UNCLE DAVE'S WILL
The whistle of the mill had scarcely awakened Cottontown the next
morning before Archie B., hatless and full of excitement, came over
to the Bishop with a message from his mother. No one was astir but
Mrs. Watts, and she was sweeping vigorously.
"What's the matter, Archie B.?" asked the old man when he came out.
"Uncle Dave Dickey is dyin' an' maw told me to run over an' tell you
to hurry quick if you wanted to see the old man die."
"Oh, Uncle Dave is dyin', is he? Well, we'll go, Archie B., just as
soon as Ben Butler can be hooked up. I've got some more calls to make
anyway."
Ben Butler was ready by the time the children started for the mill.
Little Shiloh brought up the rear, her tiny legs bravely following
the others. Archie B. looked at them curiously as the small
wage-earners filed past him for work.
"Say, you little mill-birds," he said, "why don't you chaps come over
to see me sometimes an' lem'me show you things outdoors that's made
for boys an' girls?"
"Is they very pretty?" asked Shiloh, stopping and all ears at once.
"Oh, tell me 'bout 'em! I am jus' hungry to see 'em. I've learned
the names of three birds myself an' I saw a gray squirrel onct."
"Three birds--shucks!" said Archie B., "I could sho' you forty, but
I'll tell you what's crackin' good fun an' it'll test you mor'n
knowin' the birds--that's easy. But the hard thing is to find their
nests an' then to tell by the eggs what bird it is. That's the
cracker-jack trick."
Shiloh's eyes opened wide: "Why, do they lay eggs, Archie B.? Real
eggs like a hen or a duck?"
Archie B. laughed: "Well, I should say so--an' away up in a tree, an'
in the funniest little baskets you ever saw. An' some of the eggs is
white, an' some blue, and some green, an' some speckled an' oh, so
many kind. But I'll tell you a thing right now that'll help you to
remember--mighty nigh every bird lays a egg that's mighty nigh like
the bird herself. The cat bird's eggs is sorter blue--an' the
wood-pecker's is white, like his wing, an' the thrasher's is mottled
like his breast."
Ben Butler was hitched to the old buggy and the Bishop drove up. He
had a bunch of wild flowers for Shiloh and he gave it with a kiss.
"Run along now, Baby, an' I'll fetch you another when I come back."
They saw her run to catch up with the others and breathlessly tell
them of the wonderful things Archie B. had related. And all through
the day, in the dust and the lint, the thunder and rumble of the
Steam Thing's war, Shiloh saw white and blue and mottled eggs, in
tiny baskets, with homes up in the trees where the winds rocked the
cradles when the little birds came; and young as she was, into her
head there crept a thought that something was wrong in man's
management of things when little birds were free and little children
must work.
As she ran off she waved her hand to her grandfather.
"I'll fetch you another bunch when I come back, Pet," he called.
"You'd better fetch her somethin' to eat, instead of prayin' aroun'
with old fools that's always dyin'," called Mrs. Watts to him from
the kitchen door where she was scrubbing the cans.
"The Lord will always provide, Tabitha--he has never failed me yet."
She watched him drive slowly over the hill: "That means I had better
get a move on me an' go to furagin'," she said to herself.
"Hillard Watts has mistuck me for the Almighty mighty nigh all his
life. It's about time the blackberries was a gittin' ripe anyway."
The Bishop found the greatest distress at Uncle Dave Dickey's. Aunt
Sally Dickey, his wife, was weeping on the front porch, while Tilly,
Uncle Dave's pretty grown daughter, her calico dress tucked up for
the morning's work, showing feet and ankles that would grace a
duchess, was lamenting loudly on the back porch. A coon dog of
uncertain lineage and intellectual development, tuned to the howling
pitch, doubtless, by the music of Tilly's sobs, joined in the chorus.
"Po' Davy is gwine--he's most gone--boo--boo-oo!" sobbed Aunt Sally.
"Pap--Pap--don't leave us," echoed Tilly from the back porch.
"Ow--wow--oo--oo," howled the dog.
The Bishop went in sad and subdued, expecting to find Uncle Davy
breathing his last. Instead, he found him sitting bolt upright in
bed, and sobbing even more lustily than his wife and daughter. He
stretched out his hands pitiably as his old friend went in.
"Most gone"--he sobbed--"Hillard--the old man is most gone. You've
come jus' in time to see your old friend breathe his las' an' to
witness his will," and he broke out sobbing afresh, in which Aunt
Sally and Tilly and the dog, all of whom had followed the Bishop in,
joined.
The Bishop took in the situation at a glance. Then he broke into a
smile that gradually settled all over his kindly face.
"Look aheah, Davy, you ain't no mo' dyin' than I am."
"What--what?" said Uncle Davy between his sobs--"I ain't a dyin',
Hillard? Oh, yes, I be. Sally and Tilly both say so."
"Now, look aheah, Davy, it ain't so. I've seed hundreds die--yes,
hundreds--strong men, babes--women and little tots, strong ones, and
weak and frail ones, given to tears, but I've never seed one die yet
sheddin' a single tear, let alone blubberin' like a calf. It's agin
nature. Davy, dyin' men don't weep. It's always all right with 'em.
It's the one moment of all their lives, often, that everything is all
right, seein' as they do, that all life has been a dream--all back of
death jes' a beginnin' to live, an' so they die contented. No--no,
Davy, if they've lived right they want to smile, not weep."
There was an immediate snuffing and drying of tears all around. Uncle
Davy looked sheepishly at Aunt Sally, she passed the same look on to
Tilly, and Tilly passed it to the coon dog. Here it rested in its
birthplace.
"Come to think of it, Hillard," said Uncle Dave after a while, "but I
believe you are right."
Tilly came back, and she and Aunt Sally nodded their heads: "Yes,
Hillard, you're right," went on Uncle Davy, "Tilly and Sally both say
so."
"How come you to think you was dyin' anyway?" asked the Bishop.
"Hillard,--you kno', Hillard--the old man's been thinkin' he'd go
sudden-like a long time." He raised his eyes to heaven: "Yes, Lord,
thy servant is even ready."
"Last night I felt a kind o' flutterin' of my heart an' I cudn't
breathe good. I thought it was death--death,--Hillard, on the back of
his pale horse. Tilly and Sally both thought so."
The Bishop laughed. "That warn't death on the back of a horse,
Davy--that was jus' wind on the stomach of an ass."
This was too much for Uncle Davy--especially when Tilly and Sally
made it unanimous by giggling outright.
"You et cabbages for supper," said the Bishop.
Uncle Davy nodded, sheepishly.
"Then I sed my will an' Tilly writ it down an', oh, Hillard,
I am so anxious to hear you read it. I wanter see how it'ull
feel fer a man to have his will read after he is dead--an'--an'
how his widder takes it," he added, glancing at Aunt Sally--"an'
his friends. I wanter heah you read it, Hillard, in that deep
organ way of yours,--like you read the Old Testament. In that
_In-the-Beginning-God-Created-the-Heaven-an'-the-Earth-Kinder_ voice!
Drap your voice low like a organ, an' let the old man hear it befo' he
goes. I fixed it when I thought I was a-dyin'."
"Makin' yo' will ain't no sign you're dyin'," said the Bishop.
"But Tilly an' Aunt Sally both said so," said Uncle Davy, earnestly.
"All yo' needs," said the Bishop going to his saddle bags, "is a good
straight whiskey. I keep a little--a very, very little bit in my
saddle bags, for jes' sech occasions as these. It's twenty years
old," he said, "an' genuwine old Lincoln County. I keep it only for
folks that's dyin'," he winked, "an' sometimes, Davy, I feel mighty
like I'm about to pass away myself."
He poured out a very small medicine glass of it, shining and
shimmering in the morning light like a big ruby,--and handed it to
Uncle Davy.
"You say that's twenty years old, Hillard?" asked Uncle Davy as he
wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and again held the little
glass out entreatingly:
"Hillard, ain't it mighty small for its age--'pears to me it orter be
twins to make it the regulation size. Don't you think so?"
The Bishop gave him another and took one himself, remarking as he did
so, "I was pow'ful flustrated when I heard you was dyin' again, Davy,
an' I need it to stiddy my nerves. Now, fetch out yo' will, Davy," he
added.
As he took it the Bishop adjusted his big spectacles, buttoned up his
coat, and drew himself up as he did in the pulpit. He blew his nose
to get a clear sonorous note:
"I've got a verse of poetry that I allers tunes my voice up to the
occasion with," he said. "I do it sorter like a fiddler tunes up his
fiddle. It's a great poem an' I'll put it agin anything in the Queen's
English for real thunder music an' a sentiment that Shakespeare an'
Milton nor none of 'em cud a writ. It stirs me like our park of
artillery at Shiloh, an' it puts me in tune with the great dead of
all eternity. It makes me think of Cap'n Tom an' Albert Sidney
Johnston."
Then in a deep voice he repeated:
"'The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo--
No more on earth's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread
And glory guards with solemn sound
The Bivouac of the Dead.'"
"Now give me yo' will."
Uncle Davy sat up solemnly, keenly, expectantly. Tilly and Aunt Sally
sat subdued and sad, with that air of solemn importance and respect
which might be expected of a dutiful daughter and bereaved widow on
such an occasion. It was too solemn for Uncle Davy. He began to
whimper again: "I didn't think I would ever live to see the day when
I'd hear my own will read after I was dead, an' Hillard a-readin' it
around my own corpse. It's Tilly's handwrite," he explained, as he saw
the Bishop scrutinizing the testament closely. "I can't write, as you
kno', but I've made my mark at the end, an' I want you to witness
it."
Pitching his voice to organ depths, the Bishop read:
"_'In the name of God, amen: I, Davy Dickey, of the County of ----,
and State of Alabama, being of sound mind and retentive memory, but
knowing the uncertainty of life and the certainty of death, do hereby
make and ordain this--my last will and testamen--_'"
Uncle Davy had lain back, his eyes closed, his hands clasped,
drinking it all in.
"O, Hillard--Hillard, read it agin--it makes me so happy! It does me
so much good. It sounds like the first chapter of Genesis, an' Daniel
Webster's reply to Hayne an' the 19th Psalm all put together."
The Bishop read it again.
"So happy--so happy--" sobbed Uncle Davy, in which Aunt Sally and
Tilly and the coon dog joined.
"_'First,'_" read on the Bishop, following closely Tilly's pretty
penmanship; "_'Concerning that part of me called the soul or spirit
which is immortal, I will it back again to its Maker, leaving it to
Him to do as He pleases with, without asking any impertinent
questions or making any fool requests.'_"
The Bishop paused. "That's a good idea, Davy--Givin' it back to its
Maker without asking any impert'n'ent questions."
"_'Second,'_" read the Bishop, "_'I wills to be buried alongside of
Dan'l Tubbs, on the Chestnut Knob, the same enclosed with a rock
wall, forever set aside for me an' Dan'l and running west twenty
yards to a black jack, then east to a cedar stump three rods, then
south to a stake twenty yards and thence west back to me an' Dan'l. I
wills the fence to be built horse high, bull strong and pig tight, so
as to keep out the Widow Simmon's old brindle cow; the said cow
having pestered us nigh to death in life, I don't want her to worry
us back to life after death._
"_'Third. All the rest of the place except that occupied as aforesaid
by me an' Dan'l, and consisting of twenty acres, more or less, I will
to go to my dutiful wife, Sally Ann Dickey, providing, of course,
that she do not marry again.'_"
"David?" put in Aunt Sallie, promptly, wiping her eyes, "I think that
last thing mout be left out."
"Well, I don't kno'," said Uncle Davy--"you sho'ly ain't got no
notion of marryin' agin, have you, Sally?"
"No--no--" said Aunt Sallie, thoughtfully, "but there aint no tellin'
what a po' widder mout have to do if pushed to the wall."
"Well," sagely remarked Uncle Davy, "we'll jes' let it stan' as it
is. It's like a dose of calomel for disorder of the stomach--if you
need it it'll cure you, an' if you don't it won't hurt you. This
thing of old folks fallin' in love ain't nothin' but a disorder of
the stomach anyhow."
Aunt Sally again protested a poor widow was often pushed to the wall
and had to take advantage of circumstances, but Uncle Davy told the
Bishop to read on.
At this point Tilly got up and left the room.
"_'Fourth. I give and bequeath to my devoted daughter, Tilly, and her
husband, Charles C. Biggers, all my personal property, including the
crib up in the loft, the razor my grandfather left me, the old mare
and her colt, the best bed in the parlor, and--'_"
The Bishop stopped and looked serious.
"Davy, ain't you a trifle previous in this?" he asked.
"Not for a will," he said. "You see this is supposed to happen and be
read after you're dead. You see Charles has been to see her twice and
writ a poem on her eyes."
The Bishop frowned: "You'll have to watch that Biggers boy--he is a
wild reckless rake an' not in Tilly's class in anything."
"He's pow'ful sweet on Tilly," said Aunt Sallie.
"Has he asked her to marry him?" asked the Bishop astonished.
"S-h-h--not yet," said Uncle Davy, "but he's comin' to it as fast as
a lean hound to a meat block. He's got the firs' tech now--silly an'
poetic. After a while he'll get silly an' desperate, an' jes' 'fo' he
kills hisse'l Tilly'll fix him all right an' tie him up for life. The
good Lord makes every man crazy when he is ripe for matrimony, so he
can mate him off befo' he comes to."
The Bishop shook his head: "I am glad I came out here to-day--if for
nothin' else to warn you to let that Biggers boy alone. He don't
study nothin' but fast horses an' devilment."
"I never seed a man have a wuss'r case," said Aunt Sally. "Won't
Tilly be proud of herse'f as the daughter of Old Judge Biggers? An'
me--jes' think of me as the grandmother of Biggerses--the riches' an'
fines' family in the land."
"An' me?--I'll be the gran'pap of 'em--won't I, Sally?"
"You forgit, Davy," said Aunt Sally--"this is yo' will--you'll be
dead."
"I did forgit," said Uncle Davy sadly--"but I'd sho' love to live an'
take one of them little Biggerses on my knees an' think his gran'pap
had bred up to this. Me an' old Judge Biggers--gran'paws of the same
kids! Now, you see, Hillard, he met Tilly at a party an' he tuck her
in to supper. The next day he writ her a poem, an' I think it's a
pretty good start on the gran'pap business."
The Bishop smiled: "It does look like he loves her," he added, dryly.
"If I was the devil an' wanted to ketch a woman I'd write a poem to
her every day an' lie between heats. Love lives on lies."
"Now, I've ca'culated them things out," said Uncle Davy, "an' it'll
be this away: Tilly is as pretty as a peach an' Charlie is gittin'
stuck wus'n wus'n every day. By the time I am dead they will be
married good an' hard. I am almost gone as it is, the ole man he's
liable to drap off any time--yea, Lord, thy servant is ready to
go--but I do hope that the good master will let me live long enough
to hold one of my Biggers grandboys on my knees."
"All I've got to say," said the Bishop, "is jus' to watch yo'
son-in-law. Every son-in-law will stan' watchin' after the ceremony,
but yours will stan' it all the time."
"_'Lastly,'_" read the Bishop, "_'I wills it that things be left just
as they be on the place--no moving around of nothing, especially the
well, it being eighty foot deep, and with good cool water; and
finally I leave anything else I've got, mostly my good will, to the
tender mercies of the lawyers and courts.'_"
The Bishop witnessed it, gave Uncle Davy another toddy, and, after
again cautioning him to watch young Biggers closely, rode away.