BACK TO THE OLD HOME AND THE HILLS
Back to the noisy city and to hard work went Paul Waffington. He turned
over to the paper on his desk and read the paragraph again. It was the
column of local items from Tusculum College, of the week preceding the
commencement of that institution that was absorbing his attention in
the paper just now.
“Mr. L. Texas won the tennis pennant,” he read, “who in turn in a
beautiful little ceremony presented it to his partner, Miss Gena
Filson.” Still a little further down the column another paragraph
attracted his attention. The paragraph ended by saying: “It was a
beautiful affair. Those who stood together were ---- and Miss Gena
Filson and Mr. L. Texas.” He folded the paper and turned again to his
work, with the firm belief in his heart that the man who tried for the
hand of Gena Filson had an aggressive and formidable rival.
* * * * *
The days following the end of the college year were inspiring ones for
the humble folks of the village among the hills--Blood Camp. Slade
Pemberton had duly harnessed his mules into the wagon, driven down to
the little station and met the new collegian and her trunk.
But would she be changed much? was the question that was upon the
lips of all Blood Camp. There were free expressions all around, that
she would return from college “stuck up.” And what was still another
ghost, that overshadowed every heart in the village, was the avowal of
Fen Green and his friends that she would certainly return “proud.” But
at length the homecoming was over, and the new college girl returned to
the cabin upon the mountainside with Emeline Hobbs again acting as her
housekeeper.
The first few days after her return the little cabin was overflowing
with callers. Aged women; mothers with bawling babies upon their hips,
old men and all, came to see and pay their respects to Gena Filson.
“Jist come up to see ye and take a good look at ye an’ say howdy,” was
the unanimous greeting of all.
“Yes, she’s changed. Grow’d a lot. Prettier, too! an’ not a bit stuck
up,” was the final verdict of all.
But there was one certain individual who had been a little slow in
going to the cabin to visit its mistress since she had returned, and
that one was Boaz Honeycutt. Since her return, Boaz Honeycutt had been
quick to perceive the difference in the dress of Gena Filson and his
own ragged clothes. The clothes of Gena Filson were better now, and
alas! his own--rags they had always been--were growing worse with the
passing years.
However, he had a few times ventured up to the cabin and had been each
time cordially received. But each succeeding time that he went he was
the more convinced that there was something--something that he could
not explain--fixing a gulf between their friendship. It bruised and
crushed his boy heart, lacerated it and left it bleeding and sore.
The power of it bore down upon him with force, and left his face the
picture of despair. The only other friend that he cherished next to
Gena Filson was Paul Waffington. And now, at the thought of his name,
his broken little heart went out over the high mountain’s fastnesses
towards the far-away city and yearned for his comfort.
Lately he had taken his position upon the grave-yard hill to watch.
From his position on the grass plot he could command both a view of
the store and of the road that led into the gorge, or “out into the
big world som’ers,” as Emeline Hobbs had one day told him. Sometimes
he would get up from his place on the grass plot, and as a diversion
pass in at the little wicker gate and busied himself plucking the weeds
from the mounds of two certain graves there. Then perchance, if shouts
came up from the store a hundred yards away, that told of an extra good
story that was being told there by one of “the boys,” he went down and
heard it through only to return at length and resume his watch.
He had gathered up in his mind fragments of conversation that he had
had with Gena Filson and Paul Waffington, about college; the city with
its alluring charms, its street cars, steam trains and all. He sniffed
it into his nostrils again, and it burnt his soul to know more about
the big world beyond the hills.
It was growing late in the afternoon of Saturday, July 2, 1904. Boaz
Honeycutt lay in his accustomed place on the knoll, stretched at full
length in the grass with his hands in his palms, spelling out the words
on a paper before him. Yes, Boaz Honeycutt had a father, a man who was
used to hard toil, a lumberman, a man who felled the trees and by the
hardest toil dragged them to a distant market. But there were seven
other mouths to feed in the little shack that Boaz Honeycutt called
home, and hence gross neglect had been the lot of the oldest child
Boaz. The boy’s school days had been of sufficient length to allow him
to hardly read and no longer.
“Congress, President Roosevelt, tariff,” he laboriously spelled out.
“Shucks! I never seed nothin’ like none of them things! Papers ain’t
fit fur nothin’ ’cept to wrap calico in nohow,” he concluded, brushing
aside the paper and laying his head down in the fresh green grass.
The rider emerged from the gorge, rode up the little hill slowly and
with little noise.
“Hello! Boaz, is that you?” called out Paul Waffington.
“Well, I wisht I may drap ded!” shouted the boy, jumping up into the
air with delight. He hurriedly made a cross in the grass with his right
foot, spat into the center of it five times, jumped up into the air
again and bounded towards Waffington.
“By giggers, I’m glad to see ye. Git down an’ lemme take your hoss an’
put ’im up an’ feed ’im. When all uv ’em find out your here they’ll
shore be glad, I bet. The Sunday-skule’s agoin’. Emeline’s well,
Slade’s sellin’ more goods than he ever did--no, I’ll put ’im up
myself--ten ears of corn and hay? Well, I’ll do it right, by giggers I
will.”
On Sunday morning the little cracked bell on the school-house rang out
in wheezen tones, warning the people that the Sunday-school would begin
an hour earlier than was the custom. The founder of the Sunday-school
was to be present, and Emeline Hobbs wanted to get a fair chance to
show off the gracious qualities of the school that by persistent effort
she had built up. She was indeed proud of her Sunday-school--boldly
so--since Gena Filson had returned from college and had been elected
vice-president or assistant superintendent and teacher of the
intermediate class.
At the appointed time, Emeline Hobbs took her place at the front of
the room, balanced herself on the wooden peg, and looked at the little
audience with a grave countenance. Now and then she gave a quick jerk
at the white, stiff collar that was fast cutting off circulation from
her neck. Then she hopped over and arranged the “little class” on the
left side of the room. Then the “big class” in the middle of the room.
After settling the “intermedium class” on the right, she made another
final round to see that all was ready to begin.
“Sh----s! Sh----! You Emmy! Set down, Boaz! Git ready, Carrie!” she
made the entire command in a single breath.
“Turn to ‘Over There’ in your song-books. Git ready!” Then with a
movement of both arms she led off. She hopped over in front of the “big
class” and stood beating the air with her arms and thumping the floor
with her wooden peg, endeavoring to hurry up those who were miserably
dragging behind. Then she swung over and spurred up the “little class”
who were piping away in some five or six different keys. Then back to
the center of the room she went, and they all sang. The chorus swelled
up and fairly lifted the roof, and the blend of harmony was about the
same as the blending of kerosene and water.
Far back in the rear two or three good mothers, with crying babies
swinging to and fro on their knees, were piping away in falsetto
voices, coming out at least a line behind all the others. But it was
singing. It was music--real worship, from the very bottom of hearts of
Blood Camp--and methinks He who controls the destinies of all must have
heard.
That day’s session of the Sunday-school ended in a blaze of glory with
Emeline Hobbs, and she went back to the cabin on the side of the mighty
Snake with her heart loving everybody--even Boaz Honeycutt was not
forgotten.
But the glorious Fourth was drawing near, and preparations were under
way for the picnic at Blowing Rock. Blood Camp did not understand
in its fullest meaning the day we celebrate. They had heard little
indeed of the great cities with their miles of bunting and the flag
that we so dearly love floating from every window and door on July the
Fourth. Of the fireworks; the great military pageants and the patriotic
speeches from ocean to ocean, they knew little. But Paul Waffington
had fittingly made mention of it in the Sunday-school, and the outcome
of his remarks was the proposed picnic to Blowing Rock on the glorious
Fourth.
The morning of the Fourth of July, 1904, was indeed glorious! The early
sun had found the lunch ready and tucked away in baskets and pushed
back under the seats in Slade Pemberton’s wagon. There were seats in
the wagon for a party of eight. Fen Green sat in the driver’s place
with Boaz Honeycutt and the three Allisons occupying the next two
seats. Paul Waffington assisted Gena Filson into the rear seat and was
himself seated with her, thereby leaving but one unoccupied seat in the
wagon, and that by the side of Fen Green, the driver.
“Attention everybody!” cried Waffington, standing up in the wagon.
“Miss Hobbs is the chaperon of this party, and rightly belongs to her
the first seat by the driver.” Whereupon Emeline Hobbs allowed herself
to be assisted to the side of Fen Green.
The big, gray mules fairly flew over the rocks, and the happy party
laughed, babbled and sang snatches of song as they went. The way led
under the tall trees, where the shade was deep. Then, coming out
on the spur of the mountain, the road wound in and out of shallow
ravines in beautiful turns. Some put out their hands and plucked
rhododendron sprays as they bowled along. Stopping before a large clump
of rhododendrons that were in full bloom,[A] they wove garlands of the
flowers, decorated the bridles and harness and resumed their journey.
Paul Waffington plucked a single daisy and roguishly fastened it in the
hat of Gena Filson, and for his trouble she blushed sweetly and smiled
upon him. On and on they went through the crisp morning air, finally
turning into the neighboring village of Boone.
Yes, it was really Boone! a town named in honor of Daniel Boone. Here
within its borders was the very spot where the great pioneer and man
of iron nerve had pitched his camp, brought down the needed game with
his rifle from the wilderness about him, deftly prepared his evening
meal, and went to his sleep in the midst of the red man’s country, with
little apparent fear.
“Three cheers for Daniel Boone!” cried Waffington, and they were given
with a will as they cleared the village.
A long and beautiful stretch of mountain road was now before them.
Acres and acres of full-blooming rhododendrons lent beauty and color
to the scene. On the left water, crystal clear, tumbled down over the
rocks and fell into pebbled bottomed pools below. The cool morning
breezes coming down from the mountaintops laden with the invigorating
smell of the balsam brought shouts of joy from all.
“Oh my everlastin’ sweetterbacker!” yelled Boaz Honeycutt, going over
the side of the wagon and disappearing in the direction from which they
had just come.
“What’s the matter!” all cried excitedly and in the same breath. Paul
Waffington was climbing out of the wagon to make investigation when
Boaz was seen coming back at a fast trot.
“Why, Boaz, what is the matter?” together all cried again.
“Oh nothin’,” replied the boy climbing into his seat. “But you doan’t
git Boaz Honeycutt to pass no forks of the road ’thout crossin’ an’
spitten’. No sire--ee! It’s bad luck. Onst I had a stone-bruise an’ a
sore toe fur two year, summer an’ winter, ’account not crossin’ an’
spitten’ when passin’ the forks of a road. No sire--ee, you needn’t
expect to see Boaz Honeycutt fail to cross an’ spit whin he comes to
the forks of the road no more’n you ’spect to see a jay-bird awalkin’
on crutches.”
The next turn of the road brought the party out into the open again.
The hot July sun came down, and Emeline Hobbs moved uneasily in her
seat.
“Gee, but I’m dry!” she finally bawled out.
“What did you say, Miss Hobbs?” inquired Paul Waffington.
“I’m dry,” she again bawled out at him over her shoulder. “I salted
the gravy too much this mornin’. Gee, but I’m dry--want water,” she
finished.
“Oh! You’re thirsty. Well, here is a house, and a spring too. We shall
all have some water here,” was Waffington’s reply.
Fen Green, the driver, brought the wagon to a stand. Paul Waffington
got out of the wagon, jumped the fence and ran down the little path in
the direction of the spring.
“Good morning, madam,” he said as he lifted his hat and bowed to the
lady standing with her pailful of water near the spring.
“Does this spring belong to you, madam?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, if you please, madam, we would like to get some water for the
ladies of our party.”
“All right,” came the reply. “There’s a gourd hangin’ up there on that
stick, you can take ’em some water in it, I guess.”
“Fine spring you have here, fine farm, too, and plenty of everything
growing on it too. Your husband must be a great worker, madam,” he
ventured to say.
“He’s dead,” she simply said. “He died las’ month, an’ left me and the
children here to do everything.”
“Too bad, too bad!” he said as he looked at her in a kind and
benevolent way.
“Yes, I wouldn’t have minded it much,” she called out after him as
he went up to the road, “if it ’ed a happened atter the crops wuz
gathered.”
The little company in the wagon had heard what the woman had said, and
giggled. Paul Waffington saved his own face with the blowing of his
nose in his handkerchief. But Boaz Honeycutt swelled up to the danger
line, exploded, and said:
“Well, I wisht I may die!”