HOW LITTLE BUSHIE FIGURED IN THE PARADISE.
"No, Bushie, my boy, you can't go to the corn-field to-day," said Mrs.
Reynolds to her son of nine years old, one fine May morning, about two
years after the sad event recorded in the foregoing chapter. The little
fellow had been teasing his mother for two or three hours to let him go
to the field where Burl was plowing corn, knowing full well, as every
only child does, the efficacy of importunity.
"But, mother, Burl is singing so big and glad out there, and I should so
love to be with him. And I should so love to watch the squirrels running
up and down the trees and along on top of the fence; and the little
ground-squirrels slipping from one hollow log to another; and the little
birds building their nests; and the big crows flopping their wings about
the limbs of the old dead trees. And then, too, Burl would be--"
"Let Burl go on with his singing," interrupted the mother; "and let the
squirrels go on with their playing; and the birds with their
nest-building; and the crows with their idling about the limbs of the
old dead trees. All this is very nice, I know, but hardly worth the risk
you must be at in getting there to enjoy it."
"But, mother," urged Bushie, "Burl would be so glad to see me sitting up
there, on top of the fence, just where he and old Cornwallis would be
coming out at the end of the row. I know just 'zacly what he'd say, the
minute he sees me: 'I yi, you dogs!'"
"Yes, and somebody else might be glad to find a little white boy sitting
up there on top of the fence," rejoined the mother, with a warning look.
"Somebody who would steal up from behind, as soft as a cat upon a bird,
and before knowing it, there! you would find a big red hand clapped over
your mouth to keep you from screaming for help. Then, hugged tight in a
pair of red arms, cruel and strong, off you'd go through the woods and
over the hills and across the Ohio to old Chillicothe, there to be made
a wild Indian of, for the rest of your days, if not roasted alive at
once. Only this morning, Captain Kenton, on his way from Limestone to
Lexington, dropped in at breakfast-time, and told us that he had seen
fresh Indian signs in the woods not more than five miles from the fort.
And, Bushie, my boy, have you forgotten that only this spring Burl shot
a panther in the woods between here and the field? And that only last
winter he knocked a bear in the head with his ax, at the big sink-hole
spring in the middle of the field? And that only last fall he trapped
and killed that terrible one-eyed wolf in the black hollow just beyond
the field?" And seeing her little son opening his mouth and fetching a
breath for a fresh effort, the mother, with more decision, added: "No,
Bushie, no! Play about the fort as much as you please, but go to the
field to-day you must not, and you shall not. There!" And with this she
clapped his little coon-skin cap upon his head, and ramming it down to
his ears, bid him go and hunt up the other children and play at home,
like mother's good boy.
Now, Bushie loved his mother dearly, even tenderly, for a juvenile
pioneer, especially at meal-times and at nights; the fort, too, in bad
weather, he liked well enough. But on Burl, between meals, and on the
woods and fields, in fine weather, he fairly doted. The weather on the
present occasion was as fine as the heart of a healthy, growing,
adventurous boy could wish for recreation under the open sky--it being,
indeed, the last day of May, which, as nobody ever makes a holiday of
it, is always perfectly delightful. Therefore was he strongly tempted to
give a snapping pull at the apron-strings and make for sweet liberty--a
thing he was in the habit of doing about once a week, when the keenest
switching and the liveliest dancing that one could wish to witness would
follow, sure as fate. To do our urchin hero justice, however, he rarely
yielded to the temptation without making some considerable effort to
resist it; efforts such as older transgressors are apt to set down
largely to their own credit in their private accounts between self and
conscience, vaguely hoping thereby to bamboozle somebody besides
themselves--perhaps the recording angel. So, this morning, he hunted up
the other children, as his mother had bidden him, and made a
manful--nay, desperate--effort to be sportive at home; but the little
fort, within the shelter of whose wooden walls had been their home ever
since that melancholy night two years ago, had never seemed to him so
dull and lonesome. The hunters and field-laborers, belonging to the
station, were all abroad, and the other children seemed as little
inclined to play as himself.
Finding that quiet amusement was not likely to come of its own accord,
Bushie was minded to draw it out by a little gentle persuasion, and to
this intent challenged the tallest boy of the company--taller than
himself by a head, though not so broad--to cope with him in a boxing
match. Having already tried that game several times and invariably come
off with a savage griping in the pit of the stomach, the tall boy made
it a point just then to hear his mother's call--though heard by no one
else--which answering, he walked off briskly, under press of filial
obedience, to see what was wanted. As if hoping to force what would not
come of its own accord, or by persuasion, Bushie now laid unauthorized
hands on Grumbo's tail, and giving it a cracking pull, got his finger
bitten; ditto, then, on Tom's tail, and giving it a cracking jerk, got
his leg scratched. Evidently, quiet amusement at home to-day was a
consummation quite out of the question, however devoutly to be wished.
So, he gave it up as a moral achievement beyond his present resources,
and with the feeling of a boy who though he had failed in the discharge
of duty had yet endeavored well, he went and stood in the gate-way of
the fort, which, as it directly faced the distant field, was just the
place to give the Tempter a fair chance at him.
The sky--how sunny and blue it bent above him! The woods--how shady and
green they rose before him! The little log fort--how dull and lonesome
it lay behind him! The little log grist-mill down there on the banks of
the river at the foot of the hill--how tiresomely it went on creaking
and humming and droning, forever repeating, "What a pity! what a pity!
what a pity!" or, "Clip it, Bushie! clip it, Bushie! clip it, Bushie!"
according to the tune one's fancy might chance to be singing at the
moment. The Tempter was creeping upon him apace. The melodious strains
of that powerful voice--how cheerily, sweetly they come resounding
through the echoing woods, growing more and more distinct as the singer
neared the hither end of his furrow! The distance was too great for
Bushie to distinguish the words of the song; but to his longing ears,
the burden of it seemed to be something very much to this effect:
"Come, come, come, Bushie, come!
Burl a' plowin' in de fiel',
A singin' for his little man to come."
Here the Tempter crept up close to him and whispered in his ear: "Don't
you hear him Bushie? He's singing for you. Clip it! Panthers, bears,
wolves, Indians! Pshaw! They'll never dare to come a-nigh you, with that
voice ringing in their ears. Clip it! Ain't he singing for his little
man to come? Clip it! I say. To be sure your mother will switch you
well for running away, but who minds that? It's all over in the shake of
a sheep's tail, and by the time you've rubbed your back and legs a
little, eaten your supper, and said your prayers, you'll be feeling just
as comfortable as ever. Clip it, I say; clip it!"
Bushie could endure it no longer. So, after a short, one-sided debate
between the good of him and the evil of him--the evil allowing the good
but a half-say in the matter--our little white hero formed the bold
design of making a sudden sally from the fort and surprising our big
black hero in the open field. First, though, he must make sure that the
coast was clear--_i.e._, that his mother was too busy about her
household concerns to notice him and put her foot on his adventure. So,
going back to the house, he peeped in at the door and reconnoitered.
Finding the chances rather in his favor, he returned to the gate,
whistling as he went, and otherwise making a big pretense of being
perfectly satisfied with his present surroundings, which, as there was
nobody to be hoodwinked by it, was stratagem wasted. But no sooner did
his foot touch the great oaken sill than with a sheep-like jump he had
cleared his skirts of the gate, and now across the open clearing, in the
center of which stood the fort, he was clipping away with a swiftness
perfectly marvelous in one of his age. Splendidly done, my fine rogue!
How the mother of a well-ordered family of precise boys and prim girls
would like to have the mending of your morals--_i.e._, the switching of
your skedaddling young legs--this fine morning!
Gaining the covert of the woods unobserved, he struck into a bridle-path
which ran winding amongst the trees and grape-vines toward the field,
where he soon subsided, first into a dog-trot, then into a brisk walk,
which he maintained for the rest of the way with long and guilty
strides. When he was come to the fence which divided the woods from the
field, with squirrel-like nimbleness he climbed up and perched himself
on the rider, or topmost rail, just where his black chum and old
Cornwallis should be coming out at the end of the furrow.
Perhaps it were well to take advantage of the present moment, while we
have him so conspicuously before us, to draw a life-size portrait of our
little hero--which, however, at first glance may seem somewhat larger
than life, the subject being uncommonly well grown for a boy of his age.
His body and limbs are as round, smooth, tight, and hard as those of a
buckskin doll; the materials used in their construction being of the
most substantial description, and consisting chiefly of Johnny-cakes,
hominy, venison and other wild meat, with as much milk, maple molasses,
and pumpkin-pie as the unsettled nature of the times would admit. His
eyes are blue and bright, large and wide open--such as can look you full
in the face, yet without boldness or impertinence. One would naturally
suppose that a boy who was in the weekly habit of breaking away from
apron-string control, and getting a whipping for it, ought to have long,
narrow, half-shut eyes, of some uncertain color, which, though they can
stare boldly enough at your boots, buttons, or breastpin, can never look
you full in the face, like those big blue ones we have up there before
us. His hair does not fall in clustering ringlets over his ears and
around his neck, as we usually find it in nice, interesting little boys
who figure in story-books; but it is pretty enough, being of a dark,
rich brown, as glossy as watered silk. His nose is a good one, though at
its present stage of development showing rather too much of the pug to
look well on canvas; but it will gradually ripen into the Roman as the
owner ripens into years and experience, and comes to a full knowledge of
his own importance in the world. The mouth, too, is a good one; not a
rosebud mouth, such as we sometimes see in fancy pictures of the boy
Washington, with his little hatchet; of the boy Napoleon, with his
little cannon; or of the boy Samuel, at his perpetual devotions; but a
large mouth, handsomely formed, and capable, with the help of dimples in
the cheeks and the shine in the eyes, of as bright and loving a smile as
heart of fond mother could wish.
The outfit of our little hero is in keeping with the rustic simplicity
of the times, consisting of but three garments--an outside shirt, an
inside shirt, and a hairy coon-skin cap: the latter having no visor, but
being in lieu adorned behind with the ringed tail, just as it grew on
the living animal. The cap conceals one of his best features--a forehead
bold, broad, round, and white, which, could it be seen, would much
improve our portrait. The inside shirt, as may be seen by the collar, is
of homespun cotton; the outside shirt of fair, soft buckskin, secured at
the waist by a belt of the same material, and falling a little below the
knees. Saving the buckskin of mother nature's own providing, the sturdy
young legs are without covering--a deficiency which admits of plausible
explanation. In those days of simple living and simple thinking,
parents, going from cause to effect by shorter cuts than they do at the
present time, were much more strict and direct in the training of their
children; and breeches softening, as needs must, the severity of the
switch, hence the moral efficacy thereof, boys, for the first ten years
of their travels in the Paradise, were seldom allowed to wear
them--buckskin breeches especially. Nor should we be surprised if just
here were to be looked for the reason why our grandfathers and
great-grandfathers were so much more energetic, manly, and upright than
their grandsons and great-grandsons, and so many more of them
broad-backed, clean-limbed, and six feet high.
The background to our portrait is a forest, lofty, shaggy, and dense,
and the home of a thousand wild things, which, being invisible at this
moment, could not, with due regard to fidelity, be introduced into our
picture. The foreground is a cultivated clearing of about one hundred
acres, with woody walls, unbroken in their leafy density, hemming it in
on every side. Directly in front is a field of corn, the dark and
thrifty green of which may well bespeak the deep, rich soil of the
Paradise. Farther in are several other inclosures, either white with
clover or brightly green with blue-grass, or darkly green with the yet
unripened wheat. In the midst of all, and forming the central feature,
stands a cabin, deserted and lowly since that unhappy night two years
ago.
Scattered about the clearing, singly or in clumps, or even in small
groves, are to be seen the giant survivors of the primeval forest,
which, rearing high aloft their green heads and flinging afar their
mighty arms, yield pleasant shade to the horses, sheep, and cattle
grazing about them. But more numerous are to be seen those that are not
survivors, though still standing, drained of their sap of life by the
woodman's ax, which hacked those jagged girdles around their huge
trunks. Standing there leafless, rigid, and gray, they remind us, in
their branching nakedness, of the antlered elk, and in their gigantic
unsightliness of the monstrous mastodon, that thing of grisly bone
which, as a thing of life, no son of Adam ever beheld. Hard by stands an
enormous oak, whose main bough, scathed and deadened by lightning, is
thrust from out its ragged green robe like the extended, unsleeved arm
of a giant, leaving a broad gap in the foliage open to the sky.
Upon this blasted limb of the oak, as if met there to hold an
indignation meeting relative to the scare-crows posted about the field,
or to the objectionable nature of the plowman's music, or to some real
or fancied cause of grievance, have congregated a large assembly of
sober-feathered, sober-visaged, but noisy, wrangling, turbulent crows,
who, like many unfeathered bipeds on the like occasions, seem to have
left their good breeding and good sense at home. Crows and their ways
have always excited much interest in the minds of philosophic men, and
the maneuvers of these before us have been watched with lively curiosity
by our little friend Bushie ever since we began drawing his portrait.