GENA
of the
APPALACHIANS
By
CLARENCE MONROE WALLIN
[Illustration]
Cochrane Publishing Company
Tribune Building
New York
1910
Copyright, 1910, by
CLARENCE MONROE WALLIN
_To Alma, my wife, and the thousands of other noble daughters of the
great Appalachian country._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Burial of Lucky Joe 7
II. The Hamlet Blood Camp 11
III. The Gathering Clouds 17
IV. Driven to Endless Toil 23
V. The Shepherd of Nobody’s Sheep 30
VI. When Evening Comes 38
VII. Boaz Honeycutt 45
VIII. The Response to Duty’s Call 53
IX. Lifting the Yoke 60
X. Through the Ever Changing Scenes 68
XI. The Thrill of College Life 78
XII. Back to the Old Home and the Hills 87
XIII. The Passing of the Clouds 96
XIV. Love Seeks Its Own 105
AUTHOR’S NOTE
If, in the lines of this humble narrative, the reader should find
anything of truth; anything of uplift; anything of human life, then the
author shall have been fully repaid for the time employed in writing it.
CLARENCE MONROE WALLIN.
Gena of the Appalachians
CHAPTER I
THE BURIAL OF LUCKY JOE
It was late in the afternoon of a cold winter’s day when they sent for
him to go and perform the last sad rites at the burial of Lucky Joe.
Lucky Joe had outstripped the law in his crimes for more than forty
years--hence the people had well dubbed him “Lucky.” For more than
three decades his name had been the synonym of dread and fear among the
people of the hills. He had at length whipped them into granting him
whatever he exacted of them, whether the thing in itself was right or
wrong. But one memorable day, the tardy finger of the law apprehended
him, and he stood up before the bar of Justice and heard the court
pronounce, “Joseph Filson, guilty!” Quickly he was ushered away to the
penitentiary--down to a Southern jail and to hard and endless toil for
the remainder of his life. The gates of the prison closed and locked
their iron jaws behind him: his keeper admonished him to be obedient,
and he immediately chose to work at the blacksmith’s forge. Day after
day, he swung the sledge in silence. Then the days crowded into months
and into years, but he pounded away at the anvil unmindful of the end.
Finally death came and knocked at the door of his narrow cell and took
him away.
The news of the great outlaw’s death flashed back to the hills, and
horse and rider took up the message and sped over the peaks and down
into the narrow gorges to tell the mountainfolk of the end. Many a
mountain mother and son ran out to the roadside to meet the rider,
and received the news with gladness. Men and boys gathered in groups
about the forks of the roads and doubted that it could be true. But,
when the remains were forwarded to the railroad station nearest the
mountain home, doubt and distrust gave way to the evidence, and all
were satisfied.
“No, he wouldn’t come,” said the man at the gate. He sat there, on his
horse and fumbled at the horn of his saddle for more than a minute, all
the while trying to find words with which to make further known his
mission.
“I say, thet we took ’im to the school-house yisterday, but the
preacher wouldn’t come. Don’t think thet he wanted to come nohow, cause
you see, Lucky wuz allus a purty bad man. But we’ve brot ’im back to
the school house today, an’ we want to put ’im away nice, an’ as we
knowed that you wuz here, we’d like to git you to come. We knowed thet
you wuz not a preacher, but thet you wuz a kinder public Sunday-school
speaker--an’ we want to put ’im away nice--an’ like to git you to come.”
Paul Waffington saddled his horse and led him out into the deep snow,
mounted, and followed the stranger out into the storm. The way was
dangerous, but the two men picked their way along the mountain pass as
best they could. The roar and the fury of the storm increased as they
went, and the cold wind cut like the blade of a knife. Many times they
were forced to lie down in the saddle with their heads against their
horses’ necks to protect themselves from the cutting sleet and driving
snow.
True enough, the man had said at the gate that Paul Waffington was not
a preacher. Nor was he engaged in any preparations to that end. But
choosing to remain a layman, the Sunday-school and the children were
the direct objects of his Christian activities. But when some human
heart was sore and duty called, he responded without a murmur. Hence
throughout the blinding storm of this winter day he rode with the
stranger to the burial of Lucky Joe.
Despite the midwinter storm that was raging, he found the little
school-house overflowing with the people of the hills. Great bunches of
mountaineers stood about in the deep snow, on the outside, while the
house was crowded to the door with thinly clad mothers bearing in their
arms their children. All had come, alike, to get a glimpse of the face
of the dead man whose name, to them, had been born of destruction.
All the family were there. The two young sons sat on the front seat
with ruined hopes. The little daughter was there alongside the
brothers, clinging to them in grief; mother was there by the side of
the children, and father was there--in the casket.
It was with great difficulty that Paul Waffington made his way through
the throng, to the front. It had not been his lot to meet with Lucky
Joe during his lifetime. But now, as he approaches the platform,
he turns and looks into the casket. He beholds the face of an old
man--past sixty years--with pinched features and a long, white beard,
with deep lines in his face that the chisel of sin had hewn with no
uncertain hand.
With a warning to the living and words of comfort for the bereaved the
little service closed. For hours during the blustering day strong men
had worked at the grave. Rough, uncouth mountaineers, many of whom had
hated and feared the dead man during his lifetime, dug up the frozen
earth and rock in perfect silence. It mattered not to them now, whether
he had been a friend or an enemy during his lifetime, their respect
now was for the dead. The infallible rule of the gentle people of
the Appalachian hills is to respect and honor the dead, friend and
foe alike, and to “let the dead rest in peace;” therefore, when their
feet on this sad day became benumbed and stiff with cold, there was
not a murmur from any lip or rest from any stroke until the grave was
finished.
Kind hands laid away the remains of Lucky Joe. Strong men braved the
winter’s gale and did their part well. When the last shovelful of half
snow and half frozen earth had been placed upon the mound, the people
gathered themselves together by families and dispersed in silence. Paul
Waffington lingered and comforted the mother and the two sons. Then he
took the beautiful hand of the little daughter Gena and held it as he
tenderly spoke a few words to her. Her big blue eyes looked up through
the hot tears wishfully at him as he finished:
“Good-bye, now. And be a good little girl. I will come back, perhaps.
And if--if I come back, I will come to see you and bring you a pretty
book. Don’t forget now. Good-bye,” and he patted her on the head as he
turned to go.
The storm increased its fury and night came on as death comes--swift
and sure. Then, with a heavy heart and a picture in his mind that shall
grow plainer and brighter as the years go by, Paul Waffington mounted
his horse and went out into the night towards his own place.