WHEN EVENING COMES
What a world of joy, happiness and rest--of fear, dread and remorse
evening brings!
Some are glad when evening comes, and hail with delight the first long
shadows of the dying day. The sturdy toiler of the field puts forth
his sickle in the early morning and gleans the long day through with
confidence, believing that when the end of the day is come he can lay
down his blade, go in at the door of his humble home and under the
spell of sweet smiles and the merry laughter of those whom he loves,
forget the toils of the day and find sweet rest and peace.
But to another--the prisoner behind the bars--evening brings remorse
and dread. His restless body is early astir, and he sits in his iron
chains, looks out through the bars, and watches the curtains of night
receding as the rising sun brings forth a new day. At the noontide,
he gets a glimpse of the busy, surging throngs in the street below.
He strains his ears and catches from the throng words of cheer and
strength; songs of happiness and courage--and hope is almost born again
in his bosom. But, alas! the day soon dies, and the gathering shadows
of night fall upon him, bringing only fear and regret, for well he
knows for him tomorrow’s sun will never rise.
Then to the weary traveler, what a world of suspense, fatigue and
rest evening brings! At first, footsore, hungry and alone, he plods
on through the dust and meets the shadows of evening with a faltering
heart. But when a friendly roof is found, how quickly the fainting
heart is changed to one of strength and multiplied joys! After the day
is done, is it not sweet to the worn traveler to abide the night under
a kindly roof? To go in at the door and find a welcome? To lie down
upon the couch and sleep, assured of the protection and defense of the
home, cannot fail to fill the heart with gratitude and remind us of how
close akin all the world must be.
As Paul Waffington sat with his chair tilted back against the cabin
wall tonight, he watched the chip-fire glow and burn through the
darkness with great satisfaction. True gratitude was welling up and
running over in his human heart as he sat alone, taking his rest.
He was thanking his lucky star that he had found the humble home in
which to abide the night. Evening breezes came down from the great
gorge above, laden with the breath of sweet flowers. He sniffed their
perfumes into his nostrils and all but cried aloud with ecstasy. At the
further side of the yard the stream babbled and laughed as it went on
its way, hurrying on to the falls below. It was the very stream that
ran by Blood Camp. Yes, its fountain-head rivulet began not a hundred
yards distant from the cabin in which Gena Filson dwelt tonight.
Turbulent little stream! thought Paul Waffington. First an eddy, then
a pool; then a splash, splash over the rocks, then a fall. Fall after
fall, winding and twisting forever through the rhododendrons and
laurels, always overshadowed by the tall hemlocks.
“Poor little Gena Filson,” he said at length. “I hope that her life
will not be laden with as many dark turns, falls and corners as the
stream on which she lives tonight.”
“Gee, gee gee-e-e-ee! Haw, haw,” were the sounds that came to his ears
through the night as he looked up. “Gee-haw! Git up, git up. Haw, haw,
haw!! Haw--woa-a-a-a-o-oo-a-a-ah!! Here, Cicero, come out here an’
help Cæsar tote these two turns of meal in the house while I go and put
up the mare an’ sled. Hurry now,” said the man, driving up into the
yard. “Now, hurry, Cicero, fur yo’ ma has got supper ready, fur I can
smell the bread a bakin’,” continued the voice.
“Pa, there’s a man come,” declared Cicero excitedly, as he went out to
help with the corn-meal.
“A man’s come?” profoundly repeated the father, dropping the bag and
straightening up. “Who is it?”
“Don’t know. He’s a settin’ side the house by the gnat-smoke, there in
the dark,” said the boy.
“Well, you take the mare and the sled to the barn, Cæsar, an’ I’ll
help Cicero with the meal an’ see who it is,” the man finished in an
undertone. So saying, he lifted a bag of the fresh corn-meal to his
shoulder and made for the open door of the cabin.
“Howdy,” he simply said, as he came up by the door.
“Good evening, sir. You are the master of the house, I suppose?” said
Paul Waffington, as he arose and put out his hand.
“I guess so. What might your name be?”
“Waffington, sir. Paul Waffington, of Knoxville. I’m on my way to
Blood Camp, and I am anxious to spend the night with you,” he said in
inquiring accents.
“My name’s Henry Tolson--glad to see you,” was all that he said in
reply as he entered the cabin.
Paul Waffington was hungry tonight. As he sat by the side of the
open door, the smell of the frying ham and the perfume of the baking
corn-pone came to his nostrils, and his hunger became painful.
“Here, Cicero, Cæsar--come ’ere,” called the mother, as she went
through the door and round to the rear of the little cabin. “Now, I
want you two boys to listen to what I’m goin’ to say: We’ve got big
company here tonight. An’ I want to teach you boys a little more about
your table manners. Now, whin you go to the table to eat your supper,
you say ‘yes, sir,’ and ‘no, sir,’ when the gentleman speaks to you.
An’ whin you want anything that is on my side of the table, you say,
‘please, ma’am,’ an’ ‘thank you.’ An’, listen, Cæsar, none of your
foolin’ and knockin’. Now don’t fergit! Cæsar, Cicero! Ef you do fergit
it, I’ll warm you both up with a birch sprout whin this gentleman’s
gone. Your ma was brot up right an’ had a good rais’en before we come
into this here country, an’ I’m plum ashamed of you two boys sometimes.
Now its big company thet we’ve got tonight an’ I want you boys to act
nice.”
“Is this man bigger company than the sheriff, ma? You know we had ’im
once to stay all night,” ventured Cicero.
“Well, I don’t know. But I ’low he is. He may be the Governor fur all
I know. An’ if he is the Governor, now you two look sharp--he might
take you off to the penitentiary where June Hanley and Jim Fields wint
last spring. An’, oh, you have to live on bread an’ water and be put in
a great, big iron coffin of a thing--where you can’t git out and jist
have to bail water out of the thing all the time, day an’ night, to
keep from drownin’. Now you look sharp!” She finished as she shook her
huge fist at the head of each of the mischievous boys, and went into
the house, calling over her shoulder, “Bring the stranger and come to
supper, Henry.”
Paul Waffington went to his supper in the cabin with a grateful heart
and a gnawing appetite. Corn-bread, sweet milk and ham was about the
extent of the simple repast. But by no means was the supper crudely
prepared. The flavor of the sweet corn-pone indicated that a master
hand had been at work in the preparation of the evening meal. It
was indeed a master hand. One that had learned the trick from a
past-master, away back on the coast of the old North State in the long
ago, when the art of cooking was taken up with a will in the kitchen of
every home.
Henry Tolson had just finished relating the story of how it had
happened that they were in their present surroundings, as the supper
progressed. “Yes, stranger,” began Mrs. Tolson, taking up the story
where her husband had left off, “we’ve bin in these hills nigh on to
twenty year.”
“Its not ‘stranger,’ mother, it’s Mr. Waffington from Knoxville,”
corrected Henry.
“Well, I declare, Henry, I didn’t know it. But he might a told me out
there in the yard whin the cow kicked me, fur all I know. But I was too
scared to know whether he told me his name or not or hardly anything
else. But as I was asayin’, Mr. Waffington, its bin twenty year aliken’
two months since Henry an’ me come over the Boone Trail an’ stopped
here in this wild gorge to rest. We had started to them goldfields away
out yander sum’ers in the west. But whin we stopped here that night
to rest--lawsa’me-alive, I can remember it jist the same as if it was
yesterday--when we stopped that night an’ got a campfire built we got
so busy a huntin’ fur bread that we ain’t never had no time to go on
an’ hunt fur gold! Have more milk. Pass the bread to the str--to Mr.
Waffington, Henry. Take some more ham. You Cicero--tut, tut! Sh!!----”
and she put her hand down under the side of the table and shook it at
the mischievous boys.
“Oh!” exclaimed Cicero.
“Oh!” shouted Cæsar.
“What’s the matter, Cæsar?” the mother asked, with apparent surprise.
“Cicero kicked me on the shin. Make ’im quit.”
“Don’t bother Cæsar, Cicero. Mr. Waffington will think that you are
both mighty bad boys.”
There was a long silence likened unto that perfect silence and calm
that precedes the great and mighty storms that come up suddenly over
the seas. Then Cicero, the youngest, looked up out of the corners of
his eyes and ventured to ask:
“Aire you the Governor, Mister?”
“Why, no, my boy, I’m not the Governor. I am only a man--a common man.”
“Now, ma,” Cæsar chimed in. “Ma said that you wuz the Governor and----”
“Cæsar Tolson, I’m ashamed of you. I’m, I’m, I’m, I’m ashamed of you,”
the mother finally said in despair.
“An’ Ma said that you wuz as big as the sheriff,” piped Cicero.
“Ouch! O!--O!--O! oo--oo--my sore toe! My sore toe!” and away from the
table and through the door hopped Cicero Tolson on one foot, carrying
the other injured member in his hands. In an unguarded moment his
mischievous brother had reached his foot under the table and come down
heavily with his heel on the already bruised and sore toe of Cicero,
hence the catastrophe.
“I’m mighty sorry that my two boys have disturbed you so, while you
are atryin’ to make out your supper, Mister Waffington,” Mrs. Tolson
said, after she had sent the other boy from the table. “But try to make
out some way, an’ git enough if you can to keep you frum starvin’ ’til
mornin’. I hope you’ll forgive ’em. I do hope that you will. Maybe that
you’ll enjoy your sleepin’ better than your eatin’ here at our house.
You’ll have to sleep ’tween Cicero an’ Cæsar--but then they’re better
asleep than they air whin they’re awake.”
Paul Waffington had not been disturbed by the bad deportment of Cicero
and Cæsar Tolson. On the other hand, he went to his bed in the corner
of the cabin that night with a Contented mind and a rested body.
For a moment he stood over the bed holding the candle, and looked down
upon the faces of the two sleeping boys. He shook his head as he looked
into the ruddy faces, and wondered, if in future years they should
not go forth from this mountain gorge with robust bodies and great,
strong minds, and employ their talents in wielding a mighty influence
to promote the brotherhood of man. Thus speculating he blew out the
candle, turned down the cover, and slipped into his place between the
two, and was soon asleep.