TOM TIT
"I'm dying to know who he is and what he is," whispered Lil to Lucy, as
they tidied themselves up a bit in the neat little room to which the
gray-bearded host had shown them.
"So'm I! Did you ever see such a cute little room? It looks like a
stateroom on the steamboat. Do you reckon we will sleep in here?"
It was a tiny little room with one great window. Two bunks were built in
the wall opposite the window, one over the other. A little mirror hung
over a shelf whereon the girls found a white celluloid comb and brush,
spotlessly clean--indeed, the whole room was so clean that one doubted
its ever having been occupied. The floor was scrubbed until Lucy said
it reminded her of a well-kept kitchen table. A rag rug was the only
decoration the room boasted and that was a beautiful thing of brilliant
hue. The walls were whitewashed, also the doors, of which there were
two, one opening into the main room and the other one, the girls
fancied, into a cupboard.
"Ain't it grand we got lost?" from Lil, as she made a vain endeavor to
see her sunburned nose in the mirror that was hung so high she was sure
Mr. Spring-keeper had never had a female visitor before, or if he had,
it had been a giantess.
"Hurry up! Your nose is all right.--Maybe we can help him some, and I'm
just dying to hear the story of his life. Do you reckon he will tell us
all about himself and poor Tom Tit without our pumping him? I believe he
is a king or something."
Whether the old gentleman were a king or not, he could certainly cook
a supper to a king's taste. Skeeter's nostrils were quivering with
anticipatory enjoyment as the lost ones took their seats around the
massive table in the comfortable living room.
"It looks like a room I saw at the movies last spring," Frank had said
to Skeeter, as they waited for the girls to finish dolling up. "That
one had a stone fireplace and furniture that looked just like this,
great big tables and chairs that must have been made out of solid oak
or walnut or something. The hero had fashioned them himself with a
jack-knife, I believe. The mantelpiece was high just like this one,
but there were skins spread on the floor instead of these rag rugs."
"It is a bully room, and, gee, what a good smell of eats."
The supper was a simple one, consisting of corn pone and buttermilk,
bacon and scrambled eggs.
"I am giving you exactly what Tom Tit and I were to have. I only tripled
the quantity," said their host, as they drew up the chairs to the great
table.
"Then we aren't so very much trouble?" asked Lil.
"Trouble! Why, my dear young lady, Tom Tit and I would not live on this
thoroughfare if we did not love visitors."
"Thoroughfare!" gasped Lucy. Maybe the old gentleman was daffy.
"Why, certainly! You don't know how many things happen in the mountains.
Someone is always turning up. Eh, Tom Tit?"
"Yes, indeed! We uns finds something every day. One time it was a baby
fox and one time it was a man in ugly striped pants."
"He means our convict. It was a poor fellow who had escaped from a road
gang and took refuge in the mountains and Tom Tit found him almost
starved to death. We fed him up until he could go back to work."
"You didn't give him up!" asked Frank, his eyes flashing.
"Oh, no; he gave himself up. I got him to tell me just exactly why he
was put in the penitentiary, and since his crime surely warranted some
punishment, I made him understand that the best thing for him to do was
go back to his road making and expiate his crime. That was much better
than being hounded for the rest of his time. What do you think about
it?"
"Y-e-s, you are right, but I'm glad you didn't give him up."
"Tom Tit and I go see him every now and then. Tom Tit feels sorry for
him because his trousers are so ugly. He likes to work and wouldn't mind
road-building a bit."
"When we uns digs, we uns finds so many things, but we uns couldn't wear
such ugly pants. Sometime we uns is a-goin' to make the poor sick man
some pretty pink ones like these," and he stood up to show his bright
pink trousers. They were strangely fashioned, looking rather like
Turkish trousers.
"Was the man sick?" asked Lucy, devoutly praying that a fit of the
giggles would not choke her.
"You see, Tom Tit and I think that when persons are what the world and
the law calls bad, they are really sick. Sometimes they are too sick to
be cured, but not often. It is the fault of the doctors and the system
and not theirs when they are not cured."
"Do you live here all the time?" asked Lil. She was dying of curiosity
about the strange pair who were so ill assorted and still so intimate.
"Tom Tit does, but I have to go away for a time every fall and winter
and Tom Tit keeps house for me while I am gone. He is a famous
housekeeper."
"Do you get lonesome all by yourself?" asked Lucy.
"We uns ain't never alone. There's the baby fox and the cow and the
chickens, and every day we uns tries to find something and then we uns
has to write it down for the spring-keeper 'ginst he comes home. Every
day we uns has to go to the post office for the letter, too, and that
takes time. The days in winter are so short."
"Oh, do you get a letter every day? How jolly! My mother doesn't write
to me but once a week," said Lil, "--although of course she 'phones me
in the meantime and sends me candy and things."
"We uns never does git letters from maw," and poor Tom Tit's eyes
clouded sadly. "Ever since the men came and found her and hid her in
that hole she ain't writ a line to poor Tom Tit."
"But you write to her every time you write to me, don't you, Tom Tit?"
and the old gentleman put a calming and kindly hand on the shoulder of
the trembling youth. It seemed that at every mention of mothers the
thought of his own mother came back to him and the agony he went through
with at the time of her death seized hold of him. The young people
learned later from their host, while Tom Tit was washing the supper
dishes, all about the poor boy's history.
"Tom Tit's mother was a very fine woman of an intelligence and character
that was remarkable even in these mountains where intelligence and
character are the rule rather than the exception. She had no education,
but the things she could accomplish without education were enough to
make the ones who have been educated blush to think how little they do
with it. She had evolved a philosophy of her own of such goodness and
serenity that to know her and talk with her was a privilege. She seemed
to me to be like these mountains, where she was born and where she
died. She had had trouble enough to break the spirit of any ordinary
mortal, but she said her spirit was eternal and could not be broken.
"Her husband was a very desperate character. Convicted of illicit
distilling, he was sentenced to serve a term in the penitentiary, but he
managed to escape and for one whole year he evaded the sheriff, hiding
in the mountains. Of course his wife had to go through the agony of this
long search. She told me she had never slept more than an hour at a time
while her husband was in hiding. That was the one thing she was bitter
over--that long hounding of her husband. She used to say if the
government had spent the money and energy in educating the mountaineers
that they had in hunting for them, there would have been no cause for
hunting for them. Moonshining is to them a perfectly reasonable and
lawful industry, and nothing but education can make them see it
differently. His hiding place was finally ferreted out and he was
surrounded and captured, but not before he had managed to shoot five
men, killing two of them and being fatally wounded himself.
"That was many years ago when Tom Tit was a little chap of three.
Melissa, the mother, was wrapped up in the child. His intelligence then
was keen and his love of Nature and beautiful things was so pronounced
from the beginning that if this cloud had not come over his intellect he
would surely have been a great artist of some kind, whether poet,
painter or musician, I can't say."
"Perhaps all of them, like Leonardo da Vinci!" exclaimed Lil, who always
did know things.
The old gentleman smiled at her appreciatively.
"What is an artist but a person who finds things, just like my poor Tom
Tit, and then is able to tell to the world what he has found?"
"When he writes to you, does he tell you things in poetical language?"
asked Lucy, her gray eyes very teary as she listened to the story of the
mountain youth.
"My dear, his writing is not ordinary writing. He can neither read nor
write as you think of it. His letters to me are written in another way.
He tells me what he has found each day with some kind of rude drawing or
with some device of his own."
"Please show us some of them!" begged all four of the guests.
"I am going to let you guess what he meant." He took from his desk in
the corner a packet of large envelopes. "I leave with my friend enough
addressed and stamped envelopes to run him until I return, and all he
has to do is put in his letter and seal it and drop it in the box at
Bear Hollow, our post office. Sometimes he draws me a picture and
sometimes he just sends me something he has found. What do you think
he intended to convey by this?"
On a sheet of paper were drawn many stars of various kinds and sizes,
and down in the corner was what was certainly meant for an axe.
"Clear night and going coon hunting, I think," said Skeeter solemnly.
"No!" cried Lucy and Lil in a breath. "Those are meant for snow flakes!
It has begun to snow!"
"Right you are! Good girls, go up head! And how about the axe, since it
is not meant to signify coon hunting?"
"It is going to be cold," suggested the practical Frank, "and he must go
to work and lay in wood before the snow gets deep."
"Fine! I am glad to see there are others who can interpret my poor Tom
Tit's letters. Now this is the one I received the next day."
It was evidently meant for a deep snow. The roof of a house and a few
bare branches were shown but from the chimney a column of smoke ascended
and in that smoke was plainly drawn a grin: a mouth with teeth.
"Snowed under!" cried Skeeter.
"But he got his wood cut and is now sitting by the fire quite happy,
even grinning," declared Lucy.
"Right again! Now comes a piece of holly and a pressed violet. That
means that he finds a little belated violet in our flower beds in spite
of the fact that the holly is king at this season. Sometimes he has so
much to tell me that he must make many pictures. Here he found a sunset
and it was so beautiful that he had to paint it with his colored
crayons. This is where he fed the birds during the deep snow. He has a
trough where he puts grain and seeds and crumbs for his winged friends.
This is a picture of the trough and see the flocks of birds he has tried
to draw to show how many are fed in his trough. This means a stranger
has come in on him!" It was a picture of a hat and staff and down one
side of the page were many drops of water, at least that was what the
interested audience thought they were. At the top was an eye.
"Oh, I know!" exclaimed Lil. "If a hat and staff mean a stranger, those
drops of water must mean rain."
"The eye looks like a Mormon sign," suggested Skeeter.
"I bet it means this," said Lil, studying the page intently. "It means
the stranger is old, or he would not have a staff, and it means he is
unhappy. Those drops are tear drops. See how sad the eye looks!"
"'Oh, a Daniel come to judgment!' Young lady, you are right. That was a
tired, sick traveler that our Tom Tit found and brought in and looked
after for two weeks last winter. He was trying to cross the mountains
and got lost and Tom Tit picked him up, almost starved and frozen. In
this one, he shows the sick guest is still with him and in bed. He
cannot draw faces well and hates to make anything too grotesque, so he
usually has a sign or symbol for persons. The staff and hat in bed mean
the guest is there. These little saddle-bags and hat mean he had to send
for the doctor. Look at the medicine the poor staff and hat must take
from the cruel saddle-bags! His own symbol is usually a jew's-harp,
although sometimes he makes himself a kind of butterfly----"
"Just like Whistler!" cried Lil.
"Yes, and in his way he is as great an artist as Whistler," said the
old man sadly. "If he had only had his chance! Well, well! Maybe he
is happier as he is. I never saw a happier person, as a rule, than my
poor boy. Tom Tit could never have written letters that would have
been put in a book and called 'The Gentle Art of Making Enemies,' as
that other great artist did. He makes friends with every living thing,
and inanimate objects are friendly to him, too, I sometimes think. If
his wits had been spared him, the world would have called him and the
peace of the mountains would no longer have been his."
The old man fingered the packet of letters tenderly while the young
guests sat thoughtfully by. They could hear the cheerful Tom Tit in
the kitchen washing dishes and whistling a strange crooning melody.
"Here it is spring and he has found the first hepatica. See, he sends me
a pressed one! And this is my love letter. What do you make of it?"
It was six little stamped envelopes, all with wings, and in the corner
was a jew's-harp unmistakably dancing a jig.
"I know! I know!" cried Lucy.
"So do I!" from Lil.
"I can't see any kind of sense in it!" pondered Frank.
"Nor I," grumbled Skeeter. "You girls just make up answers."
"I'm going to whisper my answer to Mr. Spring-keeper," suggested Lil.
The old man smiled as Lil whispered her answer.
"Good! Splendid! And now what do you think?" turning to Lucy.
"I think that he has only six envelopes left, and that means you will be
back in six days. He is so happy he is dancing and he is so busy the
days are just flying away."
"Well, if you girls aren't clever! No wonder they say women are the most
appreciative sex although men are the creative. A few men create while
all women appreciate. And now, my dear young people, this is so pleasant
for me that I am afraid of being selfish, so I am going to insist on
your going to bed. You have had a hard day and must be tired."
"We have had a wonderful day with a wonderful en----" said Lil, a yawn
hitting her midway so she could not get out the "ding."
"But I hate to go to bed until you tell us something about yourself,"
blurted out Skeeter.
The story of the half-witted young mountaineer was very interesting, no
doubt, but Skeeter wanted to know why this highly educated gentleman was
spending so much time in the mountains, cooking for himself and taking
care of lost sheep.
"Oh, my story is such an ordinary one I can tell it while I light a
candle for these young ladies," laughed their host, not at all angry
at Skeeter's curiosity, although Lil and Lucy were half dead of
embarrassment when Skeeter came out so flat-footed with the question
which was almost bubbling over on their lips, but which they felt they
must not put.
"I am a successful manufacturer---- I have made enough money selling
clothes pins and ironing boards and butter tubs to stop. In fact, I
stopped many years ago and now I do nothing but enjoy myself in my own
way."
"And that way is----?"
"Trying to help a little. In the winter I live in New York and teach the
boys' clubs on the East Side, and in the summer I am spring-keeper in
the mountains."
"But isn't your name Mr. Spring-keeper?" asked Lil.
"No, my dear, spring-keeping is my occupation. My name is Walter McRae.
Here is your candle, and pleasant dreams."
"Won't you tell us some more about yourself?" asked Lucy as she took the
candle from him.
"Another time! Anything so dry as my story will keep."