest in the verbal encounter.
"Aw shet up yer dirty mouth!" she snapped disgustedly, as she crawled
back into her own yard through a hole in the picket fence.
The boys went on down the road walking backward, their fingers to their
noses, calling after her in diminishing chorus.
"Cowardly kids! Cowardly kids! Cowardly kids!" returned Judith
scornfully, until the enemy voices could no longer be heard.
When she got back to the house she set down her basket by the kitchen
door, carried the kitten into the kitchen and got it a saucer of milk.
Its eyes were bleared and abject in expression, its sharp little bones
almost stuck through its dingy white fur; and its discouraged little
tail, tangled with burrs, drooped pitifully.
Judith examined the frail joints of its legs and was immensely relieved
to find that none of them were broken. Their intactness seemed to her a
miracle; for they were so thin and small and delicate that it seemed as
though the slightest blow or pressure would crush them. She shuddered
as she felt these fragile joints; and through her whole body there
surged a great ocean of tenderness and pity for this defenseless little
creature. She experienced a vague, but overwhelming sensation of its
pitiful helplessness against all the great, cruel powers of nature,
which seemed to be conspiring against it. A clumsy foot, a slamming
door, the fall of a flatiron from her mother's ironing board: these
and a thousand such could cruelly mangle its frail body and even crush
out its tiny spark of life. With a blank, painful, discouraged ache in
her heart, Judith wondered vaguely why the whole world should be so
rough and cruel and hazardous a place for kittens and minnows and all
small, unbefriended things. She did not know that she was precociously
experiencing the feeling of many a young mother who, with the birth of
her helpless firstborn, feels in one overwhelming rush all the tragedy
of weakness in a world where the weak must acquire strength or perish.
The very ugliness of the little thing endeared it to her; for it was
a pitiable ugliness, an ugliness born of hunger and ill-treatment.
Tenderly she stroked its mangy little head and vowed that she would
take care of it and stand between it and the cruel world all the days
of its life.
In the morning as soon as she awoke her thoughts flew to the kitten.
She scrambled into her clothes and ran out into the yard, glancing
about the empty kitchen as she passed through. For a long time she
searched in vain and was beginning to think that the kitten had
wandered away when of a sudden down at the foot of the hill she stopped
in amazement and horror. Here in the heavy clay land beside the creek
was a little pool that she had hollowed out the day before and into
which she had put four live minnows. The flowers that she had planted
around it had all wilted and fallen over. Some were lying flat on
the muddy ground, some trailing lifeless in the water. Their bright
yellows and purples and pinks had all faded into a common drab. On
the edge of the water sat the white kitten. And even as she gazed
with horror-dilated eyes it fished up a live minnow with its paw and
crunched it mercilessly between its small, strong jaws. In a dazed,
half-hearted way Judith looked down into the water of the pond and saw
that there was now nothing there--nothing alive--only the pebbles and
mosses and half dead water plants.
Silently she turned and ran away, far, far away from the unspeakable
kitten and the dead flowers and the empty pool and all the hideous
horror of it.
From that day she never again felt the same poignancy of distress
at the sight of suffering and death among animals. As she grew more
intimately into the life of the woods and the fields and the barnyard
she learned to take for granted certain laws of nature which at first
had seemed distressingly harsh and cruel. She became resigned to the
knowledge that the big fishes eat the little ones, that the chickens
devour the grasshoppers, that Bounce, the gentle and affectionate,
would kill rabbits and groundhogs whenever he could get hold of them:
that in all the bird and animal and insect world the strong prey
continually upon the weak. It was hard at first to see Minnie's whole
litter of kittens but one dropped into a bucket of water and drowned
and to watch her father lead off to the butcher the calf that for two
months she had been feeding and petting. But these things happened
so often, and the law of the survival of the fittest was so firmly
established a part of the life of the farm that she soon learned to
accept it with equanimity. She might have been slower in learning this
lesson if she had been given to self-deception. But she could never
lull her sensibilities with this so commonly used opiate. She insisted
upon standing over the bucket in which the kittens were drowned and
upon knowing exactly what was going to happen to the calf. Soon she
discovered that however many little fishes were eaten there were
always plenty more; that an endless number of birds and butterflies
and grasshoppers sang and fluttered and jumped through the summer days
regardless of the depredations of their enemies; that there were always
more kittens and calves being born. Without putting the thought into
words or even thinking it, but merely sensing it physically, she knew
that in the life of nature death and suffering are merely incidentals;
that the message that nature gives to her children is "Live, grow, be
happy, and obey my promptings." The birds and chickens and grasshoppers
all heard it and Judith knew they heard it. Judith heard it too. As she
trotted to school in the clear, sun-vibrant air of the early morning,
or brought up the cows through the sweet-smelling twilight, or picked
blackberries on the edge of the sunny pasture, nature kept whispering
these words in her ear. It is given to few civilized human beings to
ever hear this message. Perhaps in that generation Bill Pippinger's
girl was the only human being in the whole of Scott County who heard
and heeded these words: "Live, grow, be happy, and obey my promptings."
For a number of reasons religion never became a part of Judith's life.
The Pippingers were not a church-going family nor were many of their
neighbors. The consolations of religion were sought more by the village
people who had no morning and evening chores to do and were handy to
the churches. A deep-seated, if rather vague respect remained, however,
in the mental make-up of these country folk for the religion of their
fathers. An ill-defined fear, a dim hope, and a few inhibitions
remained of the once more vigorous religious life. Judith sensed these
things as she grew into girlhood; but they could find no foothold in
the healthy vigor of her spirit.
Once when she was ten years old, she went with the rest of the family
to a camp revival meeting where the preaching evangelist described
with lurid language and fear-compelling inflections the last judgment
day and the tortures of an eternal damnation in a hell burning forever
with fire and brimstone. The task of browbeating an ignorant audience
was apparently one that the preacher enjoyed mightily; for he went
at it with tremendous vigor and zest. At times his voice sank to an
awe-inspiring whisper, then rose to a demoniac shriek as he sought
to bully and terrify his hearers into a state of nerve collapse.
Judith listened with eyes that showed more and more of the whites. The
lurid pictures were printed instantly on the sensitive plate of her
keen imagination. She took the preacher seriously, literally, which
fortunately few in the audience appeared to do. She looked around at
their stolid, peaceful faces and felt somewhat reassured. Perhaps it
wasn't true after all.
On the way home she asked her father if what the preacher had said was
true.
"Waal, I reckon it is an' it ain't," answered Bill, spitting over the
side of the wagon. "Mebbe Uncle Ezra Pettit is a-goin' to the hot
place. An' I kinder hope he is--not wishin' 'im no bad luck. An' Sam
Whitmarsh'll like enough pull up there too. Lord knows he's done enough
dirty tricks to deserve to fry good, an' on both sides. An' Uncle
Ezry'll be mad whichever place he goes, 'cause he'll have to leave his
money an' his land behind. But anyhow me ner mine hain't a-goin' to no
hot place, ner nobody else that tends their own business. Git up, Bob!
Lord love them mules, they're a-comin' to be slower'n the seven year
itch."
Her father's unconcern greatly allayed Judith's apprehensions; but the
picture drawn by the evangelist was too fresh and vivid to be forgotten
at once. That night Judith dreamed that the end of the world had
come. Portentous curtains of black, like a hundred thunder storms in
one, hung from the sky. Stabbing the blackness came one sharp arrow
of crimson light, glowing, intense, and awe-inspiring. Slowly and
dreadfully the arrow lengthened, widened, gathered blinding light and
burning heat. The judge of the world was coming in his majesty to sit
upon the judgment seat. People rushed from their houses and tried to
hide in haystacks, under piles of old lumber or in the rooted-out holes
beneath hogpens. Judith herself, with a despairing realization that
the worst had really happened and that the world would never again be
peaceful and sunshiny, ran out into the dooryard. At that moment the
air was split by a terrible blast from Gabriel's trumpet. The blast
woke Judith and turned out to be only her father passing the window and
blowing his nose onto the ground between his thumb and forefinger.
It was an immense relief to Judith to find that it was only a dream,
that the sun still shone and the birds sang and her mother was frying
corncakes for breakfast and Craw was chasing the big black hog out of
the yard and everything was going to be the way it was before.