Ali.
“He took the crutches, leaned them against the door, and swung the Little
Master to his broad back, picking up the crutches, and sore as he was,
pretended to be a horse. We went toward the big house.
“If you will notice, the stump of a big oak tree stands near the back
porch. Before the tree was killed by fire, a big limb stretched to the
little balcony above the porch. At least, it used to be so. The Little
Master showed this tree and the limb and the balcony to the Son of Ben
Ali, and told him that the big window that opened on the balcony was in
his room. And he said to him:—
“‘Whenever at night you feel lonely and tired, climb these stairs and
come to my room. Many a night I lie awake and count the stars, and I
should like to have you there to talk to me. You may come to-night, if
you will.’
“The Son of Ben Ali stood a moment after he had placed the Little Master
on the steps and given him his crutches.
“‘Not to-night—not to-night, Little Master. But before long I’ll come.
To-night I must go into the woods and find me a hiding-place.’
“So said the Son of Ben Ali, and then he seized the Little Master’s hand
and kissed it, bowed to the Young Mistress, whistled for me, and went off
into the woods humming an old tune that made me feel sorry.”
At this point Rambler tried to scratch between his shoulders, first with
one hind foot and then with the other. Then he tried to bite the fleas,
but he couldn’t reach them, being old and stiff; and he sat and whined
so pitifully that Aaron rubbed his back with a pine knot. This seemed
to give him great relief, so much so that, hearing the dogs barking in
another part of the lot, he ran out at the door to join them, and soon
the deep mellow sound of his voice was heard baying with the rest.
Shortly afterward the children bade Aaron good-night, and it wasn’t long
before they were all in bed and sound asleep.
VIII.
GRUNTER, THE WHITE PIG.
When the children awoke the next morning, they found that they were as
much puzzled as ever about Aaron. He had escaped from Mr. Gossett and the
patrol, and he had gone into the woods; but what then? What did he do
there? How long did he stay? There were a thousand questions they wanted
to ask. So the next time they saw Aaron, and each time thereafter, they
begged him to tell them this and tell them that, until finally he said he
would take them over to the two-mile place some fine day, and show them
the White Pig.
Now, on that plantation, the White Pig was a well-known character. His
history was a short one, but it was enough. A good many years before
that, an old sow, with thirteen pigs following her, concluded to go
traveling. She refused to come up to be fed when the other hogs were
called. Nobody knew the reason. The hog feeder had a beautiful song to
call them with, and a strong, melodious voice with which to sing the
song—a voice that could be heard from one end of the plantation to the
other. But however long or however loud he might call, the old sow with
her thirteen pigs kept close in the swamp.
Day after day the hog feeder called; day after day he expected them to
come; and day after day they failed to come. After so long a time he went
to hunt them. The old sow he found, but her pigs were missing. Some said
the foxes and wildcats had caught the young ones, and some said they had
gone wild in the swamp. But when the negroes planted their watermelon and
goober patches, they soon found out that not all of the pigs had been
caught.
Then a great effort was made to catch them. Some were run down and caught
with dogs, and some were shot; but one, the most mischievous of all, was
never caught. He kept out of the way of the guns, and he ripped open and
killed all the dog’s that came within reach of him. He was fleet of foot
and cunning. He never came out of the canebrake except at night, and he
was so white and swift that the negroes came to be afraid of him. They
said to themselves that a pig that could fool the white people and outrun
a pack of foxhounds must be something more than a common pig.
Consequently, when they were going through the fields at dead of night
and heard the White Pig crunching goobers, or chewing sugar-cane, or
smacking his mouth over a yam potato, they said nothing, but slipped away
as fast as they could, and left him to the enjoyment of his feast. This
went on until the White Pig grew to be strong and dangerous. His tusks,
or tushes, as the negroes called them, were long and sharp. He could kill
as many dogs as could be piled upon him. When a catch dog was sent after
him, he had a great trick of running until the dog came close enough, and
then wheeling and ripping the pursuer’s hide open.
[Illustration: THE WHITE PIG GREW STRONG AND DANGEROUS]
It came to pass that the sport of hunting the White Pig grew too
dangerous to be indulged in, so he was left to roam in the swamps and
cane-brakes with no one to molest. It happened, too, that as soon as
he was left alone, the White Pig ceased to molest the watermelons,
sugar-canes, sweet potatoes, goobers, and other truck, which the negroes
were allowed to raise in order to make themselves a little pocket money.
For a long time this was the wonder of the plantation, and yet none of
the patches planted by the negroes were torn up and destroyed. Then, as
everybody got used to this state of things, it ceased to be astonishing,
and was no longer talked of. And some of the negroes even forgot that the
White Pig was still at large, ready and willing to kill and cripple the
biggest pack of dogs that could be sent against him.
This, then, was the White Pig that Aaron said he would have to show the
children. Many and many a time they had been told not to go too far from
the house for fear the White Pig would catch them. They had been taught
to regard the White Pig as the Booger-Bear of the plantation, and they,
as well as the negroes, stood greatly in awe of him, the more so as they
had never seen him. It is no wonder, therefore, that they looked at one
another with some astonishment when Aaron told them that he would have to
take them to the two-mile place and show them the White Pig.
“I speck he’s tired of foolin’ ’long wid us,” said Drusilla, by way of
explanation, “an’ I don’t blame him much, kaze you-all been a-follerin’
atter him an’ a-ding-dongin’ at him twel he done plum’ wo’ out.”
“You too!” exclaimed Buster John.
“Not me!” protested Drusilla. “No, suh! I ain’t been a-ding-dongin’ atter
Unk A’on; I ben a-follerin’ atter you-all, an’ dat what Mistiss tol’ me
ter do. Ef I don’t do it, she’ll make me tote water fer mammy ter wash de
cloze wid, an’ I know mighty well I don’t want ter do dat.”
But Aaron, as it turned out, was not joking at all. So, one pleasant
morning, when he saw them playing in the spring lot, he gave them to
understand that the time had come for them to make the acquaintance of
the White Pig, and Buster John said he was quite ready; but Sweetest
Susan looked at Drusilla and hesitated a little. Drusilla looked at
Sweetest Susan and hesitated a good deal. In fact, she drew back.
“Now, I tell you what,” she said, “you-all kin go on out dar in de swamp
an’ le’ me stay here, an’ den when you come back you kin set down an’
tell me all ’bout it.”
“But mamma said you were to go with us wherever we went,” Sweetest Susan
reminded her.
“Dat what she say,” replied Drusilla, “yit she ain’t tell me to go wid
you out dar whar dat ar wil’ hog is, which he done cripple a hoss an’
kilt a yardful er dogs. Unk A’on kin take keer er you lots better dan
what I kin.”
“Come on,” said Buster John to Sweetest Susan. “Let her stay if she wants
to.”
“Yes,” remarked Aaron, “she’s big enough to go to the field now. We need
her there right now.”
This didn’t suit Drusilla at all, so she ran toward the others, laughing.
“I wuz des foolin’,” she said. “I des wanted ter see what you-all gwine
ter do. You may not need me, but I’m gwine anyhow, an’ ef de White Pig
git me, you’ll hatter answer to Mistiss for it.”
Aaron hitched a mule to the plantation cart, and in this rig they made
their way to the two-mile place. They jogged along the little-used road,
the journey being enlivened by some of the queer songs that Aaron was in
the habit of singing when he was in a good humor. They went nearly to
the river—the Oconee—and then Aaron turned out of the plantation road,
and drove straight through the woods and bushes until they came in sight
of a big cane-brake. Here he stopped, took the mule from the cart, and
fastened him with a long tether, so that he could browse around, and
nibble the grass and bushes. Then he lifted Sweetest Susan to his broad
shoulders, took Buster John by the hand, and went toward the cane-brake.
He went on until he came to the damp ground near the edge of the swamp.
Selecting a dry place—a little knoll higher than the rest—Aaron stationed
the children there, and then went to the verge of the cane-brake.
Here he paused, placed his two hands to his mouth, and gave utterance
to a peculiar call, or cry. It sounded as if he were trying to say,
“Goof—goof—goof!” but had smothered the noise with his hands. It was loud
enough to be heard a considerable distance, however, for after he had
repeated the call three times there was a reply from the farther side of
the swamp, and presently the children heard a rushing, crashing sound
among the canes.
Sweetest Susan crept a little closer to Buster John, and Drusilla
snuggled up to Sweetest Susan. The children were not frightened, but they
were filled with unknown anticipations. They knew not what to expect
next. The crashing noise in the canes seemed to come nearer, and then it
suddenly stopped. If it was the White Pig, he was listening.
“Come, White Pig! Come, Grunter, come!” called Aaron. “Are you then
afraid?”
The crashing sound in the canes was renewed more violently than ever, and
in a moment the White Pig—the terror of the plantation—burst from the
reeds with a grunt that was nearly a roar.
“I dunner what they call him a pig fer,” whispered Drusilla, “he big
enough for two hogs.”
And this was true. The White Pig was not fat, but he was lean and tall.
He was not a pretty pig by any means. There was a vicious twinkle in his
eye. His body was nearly covered with mud, and one of his ears was gone,
having been torn away by dogs when he was less able to defend himself
than now.
“It is long since I’ve seen you, Son of Ben Ali. Humph! No wonder! What
am I?”
Aaron was about to say something, but the quick, restless eye of the
White Pig caught sight of the children, and, with a snort of mingled fear
and rage, he plunged into the cane-brake again. He ran a little way, as
the children could see by the shaking of the reeds, and then stopped to
listen. He heard nothing but the loud laugh Aaron sent after him.
“Go, then!” cried Aaron. “Go and stay. In the light here your shadow will
catch you. Go, then! The White Pig that used to roam these fields with me
had neither the heart nor the feet of a fox.”
Presently, when everything was quiet, the children could see by the
shaking of the reeds, that the White Pig was coming out again. But this
time he came no further than the edge of the swamp. Nothing could be seen
except his head and shoulders, and these, with one ear gone, were not as
pretty as a picture. His bristles stood up straight and stiff, from fear
or anger, giving him a ragged appearance, and he opened and closed his
mouth viciously.
“Humph! humph!” he said. “Who are these, Son of Ben Ali, and what trap
have you set for me?”
“Some little children armed with broom straws,” laughed Aaron. “Run,
White Pig, run. They will catch you, sure!”
“Boof!” cried the White Pig contemptuously. “The Spotted Sow goes about
with her children squealing behind her. When did the Son of Ben Ali take
up that trade? Boof!”
“When the White Pig became afraid of his shadow,” replied Aaron.
“Then why call me?” asked the White Pig.
Aaron shook his head slowly. “You are right,” he replied. “Why should I
call you at night, when I have a basket of new corn scattered for you?”
“Humph!” grunted the White Pig.
“I call you because I choose to. The children yonder have seen the sign;
they have been touched. They know who we are and what we are. Two belong
by blood to the Little Master. That is enough for me.”
“Humph! Boof! Son of Ben Ali, it is also enough for me. Goof! I have seen
them—they have seen me—what more can I do? Why should I stay? The mud in
the swamp is soft and cool, but here the sun shines hot.”
“If I had a bag of corn,” suggested Aaron.
“I say nothing, Son of Ben Ali. I see no corn, and the sun shines hot.
What am I to do?”
“These who have been touched and who have seen the sign are here to speak
with you. They came to hear you tell of the time when you and I lived in
these fields together, sleeping and hiding in the daytime, and slipping
about at night.”
The White Pig’s bristles no longer stood up.
“Humph!” he grunted. “I will go wallow in the branch and wash the mud
off.”
“He gone ter wash his face and hands, an’ comb his hair,” whispered
Drusilla. “I speck he gwine ter come buljin’ out’n dat swamp terreckly,
an’ den what we gwine do? Ef he look hard at me, I’m gwine ter fall right
flat on de groun’ an’ holler loud ez I kin squall.”
“Well, if you do that,” said Buster John, “you’ll scare him, and they say
that when a wild hog is scared he gets mad.”
“I do’ know what I’m gwine ter do,” remarked Drusilla, after a pause,
during which she seemed to be thinking. “But I tell you now, I feel
mighty quare. Ef dey wuz any tree ’roun’ here I’d climb it er break my
neck tryin’. You-all is de outdoinest white chillun I ever hear tell
un—comin’ way out here from yo’ pa an’ ma des ter be ripped up an’ kilt
by a great big ol’ wil’ hog.”
“You know the way back to the wagon,” said Buster John. “Just go there
and wait till we come. You make too much fuss anyhow.”
“Go dar by myself!” exclaimed Drusilla. “No, suh! You don’ know me! I
wouldn’t go ’cross dat hill dar by myse’f, not fer ham! Uh-uh! I know I
ain’t got much sense, but I got mo’ sense dan dat. I wouldn’t mo’ dan
git out er sight er you-all fo’ dat ar White Pig would have me. He may
be gwine ter ketch me anyhow, but ef he do I’ll be right here where
you-all kin see me. You done brung me, en ef I git kilt, you-all will be
de ’casion un it. Ef Marster an’ Mistiss done come ter de pass whar dey
want de niggers fed ter hogs, an’ wil’ hogs at dat, den I ain’t got no
complaints ter make.”
But Buster John and Sweetest Susan were paying the smallest attention to
Drusilla. They were watching Aaron, and waiting for the White Pig to make
his appearance again. Finally Aaron turned away from the swamp and came
to the children, and presently they heard the White Pig coming up behind
them, grunting and “goofing,” though not so fiercely as before.
Drusilla turned and saw him coming, and exclaimed: “Dar now! what I
tell you. Ef I’d a-started to’rds dat wagon, he’d a got me sho ez de
worl’. An’ he may git me yit.” She jumped up and ran towards Aaron for
protection. But he shook her in a way to convince her that she would do
well to keep quiet.
The White Pig had gone into the swamp, wallowed in the clean water of
the branch, and had then come out and gone around half a mile to see
that there was no ambuscade. He seemed to be very well satisfied, for he
grunted in a good-humored way as he trotted up.
“You didn’t go far enough, White Pig,” said Aaron, “I forgot you were
growing old. My men are hid behind the wagon on the other hill. Next time
I will bring them nearer—even to the edge of the swamp.”
“Goof—goof!” replied the White Pig. “What would you have? I am alone.
You are yonder. I am here. How do I know that the Son of Ben Ali remains
the same? Humph! let me see for myself. Once you would go far to scratch
my back till I fell asleep in the shade. Once you would shake down the
scalybarks in the woods. Now you fling corn here and there and go your
way. And sometimes many suns and moons come between the baskets of corn.
Do I complain? Goof! I go into the cool swamp and tell the red squirrels
that the Son of Ben Ali is sick, or away on a journey. And they say
‘Come,’ and we go into the woods beyond the swamp, and then the red
squirrels shake down the scalybarks and the hickory nuts. Goof! goof!”
Aaron laid his hand on the White Pig’s back and passed it gently through
the thick bristles.
“That is so,” said Aaron, “but you forget about the yams that are left
buried in the field for you. You forget the goobers, the turnips, and the
bank of sugar-cane. You forget the corn that is scattered here and there
for you every day when the weather is cold.”
“Goof! Why should I think of them, Son of Ben Ali? Hot or cold, the long
swamp is a feed trough for me. I need never come out of it. What is it to
me if you come empty-handed, so you come? Do you think I have forgotten
the long nights when I trotted through the woods with you? Or when I
ran to the sound of your whistling? Or when I charged the hounds that
were trailing you and drove them away? I was thinking only of the Son of
Ben Ali. I am getting very old. My tusks are yellow, and one of them is
broken. I can run, but not so swiftly as when I carried you the news of
the great fire one night. No, my legs fail me.”
“You are old,” said Aaron. “Of all your kind, you are the oldest I have
ever seen.”
“Goof—humph! Why not? All the rest are glad to run into the pen when
they hear corn falling from the basket. They go in and eat and sleep
until they are fat, and then some cold night you see the fires lit, and
then, one after another you hear the fat fools in the pen squeal. Then
in the morning you can see them hanging by their heels in a row. Goof! I
have seen it. Hanging by their heels, their hair off, and their throats
cut. Oof! It makes me shiver. I saw it when I was running about with
my mother, and though I have gone hungry many a night, never did I go
through a gap in the fence that was left for me, and never did I follow
the rest when they went to be fed in the pen.”
[Illustration: GRUNTER ASKING THE RED SQUIRRELS FOR NUTS]
All this time the White Pig, using his forefeet as pivots, turned his
body first one way and then the other, watching every open space, and
often pausing to listen. There was an air of wildness about him that kept
the children quiet and subdued.
“These,” said Aaron, “are my friends. They shall be yours, if you choose.”
“Humph! What do they want with me?”
“We want to hear you tell about the time when Uncle Aaron was a runaway,”
suggested Buster John.
“Goof! Who is Uncle Aaron?” asked the White Pig.
“Me,” said Aaron.
“Oof—oof!” cried the White Pig, scornfully. “Return to the swamp, Son of
Ben Ali, where we have no such names. The paths are all there. I have
kept them hard and firm. Come!”
Aaron shook his head. “It is too late,” he said. “I belong yonder; you
belong here.”
“Then I’ll go where I belong. Ooft!”
“When you have pleased my friends.”
“To-morrow, Son of Ben Ali. Not now. They are too far from home.
To-night, when the moon stands high, I’ll come through the long lane that
has been closed, and hide in the plum thicket that has been left in the
peach orchard.”
“So then,” said Aaron, “we will go. Before long I’ll come and have a race
with you in the swamp.”
“Oof—ooft!” grunted the White Pig. “You shall win if you can!”
Then Aaron and the children started back to where they had left the
wagon. The White Pig trotted with them a quarter of a mile or more, and
then paused and sniffed the air.
“Gooft! The sun is too bright here. As for me, I travel in the dark.”
With that he turned and went galloping back into the swamp.
IX.
THE WHITE PIG’S STORY.
The next day the children were ready to go to the plum thicket in the
peach orchard as soon as they had their breakfast, but while they were
talking about it a new trouble arose. It grew out of a question asked by
Drusilla.
“Is Unk A’on gwine ’long wid us?” she inquired.
It was a natural and an innocent question, but it presented a difficulty.
Sweetest Susan looked at Buster John for an answer, and Buster John
looked at Sweetest Susan and Drusilla, but made no reply.
“Kaze ef he ain’t,” remarked Drusilla, pursuing the subject, “you’ll des
hatter count me out. I’ll stan’ off som’ers whar I kin run an’ holler
when dat ar wil’ hog git mad an’ rip you up, but when it comes ter gwine
right whar he is when Unk A’on ain’t wid us, I ain’t gwine ter do it. So
dar you got it, flat an’ plain. I ain’t gwine. I watch his eye yistiddy,
an’ time I see it lookin’ red on de eye-ball, I know’d dat ar hog was
rank pizen when he git mad.”
Finally Buster John said he would find Aaron, but Aaron was not to be
found. He had gone off with the plow hands early in the morning, and
wouldn’t be back before night. Thereupon Buster John declared that he was
going to the plum thicket, if he had to go by himself.
“I’m most afraid,” said Sweetest Susan.
“I’m wuss’n dat,” exclaimed Drusilla. “I’m skeered des dry so.”
“Then both of you stay where you are,” cried Buster John. He started
off very boldly, but not without some misgivings. Looking back without
pretending to do so, he saw Sweetest Susan coming, though very slowly,
while Drusilla was dragging along and bringing up the rear, quarreling,
and begging Sweetest Susan to turn back. Buster John stopped and told his
sister to come on, and waited for her.
“I’ll go whar I kin see how dat wil’ hog do when he eats folks, but
hosses can’t drag me in dat ar plum thicket whar he hidin’,” remarked
Drusilla.
Sweetest Susan was not much afraid, seeing Buster John so bold, and
Buster John was made bolder by the fact that his sister seemed willing to
go. So they went, Drusilla bringing up the rear and protesting.
The plum thicket grew on each side of a gully that had washed in the
lower part of the orchard. The plum trees were small and grew very close
together, and the gully was filled with a season’s growth of weeds that
had not been uprooted by the rains. So that, taken altogether, the plum
thicket was a very convenient hiding-place for the White Pig, or for any
other creature not larger than a horse.
The children approached it cautiously, and hesitated about entering.
While they were halting and considering what to do, they heard a grunt
from the middle of the thicket—a grunt as friendly and as familiar as
if it came from a fat hog in a pen. Reassured by this, Buster John went
into the thicket, followed by Sweetest Susan. They went in cautiously and
looked about them very cautiously, but they could see nothing.
“Ooft—gooft!” grunted the White Pig in a contented manner. “Where am I?
Can’t you find me?”
They looked about them with all the eyes they had, but failed to find
him. Their search became so interesting that Sweetest Susan laughed.
There was nothing to laugh at, but she was so thrilled by the excitement
of trying to find the White Pig—and he was not a small pig by any
means—that she had to express her feelings in some way, and so she
laughed.
At that moment Drusilla came to the edge of the thicket. Hearing Sweetest
Susan laugh, she grew bold enough to venture in.
“What you-all doin,’ I like ter know?” she asked in a somewhat dubious
tone.
“Oh, come and help us, Drusilla!” cried Sweetest Susan, as gleefully as
if she were playing hide-the-switch, or kick-the-can. “We are trying to
find him. He’s hiding in here, and we can’t find him. Come on!”
Drusilla joined the others, but not with any degree of enthusiasm.
“You-all want ter fin’ ’im lots wuss’n I does. I’m mo’ fear’d er fin’in’
’im dan I is er not fin’in’ ’im.”
[Illustration: THE WHITE PIG TELLS HIS STORY]
“Let’s go across the gully,” said Buster John. He ran down the bank,
through the thick weeds, and out on the other side, followed by Sweetest
Susan. Drusilla would have followed, too, but just as she had reached the
bottom of the gully and started through the weeds, the White Pig rose by
her side with a loud grunt. Drusilla was so terrified that she sank in
the weeds, unable to utter a sound. Sweetest Susan screamed and Buster
John was so taken by surprise and so confused, that for an instant he was
undecided whether to take to his heels, dragging his sister after him, or
whether to stand his ground.
“Gooft—ooft!” grunted the White Pig. “What is the matter here?”
With this he walked out of the gully, went past Buster John and Drusilla,
and lay down where the shade was thickest. Drusilla recovered almost
immediately, and, as sometimes happens with older and more enlightened
people, anger took the place of fear. To the surprise of her companions,
she came out of the gully, walked straight to the White Pig, and sat down
by him, so close that she might have touched him with her hand without
unbending her arm.